My Mother – I Could Get by with Nothing!

Monday’s Rewind

No. 6 – My Mother (Continued)

School Years – I could get by with Nothing

Lois started teaching the year I entered the first grade. She taught high school English and Biology. New Kent School was a two-floor brick building with a room for each of twelve grades, a library, a few offices, and an auditorium. The lower grades were downstairs (the boys’ and girls’ restrooms were also downstairs), middle school and high school grades were upstairs. Those first years, Lois and I both rode the school bus to school. Later, when we got a dependable car, Lois would drive to school and I did not have to ride the bus.

Because first grade was in the basement, I did not get by with anything. While I was generally well behaved, there was a girl in the first grade that I fancied. As everyone knows, little boys show their admiration for little girls by being bratty, teasing, etc. (I am told not all men outgrow this!) My actions soon came to the attention of our teacher, Ms Edwards, who was clearly the strictest teacher we would have in our entire twelve years of school. For punishment, I was sent to stand in the corner—in the hall under the stairwell to the upper level.


Although taken recently, this is how New Kent School looked when we entered the first grade.

It was a small school, and all of Lois’ students knew I was Mrs. Richmond’s little boy. The “girls’ room” was in our wing. Several high school girls had come by and spotted me in the corner. I stood there for the remainder of my sentence expecting my mother to appear at any moment. She never appeared and I thought perhaps she might not be aware of my misdeeds. It was not until dinner that evening she told my father that I had been sent to the corner in the hall. That launched an inquisition! After turning red, and stammering to try to explain, my mother explained that she had talked Ms Edwards and found out what happened. They both had a good laugh. As a first grader, I did not understand the humor.

Speaking of punishment, well, it did not happen often, but mother’s mode of operation was a branch from a little pussy willow in the back yard. Those willow canes made effective switches and I felt the sting on the backs of my legs on several occasions. It was effective. I don’t recall the offense, but I do recall the consequence.

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I Grew up on a Farm in Virginia – No. 5

Walking to Susie’s (Age 4)

In No 4, we learned about “How I learned to Cuss”

I grew up in a simpler time and in a simpler place. By now, if you have followed my “I Grew Up on a Farm in Virginia” series, you know I was an only child, living with my parents on a relatively isolated farm in Tidewater, Virginia.

The Lower (Susie's) House from the wharf in the winter.

The Lower (Susie’s) House from the wharf in the winter.

There were two residences on the farm. My grandmother Susie lived in the “lower” house (“lower” because it was down on the flat land near the river, while the “upper” house was up on a bluff several hundred feet above the river). I believe the lower house began as a hunting cabin when the property was owned by the Chesapeake and Ohio (C&O) Railroad. The house had been expanded and converted into a comfortable ranch-style home. The house was set back from the river about 100 feet and on a piece of land that was about 20 feet above the river. The front yard sloped steeply down to the river. There was a wall, made of old railroad ties that protected the front yard from erosion and there was a pier that extended from the wall out about fifty feet to the river channel.

We lived in the upper house, located on the top of a bluff above the Chickahominy River, a mile from Susie’s house. Although I do not know this for a fact, I believe Susie probably talked my father into moving to the farm, including having that house built for us. It was a simple house, basically a square box with four rooms, a hall, a full basement with a fireplace, and the kitchen and bathroom sort of attached on the back of the house. The exterior was wood shingle, stained dark green.

The front of Upper House. The road to the lower house goes past the house on the left and down a steep hill.

The front of Upper House. The road to the lower house goes past the house on the left and down a steep hill.

It was a drafty house, not well heated nor well insulated. Fortunately, the climate in Tidewater Virginia was not terribly harsh. Still, it was not unusual in the winter to wake up in my room with frost on the windows: inside and out. Occasionally, the fireplace in the basement became the place to stay warm when a really cold spell of weather hit.

There was a side porch that provided access to the side door into the living room. I had a swing on the porch that kept me occupied much of the time. It was my place to play, other than in my room. My room was on the northwest corner of the house—in the photo, the windows to the right of he front door. (The smokehouse partially blocks the far right side of the house.)

