A father, husband, romantic, minister – the short life of Robert Sallee James

Little is known about the brief life of Frank and Jesse James' father, Robert Sallee James.

Robert was born July 17, 1818, in Logan County, Ky. His parents died when he was 9 years old and he was raised by his sister, Mary Mimms, who was 10 years older than he.

At the age of 21, Robert entered Georgetown College, a Baptist-affiliated institution in Kentucky. It was while he was attending college that he met his future wife, Zerelda Cole, who was a student at St. Catherine's Female School in Lexington, Ky., possibly while he was preaching at a church close to the convent.

A classmate of Robert's, Basil Duke, said that Zerelda had been left with an estate of about $10,000 (sometimes cited as $6,000 – no matter what – it was a considerable sum of money in those days. $10,000 in 1841 is equal to $219,000 in today's money) as her father had died when she was young. The money/dowry made Zerelda a good catch for some lucky young man.

Nevertheless, Robert, who appears to be an incurable romantic, had pledge his love to Zerelda by Sept. 1841, as his Sept. 24 letter of that year indicates.

"... How often have I thought of you and those beautiful lines you gave me, since we took the parting hand, and it is the last thought that leaves my mind at the lonesome hour of the night and the first in the morn."

Sigh ...  He even makes MY heart go pitter patter.

Robert ends his letter with a promise to visit her within four weeks and he closed, "I remain your affectionate lover."

Robert's flowery declarations of love must have worked on the young 16-year-old woman because the couple were married Dec. 28, 1841, just a few months after the above mentioned letter was written.

After the couple visited Zerelda's parents in Missouri and found they loved the area now known as Kearney, Robert purchased a 275 acre farm.  However, according to Georgetown College records, Robert continued to return to school for post-graduate work at the institution, receiving a Master of Arts degree in 1847.

James had been a licensed Baptist preacher since 1839 and after he settled in Missouri in 1843, he became the pastor of New Hope Baptist Church. He also founded Providence Baptist Church in Clay County during the same period.

New Hope's records show that there were only 20 congregants at the time the young evangelist began preaching there and by the time he left for California in the spring of 1850, attendance had grown to about 280.

While I was working at my last newspaper job in Excelsior Springs, Mo., just about 25 minutes southeast of the James farm in Kearney, I used to drive into Excelsior from east of that city, passing Pisgah Baptist Church as I headed down the hill into Excelsior.

I knew the pastor at the church, Doug Richey, as the religious beat was my responsibility. In researching the James family one day, I found that Pisgah had indeed been founded by Rev. James in 1850. I was surprised since the church was at least 10 miles or so from the James farm and since Robert had to travel by horse, I thought it impossible for him to preach at all three churches.

So, I call Pastor Doug and found I was wrong. I was rewarded with the pastor's eager offer to bring me the nearly 170-year-old record book to show me. These are the things researchers and writers get all excited about.

I was permitted to photo copy the pages I wanted from the book and thus transcribe the following:

"Ray County Mo – August 12th 1849"

The following persons being desirous of rendering service to God met at the stand near Fredericksburg (as mentioned yesterday, Excelsior Springs did not exist in 1850 and instead, a small town called Fredericksburg was in place along the area just east of what is current Excelsior Springs, near its golf course), and agreed to go into a constitution as a church.

After adopting the articles of faith, covenant and rules of decorum proceeded.
1st – To appoint Bro. Nowlin Clerk.
2nd – Called brother Robbert (sic) James to preach for the church one year. Brother James being present consented thereto.
3rd – Agreed to call the name of the church Pisgah.
4th – Agreed to meet on the second Saturday in each month for the purpose of transacting church business and preaching on the following Sunday.
5th – Brother Nowlin presented a letter to be filed for the purpose of joining the North Liberty Association and the following brethren were appointed to bear in Vis. B.W. Nowlin, C. Wyman, Samuel Clevenger and John Cox.
6th – Raised the sum of 75/100 Dollars for printing the minutes.
7th – The above church existed previous to constitution as an arm of New Hope Church of Clay County and was built up through the instrumentality of Brother Robbert (sic) James who commenced his labors with us in March 1849.
The covenant adopted by the Church is as follows, Manually, we the undersigned being desirous to worship God and promoted his cause do this day agree and covenant together that we will erect a house of worship to the true and living God."

The above page from Pisgah Baptist Church Records prove the original statement of constitution
at the founding of that church in March 1849 and lists Robert James as the first pastor.

An interesting side note to the above constitution. B. Nowlin mentioned as the clerk, may very well be the same Brian Nowlin who had been in the mercantile business in the mid 1850s with one Darius Sessions of Missouri City – not very far distant from the location of Pisgah. If it is one and the same, Brian and son, Sam Nowlin, had been the owners of a small store in Missouri City where, on May 19, 1863, Frank James – a newly recruited member of Quantrill's guerrillas, came with a small group of his fellow bushwhackers to raid the store after killing Sessions, then a Union officer as well as the mayor of Missouri City. The reason for the murder? Sessions had arrested the young 20-year-old wife of a Confederate officer, Lurena (Lou) McCoy for feeding the enemy (her husband) and helping to clothe others who had signed up to serve for the Confederacy.

Lou McCoy had been questioned and taken to St. Joseph, Mo., and jailed. Her husband had sought the aid of Quantrill to avenge her honor. By this time in the war, many of the wives, sisters, mothers and female friends of Confederate soldiers and bushwhackers had been the target of Union soldiers as a means of coaxing the enemy out into the open. Most of the time this tactic backfired on the Union soldiers.

Sam Nowlin had served with Frank James in the Missouri State Guard and both, it is believed, fought together at the Battle of Lexington (Missouri) in Sept. of 1861. Incidentally, the Confederates won that battle despite the Union eventually taking possession of Lexington through to the end of the war. Lexington is where both Frank and Jesse, separately, surrendered.

It never ceases to amaze me that these coincidences in names pop up regularly. The names Wyman, Clevenger and Cox are still common names in Excelsior Springs. Indeed, it was Wyman himself who is one of those credited with discovering and verifying the efficacy of the mineral waters – then helping to found the city of Excelsior Springs in 1880.

Robert James is listed on the first page of the record book, which lists the pastors as the first pastor from March 1849 to March 1850. At this time he decided to leave with a party headed for the gold fields of California. To this day, it is not fully known why Robert left his young family and three congregations behind, but he was somehow drawn to evangelize to the men of the gold fields.

Additionally, Robert's brother, Drury Woodson James, had settled already in California and done well for himself.

Ted Yeatman, author of "Frank and Jesse James, the Story Behind the Legend," describes a young Jesse James, who would have been about 2 1/2, "crying and clinging to his father's leg, begging him not to leave, but Robert had made a promise, and with much regret, he departed. His letter to Zerelda of April 14, 1850 ended with, 'Give my love to all inquiring friends and keep a portion of it to yourself and kiss Jesse for me and tell Franklin to be a good boy and learn fast.'"

Little Susan James would have been less than a year old when her father left for California.

Unfortunately for Robert Sallee James, a man of superb belief in God and faith, the dreams he'd hope to realize by preaching to the miners of California never came to pass.

On Aug. 18, 1850, Robert died of a fever at a gold camp in Hangtown, now present day Placerville, Calif. He was two years younger than Jesse would be when he was murdered in 1882.

The town where Robert died burned in 1856 and because the cemetery had wooden markers for the graves, all trace of where Robert James is buried have vanished. Jesse and Frank went to visit their Uncle Drury just after the war ended, Jesse suffering dearly from a second shot to his right lung and hoping to partake of his uncle's mineral water springs. The boys tried to find their father's grave and never located the grave.

An Oct. 25, 1850 edition of the Liberty Tribune stated this about Robert James, "He was a man much liked by all who enjoyed his acquaintance; and as a revivalist, he had but few equals in this country ... Peace to his ashes."

Despite a short life, some of Robert's essays and letters to his wife survive to this day. New Hope and Pisgah Baptist churches are still in operation and he will always be remembered more as a man of faith, hope and obedience unto God before he is remembered as the father of Frank and Jesse James.

Blessed are the peacemakers, young and old

Those of you who know me, understand that I can take any subject and turn it into something about Jesse and Frank James. I guess any one of us can do that when passionate about something. It's also why I always thought my father and my brother's sermons were so interesting. They could take that day's gospel and find something personal for the congregants to identify with and thus take home the message with ease and understanding.

No one would ever think that the word peacemaker could be applied to Jesse or Frank James and they'd be mostly right. However, the two men were raised in a different time, when women were held in high esteem and treated politely and both men were raised to believe in God – their father having pastored at least three churches before his untimely death at 32.

