Keswick Life

Lifestyles in Keswick and its environs

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ONLY IN KESWICK: Looking Back On Christmas

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By Tony Vanderwarker

Face it, Christmas is a tough time for Martians.

Because if you don’t get your jollies wrapping packages and don’t see the value of slathering yards of decorative ribbon around them, don’t enjoy looking through stacks of Christmas cards with families dressed to the nines and smiling like they’re auditioning for The Brady Bunch and would rather have a root canal than go to the 10 PM service, then you are chalked up as not only a hopeless Martian, but also as a complete grinch.

No matter how many pre-Xmas pacts you’ve negotiated about not overdoing presents, when you only own up to having the allotted three, you get grinched. “Yeah, we had an agreement,” she’ll say, “but I didn’t expect you to hold to it—after all, it’s Christmas!”

So if you’re like me, you rush out at the last minute and peevishly squander a bunch of money on a gift hoping it puts you back in good graces again. I usually end up at Angelo’s pointing at some trinket and praying it doesn’t cost an arm and a leg. When the salesgirl tells me the price, I think to myself, “Good, only a leg!”

Chances are the bauble will get you through Christmas dinner, but later in the day she’s bound to say, “I hope next year you don’t have to buy your way back into favor with some lavish gift.” And if you respond with, “If you don’t like it, you can take it back,” only gets you in deeper. It’s best, I’ve learned, just to cut your losses and sit there eating humble pie. Face it, you’re a hopeless grinch.

And God forbid you try to limit the number of gifts each grandchildren gets by saying, “Jeez, you already got Molly the doll, a bunch of clothes and the camera—don’t you think that’s enough?” What you get in return is, “What do you want to do? Wreck the poor child’s Christmas?”

Plus, you’d better learn to back off when she drags you into the pet store and starts chucking gifts for the dogs into the cart. “Don’t you think Rufus will just love these?” Even if you’re tempted to say something like: “I’m not sure that dogs even know its Christmas.” Such a seemingly innocuous statement can get you into big trouble. I should know, I tried it last year and got, “I can’t believe you’d say such a thing–of course they do!”

But the place where you can really step in it is with the tree. First thing you need to know is that to a Martian, all the trees look pretty much the same but in Venusian reality there is no such thing as a perfect tree. That’s why you have to go through every tree in the damn lot to find the one with the least imperfections. You have to listen to, “Hold this one up for me, will you?” at least twenty times.

And of course its freezing cold out there and you’ve forgotten gloves so the needles prick and itch your wrists. So by the time you get to the twentieth, you’re starting to repeat, “So this one looks pretty good, don’t you think?”

“No, no, no, can’t you see there’s a big hole in the side?” Or, “C’mon, it leans way to the left.” Or, “Are you kidding me? That’s the ugliest tree I’ve ever seen.”

Ten more trees and she’s finally resigned to saying, “Well, I guess unless you want to try the other lot, we’ll have to settle for this one.”

“Oh no, I think this one will look great,” you say as you fork over the eighty bucks for the flawed tree and drag it to the car.

Then the fun starts. I swear Christmas tree stands were invented in medieval times. High tech they aren’t. I don’t know why someone doesn’t invent a remote-controlled gizmo that stands the tree up straight and screws it in automatically. I mean, now you can turn up the heat when you’re in Zanzibar and vacuum your house with a robot, I don’t know why we’re condemned to this Stone Age mechanism.

Here’s the drill. First you have to approximate a 90 degree angle with the tree, then hit the deck and scoot under the branches, hoping the tree doesn’t decide to do a sudden lean on you. Christmas tree stands have these thumbscrews that rust in place over the summer so you have to crawl out and get pliers to loosen them. You painstakingly screw each one in a little bit so you gradually surround the trunk, hopefully holding it in place only to creep out to hear the wife saying, “You call that straight?” So it’s back under the tree until you get it right. One Christmas, I got sent back under four times.

Every Christmas it seems like there are tons more ornaments. And of course there are the lights that don’t work. I swear someone sneaks in over the summer and adds more ornaments and sabotages the strings of lights so that you have to make a trip to Lowe’s and buy more. You stand in line with a bunch of fellow saps all holding items to replace the ones that went on the fritz the past year.

I don’t know when I’m going to learn to toss the lights and buy new ones next Xmas. But jeez, I think to myself, what with the bracelet I bought at Angelo’s, the toys for the grandkids and the dogs—doesn’t someone have to be fiscally responsible around here? Maybe I’ll wait on the lights until next year. That’s when you come to realize the whole cycle is destined to repeat again.

And finally there’s the damn antique star that goes at the tippy-top so you have to risk a hospital trip by getting up on the tallest stepladder you have and, leaning precariously over the top of the tree, insert it onto the tree’s top, praying you don’t slip a step and end up in a full-body cast for the holidays.

And all the time you have to smile and grin like you’re having the time of your life, when you’re actually praying she’ll forget the last box of ornaments and call it a day. No such luck. Every one of the 633 ornaments is going to go on the tree. It’s enough to make you start drinking eggnog early.

So every Christmas I say to myself, Hooray for New Years! It can’t come soon enough.