It was “my space” and other than parentally-directed duties of making sure I kept it picked up and keeping the bed made, my folks let me organize and decorate my room as I wished. From as early as I can remember, I liked plastic model airplane kits, and many of the kits included stands that could be attached to the wall to display the model. By the time I was in high school, there were probably 25 or 30 model airplanes on shelves, on the walls, or hanging from the ceiling.

I also loved to read. All through school, I would check out books from the school library—usually something about animals, dinosaurs, airplanes, or historical biographies (e.g., Abraham Lincoln’s biography). Both Susie and my parents also bought me many books. Often, on a nice weekend day, I would take the current book, hike into the woods, find a comfortable spot to sit, and spend the day reading. I had several favorite reading spots.

But this story takes place well before all of that
At the age of four, I loved being outside. I explored the limits of the yard, wandered in the garden (it was about an acre in size), launched cardboard boxes on large mud puddles to go sailing, and climbed on the tractor in the shed to travel where ever my imagination would take me (before the tractor shed burned down—see “The Day my Mother Burned Down the Tractor Shed”).

My mother and I often took walks around the farm. She knew all of the wildflowers, and most of the critters we encountered. One day, we walked the mile to Susie’s house. That was something of an adventure, walking through the woods, then along the bluff overlooking Diascund Creek probably a 100 feet below, then across open fields to the road that ran along the river, and finally to Susie’s house.

More often, she was busy with household chores or sewing, making the colonially dressed dolls she sold to shops in Williamsburg. So, much of the time I was on my own to explore, usually with instructions to stay “in the yard.” But on a farm, “yard” is not always a well-defined area, and I, like many a young lad, would push the boundaries.
Also, there was a shed across the side yard (not the one that burned!), in which I would play. It became the headquarters for imagining my adventures. Before going outside, I would announce my intentions. For example, I would say, “I am going to go sit on the tractor in the shed and imagine flying around the world.”

The usual response was, “Okay. Just be careful. Don’t fly too far. Stay in the yard,” and off I would go.

One day I announced, “I am going to visit Susie.”

Lois assumed I was going to the shed to act out my “pretend trip” to Susie’s. I got a simple “Okay.”

And off I started, walking down the farm road.

I remember much of that walk vividly. From the house, the farm road went down steeply through a deep cut in an even steeper hill. Trees leaned out over the road; it was like a tunnel through the trees. (In retrospect, having read The Hobbit in later life, it was like Bilbo Baggins starting off on an adventure into the unknown.) At the foot of the hill, the road took one more steep dip as it spilled out between two small fields. Here the road turned from red clay and gravel to white, soft sand. Further along, the road was lined with tall pine trees, and I kicked pine cones along as I walked.

There was a brief transition from the sandy road, down another narrow cut that often was rutted where rain water washed the road away. My father, and later, I spent much time with a tractor and trailer full of dirt repairing this short section of road.
The transition, at about the midpoint in my journey, opened into a large field. The road forked at this point, and I had to make a choice. To the left, the road ran between the pond and the field, and eventually came up behind Susie’s house. To the right, the road cut back into a stand of pine trees toward the river and eventually to the front of house. The stand of trees seemed more of an adventure, and I turned right.
Imagine a four-year-old boy, walking along, kicking pine cones, and just looking up into the trees above, and peering into the woods looking for, but happy not to see, some creature in the underbrush.

At the river, the road turned sharply left. At this corner, the river flooded a low swampy area in the woods on the right. There was an old, worn floating fisherman’s shack moored at the opening to this swamp. Surrounded by cypress trees and their “knees” that reached up from the swamp for air, the shack was an eerie and mysterious place.

The fish house was where my father kept all of the commercial fishing  equipment, and there was an ice room downstairs to keep a catch fresh.

The fish house was where my father kept all of the commercial fishing equipment, and there was an ice room downstairs to keep a catch fresh.

