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By Sam Johnson – Deputy Director of Cullinary | 1776

Sam’s Leek Bread Pudding is sure to please at your next brunch, gather up a group of friends and share a meal this winter!  This libation pairs well and helps set the festive spirit: 

Maple Rosemary Bourbon Punch

• 4 Cups of Ice
• 750 ML Ginger Ale
• 1liter of Cranberry Juice
• 16 oz of Bourbon
• Maple Syrup to taste
• Fresh Rosemary

Sam’s Leek Bread Pudding

• 2 cups 1/2-inch-thick slices leeks, white and light green parts only, cleaned and rinsed
• 2 ½ cups of button mushroom
• 2 cups of sweet peas
• Kosher salt
• 4 tablespoons (2 ounces) unsalted butter
• Freshly ground black pepper
• 12 cups 1-inch-cubed crustless brioche or challah bread
• 1 teaspoon fresh thyme 
• 1 teaspoon of rosemary
• 1 teaspoon of fresh chopped garlic
• 6 large eggs
• 3 cups whole milk
• 4 cups heavy cream
• 2 cups of white wine
• 2 cups shredded parmesan cheese
• 2 cups of jalsberg cheese for topping

Directions

1. Place a medium sauté pan over medium-high heat, drain excess water from leeks, and add to pan also add chopped garlic. Season with salt, and sauté until leeks and mushrooms begin to soften, about 5 minutes, then reduce heat to medium-low. Stir in butter, and wine Cover and cook, stirring occasionally, until leeks and mushrooms are very soft, about 20 minutes for the last 10 minutes add peas. Adjust salt and pepper to taste.
2. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. While veggies are cooking, spread bread cubes on a baking sheet and bake until dry and pale gold, about 20 minutes, turning pan about halfway through. Transfer to a large bowl, leaving the oven on.
3. Add veggies, rosemary and thyme to the bowl of bread; toss well. In another large bowl, lightly whisk the eggs, then whisk in milk, cream, a generous pinch of salt, pepper to taste.
4. Make sure pan is coated well with cooking spray. Mix together bread veggies and parmesan cheese spread out evenly in pan.
5. Pour in enough milk mixture to cover bread, and gently press on bread so milk soaks in. Let rest 15 minutes.
6. Add remaining milk mixture, letting some bread cubes protrude. Sprinkle with salt and jalsberg cheese. Bake until pudding is set and top is brown and bubbling, about 1 1/2 hours. Serve hot.

“This is my go to winter brunch favorite, warm the soul and heart insures all in Keswick will enjoy.” 

By Colin Dougherty

Fearless Flowers was the first website dedicated to flower arranging with their streaming high-quality videos showing how to arrange flowers quickly, easily and, since the arrangements used fewer flowers, economically! The brainchild of Annie Vanderwarker, a Keswick artist and arranger, the site regularly added new videos featuring arrangements that reflect available flowers, various seasons, and current holidays. The streaming videos are organized by degree of difficulty so you can enter at the level you’re most comfortable with. Guys could even check out their own videos in ‘Even For Guys’.

When it comes to the arts, there are few areas Annie hasn’t been involved in. From making Nantucket baskets to oil painting to weaving with shredded pop cans to decorating furniture with found objects—her artistic output has been varied and adventurous. “While you can never figure out where you’re going to end up, I think that all the various artistic turns I took have really benefited my arranging, “ Annie explains. “That’s what Fearless Flowers is all about,” Annie says. “We’re not after blue ribbons or splashy arrangements, our goal is more about making you feel better about your ability to put flowers together and come up with pleasing and interesting arrangements.”

Annie and Tony hang out at 20 Gates in Cismont with their dogs, tending the gardens and staying in contact with their four children, two of which had consulted on Fearless Flowers. “It’s been a family affair which is fun,” Annie says. “It’s great to be able to bounce ideas off someone you’re close to and trust.” And the fact that their daughter is a theater director has been a huge help. “Our daughter Krissy spent a few days with me early on working on my presence and delivery, without her I never could have progressed to the point where I am now.”

Arrange some green on your table combined with deer antlers and Christmas balls for a festive holiday arrangement.  Put some water tubes on your wreath and add fresh flowers for a lovely look that can change at the drop of a hat.  Tuna cans repurposed can make for a lively contemporary look. 

Check out the videos, still active today, on YouTube, under Fearless Flowers – with nearly 7k followers!

By Charles Thacher

I have collected antiquarian angling books for many years. Occasionally, I acquire a book that leads me to discover an author who is fascinating in ways that go far beyond the world of fishing. Henry William Herbert is one such author. 

Herbert left England at age 24 and sailed to New York City, arriving in the spring of 1831. He never returned. He was from a prominent, affluent and accomplished English family.  His grandfather was an Earl, his father a member of Parliament, later an esteemed clergyman, and a recognized authority in the fields of linguistics, literary composition and botany. Henry William himself had attended one of the best preparatory schools in England, followed by Eton and Cambridge, graduating with a commendable record less than a year before leaving for America.

In the spring of 1858, at age 51, Frank Forester, who could rightfully be described as the first sporting writer in America, sent a written invitation to his friends to come to his suite at the Stevens House, a fashionable New York City hotel. The invitation asked them to join him for dinner, and then to watch him shoot himself. Only one person showed up for the unusual event. After imbibing much, Forester left the dining table, went into another room, pointed a pistol at his heart, and shot himself. He staggered out, said to his guest “I told you I would do it”, and immediately expired. Forester died penniless, but an admirer of his many talents started a campaign to raise money for a gravestone to be placed in the New Jersey cemetery where he was buried. The effort produced a total of only $1.00, providing evidence of how few friends he had left at the time of his death. Eighteen years later a literary club formed in his honor placed a simple gravestone over his burial site, which remains there today. On it, his life is summarized with a single obscure Latin word, “Infelicissimus”. How tragic that a life full of remarkable productivity and accomplishment would be encapsulated simply as “unhappy.” 

How did life turn out so badly for Herbert, why did he become Frank Forester, and what is his modern legacy? The answers to these questions tell an intriguing story, full of twists and turns. 

In England, young Henry William had spent many days in the field with his father, gathering plant specimens, riding behind the hounds, and shooting. He also became an accomplished scholar, particularly of Greco-Roman literature and English classics. He was second in line for the family earldom, which was not a remote possibility given the risky personal behavior of his cousin who preceded him.