LIFE, MAKE IT HAPPEN! Gordonsville’s Best Kept Secret Exposed

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By Mary Morony

About six weeks ago, the Monday after Thanksgiving, I ran into Yvonne (ee-vahn-uh) Waller in Charlottesville at Whole Foods. Since she pulled me out of her pedicure chair during the big earthquake our paths have not crossed. She swears she saved my neck when it occurred to her that the roaring outside was the earth quaking, not a train derailing. Standing in the doorjamb of her spa’s entrance, we watched the backside of downtown shake rattle and roll. Nary a single chip of paint fell, so I’m hard pressed to know how she saved me then, but she has now.

If a change in routine hadn’t forced me to create a new rut I might be as young looking as Benjamin Button in his twilight years. Time, however, quickstepped in stilettos across my face but hardly grazed hers. When you haven’t seen someone in five years you expect some changes. Shocked by Yvonne youthful visage, like any woman, I scanned her face for lines. None! Clearly, she had discovered the fountain of youth. Whatever she was up to, I wanted in. On the phone the next day I blurted, “Sign me up for what you are doing. I don’t care what it is, short of the black arts. If chicken feet are involved, we’d need to talk. When can you see me?”

To my amazement, she responded, “How about now?” Standing in her shop twenty minutes later, I suffered a pang of uh-oh-what-have-I-gotten-myself-into kind of dread. The lady in question is straightforward holding little if anything back. As I stood there just inside the door, I felt not unlike a field mouse must when aware it is caught in the bead of a hawk’s scrutinizing stare. I did ask for this appointment, so there was no way to back out now. Where I stood in the skin care specialist’s eyes was sorely in need of a facial and a mini peel. Afterward, she thought I would benefit from a laser treatment and twelve minutes on the Zaaz.

In lieu of a magic wand a laser will do the job. My dog Hagar owes his mobility to Dr. Chip Godine’s (Ruckersville Animal Hospital) skill with the device. Chip, by the way, is a world-renowned expert on veterinary laser therapy. He helped write the textbook right there in little old Ruckersville. Several years ago a broken ankle I suffered healed in three weeks thanks to Gordon Merrick’s abilities with the healing red lights. His brother Dr. Randy Merrick routinely employs the magic power of lasers in his practice in Orange.

With a twenty-first century arsenal of skin care on the table, without a moment’s hesitation, I put my skin in the game. I look fantastic for it, too! I’m not bragging merely stating the facts. Other than having the wisdom to follow Yvonne back to her magic emporium and placing myself in her capable hands, I had little to do with the transformation. I owe the remarkable change in appearance to De Estheticienne’s skill.

My metamorphosis didn’t escape Hubs’ notice though several days passed before he could figure out how to broach the subject with the utmost diplomacy. Prone to hyperbole, he says history has taught him to approach matters of this nature with extreme caution.

If I didn’t feel duty bound to share Ms. Waller’s brilliance, I would keep her under wraps to hear the speculation as to what sort of deal I made with the devil. As a public service announcement, I am imploring you to stop whatever beauty regimen you are following (especially if a knife or injections are involved) and high tail it to 202 Mayhugh Street Gordonsville as fast as your little legs can carry you. Here is the phone number 540-832-3688 so that you can make an appointment. This remarkably gifted esthetician’s abilities are nothing short of miraculous. She was able to take my old battered, weather-beaten face and make it better than it was twenty years ago, scout’s honor! Give the woman a prune and I swear she would hand you back a juicy plum in no time. She’s that good!

As many of you may be aware, Yvonne worked for ten years at the Keswick Club. In 2007, she opened a shop of her own. Don’t let her Dutch/Orange County patois fool you. Yvonne is not your typical pretty, unlined face. Before she moved to the U.S. from Holland, this smart lady spent two years after college as a registered pharmacist. Once her husband Gordonsville native, Conrad Waller finished his landscape design school he wanted to move back to his hometown. A four-year stint working in the inpatient pharmacy at UVa Hospital helped her decide to switch professions. Back home she went to school, she didn’t stop at becoming an esthetician. She received certification as a massage therapist including pregnancy massage. Never one to do things by half, she also got herself certified as an aerobics instructor through the best organization for such accreditation in her country The Dutch Gymnastic Association. To add to her list of skills she is a holistic health counselor and coach as well as schooled in aromatherapy.

Ask her to let you take her Zaaz machine for a spin. Twelve minutes on the whole body vibration machine is equivalent to an hour in the gym. And it makes a major difference in your body in less than three weeks. She applies as much precession in choosing her product lines, as you would expect from a former pharmacist. She only carries a few because everything she uses and sells must meet her rigorous specifications to not only enhance beauty but also health. An avid learner she is always adding to her well-stocked wheelhouse. She’s got you covered from head to toe.

Now that I have made an enormous humanitarian contribution to the area by informing you of the unheralded treasure down the road make sure to leave some time for me to keep up my beautiful new face.

BOOKWORM: Give the Gift of a Great Book

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By Suzanne Nash

Well the year has begun and despite warmer than normal temperatures, I still find myself wanting to curl up by the fire with a pile of books.  Valentine’s Day is fast approaching so I thought this month I’d choose a few to make your heart beat a little faster.

