March 14th, 2010:
Pepaw and the $3.50 mortgage
Our small town of Front Royal was dominated by a rayon plant that was one of the world’s largest producers of Rayon. Pepaw, known to his contemporaries and colleagues as Frank Nesbitt, was a hard-working Irish Catholic who spent forty years at a viscose factory making rayon. Pepaw was my grandfather. Legend tells me that I named my grandfather Pepaw and my grandmother Memaw. Because I was the oldest grandchild, most of my cousins and all of my sisters and brother called him Pepaw as well.
Pepaw was well known in our small community and well respected for a number or reasons I won’t go into here. But I will say that he had the booming voice of a born-leader and I’m very fortunate to have known him. The funny thing about kids is that you never know what they are listening to or how much they understand. I always remembered him talking about the following conversation he had with his bank, though I didn’t much understand the subject until I became an adult.
Will Nesbitt's grandfather
Pepaw got a call from the bank one day. The bank said, “Frank, you’ve only got $500 on your mortgage.”
Pepaw said, “Yes. What’s your point?”
These were the days when the banker who loaned you your mortgage knew you personally. My grandfather probably coached the banker’s kid in Little League Baseball. The banker said, “We know what’s in your accounts Frank. Why don’t you just pay this thing off?”
Pepaw growled a little as he recalled struggle. “There was a time when my wife had to cut hair in the basement and the family had to cut corners. There was a time when I had to work extra shifts to make sure that we made that $3.50 payment on time. When I asked about paying off that loan I learned that most of that payment was interest—very little was principal. Some times I had to turn in pop bottles just to get the extra money I needed to make my payment on time.
“But now, now the payment is mostly principal with very little interest and you want me to pay it off.” He paused and said with a bit more calm, “No, I’ll pay my $3.50 each month and I’ll pay it until the mortgage is done. But I won’t pay any extra and I won’t pay early. I stuck by the deal then, and you’ll stick to it now.”
That’s my story of Pepaw and the $3.50 mortgage.
 Will Nesbitt of Condo Alexandria
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About the Author — Will Nesbitt is the principal broker of Condo Alexandria / Will Nesbitt Realty LLC. Will is a realtor who specializes in condos, townhouses and single family real estate in Alexandria, Arlington, Fairfax County, Crystal City, and Kingstowne. Will resides in Belle Haven Estates just outside Alexandria VA in Fairfax County. |
The Pepaw School of Management
Will Nesbitt's grandfather
Frank Nesbitt was my paternal grandfather. By the accounts of his contemporaries and my personal recollections he was sort of man among men—a likable leader well-recognized in his community. I recently wrote a quick note about his mortgage and realized that many of my younger cousins and younger sisters might not know much about good ole Pepaw (as I called him). So, here’s another memory that comes to mind.
Pepaw worked for forty years at a viscose plant where rayon was made. Those types of factories and jobs have largely been moved overseas now. But, for more than a half-century, viscose was the life-blood of Front Royal. The factory worked 24 hours a day in three shifts employing half the town in its operation. Pepaw started work there as a young man and retired from the plant after more than 40 years of service.
Don’t ask me how or why, because I’m too young to remember that part, but one day I came with my dad to see my grandfather at work. Most folks called the work site “the plant”. The plant was an enormous campus with many different buildings including warehouses, power plants, and places where they actually cooked, made and then threaded the rayon.
On this particular day in the early ’70′s, we parked in the factory parking lot and walked through the gates and into the offices of the factory. Everything seemed so big to me, and a little disjointed. To give you an idea of the scale of the place, my maternal grandfather (Grandpa as opposed to Pepaw) also worked at the plant in the powerhouse. The powerhouse was just one small part of the plant, but the area that Grandpa had to monitor was so large he rode a bicycle around for most of the day.
Pepaw began his career at the plant as just another guy on the assembly line, but by the time of this memory Pepaw was one of the plant’s managers. When we went to visit his office, they said Frank Nesbitt was visiting some office in another building. So my dad and I walked a wide lawn that separated the front offices from “production”.