I followed the road to the left and emerged from the woods with the field on the left and the river, visible through about 50 feet of trees and brush, on the right. This last quarter mile of my trek was a straight walk, past the fish house where my father stored his nets and equipment to catch herring during the spring spawning.

From here the front yard of Susie’s house was visible. I walked the rest of the way and walked up to the house. I opened the door and announced, “Hi, Susie.” Needless to say, she was surprised.

I got the expected, “What are you doing here? Where is Lois?”

I explained that she was home. “How did you get here?” was the next question.

“I walked.”

“Does your mother know where you are?”

“Yes, I told her I was coming down to see you.”

Well, about 15 minutes later, my mother did show up. She had looked out to check on me and could not find me. Recalling my announced intentions, she began walking down the road. She soon saw my shoe prints in the soft white sand, and even saw that I had taken the right turn at the big field.

I do not recall the conversation after that, except that I was not scolded. After all, I had clearly stated my intentions, had gotten an “Okay,” and I had arrived safely.

Susie thought it was funny, mother was just a tad exasperated, but as I said, she did not scold me. Later, I did get firm instructions about the limits of my explorations away from the yard.

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My Mother (Continued)

No. 8 – Mother’s Cooking – And then there were grits.

(My apologies, this article was posted out of sequence.)

Following up on the topic of cooking; growing up in Virginia, you would think grits would have been a regular on the breakfast table. As it was, neither of my parents ate grits. I did not experience (and learn to like) grits until I went to college where they were a staple of the breakfast cafeteria line every morning. I went home telling my parents about how great grits were and why had we never had them. Mother allowed as how she thought they were tasteless, not worth the effort. How they had lived in Virginia for more than 20 years and managed to not develop a taste for grits was a mystery to me. After all, they liked cream of wheat and farina!

Mother, however, decided to surprise me and fix grits. She got a box of dried grits with a recipe for cheesy grits on the box, which she had heard me mention. That evening she served up a casserole dish of cheesy grits. They were gritty for sure. Naïve, my mother did not realize (and had overlooked the directions) that it was necessary to cook the grits first, then make the casserole. She simply put the dry grits with all the other ingredients in the casserole dish (minus any water) in the oven.

It was true grit!

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I Grew up on a Farm in Virginia – No. 4

Days at the Beach (and How I learned to Cuss!)

In No. 3, we left me “afloat” on a stuffed horse in a mud puddle!

Lois and Susie would go to Virginia Beach every summer before I started school. Those trips are well documented by mother’s photography. I loved the beach, and Lois and Susie both spent many hours helping me build sand castles, dig in the sand, and play in the surf. I think we stayed in a rental cabin or maybe a hotel room—that I do not remember exactly. I do know that Susie had a package of Ex-Lax in the room that I discovered. It looked and tasted like chocolate to me. I don’t member much more about that except that I got a good hard lecture about getting into other people’s stuff.


Lois Richmond at Virginia Beach,
c. 1948.

As I said, mother did not swear. That was not true of my father, at least “back then.” I like to think I had some influence on him tempering his speech somewhat. It went like this.

While at the beach, Susie took my mother and me to a nice restaurant with cloth napkins and white table cloths. Even as a toddler, I was impressed. I was seated in a nice high-chair by the table. I sat there for several minutes, looking around, when I looked up and saw this huge chandelier. Looking at this huge glass contraption overhead, calmly, in a loud child’s voice I said, not once by twice, “Well I’ll be gawwd-daaamned.” I forget exactly what happened at that point except that within microseconds, I was lifted out of the high-chair and whisked out of the dining room. Don’t know if we ever went back there again, or not.

I do know that my father got an earful about cussing around me, and by the time I was a more fully aware youngster, he swore only occasionally. As I matured, I noticed that he rarely swore.

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My Mother: Florence Lois Rice Richmond (or Why I am an Only Child)

Monday Rewind

I started this series and was distracted. Here is the second installment.