Not long after the end of the Civil War, Jesse joined the Baptist Church, being baptized in 1866, and attending regularly for some time. Throughout his guerrilla and outlaw career, he carried his father's well-worn Bible everywhere with him and it was said he could quote scripture quite well.

Historical accounts state that there were times during the James gang's robberies that the women were treated with respect and oftentimes the men who appeared hard-working on the trains were not robbed like those who were more well off.

Though I have much more to study on Frank James' life, I have heard that he was not particularly religious later in life and may have died an atheist. I cannot say this with absolutely certainty yet, but if this is so, it is truly sad.

Little is known at this time of Zerelda's beliefs. She attended St. Catherine's Female School in Lexington, Kentucky, despite being protestant, as a young woman after her father died from a fall from a horse. It is believed that is how she met her future husband, Robert James when he was called to preach at a nearby church.

Zerelda was remembered by a neighbor as "a buxom country lass, with no over-nice sense of delicacy, brimming full of fun, a daring horsewoman, a good dancer and not afraid of the devil himself." From what I do know of Zerelda, that pretty well sums her up and is quite counter to her evangelistic first husband, Robert.

I recently read a letter from Robert to Zerelda before they were married, dated Sept. 24, 1841, where the highly romantic suitor writes, "... you excell (sic) them (over other women) as far as the winged eagle soars in the etherial (sic) sky above the genus on earth ... It is all impossible for me to describe the love that entwines in my bosom for you."

Ah ... he was a man of God and a poet too.

No photos exist for the public eye 172 years later of the young Zerelda and her future husband. Indeed, the only image of Rev. James is that which was drawn by George Warfel, an artist who did many drawings of the James family in the 20th century from family descriptions and photos. Nevertheless, the couple was deeply in love.

Rev. Robert Sallee James as he may have looked
at the time he left for California, age 32 in 1850.

They wasted no time getting married. Bonds were posted with 50 lbs. of tobacco and the couple were married on Dec. 28, 1841. They came to Missouri so Robert could meet Zerelda's mother, Sallie, who had remarried and was living in Clay County, Mo., in the area then known as Centerville, now called Kearney. Robert and Zerelda were taken with the countryside as it reminded them of their beloved Kentucky. Robert purchased the cabin and about 275 acres in 1845 that would be the family's home off an on for the next 120+ years.

Robert returned to Kentucky to complete his schooling at Georgetown where he was a Baptist ministerial student, leaving a pregnant Zerelda behind at her mother and stepfather's farm.

A photo of Zerelda Cole James Samuel - age unknown -
courtesy of State of Missouri State Historical Society.

Their first child, Alexander Franklin James (AKA Frank) was born Jan. 10, 1843 and Jesse Woodson James on Sept. 5, 1847.  A son, Robert, was born in between Frank and Jesse, but lived only a short while, and the boys' sister, Susan Lavenia James was born Nov. 25, 1849. Jesse, Robert and Susan were all born at the James farm.

Rev. James left his mark on Clay County in the short period of time he lived there. In February of 1849, he became one of the 26 charter trustees of William Jewell College in Liberty, Mo. On Aug. 12, 1849, Robert became affiliated with the start-up of a new Baptist Church, called Pisgah, which is currently located just outside of the Excelsior Springs boundaries in Ray County.  He was the first pastor of this still active church and it made the third church in which he had preached at and ministered in the area (the third being Providence Baptist Church).

At the time, this area where Pisgah was established was known as Fredericksburg and ironically, the church would be the institution that would help bury six soldiers from the Second Colorado Calvary Company B who had been ambushed by a group of Quantrill's men on July 17, 1864 that most likely included Jesse and Frank James.

In an interesting twist, the six men of the Second Colorado Calvary Company B who had been previously unidentified, were painstakingly researched by historian Brian Smarker of Excelsior Springs and identified. On July 17, 2005, the men: Charles H. Godfrey, 17; David Good, 29; John Picard, 29; William W. Robson, 24; Simon Simpkins, 20 (all privates); and Sgt. Truman C. Greenslit, 31, were honored and remembered in a ceremony with a granite memorial presented by the Sons of the Union Veterans of the Civil War, Westport Camp #64 (Kansas City).

Despite the Rev. James' affiliation with William Jewell College, his son, Jesse, would not be welcomed there for the final burial of his body after exhumation for DNA testing in 1995.

Robert Sallee James, for some reason that has never been fully known to this day, decided to travel to the gold fields of California in the spring of 1850, leaving behind his wife and three young children. Rumors abound that he merely wanted to evangelize to the sinners who dug for gold, drank and had women, or that his wife, a strong-willed, often-described shrew of a woman had become more than he could abide. Perhaps by 1850, the honeymoon was over.

No one truly knows why he left, though I will cover more on the romance of Robert and Zerelda, the parents of two of America's most notorious outlaws in future blogs.

Robert also left behind his first church, New Hope Baptist Church thriving with 280 active members when he departed for California.

Sadly, Robert James died on Aug. 18, 1850 of fever at the miners camp in Hangtown, now present-day Placerville, California.

He was remembered by a Georgetown classmate as a high minded, honest fellow ... a general favorite and much esteemed."

I have long speculated what might have become of the boys, Frank and Jesse James, had their God-fearing and God-loving father survived to mentor them in a love for Christ. Perhaps had he lived, I would not be writing this blog today.

Still, during his short time on earth. Rev. Robert James was a maker of peace.

Side note: It is my personal belief that Jesse James died believing in Christ and may have repented his sins. Historical accounts also show that William Clarke Quantrill, the leader of the feared Quantrill's Raiders, who was shot in Louisville, Ky., shortly before the end of the war and paralyzed by his wounds, and having lived a month after being shot – confessed his sins to a priest and accepted Christ before he breathed his last.

Don't blink, the years go by faster than you can imagine

Firstly, I have to apologize to my readers as I had promised to continue with my historical James family anecdotes, however, I feel today's blog subject is important enough to insert now.

Today's blog has two parts, but they are not exactly separate as you will see.

Yesterday, my husband and I participated in our first Spirit Ride with Gail's Harley Davidson in Belton, Missouri. A lifetime biker, my husband and I have never been on a ride of this magnitude.

We are truly blessed to be a part of Gail's motorcycle family because not only is she friendly and accessible to everyone, she believes in living life to its fullest – and her enthusiasm is infectious.

Spirit Ride is an all day event in which a rally begins at the dealership and runs for about 5 hours, during which time there is music, shopping, vendors, bike washes, demonstrations and overall fellowship between bikers.

With what appeared to be several hundred motorcyclists in and out of the dealership throughout the day, there was absolute peace and fun all day long. Ages ranged from young to very old and every possible variety of professions. The day wasn't limited to Harley's either, there were a number of other bikes that participated – Gail's rally's do not discriminate.

The Spirit Ride honors veterans and benefitted the National World War I Museum in Kansas City.

At 4:30 p.m., we began lining up after brief instructions on how we would ride to the museum. With a full sheriff's department escort, as well as a military presence, hundreds of bikers proceeded in single file out of the dealership and onto Highway 71 (now 49) from Belton toward Kansas City.

Having never been on a ride like this, I was moved to tears as the entire highway was closed with officers stationed at every on-ramp. Drivers appeared not angry at the delay, but moved instead, with many out of their cars, hand over their heart or saluting – while others videotaped the procession ... moving at only about 35 MPH the entire way.

Patriotic? You bet. Moving? Undeniable.

The National WWI Museum
in Kansas City, Missouri

Once we got to the museum and beheld the beautiful monument and structure, along with the long lines of motorcycles on each side of the parking boulevard, it also moved us to tears.

Our salute is to the men and women who have served our country for hundreds of years – fighting for not just our freedoms, but for those in foreign countries. We have fought so all can enjoy what we have here in America.

My husband signed up with the Air Force while we were still involved in the Vietnam War, but by the time he was out of training, the war was over and I am lucky to still have him by my side.

Daily we lose men and women in the current conflict and others come home maimed with scars that are mental as well as physical. Such is the stuff of war as it has been for thousands of years.

And so what leads me into this brief second part of today's blog, is the fast rate at which our lives go by. A Kenny Chesney song, "Don't Blink," summarizes life perfectly as he sings about a 102 year old man being interviewed about what the secret to his long life is.

The message is to not let life pass you by. It's far too short. As I looked at exhibits at the WWI museum and realized that the year the war began was my father's birth year (1914) and the year it ended, 1919, my mother was just 2 and Dad was 5. They have already lived their lives and passed on.

My husband and I are on the north side of our 50s and are watching our children grow older, each with children of their own. Some day our lives will be over and our children will be on the north side of 50 too.

It seems as if I blinked and my own childhood was gone. My parents were old, my mother dying young at 65, following her first grandchild, who was killed at 18. They were gone so quickly and now my Dad and sister have passed as well, with just my brother and I left.