The Keeper of Lost Causes is the first in a series called Department Q by Jussi Adler-Olsen.  I love Scandinavian authors and this author’s books are a combination of the writings of Steif Larsson and Thomas Harris. The protagonist, Carl Mork, is a homicide detective in Copenhagen who is promoted to take over a new department which handles cold cases. Actually the powers that be just want to get Carl out of the way as he is difficult and no one really wants to work with him. He joins forces with his unusually astute handy man, Assad, to tackle the first case which involves the disappearance of a liberal politician five years previously.  Merete vanished from a ferry and everyone assumes she is dead but Carl is not so sure. I just recently discovered that Netflix has several movies based on this series of books and they are very good if you don’t mind subtitles.

The Couple Next Door by Shari Lapena is a New York Times best seller that came out this summer. It has gotten mixed reviews but I really enjoyed it.  It reminds me a bit of The Girl on the Train. Anne and Marco appear to have a wonderful life: a beautiful house, a great business and a new baby.  But when their baby Cora is taken from her bed, their whole world comes crumbling down and everyone starts seeing the cracks. None of the characters are particularly likable…they are all hiding secrets and filled with flaws but the twists and turns of the story create a wonderful ride.  I can easily see this turned into a movie at some point.

Another thriller, The Sign by Raymond Khoury, will make you second guess how you would respond to a miraculous sign. A strange and unexplainable sign suddenly appears above a melting polar icecap and the world takes notice. Is it a sign from God? Are we supposed to be doing something more to protect this earth? Or is this some kind of hoax? Grace Logan and Matt Sherwood are determined to figure out what the sign means and how it may be created. As they race across the globe in search of answers, they are being pursued by dangerous men with a lot of money backing them.  It’s a dangerous game and time is running out for them to get to the bottom of things before the religions of the world come to blows.

I’m not a big reader of romance novels but since Valentine’s Day is all about romance I thought I would give local author Jenny Gardiner’s new romance series, Royal Romeos, a try. The Romeo family owns a vineyard in Italy and in Black Sheep Romeo, Lizzie Moretti finds herself scared, alone, sick and hiding in an outbuilding on the Romeo Estate when Matteo Romeo finds her and the sparks begin to fly. If you are looking for a bit of good old fashioned escapism….this is it. With Italy as the backdrop and a family of Romeos it seems the perfect match for a Valentine’s read! Red Carpet Romeo comes out in February and features the Romeo family’s daughter Valentina (OK yet another Valentine’s Day plug). Valentina is a bridesmaid in her cousin Luca’s royal wedding. It’s the perfect chance to show Luca’s college friend, Parker, that she is all grown up. It’s a natural instinct for most women to want to make that one guy who rejected them regret their stupidity and that’s what this story is all about.  Parker takes one look at Valentina and decides to change his mind about her…but she is having none of it.  It’s a fun romp through the countryside of Italy and made me smile.

So I hope your February is filled with romance and thrills…it won’t be from lack of reading material!

LIFESTYLE: The Gentleman’s Farm: Elegant Country House Living

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Adapted by Keswick Life

Historically, a gentleman’s farm has evoked visions of leisure, recreation, a refined landscape, classical architecture, and a robust social environment. The Gentleman’s Farm: Elegant Country House Living (Rizzoli, 2016) presents 23 Virginia farms that live up to and exceed those expectations. Lavishly illustrated with opulent interior and exterior photographs, the book sets forth historical aspects of each property in a lively narrative and up-to-date interviews with current owners. Co-authors Dr. Laurie Ossman and Debra McClane met during graduate studies in architectural history at the University of Virginia. Both have a love of rural landscapes, as well as architecture and spent over two years visiting properties and conducting research. Teamed with experienced photographer Walter Smalling, Jr., the pair deliver a loving view of these farms that highlights the best of the past and the present.

Keswick properties are (literally) front and center in the book. Among the estates featured are Edgewood (Keswick Vineyards), Barboursville, and Castle Hill, which graces the front cover. Nearby farms include Mount Sharon in Orange, Edgemont in Albemarle, and the ever-present Monticello. The book’s gaze extends from the Eastern Shore to Jefferson’s Poplar Forest near Lynchburg with properties that span the four-hundred-year-old tradition of gracious rural living in the Commonwealth.

The Gentleman’s Farm examines an ideal way of life. The first section in the book, “Establishing an American Tradition,” showcases well-known farms, notably Mount Vernon and Monticello. Following the Revolution, the American farming expressed independence from the aristocratic tradition, promising an opportunity to elevate one’s self from yeoman to gentleman. An agrarian lifestyle led to personal fulfillment and, as Jefferson postulated, to virtue and an independent citizenry. Until the mid-nineteenth century, however, slavery overshadowed much of America’s early struggle to fulfill this ideal.

Castle Hill, which begins the second part of the book focusing on “Reinventing and Refining Tradition,” holds ties to the very founding of Virginia agriculture and its role as literary muse is highlighted. Home to Dr. Thomas Walker—physician, explorer, and war hero—in the eighteenth century, the house took on a literary air while occupied by his granddaughter Judith and her politician/historian husband, William Cabell Rives. William penned a three volume biography of James Madison and Judith wrote numerous novels; their granddaughter, Amelie, world-renown author and ravishing beauty, lured artists and writers to the estate and imbued the property with a romantic and mysterious air. The literary airs remain at Castle Hill thanks to current owners Ray and Stewart Humiston’s restoration of the house and patronage of the Castle Hill Readers and Writers Retreat. Here, established and aspiring writers can find inspiration in the surrounding rural landscape and find a quiet place to dream and write.