When we got to production, the noise for me was almost overwhelming. The plant was filled with the steady clack of machinery working away. Individually the machines weren’t that loud, but when the room has a half-acre under roof and all the machines are clacking away, it can be pretty overwhelming to a young child.
I don’t remember what the silvery metallic machines were doing but I know that along the line there were a good many stools bolted to the concrete floor. These stools were work stations where workers monitored the machines and made corrections as necessary.
Across the way, I could see my grandfather. He sort of looked like a tall Carrol O’Connor in a way. He had been an athlete when he was younger, but he now had a bit of a tummy. The pale red hair of his Irish ancestry was combed back and he wore glasses and a short-sleeved dress shirt. It was 1970-something but his glasses were a throw-back to the Kennedy days. (He loved Kennedy.) His pants were probably polyester, because the plant made polyester and it was after-all the fabric of the future.
Pepaw couldn’t see us and didn’t know we were there. I saw him walk over and tap a guy on the shoulder. The guy was leaned over and talking to a worker. The two them exchanged friendly greetings. Pepaw then invited the man to join him for a chat. The two of them entered an office near the production line.
That office had glass windows all around. Inside I could see Pepaw’s desk and a couple of wooden chairs, the kind they don’t make anymore. Pepaw sat on the front of his desk and appeared to be engaged in a fraternal chat. Pepaw then stood up and began closing the metal venetian blinds which permitted us to witness the exchange.
My dad and I were closer to the office now, but the blinds and the door were closed. I couldn’t actually hear what was being said, but I can tell you this. My grandfather didn’t sound real pleased. His booming Irish voice was at such a volume that when he spoke the venetian blinds trembled against the window. The steady click at the plant blocked the sound enough so that the workers couldn’t hear my grandfather. But I could, and my dad could.
Dad knew better than to interrupt this conversation.
In a short moment the shouting was done and my grandfather was walking around the office opening the blinds one by one. The employee stood up and turned toward us. I could see that the guy wiping a tear from his eye, but here’s what stuck with me. The guy didn’t look angry at my grandfather. In fact, he had sort of a smile as my grandfather gave him a big handshake and then opened up the door. The guy had just gotten blasted, but he actually looked like he’d gotten good news. When the door opened, I heard Pepaw say something pleasant about the man’s family and Pepaw patted the guy on the back.
As he left, my dad and I entered into the office and my dad sat down in the same chair where the man had been. Pepaw closed the door and he said to me and my father, “You never embarrass a man. If you have something to say to him, he’ll listen if he knows you respect him and that you care about him. But if a man needs correction, you take him aside to do it.”
I don’t for the life of me have a clue why my dad came to visit my grandfather that day. But I’ve never forgotten how those blinds shook when he unloaded on the poor guy. I also remember how the man took it. He almost looked appreciative and he seemed to have a genuine fondness for my grandfather, even after Pepaw had just blasted him.
 Will Nesbitt
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About the Author — Will Nesbitt is the principal broker of Condo Alexandria / Will Nesbitt Realty LLC. Will is a realtor who specializes in condos, townhouses and single family real estate in Alexandria, Arlington, Fairfax County, Crystal City, and Kingstowne. Will resides in Belle Haven Estates just outside Alexandria VA in Fairfax County. |
The day my neighborhood crushed me …
When I was a youngster baseball was impossible in our suburban neighborhood. Hardballs and windows are a bad combination. From time to time, we played wiffle ball (often with a paper and tape ball), but almost every day we played football. We played football in the front yard, in the back yard, in the street and in the school yard. We played football almost any where you could find a level patch of ground.
To look at my stomach now you might not guess it, but I was pretty dern quick in those days. Or as my brother once said at a football game in our twenties, “You were never as fast as you used to be.”
Although I was a Redskin fan, my favorite player was Fran Tarkenton the scrambling quarterback. Like Fran Tarkenton I used my fleet feet and threw the ball. Each time I scored a touchdown or made a gain, I got a little better in my mind. Eventually, I began to think of myself as the total package. No one could tackle me in the open field. No one
… or so I thought.