So why would such a promising and well situated young man abruptly decide to cross the Atlantic to start a new life? His several biographers haven’t identified a specific event that led to his decision, but there certainly was trouble in paradise. Henry William carried on a very expensive lifestyle in England that included upscale vacations, the acquisition and maintenance of many horses, sartorial elegance, high-end food and wines, gambling, and memberships in prestigious clubs. To afford these costly proclivities, he accumulated significant debts which caused him, as he told his friends many years later, to declare bankruptcy, and leading him to flee both creditors and his father’s wrath. But, as biographer William Hunt notes, there is no public record of his bankruptcies, and his father not only ultimately paid his debts, but also gave him letters of introduction to persons in Canada and, later, sent him money, so he could establish a successful life in the U.S. That does not hint at a young man who he had been disowned. Rather, Hunt surmises “The reason lies deeper, and we sense an offense against the rigorous social code, of his class, an offense that no paternal settlement could clear.” Herbert did make a brief trip to Canada, but found little of interest, and returned to the New York environs for the remainder of his life.

New York, in 1831, was the ideal place for Herbert to start over. With a population of 200,000 and growing rapidly. primarily from an influx of immigrants, it was already the largest city in the Nation (by comparison, London’s population then was over 1.5 million), and was fast becoming the center of American commerce after completion of the Erie Canal in 1827, which allowed ships coming into New York harbor to transport their cargos all the way to the Great Lakes. The printing and publishing industry was booming, with new magazines and newspapers starting nearly every month. Although the English were among the least popular of all immigrant groups, due to lingering memories of the War of 1812 and their perceived condescending attitude toward American culture and values, Herbert had the right training and talents to succeed. His haughtiness and frequently obnoxious temperament made it difficult to acquire and retain friends, but fortunately he met Anson Livingston, a well-heeled and connected young man who shared Herbert’s love of horses, field sports and various cultural interests. Through Livingston, Herbert was introduced to the hoity-toity set around town, which helped him secure a position teaching Greek at the Huddart Academy – an elite school – where he taught successfully for eight years. Livingston remained a lifelong friend, and was that person who joined Herbert for his final dinner.

Herbert didn’t earn enough from teaching to support his desired life style. He had great energy, both mental and physical, so he began looking for other remunerative activities. In 1833 he and a partner started the American Monthly Magazine, which he co-edited until 1835, when the partners separated because of disagreements. It was the first of his many relationships that failed, often due to his irascible temperament and uncompromising attitudes. In 1834, he produced his first book, The Brothers, a Tale of the Fronde, an historical novel in the style of Sir Walter Scott (as were many of his romantic historical novels). It was favorably received by critics, but was not a great commercial success. Herbert continued to write prodigiously, ultimately producing 51 original works (novels, histories, instructional manuals and compilations), 15 translations (from Greek, Latin and French), 9 books that he edited, 21 books to which he contributed, 11 anonymous books that are generally attributed to him, and hundreds of articles for newspapers, journals and magazines. Herbert was a polymath, and as a demonstration of the breadth of his knowledge, he is listed as a contributor to the first edition of The New American Cyclopedia, and credited with entries on dozens of diverse and unrelated subjects. He also became a skilled artist and engraver – illustrating many of his books. Herbert was an accomplished rider and trainer of horses, and some Keswickians might be interested in his 1857 publication, Horse and Horsemanship.

Herbert is a bibliographer’s nightmare, as many of his shorter articles and sections from works were re-used in other works. This practice was particularly irritating to his editors and publishers, because they could not be sure if a script was wholly original. He was also a serial procrastinator, regularly missing deadlines, resulting in his having to frequently change publishers and their refusing to risk giving him an advance for his writing commitments. He always lived beyond his means, and was constantly in debt, which ultimately contributed to his demise. But, his talents continue to be recognized by scholars, such as noted 20th Century American historian, Chester Starr who wrote that “as a classical scholar he had few equals in the United States . . . his knowledge of English history and literature was extensive; he was a pen-and-ink artist of marked ability.” Conversely, a more famous contemporary, Edgar Alan Poe, opined that Herbert’s writing was “not unapt to fall into pompous grandiloquence” and at times was “woefully turgid”, perhaps primarily to demonstrate that he, Poe, could compete with his own bloviated prose. 

When Herbert arrived in New York, writing about sports in America had just begun, with the advent of The American Turf Register and Sporting Magazine in 1829. In the Angler’s Souvenir, published in 1835 in England (where angling literature had existed since the late 15th Century), a dialogue between Fisher, the author, and another angler satirized the state of the art among Americans (sometimes satirically called Brother Jonathans):

‘Simpson: ‘Have you ever seen any American books on angling, Fisher?

‘Fisher: ‘No. I do not think there are any published. Brother Jonathan is not yet sufficiently civilized to produce anything original on the gentle art.’

In 1839, Herbert was asked to write a series of articles on field sports for The Turf Register.  He considered sporting activities to be a frivolous subject, so he adopted the pen name “Frank Forester” solely for his writing on sports, to protect his reputation as a serious author. Ultimately, he wrote six books about field sports. Ironically, frivolous has trumped literary, and today his books and articles on sports continue to be well known, while his other works have faded into obscurity. His first sporting book, published in 1845, was The Warwick Woodlands, a hunting novel that gained great popularity, and which many critics consider his best work. He produced two books on angling, but short pieces on angling were included in several of his other books, and in numerous compilations and magazines.  

The first American Edition of Izaak Walton‘s classic The Complete Angler (American spelling) was published in 1847. In this highly-acclaimed Edition, the only writing other than by Walton and the Editor, is an appended 10-page article by Forester entitled Trout-Fishing on Long Island. Although this seems to be an odd inclusion, it serves as a confirmation of Forester’s prestige and popularity as a sporting writer at the time.  The closing paragraph of this article provides some insight into the often arrogant Author’s capacity for specious humility:

And here I will bring the over-long paper to a close. No one can be more fully aware of its deficiencies than I am myself; the only apology I can offer is, that it has been thrown off in haste, at moments snatched from severer labors; and the only hope that I do offer it, is that it may contain some hint which may prove not wholly unworthy of better brothers of the angle than myself and that it may be regarded as a tribute of my affection to what has been well termed the gentle art.

