Antiques and Oddities and Rage at Rayon

On Saturday I finally had a day to myself and one where every hour didn't mean an inch or two of rain. The sky was heavy with thick charcoal clouds threatening to dump a few more bucketfuls but was seemingly unable to as a powerful air flow buffeted them across the sky. I'm guessing those clouds were like us humans in a strong wind, clutching our coats and scarves around us as we struggle to move forward and stay in one piece. It seemed there was a battle raging above between the winds and the clouds, who were too occupied in keeping themselves whole than worry about dropping a deluge of rain.
I drove down to Verona, VA, a rather nondescript little town seemingly comprising of sprawls of strip malls. But off the main road was a huge antiques mall, apparently the largest in America, and supposedly still growing. Yet if I hadn't been told of this place by a friend I would have passed through the town not knowing that it existed. I didn't see a single sign, placard or banner proudly advertising the mall as I approached on Rte 11. There was nothing to herald its existence, not even as I entered the parking lot.

 But it was quite busy inside. A large group of staff in yellow t-shirts were by the registers and people were flocking from the fast filling car park into the building. And it was vast. I stood for a while looking to the left and right and forward, trying to work out a route, but finally resigning to the fact that I might have a problem finding my way back out. If I'd had breadcrumbs or a ball of string, I would have laid a trail to follow back later. So I simply turned left and started looking, unable to concentrate as I was overwhelmed with the massive quantities of 'stuff'. It was everywhere, on shelves, on walls, the floor and ceiling. Everywhere I looked was stuff. I just walked slowly until I could start to focus on individual items.

There were certainly plenty of vendors here that were very specific in their collections and likely attracted fans obsessed with their wares. Some had shelves of nothing but Tupperware, something my mother had ardently collected and raved about. Not so much now, and I've never been interested in it. Some spaces here were a shrine to the 50's or 60's while others held rows of old soda bottles and household tins.

 Delicious aromas wafted towards me as I studied some old prints and I realized that I was starving. A tiny cafe called Tasty Bites was around the corner and for under $7 I was served a TBS, a tuna, bacon and spinach on rye sandwich, with chips and a bottle of water. As I sat munching happily on my tasty lunch, I observed a dolls stall opposite with a tiny old lady hunched behind her counter, 3 walls of dolls surrounded her, all perched on shelves or in boxes, staring ahead with unblinking glass eyes. I thought they were a little creepy and noticed also that not one shopper stopped to look at her wares. Whether young or old, nobody took any interest and I felt sad for the old lady, who must surely be realizing that dolls are not sought after in today's world.

 I walked past these shelves piled high with glass quite quickly. I felt quite nervous at being close to such mountainous stacks of glass plates and drink ware, the shelves loaded so heavily that it seemed just one tiny tap would being the whole display crashing loudly and spectacularly to the floor. I couldn't even bring myself to get close enough to check the prices, it was far too intimidating to me.

 There was plenty of Christmas paraphernalia, decorations and Santas galore, but these cotton reels took my eye. Intricately carved and painted, I thought they were uniquely clever, but I didn't buy one.

 I had actually come here with a shopping list. Fully expecting to see a large collection of furniture I was disappointed to see very little. I've been looking for a gossip chair, or pew, a metal box locker with 5 compartments and possibly a queen bed. I only saw a couple of options for the latter and none whatsoever for the seating or locker. This place contained mainly housewares, ornaments and display stuff, but very little furniture. I'd also been looking for a metal bread bin or similar to put on my front porch for the mailman to put packages into, but the only one I saw was $135. Stuff that.

After exploring the warehouse I came to the conclusion that this isn't really an antiques mall, it's more of an indoor flea market. There were some antiques for sure but there were also plenty of junk items, and also a lot of the new 'primitive' or 'folk art' decor, which I actually like, but can no way consider as antiques. Upon closer inspection there were also a lot of items which were brand new but had been aged to look antique.

