Settling the debate of who's a `come here' in Tidewater Virginia. (It's not easy ...)

When Cultures Combine

'Come Heres And From Heres'

April 19, 2004|BY MATT SABO msabo@dailypress.com | (804) 642-1748

Natives and newcomers try to decide how long a person has to live here before shedding the 'outsider' label.

It is a vexing question, its answer fraught with rampant speculation and, of course, influenced by one's genealogical ties to the great commonwealth of Virginia. The state constitution is no help. Local ordinances do not address it. A Google search turned up no definitive answer.

Judy Schick bravely tries to answer it anyway.

"Mmmm, I'd say the only way you can be a 'been here' is if you've been born here," she says.

That's it then. All you "come heres" who are looking to shake loose your outsider status have something to shoot for. Birth a kid wherever it is you've landed, and your progeny won't be a "come here."

Or maybe not. Schick is waffling after thinking about this problem for a minute.

"Well," she says, "I don't know that there's an answer."

Schick was born in New Jersey and arrived in Mathews via Indianapolis after she and her husband took a liking to the Virginia shoreline. She concedes she's 100 percent "come here." She even started the "Newcomers Club" in Mathews, where "come heres" flock like mosquitoes to flesh. The club has 48 members.

But isn't there a way to change from a "come here" to a "been here?" How long would that take? A decade? Twenty years? Fifty years? Having a momma who's a native?

"Never," says 56-year-old Tommy Darden, who runs rustic Darden's Country Store in Isle of Wight County. Getting to Darden's would be hard for most "come heres." It involves taking a left, two rights, a left, a right and then another left (or was it a right?) - all while negotiating narrow back roads and dodging locals wandering out to the mailbox across the road.

"To me, personally, when you're a 'from here' is when you know the back roads from here to there," says Mark Rowe as he cradles a midday beer at Harpoon Larry's off Mercury Boulevard in Hampton.

Rowe is a 38-year-old Floridian just two months into his Peninsula residency. He says people shouldn't fret about the labels because it all depends on the individual. Rowe claims to know the back roads -- at least to Harpoon Larry's -- and considers himself a "from here."

Darden actually agrees after he warms to the subject. "It's really hard to say. Some people seem to fit in and some people don't fit in," he says.

Some "come heres" move to the Virginia countryside and want streetlights, garbage pickup and curbs. They're "come heres" through and through, Darden says. Others fit right in. They stop by the store to chat and haul their garbage to the dump in the back of a pickup, or SUV probably. They're OK.

About this time Dean Stallings joins the fray. The 46-year-old, sixth-generation Isle of Wight farmer stopped by Darden's for a ham sandwich, iced tea and pack of Marlboro Lights.

"Come heres" drive ATVs through his cotton and corn fields and think it's their back yard, he says. They're not OK. A "come here" will "be on that list forever," Stallings says.

Of course, there are exceptions. Bonnie Lewis is checking out art in Mo Stuff in Bena, in the heart of Gloucester's Guinea. She was born in Wicomico in Gloucester County, moved away for 30 years, then came back. Doesn't that make her a "come here" with an asterisk? Or is it a "from here" with an asterisk?

Neither, she says. "I'm grandfathered."

Perhaps there's some scholarly research that can lay to rest this issue. Wouldn't you know it, the University of Virginia has a "come heres" specialist.

Daphne Spain, chair of the Department of Urban and Environmental Planning at the university's School of Architecture, wrote "Been-heres Versus Come-heres: Negotiating Conflicting Community Identities" in 1993. It's a study comparing Kilmarnock in Lancaster County to Philadelphia's Queen Village. In sum, rich folks moved into both places and changed the communities. They probably demanded garbage pickup.

Spain could see a change in status, though. Folks who arrived after Kilmarnock was "discovered" were "come heres." Those who had arrived before weren't. Others in the small, historically tightknit communities who had lived there for generations traced "come heres" back to two generations.

"No matter how long the family stayed," Spain says, "if their family wasn't from there it wouldn't matter."

The last word is left to Urbanna, on the watery fringes of Middlesex County. At Catman Cats, a boatbuilding outfit down on the water, Felix Herrin claims a person can be moved off the "come heres" list into "been heres" status by the authority of an authentic "from here."

He said this happened to him when his friend Larry Burch told Herrin he's not a "come here" anymore because Herrin has been in Virginia since 1977.

"It has to be bestowed by a `from here,'" Herrin says.

His wife, Tricia Herrin, is standing nearby. She is a real-life "born here" and is caught off guard.

"So he took you from a 'come here' to a 'been here?'" she asks incredulously.

"Yeah."

"I have never heard of that," Tricia Herrin says.

Felix Herrin shrugs.

"I'm still a 'come here' to my wife."

My son gave a cop the wrong name. Here's what happened next.

Call me "Seffers"

The other night we pulled into the driveway from soccer practice and Sabos started spilling out. I got out of our sporty 15-passenger van and spotted a Gloucester County Sheriff's Office car driving slowly down the road toward us. Olivia, Ezra and Eli bolted into the house while Abram and I helped Seth and Judah out of the van. The sheriff's deputy car was almost to our house so I walked out to the road to chat and see what's up.

I introduced myself to Dep. Tim Knight, who recalled me as the former Daily Press reporter. We had a nice chat and as he watched Abram take Flopsy out of her rabbit tractor I told him how she is the neighborhood mascot. I told him how she tries to make her escape occasionally but our neighbors bring her back. He was intrigued by the rabbit tractor and I told him we just move it around all day and she eats the grass and leaves behind some organic fertilizer. It's a win-win.