No. 2 –  Why I am an Only Child

My mother, Lois Richmond, had a significant influence on my life, interests, career choices, and the fact that I am even writing this series of essays. Perhaps, someday, someone will be able to say with certainty that these influences were genetic—that is, she and I were genetically inclined toward similar interests—or if I was simply influenced by her many interests. It is the old question of nature versus nurture. In any case, I am happy that it occurred. She led an interesting life over many years. While I cannot capture each noteworthy event here, I hope I can convey something of her spirit and personality in the following paragraphs.

lois-richmond c1945

Lois Richmond, c. 1945, on the Farm in front of Susie’s (my grandmother) house on the Chickahominy River

Lois Richmond, c. 1945, on the Farm in front of Susie’s (my grandmother) house on the Chickahominy River

To tell this story naturally (for me) I must point out that from as early in life as I can remember, I addressed my mother and father by their first names, Lois and Paul. That is what I heard them call each other, and they never encouraged me to do differently. It became a little awkward for me as I reached maturity, and my peers referred to their parents as “mom” and “dad.” I would say, “Lois cooked some wild ducks last night. What a disaster.” The response was “Who is Lois?” rather than “What happened?” Then I would have to explain. No explanation was ever quite satisfactory for any of my friends. I would hear, “That’s just not right,” and I never did get to describe what happened with the ducks.

Why I am an Only Child
My mother was named for her mother, “Florence,” and her father, Louis, i.e., “Lois.” Lois was born in West Virginia, the oldest of nine siblings. I suspect that is why I am an only child—she had her fill of taking care of children when she was growing up. In fact, I am probably lucky to be here. I recall asking my folks about a brother or sister. My father said something about discussing that with Lois. As I recall, she said, in effect, there was nothing to discuss! (It is probably a good thing that she was prone to the use of  profanity!)

I know very little about my parents’ lives before I was born. I know that she went to public school and college in West Virginia. Certainly, she did well in school—she was an intelligent and well-read person. She and my father met in West Virginia, and were married around 1940. By this time, my father’s mother (I called her “Susie” because she absolutely forbade me to call her anything like “grandma”), widowed since 1914, moved east to Tidewater, Virginia. I do not know the details, but somehow, my parents came to Virginia shortly after they married.

I was born in Princess Ann County (Norfolk) Virginia. My father told me that he worked in a Colonial Stores supermarket in Newport News or Portsmouth, Virginia. About this same time, Susie married W.R. Shackleford (see the first article in this series titled “The Farm”) and moved to Moyseneck Farm.

The Nest Article: The Richmonds come to the Farm.

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I Grew up on a Farm in Virginia – No. 3

The Richmonds Come to the Farm

At the end of No 2. You may recall that my grandmother, Susie, married W.R. Shackleford, and that is how we came to be on the farm at Moyseneck.

W.R. died in 1940 as a result of a logging accident, and Susie inherited the farm. My parents made the decision (Susie probably had a strong influence here) to move to the farm. It is simply a child’s perception, but I have the impression that this would not have been my mother’s first choice. I suspect that Susie made an offer (a house on the farm) that they could not refuse.

My parents did whatever they could to generate income. As I was becoming more aware, I know that there was a large chicken house about fifty yards behind the house. My parents gathered eggs, cleaned and graded them, and sold them to a grocery store in Williamsburg.

Mother was interested in colonial Williamsburg history, and she was a good seamstress. So she decided to dress standard nine-inch dolls in colonial clothes and sell them to the souvenir shops in Williamsburg. Apparently, she had some success at this. She had ordered a huge box of naked dolls to dress and eventually, they were all gone. In a recent online search, I found one of her “Moyseneck” dolls that had been resold through an online auction—that doll had been sold in Williamsburg some 60 years ago. (Mother also dressed dolls in cheerleader outfits. My girl classmates always hoped I drew their names for the Christmas gift drawing. They knew they would get one of Lois’ dolls!)

Moyseneck Doll

Doll dressed by Lois Richmond in the early 1950s and sold in a Williamsburg store. The tag reads “A Moyseneck Doll, Dressed in the manner of 18th Century Williamsburg – Ball Gown.” She sold many such dolls in the early 1950s.