We must not miss a thing – not a hug, a kiss, an "I love you," for life is too short. Remember to stop and smell the roses. Take the time to listen to a child, to his/her wonderment at the new life he/she is exploring – it will remind you of how great life truly is.

My father once gave me a poem because he knew I was a "type A" personality, I was ambitious and rarely took the time to slow down and he wanted me to take the time to know that the "race is not for the swift."

As we take the time to slow ourselves and enjoy life, may we also remember the service men and women who have sacrificed for us and our freedoms – who gave of their own lives so that we may live freely, those who returned home and suffered mentally and/or physically, who have seen such atrocities that no human should ever see.

God Bless Our America

"Slow Me Down Lord"

Slow me down Lord
Ease the pounding of my heart
by the quieting of my mind.

Steady my hurried pace
with a vision of the eternal march of time.
Give me amid the confusion of the day,
the calmness of the eternal hills.

Break the tension of my nerves and muscles
with the soothing music of the singing streams
that live in my memory.

Help me to know the magical restoring power of sleep.

Teach me the art of taking MINUTE vacations,
Of slowing down to look at a flower,
to chat with a friend,
to pat a dog,
to read a few lines of a good book.

Slow me down Lord
and inspire me to send my roots
deep into the soil of life's enduring values
that I may grow toward the stars of my greater destiny.

 Author: Wilfred A. Peterson

Jesse and Frank, Zerelda and Robert ... the beginning of a journey

All my life my father insisted we were related to Jesse and Frank James. He followed up that claim with the fact that his paternal grandfather's mother was a "James" and it was through her line that we were related. We just had to be related he said.

For years I believed him and thought that once I began my alternative life as an amateur genealogist I would certainly prove him right. To my great disappointment, I have never been able to substantiate the ancestral claim, and even before he died – Dad continued to insist he was right.

Little did I know that the notorious outlaws would come into my life, posthumously, 150 years after the start of the Civil War, 130 years after Jesse's murder, 96 years after Frank's death and 9 years after my father's passing.

While working at a recent newspaper job close to the James boy's hometown of Kearney, I was asked to start a history column and I went for it with great zest and excitement. I started off with some of the historical sites in the beautiful town of Excelsior Springs, enjoying my dive into the local history – rich from its mineral water heydays – and while I was at it, I discovered the fascinating Civil War history surrounding the town, which wasn't even founded until 15 years after the end of the war.

Suddenly, I was learning about the Battle(s) of Fredericksburg (yes – once there was a small area near where Excelsior is located that was called Fredericksburg), Battle of Albany (now called Orrick), and Quantrill's Raiders. While I was writing and researchng, guerrilla descendants and local Union soldier's descendants were coming out of the woodwork to provide me with such a plethora of information and photos that I felt like a kid in a candy shop.

The history lesson has been life-altering for this self-subscribed Yankee implant.

I was born in Fredericksburg, Virginia and spent a great deal of my childhood there. However, I had my schooling in southern New Jersey – considered a northern state and then married a man from Maine. There is no denying that any Maine-iac is a Yankee.

The exposure to the true history of the war here in Missouri, specifically here where I live, along the Missouri river in what is known as "Little Dixie," has given a whole new meaning to what the War Between the States truly meant here. It was so much more than the issue of slavery. The heinous acts committed here by Union soldiers against Missouri pioneers, most of whom, simply wanted to live their lives on their farms and be left alone, were horrific.

And in Missouri, the war began a long time before the official January 1861 secession by the south. It was preceded by the border war between Kansas and Missouri in the 1850s and before that by the Mormon Wars here in Missouri. To understand the James boys, I had to learn about the previous 20 years before the start of the war here in order to fathom what led these boys, along with so many others, to commit the acts they did.

As I began writing my articles with a focus largely on the war years, I decided to take a look at Jesse and Frank James, not knowing that those two men – Jesse specifically – would infiltrate my life.

First I had to tour the Jesse James Farm and Museum, which was my first mistake – I jest here – for as I drove out into the Kearney countryside I was besotted with the beautiful rolling hills, lush landscaping and bucolic pastures.

Once I turned down the road that led to the driveway to the farm, I was surrounded by a vast acreage of pasture and, opening the windows to my car, I swore I could hear the pounding of horses hooves as Jesse and Frank rode back to their boyhood home.

One can imagine it and I know I am not the first to experience it. This was where they lived, where they hid out sometimes, where their family's roots took hold so many years ago.

Once you turn down the drive to the farm, you are astounded by the gorgeous property – another example of rolling hills, pasture and trees. It is no wonder that the boys' father, Robert James, and his wife, Zerelda, bought the property in 1845 because it reminded them so much of their beloved Kentucky.

You don't see the farmhouse right away. Instead, the drive takes you right to the museum – a modern building that houses a small theater, gift shop and the museum, with numerous family artifacts that include photos, clothing, quilts, even parts of the first coffin in which Jesse was buried.

A short, winding walk through the grounds brings you to the farmhouse – far into the property that it is nestled near trees and a creek, but which borders what would have been a pasture and land for crops. The James family original farmed hemp back when the father was still alive.

The James family farmhouse at the time it was sold by Jesse's grandchildren to Clay County
Parks and Recreation in 1978. It has since been renovated and restored.

A tour through the farmhouse is informative, especially for someone first embarking on the James family journey. The old house is musty, but nicely air-conditioned and has electricity now. I can't imagine how uncomfortably hot it must have been for the women in the 1800s in that un-air-conditioned cabin with the heavy skirts and petticoats.

You tour Frank and Annie's bedroom, where her sewing machine stands in one corner, the small bed where the infamous outlaw slept and his footlocker lie along another wall.  The bedroom leads into a parlor heavy laden with early 1900s furniture and family photos that are not ever seen in collections, but belong here – in the family home. This is where the family lived, loved and died.

A small kitchen is linked to the parlor too and it is furnished in early 1900s decor as well. A step up out of the parlor leads you into the old cabin – built in the 1820s by the first owner. It is tiny and only contains two rooms. It is hard to believe that an entire family of five lived there, along with the household help.

One room is a bedroom and contains an old bureau, a rocking chair, fireplace and bed. The bed is angled toward the window on the opposite side of the room. It was angled just so in order that Jesse's mother, Zerelda, could see her son's grave from her bed and watch out for any "varmints" that might have wanted to steal her beloved son's bones. She also allegedly slept with a gun under her pillow ... just in case.

One learned very quickly not to mess with Zerelda Cole James Mimms Samuel.

The other room is the old, original kitchen and where the Pinkerton's men threw the bomb in through the window. This is the room in which Zerelda lost part of her right arm, and where her son, Archie, was killed on a bitterly cold, snowy January night in 1875.

Little did I know after my first tour and introduction to the museum's basement archives room, that I would one day be considered a James family historian and sit on the Friends of the James Farm board of directors. I had no idea that I would gobble up any and all letters, photos, information and relations that I could, like a thirsty old woman in the desert.

I had no clue I would forge many friendships from this foray into the James family history with fellow historians – some from as far away as England, re-enactors and family members – even Jesse's great-granddaughter herself, Betty Barr, has become a friend.

I still haven't found the link to my own family, even though Robert James' ancestry goes back to the same part of Kentucky as my James family.

I'm not looking too hard. If it's there, I will come across it someday and my dad will be chortling from heaven, "I told you so."

Scammers, spammers, telemarketers ... phooey

I pride myself on being rather savvy to the ways of the world and try to be on guard when I see scammers coming, but sometimes my radar is just aimed in the wrong direction and it has occasionally cost me.

About 18 months ago, I had met some great gals at a healthy living store where they did massage and other natural treatments. The girls got me started on Kangen drinking water, an alkaline water system, that filters out all the junk from your tap and provides water that, as research does show, is the best you can drink. Plus, disease is not supposed to thrive in an alkaline environment – however – it does thrive in an acidic environment.

The gals were giving me three gallons of the water every other day, which got me hooked on it. I couldn't afford the system, that ran around $5,000, so I found their generosity wonderful. It was all about the healing ... or so I thought.

Meanwhile, they had gotten involved in another networking marketing program called Zeek Rewards, which was based on "allegedly" placing Zeek's ad on freebie classified Web sites and trying to market to everyone you know to direct them to Zeek's other site that was a cheap rip-off of eBay. You know, those sites where you bid on products like iPads for $15 or so and can win them? Sound ridiculous? It sure is.

The women bugged me for months because they were making big bucks – literally thousands of dollars were collecting in their accounts – and I could too, if I would just try it. They never told me, however, that they were having difficulty actually collecting the money into their hands.