 After trawling up and down the aisles, gawping in every corner and digging into boxes, I only came across one item that I loved, but couldn't have. This portrait of someone's pet cat was adorable but with a $300 price tag it was well out of my reach. So instead I bought an amber glass lens from a traffic light for $5. Something unusual that not everyone has, (or necessarily wants...), and it will throw a nice light into one of the rooms when placed in the window. I found the exit and left after a surprised member of staff lamenting that I'd only spent $5 and asking me twice, "Is this all?" Obviously folks part with a lot of money in this mall. Not me.

 I drove back towards home taking the country back roads. I was surprised that the rain had held off. The sun was now shining but those dark clouds were persistently hanging above me, so dark that I found myself driving on roads that were one minute lit with bright sunshine and then suddenly thrown into such dark gloominess that it seemed night was approaching. I couldn't wear my sunglasses because of the constant changes in light but it made for some interesting photos. 

I passed almost no traffic on these gravel back roads so was able to drive slowly and enjoy the scenery. I spotted the Endless Caverns sign, Shenandoah's equivalent to the Hollywood sign, in the distance. The cloud shadows became darker as the afternoon progressed and my final photo was of the tower next to Luray Caves, lit up by the last rays of the sun before finally succumbing to colorless dusk.

.

 On Sunday after I'd finished grocery shopping for my Christmas dinner I decided to explore a few of the backstreets of Front Royal. As an urbexer I'd heard much about the now demolished site of the old rayon factory in Front Royal. It had caused immeasurable pollution on the people of the town and also the water supply so it was a celebration when it was finally closed down in 1989, a clean up operation beginning immediately that will continue for many years. So I was amazed when as I drove down a back street near the river I came across remains of the plant.

 The old administration building still stands and has been beautifully restored. I drove in and parked at the back then walked over to a gentleman who was entering one of the back doors. I asked if any of the rayon factory had been preserved at all or was on show somewhere in town. He said no. I was initially a little surprised as the plant had provided so much of the town with work for a long time, but on reflection, the town likely wanted no reminders of an industry that had caused so much damage to its workers and the surrounding environment. All that remains is this building. He let me inside to have a look around but it wasn't interesting. Having been built in the 1930s I had hoped for more ornate moldings on the ceiling or some interesting light fittings but there were none.

A stone with a metal plaque stood out front honoring those factory workers who had lost their lives in WWII. I'm actually amazed that this last remaining building has been left to stand and has evidently been cared for. After reading this horrific report on the contamination and those responsible for it, including NASA, I would have thought the town would have insisted that no trace remain of the plant whatsoever, but it seems this building will remain, with the company's name carved into the stone front. There's even a Viscose Avenue in town which runs parallel with Main Street...
I then drove down to the boat ramp on the Shenandoah. This is about a mile from my house and as I approached I remembered visiting here a couple of years ago to determine its viability as a putting in point for Big Red. It looked very different today, in fact the ramp wasn't visible. The road under the bridge was flooded but I could see a car parked on the other side so I drove through, feeling the water pushing against my tires.

 A couple of locals were sitting here with fishing lines cast into the fast flowing current. They sat high up on the bank, smoking and acting so casual it was evident they'd done this a few times before. I started chatting to them and they pointed out where I had parked the last time I came, which was now a good 3ft under water. They reckoned the Shenandoah was currently 6ft in the middle, where usually a person could stand with the water at chest height. They said they'd once seen a cow floating downriver during a previous storm, and another time in the summer, an unconscious drunk girl had floated down in her canoe and nosed into the bank where a park ranger was waiting who had kicked the side of her boat to get her attention. It all happens in Front Royal. The couple had once caught a15lb bass right by the underwater bench in the center of the photo below. I was enjoying their tales and could have happily sat with them all afternoon, but I kept looking at the water rushing across the road and didn't want to be caught on this side of the bridge. Dusk would soon be approaching and I was ready to go home. I'm sure I'll see and hear about more adventures in this quirky town!

Partying with Pals in DC

Sunday was Margie's Holiday Brunch, an event never to be missed, and one always immensely enjoyed by yours truly. Armed with beers and nibbles I marched to her festive front door and was a little surprised to find the house emptier than expected. I'd arrived later than usual and had hoped to walk into a house heaving with people, folks bopping to 70's disco music in the lounge and packed like sardines in the dining room and kitchen.