Embarrassing Photos
Lois loved to take photos. She had an Argus C-3 35mm film camera with which she produced some memorable, in some cases, embarrassing, photos. There are many photos from around the farm and of my father working the farm, trapping, fishing, and tending animals on the farm. She provided a very good photographic record of the time of their early years together.

And the embarrassing photos, ah yes, well…. You see, at about the age of three, I had the run of the yard around the house. The house was set on the edge of a small clearing. All roads and the “driveway” (the bare area in the front yard) were dirt, and there were several sizeable puddles in the front yard—they seemed like veritable lakes to a small three-year old.

As I mentioned, Lois was quite good on the sewing machine, and she made me several really cool stuffed animals, one of which was a horse. The horse had no legs, but rather had a large cushion body just the right size for me to straddle and sit on. Its neck and head sat up in front of me just like the real thing. I think she used sawdust to fill it (there were large several sawdust piles on the farm from earlier logging operations).

I am not sure how, but I managed to get the horse out of the house (I am sure Lois would have turned me around if she had seen what I was doing). And there was that puddle. It was a warm summer day and I pushed the horse into the puddle and launched my next adventure—and Lois got even—I still have the photos to prove it. I think the horse was “retired” after that event, but, I did not need that horse for future “bare back” puddle adventures, and my mother captured those on film, too!

Jeff horse puddle-1

It was amazing how quickly my mother could find and set the camera and take a photo. This is one of the less, but still, embarrassing photos she took of my adventures with mud puddles!

On one occasion, I found a box and pushed it into the largest puddle I could find, found a stick for a paddle, and set off on some other adventure (I had an active imagination). Again, my mother showed up with a camera to capture “the young Columbus launching his ship.”

Finally, on another warm and sunny day, there were several inviting puddles. With no horse or box available, I decided to just go for a swim. I did not see any need to get my clothes wet and dirty in the puddle, so I stripped down, as my father would say, “bare-assed-naked.” You guessed it, my mother showed up with the camera. (Yeah, I have those photos too; locked up!)

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I Grew Up on a Farm in Virginia

Monday’s Rewind

Foreword – This is the first in a series of posts that I originally posted in early 2014. These are stories about my growing up in Virginia on a farm. It will cover roughly 20 years–maybe more. I originally prepared this series for my daughters Kym, Christina, and Larissa and my grandchildren, Haleigh and Owen. However, over the years, I have told many of these stories to my family and friends (often repeatedly). I have reviewed and edited this series to correct any errors (both in facts and in composition) and occasionally added additional information. I will greatly appreciate any comments or questions.                                                               Jeff

Now, to begin…

No. 1 –  The Setting – Moyseneck Farm

The Farm was the perfect place for me to grow up. It offered the best combination of freedom, responsibility, and inspiration for the youngster that I was and for the adult I would become. My persona is rooted in the soil of Moyseneck Farm, in Lanexa, Virginia. Lanexa is a small community centered on U.S. Route 60, about 20 miles west of Williamsburg, 35 miles east of Richmond.

The name we used for the farm dates back to before 1607—it is the name of the village of Powhatan (Virginia) Indians as recorded by John Smith when he explored and mapped that part of the New World that would become Virginia. In 1609 and1610, he explored the James River and its tributaries all the way to their headwaters in the mountains. Smith produced both a map and a complete journal of his explorations. The map is remarkably detailed of the area, annotated with Indian names for villages, rivers and regional areas.

Excerpt from John Smith’s map showing location of “Jamestowne” and “Moysenec” (site of Moyseneck Farm).

Moysenec, as Smith spelled it on his map, was located at the confluence of the Chickahominy River and Diascund Creek (modern name, it is not named on Smith’s map) about eight miles upriver from where the Chickahominy flows into the James River.

John Smith wrote a lengthy account of his explorations wherein he described the Indian villages and tribes that he met, his relationship with Chief Powhatan and later his encounter with Pocahontas. Buried within the pages of this book are several references to Moysenec, wherein he described the steep cliffs rising above the river and other features of the area that would become very familiar to me. Smith had to rely on phonetics to convert Indian names to English words, and in his writing, he spelled “Moysenec” several different ways.