They pressured me and pressured me, meanwhile plying me with the free water that my dying sister was drinking and which was helping her. Eventually, I caved in and signed up, investing only $79.95 into the program instead of the usual $100-$10,000 they were getting. After spending 90 minutes with the gal showing me how to log in and do the "daily place an ad and that's all you do" thing, I went home still feeling like I had made a big mistake.

If it sounds too good and your gut says "no way!" then it's no good.

Twelve hours later I couldn't get onto the site with my password and user name. Eight hours after that and several more tries had me convinced to get out and get out now, even if I lost the $79.95.

The ladies, feeling sorry for what happened (I was told by a Zeek employee that my account had been hacked - AND - I had known one other person who experienced the same thing), did a conference call with some higher up person at Zeek a week later who promised to refund me my money.

Needless to say, two days after I spoke with the representative of Zeek Rewards, I found out the SEC had shut the company down for, guess what? Yep – fraud. It was big bucks – millions of dollars in fraud all over the world in what is one of the largest Ponzi schemes to date.

Having to tell my husband I did it was worse than losing the $79.95, which now the SEC is trying to recover. I will never, ever do that again.

So, "my bad" when a few days ago I received a friend request through Facebook who shared four mutual friends with me – high school friends. Now, I graduated 39 years ago and this fellow wasn't in his 50s, but I figured he was mutual somehow and like an idiot, I accepted his request. Then, I sent a private message to the women to ask them about him. That's a little like putting the cart before the horse.

None replied back until a few days later and by then I'd figured out the guy was scamming us.

The day after friending this fellow, I was on Facebook and got a private "Hi" message from him. I said "hi" back and told him bluntly I didn't know who he was and sorry I didn't remember him. He replied back that he was friends with my old high school pals and had seen my photo, liked my smile and could we be friends.

OK - schmooze me a little more will you? I'm not even smiling on my profile pic and my timeline photo is of a giant whale mural – not of me. And furthermore, why would some younger, 30-something guy like an old gal like me ... late 50s, gray, and suffering from gravitational pull – everything was hitting the floor at once.

I had looked at his profile and it said he was from Asheville, NC, but also attended school in Italy. He was attractive and had an Italian name, so I mentioned my brother lived in Asheville and loved it there and was a semi-retired minister.

I did say the guy was attractive. I'd forgotten that Ted Bundy was too and he was a serial killer.

Then I received a quick, rather muddled reply about how little time he actually spent in Asheville. Something didn't feel right, so I got out of the conversation quickly. An hour or so later, still disturbed by this guy's interest, I went back to the conversation to get onto his FB page and I couldn't link to it. I went to my friends list and he was there, but again I couldn't link to his page. A search for him on Google and on Facebook yielded nothing.

I went back and unfriended and blocked him just for good measure, and then posted a live message about my experience. The gals I had messaged earlier thanked me and deleted him too.

I don't know what he had in mind for us, but I do know that like most on Facebook, I post a lot of family photos and personal information. I have loved Facebook for reconnecting me with former classmates and co-workers over a lifetime of employment as well as allowing me to keep up with long-distance family members. I have my security set pretty high, but I still did a stupid thing.

While checking my security and privacy settings, I also found a little thing called "followers." This showed about a dozen people from foreign countries whom I did not know and who were following me. I had never allowed this, but found where I could deselect the option in my settings.

I know I'm out there in the Internet world. This blog is public and the years I was a news reporter are public as well. I work with the Jesse James Farm and Museum and thus my information is out there too.

In the very public world that is the 21st century, there is no hiding yourself. But we must remain vigilant about how and who we trust; how much we allow the public to know.

For someone with just a cell phone, I have more telemarketing calls in one day than I ever had on a landline. And I'm on the federal "do not call list."

Today in this very small Midwestern town I live in, I received an energetic knock at my front door. Thinking it was my son checking on me, as I've not been feeling well, I answered the door only to find some 20-something girl offering to shampoo my carpet if I'd just let her in the house.

I was polite, but firmly told her no. I went back to my desk and watched as she and a young man drove all over the neighborhood knocking on doors. On a mid-afternoon Wednesday, you won't find too many people home in this neighborhood of mostly working folks.

So what are these two really up to? Are they truly selling shampooers or are they casing the neighborhood to find out who is home and who is not?

No matter what, it pays to be vigilant. Be alert to those who want something from you. If you are on a social networking site, be careful and make sure you get to understand your account settings and how much private stuff you are posting and to whom.

The world is full of those who are good, wonderful people – yet it is also full of those who wouldn't think twice to price gouge you after a hurricane, pick-pocket you while you are visiting a sick loved one in the hospital (yes this did happen), steal packages or mail right off your porch, damage a car you work very hard to pay for, and generally don't give a hoot whether you live or die.

Be vigilant, alert, and prepared. And don't hesitate to ask questions. You can be polite, yet firm and still protect yourself.

It could mean the difference between life and death.

Is customer service a thing of the past?

My parents brought me up properly. I was taught to respect my elders, be polite at all times, say "yes sir, yes ma'am," and always work hard.

I'm happy to say my husband and I have brought our son up the same way. He works in customer service and I constantly run into people who have met up with him in a local store, and they always have glowing things to say about his smile, his polite greeting and his eagerness to assist them.

Why then is it so hard to find good customer service anymore? Most of us baby boomers were raised by parents from the same generation and we were brought up better.

Not only have I experienced this in a business setting, but also with people on the street, who don't respect their elders, feel it's OK to be rude and impolite and easily put their faux pas out of their mind.

It's as if we live in a "me" generation. Customer service is spotty in many businesses and rudeness is the norm everywhere.

Last Saturday, my husband and I drove 45 miles into the city to look for some patio furniture for our new sunroom. We knew it was the end of the season, and pickings might be slim, but we were hoping for a good deal.

First stop was Lowe's, where we prefer to shop and where we've spent thousands this year alone in the renovation of my sister's home. We found several lovely sets, but no employees anywhere to help us. After spending 30 minutes in the department, we moved on to the other departments on our list. We went to paint, flooring and lighting. Only in lighting could we find someone to help us – same guy as the last time and always helpful. Painting had two people on duty and about a dozen waiting to be helped ... a busy Saturday with only two people on duty. That is another problem – businesses cutting back so their bottom line grows larger, employees worked harder and customers left hanging.

We learned a long time ago never to go to Lowe's on a Sunday – it's a skeleton crew at best.

It's as if our time doesn't matter. And don't get me started on the waiting time at a doctor's office ...

We left Lowe's armed with some brochures to study since we couldn't get an employee to help us and headed to Sears where we thought we might find the patio set we wanted.

Sears did have a beautiful set, which was on sale, and very comfortable too. It was located right next to the cash register with about three-to-four salesmen wandering around close by.

I had to ask for assistance. All of the salesmen avoided eye contact with me, and my husband, disgusted and probably fearing my explosion toward the salesmen, headed over to look at tools.

The sign on the display offered "free delivery" – just what we needed. I finally had to ask for help and the salesman went out back to see if they had the set in stock. When he returned, the answer was no. He started to walk away and I asked about the floor model and would they knock a little off the sales price since the cushions were dirty.

"Yes," he said. "I'll give you an additional 10 percent off, but it can't be delivered."

"Why," I asked. "The sign says 'free delivery,' in fact, the signs on all the patio displays say 'free delivery." I must assert that I never exploded, was never rude myself and spoke in a normal voice.

The man informed me that the one I wanted was a floor model only, not in a box and therefore didn't qualify for delivery. When I inquired about the other sets, he said they couldn't be delivered either because they were end of season items, no longer being made and not eligible for delivery. He refused to address the fact that all were signed with a free delivery promise.

We left the store rather disgusted. This was the second time this year we'd had bad service in the same area of the store, however, we had purchased a mattress in April and received fabulous service from our salesman that time.

We came home, searched the Internet, called Lowe's this time, and after nearly an hour of trying to find the set I wanted, the wonderful sales person was unable to help – but he bent over backwards trying to assist me. In the end, we found a decent set through Walmart and were able to get it delivered.

After 24 hours of deliberating on this, I googled the Sears board of directors and was rewarded with not only the list of directors, but their email addresses too. I sent a lengthy email to the second in command and was astounded to receive a quick reply this morning.

My case was assigned to someone lower on the totem pole, which was fine of course – and this man handled my complaint with courtesy and professionalism. Now the rude, ignorant salesmen will have to answer to their store director, district manager and regional manager as the poor service in the store is addressed.

Do I want someone fired? Absolutely not. All of those men were well into their 30s and 40s and probably had families to support. I just want better customer service for myself and the next customer in line.

So, why were they so rude?

It seems to be the norm today.

Think of how it is when you are in the checkout line at the supermarket? I spent well over 20 years in management in the grocery industry. What I endure today would never have been permitted back in the '80s and '90s.