Forester was the first American sporting writer to encourage conservation of resources and protection of the environment. In his writing, “catch and release” fishing is promoted long before other anglers grasped its importance, or the term even existed.

In 1839, while on a hunting trip in Maine, Forester met an attractive, well-born young lady, Sarah Barker. He was immediately smitten. They married and returned to New York shortly thereafter. In 1841 they had a son, then a daughter in 1843. The second birth left Sarah very ill, and eight months later she died, followed in another six months by her daughter’s death. The son was sent to England in 1845 to be cared for by Forester’s family, and he never returned. Although the marriage had been challenging due to Forester’s difficult temperament and his wife’s fragility, he had loved her, and was disconsolate over his loss. His father in England was sympathetic, and sent him funds for use in acquiring a property, which he did, on a river near Newark, New Jersey, the only American state that at the time allowed non-citizens to own property. There he built The Cedars, a house where he lived for most of the time until his death.

Forester rarely had visitors at The Cedars and wrote prolifically and well while there. Even though his income from writing was favorable, and when he was at home he lived like a hermit, and continued to spend beyond his means on his occasional sporting activities, fine hotels, expensive sporting equipment, and other luxuries. Most of his friends gradually drifted away, and his disputes with publishers and others grew more frequent and irrational. He became heavily indebted to an unethical money-lender. In 1858, he met Adela Budlong while in New York. He was infatuated, and they quickly married. He brought her to The Cedars, she reacted negatively to the dull life she found there, and soon they were quarrelling frequently. One morning, a few months after their marriage, she left The Cedars to visit some friends, with the agreement that they would meet up again in a few days at the Stevens House in New York City to bury the past, and rekindle their relationship. Forester rented the room and waited for her to arrive. When she didn’t show up on the agreed day, he began searching for her. Then he received a package of divorce papers from Indiana, over 700 miles away. Distraught over that, the pressure of his debts, and his unhappiness with every other aspect of his life, he sent the foreboding invitations to his few friends, and made plans for his denouement.

Among Forester’s best-known angling writing is a story Among the Mountains from a compilation of works published after his death called Fugitive Sporting Sketches. Here, he is visiting a friend who is guiding him in pursuit of a large trout. He refers to himself in the third person, and demonstrates that, for him, some trout are too impressive to practice catch and release:

At the moment they were there; and lo! The big trout was feeding fiercely on the natural fly. “Be ready, Frank, and when next he rises drop your fly right in the middle of his bell. Be easy, I mean it.”

The snipe feather fell and fluttered. With an arrowy rush, the monster rose, and his broad tail showed above the surface, the merry music of the resonant click-reel told that Frank had him. Well struck, he was better played, killed unexceptionally; in thirteen minutes he lay fluttering on the greensward, lacking four ounces, a six-pounder. The snipe feather and mouse body won the day in a canter. So off they started, up the Stony Brook, to admire the feats of {their friend}. It was not long ere they found him; he had reached the lower waters of the brook, full of beautiful scours, eddies, whirlpools and basins, wading about knee deep with his bait….Some trees on the bank hung thickly over his head; a few yards behind him was a pretty cascade and above that an open upland glade, lighted up by a gleam of the westering sun; and, altogether with his gay garb, he presented quite a picturesque, if not very sportsmanly, appearance…. 

A mind that could rejoice in the illuminated beauty of the natural world, but succumb to the darkness within. Enigmatic indeed. 

By Tony Vanderwarker

I wrote about the joy I felt last Christmas but when the event repeated itself this holiday season, I was even more ecstatic. 

Opening the door to the basement in the cottage, I remembered the rush of excitement I felt when I was a little kid coming down the stairs on Christmas morning and seeing all the wrapped presents clustered under the tree. Only this present was even more joy-producing. 

Wrapped in a plastic tarp was the fake Christmas tree we’d purchased at Home Depot last year. We’d stored it in the cellar completely assembled, replete with all its lights, thinking we’d retrieve it next Christmas. 

And there it was, a Christmas tree for the taking. No driving to the Christmas tree lot, no stomping around in the cold looking for the perfect tree (by the way, there is no such thing. In my experience, every tree I’ve ever seen has missing branches somewhere, forcing you to turn the tree so the glitch faces the corner or wall. What do you want for ninety-five bucks anyway?), then tying it to the top of the car, driving home, wedging it through the door and then dropping it into the tree stand. A tree stand, by the way, is one of the most imperfect devices ever invented, right up there with the corkscrew and bulb planter. 

The tree stand is the ultimate time sink. Expect to spend a good hour trying to get the tree straight and then struggling to turn those dastardly bolts that are supposed to grip the trunk so the tree doesn’t topple over. Of course it only comes crashing down when its loaded with ornaments, the kind of glad tidings you only get during the Christmas holidays, like the hot oil exploding when you drop the turkey in or the major present you hid so well you can’t find it. 

Annie and I turned the tree on its side took it out through the cellar door, loaded it the Gator and drove it back to the house. Five minutes had passed and we had a Christmas tree gracing our living room.  Plugged it in, tapped the floor switch and…oops! Two sections of lights blinked on but two didn’t. Was this the ghost of Christmas past coming back to haunt us? Would I have to go to Lowe’s again and buy more lights just like in the bad old days? But no, we quickly discovered that the two unlit sections had come unplugged, I guess when we stuffed it through the cellar door.  When we plugged them in, the lights came on. 

A half hour later, we had the tree loaded with the familiar ornaments we’d stored in the garage. The Mercedes hood ornament from one of our former cars, the Heineken can turned into an ornament, the lobster, the cow, etc. etc. 

Thirty-five minutes total and we had an honest to goodness lighted and fully-decorated Christmas tree (that’s if you don’t look too closely or feel the needles)!

Damn, was I pleased with myself. I had totally eradicated one of the more onerous parts of the holidays. Now all I had to do was find the spray aptly named Scentsations that gave the fake tree that real tree scent and I was in business. 

So, do I occasionally feel a touch of regret for having a fake tree with a fake scent? Have a sense of guilt for ducking out of a hallowed Christmas tradition? 

