howdy, neighbor!

People on my street are rude.

My family has lived on this nondescript Ashburn street of homogenous town homes for longer than most of the families here--about 9 years now.  My mom wanted a larger home (we used to live in the community of Countryside, in Sterling, in a two-bedroom townhouse with 4 people cramped inside) and I was delighted with my parents' decision to move during my first year of high school.  Since kindergarten I had been in classes with the same three hundred people.  Year after year, that kid who put a dead goldfish in your backpack was still in your history class--and was still trying to copy your homework.  (Now, when you see him working as a bar back at the local steakhouse, you quietly chuckle to yourself, raise your glass to karma, and briefly contemplate a few cruel tricks of your own.)

At that point in my teenage life, I desperately welcomed a change.  A certain reputation and limited social group followed me throughout those ten years, and there was little room or acceptance for those who wanted to be different.  When I began at a new high school in 2002 I was relieved and excited at the opportunity to be someone new.  I could be the star lacrosse player; I could be the girl in all honors classes; I could be mysterious and interesting and new.  However, much to my 15-year-old chagrin, I quickly realized that my Ashburn peers were vastly different from me; in just a 10-mile move from Sterling to Ashburn Farm, I had left a community of kids who rode bikes and skateboards or walked to school to a peer group who drove Escalades and Mercedes a mere half mile to class.  (I walked.)  It was an entirely different world, and economically, I simply didn't fit in.  I was shocked to see how drastically different two neighboring communities Loudoun could be.

That's definitely not an Abercrombie top.

It wasn't just at school where I felt like an outsider; it was evident on my own street as well.  Back in Sterling we knew almost all of the families on our street, and I knew that if I got locked out or had an emergency, I could always knock on their door for help and would surely be welcomed with open arms (and even a cookie or two).  On the day we were to move in to our new brick townhouse in Ashburn, we pulled up to the driveway, excited and full of ambitious decorating ideas, and were shocked to see the house had been egged the previous night.  We hadn't even moved in, and someone already hated us.

Things haven't changed in the nine years we've lived here, although the egging never reoccurred.  I'm very close with my neighbor to the right--she and her daughter have participated in a few of these blog entries, in fact--but most everyone else is cold, callous and unfriendly.  Perhaps it's because there seems to be a lot of turnover in these houses, and there have been at least three foreclosures on my side of the street in the past year.

I'm a waver.  I always wave.  No matter what I am doing, whether it's cleaning my car or walking to get the mail or stretching in the driveway after a run, if someone passes by on foot or in a car, I will wave and smile and send them a little neighborly love.  And is it reciprocated?  Hardly ever.  I decided to conduct a little experiment this weekend.  I walked around my street for about thirty minutes, during which time seven of my neighbors drove by.  Not a single person waved, despite my enthusiastic arm-flapping, grinning, innocent-looking self staring directly at them as they passed.  I've asked other friends in various parts of Loudoun about this phenomenon, and it appears to fit in with my East vs. West Loudoun theory discussed in previous entries: people in Eastern Loudoun are much less friendly or concerned with befriending their neighbors, I've heard, and I'm not quite sure why.  Perhaps it's the hustle and bustle of suburban Loco vs. the open spaces and agricultural roots of the West.

This September, I decided to purchase a puppy.  My childhood dog, Sam, passed away in January while I was overseas fulfilling a Fulbright Fellowship, and I remembered upon returning to the US the house feeling so empty, so devoid of the fun and warmth and excitement owning a dog brings.  I also thought that a cute, 2.8 pound Chihuahua would be a great way to draw attention to myself on my street and hopefully develop at least cordial relationships with my neighbors.  Wendy is completely useless in this respect.  First of all, she refuses to walk outside of our driveway.  If I want to venture to the end of the street, it's by carrying her in my arms and plopping her down on a patch of plush grass (because sidewalks and pavement scare her).  Secondly, people just don't care.  I expect to hear a, "Ohhh, she's so cuuute!  What's her name?" or, "Wow, she is sooo tinnyy!  How old is she?" whereupon I would pounce on the opportunity to point out my name and townhouse number.  Well, that plan was fruitless.  

Wendy, in all her adorable glory, in front of our Ashburn townhouse.

My dad refers to most of our neighbors as "f-'ems."  And no, that saying has nothing to do with feminism.  He uses the phrase like this: 

Me: "Dad, I was jogging down the street and someone honked at me to get out of the way!  And I wasn't even in the street, I was practically in the gutter!  That's so rude."

Dad: "Who cares.  F-'em."