The pinnacle of my arrogance came one day when I challenged the entire neighborhood to a game of football.
“That’s right. On one side, it’s me. On the other team are all you losers.”
A couple of my Facebook buddies, including my brother Eric and Chuck S., were there that day, though perhaps they don’t remember the day as well as I do. They started by kicking the ball off to me. I caught the ball and started down field. A half-dozen redneck children and a black kid charged downfield at me. I gave a limp leg here and a stiff arm there, spin move and then a leap, but ended up under a pile of kids.
No worries, four downs to get that ball in there. I stood at the line of scrimmage and was already realizing a number of life’s most valuable lessons.
On one side of the line of scrimmage was me, all by myself. On the other side of the line of scrimmage were friends and neighbors and my younger brother—all of them grinning. I looked left and right. No blockers. No receivers. I barked out a snap count to … myself and took off.
They buried me.
A game of backyard football
Okay. Same play, but this time, I’ll run left.
They buried me.
A third time they buried me. “Well, I guess I’ll have to punt?” A couple of them dropped back to catch the punt.
I snapped the ball … to myself but it was a fake punt! “Take that losers! Open field here I come.”
They buried me again. After turning the ball over on downs, I had to face them on defense.
My friend Chuck wasn’t much a football strategist. He was more of an elbow in the gut when he tackled you kind of player rather than a finger in the dust tactician. But even Chuck spotted the small flaw in my defensive strategy. “Who are you going to cover?”
Life is a better teacher than any classroom. I learned a valuable lesson about arrogance, but more importantly I learned that it doesn’t matter how good you think you are … you still need a team.
 Will Nesbitt |
About the Author — Will Nesbitt is the principal broker of Condo Alexandria / Will Nesbitt Realty LLC. Will is a realtor who specializes in condos, townhouses and single family real estate in Alexandria, Arlington, Fairfax County, Crystal City, and Kingstowne. Will resides in Belle Haven Estates just outside Alexandria VA in Fairfax County. |
One of the worst things I ever did …
Recently my blog has focused on personal memories and family stories. Most likely I’ll soon return to real estate tidbits or arguing politics, but I wanted to tell a quick Royal Village story.
Royal Village is a subdivision of Front Royal Virginia that was built in the shadow of the sulfur-spewing smokestack that supported the lives of families who lived in Royal Village. I don’t know what Royal Village is like now, so this is not a real estate opinion I do know what Royal Village was like then, and it wasn’t what you might call prime real estate.
Some of my adult friends from “the Village” say that our neighborhood was pretty rough. In retrospect, it wasn’t that tough … compared to say Haiti or District 9 it was actually pretty nice. I can’t really remember any suicide bombers, so it was pretty safe compared to Baghdad.
Most of the kids who lived there had parents who worked in the factory. Rotating shifts meant that sometimes our parents were asleep or at work when we kids were in the streets. We had some good kids in that neighborhood that grew up and made something of themselves. We also had some nasty kids that would just as soon fight you as look at you.
We played tin-can soccer in the street. We played tackle football in the street. We built ramps and jumped bikes like Evil Knievel. We played in the mud and we played in the Field until they built townhouses there. When they were building those townhouses, we used to sneak into the construction site after dark to make trouble where we could.
For the most part my brother and sisters and my friends were good kids. For the most part we stayed out of trouble. We lived on 14th Street, but the kids over on 13th Street were hellians. They lived in townhouses—the kinds where the screendoor dangle by one hinge and a shutter lay in the yard. The yards themselves were packed clay with tall weeds in the corner of the lots.
To get to the store or to make it to town, we had to cross the domain of the 13th Street gangsters . If we ventured in their direction, those kids would try to steal our candy … or our bikes. They also like to hold us down and take our pop bottles and cans which we had collected buy candy from the little store. Every kid on 14th Street knew that you didn’t want to go to 13th Street without back-up. If you rode your bike down 13th Street, you’d better do it at full tilt because someone just might pitch a piece of gravel at you.
