Nancy began to show me around-but a kid named Michael tried to eliminate me from the face of the earth--as a welcome aboard jesture.
He said let show you around man--just keep up with me through the woods--go where I go.
He was bigger and faster than me--but I tried to keep up--through the brush-down the path left right,left again--I was flying-he rounded a corner and so did I and instantly I found myself tetering on the edge of a cliff--which I nearly ran right off of--the rocks and the water looked like 100 feet below---and there was Michael hanging onto a rope over the side of the cliff--laughing at me.
I believe that the fear of heights I found out about years later at a pyramid in Central America was born that day on that cliff-----
My fear of heights involved being on a shear drop off with nothing to hang onto--I'm OK with a railing or a wall--at any height.
In the later 70's we won a sales trip to El Salvador-and while there we went to a pyramid type structure--and I ran up the steps to the top and was going to run down the other side--but guess what--there were no steps the other side--only a shear wall drop off 180 feet down-which like the Maryland cliff I almost ran off of.
When I saw the drop off, I got light headed and dizzy and had to sit down on the edge. I got sick and couldn't move---after a while with peoples help and slow breathing I was able to scoot myself away from the edge--but it was quite a while before I could stand and walk back down the front side. It was then that I found I had a height problem and the episode on the Maryland cliff came flooding back into my memory. more later The Codger

I wasn't going to miss the red brick apartments at all.
The new home was awesome---Our own boat and boat dock--with roof and picnic table and benches--a yard at our house with 21/2 acres--a basement--a club house right behind our house for the community--with dinners and dances and theme parties for holidays.
I would walk across the field by the clubhouse and there was my school,and it was brand new---and day one I met the best friend I have ever had------------------Her name is Nancy--and I call her my little black haired girl---another name would be general Nancy--she knew how to do just about everything---swim, ride a bike-fish-play cards--she knew how to catch crabs and softshell crabs as well--she knew how to row a boat and catch eels and swing from a rope 50 feet above the water--and she wasn't afraid to ride down the hill from atop the bluff at full speed on the gravel.
She introduced herself--day one and made it her job-to teach me the city kid the country ropes--oh did I say she liked to play ball as well---my kind of woman! more later Codger

The seasons changed,we all grew older. Grandad refloored the house and covered the walls in knotty pine from the property. The old outhouse was replaced by a chemical toilet and a new addition to the house was begun--such are my last remembrances of the farm except for the last memorable walk I made with Grandad around the property.
I was 15 years old, he told me he had sold a portion of the property to help maintain his other two homes. He seemed sad when he told me--but the farm was real life and such is life---grandad was about to retire.
I saw my Grandparents a few more times in Florida,up untill my early twenties,Grandads health was failing and he hated appearing before people--being less than 100%. We had many more meaningful talks,he was proud of his life and the things he had accomplished,but disappointed about unfinished things.
We were very close and those last visits meant a lot.
I grew into my 30's and had been living in Texas a number of years,it was there that I received the news that my Grandad had passed away. It was the saddest day of my life.
It was sad to think that Grandad would not walk his beloved land any more,the farm had become a sadder place and it would yield yet other lessons,that life could seem cruel and disheartening, and then tragedy struck again!Dark clouds covered the land,the Whippoorwill sang a sad song as our wonderful Grandmother took sick and the ravages of cancer began to take that grand lady. She was the personification of a loving person who constantly gave of herself to others,and to the end her thoughts were of family.
It was if the years of joy suddenly were to be tempered by sadness,when more precious life failed to return in subsequent springs. Robert,my Granparents youngest son tragically died at age 49,and not long after his older brother Sonny died in his mid 50's.
The farm had been sold a few years before and all that remained was about 15/20 acres held onto by Richard the oldest son--who led a quiet life and was proud to hang onto a piece of family heritage.
In 1992 Richard was murdered by a man who had bought a portion of the original farm and at the time of this writing in 1992--the man was pleading not guilty by means of insanity--with a trial scheduled for Oct 1992.---note the man was found guilty--had changed his plea to self defense--
It's like the last remaining innocense is gone,death had come in its most violent form to the most peaceful of places. It is a sign of recent times that no place is exempt from evil
My Grandparents are now survived by two daughters-of their 6 children. Richards family still resides on the farm,and time will slow the pain of recent tragedies and as surely as Spring follows Winter,life will rise amid despair and fresh green grass will come forth amid the weeds and thorns. People will once again enjoy the land and the spirit of the farm will endure and the birds will once again sing a happy song in the foothills of the Blueridge on a place we called the FARM!! The End The Codger