He may not care, but I do.  I seek the approval of our neighbors.  I miss the comfort of our street in Countryside. After all, what are the roots of a community without friendships with your neighbors?  I am determined to kill (f-?)'em with kindness; I will continue to wave encouragingly, and to shout "HELLOOO THERE!" to flustered mothers in minivans that drive by our driveway way over the speed limit, and bring Wendy outside and entice neighborhood kids to pet her.  Maybe candy would be helpful?

ride-along with 330 charlie

Enough of the farmers markets, festivals, alpacas and bluegrass.  It's time to look beyond the quaint restaurants and small town charm of Loudoun's wine country.  Yes, it's time to unveil the seedy underbelly of LoCo, to learn about what truly goes on behind the walls of a gated community or on the well-lit streets of suburban housing developments.

Spoiler alert: nothing really happens.

On Sunday evening, from 6:00pm until 2:00am, I had the opportunity to venture out on a ride-along with Jason, a Deputy Sheriff (you may remember him teaching me how to use a firearm in last week's entry) with the Loudoun County Sheriff's Department.  Jason has worked as a police officer in Loudoun since 2006 and has recently created quite an impressive reputation for himself.   Last year, he was awarded the Washington Regional Alcohol Program's award for the highest number of DUI arrests.  He possesses a real knack for nabbing intoxicated drivers and noting the "odor of an alcoholic beverage" (because alcohol has no odor, but a beverage does, says the court system).

If you're interested in doing a ride-along, be prepared to fill out a bit of paperwork and undergo a background check.  Jason, whose sector is Ashburn Village, has done about ten ride-alongs in his career, and he enjoys them.  Typically, they are granted to individuals who are interested in a career in law enforcement, or students enrolled in criminal investigation courses.  Of course, my intentions for this ride-along were a bit different: I craved a scoop.  I wanted to witness someone getting arrested.  It would have been great to observe a gang fight, or maybe a high-speed chase.   I would have settled for a stolen vehicle, or a non-life threatening stabbing.

Jason's cruiser, where I sat (shotgun!) for eight hours.

6:18pm.  My hopes were high when he picked me up in his cramped Ford Crown Victoria and, after driving for about ten minutes, we stumbled upon a car flashing its hazards and facing the wrong way in the left lane.  Maybe they have drugs! I thought optimistically.  In reality, the driver was from Manassas, turned too quickly, and misjudged.  I got a kick out of watching Jason flipping on the flashing lights and observing the official, controlled way he handled the situation, flashlight in hand, approaching the vehicle from the side like I had seen officers in Cops do.  

6:24pm.  While driving around the quiet, nearly empty streets of Ashburn, we notice an unusual sight.  A truck hitched to a large boat is parked on the side of Gloucester Parkway and is sticking out onto the sidewalk near a townhouse community.  Humorous, but a parking offense nonetheless.  Jason writes a $40 ticket and  I think briefly of asking him to take my picture next to the odd scene, but decide against it.  (Professionalism and what not.)

6:37pm.  We drive around--I don't want to ruin anything here, but basically, that's what we did for eight hours--and investigate some local parks.  Any cars with steamy windows or shady people?  None.  My disappointment was obvious.  "Do you want to try night-vision?" Jason asked in an attempt to cheer me up.  Aha!  Things were looking up.  I patrolled around the parking lot a bit, searching for miscreants while my adjusting to the green light of the night-vision.  I was surprised to realize that it wasn't goggles like I'd seen in the movies, but more akin to a small hand-held periscope.  The area was deserted;  I can only assume Loudoun's criminals were all cuddled up on the couch watching Home Alone and getting ready for the Christmas robberies.  Then, we get a call--finally, a call!--to inspect a loud noise complaint.  Maybe it's a domestic dispute! I hoped.

6:52pm.  Jason and I approach the home.  "Oh, fiesta music!" he laughs as he pounds his fist on the door.  A frazzled-looking woman in pajamas answers and apologizes to me, who she thought was the complainant.  "Oh, she's with me," Jason corrects her, and I feel pretty awesome right about now.  The power!  The prestige!  She forgets to turn off her home alarm, so what began as a noise complaint for blaring Latin music is now amplified by the almost comedic screeching of her ADT system.  He inspects her ID; she fumbles for explanations.  Case closed.

7:45pm.  Jason demonstrates how to use the radar in his cruiser, and we search ruthlessly for people to pull over.  The radar shows a car going the opposite direction at 69mph in a 45.  "That's reckless," he says, shaking his head, and proceeds to make a drastic u-turn and gun it to 92mph to catch up.  I feel very cool, and a few high-speed chase scenes from The Bourne Supremacy flash through my mind, but I am simultaneously also very nauseous while I clutch onto the seatbelt.  My excitement dwindled quickly as Jason confessed he wasn't sure if this was indeed the car he meant to pull over a mile back.  In the dark, it's difficult to pick a car out of a group--taillights and the size of the vehicle don't always aid in identifying it accurately.  He let the female driver go with a warning, as disappointed as I was at our failure to catch a reckless driver.

