The LeMoyne Star

Opening the door brings in the unexpected in Waterford, Virginia

The old mill at Waterford, Virginia. Photo by author.

“Hmm, maybe the purple is best right here by the green.” Belinda Owens sat on the back porch of her log home in Waterford. The village’s handful of streets sprouted vernacular Virginia houses dating back a century and more. Sure, DC — only fifty miles away — was historic but the District never gave her this feeling of timelessness, of crisscrossing with ages past. Belinda found it easy to imagine she was living fifty, one-hundred, or even two-hundred years earlier. She and Dolph, her husband, called Waterford “the magical village.” Quiet this time of day. No hustle. No bustle. The front porch of her log house would have been equally peaceful as nothing much was going on. Nothing. Well, maybe Joe Smythe across the street was weeding his perennial bed but Joe didn’t make much noise.

Tidy stacks of fabric lay before her, organized by shape and color: diamonds, triangles, squares; purple, green, yellow, and white. Belinda scanned the piles of traditional tiny buds, blowsy roses, and regimented tulips.

“Glad Dolph and I found the shop in Gettysburg. That was a fun day trip. Should have figured out they’d have historical fabric in there. Eh, Patches?”

Patches, half asleep under Belinda’s work table, weighed in by beating his tail against the wooden floor. A rescue from the…