Seth and Judah were in the driveway watching with curiosity. Dep. Knight opened his door and called them over. As Judah ambled over Dep. Knight reached up into the visor and grabbed what looked like business cards or something. As Judah reached his door, Dep. Knight asked him his name and Judah told him. It's not a common name so I repeated it and then Dep. Knight handed Judah a card for a free Chick-fil-A kids meal. That was pretty sweet. Judah was stoked.

Then he called Seth up to his car. The conversation went like this:

Dep. Knight: "What's your name?"
Seth: "Seffers."

Hmmm. My kid just gave a wrong name to a cop ... but it's all good! He's 3!

I laughed and told the deputy that his real name is Seth, but that his brothers and sisters call him Seffers. So I guess it's Seffers. Seth got a Chick-fil-A card also and Dep. Knight had one card left in his hand. He recalled that he had seen another of my kids out with the rabbit. Actually, I said, I have 14 kids. Then I smiled.

He shook his head, looked at the card in his hand and then looked up in the visor real quickly. I laughed and told him not to worry about it. He handed over the third Chick-fil-A card and we chatted for a while longer then he was on his way. Kudos to Dep. Knight and the Gloucester County Sheriff's Office -- and Chick-fil-A -- for great community policing.

But about that 3-year-old of mine and Seffers ... I checked around in the house to get to the bottom of why he calls himself `Seffers.' The story goes something like this: When he was young Seth was, let's say `solid.' And not much has changed. He's always been the wee Sabo with the most chunk. His brothers and sisters picked up on that and started calling him "Chunko" or other names associated with being chunky. Julie didn't want him to grow up as "Chunko" or "Chunkin" or some such and started calling him "Sethers." Which morphed into "Seffers" and he gets called that all day long. Remember, there's a fair number of people in this house so he hears a lot of "Seffers" throughout the day.

We don't know how long `Seffers' will stick. But we have a pretty good story now that goes along with it.

When homeschool education becomes outdoor school

Daffodilius spring breakius -- The Latin name of the "Spring Break Daffodil" that bloomed in our yard this week.

A few days after it was bone-chilling cold -- seriously, I nearly lost some of the kids on my soccer team I'm coaching to hypothermia at last week's practice -- something wonderful happened. Global warming happened. In Gloucester, Va.

The mercury shot up to the upper 70s/80 degrees range and that's when Julie called a homeschool audible. It was spring break time.

One of the beauties of homeschooling is the flexibility.  School happens pretty much year-round in the Sabo house because we account for weeks like this one when it is just too nice to stay indoors and do school. Everyone has been working hard in school and had earned a break.

So Julie took the education outside, where the learning involved a family working together in the yard and making it fun. I came home from being down at the office earlier this week and found Julie and half the kids in and around one of the big garden beds in the back yard. There was serious weeding going on. And raking of leaves, worm catching and two of the filthiest little boys you could imagine. It appeared to me that Seth and Judah had actually bedded down in the dirt and become one with the soil.

Madeline and Gabe were down in the dirt weeding, Eli, Ezra and Olivia had actually made an obstacle course game out of raking up leaves and putting them in a garbage bag and Seth and Judah were "lovingly" playing with the family of worms they had found and named, "Rudy," "Babe" and "Lovie." Let me tell you, those worms had never felt so "loved."

Our back yard garden of daffodils, irises, tulips and other bulbs is starting to spring forth in its springy loveliness and after being relieved of the weeds clogging it, the mulch is ready to spruce it up. I'm guessing that's a project that's going to start today, when the homeschooling "outdoor school" resumes, Sabo style.

Our rabbit keeps escaping. Our neighbors keep bringing her back.

Flopsy is home safe. Again.

I've learned a few things through our experiences with our pet rabbit, Flopsy. A lot of things exactly. She really likes the wild chives that grow in our yard. I like to find them, pick them and feed them to her and she gets all hoppity and her rabbit teeth really go to town on the greens when I hand them to her through the mobile "rabbit tractor" where she spends her days.

I've also learned that Flopsy also seems to yearn for freedom. A lot. Sort of. To a point. Yesterday Flopsy got loose from her rabbit tractor but just hopped a bit around the yard until one of the kids "found" her. It was hardly a mad dash for freedom in the nearby woods. I actually think Flopsy likes the attention she gets from a whole host of Sabo kids. Which is probably better than the attention she might get from a fox or the raptors she would encounter in the woods.

She's also, near as I can tell, the neighborhood's favorite pet. She occupies her little rabbit tractor cage by day and we move her around in the yard and she munches on grass and leaves behind organic fertilizer. It's a mutually beneficial relationship we have but all the neighbors who walk and drive by like to see Flopsy. On more than one occasion when she hasn't been in her rabbit tractor for whatever reason I've had a neighbor ask if she's alright.

Last Friday, I returned home late in the afternoon and would soon learn that Flopsy had, once again, escaped. This time she had made a legitimate effort to hop to freedom and a search of the surrounding area turned up no sign of Flopsy. I learned that Flopsy escaped not from one of the kids, but when I answered a knock at the door. See, I learned something about our neighborhood: We have great neighbors. Even ones I don't know.

It was an older gentleman who asked if our rabbit was missing. I turned to the kids and they informed me that Flopsy had escaped earlier in the day and that there was no trace of her. Our guest at the door, whose name I didn't catch, then described how our rabbit was all the way down at the end of our street in a yard. Munching away on the grass.

