This past week, Rachel and I took a day trip from our home in Virginia Beach northeast to Virginia’s Eastern Shore and eventually Chincoteague Island.  The trip, which encompassed about 100 miles of roads, tunnels, and bridges included time on the historic Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel as well as scenic Route 13/Lankford Highway.  Route 13 on Virginia’s Eastern Shore, for those who have yet to travel on it, is just miles and miles of gorgeous country homes, majestic farms and farm stands, acres and acres of crops, and comfortable driving conditions.  The drive was enhanced by the weather, which included sunny skies, puffy clouds, and little or no traffic.

About 20 or so miles after crossing into the Eastern Shore and after finishing off my thermos filled with sparkling orange soda, I needed a bathroom break.  Rachel had intimated about stopping at a local farm stand to take a look around, having passed a few already and was curious to see what they had to offer.  So, we decided that the next farm stand on the north side of the road we saw, we would stop at.  And just passed a village/town sign that read “Birdsnest” we did just that.

The farm stand, name withheld, had a seashell covered parking lot with a few cars parked in front of a large covered, wooden structure.  The structure, upon closer inspection, had wooden cutouts packed with corn, tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, strawberries, just to name a few items.  Similar to what you might see in your average grocery store’s produce section.  Couples were “shopping” the cutouts and pulling out fruits and vegetables and placing them in a little wagon, which the farm stand provided to customers.  Rachel hopped right into the shopping, grabbing a little wagon, and it was my cue to find a restroom, Port-A-Potty, or perhaps a guest bathroom at the farm.  I inquired with a farm stand employee, a young boy not 12 years old, who was taking payments at the register.  I noticed he was wearing a Baltimore Orioles jersey and told him I was a baseball writer.  And that I had been to Camden Yards with my son, Harrison, when he was about his age.  Showed him a few photos I took at the game.  The farm stand kid, who said bathrooms are usually off limits to customers, showed me a door on the farmhouse down the driveway, and said “For you, 2nd door on your left.”  I said thanks kid and headed down the farmhouse driveway.

I entered the farmhouse to silence, looked left and right for anyone to greet me, then shut the screen door. I found a hallway which led to several rooms, hoping one would be the bathroom.  There was an open door on the left, the first door in the hallway, with just enough sunlight poking into the room to provide just enough light. I peeked inside for a second, as anyone would do.  As I stood in the doorway, with the door open just a crack, I could see a wall of baseball cards blocked together like posters.  I touched the door a bit with my right foot and the door swung open so I could look at the entire room.  The entire room was filled with poster upon poster of baseball cards.  There was a desk and a comfortable chair, a reading lamp, and a pretty stocked library of books.  It was clearly an office, maybe a baseball enthusiast like me.  I took a step in and looked closer at the posters and noticed that the posters were all baseball cards, Topps Baseball cards.  And some famous names.  Mantle, Aaron, Mays, Gibson, Koufax – I thought to myself, where could I get a poster like this for my office.  Just then, I heard some scuffling behind me and headed out of the baseball card poster room and found the bathroom.

After doing my business, turning on the faucet to wash my hands, then shutting off the faucet, I found a hand towel hung up on the wall next to the light switch.  As I was drying my hands, I listened for anyone or anything outside the bathroom door that might greet me as I reappeared into the farmhouse hallway.  I opened the door like I used to open my Mom’s front door after missing curfew as a teenager – very cautiously.  I pulled the door towards me and peered out to the right and then around the door to the left.  Nobody, phew. I spotted the exit door and started towards it, not even looking into the baseball card room.  When I reached for the door handle of the screen door, a voice from behind me asked, “what are you doing in here?”  I turned to see a man of at least 80 years old standing in the hallway, looking every bit of what a farmer should look like.  “Uh, a boy at the stand told me it was okay to use the house bathroom, I hope he’s not in trouble.  Doubling up on that, I hope I’m not in trouble.”  The farmer looked at me without grinning and asked, “are you the baseball writer?”  I nodded.  “Are you here to turn me in?” he asked, almost holding back tears.  I answered bewilderedly, “turn you in for what, sir?  I was just using the bathroom.” He seemed to be standing, starting at me, deep in thought and then uttered, “come with me son, it’s time I tell the truth.”