Anne M. Plant is a recent widow with two young daughters, 13 and 8, who traded their E! entourage lifestyle in Los Angeles for stability and structure in a provincial town on the Virginian peninsula. Now here's the story, of a lovely sister and an Army officer brother-in-law who opened up their home. They were living in Virginia with three children of their own; one girl who's 13, a boy who's 10 and baby Binkles, who is one. They've taken in Anne and her two -- that makes eight. It's Operation Brady Bunch and it's high adventure.
Our new life begins in a 2,300-square-foot home. There are eight of us and two and half baths. Unlike our former home in LA, there is no housekeeper/nanny, no gardener, no marble floors nor countertops, no Viking stove and no electronic driveway gate. We do have a garbage disposal, though. It is called the Gurgler and is so loud it requires a bellowed announcement before operation. This is to avoid causing an inadvertent coronary in unsuspecting inhabitants. The house is clean, cheerily painted and decorated in All American white with blue star accents. My new landlord is Pearl. She is my sister and we call her husband Uncle Foxy. They have three children and have found room in their big hearts and this small home for all of us.
Three of us have our own bedroom. Baby Binkles has the smallest with just enough room for her crib and the traditional baby furniture snuggly situated. She earned her own room by virtue of sleep pattern. The King, my ten-year-old nephew, is the only boy so he was granted his own room. My niece, Belle, graciously yielded her room to me and now my entire personal private life is contained in a 10 x 10 foot area with blank walls. The walls are blank because Pearl and Uncle Foxy killed themselves preparing Camp Alotachick before our arrival.
Camp Alotachick is the girls' bunk room. It is the dormitory for 13-year-old Belle, my 13-year-old, Ms. MySpace and my eight-year-old, Poosie. The former rec room of their home was one of the many sacrifices in accommodating my family. In anticipation of our arrival, Pearl and Uncle Foxy prepped the papered walls, hung wainscoting and painted everything themselves, including the ceiling. The carpet was replaced. Pearl ordered new curtains to complement the petal green walls and sewed custom duvet covers in fabric that had been personally selected by each girl. Some of the fabric I had shipped from Los Angeles. There was a time Uncle Foxy was going to build bunks suspended them from the ceiling. Fortunately time ran out and we made the safer choice by purchasing natural wood bunk systems. One end of the bunk rests upon a tall narrow set of drawers and a book shelf. The other end sits atop a built in desk with a cork board. Under each bunk is a very small space which each girl has personalized with a guitar, a doll collection or favorite toys. Above the bed is their own shelf for books and water. Each resident has a uniquely shaped white paper lantern that has a touch pad illuminating the light through three levels. They remind me of fireflies when they go on after I shut off the over head light in Camp Alotachick.
Though our new home is small, it is friendly and accommodating, just like the town itself. Everything is so cute in Colonial Town! Every commute is over the river and through the deep green woods with little brick buildings appearing here and there. It is a surreal change from the sprawling concrete, billboard-pocked Los Angeles with its occasional sickly tree browning in its struggle to survive. I feel like we are in Disneyland where everything is clean and uniform. I wonder, where are the little people with wooden shoes? It's almost a faux miniature hamlet, like playing grown-up. There is "play" traffic, "play" commutes and "play" consumer lines. Which is to say there are about four other cars on the road, it takes five minutes to get anywhere and I've yet to have to really wait in line. This is such a marked difference for me that I am not yet part of Colonial Town's Real World.
It may be awhile before we are able to fully accept and function in our new reality. Part of this is clinging to our old life and part of it is that everything is novel. There are so many foreign experiences and due to the summer schedule, it feels like we are on vacation. I take in each sight with a visitor's fresh eye. My daughters are seeing many things for the first time. In one excursion, we passed the outskirts of Old Colonial Williamsburg where atop the knoll of a hill sits a small windmill and several sheep graze. "Sheep!!! Sheep?!?!? There are sheep! Just standing there in the grass..." Ms. MySpace sputtered from the back of the van. "They're not even in a petting zoo!" She is stunned by her non-urban environment. She spontaneously squeals every time she sees roaming wildlife. It's a real hazard to the nerves. Once she startled me from a thick fog of concentration as I was trying to navigate another tree-lined, two-lane road. "CHICKENS!!! CHICKENS!!!" she screamed. I nearly swerved across the yellow line. Apparently, spotting a venue of wild turkey vultures snacking by the roadside rocked the very foundations of her world understanding. She also flips out on "Bunnies!" "Woodchucks!" and the dreaded "Squirrels!" which she is convinced are of malevolent intent.
The wandering bucolic animal life is but the animated lawn decoration of the quaint architecture in this town. Every building is made of brick with white and black trim. Even the local tiny sporting goods store is a small brick Colonial with black shutters. Despite this caricature edifice, they are knowledgeable and reasonably stocked. Just like Disneyland, tops in customer service and functions perfectly. The jail is similarly constructed and is so charming from the freeway it practically welcomes its visitors. In supreme irony, the local branch of my mega bank is also a small brick Colonial with black shutters. This branch's community conformity is incongruous with the structural diversity of those I frequented in Los Angeles. I'm not sure I will ever feel comfortable here and am not sure I want to in such an eerily clean, uniform place. As I entered the Bank of America and before I could even say one word, the teller looked at me and cheerily greeted me with, "Hi! Are you here to make a transaction from one of our out-of-state branches?"
True story.
I hope they greet me that way for very long time.