As he was telling me how cute our little bunny is and how he likes seeing her in the yard when he drives by another car pulled into the driveway. I didn't recognize the car or the people in it but a young teenage girl got out and lo and behold she was holding Flopsy. She handed the rascally rabbit to Gabe, we thanked her profusely, the older gentleman left smiling and all was good in the neighborhood again.

Who has neighbors like these? What a great place to live. I'm also glad we can provide some G-rated community drama and entertainment. And finally, I have a message for Flopsy.

You can run, but you can't hide.

A tornado, thunderstorms and stormy Virginia days. In February.

Things don't look too bad out on the rivah today, despite the tornado warnings

One thing I don't remember about growing up in Bend, Ore., is experiencing a lot of tornado warnings. Or any tornado warnings for that matter. Like the tornado warnings we're under today here in Kansas. I mean, Gloucester, Va.

February is a month where you should be whining about the bitter cold and the four-foot snow drifts and the sub-zero temperatures and the Arctic blasts and polar vortexes. But it's 70 degrees here and alternately raining sideways and sunny and the tornado warnings are popping up nonstop. Should we really have to be sheltering in place trying to cram 12 people into an interior bathroom that fits only three people somewhat comfortably? I think not.

My first inkling of trouble that was brewing in the weather came late last night when a friend of mine from Oregon, Matt Fields, texted me. He alerted me at 9:38 p.m. that pretty bad storms were headed our way. I think it's pretty cool I have a weather spotter 3,000 miles away.

I was blissfully ignorant of today's potential storms until that text. I then checked into things and saw we were under a "hazardous weather outlook." Then I saw a friend of mine in the Deep South post a family photo on Facebook -- from inside his tornado shelter. Nice.

I told Matt I thought we would be good because we rarely get tornadoes here in Gloucester. We had one in 2011 that killed two people, injured several others and destroyed one of our middle schools. Here's a link to a story I wrote about when the tornado barreled through the nearby community of Deitaville on the upper Middle Peninsula and obliterated a church. Tornado story

The power of wind when it gets to ripping is amazing. During the 2011 EF3 tornado that hit Gloucester with winds up to 165 miles per hour, one man was killed while working in his garage. The tornado lifted his entire house off its foundation and dropped it on his garage where he was working that sat 30 or 40 feet away or so. Incredible.

I want back and read the story I wrote about Deitaville and something said by Pastor John Snow of the church that was destroyed is poignant. I wrote, "He knows he will never forget April 16, 2011. He also knows firsthand how fleeting life can be. `Just the power,' he said. `I look at that and I think, the incredible power. The things we hold onto can be taken away like that."

They certainly can.

Which is why I'm thankful for hope. The hope of eternity that's life in Jesus Christ. In times of storms we have hope that through whatever circumstances we may have to endure, we have hope of eternal life. No storm can take that away.

The 'Jonas' Snowstorm Makes A Virginia Winter Fun

Sledilicious!

This morning broke clear, cold and sunny. Winter storm Jonas had worn itself out apparently and it was snowtime at the Sabo house. Church had been canceled because we didn't want anyone driving on icy roads -- a snowplow didn't make it down through the main street into our neighborhood until 10 o'clock this morning -- so we launched "Operation Bobsled Run" at 0955 hours EST.

It was a bit of a challenge. The snow around our house consisted of about an inch of ice, a few inches of powder, then another layer of thin ice. Not exactly the type of snow with which you want to undertake highly technical engineering efforts such as building a sled hill. Fortunately it started warming up enough to get the snow kind of "melty" so we could work with it to build the min-bobsled run.

It's become something of a tradition when it snows at our house to make one of these little hills in the Sabo back yard. Living basically at sea level presents a certain lack of sledding options. So we make our own hill in our back yard and it's very kid friendly, as you'll see.

I made a video of our efforts that you can enjoy right here: Operation Bobsled Run

Ezra and Seth were the first to chip in, then it became a total team effort with the reinforcements of Eli, Gabe and Olivia. We built that monster hill in no time and enjoyed literally hours of sledding fun. I call our little snow engineering effort the "Jonas Bonus." It was a decent price to pay for a little more than a day's worth winter misery.

I have to say I'm thankful we're not closer to D.C., where they got more than two feet of snow. That's a bit excessive, but hardly out of the norm when it comes to D.C., where a little is never enough. Those politicians and government bureaucrats up there always have to have more, you know? They say D.C. will be socked in for days. Hopefully that means they can't spend our tax money while the government is shut down. That's what happens, right?

Day 2 Of The 2016 Virginia `Jonas' Snowstorm: Under Siege

These are not surfing conditions

Here is the weather pattern we endured over the course of the past two days: Rain, sleet, snow, rain, freezing rain, sleet, snow. Now add bone-chilling cold and winds gusting to the 40-50 mph range and you have the makings for a long weekend indoors. Although here in Gloucester we only got several inches of snow, the weather was absolutely nasty over the past 12 hours.

I read where the area near Harper's Ferry, W. Va., which is around three hours northwest of here, got somewhere around 40 inches of snow. That's got Jim Cantore written all over it. We can't compete with that. So on the Winter Blizzardness scale, with 1 being a mild dusting and 10 being a Jim Cantore Live Standup Special, we are about a 3.7.

The thing about snow in Virginia is that for some reason, despite this happening every year, the state is wholly unprepared to deal with it. Which means the roads don't get plowed and motorists are not good in the snow here so schools get shut down and government offices close. Plus at the first mention of snow there's a run on milk, bread and toilet paper at the stores. Seriously.