Cashiers and baggers are forever chatting about the latest party they have going on; they don't greet you, they frankly could care less that you are the reason they have a job. They just want to ring up or bag all the orders they can until their shift is over.

We have a chain out here in Missouri called "HyVee" that has very good service and I tend to shop there just to get that good service. I rarely shop at the small town supermarket where I live – the employees there don't smile, don't greet you and worse – won't even look at you. Their worse offense? They won't tell you what you owe, you have to look at the screen to determine what to pay.

In this day and age when supermarkets, big box stores and Internet retail outlets are a dime a dozen, it behooves any business to offer superb customer service. After all, the customer can simply walk away, never file a complaint and tell all their friends not to shop at the errant establishment. This goes for all services, from local roofers and electricians to big name services.

Lost business can cause a store to fail.

We've run the gamut this year from hiring local professionals to work on our home to hiring the big pros. Neither trumped the other, but I have to say that our roofer was the best of the lot. He was here early every day, never left the premises, even for lunch, and stuck with his original estimate. His work was top notch and that's why he does most of the roofs in our town. I'd never hire anyone else.

Our electrician's ability to show up when promised and complete work as promised was so disappointing that after four years of using him, we have to look elsewhere for a good electrical man. A single father who owns his own business, I can't wrap my head around the fact that he is so unreliable. How does he make ends meet?

With prices high, gasoline costs climbing, and our time quite valuable, we deserve good customer service. We deserve to be treated like our parents taught us, "to do unto others as we would have them do unto you."

Don't hesitate to take your business elsewhere and don't hesitate to file a complaint.

Over the years, my strategy of doing an Internet search for upper management at assorted corporations to file a complaint has worked every time – from credit card companies, to big box stores to mobile phone carriers, I always get results and I am always polite.

I'm not after freebies, I'm after better service and for a company to honor what they advertise.

It is after all, only common courtesy.

Hundreds of years of history wrapped up in one parcel of Potomac River land

As anyone who has vacationed at Fairview, Colonial or any of the other beaches that line the Potomac River can attest – the solitary walk, whether looking for shark's teeth or enjoying the feel of the water and sand between your toes – can be cathartic.

I learned this at a very early age. For years I walked with my Dad and I loved that time because we never had to talk, we just enjoyed walking together. And when I walked alone, I found it just as satisfying.

During the 1960s and '70s, the beach between our spot near Chatterton's Landing (what we called then – Burroughs Beach) and Fairview beach was probably about four miles, give or take a few. 

Walking the beach was leisurely – looking for shark's teeth, looking at the sand by the water and near the edge of the short bluffs or forest where the best driftwood could be found.

In those days my walks were wonderful fodder for the imagination. It was deathly quiet except for the soft lapping sounds the water made at the shore line and the occasional motor boat on the river. As we drew away from Burroughs Beach, we encountered few homes and more forests and, in some cases, a few bamboo groves. Those would be quiet, dark and spooky – much like the old abandoned WWI boat and the old Chatterton farmhouse were.

It was always just a hair cooler along that stretch of beach and you never quite dared to stare too hard at those bamboo trees or you thought you might see something you didn't want to see. There was a lot of history in those woods and once in a great while I'd find an Indian arrowhead just sticking out of the sand.

During the mid-1970s as the river reached its peak of green slime, the pristine sandy beaches were replaced with soda cans, plastic 6-pack holders, buckets, ropes and other debris that did not belong anywhere but a wastebasket. The beautiful pier I swam off of had begun to decay. The owners of the property had grown older and not kept up the care. No one cared to come to the beach because the river was so polluted.

However, it has now been restored and it's quite clean now. There are homes scattered along the Potomac's shores – those lucky folks have the view on a daily basis that I once loved so much.

I have always loved the area and longed to know the history. A few years ago, the daughter of the woman we rented our cabin from shared the history of the property with me – and it was astounding.

The area of the Potomac River was known for as a tributary for commerce, especially for early settlers and indians. For the first 40 years after Jamestown was settled, things were rather quiet along the Potomac River, until settlers began moving in due to land grants – pushing the indians out of the area.

The property known as Chatterton was granted to William Parry on Nov. 11, 1651 by colonial governor Sir William Berkely. This first grant was for 550 acres, and is known as the first occupied ground recorded in this section of Virginia. The amount of 550 acres represents 50 acres for 11 new settlers brought into Virginia.

Parry apparently did nothing with this land and on June 8, 1654, he sold it to Thomas Coniers, who turned and sold the land to Peter Ashton on March 13, 1657. Ashton is often believed to be the first to receive the grant, however, papers uncovered by mid-20th century owner of Chatterton, Frank Brooks Bielaski, proved otherwise. Bielaski had actually obtained a copy of the original patent of Parry's, which named the 11 families whom he had brought into Virginia.

After Ashton bought the property, he received an additional grant of 2,000 acres for bringing 40 new colonists to Virginia. The property by then resembled a squat "T" shape, with the long pole of the "T" reaching the riverbanks representing the 550 acres and the top of the "T" as the 2,000 acres. At that time it included all of Marmion, Osso and "farms contiguous."

At the time of Ashton's purchase, he named his parcel of land and the home he built there "Chatterton" after his home in England. This name has survived for over 300 years.

After Ashton's death, the ownership was retained in England until 1737 and it came into possession of John Tayloe I. Ten years later, when Tayloe had died – Chatterton had become so developed that 21 slaves were living on the property. After his death, John Tayloe II inherited the property and it is believed the original brick house was built during Tayloe II's occupancy or just prior to that by his father.

Bielaski surmised that John Tayloe I built Chatterton because as elaborate as the house was, John Tayloe II was far richer than his father and would have built a much fancier home than what survives today.

Previous accounts said that Thacker Washington built the present house in 1830 and that he used 40,000 bricks, which is inaccurate. Bielaski's research showed that that amount of bricks is only sufficient enough to build part of the south wall of Chatterton, which was constructed to enclose the two galleries. Bielaski estimated that approximately 250,000 bricks were used in the building of Chatterton.

The manor house is a 14 room home of Georgian style architecture. It's four rooms and a hall wide, but only one room deep at the time Bielaski owned it.

Chatterton manor house in King George County in 2003 - note the beautiful sweeping land leading
from the house and sloping down to near the Potomac River.

Chatterton remained in the Tayloe family for 57 years (1737-1794), when it was sold to a cousin, John Tayloe Thornton, and then his sons occupied the property from 1797-Jan. 7, 1829, after which it was then conveyed to Henry Thacker Washington.

Washington made some changes to the house and lived at Chatterton with his wife, Virginia Grymes of Eagles Nest, and their children until 1850 when the house was sold back into the Tayloe family.

By 1884, Chatterton was divided into four parts and returned to the Tayloe children: Lucy, Catherine, Maria and Forrest. The manor house and 50 acres was one part, the farmhouse by the river and 150 acres was another part. These two parts were eventually combined to the 200 acres that was Chatterton at the time Bielaski and then Ilona Massey and General Dawson owned the house. Bielaski had bought the house in 1945.

The original 2,000 acres had been divided up over the years. Descendants of Forrest Tayloe,which included the aforementioned (in an earlier blog) Charlottie Tayloe Burroughs and Lucy Daingerfield Linton, owned a lot of the remaining property, some of which was sold to Lee and Earlene Bizzell, at the river, with their home and property named "Dunroamin." Lucy (known affectionately as Dee) inherited the cabin property from Charlottie and her children inherited much of the rest of the river property after her death.

The old farmhouse down by the river, which was close to the abandoned boat, is long gone and replaced by large, stately homes.

The large estate known as Morland, which was west of Chatterton, was sold to Charlottie and Dee's oldest sister, Margarita Tayloe and her husband. I was unable to determine who owns it at this time.

The Tayloe family has a long tidewater history that includes ancestry ties to the Washington, Fitzhugh, Grymes and Lewis families. Additionally, Ilona Massey wasn't the only celebrity with whom they came in contact. When Dee Tayloe Linton was a young girl, her mother hired Georgia O'Keefe as a governess for her daughters. This was, of course, long before O'Keefe became famous as an artist. She didn't last long, however, as family legend says that Dee's mother didn't feel O'Keefe was a good influence on her girls.

One can only imagine the 300+ year history of this land – the many people who inhabited it, even back to include the original occupants – the indians. Consider too the families, the commerce that came and went, the political aspirations this area brought, the two major wars fought in this area – Revolutionary and Civil; even the devastating fire, sinking and loss of life of the Wawaset steamboat. So much history took place along these shores that the very land breathes it.

Thank you to everyone for your positive comments regarding my memories of Virginia. I've enjoyed the comments and even the resolution to long unanswered questions. 