Up on the hill behind us was 15th Street and 16th Street, where those who thought they were better than us looked down upon our wretchedness. Some might say that the kids up lived up on 15th Street were a kinder gentler sort. We thought of them as chumps. They thought they were so cool with their bigger houses and their banana-seats bikes.
We rode hand-me-down 1950-styled Western Flyers. As bad as our bikes were, they were still better than what they had on 13th Street, where kids usually had to walk.
One day a couple of 15th Street kids made the mistake of wandering down to 14th Street. We were scared of 13th St. kids, but they had trained us to be evil. Our parents weren’t home at the time so we started bullying the well-groomed kids. Talk about dumb. They didn’t even have enough common sense to run or to pedal away when we threatened them.
So we took them hostage. I really laugh when I think of this now, but it was by far the worst thing I’ve ever done in my life. My brother, my friend Chuck and I stuck those kids in my dad’s basement. Then we locked them in a downstairs bedroom and we took off riding on their bikes.
Banana seats are cool, aren’t they? We rode their bikes downtown. We loved riding those banana seat bikes so much that we rode them all the way to the video arcade. We parked them at the arcade where we ran into some friends and goofed off for a while. We completely forgot about the kids we had jumped. A good while later we went to get on our bikes and realized they weren’t our bikes at all.
We pedaled as fast as we could to get home and release our captives. We got home just as my parents got there. My dad was yelling at some poor kid for “breaking into his house”. We sheepishly rolled up on their bikes. As soon as we dismounted those kids jumped on their bikes and pedaled off—never to be seen on 14th Street again.
My dad was incredibly angry but at the same time, he couldn’t help but laugh at the stupidity of it all. It was one of the few times that I got in so much trouble, I wasn’t in trouble at all. I can’t remember terrorizing the 15th Street kids again after that, but maybe it was because they were afraid to venture down to the Village.
BTW, if you’ve never read a blog post of mine or if you don’t know anything about me. The man I am couldn’t be further from the kid in this story.
 Will Nesbitt |
About the Author — Will Nesbitt is the principal broker of Condo Alexandria / Will Nesbitt Realty LLC. Will is a realtor who specializes in condos, townhouses and single family real estate in Alexandria, Arlington, Fairfax County, Crystal City, and Kingstowne. Will resides in Belle Haven Estates just outside Alexandria VA in Fairfax County. |
Jamie and the Big Wheel
My brother and sisters and I grew up at the north end of the Shenandoah Valley where the Skyline Drive begins its way down the Shenandoah National Park. Here in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, the Valley is full of hills and dales. Contrast this with say Illinois, where my cousins grew up. The land around Peoria is so flat that if you climb up on a ladder you can see the Arch in St. Louis where my other cousins live.
One time when I wasn’t quite 10, my cousins Betty Jane, Jamie and John Wargo came from Illinois to visit us in Virginia. This story is a little sad for me now because Betty Jane and Jamie aren’t with us anymore. They were both beautiful people.
Today, John is the head of his own family and I’m quite proud of him. John is probably one of the most talented and artistic people I know. His Custom Paint Shop has won many awards and been featured in magazines for the custom work he does on all types of automobiles.
Jamie and John were about the same age as my brother Eric and I. This particular visit, while the adults were inside doing whatever adults do, we boys were outside playing in the street. Our street was relatively flat and we were knocking around with a Big Wheel and a little red wagon. 
The Big Wheel had been a Christmas gift from my Pepaw. The little red wagon was a gift from my Grandpa. Sure the Big Wheel was sporty, but Grandpa love the practicality of the little red wagon. I never found much use for the hauling capacity of the wagon, but none-the-less we had the sportscar and the pick-up truck at our disposal.
Eric and I never had much use for the wagon, but my cousins showed us how you could flip the handle around and sit in the wagon. Then one brother would run along, pushing the wagon while the other brother sat in the wagon using the handle as a steering wheel.