We had an emergency situation here at the Sabo house -- no jam for peanut butter and jam sandwiches -- so I ventured down to the nearby Food Lion grocery store for jam. And pickles and a few other necessities. They had no milk. The bread was almost gone as well. I made it back home safely after a stop at the gas station to fill up -- enticed by the $1.49 per gallon gas, for sure -- and the clerk told me they had been cleaned out of bread and milk as well. I'm telling you, that's the business you want to be in when the snow flies in Virginia.

I made it back from that trip across the frozen tundra of Gloucester roads only to receive some devastating news: The peanut butter -- both crunchy and creamy -- in the Sabo house was nearly kaput. So it was back down to the store. You can't function during a weekend blizzard siege without peanut butter and jam.

This time on my return trip I ventured down to the Gloucester Point beach. You can see from the photo above the conditions were rough. I lasted approximately 1 minutes and 37 seconds in those conditions -- enough for a 5-second video and a few photos before my fingers turned blue. I managed to sled home safely and spent the rest of the afternoon making my world-famous butternut squash, kielbasa sausage and wild rice soup.

Our security cameras caught someone nipping at the pre-soup butternut squash

The final result

The rest of the family was much smarter. They didn't leave the house, save for Gabe and Abram making heroic treks through the `Jonas' blizzard to make sure Flopsy is still in her hutch, er rather to take her food and provide some company in these Arctic conditions. Everyone else hunkered down with the video games, puzzles, movies and cupcakes that Claire and Gabe made. Oh, and we had some impromptu concerts from some of the ladies.

The ol' puzzle serenade

So to recap, I've got to hand it to Jonas. Thanks to him we're having a great weekend. Quality family time, good memories, good food, we're warm ... nothing to complain about here. Just as long as we don't lose power ...

Biggest Snowstorm In World History To Blanket Virginia*

`Blizzard' conditions in Gloucester, Va.

I expect Jim Cantore from The Weather Channel, outfitted in one of those trapper-style fur hats with ear muffs and clad in a puffy jacket and Uggs, to show up here in Gloucester anytime now. There's a forecast of snow that may fall this weekend -- around here it's looking like a rain/snow/sleet mix -- which pretty much spells doom for the entire region. People are in full freakout mode. I happened to be in the grocery store during a snowfall last night and the clerk mentioned he's expecting the store to be cleaned out in advance of this weekend's possible snowpocalypse.

 It's pretty much panic central around Virginia. Washington D.C. could get a foot of snow, or more and the city will pretty much be shut down. It should snow in D.C. more often now that I think about it ...

For us species of non-native Virginians who are/were/have been fairly accustomed to dealing with that dreaded weather event called a "snowfall," the events that transpire here with the mere mention of the `s' word are a mix of mind-boggling and entertaining. Schools get canceled in "dustings." Schools get canceled for days when more than a couple of inches fall. I half-expect kids to start calling in snow threats instead of bomb threats to get out of tests.

The last couple of years we've had some pretty decent snow events. At least enough to make snowmen and snow ramps in the back yard for sledding purposes. The kids love it. I don't mind a good snowfall now and then, but it's this time of year I always start thinking about relocating to Aruba.

It appears we used every flake of snow in the yard for this `Olaf' 

I did my time in the snow as a kid in Bend, Ore., and I'm over it. Been there, done that. I think hauling firewood into the house a couple, few times a day through the snow as my big brother lay in ambush with a bushel of snowballs may have scarred me. One time the snow was so deep he actually climbed up on the roof and jumped off the roof as I plowed by in a surprise attack. I am not making this up. My bro was a Ninja snow monster.

The fact that I was so dang skinny with nary an ounce of body fat didn't help either. (That situation has since been remedied.) Once I got cold as a kid I could never heat up. Plus, I just wasn't into the whole snowsport thing. People are shocked -- shocked! -- that I grew up 20 miles from world-class skiing at Mt. Bachelor and have never once set foot on that hill in skis or a snowboard. I don't feel like I've been cheated out of anything or somehow missed out. I spent many an hour as a kid clearing the snow out of my driveway and shooting hoops or even playing on packed snow. It was a lot cheaper entertainment than skiing, I'll tell you that.

Anyway, we're hunkering down here in Virginia preparing for "The Worst Snowstorm Ever -- Or At Least In The Past 6 Months" by stocking up on essentials. Got the milk, eggs, bread and toilet paper so we're good to go. I drove by Ace Hardware, our cool little neighborhood hardware store, and saw they had some toboggans and snow shovels in the display window. I bet they're having a run on all items related to snow. Good for them. Bring on the snow. And I'll say hello to Jim Cantore for you.

*This headline may be hyperbole. Of course, I spent more than 20 years in the news media so I might know a thing or two about hyperbole.

When All The Kids Are Home It's Family Photo Time

Everyone is in the photo!

We had a rare confluence of events for a few days this week ... all the kids were home! Including  the ones in college and newlyweds Taylor and Bethany, who stopped by on the way home from their honeymoon. That means several things:

--An emergency $200+ trip to the grocery store;
--There are 17 people in the house;
--The dishwasher is working overtime;
--All couches, mattresses and floor space are occupied by sleeping people;
--The board game playing begins early in the day and continues to the wee hours o' the morning;
--It's family photo time.

I'm not sure if the neighbors were alarmed when we marched down the street yesterday to a nearby vacant lot for photos. Whatever the case, it had to be impressive seeing an army of Sabos taking up Marshall Lane.

I am very fortunate to work with Sara Harris -- she of the "best photographer in the land" status -- who graciously offered on very short notice to break out the camera for a photo shoot. The back story to our photo shoot is that after considering everyone's schedules, the older girls had set the time at 1 o'clock. Which was great except for one minor detail: We needed a photographer.