This is the last Virginia blog for awhile, though my history blog will continue – next might be the notorious Jesse James (did you know I am a James family historian and on the Friends of the James Farm board of directors?) or some of the local Missouri history, known as Little Dixie. Feel free to bookmark my blog as I will honor the rules of this Facebook page and not post blogs that are not about Fredericksburg on here. Blessings!

(lightpathforme.blogspot.com)

Eagle sightings and the "Old Man's Cabin"

I love eagles, there's no doubt about it. I'm not the biggest fan of birds per se, but eagles are on the top of my list – all resulting from sightings and an amazing encounter in Virginia years ago.

One year while vacationing at the little cabin on the Potomac River in King George, County, Va., I began to notice bald eagles flying by on a regular basis. How I could have missed this all the years prior, I have no idea, but there they were – in full view of the cabin, soaring not too far from shore.

I was probably 13 or 14 then and dug out my Dad's binoculars, beginning a lifelong obsession with watching for the gorgeous, majestic birds. My parents said they probably nested at Eagle's Nest, about 3 miles southeast from us along the river. Eagle's Nest was originally the home of the Fitzhugh family over 300 years ago.

This is a photo of me at the porch entrance to the cabin in 1974, when the addition had already been added (far right). The six windows on the left are the front of the porch, which overlooked the Potomac River.

I was hooked on the creatures and spent the better part of my vacation watching for the young and mature bald eagles flying by the cabin – they added such enjoyment to our view of the river.

At the vacation's end, I decided to drive back with my sister in her car – our route consisting of heading east on 218 to the Harry M. Nice bridge into Maryland as we proceeded back to New Jersey.

Highway 218 was narrow and surrounded by lots of trees and in some spots, it was a steep drop off the side of the road. For the large vehicles of the 1970s, it was a very tight fit at times while driving through the tight curves. About 15 minutes after leaving the cabin and turning onto 218, I said to my sister, "I wish we'd seen those eagles just one more time," and right on cue, a bald eagle flew right down and hovered above the hood of her car.

Pris and I looked at each other and then the eagle and didn't say a word. Pris kept her speed right where it was and the eagle – it's wings spreading past the edge of the car – was facing us, inches from the windshield and us! We stared at him and he stared at us. His beautiful wings seemed to flap in slow motion. He was probably only about eight inches from the top of the hood.

If Pris slowed down or he sped up, we'd collide and would probably have died with the large bird crashing through the windshield – plus there were the deep gullies alongside the road that we might have crashed into. However, in what seemed like an eternity, but was most likely only about two minutes, the huge bird glided seamlessly up and over the windshield – out of sight.

We never forgot our special encounter with the eagle that day. It's probably the closest either of us will ever get to one, especially in flight.

That day began my love affair with eagles that continues to this day. Here in Missouri, we live on the Missouri River and are blessed to have a number of eagle's nests in various spots near where we live and travel. One spring day in 2012, I was thrilled to find four bald eagles sitting in a large tree overlooking the river, near the bridge. After observing them in the same tree for several days in a row at the same time, I decided to stop and take a photo. On the third day I stopped the car right on the bridge, aimed the camera out the window and shot several photos. They were gorgeous birds.

Still, nothing will ever equal the experience Pris and I had that day, along a thickly forested Virginia highway.

In addition to eagles, sharks teeth, Ilona Massey, the angel and the old boat, something else caught my eye and imagination near the river.

Every time we drove to or from the river, which required traveling 218 Highway, connecting to 641, now known as Chatterton Lane and vice versa, we passed an old wooden shack just before the road forked to Moreland to the left and Chatterton Lane and our cabin to the right.

There was always a very old man who sat on a chair outside the shack watching the small amount of car traffic go by. During the daytime he was always there, day after day, year after year. And he caused me no end of fascination.

The old cabin was decrepit and may very well have been an old slave's cabin as one year when we went to Fredericksburg during the winter months and drove down to the river, we could see an old, abandoned, plantation-type estate way back in the woods behind the old man's cabin.

I wondered endlessly what happened to that man who lived in the old cabin. What happened to his family, did he have children, a wife? What had he done for work? He seemed happy to just sit and wave to the cars. The story of his life and what brought him to the point of living alone in that old cabin was fodder for my imagination for years.

Eventually, on our 1974 trip, my mother stopped the car, got out and took a photo of the cabin, which was by then overgrown and even more rundown – the old man nowhere to be seen. Mom, being an artist, decided to paint a picture of his cabin with a few chickens running around the yard and gave it to me. I've carried that painting with me everywhere I've lived and remember the old man daily.

The "Old Man's Cabin" situated along 641 between the turnoff from 218 Highway and what is now known as Chatterton Lane. The photo was taken in 1974 and I believe the man had passed away by then. When he lived there, there was no vegetation by the door and the windows had been intact. The cabin no longer exists.

Whomever he was, whatever he did and wherever he ended up, the amount of loneliness he must have endured captured my heart; the amount of joy he appeared to have – acceptance to his life and happiness in the simplicity of his life, touched me as well.

I've never forgotten him.

I know he was older than dirt back when I observed him those 40+ years ago, so he's long gone to his eternal reward.

The shack no longer exists of course.  When Pris and I took our 2003 trip back to Fredericksburg and the river, we noted that the stretch of road on which his cabin sat, was completely overgrown – his old, wooden cabin no longer exists and you can't even tell where a man once lived his life.

I never learned his name and never met the man – but for some reason, he impacted me when I was a child and continues to be another part of a happy memory of our years on the river.

The Potomac River angel

One thing for sure is that I do not lack for imagination. The summers spent on the Potomac River, coupled with a lot of alone time, walking to Fairview Beach or sitting on the pier – the only child for miles – gave me plenty of time to develop an active imagination.

My obsession with Ilona Massey, Moreland, Chatterton, the old abandoned boat and sharks teeth were just a few of the things helping my mind spin interesting stories.

Another was the giant angel that sat across the river in Maryland – at least, that's what we called it for all those years we vacationed in King George County. I think at some point, someone who resided nearby told us it was a satellite and later views with newly acquired binoculars cemented that fact.

Nevertheless, the satellite – or angel – sat across from us like a sentinel along the river for decades. Moving past it on a daily basis were boats, fishermen, and in bad weather, there could be such oddities as houses floating down the river, barns, outbuildings and other debris.

The "angel" or Maryland Point Observatory as I saw it as a child from the shores of the
Potomac River near Chatterton's Landing. This photo was taken in 2003.

By late June of 1972, Hurricane Agnes had hit Virginia and wreaked havoc throughout the state. That year we couldn't even reach the cabin, so we rented from other friends, Allen and Mary Berry, further up the river where one could barely see the Maryland shoreline.

We witnessed some massive destruction and sights one doesn't see every day - namely - houses floating down the river. With the sinking of the Wawaset steamship on Aug. 8. 1873 at Chatterton's Landing and numerous deaths – it's proof that the Potomac River has witnessed untold amounts of destruction, traffic, pollution and clean-up, ships, sharks, fishing, boating, new beautiful homes along its shores peppered among the old, antebellum estates that still stand tall – not to mention the history going back hundreds of years.

And for a few decades, the "angel" satellite stood watching it all unfold.

Ever so grateful to have the worldwide web at my fingertips, I was able to find the angel on Google earth, zoom in and pinpoint it's name and location.

It is actually called the Maryland Point Observatory. Surrounded by swamps and woods, it appears virtually isolated along the Maryland shoreline with just a few parks and camps nearby.  There were few structures, two dishes and a small shed.

Maryland Point Observatory (the angel) as seen through Google Earth. As it is seen facing the river,
one can see the view I had of the satellite during my summers at the river.
 The back of the satellite itself resembled an angels wings and it's base the long robe of an angel.

According to research, the observatory was for Naval research and isolated to avoid radio interference that could hamper the radio astronomy in the works.

One dish was an 84 foot wide telescope built in 1958, with a larger one built in 1965. Both were used to study radiation from the sun and moon and to pinpoint space phenomena in space that scientists were unable to see with the naked eye, such as black holes.

The satellites were used up until 1994 after which the site was closed and is now scheduled for demolition, which may have taken place already.

In viewing photos online through Google earth, I can see that what we saw all those years was the cone part of the satellite facing out toward the river with the tall skirt of the "angel" the satellite's base. According to an article at www.redorbit.com, the satellite was used for "groundbreaking work in radio astronomy."

In its heyday, the observatories' astronomers relied on the satellite's information to study the collision of comet Shoemaker-Levy 9 with Jupiter in what was the very first observed collision of two solar systems.

With the property owned by the Bureau of Land Management and in line for demolition, newer, bigger, more sophisticated satellites are in place elsewhere and "the angel" will be or is now gone.

But for one, brief period of time – I imagined the angel stood guard over the river, protecting its inhabitants from harm.