You could push that wagon as much as you wanted but the Big Wheel seemed to have performance edge both because of it’s lower suspension and because the drive-train didn’t disengage when your brother’s hands came off your back. Now that our cousins showed us that the wagon could be of some use, Eric and I took them a half block down the street to an intersection.
At that intersection a cross-street climbs a small (by Virginia standards) hill. When I was a kid this hill seemed as steep as a mountainside. We took the wagon a couple paces up the hill and then climbed on board. Now that my cousins showed us how to ride the wagon, we showed them how to ride down a hill. The wagon gave a pretty terrifying ride, picking up speed quickly as it came downhill.
We took turns riding the wagon and standing in the street to catch each other as we came down the hill. Now if you know anything at all about the Wargo clan, you know that they love speed. That’s probably one reason my cousin John Wargo still works around fast cars in his Custom Shop. Being from Virginia, Eric and I respect the hills and we knew better than to go too far up that hill for a ride down.
But Jamie must have been intoxicated on speed and silly from the wind in his hair from riding the wagon. Maybe he just didn’t know better because kids from Illinois don’t really see much in the way of hills. Jamie grabbed the Big Wheel and went past where we started the wagon. He went all the way up to the intersection of the next street.
We were all a little excited and scared. I was old enough to know better and I should have stopped him. But all of us wanted to see what was going to happen. Jamie saddled up in the Big Wheel and prepared to launch himself down the hill. Jamie gave us a thumbs-up and steeled his resolve. John and Eric and I got ready to catch him when he came down the hill.
Jamie placed his feet on the Big Wheel pedals and then rocked back a quarter of a turn. Then for dramatic effect he peeled out. The hard plastic front wheel rotated a bit for catching traction and he was off. He pedaled across the intersection and then hit the top of the hill at a full gallop.
As the nose of the Big Wheel dropped down below eye level, Jamie felt the wind rush through his hair. He probably thought saw God for a second and his eyes sparkled with angel dust as he grinned from ear to ear. My brother and I were Virginia natives, so we knew that you never let the Big Wheel pick up too much speed. Jamie didn’t know or didn’t care. Soon that big wheel was going faster than his legs.
There was no stopping this thing now.
The pedals were rotating like machine and his feet were up in the air as he blew past me. I whipped around and saw him weave between John and Eric like a sportscar on Big Sur in a commercial. The three of us made half-hearted attempts to slow him down, but he was going too fast now. The die was cast.
As Jamie crossed into the intersection my heart pounded. This hill went on for several streets, so he was only going to pick up more speed and end up in a rough neighborhood if he continued on. But Jamie made a piloting decision at the spur of that moment. The Big Wheel cut diagonally across the street and headed directly toward a curb.
When Jamie plowed into the curb, the Big Wheel bit the concrete and the back-end lifted up. He was launched into the air with the Big Wheel (now in two pieces) flipping end over end behind him. He mostly cleared the chainlink fence on the other side of the sidewalk. The top of the fence raked his face as he tumbled like a rag doll into the yard. The Big bounced impotently off of the fence and the Wheel landed in the yard alongside a motionless Jamie.
The three of us went running up to him with tears in our eyes.
“JAMIE!” I called out, but he didn’t move.
The yard where Jamie lay was owned by the kind of old dude who shakes his fist at kids like us as he tells us to scram. He had just built that fence for the express purpose of keeping kids like us out of his lawn. So Eric and and I pulled up at the fence line. Little John went running into the yard to grab his brother and then we followed.
We all tugged at Jamie and he blinked and groaned. His face was bloody and his shirt was torn, but he shook the cobwebs from his mind and laughed in pain. We picked up the pieces of our Big Wheel and threw Jamie up on our shoulders to walk him home. He was scratched up and hurting, but not really injured.
Now, I’ll just let you guess what we did with Jamie and John a couple of years later when they came down in the Winter, but I will give you two clues.