Also featured in the second part of the book is Edgewood, another former Rives family estate located just across Gordonsville Road from Castle Hill. The main dwelling dates to 1911 and was built for New York-born ambassador George Barclay Rives, who was a direct descendant of the Meriwether family (recipient of the aforementioned land grant). As the book details, Rives met architect Waddy Wood—a native of Ivy–¬¬¬while in Washington and engaged him to build the Colonial Revival house at the heart of the property. Current owners, Al and Cindy Schornberg, have brought their own family traditions to the farm, establishing Keswick Vineyards in 2000. Inspired by stories of his grandfather’s winemaking in France, Al found the perfect pastoral setting for his new vineyard in Edgewood. In the few years that Keswick Vineyards has been producing, they have garnered numerous awards including last year’s Governor’s Cup for their Cabernet Franc Estate Reserve (2014).

The third and final section of the book, “Sustaining the Tradition,” focuses on present-day farms that embrace the tradition of country life, while pursuing it in new ways of sustainable land practices, respect for farm animals, and re-creation of lost landscapes. Among these farms is Barboursville, now almost a “granddaddy” among Virginia’s wineries. The book traces the rich history of this property to James Barbour, Governor of Virginia and heralded farmer of Merino sheep and fast thoroughbreds, and the Jefferson-designed house that was ruined by fire on Christmas Day 1884. Fulfilling Jefferson’s dream of a fine Virginia wine, the Zonin family and winemaker Luca Paschina have embraced the Jeffersonian ideal by loving the land and the history, and producing wines that compete successfully on a world-class level.

Not far away just outside of the Town of Orange, lies Mount Sharon. The present house, the third at this site, is a nearly perfect example of Georgian Revival architecture, designed by Louis Bancal LaFarge in 1937. When the current owners, Charlie and Mary Lou Seilheimer, moved in the house was in good shape and needed little attention. The landscaped gardens behind the house, however, had nearly disappeared. The Seilheimers undertook the resurrection of the gardens under the able guidance of Charlottesville-based landscape architect Charles J. Stick, whose immediate reaction to the site was “it’s all about the view.” And what a view! Extensive vistas to the west and to the east rival any in the area. With the rolling Piedmont around it, Stick drew on his understanding of the Palladian tradition of placing the house within the garden and connecting the two through design. Mount Sharon’s new gardens, based on these classical ideas, enhances the enjoyment of the surrounding natural landscape, while elevating the immediate setting of the house.

In the end, The Gentleman’s Farm shows us that today’s gentlemen (and gentlewomen) farmers are bringing new perspectives and ideas to the traditional field of agriculture—respecting and learning from the old ways and serving as stewards of multigenerational legacies.

“The Gentleman’s Farm is available online at www.rizzoliusa.com and Amazon, and is also available locally at New Dominion Bookshop on the Downtown Mall in Charlottesville.”

BUSINESS INSIDER: Manning Brothers on ‘The Ellen DeGeneres Show’

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By Winkie Motley

Bradford and Bryan Manning knew they were going on “The Ellen DeGeneres Show” but they did not know exactly what the host had in store for them.

The brothers, who live with a degenerative eye disease called Stargardt disease, launched their clothing company, “Two Blind Brothers,” this summer to raise funds for blindness research and new gene and stem cell therapies that could slow or even reverse vision loss. Neither brother takes a salary from the company, relying on income from their day jobs in New York City.

“Instead of letting their diagnosis set them back, it became their mission to help others,” DeGeneres told her audience before welcoming the brothers onstage.

Bradford,, graduated from the McIntire School of Commerce in 2007. His younger brother, Bryan, graduated in 2013 with a degree in statistics. Both brothers now live in New York City.

“It was very surreal,” Bradford Manning said of taking the stage with DeGeneres. “In awarding Ellen the Medal of Freedom, President Obama remarked that Ellen makes you laugh at something, rather than someone. We really admired that. Learning how to laugh at yourself and have a sense of humor is very important for anyone going through unique challenges.”

DeGeneres, who regularly spotlights charitable causes on her show, questioned the Mannings about their disease and their company, which sells casual shirts in long and short-sleeved styles. Near the end of the segment, she informed the brothers that she would like to buy a shirt and jokingly brought out a giant checkbook. In it, there was a check for $30,000 from DeGeneres and publishing company Shutterfly.

Everyone in the audience received a shirt, and the Mannings walked off the stage knowing that they can now do even more to spur the research that could change their lives and the lives of millions around the globe.“We are overwhelmingly grateful,” Bradford Manning said. Most of the money, he said, will go directly to the research programs that the company supports, perhaps with some reserved for future marketing campaigns or other efforts to raise awareness and funding for promising new research.

Read more about the Manning brothers and the story behind their company In Keswick Life’s  June issue (www.KeswickLife.com) .