Not on your life. Not only have I saved a tree from being sawn down, I’ve saved ninety-five bucks, three trips to Lowe’s, countless hours untangling strands of light and frustrating bouts with the cursed tree stand–for as they sing, “There’s no place like home for the holidays…” I might add–especially when you’ve got a fake tree gracing it.

By Charles Thacher

Many American presidents have been enthusiastic fishermen. The most notable were Chester Arthur, Grover Cleveland, Calvin Coolidge, Herbert Hoover, Dwight Eisenhower and Jimmy Carter. Quite likely, the most accomplished was Hoover and, although during his lifetime he fished in many places throughout the world, his favorite fishing haunt while he was President was his camp on the upper Rapidan River – in Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains, about 55 miles northeast of Keswick. The Rapidan Camp has survived to this day and is contained within the Shenandoah National Park.

The Rapidan Camp can be accessed from the Milam Gap parking area on the Skyline Drive, and walking down the Mill Prong Trail about two miles. Alternatively, one can take Route 231 through Criglersville, then Routes 670/649 to an entrance gate, and then a walk of a bit over a mile along the River (one of the best native brook trout fisheries in Virginia) to the Camp. Note that the last seven miles or so of driving up to the gate is on a narrow, rough dirt road. The last time that I was there, a couple of years ago, it had intimidating deep, wide ruts that would disable any car that slid into them. I understand that it has since been improved, but it is still very slow-going, even with a 4-wheel drive vehicle. 

Building Camp Rapidan in such a remote site was a major challenge in 1929. Even traveling there by automobile to fish and enjoy the salubrious environment must have required an enormous effort, especially when the size of a President’s entourage is considered.  When I first learned of the Camp, I realized that I knew practically nothing about Hoover, except that he was the President when the stock market crashed in October, 1929 – an event that ushered in The Great Depression – three words which inevitably follow the mere mention of his name.  When I found that he was an avid and accomplished fly-fisherman and wrote frequently about the sport, I began to dig a little deeper.

Hoover was no anomaly, who become president by some backroom deal or a quirky primary process. He was actually an American icon, with a real “Horatio Alger” biography. His early life was the prototypical American rags-to-riches story: born in a small cabin in rural Iowa in 1874; parents both died before his 11th birthday; he and two siblings were sent off to live with three different families of relatives nearby; a year later, he and his older brother were sent to separate families of relatives in Oregon, then a very rural state with a tiny population of only about 100,000. Oregon had great trout and salmon rivers, and Hoover (called Bert) fished often, becoming an excellent angler, including with the fly. Bert was also a fine student, being selected for the initial class of what is now Stanford University, graduating in 1895 as an engineer, with a major in geology. During his college years, he camped and worked during the summers in California’s Sierra Nevada mountains on geological exploration and mining projects, sometimes with his classmate Lou Henry –a rare female geology major – whom he later married. He always carried his fishing rod, perfecting his skills by taking advantage of any free time to cast a line. After graduating, during the period 1896-1913, he and Lou traveled constantly and indefatigably, often under physically-demanding circumstances, on business to Africa, Asia, Australia, Europe, New Zealand and other far-flung places, working on mining projects and, ultimately, investing in mines. Bert acquired a reputation as an intrepid traveler and an extraordinary miner and businessman, and Lou was his equal. They became wealthy – not Rockefeller-rich – but set for life. 

In 1914, while the Hoovers were enjoying a respite in the U.S., the war in Europe broke out, and many Americans were stranded on the Continent. An American Committee was formed in London to arrange for their rescues, and the Hoovers not only sailed to join them, but brought substantial personal funds to contribute to the effort. Bert quickly took over management of the Committee that was instrumental in rescuing over 50,000 Americans. That done, his Committee morphed into the Commission for Relief in Belgium, with a mission to save millions of Belgians starving under German occupation. Hoover’s Commission raised over $200 million from the Allies for the relief mission, at an administrative cost of less than $3 million, and not only fed the Belgians during the War, but had $24 million left over after the War for reconstruction.  Based on this impressive effort, and similar work in Russia and Ukraine, Hoover became highly acclaimed in America and Europe, recognized as a gifted engineer and manager – but with a heart – as evidenced by the sobriquet commonly given to him, “The Great Humanitarian”. 

When Warren Harding was elected President in 1920, he named Hoover as Secretary of Commerce. Previously the post had been of little significance, but Hoover, always independent and aggressive, made it a powerhouse, spurring the economic boom of “the Roaring Twenties.” He served in that position with distinction and without scandal (not easy in the Harding administration), and after Harding’s death, for six years under Calvin Coolidge. When Coolidge chose not to run again in 1928, Hoover was the overwhelming Republican choice, and he won the Presidency by a huge margin over Al Smith. By the time he took office in March, 1929, American economic growth had already slowed considerably, but the stock market continued to soar, as speculators ignored reality. The impending debacle was foreshadowed by the prominent financier, Bernard Baruch, who famously said:

When beggars and shoeshine boys, barbers and beauticians can tell you how to get rich, it is time to remind yourself that there is no more dangerous illusion than the belief that one can get something for nothing. 

Of course, it all crashed seven months after Hoover’s inauguration, leading to ten years of the worst and most prolonged economic decline in American history. Hoover wrongfully assumed that, as in the past, a natural recovery would ensue after a few years. His laissez-faire approach and the protectionist policies (which he personally didn’t favor, but nonetheless foolishly implemented because of loyalty to the isolationist Republican Party) failed miserably, and when he ran for re-election in 1932, the economy was at its nadir with 25% unemployment, and the stock market having lost almost 90% of its value from the 1929 peak. He appeared impotent and overmatched, and was crushed in the 1932 election by Franklin Roosevelt, who confidently promised hope and change, including major new government spending programs (an anathema to Hoover) to stimulate economic activity. The economy slowly recovered under Roosevelt through 1936, with unemployment dropping to 9%, but then a severe recession hit again in 1937-38, with unemployment more than doubling and general economic conditions being nearly as bad as they were in 1933. In 1939, World War II broke out in Europe, the need to supply the Allies jump-started the American economy, and recovery from the Great Depression began. Had Roosevelt not run for a 3rd term in 1940 – an unprecedented action, breaking an American tradition dating from George Washington – his legacy might be quite different than it is today, but such are the vagaries of history. 