- Sled-riding is a just little more challenging on a tree-covered Virginia mountain than it is on Illinois pancake.
- Sleds don’t fare much better against trees than Big Wheels against concrete curbs.
Every memory has a lesson. That’s why we choose to remember that memory. The lessons for me from this are too personal to share.
Jamie’s gone now. We miss him.
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About the Author — Will Nesbitt is the principal broker of Condo Alexandria / Will Nesbitt Realty LLC. Will is a realtor who specializes in condos, townhouses and single family real estate in Alexandria, Arlington, Fairfax County, Crystal City, and Kingstowne. Will resides in Belle Haven Estates just outside Alexandria VA in Fairfax County. |
Don’t be afraid of the truth.
In late middle school I attended Wakefield Country Day School a fantastic little private school in Rappahannock 
County near Flint Hill VA. If you’re a parent of a school age child and you live within about 30 miles of Wakefield, I highly recommend you consider enrolling your child here.
A fact of life at Wakefield was your book bag. It was not unusual for elementary and middle school kids to carry around a large sportsbag like the Wilson bag pictured here.
These bags were stuff full of books because it wasn’t unusual for each class to require 3 books. When I attended the Wakefield school day was about 2 hours longer than public school education, so you had a lot of books to carry. That meant that without a bag of some sort it was pretty much impossible to go from class to class or to take books home to study.
Well, my parents couldn’t really afford Wakefield, so we cut costs where we could. Those sports bags weren’t cheap, so my mom fished a bag out of the thrift store that could do the job just as well.
From an adult’s standpoint, I suppose my bag was a pretty close match. I mean both bags have zippers and handles. Mine was a little taller rather than wider. Both bags have a place where you carry your books. My bag was safety orange. All in all, a pretty ugly bag.
About half-way through the 7th Grade I transferred to Strasburg Middle School. As good as Wakefield was, those schools in the shadow of Signal Knob were about as good a public education gets anywhere. But things were a little different in Shenandoah County.
You didn’t take Algebra in the 6th grade at Shenandoah County. You didn’t take French from kindergarten on up. There were lots of little things like that, so my parents had me bumped up a grade when I made the transfer.
That meant I was suddenly the littlest kid in the class.
Of course, in Strasburg, middle school students didn’t need a giant book bag. In fact, you didn’t really need a book bag at all. I learned some kids actually carried their books—get this—in their arms!
Someone could have given me a clue that I wouldn’t need a book bag. Well someone did give me a clue and one of those somebodies was Richard Carbaugh.
On one hand you have me, the spindly under-aged prep-nerd with the bookbag and you have Richard Carbaugh big healthy red neck in an untucked flannel shirt. I’ve not seen Richard, other than on Facebook, in more than twenty years. Then and now, he was a big guy with a big neck and a big smile. He was generally a good guy, but had a quick wit that could cut to the truth in a flash.
Richard asked me, “Why are you carrying a purse?”
This wasn’t so much a question, as a piercing insight. Point Carbaugh.
Richard suddenly caused me to take a look at my bag in a new light. He was right … it was a little purse-like. “Damn it.”
But here is my curse and blessing: I’m not the kind of person that accedes to peer pressure, ever. Maybe there is something broken in me. I say this because there are times when peer pressure is a good thing. Richard was sort of doing me a favor by calling that bag out … but by God I wasn’t going to bend to his will or anyone else’s will.
Here’s how my convoluted thinking works. If I stopped carrying the purse, then I have admited that Richard was right. But if I continue to carry the pur … er … book bag then the it’s still a book bag and was never a purse. Point for me. Take that Carbaugh.
So, even though I didn’t need the pur … er .. book bag, but I simply refused to stop carrying it because I thought that meant I was admitting to Richard. So, what I did was a took a Sharpie and a Magic Marker and put graffiti all over the bag.
Now with Napoleon Dynamite styled “ligers” and my name in big bold letters no one could call this book bag a purse. I had created a real manly bag. If you can’t tell I’m being extremely sarcastic. The truth is I couldn’t have been a bigger enemy to myself unless I’d used that same marker to write “I am a dork” across my forehead.