Watch the YouTube link for the segment of the Ellen show :https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4WMHWH_6i0U

COMMUNITY: Dividing Foxfield

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A complaint, was filed December 30 in Albemarle County Circuit Court by a group   of concerned Albemarle citizens against the Foxfield Racing Association to prevent the racecourse and surrounding land from being sold. The complaint alleges that the Foxfield Racing Association has attempted to sell 137 acres or have it listed for sale.

At issue is whether the last will and testament of the late Mariann S. de Tejada should be held in perpetuity according to her wishes. Her will states “That is to apply all my time, energies and financial resources to the perpetuation of the Foxfield Races in Albemarle County for the recreation, education and enjoyment of the people of Albemarle County and their friends and visitors and of Virginia who appreciate equestrian sports, competition and related activities,” she wrote.

The plaintiffs in the case argue they are all beneficiaries of the trust and are thus entitled to a ruling because they are all “concerned citizens and owners of land” near the property. The suit states that de Tejada purchased the property in 1973 from Grover Vandevender, the huntsman for the Farmington Hunt Club. De Tejada was the original president of Foxfield Racing and helped incorporate Foxfield Steeplechase Inc. to carry on equestrian pursuits in Vandevender’s honor and memory.

When de Tejada died, she was president of Foxfield Racing. Benjamin Dick was vice president and served as one of the co-executors of her will.

The property passed into the hands of Foxfield Racing on May 7, 1987. Benjamin Dick had by that point become president. The suit seeks a judgment on whether the Foxfield property should be held perpetually in trust and whether the current owners can sell any portion of the 137 acres on which the races are run.The suit also seeks an injunction requiring the races to continue “in the normal course of business.”The plaintiffs in the case are John H. Birdsall, Harry Burn, Reynolds Cowles, Landon Hilliard, Kiwi Hilliard, John G. Macfarlane III, Dudley Macfarlane and Jack Sanford Jr.

The Foxfield website states that the Spring Races will be held on April 29. The beneficiary of the race will be International Neighbors Charlottesville. The land is located within Albemarle’s rural area and could be developed. “The number of lots that could be created would depend on several things, including how many development rights it has, whether or not there were any conservation easements on the property,” said county planner Elaine Echols.

TRAVEL: Privileged Fishing

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By Charlie Thacher

I turned south on the dirt road out of Craig, Montana, drove about a mile along the river and parked at a familiar spot – a slight rise overlooking the large corner pool that local anglers call “the bay of pigs”, presumably for the monster fish that inhabit its depths. I sidled down the first hill, then clambered over a railroad car that was part of a 5-mile string that the BNSF Railway had left on the tracks for the past six months, either due to the downturn in the economy or as punishment to the locals for voting down the conversion of the trunk line’s tracks into a bike path, dependent on whose version of the truth you chose to believe. After jumping off the railroad car, I slid down the grass on the next hill to the water’s edge, walked downstream to the first bend in the river, and began looking for noses and tails.

It was late July, about six in the evening on one of America’s great trout rivers. Prime time. From where I was standing, I could see up and down the broad Missouri for nearly a mile. Not another wade fisherman was in sight, even though both banks within my view (and all of the ten miles or so further upstream to the dam), are accessible to the public for wade fishing.  As no fish were rising, my mind wandered, and I thought about how fortunate it is that I can drive along a river and walk in to fish almost any spot that I please.  In the previous four days, I had a similar experience on two other legendary Western rivers – the Henrys Fork and the Madison – walking the banks and wading for many miles. Of course, most of our rivers can be accessed the same way.  But, it is not everywhere thus.

Just a few weeks earlier I had spent four days fishing one of the legendary trout streams of Europe – Austria’s Traun River –an hour east of Salzburg. Prior to that, I had fished (while Ann toured) the Loue River in eastern France with the Fario Club (the fly fishing club of Paris) for our annual outing, along with guests from the London and Munich Fly Fishing Clubs. The Loue is a beautiful river, and we had access to about six miles of it (all of which was private) through the extraordinary generosity of Fario Club members.  Although the fishing was fine, it may have been surpassed by the food and wine, although my recollection of that is somewhat dimmed from overindulgence. Luckily for me, one thing I did recall was that a member of the Munich Club had provided me with an introduction to his friend, Erhard Loidl, a part owner of a fly shop on the Traun.

After dropping Ann off for her sojourn at a spa hotel in the charming Austrian lakeside town of Fuschl am See, I arrived at my hotel, the Wirt am Bach in Oberweis, near the Traun, and was greeted by Erhard. The Traun is restricted to fishing by permit, and only a few are available to the public for a daily fee of about S115 each. It’s a large river, flowing for 100 miles before reaching the Danube, and each of its angling sections has a different name. My permit covered an 8-mile stretch called the Gmundner Traun, which flows out of the Traunsee, a large lake girded by impressive snow-capped peaks.

The Traun is a venerable fishery. Local records indicate that in the year 1360, a wealthy trader acquired the right “to fish for grayling and trout by means of feathered hooks” from the abbot of Lambach Monastery. That precedes the earliest known mention of fly fishing in English literature by 136 years.  Sir Humphrey Davy, an Englishman who was the world’s greatest chemist during the first half of the 19th Century, the inventor of one of the earliest light bulbs, and a prominent angling author, praised the Traun’s beauty and its fish in his 1828 classic Salmonia or Days of Fly Fishing. The mid-20th Century writer and legendary international angler, Charles Ritz (also of hotel fame), was a devotee of the Traun. The prospect of fishing a river with such a storied history and tradition was exciting.