The morning of the photo shoot I traveled to a meeting with one of the clients of the firm I work for. And who should be accompanying myself, my boss Stephanie Heinatz and my son Ethan (along to see how things go down in the PR/Marketing world) to the meeting? None other than Sara Harris. One thing led to another on the trip home and soon enough she was offering her photography services. What a blessing!

The older Sabo lads looking manly!

The skies were cloudy and it was mild weather so basically it was a perfect day for a shoot -- especially considering there was no chance of a glare off my bald dome. To whomever owns the vacant lot down the street, thank you for letting us spend a few minutes there.

One thing I noticed when Sara was shooting photos was that she was waaaaaaayyyyy back there. Or so it seemed. I guess that's because she had to fit everyone in the frame ...

Here's a few samples of Sara's handiwork. As you can see, I'm a very blessed man. Julie looks fabulous and the kids look great. Happy New Year and thanks again for stopping by my blog.

The Sabo ladies looking fine!

Happy 13th Birthday To Gabe

Gabe teaching Seth the finer points of rivah wading.

Gabe is celebrating his 13th birthday today, which means that among other things we're back up to having five teenagers in the house.  Gave is a brother with a big heart and an easy, contagious laugh. Just ask Claire. When Gabe really gets to cackling Claire just loses it and starts giggling as well.

He loves animals and every morning faithfully transports our bunny, Flopsy, from her spacious hutch to her bunny cage in the yard. Flopsy has become something of a neighborhood mascot. I've had people ask where I live and when I describe it several people have said, "Oh, the house with the bunny in the yard." Yep.

If you see Gabe in the front yard, he will wave to you. And keep waving until you wave back. So please wave back. Gabe loves the beach and catching minnows and little blue crabs in his net. He loves the snow and likes to ride his bike around the yard and will spend hours on end building Legos.

He likes to play soccer but is one of those kids who likes more to be a part of the team and making friends than the competition aspect of it. He's worked hard over the years and has become a very good soccer player, but he's one of those kids that is simply a great teammate who encourages the other players, is unselfish and works hard.

He's a joy to have as a son. Gabe is kind, patient, thoughtful and a good big brother, quick to help his little brothers.

Happy birthday Gabe. We love you.

A Year In Instagram Photos In Gloucester, Virginia: Rivahstyle

We live in a little 3-bedroom house with 2 bathrooms that's 1,600 square feet. Well, almost 1,600 square feet. Basically there's kids everywhere. We rack 'em and stack 'em.

But one of the things I love about our little house is that we're three blocks from a white sandy beach on the York River. The sunsets are amazing. The kids have a blast down there. I love to walk down there and enjoy the peace of the tidal saltwater. I thought I'd share some of my Instagram highlights from the past year of living on a peninsula, a few blocks from the beach. If you'd like to find me on Instagram, I'm @jmatthewsabo and I'll follow back!

Do you have a favorite?

The One Thing Everyone Should Do Today

Sunset-watching requires waiting. Trust me.

I was rummaging through the archives of Sabo musings and came across this one from my old "12 Kids and Counting" blog that I banged out six years ago. I'll link to it here and I think you'll like it and relate to it -- it's about trying to hustle through the express line only to have the customer in front of me whip out a checkbook and sssslllllooooowwwwllllllyyyyy write a check. The blog post is all about waiting and how we're unaccustomed to waiting. And how there's a Biblical principle of waiting that we seem to have forgotten in this culture.

Here's the link: `And Wait On Your God Continually'

But it also got me to thinking about what I've learned shooting photographs of sunsets. I've been on Instagram for a few years and my calling card is sunset photos. We live on a peninsula here in Gloucester and our house is three blocks from a private beach on the York River and a we're a couple of  miles from the beach at Gloucester Point where the iconic Coleman Bridge spans the water.

Over Thanksgiving Ethan was home and I grabbed him just before sundown late one afternoon and trekked down to the beach to impart some fatherly wisdom on photographing sunsets. By no means am I professional photographer. I have friends who are professional photographers and I would not insult them by saying I'm even close to their abilities.

That said, I've learned a few things about sunsets over the years. Here's my three takeaways.

1) Get outside. In order to shoot a photograph of a sunset you have to actually see it. If that sounds a little too obvious, it is. It's my personal opinion that the world would be a better place if more people spent more time personally enjoying sunsets. It takes time and effort to get out and see a sunset but the rewards are incalculable. Take time out of your busy schedule of surfing the net, posting on Facebook, Tweeting, commuting, "working" or otherwise wasting time to watch the sun go down. Enjoy the peace, the view, the beauty and the serenity. You'll feel better, I promise. And take a picture of it.

2) Be patient. The York River is one to two miles wide where I typically watch the sun go down. What I've noticed is that the most astounding part of the sunset occurs about 10 minutes after the actual sunset. I learned this the hard way. When I first started photographing sunsets, I'd watch the sun go down and then call it a day. But a couple times I was walking home from the beach and turned around several minutes after sunset to see the sky aflame. Then I would run down to the beach for the best shots. There's a lesson here: Beautiful things take time. You can't rush them. You can't hurry them up, or microwave them or get them in the express line. Slow down, enjoy the view and let the sunset marinate to perfection.

3) Share it with somebody you love. I saw the clouds in the sky the other day and knew it was going to be a hot sunset. So I grabbed Julie and told her we were going on a date. We went down to the pier at Gloucester Point Beach and watched the sky catch fire behind the Coleman Bridge. It was beautiful. And I'll say from personal experience that sunsets are best enjoyed when you're kissing the love of your life.