Years in Fredericksburg among 'the happiest in my life'

My parents came to Fredericksburg around 1951. My father had been a Christian Church minister, ordained in 1935 and his career had taken him to Richmond when he decided the doctrines of the Episcopal Church were stronger than what he'd been working with and he chose to leave the Christian Church, attend seminary and become an Episcopal minister.

Dad's ordination announcement
from the Free Lance Star, Dec. 1952.

My father was fully ordained on Dec. 17, 1952 and had already settled into the church located at the corner of Hanover and Prince Edward streets the previous year. The original congregation had begun in 1877 with just 36 communicants. The church was built in 1881 and had its first service on Christmas Day of the same year.

The rectory we lived in was right next door to the church at 706 Prince Edward Street. In 1952, I wasn't born yet, so it was my 11-year-old sister, Priscilla, 12 year-old brother, Jimmy, and my parents – within 2 years, my maternal great-grandmother joined the family having become too old to run her farm in rural Missouri.

My brother and sister spent their remaining school years in Fredericksburg. They had jobs, including my sister's weekly column at the Free Lance Star about the opinions of teenagers, while she was still in high school. Her old columns show the wonderful, dry sense of humor she had. They had dates, they had friends – some of whom have continued with their friendships to this day.

For years I've heard the stories from them both, mostly my sister – reflecting on numerous trips to Fairview Beach to party, back in a day when the drinking age was younger and kids learned to drive even younger than that. The Girl Scout stories still abound and during our trip back to Fredericksburg in 2003, we met with the now senior citizen classmates of my sister who were once young, giggling girls of the 1950s. They spent considerable time reminiscing and giggling about all their antics while Scouts.

Both Jim and Pris learned how to drive at the battlefield and living in old town Fredericksburg was simply a part of their young lives. They were surrounded by the wonderful Civil War and Revolutionary history that is such a deep part of Fredericksburg.

The family friends were old Fredericksburg names: Perry (Tommy) and Mary Louisa Thompson, Clyde and Virginia Myers, Dee and Charles Linton, Mickey and Sam Jamison, R.H. Brooks (Brooksie) the Brauers, Ida and A. Roy Beck, Waldo and Mooney Beck, Lem Houston, Duval Dickinson and so very many more. They've all passed on now and are just a warm memory.

Dad became the 15th rector of Trinity Episcopal Church on Sept. 15, 1951. In March 1953, Dad wrote to the bishop of Virginia, Rt. Rev. F. Goodwin about the possibility of moving the church from its current location to where the church exists today – to "better serve the community and college." He'd received approval from the vestry the evening before and at that time, the church with 245 communicants had no debt.

And so began the fundraising.

On March 16, 1955, the congregation voted 54 to 14 for the resolution presented to move Trinity Episcopal Church from Hanover and Prince Edward streets to the College Heights area.

On Aug. 1, 1955, Dad was informed he would also be the new chaplain for the college students at Mary Washington College.

The land was soon purchased with the help of John Jamison, an attorney, with the plans for the new building and the fundraising continuing  through 1956-7. By early 1959, the building committee had already raised $20,166.02.

The architects were to be R. Fleming and C.D. Hurt, Jr., from Waynesboro, Virginia. On the third Sunday in Advent in December 1958, the cornerstone of the new church was laid at the corner of William Street and College Avenue with Bishop Goodwin present, my Dad, Senior Warden Perry Thompson and Junior Warden Sam Jamison, as well as Charles Linton who was the building chairman, along with members of the choir.

Unfortunately, my father would not remain at Trinity and with heavy hearts, he, Mom and myself left Fredericksburg on April 1, 1959 for a calling to a parish in Elizabeth, NJ. My sister remained behind to complete her senior year at James Monroe High School and my brother was already attending Murray State College in Kentucky.

According to the "History of Trinity Episcopal Church," 1877-2001, during my father's 8-year tenure: "Mr. Rains doubled the membership at Trinity, parish income tripled and the new church building was near completion."

Dad returned to Fredericksburg for the first service in the new church he had so lovingly mentored on Sept. 13, 1959.

Despite having left Fredericksburg in 1959, as mentioned in previous blogs, we continued to rent the small cabin on "the river" in King George close to Chatterton. As the years progressed and I grew older, I became fond of those old Fredericksburg folks, from Ida Beck, who was my godmother, to the Myers', on whose farm I spent many a delightful day, to the church picnics down at the river and occasional visits from church folk as they visited with my parents.

My Dad had a knack for leadership in stewardship that was present throughout his career in both the Christian Church and Episcopal Church. We remained in Elizabeth until 1964, when he took another Trinity Episcopal in south Jersey – Vineland – a large farming community, where my parents would remain until July 1976.

With both Mom and Dad from Missouri, they decided that with their youngest now in college, it was time to return to their roots. Dad took a small church in historic Lexington, Missouri – a small city known for it's own Civil War battle (The Battle of the Hemp Bales, which the Confederacy won) and the occupation of Union troops throughout the remainder of the war – including the surrender of most of the guerrillas – Jesse and Frank James included.

It was in Lexington where Dad retired in 1980, but it was throughout western Missouri where he continued to preach God's word as an interim priest for the next 20 years until his health prevented him. My mother passed away in 1982, just a few months after her dear friend, Ida Beck of Fredericksburg, also passed. My father died in February 2002, telling me in his last days that he had spent his life serving the Lord and he couldn't wait to finally meet him.

At some point during his retirement, Dad wistfully wrote about his time in Fredericksburg. Not only had my mother enjoyed her new friends, their hospitality and being welcomed into their fold, but Jim and Pris had enjoyed their middle- and high-school years in the '50s and made many lifelong friends there. I was too young – only 3 when we moved away – but thanks to all those years at the river and visiting in Fredericksburg, I had nearly as many memories as my family.

Yet Dad described it best, "living in Fredericksburg was the happiest in my life. The people there [are] the most truly Christian group of people it has ever been my privilege to know."

Set adrift in the Potomac River, saved by my sister at 12, and don't forget the air conditioning!

I have small snippets of memories from my youngest years at "the cabin" on "the river" in Virginia. The older I get, the more precious those memories become as those remembrances can become lost to us as we age.

Barbara Linton Segar, left, my sister, Pris, and Judy Ullman of Fredericksburg, posed for a pic in 2003 when we visited the river. Behind them is the late Bizzell's cottage – which had been bought and remodeled long before this photo was taken. Through the Fredericksburg Facebook page, I just learned that Angie Hallberg and her husband bought the cottage and remodeled it and were probably enjoying it at the time we were visiting. Note the creek behind us – it's the one mentioned in the previous "snake" blog. The terrain is the same, just the houses and people have changed.  

One memory in particular is from being set adrift on the Potomac River in an inner tube. I was probably about 5 or 6 years old and had been coerced into the inner tube by the Bizzell's granddaughter, Tayloe, who was at least twice my age and someone I followed around like a little puppy dog.

Tayloe seemed so sophisticated – tall and tan with long, straight blond hair – I wanted to look like and be her. She lived in Florida and thought she was the cat's meow and that it was beneath her to have to spend the week or so with her grandparents at the river where there wasn't anything "happening."

So, during the church picnic that year – probably 1962 or 3 – while everyone was a little intoxicated and/or looking the other way, she talked me into getting into that inner tube, probably telling me she'd go out there with me. She shoved me out into the water and went back to the party.

I was too young to be afraid. After all, I spent most of my vacation out in an inner tube myself, albeit under the supervision of Dad, Mom or Pris.

I'm not sure how long I was out there, but when someone discovered I was missing and went looking at the river, I was way out there in the channel and they had to send a motorboat after me.

I still wasn't scared, but I still hadn't thought yet about how those shark's teeth got to the river's edge if there weren't supposed to be any sharks in that river.

I was a little more wary of Tayloe after that incident.

One year when I was about 12 years old, Lee Bizzell offered to take Pris and I out fishing in his motorboat. We eagerly agreed, for we both loved Lee and we loved fishing even more than that.

It was to be a morning of interesting events.

We climbed in the small boat with Lee having started up the motor and heading out – steering us toward the lighthouse – I have no idea the name of the lighthouse – it was small and squat and had rocks surrounding it. I have researched lighthouses in that particular area of the Potomac River and the ones I could find were dismantled by 1963, which, was long before my experience of fishing out there.

Pris, left, and myself sitting on the porch of the new cabin constructed after our hosts, Dee and Pop Linton deeded parts of the property to their children. Their daughter, Barbara, graciously hosted us one afternoon for lunch and time enjoying our favorite view. Top right is a sketch of the lighthouse where we fished.

However, it is possible it is the Maryland Point Lighthouse, but research shows that was also dismantled in 1963 and I was older than 7 when we took the boat out there to fish.

