Colors and Contrast
By Michael Stierhoff
Life can be full of color or simply shades of gray. Neither is permanent and both can be navigated with the correct lens…however, there are times when it’s impossible to tell the difference.
We wanted to get away from the city a few weeks before peak leaf weekend. It had become clear that finding a new job would be a long term challenge and the budget was tight. But we were in the mood for change and discount internet tickets provided the perfect solution. Luray Caverns and Harpers Ferry were our primary targets; we’d spend a long weekend in Virginia’s historical Shenandoah Valley.
We picked up Kelly at Wake Forrest and crossed the Virginia line before noon. We descended into the valley northwest of Lynchburg, sticking to back roads, hoping to see what you never see on the freeway.
And that’s exactly what happened. As the road snaked up a hill across a rock strewn pasture, the bright blue sky became the perfect backdrop for the bright red pickup sitting patiently at the top.
There are certain shades of red and blue that are nearly incompatible and our eyes overloaded. Everything shimmered like the complex patterns that skip about the bottom of swimming pools…constantly moving, impossible to freeze in time.
As we approached the top of the hill, the red and black ‘FOR SALE’ sign broke the mirage. We’d considered adding a third vehicle for a long time but simply couldn’t afford anything modern. So the recently spray painted, late-sixties Ford begged for our attention and provided the first surprise of the trip.
The keys were in the ignition and a note signed by Millbrook councilman, John W. Baylor, was on the dashboard. The note authorized any licensed driver, over the age of twenty, to take a test drive of less than five miles or one hour. And the asking price was less than a thousand dollars.
Kelly’s “No Way!!!” projected far more expectation than disbelief and the feeling was mutual…“There’s no way we can pass on that!” verbalized what everyone felt.
Assuming teenagers really feel joy on a ‘joyride’, the tag seemed appropriate as we slid across the narrow black bench that provided just enough room for three.
The shifter was the ancient “three on the tree” design, so Lauren went first to see if she was compatible with a manual transmission that doesn’t monopolize the center of the truck. Considering I was sitting in the middle, I already liked the configuration and we pulled out of the pasture with minimal fuss.
The interior appeared reasonable, considering the odometer must have flipped a few times, and Lauren mentioned that it handled well as she took the right fork towards Milltown. The road descended parallel to the ridge we had just crested , and I was trying to get a glimpse of the interstate that connects the valley to the coast when Lauren calmly stated, “I don’t have any brakes.”
She slammed the pedal to the floor a few times to make the point and we scanned the road for options.
Appearing something like a trucker’s emergency exit ramp, a driveway branched off to the right and climbed back up the ridge and into a grove of trees. Thankful for the lack of ninety degree turns on these ancient paths, we ascended into shades of gray and coasted to a stop next to a spotless, white, clapboard church.
Lauren pulled the emergency brake as we took a collective breath and our eyes adjusted to the light... we were parked in front of a black iron fence surrounding a church yard that would qualify as a small park in Raleigh.
Three camouflaged cottages crossed the yard before us. Logic dictated that the two clapboard versions on the left were really white as was the trim on the stone cottage on the right. But only shades of green and brown survived the filtering of the great canopy of elms.
Our feet had barely hit the ground when he opened the gate. “Ya’ll lost?” Imagine Abraham Lincoln without the beard in clean, faded green overalls. Somewhere in his late seventies, he personified country life around, maybe…1936?
“Well we took this truck out for a test ride, discovered it doesn’t have any brakes, and we’re just happy the church is upslope” Doing my best not to sound like a truck-jacker, I tried to project positive thoughts through my eyes, and considered pulling out the councilman’s note.
“Hi, I’m Jimmy Guy.” All concern evaporated with the handshake. “So do you like it? I was with Johnny when he got it, brand new…and you know I owe him a favor or two. So how about some lunch, and I’ll look those brakes over when we’re done?
The church screen door slammed and we discovered that Eleanor Guy fit the part just as well as Jimmy. Short, heavyset, dressed in a blue print dress and apron, she focused on lunch just as quickly…”so how about some fried chicken and mashed potatoes?”