8:45pm.  Dinner.  Much to Jason's chagrin, Panera is closed, and so is Foster's, so we head to Chipotle with another officer.  In a twelve-hour shift the officers are only given a single 30-minute break, which seems unfair to me.  Other diners glance at me strangely, probably wondering why I'm sitting here eating a burrito bowl with two popo.  I hear a barrage of kooky stories recounted about Jason's unusual encounters with some of the prize characters of eastern Loudoun, some of which I was asked not to repeat.  Once, he was called out to a home for a complaint of disorderly conduct.  It concerned two elderly men who were fighting over whether or not the wood in a Mercedes' station wheel was authentic.  The argument escalated until one of them followed the other into the bathroom.  On another occasion, he noticed a man jogging near the Belmont Country Club in the wee hours of the morning wearing a see-through mesh top and covered in vaseline.  Sure, there is the occasional gang fight or drug bust, but they are few and far between and usually don't happen in his sector.  I'd never considered a career in law enforcement before, and this ride-along and Jason's anecdotes certainly didn't change my mind.

9:27pm.  Over the radio, dispatch informs us that there is a mentally disturbed person at Loudoun Hospital who will need police escort to the mental hospital.  I begin to feel uncomfortable and voyeuristic; this woman's sad situation really isn't any of my business.  As we walk into the emergency room, a nurse hands me a piece of paper and asks me for my name and identification.  Jason looks confused.  "She's a DWI, right?" the receptionist inquires, and Jason and I burst out laughing.  "You're not intoxicated?  Ohhhhh!  I was wondering why you weren't handcuffed!"  So, I was mistaken for an arrested drunk.  Ha.  Two other officers arrive and take the situation off of Jason's hands, and we leave to patrol Route 7.

It was all downhill from there.  A couple of traffic tickets, a suspended license, a possible DWI that turned out to be nothing.  Jason did let me play with the siren, which may have easily been my favorite part of the entire ride-along experience.  By 12:15am I was exhausted, tired of sitting down in a cramped car with a shotgun magazine pressing into my left arm, but I was determined to finish the late night shift.  We drive around, and make a u-turn, and drive back again, and I notice that the only other people on the road are other police cruisers.

Turns out, Ashburn's pretty safe.  Who knew?

home on the range

silver eagle group

44620 guilford drive, suite 100

ashburn, VA 20147

http://www.silvereaglegroup.com/

"The goal is to leave with as many holes as you came in with."  This was the advice given to me by Jason, a wonderful friend and Loudoun County Deputy Sheriff, as he drove me to the shooting range.  I had no idea there even was a public range in Loudoun; lucky me, it is located a mere five miles from my house in Ashburn.

Confession: I've always wanted to shoot a gun.  I don't know why, exactly.  Never was I one for video games or violent, shoot-'em-up movies.  Westerns tend to bore me, and the NRA is an organization I really have no intention of ever associating myself with.  When I admitted my ignorance about handling a gun to Jason, he offered to teach me about firearms and take me shooting sometime, but to be honest, I was skeptical that it would ever happen.  You mean individuals who have never held a gun can just show up at a nondescript strip mall in suburban Ashburn, sign a few documents, and handle a deadly weapon?  Is that in the least bit safe?  Is that legal?  Shockingly, yes, yes, and yes.

On the drive to the Silver Eagle Group's indoor shooting range, I was composed on the outside, asking insightful, detailed questions about the intricacies and handling of weapons to Jason, while on the inside I was a complete mess.  Imagining a myriad of scenarios gone wrong--dropping the gun, accidentally pulling the trigger at an inopportune moment, watching a bullet ricochet off the floor and into someone's face--I only made myself more and more nervous.  What if...what if...

"Everything I learned about shooting a gun, I learned from listening to rap music," I joked, shooting the breeze (pun intended) while we waited for two of his police officer friends to join us.  "Then you really don't know anything about guns," Jason informed me.  Well.  He was right about that.

Waiting for Jenna and Will to arrive with the ammo, Jason patiently described how to load the gun with me--a .40 caliber glock--while sitting in the front seat of the car.  I stared in shock at the Ziploc bag of bullets he had sitting in the console.  The weight of a single bullet was so light, and the magazine reminded me of a Pez dispenser; it seemed unreal, in a way.  The reality of what was about to happen, that I would in mere minutes be handling a device that is capable of doing serious damage to another human being, hit me as I watched him load the magazine; one, two, three bullets loaded.  And then, strangely, I thought of this here blog, and how far I've come from the quaint local farmer's market.  We're still in Loudoun County, but we're sure as hell not in Kansas anymore, Toto.