So I refused to stop carrying the bag and Richard Carbaugh … and Doug Clem and just about every other kid in my class gave me a little hell about it. But this bag is where I had planted my flag and here is where I would fight my battle.
I grew to really hate that orange graffiti-covered bag that I didn’t really need, but I refused to stop carrying it because I didn’t want to admit they were right. But damn it … and it’s 35 years late … but I’m admitting you were right:
It was a purse.
I didn’t know it was a purse, but once good ole Mr. Carbaugh pointed out that fact, I didn’t have the common sense to just chuck the thing in a garbage bin. I was so happy when that school year ended because I pitched that book bag and refused to ever carry a bag in high school.
Of course, once we got to high school, a lot of kids used book bags to carry books from class to class. Not me, mind you. But a lot of kids.
Was I traumatized? Well, to this day I don’t much like it when my wife asks me to hold her purse for even a minute. But do I blame Richard? Do I think he traumatized me? Nope. I traumatized myself. I blame myself for being a doofus and for being so stubborn.
I had choices. I could have pitched the bag because he was right. Or I could have called him out and said, “I don’t care if it looks like a purse. It’s my book bag.” Instead I chose to be doofus and draw ligers on my purse.
In every story there is a lesson, so here’s the lesson to learn. If someone is right, just admit they’re right and move on. On the other hand, don’t back down when you’re right. And don’t keep it to yourself. You’ll respect yourself more and others will respect you if you just say what you are thinking.
To apply the lesson here, I should have either thrown the purse away or I should have hit Richard with my purse and called him a masher.
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About the Author — Will Nesbitt is the principal broker of Condo Alexandria / Will Nesbitt Realty LLC. Will is a realtor who specializes in condos, townhouses and single family real estate in Alexandria, Arlington, Fairfax County, Crystal City, and Kingstowne. Will resides in Belle Haven Estates just outside Alexandria VA in Fairfax County. |
How I met my wife.
Julie Nesbitt 2010
One of my friends when I was a Defense Language Institute in Monterey California was a fellow soldier named Jay Cook. Jay Cook always reminded me of Clark Kent. He had broad shoulders and brown hair. Jay was a big strong guy and was the type of guy that I thought should have no problem with the ladies. But for the glasses and perhaps the self-confidence Jay was Superman.
One Saturday afternoon in Monterey, Jay and I were walking down Alvarado Street and Jay was asking me, “How do you do it? How do you meet all these girls?”
I’ve always had a great affection for Jay, mainly because Jay always seemed to assume that I was Superman, even though I thought he was the real Superman. Jay has a way of complimenting a guy’s ego that is so sincere, one can’t help but drink it in. I mean seriously—coming to me for advice about women is like coming to Willie Nelson for tax advice or fashion advice from Dennis Rodman. Willie Nelson can tell you how to avoid paying taxes, but not how to do it without going to jail. Dennis Rodman can tell you how to dress, but can’t really tell you how to look good.
At any rate, far be it from me to tell Jay that I’m not expert on women. Instead, I just replied with confidence, “You just have to talk to the women, Jay. ” As we entered into Baskin-Robbins to get an ice cream cone, I told Jay, “Just be yourself. Watch this …”
Normally I wouldn’t have had the confidence to talk to a stranger, but Jay had pumped me up and I wasn’t going to disappoint. There was a gorgeous oriental girl (back then nobody said “Asian” but that’s another story) behind the counter. I started joking around with her about flavors as we picked our selections. When she looked away, I winked at Jay and said, “Watch and learn, young Jedi.”
I asked the girl who would one day be my bride, “Will you go out with me?”
Julie replied, “Maybe.”
We exchanged phone numbers … which is to say. I took her phone number. I lived in a barracks and didn’t have a phone in my room. Mobile phones were only for the rich so I didn’t have a number to give her. I came to memorize that number more than 25 years later I still remember those 10 digits. As I left Baskin-Robbins, I told Jay, “That’s how you do it.”