Adventures in Parenting, Vol. 1. `Hey Dad. Where Are You?'

Let's see...a Taco Bell run or this sunset?

Do you ever get to a late Sunday afternoon, take stock of your life, check your mutual funds, contemplate the meaning of life, wonder if anyone working on Wall Street who engaged in shady mortgage fraud and insider trading deals has a soul ... and weigh whether it's worth it to cook dinner?

There's something about fixing Sunday night dinner that I find particularly agitating. Even daunting, repulsive and annoying. And I'm a dude who loves to cook. I can't put my finger on exactly why I don't like to cook on Sundays. After shedding my pastor duties after church I tend to "check out." You might find me in the garage piddling around making a coffee table. Sometimes I nap. I might take a jaunt to the store and act like I'm shopping for the week's meals and blow it all on ice cream and non-essentials like fancy coffee creamer and crazy cheeses made in Holland. Does this make me a bad person?

I mean, I'm usually a pretty good guy. I recycle. I put my shopping cart in the cart corral in the parking lot instead of in the space next to the van, even in hard rains. I clean up the lint screen in the dryer. I yield in the traffic roundabout and stop for pedestrians trying to enter crosswalks. I buy Julie raspberries because I know she loves them even though they're really expensive this time of year. Really expensive like cheeses made in Holland.

So we got to Sunday afternoon just before 5 p.m. and there were all these kids looking really, really hungry. The thought actually crossed my mind to cook something. The other thought I had was that they wouldn't starve if they didn't have dinner. I mean, we have bread and peanut butter in the house. But then I'm not going to eat a p.b. & j sandwich for dinner ... so I was faced with what's known as a "parental dilemma." You know the one. Where you have to decide if it's in the best interests of your family to eat at Hardee's or Taco Bell. I had a hankering for a burrito so the choice was fairly easy.

I got the lowdown from everyone of what they wanted from Taco Bell, loaded Seth in the van and took off down the street ... except I glanced at the sky and it was on fire. It's a three-block run down to the beach from my house and my intention was that I would race down there while obeying all traffic laws, snap a sunset photo and then get to Taco Bell before my children suffered privation leading to acute starvation and other health-related issues.

I got to the beach, told Seth to sit tight, ran out to the shoreline, snapped a photo and ran back to the van. Piece of cake. Except I knew that the show was just beginning. It would be a monumental sunset because literally the sky was aflame ... so I fetched Seth out of the van and we frolicked on the beach while I documented our interlude via my iPhone. Yes, I had total disregard for the well-being of my family. Yes, I got a phone call from someone high up in the Sabo household who was surprised to learn I had not even made it out of the neighborhood.

But I got some killer clicks.

Seth gets photo-bombed by the sunset.

Ultimately, I made it to Taco Bell. No one in the Sabo house had starved. They appeared perplexed at how long it took for me to make a Taco Bell run considering it's literally a few minutes away. But hey, boy did Seth and I make some remembories, as Evie used to say when she was a little girl.

Driving Through A Traffic Circle Is Easy. Or Not.

You probably didn't know this, but Gloucester is home to one of the great mysteries of the universe. No, it doesn't involve the 17th century grave site of America's original revolutionary, Nathaniel Bacon, which has mysteriously eluded discovery for more than 300 years. Neither does it involve the origins of the native residents of Guinea down in Gloucester's swampy southeastern peninsula, a legend of multiple explanations that includes vague references to descendants of Revolutionary War-era mercenaries hired by the British who stuck around by hiding out in Gloucester after the 1781 surrender at Yorktown. Rather, the great cosmic mystery in Gloucester is something that confounds hundreds, possibly thousands of people each and every day.

It's negotiating the traffic circle, or roundabout ,at the "Wal-Mart intersection."

Say you want to live on the edge and literally gulp down adrenalin by the bucketful. Why, you would be wise to try and traverse the roundabout several times. You would cheat death. You would have to have your car insurance agent on speed dial. You would wonder how something seemingly so simple flummoxes motorists who apparently either can't read a "Yield" sign or just plain don't care.

Let's review the rules and regulations of traffic roundabout etiquette. Surely it must be a manual on the order of "War and Peace." Right? I mean these things are complicated, right?

Um, no. The operative word is "yield." Apparently people don't know what the word means because everybody I know has a "Wal-Mart roundabout" horror story. Or two. Or a million.

One time I was meandering through the roundabout when a young kid in a jacked up pickup barreled in, nearly making my old Volvo four-door sedan a hatchback. I laid on the horn, rather liberally I might add. We were both heading the same way coming out of the roundabout and he stopped in the middle of the road's right-hand lane in front of Chick-fil-A and gestured to me. I pulled up next to him and with the passenger's window down and politely informed him that he was supposed to yield to the vehicle in the roundabout. Which would be me in my Volvo.

He informed me in rather colorful terms that I was supposed to yield to him. I hesitated before replying that the "Yield" sign was directed at the vehicles entering the roundabout, which he clearly was. For example, if you approach an intersection and there is a stop sign that you can clearly read on the side of the road to your right, I'm pretty sure that means you are supposed to stop. It would not be a stop sign for the cross traffic, in other words. In this case, the "Yield" sign is facing traffic approaching the roundabout -- not the traffic in the roundabout -- and is on the right hand side in clear, even plain view. Which motorists should take to mean that they better yield.

Except for the young buck in the pickup who, in even more colorful terms, disagreed with my sign-reading suggestion and thought it would be a good idea for us to pull in the Chick-fil-A parking lot to settle things. Needless to say I proceeded on to Wal-Mart while he simmered in his road rage over a chicken sandwich.