One of Jason's guns, and the one I learned to use at Silver Eagle.

After shakily signing a stack of forms that I didn't read ("If you shoot yourself, we're not liable.  If you shoot someone else, we're not liable.  If anything bad happens while you are here, we are definitely not liable") the three police officers and I waited in line to purchase paper targets and pay the entrance fee for the day.  (I think it was something like $20/person, but in my jittery state, I really can't recall the details.)  Jason provided me with my "eyes and ears"--protective eye and ear wear--and I was ushered over to a closet-like office where I received a lecture by a fast-speaking and almost unintelligible employee  about the rules of the range.  What I got from his diatribe was basically this: don't point the gun anywhere except down range or I will tackle you.  And then, eyes and ears on, I was ready to enter the facility.

The loudness surprised me most.  Jason warned me that I would have trouble hearing his instructions (just the thing you want to be told by the person who is teaching you how to handle a firearm for the first time) and that I would be shouting for the entirety of the lesson.  I was reminded of a bowling alley; everyone in their own lanes, focused, having a good time, yelling, some cheering each other on, except instead of rolling a small ball down an aisle, they were shooting powerful, deadly guns.  Jason shot first, and I watched him load the gun, get in his balanced stance, and fire at the flimsy target hanging seventeen feet away.  It looked so easy, so natural.

When my turn came, I had Jason explain how to hold the gun about twelve times because I was so worried I would hold it incorrectly and some limb or appendage would be missing shortly thereafter.  He corrected my stance--leaning forward, legs shoulder-width apart, standing steady--and showed me how to aim.  And, after taking a few deep breaths and moving the slide back, I took a long look at the center of the target, slid my finger onto the trigger and slowly pulled.  There was a spark, and a sound, and a slight push of my torso backward.

Holy sh*t.  I just shot a gun.

Once the initial shock wore off, the whole process became more enjoyable.  After shooting the weapon something like 30 times, I became more comfortable with handling the gun and my confidence increased tenfold.  Its weight became less oppressive, but I never let my guard down (rule #1).  By the end of the hour my hands were cramped and my arms tight from the amount of control my upper body was exercising.  I was even visibly shaking at times, Jason said.  There is something distinctly American, something freeing and empowering about learning how to handle a firearm.  I agree with Jason--citizens should understand and respect such an instrument.  I loved the experience, and would definitely do it again if the opportunity arose.

Bob the zombie wasn't so lucky.

After an hour of shooting, we were asked to leave the crowded indoor range.  Upon leaving I felt exhilarated and educated, and I was proud to check something so dangerous and exciting off my bucket list.  And who knew such a place could exist in my hometown?  I had a voicemail waiting for me on my cell phone when we returned to Jason's car.  It was from my dad.  He advised me not to shoot anyone, and then proceeded to quote every Clint Eastwood movie ever made.  "Go ahead, make my day," he encouraged me to tell my friend-turned-firearms instructor.  And, Jason, you did.

loudoun farm color tour

From 10am--4pm on every third weekend in October, Loudoun County farmers invite visitors to explore their privately owned farms, nurseries, vineyards, and orchards.  The tour is "self-guided," meaning you better be prepared to do a lot of driving in your vehicle.  

67 miles driven.  Three hours spent eating, drinking, walking.  Five Farm Color Tour stops.  One horrible case of tonsillitis.

I woke up on Sunday morning with a pounding headache behind my eyes and an inability to swallow my cereal without wincing in pain.  After almost two dozen cases of tonsillitis and strep throat in my life, I knew what was coming.  I had about a four-hour window until the chills and intolerable throat pain set in, and there was no way that my inefficient immune system was getting in the way of this weekend's blog entry.  So what if I wouldn't be able to turn my neck peripherally while driving?  So what if I collapsed in exhaustion while petting an alpaca?  Now, that's dedication.