I was three years old,we were watching Grandad fire his pistol at a target on the fence-post.I was excited by the gun and he let me fire it. He stood behind me and helped sight the pistol toward the tin can.
I shot and missed--and boy was Grandmother mad at Grandad.
Later that day we all went in the car to an apple orchard--and while my Granparents and my mother talked with the orchard owner-I wandered back by the open car trunk and guess what I found---Grandads pistol,the one he said had a hair trigger. I pulled the loaded Smith and Wesson from the holster and walked over to the four of them and pointed the gun right at them--my finger resting on the trigger and told them to get their hands up! That gun was just a toy to me--but it was death in reality should I pull that trigger.
The Orchard owner worked his way slowly behind me and took the gun away--Grandad never again left a weapon where a child could get his hands on it.
The farm was also a place where I experienced another right of passage,my first deer hunting trip. I was 10 years old and received a Winchester model 37,410 gauge shotgun as an early Christmas present. I couldn't wait to fire it. We went out back and after a lesson in gun safety--I was to fire at a can on the ground but spotted a sparrow land in a bush next to the can--and I pulled down on the sparrow and blasted him,but he didn't die right away--he thrashed around---dad hollered "why did you do that"?-When the bird was thrashing in his death throes--I realized just what a gun was capable of-I was ashamed of my actions and cried my eyes out---I got over it and we went hunting--but I learned a valuable lesson----don't waste expensive shells on birds ya can't eat!!!--nahh just kidding.
The farm had delicous well water,pure and cold,with a flavor un matched. I think it taste so good cause ya had to walk a long way with those heavy buckets.
The farm was the realization that everything was not pure and innocent ,and that some things were tainted and dirty'like torn down fences,trash carelessly discarded and deer maliciously destroyed and left to rot by tresspassers without decency. Things got so bad during deer season that local cattle owners actually painted the word COW on the sides of their stock so that just maybe the careless hunters wouldn't shoot them.
I remember one day I really got disgusted by hunters. I saw a buck run across the meadow to my right,toward a section not in my view--a number of shots rang out followed by shouts from at least three people all claiming to have shot the deer--they got into a terrible cursing fight--It bothered me---cause it was really being in the outdoors--that it was all about to me--not all about the harvesting of game--.In all honesty--if we were to survive on the game we killed we would have starved to death. None of us were really great hunters--but the fun part was coming back to the house to warm up and eat the great meals Grandmother had waiting for us.
The farm was the friendly neighbors, the ones we bought fresh eggs from,the ones who kept an eye on the place during the week when all of us were back in Arlington--and the friendly neighbors who seemed to always offer a helping hand--The country folks were fine people who had respect for their property as well as each other.
The farm was lazy hot days when I roamed the fields catching grasshoppers, a bait popular with the bass in the pond.You didn't need fancy lures or an expensive rod and reel,the bass in the pond weren't that particular. We even caught bass on a hook with a piece of tin foil on it.Many of the children in the family had the thrill of catching their first fish from that productive body of water.
The farm was a potpurri of sights and sounds and smells,the beautiful fresh greens of Spring, the majesty of Fall colors as the leaves changed.The pristine purity of the snowfalls of Winter.
I can still hear the church bells ringing on Sunday morning--their melodic tones drifting across the valley. There was an old bell on a post that my Grandparents rang--to call us kids in from the woods.
Grandmothers Thanksgiving feast were an event of gastronomical proportions--mince meat pies and pumpkin pies and incredible dressing and turkey and ham and bread and puddings and sweet potatos and on and on--the only thing better tha smelling the fair was stuffing your face.
The farm was work and responsibility. We helped mow grass,whitewash fences,work in the garden,carry water from the well and help Grandad with ongoing maintenance projects.
The thing is, chores on the farm didn't seem like work,we were only there on weekends except in summer,the jobs were fun and we enjoyed helping improve the place that we thought so much of.