Suddenly, as we sped out into the river, Lee stood up, all 300+ pounds of him and instructed my sister to take the controls as he'd forgotten to put the plug in the boat. Sure enough, there was water pouring into the boat. As Pris gained control, he shouted warnings to her for this and that – including to steer clear of the underwater wires mooring the old abandoned boat near Chatterton's Landing.

Thankfully, Lee plugged the boat, I bailed water and Pris was happy to relinquish the controls back to Lee. It didn't take us long to reach our destination – out in the middle of the channel, close to the lighthouse. The water that day was so clear that I could see the bottom and was astounded that it simply wasn't that deep close to the lighthouse.

We cast our lines out and started bringing in the perch. Lee was up front, I was next - straddling the bench seat and Pris was sitting facing forward on the next bench seat. Once again, Lee stood up and walked from one side of the boat to the other to get a sandwich out of the cooler, and with the amount of his weight changing from side to side, I began to slide on the bench seat, moving rather quickly heading for the water as the boat tilted hard to the side.

Pris calmly stuck her foot out and caught me just before I went overboard, her line still in the water and not even looking at me – she never missed a beat. She saved me while Lee had himself another howling laughing fit over yet another Liz/Pris event.

Anyone who has enjoyed time on the Potomac River or even lived in Virginia knows that it gets hot in the summer – blistering hot. Our weeks at the river were no exception. Since we were near a large body of water and up on a bluff, we enjoyed a pretty steady breeze all day until about 4 p.m., when the breeze died down completely without fail – every single day.

Then the cabin would become unbearably hot and since it was near dinnertime, my mother would slave over the stove cooking super – her face beet red, wearing her underwear and a bib apron and nothing else. Being menopausal didn't help the heat situation either.

It was, however, cocktail hour for the adults and at least they were able to imbibe a little and not care how hot it had gotten as a few Tom Collins or bourbon and water would be downed in expectation of some of Mom's down home cooking.

We did, however, have ourselves some relief for the heat. Once the cabin had been expanded in the mid-1960s, my mother always made room for an air conditioner in the trunk of Dad's old Buick LeSabre.

And we were ever so grateful for it come bedtime.

Sharks teeth, fried perch, canasta, friends, family and Carl's Ice Cream

Most of us have great childhood memories, whether it be time spent at Grandma's, wonderful family vacations, or simply a childhood summer spent with friends building forts, swimming, biking, playing.

I admit I had a great childhood despite being bullied for years – bullying in the 1960s wasn't what it is today and I'm grateful I made it through those years unscathed. My best memories, however, were the yearly vacations to "the river" in King George County, Virginia – a few miles outside of Fredericksburg.

The cabin was much more comfortable after our hosts, Dee and Pop Linton, added a large 2nd bedroom and a bathroom onto the cabin. No more did we have to trudge to the outhouse at the edge of the cornfield – braving God knows what ... mice, snakes or spiders. Instead, we put up with rather large, black water beetles.

My sister, Pris and I got to use the new bedroom, which had a twin, as well as a full size bed in it. We'd lay awake at night listening to those big old bugs hit the metal floor of the shower stall. Still, they were preferable to the alternative in the outhouse.

My favorite past-time at the river was to walk the shore as far as I could go, which was usually to Fairview Beach several miles down and collect sharks teeth at the river's edge. I never questioned why I could collect sharks teeth at a river or whether or not they existed out in the channel in which I swam regularly. I simply LOVED collecting them.

I was good at it too. I could spot the tiniest tooth and even managed a plenty of large ones as well. By the time I was grown and no longer going to the cabin, I'd amassed a collection of over 1,000 teeth. Much to my great delight, when I took Pris back to Virginia 10 years ago, we visited our friends who now live on the property on which the cabin sat and we went down to the beach and looked for shark's teeth and I found one right away.

Bingo!

Imagine my shock a few years ago when I read that a man had caught an 8 foot bull shark in the Potomac River. I'm ever so glad we never saw any while spending all those years swimming way out into the river.

Imagine a time when one could walk the beach at the tender age of 10 or 12 or 14 alone, and not be worried about being attacked! That's how life was at the river. Sometimes Dad walked with me, but most of the time I was by myself – feet at the edge of the warm water, picking up sharks teeth, enjoying the sun, the light breeze on my skin, the absolute freedom of simply being.

One in awhile I discovered a few unpleasant things such as the time I stumbled across a sack full of dead kittens. Yes, someone had drowned a batch of kittens in the river somewhere. Unfortunately, they weren't the only dead critters I saw - sometimes it was puppies. Rotten people ...

Occasionally my mother would spy a piece of a dish or pottery and carry it home along with her precious pieces of driftwood. As a child, I never knew of the sinking of the steamboat Wawaset on Aug. 8, 1873, very close to where our pier was – some of those pieces my mother picked up may very well have been remnants of the sunken boat.

In fact, the spot where the Wawaset caught fire and sunk was known as Chatterton's Landing (remember the beautiful manner house Chatterton?). Over 80 passengers and crew perished in that sinking. All the years we had fished in and around that area, swam, played and walked – we had no idea of the disaster.

The remains of the boat were recently discovered by divers about 250 yards off shore in the area of Chatterton's Landing, located very close to where the old Chatterton farmhouse, known as Little Chatterton, had sat.

I have no idea if anyone has any other photos of this old, spooky boat, which was tied up down near Chatterton's Landing. The large piece in the foreground was a thick cable that was attached to the boat and to some sort of anchor on land, in addition to cables out in the water.

There was a very old spooky boat that was moored out in front of Little Chatterton that we were told had broken loose from Aquia Creek, further down the Potomac – a place where "old boats go to die." Someone, somewhere had decided to simply moor the old boat near Chatterton's Landing and let it rot.

It was eerie there. Pris and I would walk the beach at low tide, sometimes having to walk out into the water, around rocks and jetty's to get to the beach in front of the boat. Why we did it, I'll never know, except there's nothing like the thrill of a little spookiness to make your day.

The farmhouse was abandoned by then, it's windows darkened like sinister eyes, peering at us as the house sat just off the beach in a little copse of trees that shadowed it.

 We'd heard of several boating accidents near the moored boat, when boaters had no idea of the underwater wires, gotten too close to the old boat and flipped their boat over.  People had died there and unbeknownst to us, it was where over 80 people perished in the Wawaset sinking nearly 100 years before.

There wasn't much left of the old boat – the sides mostly, which were wooden and it had trees growing right up and out of it.

It sure was one of those places where you felt uneasy, uncomfortable, and the temperature always seemed about 20 degrees cooler than anywhere else. I'm sure by now the shoreline has changed some and that old boat exists no longer. Now there are million dollar homes scattered along the places I walked – where there was nothing but trees, bamboo forests and quiet.

Nights at the river were as pleasant as daytime. There were no TVs, no Internet in that day, and no telephones! I don't even remember if we had a radio. What we had was each other – the four of us, Mom, Dad, Pris and myself (my brother was married with a child and earning a living by then).

We laughed, we talked, we reminisced. We read tons of books and we ate well. Food at the river was always plentiful – fresh Jersey tomatoes, corn on the cob, fried chicken, fried perch that we'd caught ourselves, and we'd be treated to as much pop as we wanted – namely, Orange Nehi and Dr. Pepper – two things we couldn't get in New Jersey at the time.

That was in the day that no one worried about cholesterol, heart disease or even cancer. You simply lived life to the fullest and enjoyed it – from food to recreation.

Many a night Pris, Mom and I sat at the table and played canasta – watching the river traffic, listening to the night sounds. I'm sure our voices could be heard out on the water – we spent most of the time laughing instead of playing cards, Dad off in a corner reading and humming. Anyone who remembers my Dad, knows he was a hummer – a comforting, pleasant sound associated completely with my beloved Dad. I miss his humming.

Some nights we headed out in the car for an ice cream – another one of our traditions, which we enjoyed on more than one night while in Virginia. If you are from the Fredericksburg area, then you've most likely had Carl's Ice Cream, which is actually custard.

Carl's Ice Cream looks the same today as it did 50 years ago when we enjoyed regular visits during our vacations in Virginia. If you get a chance to go there – try a half pint (or larger!) of the chocolate custard. Oh yummy!

Carl's has been around forever and still makes his custard from the same old machine as years ago. I've never had anything remotely as delicious as a half pint cup of Carl's chocolate custard.

When Pris and I returned to Fredericksburg in 2003, we found – to our great delight – that Carl's was still open and we had a cup of custard every day for lunch. Sinfully delicious. We both crossed Carl's off our bucket list.

There can never be a time when life is as good and trouble-free as those summers of my youth. I had no worries, I slept well, and I had the best parents, brother and sister in the world.