It turned out that the Guys owned the Elm Grove Inn, lunch was literally ready to be served, and they didn’t have any other guests. Considering the wild ride and the fact that we were starving, it was all too easy to just say ‘yes’.
The fried chicken was a diet-busting mix of crust and juices while the mashed potatoes were caked in butter. It would take sixty minutes on the racquet ball court to erase the evidence, but it was impossible to avoid seconds.
We ate in the large kitchen that had been grafted onto the back of the church as Eleanor revived the family history. “Grandpa Johnson started the church after the war” was the beginning and the names of childhood dogs, popular local flowers, and best practices to nurture the eternal soul followed.
The stories overflowed our capacity to retain long before she led us back into the churchyard.
The dark green beds of ivy appeared cold and black. But the columns of light that broke through the canopy felt like fire and illuminated intricate paths of white gravel.
“Elm Grove attracted people from all over. Millbrook didn’t exist yet, and everyone here loved each other so much that they decided to share it with the world”. Eleanor led us onto the front porch of the clapboard cottage, farthest from the church.
“This one’s the Family Cottage.” Scarlet butterflies and royal blue hummingbirds adorned the wide variety of handmade quilts and blankets covering practically every piece of furniture.
“The good Lord provided, and it was common to have four or five families staying in this one cottage for a week or two.”
I was starting to comprehend a concept that was hard to imagine; a church camp where entire families voluntarily stuffed themselves into rooms that were just big enough for a double bed and a couch.
As we walked by, we learned that the middle cottage was simply one large room with forty bunks.
And the stone cottage next to the church was the parsonage.
“We decided to convert it after Grandpa passed on because there were so many guests.”
It felt old and European… stone fireplaces, dark corners, and an incredibly narrow staircase.
But it was also warm and loved and the large master bedroom, guest room, and living room were far more inviting than any bed-and-breakfast we had ever encountered.
It was immediately clear that we had stumbled upon the perfect place to stay the night.
Jimmy volunteered to drop me off at our car as he set out to fix the old truck’s brakes and he laughed when I asked if it was safe… “I kind of like playing with the handbrake, so the footbrake’s more of a luxury to me… but don’t you worry. It’ll be just like brand new when I’m done.”
We unpacked while he was gone and the great decompression began. My brain was quiet for the first time in months and I finally started the book that I had picked up and laid down a hundred times before.
The girls walked down the paths that managed to contain the energetic little stream that gave the adjoining town of Millbrook a reason to exist.
And everyone listened to birds.
Before the trance lifted, I accused Lauren of turning new-age (in my defense, she had just stated that “great boulders are true prescriptions for healing”.)
But there was no heaviness in my words. Everyone understood that we were rapidly becoming comfortable with new things inside and that our words were too rusty to convey the complete truth.
We anticipated correctly and dressed up the best we could before returning to the church.
Eleanor’s beef stew recapped all of the taste and calories of lunch, the conversations were just as animated, and the fire that Jimmy built in the cottage that evening was energized with blues and greens that seemed to surpass high definition.
We played cards and talked until ten. And then it was easy to imagine life before TV and central heat as we pulled the ornate comforters over our heads… leaving just enough room for our noses to explore the chilly room.
Breakfast was something light and fluffy called “German Pancakes” and the next major surprise was the bill; an impossible $18.70 for nine meals and a room. I attempted to quadruple the payment with a healthy tip, however, Eleanor gently stated that the rate was set and they were simply happy to have visitors.
The Guys made us promise to stop and say ‘hello’ if we decided to purchase the truck on the return trip, and when we were safely down the driveway, Kelly joked that the pickup was probably a prop designed to snare unsuspecting tourists.
She deserved the laugh, but we were already sold on the pickup as well as the Guys. It made sense to delay the purchase, but we imagined the deal closed and actually debated who would drive the truck home.
We continued our trek down the Shenandoah Valley with a stop at Luray Caverns… a Cathedral-Labyrinth of flowing rocks that formed ghosts, trees, mammoths, and lakes. Definitely worth the visit.
And Harpers Ferry had maintained its sleepy, small-town atmosphere. Everything appeared ancient and it seemed impossible that the Civil War traced its roots to such simplicity.
