URBANNA — It was the July 4 weekend in 1984. Ronald Reagan was in the White House, the world was at peace, immigration was regulated and the borders secure. The price of groceries, gas and utility bills did not cause instant shock and college students were not shouting “Death to Israel!” as today.
Compared to life now, things seemed peaceful enough. I was living in Newport News and working as assistant director of Kee Business School day program and director of the night college. Computers were relatively new at the time and our high tech trained graduates were entering area business offices able to convert primitive billing and accounting systems to new technology. It was a good time for business colleges before other institutions were teaching computer skills.
My daughter, Liz, was nearing graduation from the College of Charleston and my son, Wake, was headed for Virginia Tech. Along with work, parenting and housekeeping duties, I was working on a master’s degree at George Washington University (GWU). The program’s classes met one weekend every month in Hampton. I was busy and had no trouble sleeping at night when I finally was able to crash into bed.
Looking back, I cannot believe I was surviving such a challenging life. Yet I was young and a feminist thinking that women were super human beings and could do anything and everything including pursuing dreams and that dreams always came true if one worked hard, was persistent, remained positive and never quit.
There was a measure of unhappiness, now that I look back, in life in Newport News. For my dream, not yet realized, was that I wanted to become a writer. But I had no time to write. I was too busy staying afloat in a life that held very little personal time for individual pursuit of happiness.
That something was missing in my life is the only reason I can now think of for my immediate interest in a small ad in the Daily Press that Sunday morning as I sipped my tea. Still in my slippers and nightie gown, I read: “For sale: Small 2BR + 1Ba cottage on river in Urbanna” and immediately picked up the phone and called Realtor Ed Ruark in Deltaville for an appointment.
“I already have seven appointments,” he advised.
“Well, I want to be the first one,” I answered, and he agreed to meet me at Harrow’s hardware store, then next to Urbanna Baptist Church, at 9 a.m. on Monday morning.
“I’ll be there,” I assured him and then told Chip of my trip to Urbanna the next morning.
He frowned as only lawyers can. I suppose I did have the reputation of buying homes quickly. As Ed later told me, I am the sort of person that is the Realtor’s “dream customer.”
I had previously bought three homes in the past in our mobile life simply after pulling into the driveway and having a look from the outside. My usual response, “I’ll take it,” was already a long standing family joke.
In my defense, I don’t care to shop. I remember Mother was shocked when at age 21 I bought the first wedding dress I tried on. The sales lady at Halle’s Department bridal salon in Cleveland, Ohio, where I purchased my dress, marveled, “You are the first-ever customer to buy the first dress you tried on.” But I know what I like and I hate to shop so why not buy whatever you see that you like and save everyone a lot of time?
Chip was concerned. “I do hope you don’t buy the cottage on the river, dear” were the last words he said to me as I pulled out of my driveway in James Landing and headed for the beautiful, historical town of Urbanna.
I already knew of Urbanna. When Chip had graduated from law school in 1968 a Visa charge card suddenly appeared in the mail. We were stone poor in those days and I snatched the card and headed for the Tides Inn with my family (Liz was just 4 years old then) for a weekend to celebrate Dad’s graduation.
While at the Tides Inn we hopped on the iconic “Miss Anne” for her famous “Whiskey Run” to Urbanna across the river from Irvington.
I walked up the hill to town and stood taking in the atmosphere that I so loved for the first time. “I’m going to live here one day,” I told Chip and Liz as we headed down Cross Street to Nimcock Gallery and the warm welcome of Emily Chowning and her splendid watercolors, then crossed the street to Marshall’s Drug Store, had a soda and met “Doc” Marshall for the very first time.
That did it. I just didn’t know in 1968 how long it would take to make my escape from Newport News. It took another 16 years.
(To be continued.)
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