The combination of the river and the creek create an isthmus that is roughly shaped like a boot, the creek flowing into the river under the foot and winding around forming the “heel.” The narrow “ankle” part of the foot is high, wooded, hilly terrain that rises about 100 feet above the river. The broad foot is low land, only 10 to twenty feet above the river. Both the “toe” and the “heel” are largely tidal marsh land.  The Chickahominy is a freshwater river, but is subject to tides that rise and fall about three feet.

This was an excellent site for an Indian village. The river provided excellent fishing, especially in the spring when huge schools of herring and shad swam up river to spawn. Bass, pan fish, and catfish, as well as turtles, were plentiful year-round. The marshes had good populations of muskrat, mink, and otter, providing both meat and fur. Deer, squirrel, and rabbits were also common. In the rich soil they grew maze, gourds and tobacco.

Moyseneck Farm
Moyseneck Farm is boot-shaped, bordered by the Chickahominy River to the West (left) and Diascund Creek (forming the heel of the “boot”).

In my younger years, the farm was probably little changed from the time of Smith’s explorations, except that much of the timber on the lower end of the farm had been clear-cut in the early 1940s. Much of area was grown up in small trees (scrub), shrubs and pines that had replaced the earlier hardwood forest.

In the early 1800s, the farm—I think it did not qualify as a plantation, or at least there is no easily accessible record of such—was a working farm that was worked by slaves. This is based on oral histories passed down through the community. According to these accounts, Jim Blayton (name unconfirmed), the master of the farm, was a hard, perhaps, cruel task master and slave owner. Local farmers and fishermen not only told tales of Jim Blayton, but would not walk along the creek at night for fear of his ghost (I heard that said, personally).  Walking in the woods on the lower portion of the property, it was possible to see crop rows left from when the area was a working farm.

Sometime around the late 1800s or very early 1900s, the Chesapeake and Ohio (C&O) railroad obtained the land in the process of putting a railroad that ran from Norfolk to Richmond and beyond to the coal mines of western Virginia. As I understand it, the farm was part of the land purchase, and I recall being told that it was used as a hunting camp and retreat for railroad personnel. In any case there was a two-track rail line that cut across the “top of the boot,” around the north end of the bend in the river and across a bridge across the creek. Since this was the highland of the farm, the railroad engineers had simply dug a huge cut through the property so that the railroad did not have to traverse any hills. This was what we called the “railroad cut” that produced steep hills on either side of the railroad. The dirt and gravel road in and out of the cut, that provided access to the farm, was constantly washing out, having to be repaired. My father and, later, I spent many hours on a tractor with a grader blade shaping and tending to the roads.

Early in the 1900s, W.R. Shackleford, a well-to-do businessman and automobile dealer (Chrysler, Plymouth, and Dodge) purchased the property. The northern property line ran roughly parallel to, and just north of, the railroad cut, and included all land south or below the railroad. At that time, there was a house, probably a hunting lodge, on the river, just about in the curve on the top of the “foot.” Details of this building have been lost.

Apparently, W.R. also did some farming, or perhaps sharecropped the fields. The land became known as Shackleford Farms, and that appeared as the address on mail for many years.

In separate events in West Virginia, my father was born in 1917. His mother was Edna Bradley Richmond, married to Orestes Albert Richmond. Orestes died c. 1924 (when my father was seven). Sometime after that his mother moved to eastern Virginia in the Portsmouth area. The details are lost, but she met and married W. R. Shackleford around 1940 or 1941 and they moved to the farm.  W. R. was killed in a logging accident on the farm within a few years after they were married and my grandmother (we called her Susie) inherited the property.

In the years between 1944 and 1950, Susie married and later divorced Dee DeHart, and my parents (Paul S. Richmond and Lois Rice Richmond) built a house on, and moved to, the farm. I believe W.R. Shackleford left Susie financially “well off” and I suspect she assisted my parents in building a home on the farm. I can just barely remember the house being built—I specifically recall seeing a carpenter working on the stairway into the basement. The earliest photos of me on the farm show me about the age of three. At about this same time, the name of the farm was changed from Shackleford Farms to Moyseneck Farm based on the original Indian village name.


