Mac’s sits on a hill, and was my “view” for the first three and a half years I lived in the valley. The position of my windows was such that the view looked directly over Route 11.

Over, not at, the road.

Each season, much to my delight, the owners would decorate their property with colorful flowers, plants, and yard art. Hanging baskets were all along the roadway, hanging on fences and from poles.

Some summer days a chainsaw artist would sit creating eagles, bears, and other wonderful creatures from bark-covered tree trunks. Varoooom, varooooom, the engine would rev as the adept artist used his motorized carving tool. Chips flew in every direction as the animals emerged. I planned to walk over for a closer look and conversation, but he was usually engrossed in his work.

Often, throngs of people eager to transform their lawns with the current season’s plants, would visit. Small children would hide under the outdoor tables and men would lug bags of mulch to the cars, while women would delicately place tiny pots of bedding plants into the red wagons provided for the customers’ use. Spring, summer, and fall brought such a delightful array of colors that, more than once, I thanked the owners for decorating especially for me.

Today, I head south through Woodstock, passing the wonderful old barn on Lora Drive that John Makely purchased to house his appliance repair business. We became acquainted during conversations about hiking and canoeing as he worked on various pieces of my malfunctioning household machinery.

The barn, complete with a silo, now houses a variety of businesses including Hair Spray where my friend Tara Pederson expertly removes years from my appearance by hiding the ever increasing gray that sneaks its way onto my head. Tara’s salon is a colorful affair, complete with a manicure and waxing room. Southern Living and other types of tasteful reading material make any wait productive and enjoyable. The shampoo room has a fully reclining chair so that one’s head rests comfortably during a strong-fingered shampoo/massage. On Wednesday nights, we usually order take-out from a local eatery. Conversation is always interesting as doctor’s wives, stay-at-home moms, teenagers looking for a cool style, and even construction workers come and go. I enjoy frequenting businesses in reclaimed buildings. Re-adaptive architecture has long been popular in urban settings, but seeing these grand old barns put to a new use is exciting.

I pass the barn and silo and on through Edinburg.

Roll upon roll of hay dots the fields across from where I turn right to visit the Meem’s Bottom Covered Bridge. Built in 1894 and burned by vandals in 1976, the bridge was rebuilt after the original timbers were salvaged. One day, my friend Linda Lightfoot and I climbed down the bank to the north fork of the Shenandoah, where we spent a couple of hours hiking along the river’s edge.

There is a path for a good distance, and then a rock scramble. The brush was thick and full of brambles, but we gingerly picked our way along until we could go no further. We sat for a time, watching the water glide by, skipping a few rocks along the cool water’s surface. My sunglasses are in that thicket somewhere, having fallen from their usual Florida girl perch in my shirt collar. Linda says I am no longer allowed to hike, as I lose something each time we trek. We try to abide by the earth-friendly hikers’ slogan “Leave no trace,” and that gentle admonishment reminds me to be more careful.

Cars wait patiently to pass through the one lane bridge as those of us on foot make our way out. At the bridge’s edge, there is a picnic area next to a massive cornfield. Directly across the road is the site of the annual Corn Maize that is on the list for next fall’s adventures.

Originally published on Shenandoah.com

Marcy McCann is a writer who lives in the Shenandoah Valley. Her book, “Chelsea’s Tree,” is available on Amazon.com. She also owns LtdPrints.com in Strasburg, VA that sells art for hotels, restuarants, offices, and homes. 

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