Hoover was what today we would call a workaholic, usually putting in workdays of 12 hours or longer. But he believed that a President needed to get away occasionally for quiet, contemplative periods in order to recharge his batteries. The only leisure activity that he really cared about was fishing, and he also felt that being identified with the sport would enhance the image he sought, as that of a “common man”. In his memoirs, Hoover wrote: 

Fishing seems to be one of the few avenues to be left to Presidents through which they may escape to their own thoughts, may live in their own imaginings, find relief from the pneumatic hammer of constant personal contacts, and refreshment of mind in rippling waters. Moreover, it is a constant reminder of the democracy of life, of humility and human frailty. It is desirable that the President should be periodically reminded of this fundamental fact – that the forces of nature discriminate for no man. 

Shortly after his election, Hoover’s staff began exploring for a place to relax within driving distance of Washington, D.C., and the upper Rapidan was his choice. Using his and Lou’s personal funds, he acquired the land, and had the 13 rustic buildings constructed by a U.S. Marine unit. He mothballed the Presidential yacht (which held no interest for him) and transferred the crew to work there. The River in the chosen section is small, fast and subject to flooding, so he had screens put in below the Camp’s pools to retain the stocked fish, which raised the hackles on some Americans who thought that to be unsportsmanlike. In 1932, Hoover donated the Camp to the people of Virginia, for use as a future Presidential retreat. Roosevelt’s disability made the Camp impractical, so he had a new facility built at Camp David in Maryland’s Catoctin Mountains, which continues to be a retreat for our presidents.  The last President to use Rapidan Camp was Jimmy Carter, in the late 1970s.

The Hoovers regularly held important meetings with both domestic and foreign dignitaries on the Rapidan, though the press was rarely invited to observe – a very bad public relations decision. There was telephone service, and a plane flew over every day dropping mail and newspapers. As the Depression worsened in the early 1930s, and many Americans suffered, Hoover was often chastised for his “feckless” excursions there, a criticism which seems quaint by modern standards for presidential getaways.

When Hoover left office in 1933, his national reputation was in tatters, particularly while the Depression continued. But he soldiered on, helping manage food relief programs in Poland, then later, Finland, after those countries were invaded in the late 1930s, and then through the War’s end, and during the rebuilding of post-War Europe. When he was not working, he was fishing, typically 10-12 weeks a year for the remainder of his life. He became a keen deep-sea fisherman for tarpon, sailfish and virtually every other variety that would bite. After the strain of fighting large fish in the open ocean became too great, he switched to chasing bonefish on the flats in the Florida Keys, and became an expert at that. For his last fourteen years he fished with a prominent Florida guide, Calvin Albury, who marveled at Hoover’s fishing ability, discipline and endurance. After their last trip, Hoover at age 89 gave Albury his equipment, saying he did not expect to return. He was right, and he died within a year.

Some writers and historians conflate Hoover’s passion for fishing and his Camp with the severity of the Depression. For example, Howell Raines in his entertaining 1993 memoir, Fly Fishing Through the Midlife Crisis, which contains much to like about fishing in the American South, states that “the Marines scraped across the mountains in 1929 so that Herbert Hoover could reach the Rapidan (River). In those days the stream was reserved for his exclusive use. He also needed a place where he would not be bothered by the little people while he planned the Great Depression.” Certainly, Hoover’s policies failed in stopping or even slowing down the worsening of the Depression, but the idea that he planned it, or was even indifferent to it, is preposterous, and inconsistent with his history. Nearly all of his noble humanitarian efforts in Europe – both before and after his presidency – were on behalf of Raines’ so-called “little people”. Perhaps, had Raines written his book after his own scandalous debacle and departure in 2003 as Editor of the New York Times, he would have understood that leaders can make poor choices without being malevolent.

Hoover’s personality fit the stereotype of an engineer. He always fished in a suit with a white shirt and tie – whether alone on the Rapidan, on a mountain stream in the West, or a steaming bonefish flat. While fishing, he was laser-focused on his target and rarely engaged in idle conversation or took breaks. He had enormous energy, and would often work well into the night after fishing all day. Jimmy Carter was also an engineer, and both men failed to be re-elected, primarily because of the County’s economic problems while they were in office. They were often criticized for being too detail oriented, unable to empathize with the plight of regular Americans, and overly rigid in their thinking and approaches, but interestingly, both made greater contributions to their country and the world in their post-presidential years than the vast majority of modern presidents. 

Hoover wrote numerous magazine articles about fishing and other subjects after the 1950s. Remarkably, in his 80s, he wrote his 4-volume tome, An American Epic, about the history of his country’s food relief efforts around the world during the two World Wars and their aftermaths. In the last year of his life, at age 89, he wrote his only angling book, Fishing for Fun and to Wash Your Soul, a simple volume of snippets on the rewards and frustrations of fishing. It closes with:

There are two things I can say for sure: two months after you return from a fishing expedition you will begin again to think of the snow-cap on the distant mountain peak, the glint of sunshine on the water, the excitement of the dark blue seas, and the glories of the forest. And then you buy more tackle for next year. There is no cure for these infections. And that big fish never shrinks.

Only three of Rapidan Camp’s original 13 buildings remain today. Many of the landscape features of the Camp, such as trails, pools, bridges, and a charming stone fireplace also survive. The National Park Service has restored the exteriors of two cabins to their appearance in 1932, and the interior of one. That cabin, and a museum inside a second cabin are open to the public for scheduled tours led by Park Rangers.

Herbert Hoover was a successful and exemplary American for all but four years of a very long life. But those four years, during which he made bad decisions, or maybe he was just in a hopeless place at a hopeless time, have defined his political legacy – largely cancelling out all of his good work, at least in the eyes of most Americans. Hoover failed greatly in the biggest and most important job of his life, perhaps another tragic example of Teddy Roosevelt’s inspiring description of the Man in the Arena:

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.

By Charles Thacher

It was a dull, late winter evening. Ellie had just gotten around to washing the dinner dishes when the phone rang. “Hi, it’s Amy. Sorry to call so late. What’s happening?”

“Same old, same old. I’m cleaning up in the kitchen. Joe’s watching some game. How about you?”