Although the Gmundner Traun flows through a busy, developed suburban area, it is gin clear and pristine. The river can rarely be seen from the road. Many of the fishing access points are very hard to find, and Erhard’s tour of them no doubt saved me many hours of frustration.  Walking trails lead from the access points to the river and follow most of its length. The portion of the river that I fished was lined on both sides by a forest of mature trees, giving the feeling of fishing in a remote wilderness. The water was high for late June, and Erhard cautioned me that many good fishing spots would be inaccessible for wading. Although we saw few flies on the river, he suggested that a large green caddis, fished on the surface or below, would likely be the ticket, which proved accurate. As we stood above a riffle swapping fishing stories, I hooked several rainbows as my fly aimlessly bobbed up and down in the water – a good sign.

I asked Erhard about other Austrian rivers that he might recommend. He responded that Austria had the finest and most diverse trout fishing in Europe – but that all rivers are private. Most fishing rights are controlled by individuals, clubs or hotels and those that are accessible to the public require a permit, which often must be reserved in advance for a fee that is sometimes well in excess of what I was paying.  I inquired how young people learn to fly fish. The answer is that they usually don’t unless they have a mentor who has fishing rights on a river, or they can learn on a lake.  We discussed the relative merits of the American and Austrian systems, with Erhard pointing out the effectiveness of their system which puts fishing rights in the hands of those who are invested in, and are zealous about, protecting the fisheries from environmental abuse and overfishing, and me emphasizing that our system gives access to a valuable and pleasurable resource to those without power or wealth and creates wide public support for preservation of the fisheries. The Austrian system is the same as has existed throughout Europe for centuries, and is unlikely to change. Nor is ours. The discussion gave me a new appreciation for the privilege of my unfettered access to most American rivers. Would I trade this for private control (if I could afford and obtain it) of a few fine rivers near my home? Fortunately, there is no need for me to ponder this question.

The last stop on Erhard’s introductory tour was his fly shop in Steyermuhl, downstream from Oberweis.  I bought some of his innovative caddis patterns, and he gave me a signed copy of the impressive book on entomology for European fly fishers that he and his partners produced in 2002, which is now available in many languages (not English). I can read scarcely a word of the German text, but it is beautifully produced with remarkable photographs of insects.  Erhard then took me down a trail near the shop to a spot where the river backed up behind a weir, forming a large deep pool.  He said that it was called “the place where fish always rise”.  It was living up to its reputation at that moment, as many large fish were dimpling.  The problem was getting a cast to them. The only place to stand was a narrow ledge about fifteen feet long in front of a wall, and a roll cast was required.  Erhard pointed out to me that they were feeding on the small spinners (the stage in the mayfly’s metamorphosis after mating and egg laying, that lasts a few hours, just before death) that were on the water, and that, as I cast to them, they would spook, continually moving further away.  They did. After about half an hour observing my futility, he left to drive to his home in Vienna, and I returned to the hotel to unpack. While walking back to the car Erhard pointed out a large pike lounging in a few feet of water near the bank. He said that pike of over 40 pounds had been caught in the river. I salivated.

That evening I couldn’t resist returning to the place of the rising fish – and they still were. I tied a small spinner on a very light leader, and began casting. Surprising myself, I hooked four fish. The first one showed why Traun rainbows are known for their fighting qualities. It took out line rapidly, got into my backing, then broke off. I changed to a slightly heavier leader and managed to land one of the other three – a beautifully colored and feisty 3-pound rainbow. While fishing, I witnessed something that I had not observed before. A group of about a dozen ducks were circling the pool, feeding voraciously on the spinners that blanketed the surface, and every half hour or so they would come around in front of me. They didn’t spook the fish, but during the ten minutes or so before they moved on, I had to suspend casting to avoid hooking a feathered sipper.  I don’t know if the catch and release fishing regulations applied to ducks.

The next morning I walked down a driveway near the hotel, then through a yard to a section that has a series of islands. No fish were rising, so I put on a caddis nymph. On the third cast I hooked and landed a nice rainbow. Minutes later a brown, then a grayling and, finally, a beautiful brook trout. Four varieties in about an hour, while hardly moving. When I returned to the fly shop, I mentioned the brook trout to Erhard’s partner and co-author. He expressed disbelief, saying that in 25 years on the river he’d never heard of anyone catching a brook trout. Though doubting me, he made a phone call to a local fisheries biologist who confirmed that it was unlikely, but possible, as a few renegade brook trout could unintentionally be among the several thousand hatchery rainbows that are annually added to the wild fish in the river.  I felt vindicated – and blessed.   

Over the remainder of the three days I walked about five miles of the river, encountering only three or four other anglers. Although I didn’t see any wardens, anglers I met told me that there is little poaching, because if someone is caught, the penalty is severe. I continued to catch fish on a variety of caddis fly imitations. Every so often I would encounter a pair of white swans, a few with cygnets. They were the friendliest, or least intimidated, swans that I’ve met. Sometimes, when I had managed to get only a few feet out into the river, they would push me out a bit further, as they swam between me and the bank. I didn’t see them eating flies.