My father and Dee worked the farm. I have photos of them harvesting wheat, my father running a fishing operation, etc. (as I have said, my mother was an accomplished photographer). The farm never was financially successful.

I only vaguely remember Dee. Around 1950—I would have been five years old—Susie took a trip to Reno, Nevada. She was gone for a several months. Although it was never expressly explained to me at that young age, she apparently went to Nevada, established residency, and obtained a divorce from Dee. Nevada was the go-to state for a divorce in those days. Needless to say, I have no more recollections of Dee. I do have preschool recollections of living on the farm. That would have been before September 1951.

My father continued to work the farm. One of my fond memories is walking behind the tractor as he plowed fields. I would often find arrowheads and shards of Indian pottery, as well and nests of turtle and snake eggs and several species of burrowing snakes.

My father farmed (corn, wheat, truck crops); raised chickens for eggs; raised pigs; milked a cow for our milk; trapped the marshes for muskrat, mink, and otter; and fished the river for herring and shad. In 1955 or 1956, he obtained an appointment (signed by President Dwight Eisenhower) as Postmaster of Lanexa. Now that he had a full-time job, I had to take on many of the routine farm chores—such as tending the pigs.

Paul Richmond with stretched pelt from an otter trapped in the marshes on the Farm (1945). Otter and mink pelts fetched good prices.

From 1952 until 1963, my grandmother lived in the “lower house” on the farm—the site of, and perhaps expanded from the original building that the railroad had left on the farm. It was a comfortable home.

My father had a brother, Neil D. Richmond. He was a curator of herpetology (reptiles and amphibians) at the Carnegie Museum in Pittsburgh. He was a brilliant naturalist and scientist, and he had a profound influence on me during those formative years.

Neil was married to Doris, a really fantastic lady. She was smart, kind, witty (as I remember at the age of eight or so), and she was truly loved by Susie and our family. They would come from Pittsburgh to the farm about twice a year. Neil had a fondness for gin martinis, but Aunt Doris always managed apply gentle but effective influence that prevented him from over-indulging. They had a son named Neil Murray. Now we had two Neils, “Big Neil” and “Little Neil.” When Little Neil was about two years old, Aunt Doris died from polio. Big Neil lost his guiding influence, and the pitcher of martinis that he mixed regularly was not intended to be shared.

When Little Neil became school age, he came to live on the farm with Susie. She took him back and forth to school in Williamsburg, and later he attended New Kent School (my school) for a while before returning to Pittsburgh to live with his father, where he finished high school.

From 1952 on, Moyseneck Farm began to have increasing influence on my development from childhood to maturity. That influence would continue until the late 1970s.

I had more than 500 acres of land to explore. I loved being outside, and I loved reading. All through grade and middle school, I would regularly take a book (Susie made sure I had lots of books around, and I would also get books from the school library) and hike to some comfortable spot on the farm and spend hours reading. We always had a dog, and the dog would go along for the walk and spend her time hunting or napping nearby.

My father provided me with a single-shot .22 caliber rifle when I was about ten, and he taught me how to shoot and hunt. So, in the fall, my hikes would include hunting. I soon learned to shoot squirrel and rabbits. I also learned that we cleaned, cooked, and ate what we shot. If I did not feel like skinning and cleaning a squirrel, I did not shoot it!

Of course, with the river, creek, and a pond on the farm, fishing was also a frequent activity. The same rules for cleaning and cooking applied to fish. We caught perch, bass and catfish—all of which made excellent meals. My mother took whatever was provided and turned it into a delicious meal.