“It’s all good. We met the that fun couple from Keswick last night – the Winchesters – at the new steak restaurant on the Mall that’s been getting excellent reviews. The steaks are super expensive, but they have a great wine list, and we loved it. Actually, though, I’m calling about the tour to Rome that I’m taking with the UVA women’s group next month. Remember, the one focusing on Caravaggio. I got a really exciting email from the booking agent saying that it’s undersold and anyone who is signed up can take a guest at half price. It’s an amazing deal.”

“Wow! That’s wonderful. You know anybody who can go.”

“Honestly, the first person I thought of was you. We’d have so much fun together. And you’ve never been to Italy. Now that the kids are out of the house, you need to start traveling. What do you think?”

“I’d love to, but there’s no way. Joe’d be lost if I left him alone for a day, much less a week. And I know the kind of trips you take. Even half the cost would be over my budget. But, just out of curiosity, how much is it?”

“Well, I’m paying $8,000 for seven days, so it would be $4,000 plus airfare. The hotels, restaurants, everything is first class, so it’s a great price. I guess it’s the recession in Europe.”

“I’d love to see Rome and you know how much I loved the Caravaggio book, but I can’t even think about it. We’re saving up to redo our bathroom and there are tons of other expenses. Maybe another year when things are more settled.”

“I thought you might be reluctant, so I’ve got a proposition. Larry really wants me to start traveling without him, since it’s so hard for him to get away from work and when he does, he just wants to take those boring golf trips, which I hate. But he just got a huge bonus, so I guess he’s earned the right. Anyway, he knows how much I enjoy your company, so he said that if you couldn’t afford it, then I can pay for everything. How does that sound?”

“Honestly, a bit insulting. We’re not rich, but we’re not looking for handouts either. I know you mean well, but it doesn’t work for me. We’re just in different situations. Now I have to go look at the bathroom plans with Joe. I’ll see you next week at book club”

“Okay. I wish I could convince you. We’d have a ball. By the way, I’m loving this month’s book. Can’t wait for you to tell me what’s wrong with it. See ya.”

Ellie was hurt. In over thirty years since they had met at UVA as sorority sisters, Amy had never patronized her, despite their differing backgrounds and financial circumstances. Ellie had grown up in a modest home in Scottsville, Amy in a large house in the toney D.C. suburb of Potomac.  Ellie attended public school, while Amy was at Miss Porter’s – a fancy New England prep school for women. They both married men that they met at UVA, stayed in Charlottesville, and worked in non-profits for a few years before having two children, then quit to take care of their families. Now in their mid-fifties, they were empty-nesters but neither wanted to return to work. Ellie suspected that Joe would like her to get a job and help save for their retirement, but they had never discussed the subject. Larry and Amy were already wealthy and thoughts of a job never entered Amy’s mind.   

Joe still worked at the insurance company that he joined right out of college, having moved up through the ranks to become a Vice President in underwriting. He never thought about changing jobs since he would lose too much in retirement benefits. Larry had started out in a commercial bank, then moved to the private investment business, changing firms twice since, with each change bringing more money. He and Amy had a large home in town, while Ellie and Joe lived in a town house in Crozet. Larry and Joe had almost nothing in common, so the couples rarely saw each other socially, but the wives met for lunch every few weeks at Amy’s club, and at book club each month. 

Two days later, Joe mentioned to Ellie that Amy had called him to describe her offer, and see if he could persuade Ellie to join her on the tour. “Really? That’s obnoxious. She has no right to call you. What part of ‘no’ doesn’t she understand?”

“I think maybe you’re overreacting. She likes being with you and knows that you’d love Italy. And you care so much about art. My first reaction was the same as yours. We don’t want their charity. But then I thought about the fact that they’re loaded despite Larry’s being a self-absorbed jerk and not all that bright. Frankly, it’s just a lucky accident that they’re rich, so why shouldn’t you share in some of what fell into their laps? But the most important thing is that you’d have a great time and you deserve a trip like this.”

Ellie was surprised by both Joe’s enthusiasm for the trip, and how much he disliked Larry, but was still hesitant. She was proud and had always related to Amy as a peer. Accepting the offer could change that relationship. She might be like a dependent child traveling with a parent. But her concerns were trumped by the fact that ever since she had read Johnathan Harr’s wonderful book – The Lost Painting – for book club, she harbored a burning desire to see every Caravaggio painting, and she knew that there were more in and around Rome than anywhere else. No artist’s story had captured her imagination in the same way. Joe hated traveling, and she’d never get to Italy with him. So, despite being embarrassed about freeloading, that night she called Amy to say that she would go, preserving a modicum of self-esteem by offering to pay for her own flight. Amy was thrilled and spent ten minutes describing the spa, the four pools, and every other luxurious feature of the Hotel Cavalieri where they would be staying. Ellie listened though she had little interest in the fatuous embellishments that earn a hotel a fifth star. 

On the overnight flight to Rome, Amy sat in first class (“Larry always insisted”), Ellie in coach. Larry loaned Amy his iPad and had downloaded a current movie for her. Ellie chose to read and sleep. As she dozed, her mind wandered between the excitement of the trip and the dilemma of how she could retain her self-respect with Amy, given her dependent position. 

After a morning arrival, they checked into their rooms at the Hotel, then met the other six women in the group for breakfast. One of them, Linda, who had come by herself, lived near Ellie in Crozet. They discovered that they had several friends in common. After breakfast Amy went to the spa for a massage, while Ellie and Linda toured the hotel’s impressive art collection. Later Ellie invited Linda to join them as they visited some of the City’s sites. The three had dinner at a touristy, and rather ordinary, trattoria that Amy’s guidebook had described as “exuding Roman charm and sophistication”. 

The next morning Amy and Ellie met at breakfast.  “Ellie, you seem to like Linda, but I really hoped that we’d be together on this trip.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I thought you liked her too.”

“She’s okay, but you’re much sharper and more interesting. And I invited you so that the two of us could share the enjoyment of Rome and the tour. I hope we can keep it that way.”

“All right. I understand. Hey, it’s your trip, so whatever you decide is fine. We’ll all be together as a group every day, but don’t worry, I’ll come up with some explanation, so that Linda doesn’t join us in the evenings.”