So here's the deal Gloucester drivers and motorists who wander in and have nearly hit me from locales far and wide, such as Maryland or North Carolina: If someone is in the roundabout, they have the right-of-way. It's that simple! As you approach the roundabout, from any direction, slow down, observe the traffic that may be in the roundabout and then proceed into it when you have an opening of appropriate length. Traversing the roundabout shouldn't be the equivalent of a shark circling its prey, because that's how it feels sometimes when you are in the roundabout.

For a glimpse of a street-view of our famed roundabout, here's a link: Roundabout o' death

Three Things I've Learned When I Feed My Creative Juices

The ruins of Rosewell

Over the past year I have been shooting a lot of photos from around Gloucester. It began when I started using my iPhone as a camera. I also have a Canon T5i that gets lugged around the county to snap shots of sunsets, landscapes and landmarks. And kids. Plenty of kids. Here's three things that I've discovered about what happened when I started shooting photos and the surprising things that resulted when I launched a new creative passion.

1) What you will find when you take the time to get out in nature will surprise you.  

I started shooting photos after getting on Instagram and fighting a sense of inadequacy. I have friends out in Oregon who were posting these amazing landscape shots -- majestic snow-capped mountains and rushing rivers and desert sunrises -- and I felt like I had to compete somehow. But how? We have no mountains here -- the highest point here  is like 60 or 80 feet above sea level, unless you count the 90 feet height of the Coleman Bridge as you enter Gloucester -- our rivers are amazingly wide but languid and the closest desert is thousands of miles away. So I started exploring. Living on a peninsula has its advantages. The sunsrises and sunsets on the rivers are spectacular. The trees and foliage tell stories. The frequent storms usher in extraordinary cloud formations that refract light in stunning ways and are enhanced when they are reflected off the water. There are hidden treasures and gems off the beaten path; historic homes and crumbling plantations and weathered houses. I've learned a ton about watching sunsets and the timing of the most glorious light. You'll be surprised. You'll be amazed. Your life will be enriched when you get out there.

Boats in a Gloucester marina

2) Exploring creativity opens paths of more creativity.

When I started shooting photos and thinking about settings, sunlight, natural light, reflections, angles and other aspects of photography, I've found it started opening doors to other creative avenues in my life. By no means am I an accomplished photographer. I want to make that clear. I have friends who are professional photographers and it's a huge leap from what I do to what they do amazingly well. But in my own little way I'm exploring something new and trying to stumble through learning a craft. Perhaps it's the time I'm taking to appreciate the scenery God has given us in this little corner of the world that is spurring other creative juices. Whether it's dabbling in making videos, writing, woodworking and making a coffee table out of 60-year-old reclaimed hardwood flooring, I've found that creativity feeds creativity. There's just something that happens when you start stimulating your brain in new ways. Challenge yourself. Take the time to find something new to take on. You'll be surprised.

3) You will feel, and be, blessed.

Being out in nature has renewed my love of God's creation. He's made so many beautiful places and we all should spend more time enjoying them. It's also been a time for me to meditate on God's word, to pray, and to think about how richly God has blessed me. The other night when I had five of my boys down on the pier at the beach in this lovely, peaceful setting was one of those times. We made a memory and those last forever. There are times I've looked up in the sky near sunset and saw the clouds and the way the light is arcing through the sky and told Julie or some of my kids to get in the van because we're heading down to the river to enjoy the sunset. As I've worked on my coffee table I've been able to listen to sermons from pastors and I've thought deeply about what He's doing in my life and where He's taking me and how I need to yield more to His will in my life. Creative time can be periods of slowing down, assessing and reflecting. I experience a recalibration, a deeper understanding of what's valuable. First and foremost of value to me is my relationship with God and the eternal gift He has given us of His son Jesus. My family is a gift from God. What I experience, all of it, is a gift. I am thankful. I am blessed. 


Finally, here's a link to a collection of photos I've taken from around Gloucester that I assembled in a video. The music is kind of cheesy ... oh well. Enjoy.  Gloucester vignette

When Times Are Tough, Head To The Water

Gabe & Seth on the pier.

Yesterday evening was one of those days. I had a ton of things I wanted to get done and nothing was getting done. You ever had that feeling? Things were going way south attitude wise for me and so I loaded into the van the five boys who were left with me after everyone had dispersed to soccer practice, Bible study (for the ladies) and work. At first I had no clue where to go. The sun had just set but it was a beautiful evening, still 70 degrees.

We headed down to Gloucester Point beach. It's a five-minute drive and we walked on the pier until the wind kicked up enough to prompt shivers. It was lovely. Peaceful. Beautiful. Seth was enchanted by the water. As he trundled back across the beach the waves kicked up and crashed onto shore from a passing boat that sped by. He paused, watching and listening to the commotion and I could see him trying to figure it all out.

I grew up in the Oregon High Desert. Where the sagebrush and open range meet the piney slopes of the eastern Cascades Range. Snow melt water flows icy cold off of the mountains and is a precious commodity where I'm from in Oregon. The rivers are narrow enough to easily throw a rock across them.

Out here on the Middle Peninsula, we're surrounded by water. Big saltwater rivers that yield bountiful catches of crabs and oysters and fish. The sun rises and falls spectacularly across the rivers here. The white sandy beaches are play spots and we're close enough to the neighborhood beach on the York River that the kids can load up the wagon with buckets and nets and head down to the river to fish out minnows and crabs from the inlet that meanders inland.

