Old friends. New friends.
I've moved around since college and have had the luxury of making new friends somewhat easily. Moving here and becoming a married lady, its a little trickier. Scott's my favorite person to spend time with, so it becomes a matter of laziness, really.
[Quick aside] Happily, a beauty that I work with came along. A relationship born from a burgeoning addiction to caffeine, that has since bubbled over into a true friendship. Girl's nights, vent sessions and advice. It's great. [Fin]
Last weekend, Scott reminded me that he reminded me of a party down in the Blue Ridge mountains. A friend of his has taken over a 40-acre farm in the Shenandoah. He packed up our tent, and I threw together some clothes and a cooler.
I love that part of the world and I love camping, but I wasn't exactly in a hurry. This is a fun-loving, tight-knit, Virginny crew of college friends. Even though I grew up in the next state up, I usually end up feeling like a carpet-baggin' Yankee. And, plus, they have all the shared memories and so on. All his girl friends just adore him and are even a bit protective of him. Which is both endearing and annoying.
We drove through honeysuckled hills and winding roads, taking turns at old, black & white route signs. The shadows were starting to become long when finally turned into the long driveway, flanked by old, brick, engraved entry structures. Storybook.
We rolled up a hill to see the most beautiful farmhouse-- white with green tin roof, huge wraparound porch. Under a craggy tree was a long table & chairs where some elders enjoyed some food & drink in the shade. Children of all ages swirled around the house.
The first person to greet me was a woman with long, wiry, slightly grey hair. She was shaking up some kind of a salad in an yellowed tupperware container. "Its so nice to meet you finally, we see Scott all the time but you're never there." ZING! I poured out my soft drink and made a stiff cocktail.
We spotted a killer, old trailer attached to an also-old Wagoneer. Scott and I walked over to marvel-- this thing was pretty sweet. Out of it spilled a guy, holding a nearly empty keg beer. We immediately took to him. He was tall with thick hair that managed to defy gravity, his eyes a nice, if not a wee bit bleary, blue. With a huge smile and easy-going elocution, he told us about his rig and we all got acquainted.
A dinner spread was assembled and I ended up eating dinner with two women I'd met who were obviously also 'significant others'. One was a 1,000% mommy and the other was a 1,000% worker lady. We sat on the grass in our white miniskirts and ate BBQ.
Scott had been begrudingly kidnapped by his guy-buddies to take part in whatever competitions there were. I'd seen him throwing some horseshoes. I politely left the dinner folks, made myself a fresh cocktail and followed the flow of people down a dirt path where I heard...very loud... gun shots?
I came upon a gaggle of men & women awaiting their turn to shoot a 20 gage shotgun off into the valley beneath. BAM! It was loud. Scott was behind the gun "Pull!" BOOM! Skeet shooting. Liquor was bountiful and so were the children and guns. I kept my mouth shut-- bein' a Yankee and all.
Scott found me and we watched the various Virginian beauties step up, in the spirit of Annie Oakey, to shoot the gun. Booom! They were good. This is apparently a serious sport in these circles. One admitted she went to school for it.
We found our new camper-friend, standing peacefully to the side, watching the sport and the beautiful, cow-covered countryside. We began chatting and I found out that he's a well-acclaimed freelance photographer who's done some great travels. He was extremely interesting, kindly and funny. It was so refreshing to meet someone like that-- someone that doesnt automatically Zig when society says Zig. He's a Zagger.
Before I knew it, the confederate girls had convinced me to step up and shoot. It must've been the second (exceedingly strong) cocktail but I agreed. A woman in a dress & cowboy boots showed me how to hold the gun and shoot it. It literally pushed me backward. I shot again. BAM! I was awful. Not even close. But I have a nice, bruised shoulder as proof. Rawr! I have to admit, it was pretty fun.
The night progressed with a massive bonfire with our photographer friend and others masterfully strumming guitars and singing songs. Just perfect. I'd had enough and Scott escorted me to our tent, and tucked me in. It REEKED. The groundcloth we put down seriously smelled like dung. I sacked out anyway. Bzzzzzzp.
I woke up in the morning to fiddle-playing to a very bleary, hadnt gone-to-bed-yet group of guys. The morning haze was beautiful.
We parted ways with our camper-photographer pal and I felt my soul had been fed. How nice to make new friends.