That day the Caravaggio tour started with a private showing at the Galleria Borghese, home of the largest collection of the master’s works. For Ellie it was the most thrilling art experience of her life. The paintings lived up to their reputations and the guide made every aspect of the artist’s creative genius come alive, just as she remembered from Harr’s book. At dinner, Amy was admiring the pictures she had taken at the Gallery on her iPhone. “The painting of David holding Goliath’s head is even more grotesque then I had imagined. I’d love to email this photo to Marian Green, since it was her idea for the club to read the book and she liked it more than anyone – well, except maybe you. But I don’t have her email address. Do you know it?”

“No. But doesn’t her husband Bert play golf with Larry? His address may be in Larry’s contacts list in his iPad.”

“Beyond my iPhone, I’m a computer dope. I have no idea how to access that. Maybe if I brought it to breakfast tomorrow you could do it.”

“Possibly. I’ll try”

At breakfast Ellie signed in to the Hotel’s wi-fi, and opened Larry’s email to his Inbox. “Uh…, he’s got an unopened message from Judy Winchester. Maybe you should look at it?”

“If I open it, won’t he know it?” 

“You don’t have to open it. The whole message seems to be right here in the Subject. Look.” Ellie had already read the message, which she showed to Amy. It read cutely “Perfect Date.  Omni at 8. Can’t wait!”

Amy turned ashen, but was stolid. “Oh, I just remembered that I’ve got to take care of some things in my room. If I’m not back by the time the group leaves, then tell our guide to go without me and I’ll catch up later.” 

“You sure? Can I help you with something?”

“No. I just have some chores to do to get ready for the day.” Without waiting for a response, she walked to the elevator.

Amy missed the morning tour to The Vatican and its museum where the group saw The Entombment, another Caravaggio masterpiece. She met up with them in the afternoon to view additional works at the Galleria Doria Pamphilj and the Corsini Galleria, but barely spoke to Ellie or anyone else –seemingly going through the motions of appearing interested. Ellie loved the museums, but was too worried about Amy to fully enjoy them. She decided that at dinner she would try to find out what Amy was experiencing and if she could help. When they returned to the hotel, Amy said that she wasn’t feeling well and would skip dinner. Ellie dined with the other members of the group including Linda, who was standoffish, though Ellie didn’t care, being so distracted by her thoughts about Amy. 

Until the last night of the trip, Amy didn’t join Ellie or the group for breakfast or dinner, but did go on the daily tours.  Ellie was frustrated that she couldn’t find a good opportunity to talk privately with her, but accepted that it was what Amy wanted.  The last day, Amy asked if Ellie would have dinner with her, apart from the group, at La Pergola, the Hotel’s acclaimed “Michelin three starred” restaurant. She seemed a bit more upbeat. After exchanging some small talk Ellie confronted the issue. “Amy, you clearly haven’t been yourself since you saw that email. If you want to talk about it, I’m happy to listen.”

“No. I’m fine. Of course, I was surprised, but I’m sure that there’s an explanation for it. I shouldn’t have allowed myself to become preoccupied and ruin your trip.”

“Well, you haven’t ruined my trip. I’ve loved it despite being worried about you. Have you called Larry to discuss it with him?”

“I’ve called him but we haven’t discussed it. He’d be really angry if he thought that I was looking at his private emails.”

Ellie was incredulous that Amy couldn’t discuss such an obviously incriminating email with him. That he would be angry. She asked herself “what kind of a one-sided relationship do they have that he screws around and she has to feel guilty for finding out about it?” She persisted. “Amy, you had no intention of seeing his email, but it happened. You can’t pretend that it didn’t. You’re married to him and you have a right to know what that message is about.”

“Ellie, I don’t want to discuss this. I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding. I’ll find out more after I’m back. Now let’s move on and talk about Rome, Caravaggio and all of the things that we came here to enjoy, including this fabulous menu and wine list.” 

Ellie was skeptical, but Amy’s marital relationship was her own business, so she moved on. Amy quickly reverted to her old self, and they had a wonderful meal accompanied by their usual light banter. Amy put the meal on her bill. The next day they returned to Dulles and home.

Joe took a vacation day to pick Ellie up at the airport and welcomed her back with a gift of Howard Hibbard’s Caravaggio biography, which Marian Green had told him was the best book on the author. That night he took her to Tavola, for a romantic dinner. Typical Joe. It never occurred to him that Italian food wasn’t what would excite her after seven days of it, but she said nothing because his feelings would have been hurt, and she knew that he had planned everything just to please her. A surprise was that dinner was as good as nearly all that she had in Rome, which in an odd way, disappointed her.

The monthly book club meeting was scheduled for the next week, and Ellie called and emailed Amy to find out if she was going, but got no response, which was unlike Amy. Ellie went to the meeting and regaled the group about the extraordinary art, food and everything else that they enjoyed in Rome. Amy didn’t come.

After another week of hearing nothing, Ellie called again and Amy answered. “Amy, where have you been? I’ve been calling and emailing you since we got back. You missed a great evening at book club. Everyone was really excited to hear about our trip. I had so much fun reliving it, but we all missed your witty comments. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m sure that you did a good job speaking for both of us. Frankly, I’ve been really busy since the trip. I’m not sure that I’ll have time for book club any more. Suddenly we’ve got a lot of work to do on our house, and Larry wants me to be around here to manage it. And we found out that John and Wendy are having their first baby in January so I’ll be preparing for that. Also, Larry surprised me by signing me up for golf lessons.”

Ellie thought “Golf lessons. Really? Has she become a Stepford Wife?” She held her tongue, congratulating Amy on almost being a grandmother, but felt that she just couldn’t give up easily on their friendship. “Amy, I miss seeing you. Something has changed. You seem different. I can’t help but think that it’s related to the email you saw in Rome. Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really. But since you asked, as I suspected, that email was nothing. Larry had agreed to meet Judy Winchester to discuss plans that she was making for a secret fiftieth birthday party for her husband. In fact, Larry had to work late and cancelled the meeting. It was completely innocent, didn’t happen and now it’s forgotten.”

“Amy, you can’t be that gullible? Who goes to a hotel at eight o’clock at night to discuss plans for a birthday party? And why would she say ‘Can’t wait’? For what, to get Larry’s fabulous party ideas? Does he do event planning on the side? Amy, his story is not believable.” 

“Maybe not to you. But it is to me. Larry and I have been together for a long time and I have to trust him. So please don’t ever bring this up again. Call me next week and maybe we can make a lunch date. And say hi to Joe. Bye.”