On my last afternoon, I fished a beautiful section that is known for having been a particular favorite of Ritz. A shallow riffle formed a delta-shaped shelf, with a prepossessing deep run on each side, turning into a long flat glide of over a hundred meters. A fishy looking spot indeed. I caught a few in the runs, and then saw a swirling rise about 20 yards out in the glide that was clearly a large fish, based on the amount of water that it pushed upstream. Four or five casts drifting a floating fly produced no response. Then I skittered the fly across the surface in front of where the fish had risen and it immediately rose and ate. It rolled and I could see that it was very large, undoubtedly one of the biggest fish of my life. A brown trout I guessed, given that it was feeding in slow water. After several long, powerful runs, I got it to within about ten yards of me, and the line broke. On examination, the break was neat, with no curlicue that would indicate a failed knot that I had tied. In my fashion, I mentally beat myself up for not having checked for knots caused by my poor casting, or abrasions, in the leader before trying for such a nice fish. To punish myself for my inattention to detail, I quit the river, and returned to my car to go pick up Ann and drive on to Salzburg.

If there is a lovelier country than Austria, I haven’t been there. The scenery around the many lakes east of Salzburg is spectacular. But even with such a distraction, as I drove I couldn’t get the lost fish, and my carelessness, out of my mind. Opportunities to catch unusually large fish are rare. Why am I not more disciplined and patient? How many more nice fish must I lose before I learn to take better care of my leader? Am I too old to shed my bad habits? If only I had gotten the fish in close to where I could see it, I would have felt much better. I was disconsolate. But then I remembered the large pike that Erhard showed me and his tale of the giants that inhabit the river, particularly in slower water. Yes, of course, it was a pike, whose sharp teeth would easily cut a trout leader. So, it wasn’t my fault. I was innocent. It was unavoidable. I was redeemed –  and quite pleased that I had found the obvious answer.  On such a slender thread hangs my optimism regarding my next fishing trip.

ON EXHIBIT: “Faulkner: Life and Works”

By

Adapted by Keswick Life

It’s been 60 years since William Faulkner first came to the University of Virginia as the Balch Writer-in-Residence. In February, the University is marking the diamond anniversary of the Nobel Prize-winning writer’s arrival on Grounds with an exclusive new exhibition.

The Albert and Shirley Small Special Collections Library will open “Faulkner: Life and Works” on Feb. 6.

“The exhibition covers two bodies of work. There are the literary works that Faulkner composed, and then there’s the person who he became over the course of his life,” Special Collections Curator Molly Schwartzburg said. “We know that Faulkner liked constructing and playing with personae. The most famous – or infamous – example of this was that he pretended that he had been wounded in WWI and he hadn’t. He loved performing that tall tale.”These different personae come to life throughout the exhibition. Along with the largest collection of Faulkner manuscripts in the world, the UVA Library also holds a great deal of the writer’s personal effects, letters, interviews and audio recordings, all of which shed light on the many facets of his identity.

Born William Cuthbert Falkner, Faulkner added the ‘u’ to his last name shortly after returning from a few months of training in Canada as a cadet in the British Royal Air Force. This change in spelling was accompanied by an affected British accent and a fake limp he claimed he acquired in an equally false wartime plane crash. While he kept his RAF jacket (pictured above left with one of his tweed jackets) and the added ‘u,’ Faulkner’s inhabitance of the British soldier character was otherwise short-lived. Still, it was the beginning of a trend that could be traced throughout his life. He often adopted the traits of the type of character he felt he should be at any given time.

“There were some personae that he really liked to inhabit, like that of the farmer from Mississippi. And then there were others that were thrust upon him, like that of the Nobel Prize-winner,” Schwartzburg said. “The exhibition looks at how he is constructed through time, both by his own motivation and by circumstance.”A look at early handwritten manuscripts, like the one for  >>>

Faulkner’s short story, “A Rose for Emily,” offers a window into the mind of Faulkner as a young writer.

Many handwritten manuscripts were donated to UVA by the William Faulkner Foundation a few years after his death in 1962. Through the foundation and the efforts of many other generous donors over the years, the library has amassed a staggering collection of originals like the “Rose for Emily” manuscript. Visitors to the collection will even get a glimpse of never-before-displayed acquisitions such as the original bound typescript of Faulkner’s first collection of poems, “Vision in Spring.”

In addition to his creative work as a writer, the exhibition also highlights Faulkner’s efforts as a visual artist. He often painted and sketched images and used his skills to help map out his stories depicting the fictional universe of Yoknapatawpha County, Mississippi.

Guests can take a deep dive into that universe through the “Digital Yoknapatawpha” project led by UVA English professor Stephen Railton. With interactive maps and timelines, this project places readers inside Yoknapatawpha and catalogs the progression of characters, places and events there. The exhibition will have a touchscreen portal where visitors can explore various aspects of this ongoing project.

In the early 1930s, Faulkner adopted an additional creative identity: Hollywood screenwriter. He worked in Southern California on and off for more than a decade, collaborating primarily with director Howard Hawks at several different studios. Hawks and Faulkner had numerous successful films, the best-known of which were “To Have and Have Not” and “The Big Sleep,” both staring Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall.