At some point, my eyes overloaded much like the first vision of the truck on the hill. A gold colored tavern in the foreground absolutely refused to share the same visual plane with a green townhouse located farther down the hill. And both clashed with the burnt-orange barn on the bank of the Potomac.
But otherwise, Saturday was far less surreal than Friday. It was more like the Travel Channel with lots of peach and apple cider.
Of course, the bed and breakfast was far less cozy than the Guy’s, but that didn’t stop us from sleeping in on Sunday morning.
We regained focus over breakfast and agreed that the truck and a visit with the Guys were our only goals.
Abandoning the back roads, we moved much faster and were amazed how different the valley appeared at freeway speeds. We reached ‘our’ little truck at the top of the hill shortly after 1pm.
But our hearts lost a beat as we imagined a potential competitor…an older gentleman was sitting in the cab.
Our paranoia dissolved when we learned that the gentleman in the tweed sport coat was truck owner and town councilman, John Baylor.
We explained that we were the family who took the test drive on Friday and discovered the lack of brakes. Considering the condition of the Elm Grove Inn, we were sure that Jimmy’s repair work was top notch…but we were interested in the overall repair history as we would cross the Blue Ridge on the way back to Raleigh.
And then, everything changed. Councilman Baylor’s voice was rapid and raspy “I didn’t know there was anything wrong with the brakes. And what do you know about Jimmy Guy?”
Hoping we hadn’t blundered into an ancient turf war and inadvertently derailed the sale, the three of us replayed the highlights from Friday and Saturday. We automatically downplayed the Guy’s role, we repeatedly focused on how much we loved the truck, and hinted that funds were immediately available.
John appeared less agitated over time and stoically absorbed our ramblings. Long after we had painted the most positive picture we could imagine, he emerged from the heaviness and provided some direction.
“So you stayed with the Guys…well if you really want it, I’ve gotta make a call. So let’s run over to Elm Grove and I’ll make up my mind when we get there.”
We continued to debate what we had stumbled upon as we followed him across the ridge and back to the Inn. He closed his cell phone just before he turned up the steep driveway.
With less fanfare than our previous arrival, we stepped out of the car before our eyes had adjusted. However, this time the gray was less pristine.
There were as many dead leaves in the yard as in the trees, the cottage roofs were covered with small limbs, and the church screen door swung freely in the breeze.
“What happened? Was there a storm?”
The weather in Harpers Ferry had been clear, and a fierce thunderstorm seemed the only explanation.
“Nope, it’s been a pretty weekend…common up here I want you to take a look at the cottage.”
Councilman Baylor directed us to the “Family Cottage” and we were in such a state of shock that we didn’t notice the heavyset gentleman until he joined us on the porch.
“Hello, I’m Revered Collins and I’m here to show you around.” He unlocked the door and Councilman Baylor motioned for us to step in.
I switched on the light, but nothing happened. Reverend Collins turned on a flashlight and said, “There’s no power. Hasn’t been any for years”.
The narrow shaft of light made it clear that nothing had moved yet nothing was the same. The quilts were faded, the curtains stained, and the countertops were covered in dust. Like an artificially aged movie set, the warm little house that brought happiness to many families was now quite cold.
The bunkhouse was worse. We hadn’t entered before, but the holes in the floor and the sound of mice just didn’t fit our snapshot of Elm Grove.
Kelly broke through the numbness. “I have to see my room”. She was impatiently waiting when we caught up with her on the parsonage porch and the smell of ‘damp cellar’ rolled out when the Reverend opened the door.
The living room was moldy and gray. Kelly ran down the hall to the little room where she had slept soundly the night before last…
“Look, A Tale of Two Cities is still on the nightstand…I brought it here from the bookshelf in the living room” she twisted about…the narrator, unaware of her audience.
“And the footstool. I moved it here from in front of the closet.”
She threw the closet doors open and shifted to slow motion as she carefully retrieved the remains of a comforter that had long lost its ability to warm.
“Mom… I folded this and put it away before we left”.
Her voice begged confirmation, and there was no doubt… it was folded in a perfect trifold…the way Kelly folds everything. She was the last person that handled this ancient piece of cloth.