Instead I walked into soft chatter and the lounge area was empty. This was actually great as it meant I could take a photo of the new additions to her decor. It was certainly a lot pinker than previous years but the eccentric taste was definitely appreciated by me. I'm a big fan of Margie's acquisitions, and this year, added to the stuffed animals that graced each room, there was a lurid mannequin standing by the fireplace, appearing to be expectantly waiting for a dance partner. Where does Margie find these things?

The deer, or antelope, in the dining room was dressed finer than I remembered from last year, looking as though it was the resident Santa. The tree, as usual, was resplendent, and I wondered if next year I might get a larger fir myself. My current tree was perfect for the tight spaces in Meadow House but now I have a larger area, so this thought was filed away to be revisited when the After Christmas Sales begin. Once again I admired the beautiful wooden balustrades of the staircase but was distracted as my nose had been assailed by the delicious aroma of roast turkey, so I wandered further into the party.

The plus side of less people was the realization that I'd get a good serving of the turkey dinner that on previous years I have missed. I've been used to the remnants of the plates that had previously been speedily picked clean by the earlier guests. But today I was lucky. The nearly complete turkey was pulled into an alluring pose by a guest so I could take a photo, and another guest was totally engrossed in making the perfect gravy, from scratch. I watched as he poured the turkey juices and meat pieces from the roasting tin into a saucepan, adding veggie juice and flour. Perfect. I licked my lips as I hungrily, and a little impatiently, awaited my turn at ladling some onto my plate of turkey, stuffing and mashed potatoes. Apparently this same guest had whipped a couple of bottles of alcohol from a previous event of Margie's and when caught red-handed had declared that he was using them in 'cooking', and dishes would be brought to Margie's house. Today, a dessert had been produced with a flourish, a '52 bomber pie' or something, which had slipped to one side on it's plate, resulting in a very tipsy looking pie. Resembling a lemon meringue pie, it was a pastry crust with a greenish filling, topped with a yellowy custardy coating. It was promptly renamed an 'Alaskan Tsunami Pie', a title that attracted much interest, including mine. I had no time to take a photo as we were told the cook was leaving and taking the rest of the pie with him, so we all carved a quick slice and devoured it. I  helped myself to a largish piece and upon hefting a bigger than usual forkful into my mouth, gasped as the brandy fumes escaped with each chew. It was definitely loaded with alcohol, but in a very tasty and delectable way. No sooner had we demolished our slices when the chef walked in and swiftly lifted the pie dish out of our reach. A shame as I'd been considering another serving.

Margie rummaging among the vast pile of pressies under the tree. She's very astute and thoughtful, having gone to the sales last Christmas and bought many bits and bobs to give out as presents to her friends this year. I received a pair of stretchy leggings in green with ginger cats wearing Santa hats adorning them. They were a size S/M so I was amazed when I got home and tried them on to find that they fitted me. Isn't elastic marvelous?!

Due to the smaller crowd there was no dancing in the lounge to Abba this year, and as I looked about me it seemed that the stuffed animals were horrified at this lack of entertainment. They stood and stoically stared, grimacing horribly, while we all stood around the food and stuffed ourselves.

 Margie has a very eclectic array of friends, meaning that her parties are always interesting, amusing and memorable. A couple of years ago we had one person who was the spitting image of Catweazle, an English children's TV character, and this year we had The Hamster. Richard Hammond from Top Gear has this nickname due to his name and diminutive size, so it was with absolute glee when I spotted one of Margie's friends sitting across the room, looking identical to The Hamster, even down to the leather jacket. I can't wait to see who will appear next year!

It was with much reluctance and regret that I had to leave. The daylight was fading, Christmas lights twinkled on the front steps of Margie's house, and the party was still happening. Once again, I'd celebrated the season with wonderful friends, and laughed aplenty. I almost envied not living in DC, where I could have stayed longer and had a shorter journey home, but as I sat in the traffic, the car ventilation turned off because of car fumes, I was glad to be heading west where my little new home was snuggled in a quiet part of town right at the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains and where two female felines were waiting for their dinner. I really am fortunate to be able to enjoy both worlds, the town and the country, within an hour of each other.