Along with photos and belongings from Faulkner’s time in Hollywood, the UVA exhibition also contains classic movie posters from popular film adaptations of Faulkner’s work such as “The Sound and the Fury.”Speeches and interviews that Faulkner gave throughout the 1940s and 1950s indicate that he felt it was his duty to use his celebrity status for good. He traveled throughout Asia, Latin America and Europe advocating for peace.“When he won the Nobel – not long after World War II – he used his acceptance speech to discuss the atomic bomb. He was clearly deeply affected by the war and felt strongly that if he could play a role toward peace among nations, he should,” Schwartzburg said.

Faulkner’s years of international travel overlapped with his time at the University, where he served in one capacity or another from 1957 until his death in 1962. It was during this same time that he also began to directly address one identity he had inhabited his whole life, that of the white Southern man.“You can’t easily summarize Faulkner’s views on racial attitudes or views on integration or racial justice,” Schwartzburg said. “It’s surprisingly complicated. Every time I think I know what his position was, I encounter another document with a very different view. Our display tries to show how his views shifted from moment to moment.

“I hope the exhibition encourages more people to read and think about Faulkner’s non-fiction writings on race – both public statements and in his private correspondence – and how they might help us understand the complex range of white Southern views on this topic in the 1950s.”

The full exhibition will be open from Feb. 6 to July 7, and readers can also attend a celebration of “Faulkner: Life and Works” on Feb. 28 at 5 p.m. Additional details are available here.

ONLY IN KESWICK: Never Send a Martian To Do a Venusian’s Work

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By Tony Vanderwarker

We had back-to-back AirBnb renters recently and Annie was worried we wouldn’t have time to wash and dry all the towels so I generously volunteered to take the mountain of towels down to the laundromat and put their industrial-sized machines to work for us.

Big mistake.

I hadn’t set foot in one in decades and entering this laundromat was like stepping into an Edward Hopper painting, rows of Eisenhower-era washers and whale-eyed stainless dryers arrayed on the far wall, the whole place drab, colorless and filled with the CLANK, CLANK, CLANKING of clothes tumbling around in the machines. Not only was it an alien experience but I’m feeling definitely Laundromat-impaired—more used to hanging with mowers and weed-whackers than washers and dryers.

My first Man From Mars mistake was forgetting to bring detergent and dryer sheets. I looked around and found this grey box on one wall with coin slides and Tide and Bounce labels under them. I fished out a wad of quarters and tried to fit them into the slots.

But no-go, the quarters wouldn’t slide in. No instructions anywhere, no signs on the box, no illustrations. I looked around to see if there was an attendant I could ask. NOPE.  Just when I was beginning to feel terminally stupid, I realized there were two slots that would accept the quarters, EUREKA!

I inserted two quarters and KACHUNK, a box of Tide came sliding down into a slot at the bottom of the machine. Two more and KACHUNK, same with the Bounce. Only problem was, my hand was too big to fit into the slot. I finally worked them out using my index fingers as prods.

I triumphantly walked back to the washers and started stuffing in towels. Loaded up one machine and started putting quarters in. But how many quarters? Again, no signs, no intructions. Suddenly my eye catches numbers flashing on the machine’s display. $1.75, $1.50—now I get it! Two bucks worth of quarters.

Now for the detergent. It’s in a throwback-looking 1940’s cardboard box the size of a deck of cards. But no tab to pull it open, No printed OPEN HERE instructions. So I have to wrestle the sucker open, working my fingernail under the flap and tearing it apart bit by bit. Finally I get it open and shake the white stuff onto my towels.

I start the machine and head over to the quarter machine to reload. It eats six of my one-dollar bills and spits out quarters in return.

I load up two more machines and feed in quarters. Now I’ve got three machines on my side, each one SHHHUSH, SHHHUSH, SHHUSHING my towels, all three counting down the minutes to done-time.

So far, so good. I go over and check out the dryers. No signs, no instructions, no pictures. A lady is unloading a dryer so I ask her, “Ma’am, how many quarters for how long?’

She looks at me as if I’m from (guess where?), shrugs and says, “I dunno, couple minutes, I just keep feeling the clothes to see if they’re dry and adding another quarter if they’re not.”

Then I get an inspiration, I’ll put a clock on the damn thing! So when my first load is done, I load all the towels into a dryer, rip apart the Bounce box, add a sheet, drop in a quarter, push the START button and activate the stopwatch on my iPhone, thinking, Piece of cake, I’ll beat this damn place yet!

As I load up another dryer, having determined that you get seven-plus minutes dry time per quarter, I’m beginning to feel supremely confident.

That is, until I put my second quarter in and somehow it sticks halfway through and now the START button won’t depress. I slowly turn my head to see if there is some security guard who has noticed that some novice laundromonger has just busted one of their machines but seeing none, quickly load my towels into the next machine, out one quarter but having ducked the repair costs.

Long story short, eight bucks worth of quarters and two hours later, I load my laundry basket piled high with fresh, clean, dry and neatly-folded towels into the trunk of my car and, saying sayonara to the laundro, I head back home, having once-and-for-all totally disproved the theory that Martians can’t do the wash.