This Weird Girl

In life and in death. Before and beyond. I hope I never stop loving people.

People like Virginia (Davis) Wydner and her husband Dickie.

This morning is husband and my last day of a much needed, quiet three day anniversary trip into the Blue Ridge Mountains (Wintergreen). It has drizzled the entire time, and the fog has settled thick as froth – no view in sight, not even the road at times.

Every morning, I slept in late when I didn’t want to. But rest and delay were the medicine for this trip. Just wasting time and annoyingly engaging in about four fights. Ahhhhh, married life. It’s so absolutely worth it!

This little apartment we stayed in is so beautiful. I marveled yesterday about how well designed it was. Warm neutral palette with a balance of lush comfort and chic industrial. Nothing matches. Every piece is a different upholstery finish except the matching end tables and lamps. And yet, it’s absolutely perfect for the balance of the human being.

I have a lot of innate talent and home decor not being one of them. I was raised on whatever could be acquired in a dumpster dive or freebie. As a married woman, I graduated to thrift stores for the most part. I’m convinced the solution for the beautiful human environment is $3,000 at a HomeGoods store. But I digress.

This post will probably become long-winded. I rarely have this kind of moment of magic. My head is so full of stories and thoughts, but I rarely have time to write them down. Or, I  have time but haven’t settled down enough to upload them to the internet. Sometimes I have both, but I’m just too dang tired to write, opting for way too much time playing All-in-Hole and scrolling YouTube shorts.

*pause – inhale deeply*

Once upon a time, in 2010, I ran an errand at our new church during revival week during the day when only two or three people were hanging around. There she was, kneeling in front of the stage in attentive prayer. Virginia Wydner. That’s my first memory of her.

For the next 15 years, I was privileged to share space with her countless times – in choir, at potlucks, at church, and occasional impromptu chats in the grocery store. She was taller than me, sturdy but soft. A true southern lady raised in the more secluded bygone communities of the Blue Ridge. Oronoco, VA, was her whole world as a child. So when I say “southern lady,” I’m not describing the stereotype of snobbery. Virginia was just … perfect.

Not long before she passed away, I was blessed with one last impromptu chat in the grocery store aisle. I hadn’t seen Virginia in a long time due to the progressive nature of cancer. But she exclaimed, “I’m having a good day today,” with her endearing smile, “So I decided to get out of the house.”

Less than two years later, her beloved husband joined her in Paradise. And, as is the nature of death, that was that.

Or is it?

Dickie died in September. And I was itching for an escape in October. So I reached out to the Wydner’s only child, Sharon, and asked if I could use the unoccupied house for a little while just to get away from my own chaos 1.7 miles up the street. She actually said yes and gave me a key!

Fifteen years of Wydner friendship, and I had no idea where they lived or what their home looked like. I wondered, “Were they slobs, or secret hoarders? Or were they wealthy, living in two or three rooms of a huge million dollar vista?” After all, the address was on a street I’ve never visited called Vista Drive. Sounds pretty fancy.

I met Sharon at the last house on the dead end of Vista Drive. It is the smallest, unassuming brick ranch on the street of two-story suburban homes – the most humble. (I know now it was the most magical, in my opinion)

Sharon is like her mother, tall and beautiful, her hair a perfect shade of salon blonde with not a bit out of place. “Sorry it’s dirty. I haven’t had time to spend cleaning it up,” she said.

She pushed the front door open to a formal living room of warm neutrals creams, country blues and professionally installed drapery. “Wow! This is not dirty,” I assured her. She ached out a giggle, “Yeah, but it’s not how Mama kept it.”

We looked around together, got the necessary details, and went back to our crazy agendas. I returned the next day.

Built in the late 1960s, the kitchen still had the original dark brown laminate floor in excellent condition for its age. I learned later about Dickie and Viginia’s reputation for taking exceptional care of their belongings, but seeing it for the first time definitely clued me in.

Yeah, it was a little dusty, but not a thing was out of place except for a little clutter on the dining room table. Dickie’s hat was still sitting on the office chart. He probably got gome from the post office, took off his hat, sat at the computer, and went to bed just before his final journey to the hospital.

I was afraid to touch anything in the “Wydner Museum,” but Sharon wasn’t as sentimental as me. With permission, I made myself at home at Virginia’s home. And doing so changed my life.

To be continued…