It was probably the first time I’d ever done such a thing. And it was probably the last time. I definitely owe Jay Cook a debt of gratitude, because my wife and kids are the best things in my life.
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About the Author — Will Nesbitt is the principal broker of Condo Alexandria / Will Nesbitt Realty LLC. Will is a realtor who specializes in condos, townhouses and single family real estate in Alexandria, Arlington, Fairfax County, Crystal City, and Kingstowne. Will resides in Belle Haven Estates just outside Alexandria VA in Fairfax County. |
Split-level homes
A Modern style that architects created to sequester certain living activities–such as sleeping or socializing–split levels offered an multilevel alternative to the ubiquitous style in the 1950s. The nether parts of a typical design were devoted to a garage and TV room; the midlevel, which usually jutted out from the two-story section, offered “quieter” quarters, such as the living and dining rooms; and the area above the garage was designed for bedrooms.
Found mostly in the East and Midwest, split-levels, like their Ranch counterparts, were constructed with various building materials.
Typical Split Level Home
Bike Culture Rolls Out in Crystal City
Choose between comfort or performance.
Whether an avid or occasional commuter, a serious competitor, a race enthusiast, or strictly a recreational rider, Crystal City can meet any cyclist’s needs. Add to this Revolution Cycles’ brand new facility (called a City Hub) opening at 220 Twentieth Street in Crystal City (Arlington VA). The Hub provides an innovative grab-and-go bike rental program, as well as cycling accessory sales, and cycling repairs.
“With Crystal City’s great connections to the Washington trail network, bringing a bike lease program and commuter shower options is the perfect way to combine and showcase the area’s active, accessible, and green aspects,” said Angela Fox of President of Crystal City Business Improvement District. “These cycling programs underscore County Board Chair Jay Fisette’s ‘Year of the Bicycle’ program while highlighting and expanding Crystal City assets!”
In partnership with Vornado/Charles E. Smith, Revolution Cycles’ City Hub will make 100 bikes readily available to area residents, workers, and guests. Unlike a formal bike-sharing program, which focuses on short-distance point-to-point trips, Access Bike is designed for longer, fitness-oriented riding and all-day recreational touring. In town for the National Bike Summit and often cited as the father of mountain biking, Gary Fisher became the first official customer taking an Access Bike from City Hub for a spin to the White House. The City Hub also sells cycling accessories and conducts repairs, meeting the equipment needs of a growing population of area cyclists. A quick hop off the bike path, cyclists can easily grab a new tire while enjoying lunch in one of Crystal City’s many great restaurants. Crystal City is a great place for riders to start a nice long weekend spin – free parking in select garages and proximity to trail heads make Crystal City the perfect place to Park & Ride Your Bike!
Those interested in trying out a cycle commute can take advantage of the Washington Area Bicyclist Association’s (WABA) annual Bike to Work Day on May 21. Crystal City will host a pit stop in its beautiful Water Park, with snacks, repairs, and even the option to try out the showers at Sport & Health if they want to get cleaned up before heading to the office.
Bike DC returns on May 23 for its second year featuring one of the best rides from the greatest possible vantage point, the seat of a bicycle. Starting in the heart of Washington, DC and finishing in Crystal City for an awesome finish festival, Bike DC is the perfect casual ride for all ability levels and is not to be missed.
Although open to all, cycling enthusiasts looking to challenge themselves can join in the U.S. Air Force Cycling Classic’s Crystal Ride Challenge on Sunday, June 13. Participants can ride up to 3 ½ hours on the car-free, 12.5km course attempting to ride as many as 8 laps in the allotted time. Then the competition heats up as professional cyclists compete on an exciting and fast 1 KM Criterium (Crit) course in Crystal City. In conjunction with the Clarendon Cup held the previous day, the weekend represents one of the largest cycling events in the country with most of the nation’s top cyclists expected to be in attendance.
Source: Crystal City Business Improvement District