Part 3 a bit later---The Codge

The Farm

Deer Run,Quail Hollow and Mimosa Pines;just some of the names my Grand Parents thought might compliment their beautiful Blueridge foothill property near Stephens City Va.
The names were appealing but never adopted,the name that endured was simply-The Farm.
The farm was purchased in 1949 by my Grandparents,Clarence and Elizabeth Campbell and comprised several hundred acres of rolling hills,green valleys,timber brush and creeks and ponds dug by my Grandfather. There was an old stucco farm house,and leading from it were paths,one to the well and the other to the outhouse.
The farm was more than a weekend retreat,and more than the beauty within its boundaries.The farm was days of anticipation and real excitement for us grandchildren whenever we had the opportunity to visit.
The farm was the 70 mile trip from Arlington Va.,the road meandering through rolling farm land,rich in history and scenic beauty. The journey was enhanced by the stories told by our Grandparents as they colorfully brought the past and present to life,their vivid narratives kept us spellbound while stone fences,animals and quaint old farms flashed by at highway speed and before we realized it we were at the big white gate to the farm.
The farm was our refuge,a private piece of land shared with nature,a place offering adventure and diversity and now many years later the sanctuary of strong indelible memories.
The farm was gardens cared for by my Grandmother whose labor was rewarded by the miracle of food from the ground.
The farm was the old pot bellied stove,its warmth most appreciated when icicles hung from the eves and the winds of winter blew the snow into a carpet of white.
The farm was white washed fences and whitewashing fences and on one memorable morning the farm was the image of an 8 point buck,caught and framed for an instant,as he took a momentary rest from his flight,he stood silhouetted against a picture postcard backdrop and then bounded effortlessly over the fence and out of sight.
The farm was my first bow and arrow,constructed from branches home grown,crafted by my Grandad who loved us kids.He was always happiest when he was helping or teaching,he also guaranteed the bows would work because of the small amount of indian blood in his ancestry.
The farm was long walks with Grandad,as we tred to keep pace with his long strides that he called his military step.
He was proud of his military background,having served as an enlisted man in WW-1 and a Captain in WW-2 before being injured and disabled.
Grandad often showed his patriotism in many ways. He also treated his land with respect and judged men -not by their position or pocket book-but by their word and actions.
The walks with Grandad were educational as we learned about the woods,wildlife and about our own reponsibilities to help preserve and respect it.
The farm was peaceful nights as we all lay in our beds listening to the sounds from the woods meadow and pond. Grandmother would tell us what creatures we heard calling in the night. Her favorite was the whippoorwill down near the pond.
The farm was walks to the outhouse,sure of purpose and on one occasion becoming comfortably seated and then suddenly discovering a Blacksnake coiled at my feet1. I ran to the house in a panic to tell Grandad,he said"I'm sorry Ricky, I forgot to tell you that snake makes his home there in the spring" The sudden shock of the snake was only one thing quite another was when Grandad offered me five dollors to walk out into the pasture and put a ring in a bulls nose. Grandad was either trying to find out how brave I was or how much common sense I had,or perhaps--just maybe I was getting on his last nerve that day-----Naaaah!!!
The farm was the thrill of cutting our own Christmas tree from the property and dragging it back towards the house and being suddenly startled by the sound of thundering hooves as cattle were running towards us-thinking we were bringing them food. I was a little bitty kid then--those cows looked like giants to me--I was scared to death---the cows followed us to the gate trying to eat that tree.
The farm was work,fun,togetherness and a learning experience in every facet of life and one time a mistake happened that was nearly deadly!!

part 2 later The Codge