I've moved around since college and have had the luxury of making new friends somewhat easily. Moving here and becoming a married lady, its a little trickier. Scott's my favorite person to spend time with, so it becomes a matter of laziness, really.
[Quick aside] Happily, a beauty that I work with came along. A relationship born from a burgeoning addiction to caffeine, that has since bubbled over into a true friendship. Girl's nights, vent sessions and advice. It's great. [Fin]
Last weekend, Scott reminded me that he reminded me of a party down in the Blue Ridge mountains. A friend of his has taken over a 40-acre farm in the Shenandoah. He packed up our tent, and I threw together some clothes and a cooler.
I love that part of the world and I love camping, but I wasn't exactly in a hurry. This is a fun-loving, tight-knit, Virginny crew of college friends. Even though I grew up in the next state up, I usually end up feeling like a carpet-baggin' Yankee. And, plus, they have all the shared memories and so on. All his girl friends just adore him and are even a bit protective of him. Which is both endearing and annoying.
We drove through honeysuckled hills and winding roads, taking turns at old, black & white route signs. The shadows were starting to become long when finally turned into the long driveway, flanked by old, brick, engraved entry structures. Storybook.
We rolled up a hill to see the most beautiful farmhouse-- white with green tin roof, huge wraparound porch. Under a craggy tree was a long table & chairs where some elders enjoyed some food & drink in the shade. Children of all ages swirled around the house.
The first person to greet me was a woman with long, wiry, slightly grey hair. She was shaking up some kind of a salad in an yellowed tupperware container. "Its so nice to meet you finally, we see Scott all the time but you're never there." ZING! I poured out my soft drink and made a stiff cocktail.
We spotted a killer, old trailer attached to an also-old Wagoneer. Scott and I walked over to marvel-- this thing was pretty sweet. Out of it spilled a guy, holding a nearly empty keg beer. We immediately took to him. He was tall with thick hair that managed to defy gravity, his eyes a nice, if not a wee bit bleary, blue. With a huge smile and easy-going elocution, he told us about his rig and we all got acquainted.
A dinner spread was assembled and I ended up eating dinner with two women I'd met who were obviously also 'significant others'. One was a 1,000% mommy and the other was a 1,000% worker lady. We sat on the grass in our white miniskirts and ate BBQ.
Scott had been begrudingly kidnapped by his guy-buddies to take part in whatever competitions there were. I'd seen him throwing some horseshoes. I politely left the dinner folks, made myself a fresh cocktail and followed the flow of people down a dirt path where I heard...very loud... gun shots?
I came upon a gaggle of men & women awaiting their turn to shoot a 20 gage shotgun off into the valley beneath. BAM! It was loud. Scott was behind the gun "Pull!" BOOM! Skeet shooting. Liquor was bountiful and so were the children and guns. I kept my mouth shut-- bein' a Yankee and all.
Scott found me and we watched the various Virginian beauties step up, in the spirit of Annie Oakey, to shoot the gun. Booom! They were good. This is apparently a serious sport in these circles. One admitted she went to school for it.
We found our new camper-friend, standing peacefully to the side, watching the sport and the beautiful, cow-covered countryside. We began chatting and I found out that he's a well-acclaimed freelance photographer who's done some great travels. He was extremely interesting, kindly and funny. It was so refreshing to meet someone like that-- someone that doesnt automatically Zig when society says Zig. He's a Zagger.
Before I knew it, the confederate girls had convinced me to step up and shoot. It must've been the second (exceedingly strong) cocktail but I agreed. A woman in a dress & cowboy boots showed me how to hold the gun and shoot it. It literally pushed me backward. I shot again. BAM! I was awful. Not even close. But I have a nice, bruised shoulder as proof. Rawr! I have to admit, it was pretty fun.
The night progressed with a massive bonfire with our photographer friend and others masterfully strumming guitars and singing songs. Just perfect. I'd had enough and Scott escorted me to our tent, and tucked me in. It REEKED. The groundcloth we put down seriously smelled like dung. I sacked out anyway. Bzzzzzzp.
I woke up in the morning to fiddle-playing to a very bleary, hadnt gone-to-bed-yet group of guys. The morning haze was beautiful.
We parted ways with our camper-photographer pal and I felt my soul had been fed. How nice to make new friends.