Stop 1: Zephaniah Farm & Vineyard

19381 Dunlop Mill Road, Leesburg

The first--and definitely my favorite--stop on the tour.  I was enticed by their advertised lunch deal: $10 for a glass of wine, a complimentary wine tasting and glass (who doesn't love free stuff?), and a pasture-fed Angus burger.  While speaking with Meredith Hatch, the daughter of owner Bill Hatch, I learned that the tasting room is part of a 170-year-old manor house, Zephaniah was her great-great-grandfather, and the farm produces not only Angus but lamb and honey as well. The burger was incredible: juicy, smokey, delicious.  I'm not much of a wine connoisseur, but the tasting was interesting and I found talking to the proprietors easy and informative.  During wine tastings I'm usually fairly quiet, pretending to understand tannins and acidity and palate with a mock-pensive expression, nodding enthusiastically when the words reserve and barrel aged come up, and the employees are typically so caught up in getting through all the wines and answering highbrow vino-related questions that there really is no time to chit-chat.  However, I spoke with employees for at least a half an hour, and they were not only excellent resources about the vineyard and farm but also about Loudoun as well.  Zephaniah is a place I could see myself visiting multiple times a year, not only for the wine but for the friendly staff, the conversation, and the simple, pastoral setting.

Stop 2: Sweet Home Alpacas

40580 Charles Town Pike, Paeonian Springs

A month ago I visited the Bluemont Fair and was highly intrigued by the llamas and alpacas featured there.  To me, they were much more entertaining than the schedule of eclectic musicians and performers.  "They make a great addition to the family, and they're a tax break, too!" I was told by one of the alpaca farmers.  How fun would it be to impersonate a potential alpaca entrepreneur?, I thought when I saw the alpaca farm advertised in the Farm Color Tour brochure.  I had it all planned out: I'd do some research, learn some llama-jargon, find out typical prices and try to negotiate an advantageous deal.  My plan was foiled, however, when I realized I was losing my voice on the drive out to Sweet Home Alpacas.  Much to my chagrin, none of the alpacas were for sale anyway; they were "just for looking at."  And look I did.  My visit took about ten minutes, in which I stared at an alpaca eating grass, an alpaca eating poop, an alpaca sleeping on the ground, and a baby alpaca walking in circles.  Let's just say that my interest in llamas and alpacas has diminished tenfold since this trek to Paeonian Springs.

Stop 3: Moutoux Orchard

15290 Purcellville Road, Purcellville

These two pictures show the entirety of Moutoux (Mew-too?  Moo-tow?) Orchard.  Lots of...grass...and...some apple trees...and...grass.  Oh, and a barn, which sold about five items: apples, flour, and a few colorful odd-shaped gourd things.  It was what I imagined a grocery store looked like during the Great Depression: empty.  Visitors couldn't even pick their own apples.  I was pretty disappointed, especially since Moutoux (Mow-touse?) seemed highly recommended in the event brochure.  I was here even less time than the Alpaca farm, with my tonsils now touching each other and my ability to smell completely gone.  I had about an hour left until my imminent illness took complete control of my weakened body, so I planned my route home and decided to make a couple stops along the way back to Ashburn.

Stop 4: North Gate Vineyard

16110 Mountain Ridge Lane, Purcellville

North Gate advertised apple wine, and as an apple and a wine fan, I knew I just had to sample some.  I did a quick wine tasting (8 wines in 4 minutes), all of which I could not actually taste and could hardly bear to swallow, and decided to buy a bottle of apple wine to celebrate with when I overcame my tonsillitis a week or so later.  (It was delicious, and perfect for a chilly autumn afternoon.)  North Gate is not a typical vineyard; it is actually run out of the proprietor's home, which looks oddly like a small Bavarian castle nestled in rural Loudoun.  The property was beautiful but had very few visitors.  I listened to a pubescent bluegrass band play an Old Crow Medicine Show song and then I left, dizzy and depressed that the farm tour that I had so looked forward to for three weeks was turning into a miserable Sunday.  But, even if I didn't have growths forming in the back of my throat, I would not have stayed at North Gate very long.

Stop 5: Crooked Run Orchard

37883 East Main Street, Purcellville

At this point on the farm tour, I was fairly sure I was dying.  Breathing became difficult, and the sun made my eyes water so intensely that tears ran down my cheeks behind my sunglasses.  Every shrill cry of a child made my ears ring, and I began to shiver in the 70 degree heat.  I could hardly keep my own head up, never mind attempt to go apple picking, although it looked like a fun time.  Most of the patrons at the orchard were families with young children.  (Warning: wash your fruit.  I witnessed an audacious five-year-old pick up a few apples, lick them, and put them back in their respective bushels.)

I barely made it home to my townhouse in Ashburn Farm.  Immediately, I dropped into bed, whereupon I shivered uncontrollably for three hours and prayed for unconsciousness to come quickly.  It didn't, and I suffered for days, weaving in and out of dreams of alpacas and apples and Angus.  It was a miserable day, but I can always go back to my favorite spots, I tell myself.  Rural Loudoun is here to stay.  My tonsils, however, won't be so lucky.