The House By The Side Of The Road
November 2004
When
Joseph Conrad quoted Edmond Spenser's line "Sleep after toyle,
port after stormie seas, Ease after war, death after life, does
greatly please," I sensed he was taken with the warmth of
those suggested feelings. So taken was he with the little verse,
it is engraved on
his tombstone where I suggest he was laid to rest in Canterbury
with a
contented smile on his face.
And
now, I know the feeling. We drove to Washington, DC for our Thanksgiving
Weekend, sharing it with John's sister Patricia. It wasn't as
simple as that line infers. It was a 650 mile drive, 520 of those
miles on one beautiful stretch of I-95. However, it wasn't until
80 miles outside the District that our speed slowed from 70 miles
per hour to 10.
With
Patricia finally settled in with us, our cheerful chatter soon
slowed to tense concerns about our eventual arrival time. Our
plans for a leisurely dinner catching up on our lives this night
before Thanksgiving changed from elegant to on-the-run. We were
in constant communication with our hosts, the MacPherson's, at
their highly recommended Foster-Harris House, a Bed and Breakfast
in Washington, Virginia -- still 60 miles further.
As
we made our way around traffic circles, up and down hills, across
bridges, we spoke to those at the Inn through wireless connections
"Can you hear me now? . Can you hear me now?" and kept
squinting toward street signs on darkened rural roads. Finally,
we arrived at what had to be the inspiration for Sam Walter Foss
to write "The House by the Side of the Road."
That
part of the trip -- oh, did I mention the rain? -- was the stormy
sea and when we opened a door that sounded bells on the hinges,
we would be in the port, the warm and welcoming port that poet
Conrad took to his grave.
John
and Diane came to the door from the dreamy state of waiting up
for us. Unlike what I expected, they were not the apple-cheeked,
robust, innkeepers of old; hardly. They are a young couple so
totally in command and self-assured that I felt -- well, happy.
Happy to be there, no thought of calling anyone "just to
keep in touch."
So
pleased were we with our accommodations that if this were the
end of the line, we would have been satisfied. Actually, we made
the trip to have dinner at a neighboring inn of such high repute
that dinner guests travel from all over the world to experience
dining at the Inn at Little Washington. I'm strictly a "check
the yellow pages" person when it comes to finding a restaurant
near Patricia's home so we could enjoy Thanksgiving with her.
John, on the other hand, keeps files on places he wants to see
and things he wants to do. A five-page article featuring the Inn
at Little Washington in Travel and Leisure was in his file and
this was the time to go.
Our
reservation couldn't be made sooner than one calendar month before
Thanksgiving and then the Inn recommended MacPherson's Foster-Harris
House as a place we'd find comfortable. There was no need to finger-walk
through the yellow pages this trip.
There
are places that are nice; there are places that are really good;
there are places that you want to tell your friends about and
then, there is the Inn at Little Washington -- and it's perfect.
Their charming website is: www.theinnatlittlewashington.com
The
Foster-Harris House bears the mark of its original owners when
the house was built as their family home in 1905. And, its owners
today, Diane and John, are leaving their mark -- theirs is the
mark of an enterprising young couple as comfortable in a Boardroom
as in turning down quilts in bedrooms before placing Ghirardelli
chocolates on the guests' pillows.
The
MacPherson's jumped out of the rat race of high stress and even
higher income to open a B & B. It was as simple as that. They
are equally content, not just one helping the other to follow
a dream. I have seldom seen two people working in tandem as they
do - effortlessly! www.fosterharris.com
As
all tension washed away and thoughts of Internet and Cell phones
and
e-mail disappeared entirely, I started to wonder about this town
of Little Washington. The population is 250 and I learned it is
the very first "Washington" in the United States.
The
town certainly can lay claim to that distinction since it got
its name directly from the future president, himself. It was seventeen-year-old
George Washington who surveyed, plotted, named the streets and
the little hamlet itself as it lay protected at the foot of the
Blue Ridge Mountains in Virginia.
John
and his sister, Patricia, caught up on Daley family lore and watched
football; I read from the well-stacked library at the Inn. The
fireplace roared and Diane placed the Christmas Tree in the Parlor
while John MacPherson offer Port, Champagne, or whatever was to
our liking. And the sparkling wine in the crystal glasses was
indeed to my liking.
On
our last day, Laurie and Malia were also guests and our conversations
continued as if we were all known to each other. Just as we had
been cleansed of the cares in our work-a-day worlds, so also had
they. John MacPherson not only cooks breakfast but he is a culinary
artist. I've never been served meals so closely resembling the
fare photographed for Gourmet Magazine.
John
and Diane are in the enviable position of being paid for what
they love to do. Their wholesomeness is catching and it carried
me all the way home, and then some.
We
stood in the hall hesitating to say goodbye, sharing warm hugs
and promises to be back for their home's centennial, 2005. As
the others lined up for hugs, I saw a needlepoint canvas framed
and hanging on the narrow wall behind the opened door. I leaned
in closer to read the embroidered letters, stitched, I'm sure,
on a long winter's night so long ago. It said: "Let me live
in a house by the side of the road and be a friend to man."
I
wonder if the young girl conscientiously piercing the needle in
and out of the canvas, keeping the letters straight the way her
Mama taught her, realized she was designing an anthem for all
those coming in and out the door to her house by the side of the
road.
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