Lauren’s arms gently embraced Kelly and affirmed the only thing that was certain “Yes, honey, we were here”.
I motioned the councilman and Reverend towards the hallway, I started my diatribe with more descriptive language than was required, I apologized, and finally managed to ask the only question that seemed important. “What happened to us on Friday?”
Councilman Baylor had much to say as he led us across the unkempt paths that led back to the dilapidated kitchen.
“It’s happened at least once before or at least once where I was involved. And it’s happened many more times when you do the math.”
He motioned to the ancient cash box sitting exactly where Eleanor had left it.
“Try not to disturb them much, but you’ll find the newer bills are on the top, same with the coins. There’s a few bills from the 60s near the bottom.”
“It took me years to put it together” Councilman Baylor watched as I careful fanned through the cash.
“Eighteen dollars and 70 cents is the key…that’s what you paid, right?”
I confirmed with a head shake and he continued.
“Well, if you count it up there’s $3,814.80 and if you divide by 18.70, it works out to 204 visits. If you divide that over the years, they’ve got about six groups of visitors showing up every year”
“Who has visitors? Where are the Guys?”
Reverend Collins seemed to cough out the next sentence…
“I knew Jimmy for so long… and he put on a service here that pulled people from hundreds of miles. I had to keep my doors open on Sunday, because that’s what the congregation paid me to do.
But I’d sit outside on Wednesday nights and just listen, and listen, and listen.
He knew what is true deep, deep down. He made it easy to love your neighbor and he knew how to avoid the confusion in this world…but I just can’t put his words into my words. It was never the same twice. It’s something I can’t explain.”
Councilman Baylor took over. “She died in August of 1979. He only lasted another six weeks…they’d never been apart since they were children and there was no way he could go on.”
“My dad was here when Jimmy died. His name was John Baylor…you heard the name correctly; it was Dad’s truck. Jimmy and Dad worked on that truck many, many times.”
Considering the circumstances, I’m thinking it’s supposed to be yours and that the brakes are probably as good as new.”
Councilman Baylor arranged for his mechanic to look the truck over while he treated us to hamburgers and shakes at the Millbrook dinner.
He explained that the Guys had left the Church/Inn to their great nephew, that he had visited once, and left after a long weekend to never return.
The nephew set up a trust fund to pay the taxes, he mailed the keys to the Reverend, and the town council used interest from the trust fund to clean up the property every couple of years.
“You know the Guys kept people alive during the great depression and for some reason they just haven’t stopped. It‘s like they they’re watching out for us. They did something good when they were here and they just aren’t finished.”
He glanced at Reverend Collins and then continued “We don’t talk about any of this because we don’t want the story to get around. So we’re hoping you’ll help us keep it quiet and we’ll keep things as they are as long as $18.70 shows up every couple of months.”
“But there’s one last thing you might want to know…that number is rather significant.”
“ She told you that her Grandfather started the church after the war, right?”
We all nodded.
“She meant the civil war; the foundation was poured in 1870.”
We stay in touch with Councilman Baylor and he anonymously supports Kelly’s Elm Grove Visitor scrapbook.
The website talks about Elm Grove in vague word pictures that neither attract new visitors or exposes the Inn’s colorful history.
What it does do is attract previous guests; apparently they remain hungry for the solitude received.
The site wasn’t up for more than six weeks before the first visitor signed up, logged in, and recounted their visit on the pages that only members can access.
A troop of Boy Scouts on the way from New York to Huntsville were the first to describe the clean and efficient bunkroom. Another set of Scouts traveling from Kentucky to Virginia Beach had similar memories and their scout masters were the first to describe the beautiful guestroom in the parsonage.
Many more have signed up since and most seem to understand what we learned:
When times are hard, it’s important to enjoy the path… to enjoy the simplicity embedded in the spectrum of gray and the unexpected opportunity to catch your breath.
When life is colorful, absorb the entire spectrum.
And the Guys were apparently very good at both.
It’s easy for us to remember every time we see the little red pickup that’s parked at the top of the driveway.
C2009 M.K.Stierhoff
