We should have owned California by now. Like Mark Hopkins, Leland Stanford and the other rich titans of the 1800s, my family settled early and made the right decisions. In 1851 they opened a bank and a hardware store in the town of Placerville, right near where gold was discovered three years earlier. But the good fortunes disappeared when the next generation made bad loans and the bank went kaput.
I loved growing up in Califonia’s Bay Area, but as a journalist, I was drawn to Washington, the major league of the profession. Lonely in the big city, I went to a Methodist church, also attended by a woman who grew up in South Boston, Virginia. “She’s a single woman. You ought to get to know her,” said a good friend who was playing cupid.
I was captivated by Pickett Craddock, a preschool teacher, who had inherited a 400-acre family farm at Cluster Springs, a place I had never heard of. I invited myself down to see her on the Fourth of July weekend in 1981, when another couple with a small child was also visiting.
There was no A/C, plaster was falling off the ceiling and there were planks loose in the 160-year-old building. “Pickett, this place is a bottomless pit,” warned her friend, who was an engineer. I gulped. What was I getting myself into?
A former tobacco plantation in the South was never my childhood dream. Not for a kid from the suburbs of San Francisco, in the place and time of the movie “American Graffiti and its hot rods and drive-in joints. What are these awful bugs? Why am I sneezing so much? What strange language are these people speaking?
Slowly I dipped my toe in the waters, driving the horrific trip back and forth from Washington eight to 10 times a year. I got to know the place better. I didn’t want to just be the spouse of a local girl. One summer I auditioned and got into a musical with the Prizery Summer Theater. That happened again five more summers. Hey, these people are really neat!
Using her skills dealing with contractors, Pickett got the place fixed up enough to open it as a summer bed & breakfast. This bottomless pit suddenly had class! We didn’t have to go everywhere–interesting people came here.
When I retired in 2009, we were still Inside-the-Beltway stalwarts in the winter, but we got a call from Pickett’s son in California. “The pandemic is coming. Get out of your Arlington apartment and go to Cluster Springs right away,” he said.
Dutifully following his advice, we spent the next year down here but kept paying the horrific bills for that apartment in Arlington, though we were never there. Should we move for good?
One day during the pandemic I visited Tunnel Creek Vineyards, which had opened the week before in Roxboro. I sat at the piano and played a few songs and the proprietor said, “Can you come back on Saturday?” My jazz piano teacher told me, “You are one of only 10 jazz musicians on the planet with a job right now.” I was paid to play there for three months until my aging hands couldn’t take the eight hours of playing every weekend.
I sang solos or joined choruses at three local churches, and I got involved in other groups. I didn’t miss the heavy D.C. traffic. The bed & breakfast business took off during spring and fall, which seemed to be more popular than summer.
And then I got this column in the News & Record. When I was writing national news, I rarely got feedback from readers, even if millions of people may have seen or heard my AP story. Now I encounter people I barely know in town who give me good comments. How could I possibly leave?
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