My grandmother continued to live on the farm until her death in 1963. Susie’s last will and testament established an uncertain fate for the farm. Effectively she left the farm in “interests” to Big Neil and my father–that is, there was no physical division of the property. To add to the complexity, she left a one-percent interest to a third party in New Port News, Virginia, and my father and uncle Neil would share the remaining 99% equally. To obtain clear title to the property, my father had to buy out both Neil and the third party. As my father described it, obtaining Neil’s share was relatively easy, but the third party realized he held a strong hand and my father had to pay dearly for the last one percent of the farm to obtain a clear title. I think my father wanted to keep the farm, but I also suspect that financing the purchase of the property from Neil and the third party put him deeply in debt. Consequently, in the 1970s he sold the property, for a goodly sum, to developers, who built a housing development called “The Colonies.”

I find it sad that the original Indian village name, “Moysenec” is no longer associated with the property.

And there, my connection to that property ends—but I accrued many experiences (and stories) over those years, several of which I will share here over the next few weeks.

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Tamron Tele-Macro Lens – Part 2

Quite frankly, I was so interested in getting a good telephoto lens, I essentially overlooked the macro features of the Tamron 70-300 Telephoto/Macro lens. On my daily walk around the yard, I discovered a small (less than an inch body length) green tree frog resting on the leaf of a lily. Finally, the “macro” feature of the lens came to mind.

It took a few minutes to determine how to switch to macro mode, and it was immediately obvious that I would need a tripod to steady the lens/camera combination.

The little green tree frog was my first subject. The first photo is maximum magnification by the camera and lens. The second is a cropped version of the photo to look at the detail captured by the lens.

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Green Tree Frog Resting on Lily Leaf (Original Photo)

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Same Photo as Above Cropped to Enlarge the Tree Frog

Next to the lily, there is a bed of pink and blue Vinca that attracts many small butterflies. One of the butterflies posed cooperatively for me as I adjusted the camera and tripod for its portrait.

Again there are two photos as above.The first is the full image captured by the camera, while the second has been cropped for composition and increased detail.

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Butterfly on Vinca – Original Photo as taken by Camera

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Cropped Version of Photo Above. Note Clear View of Proboscis Penetrating the Center of the Blossom for Nectar

I have been wanting to experiment with macro photography, and while this is not a traditional macro lens, the Tamron 70-300 Telephoto/Macro lens is delivering functional macro capability.

If anyone recognizes the butterfly, please leave a comment.


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An Affordable Telephoto

Photo of the Week

In preparation for a trip this summer, I was looking for an affordable telephoto lens that would deliver acceptable, if not better quality for my Nikon. I selected the Tamron 70-300. Priced less than $200 it was affordable, but would it provide the quality–principally a sharp image under daylight conditions?

My routine working lens is the Nikkor 18-135 telephoto, used to take the first image of Mount Rushmore.

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Mount Rushmore from the main viewing deck using the 18-135 telephoto lens that I normally use.

I selected a 300mm lens because it still permits reasonable control when hand-holding the camera–especially braced against a solid object. Still, for consistently sharp photos, a tripod is recommended.


Detail of Washington’s face using the 70-300 Tamron lens on a tripod mounted camera.

The above photo was taken from the same point using the 70-300. The bright overcast sky did not offer a flattering sky, but did allow me to focus on the details of the sculpture. Detail is sharp enough for larger enlargements. The fact that the zoom range begins at 70mm means that you can compose an essentially “normal” image and quickly zoom to a reasonably tight telephoto shot.

I used this same lens to get my first ever shots of a grizzly bear in Yellowstone. At the 70mm end of the range, the field of vision is only slightly less than a normal 50mm lens, making this a functional single lens for a day’s hiking.  It is also fully automatic, including auto focus, on the Nikon body.


Tamron AF 70-300 f4-5.6 Tele-Macro Lens


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The Grand Canyon – of the Yellowstone

Photo of the week

Travel is one of the best teachers. Until this summer, I assumed there was only one “Grand Canyon.”

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The Grand Canyon of Yellowstone National Park

There are spectacular views into the river-cut gorge of the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone, not far from Canyon Village. The V-shape of the canyon defines it as a river-cut canyon. Glacier canyons tend to be U-shaped. There are roads and trails along and into the canyon that would provide days of exploring opportunities–another item for my bucket list.

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