Early Morning on the Mountain

On Sunday I woke up determined to get out and hike. After over 2 months of pain from a trapped sciatic nerve, my chiropractor visits had worked wonders and I could now hopefully pound the trail without even a twinge.  It was incredible to leave the house and within 10 minutes be hiking on a trail in the Shenandoah Park. I started walking before 7:30 and well before the suburbites and city dwellers would enter the park. My hands were thrust deep into my pockets as it was still cold, the early sun trying to punch its way through the fog. I trudged through brown pine needles and soggy leaves, slipping occasionally on the mud that the previous day's rain had left. But it felt great.

I came across what looked like a small camp site on the side of the path, but the fire ring had been set up but hadn't been used. Fires aren't allowed in the park anyway, leaving me to wonder if someone had staged this little scene for a photo. I didn't stand for too long pondering on this, the cold was biting my nose and occasionally gusts of wind rattled bare branches above me. Water bubbled and bounced along a creek alongside the trail, tendrils of fog lifting like steam from a bath.

The trail was sodden, the mud and leaves reminding me of soggy cornflakes. Rivulets streamed down alongside and across the path, my footsteps making muddy splashes up my legs. Flooded culverts gushes occasionally under the path, yesterday's rain was making its way down the mountain and there was a lot of it.

The rain had accentuated the colors in the forest, the green mosses and clumps of grass looking vibrant and saturated with color against the grey and browns of the forest floor. I saw a couple of trees with damaged trunks, caused by deer or bears, but the only wildlife I saw were grey squirrels, who constantly ran across in front of me or up trees, looking chubby and healthy with their winter fat.

There were still patches of snow in ditches and under ledges of stone walls, or tucked between the roots of trees but as I climbed higher these disappeared. The sun peeked over the mountain tops as I climbed to the ridge, then suddenly I was cast in the golden morning light and immediately felt the warmth of its rays. I was amazed at how quickly I had reached the Skyline Drive road and stood for a couple of minutes, amazed that there were no other humans about. No sound of traffic at all, making me wonder if the park was closed, and then thinking how lucky I was to live here and be able to access the park on foot. I crossed over the road to resume climbing up the mountain, the silence broken only by a few birds and more chunky squirrels that dashed for cover as I approached them.

Now most of the leaves had fallen I could see through the bare branches to my new home below. Front Royal seemed quiet, nestled among the foothills, while thick white fog draped across the higher mountain slopes. The trail was even more sodden up here and I smiled as I spotted a fresh bear track that had slipped in the mud and then just a few feet further I saw a deer track that had suffered the same fate. and then it was my turn, one foot skidded from under me but I managed to prevent myself from tumbling down. After climbing for a few more minutes I decided to turn around. The trail was so precarious that I was more worried about coming back down and loosing my footing than trying to continue on up the hill. I gingerly made my way back down to the road and again stood there, listening to the silence and relishing the moment.

As I walked back down the mountain, the trail streaked ahead of me like a silver ribbon, the wet carpet of leaves illuminated and shining so brightly that sometimes I had to squint. Blue sky had now appeared with a few fluffs of wispy clouds floating above, and the sun felt warm. I even considered taking off my jacket but as I made my way down to the creek the temperature dropped dramatically.

As I neared the bottom I heard voices and looking up I saw a huge group of hikers thundering towards me, chattering incessantly and marching as though on patrol. Bright colored jackets and trekking poles flashed past, a few Good mornings' were hailed, and then they had past. But almost immediately, another smaller group approached, followed by yet another large group. A good 40 or so people had passed me in a matter of 5 minutes. Once again I was so thankful that I'd been fortunate enough to start my hike early, those groups had likely been driving at least for 90 minutes to get here. They could only be here for the exercise routine as their racket would most definitely scare any wildlife away.
The fog had almost completely evaporated as I walked alone again once more back to the car. The sun was now high enough to reach the valley floor, the grasses and lichens bright emerald in the morning rays. I was surprised to discover that I'd hiked 5.5 miles without any discomfort. 5 minutes later I was in my kitchen cooking breakfast and planning my next mountain walk.