Joe walked in from the den. “What was that all about? You sounded upset.”

 “I was, but I’m okay. I just feel so bad for Amy. You were right about Larry. He’s a creep. He lies and worse. And she’s got to live with him.”

“Whew! Did something happen with you and Amy on your trip? I thought you spent all of your time looking at art and eating pasta.”

 “Yeh, that’s pretty much true. And it was all great, especially the art. In fact, lately I’ve been thinking about Caravaggio and how he’s still relevant.”

“Really? To whom, other than a few art junkies?”

“To us. To everyone. For example, do you know what painting technique he’s best known for?”

“No. Can’t say that I know any painting technique. And, honestly, I don’t get why I should care how an artist does his work or what he is trying to say. All that matters to me, is what I get from the painting and whether I like it or not. The rest of it seems like pseudo-intellectual mumbo jumbo, trying to make something simple seem complicated.”

“I get your point, but it’s different for me. I think a painting is the expression of an artist’s life experiences, beliefs and passions, and understanding those adds to my appreciation and comprehension of it. Anyway, Caravaggio was famous for chiaroscuro, an Italian word that has no English equivalent. It means having light focus on one or two subjects in a painting that the artist thinks are critical and leaving the rest in shadows or even darkness. Other painters have used the technique, but Caravaggio raised it to the highest artistic level. I never thought about chiaroscuro as a metaphor for life, but spending time with Amy has brought the point home. Most of what happens in everyday living is just background noise, but there are a few crucial things that have to be right or you can never really be happy or satisfied. When I left on the trip, I was feeling vulnerable just because Amy was paying for me, but now I realize how naive I was, that I had no concept of what it’s like to be truly vulnerable. That’s probably more than you wanted to know.”

“Yeh, I guess so, but I suppose it can’t hurt me to learn something about art. I do think that sometimes you over-analyze things. Anyway, I’m thirsty. How about joining me in a beer?”

“I’d love to.” She looked up at him with an impish smile. “But a real one. I’ve been seeing too much ‘lite’ lately.”

By Tony Vanderwarker

You know those things you never thought you’d ever do? And I don’t mean climbing Mt. Everest or bungee jumping from the Golden Gate; I mean stupid stuff like wearing brown shoes with a blue suit or putting on a Christmas sweater covered with Santas. Whether it’s because of upbringing or habit, there are some things you never imagine yourself doing. Whether they’re gauche like honking your horn in Charlottesville or picking your nose in public, or tasteless like farting in church or flipping the bird to an old lady, there’s just stuff you don’t picture yourself doing. 

That’s why I was dumbfounded when I found myself ordering an artificial Christmas tree from Home Depot. I’d always thought fake trees were a sacrilege, a perversion of the natural order that only a classless boor would ever dare to enter into. Yet here I am clicking on the PLACE ORDER button and thinking, “They have gotten so much better they almost look real.”  Who’s kidding who? In the back of my head, I’m thinking, almost real isn’t real! 

Back when we moved onto the farm, we used to cut down small cedars and turn them into Christmas trees. Although they were scrawny with all kinds of holes, talk about authentic—they were as real as you could get. Grew up right on the farm! 

We did that for three or four years until Annie got tired of their undernourished character and insisted we get a real Christmas tree. “There’s a tree guy up on 29 that I’ve heard has great trees—let’s go up there.” 

And for a long time we did, sorting through tree after tree looking for the perfect one, forking over our ninety bucks, tying them to the top of the car and carting them home. 

Then there was the whole Christmas tree who-hah, spending a good two days putting up the tree, dealing with that infernal tree stand, crawling under the tree to screw in its clamps, hearing the dreaded words: “It’s leaning way to the left, you’ve got to start over.” One year I had to loosen and tighten the damn things three times before I got it straight. Then spilling water all over the floor trying to fill the thing up. 

But maybe the worst part of the whole supposedly joyous occasion is dealing with the lights. You should know that Christmas tree lights have a secret. No matter how carefully you put them away, over the summer, they wake up and contort themselves into irresolvable tangles and in the process, wear themselves out. So when you finally get them untangled, you find they don’t work. 

By the time you get to the ornaments, your Christmas spirit is flagging, and you’re well into your third eggnog. 

So this year we decided to take a Christmas shortcut and get a fake tree. It arrived in a huge box, seven feet long and three wide. And it took a good half hour to open it. The tree (or should I call it the thing) was bundled up in three sections, top, middle and bottom and came with a rickety-looking tree stand. The instructions told you to unfold the branches and spread them out, kind of like peeling a banana. Each branch is carefully wrapped in tan plastic with the needles intertwined, so it actually looks real (as long as you don’t touch it). Must have been thousands of Chinese worker bees wrapping branches for hours on end. 

Next, you have to separate the branches, some going left, some right, put the section in the stand and plug it in. The advantage of a fake tree is that the lights are already on it and if you can believe it, they work!

Next comes the second section. You do the branch thing, slide the second into the first and plug that section in. Eureka! The lights come on.  

Then the top section and in an hour, you’ve got a lit Christmas tree that kind of looks real (just don’t get too close). And you’ve ducked untangling lights, fighting with the tree stand, fiddling with ornaments and making I don’t know how many trips to Lowe’s. We even found smelly sticks, Scentsicles they’re called, with a white fir scent, so the tree even smells real.

Now comes the moment of truth. You have friends over to see if they are going to condemn you for besmirching the sacred rituals of Christmas by getting a fake tree. 

You are shocked when they say, “Gosh, that’s a pretty tree.”

“Thanks, but it’s fake,” I tell them.

“Really? But it even smells real,” they say, sounding unconvinced. 

“Yup,” and here’s where I start to think, maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Our friends aren’t giving us cockeyed glances like we’d done something awful. They are actually impressed by how real the tree looks and smells. Never expected that I thought I’d be drummed out of the neighborhood. 

Moral of the story: you can teach an old dog new tricks. 

Now, I’ve always been tempted to Astroturf the lawn, no more mowing, no more pulling weeds, no more brown spots where the dogs peed. Heck, if I can get away with a fake Christmas tree, maybe I can sneak by with a fake lawn. Who knows, perhaps they make Scentsicles with a freshly-cut grass scent, so the Astroturf smells real.

Let me give it some thought.  In the meantime, Merry Christmas!