I love the desert. I love the solitude, how the sky is so blue, how it's filled with a million bright stars at night and how you can see forever. I miss it. But I've been out here for a decade and remain enchanted by the water that surrounds us. If I ever were to leave, I know one thing. I would miss it.

Lost In The Corn Maze (Dad, Hand Over The Map)

This sums up what happens when you give me the map in a corn maze.

Corn mazes are lots of fun. I mean, a ton of fun. Unless you're the guy entrusted with the map and what's supposed to be a rather short jaunt through the corn field turns into a survival of the fittest, we're this close to calling 911, we could eat this corn for dinner if we have to, all-day endurance test down at the farm.

Typically a corn maze involves a nice walk -- a pleasant stroll even -- through the corn field that entails reading a map and following the hints posted at signs along the way. It's a good time and a chance to die a slow, painful death bond with the family in a farm-type of environment.

My folks were in town so we decided in between Saturday soccer matches to take in some of the local entertainment. Naturally we hit the corn maze and armed ourselves with maps and a collection of long PVC pipes with flags attached that you could hold up in an act of surrender (but which we were positive we would never, ever need to use) to prompt your friendly corn maze attendant to guide you out.

We embarked with nine Sabo children and, um, just a minute ... let's see we took nine kids ... we brought nine kids back, right? I mean, we didn't like lose one in there, right? There's not a shivering Sabo kid in the corn maze at this moment gnawing on corn cobs trying to find his way out of the 8-acre (or is it 800-acre?) maze, right? Juuuulllliiiieeeeeee!!! How many kids are in the house? Yes, right now! Does that include Ezra? Ok, thanks babe. What's that Julie? Why do I want to know how many kids are in the house? Oh, no big deal. Nothing. Just making sure no one was playing outside or anything. Yes, I know it's almost midnight ...

Anyway, we took nine kids to the corn maze and most importantly, we had a good time we survived and brought everyone back. Yes, they may have been exhausted when we finally stumbled out skipped out of the 8 million acres of corn and made a beeline for the bottled water. And yes, I finally had to admit that we needed to ask the friendly corn maze attendant how to "exit" the corn maze. (We only passed him three times. Each time I was positive I knew the way out.) And yes, my kids refuse to eat corn right now.

But what a memory, eh? And hey, I can't wait to do it again next year!

To see the Sabos in action in the corn maze, check out this 1-minute video that recaps all the excitement:  Lost in the corn maze

When Things Get Crazy Around The S'mores Campfire

Seth rocked the cuteness factor around the campfire.

The other night the Sabos partook of the quintessential American camping experience. That's right, we made a campfire and roasted up some S'mores. In the ditch in our front yard. One of the best things about moving away from our old neighborhood in Gloucester to our new digs in metropolitan Hayes/Gloucester Point/Wicomico (I'm never sure where the outskirts of Hayes or Gloucester Point collide with the inskirts of Wicomico) is that we left the HOA behind. Because I'm pretty sure the HOA cops would have been all over us if we had tried to build a campfire in our ditch in our front yard and made S'mores. Unless maybe we would've shared with them.

Anyway, I'm happy to report that the only things that caught fire other than the wood we used to feed the Sabo campfire were marshmallows. Despite Judah's best intentions. A time or two his flaming 'mallows came dangerously close to flammable and combustible materials -- for example his sisters' hair -- but some quick action by Taylor managed to defuse -- literally -- any potential hair fires. Unfortunately, it seems that some elements of the Sabo family used the excuse of a family campfire to sort of terrorize the neighbors. Let me explain.

Before things got really crazy around the campfire.

The campfire was still ablaze when Julie and I had retired to the comforts of our home, content in the knowledge that the kids were under adult supervision (Taylor, his girlfriend Bethany, Evie, MerriGrace and the like) and having an enjoyable time making tasty campfire treats. Or so we thought. I'm not sure who came up with the brilliant idea, but it seems once the Hershey's chocolate bars and marshmallows all but burned up, or got devoured, someone decided that the appropriate thing to do was to dance crazily around the campfire and chant when someone drove by in their car. Not only that, but they decided collectively that they should go fetch our bunny "Flopsy" from her rabbit hutch and have someone hold her above their head as they danced as if it were some sort of crazed Gloucester ritual.

Apparently there were cars that drove by -- slowly -- when this was going on. One even stopped just down the road. When they related this story to me and after I quit nearly busting a gut from laughter I lectured them about how people already think we're a little bit `off' because we have so many kids. Now this? Now what will people think? Well, being a stand up guy who takes responsibility for his family, I have to say it was the older kids' fault. I also have to say, I wish I could have been there to see it stop the shenanigans. It does explain one thing though. I understand why I've seen beefed up police patrols in our neighborhood.

Faith That Matters In This American Life

Touch the Light

I was driving around Gloucester late last fall on a stormy day and spied this lone tree in a field. I actually stopped in the middle of a busy road and gazed for a few moments. Eventually I parked my car and walked around in a smattering of raindrops before finding the right angle for a photo.

There's just something that draws my eye to this old, gnarled and scarred tree set against the storm clouds and rising above the line of distant woods behind it. It's a lone sentinel in a field, surrounded by farm ground that's planted every spring and harvested in late summer. I'm not sure why it was left standing because it seems that everything else in what was once thick woods was chopped down and cleared away long ago to make way for ground to till and grow crops.

If you spend enough time in ministry you can relate to this tree. If you spend enough time in a relentless pursuit of God perhaps you can relate to this tree. Sometimes it feels as if you stand unprotected and vulnerable. Sometimes you take some blows. You can be buffeted by storms. You can feel alone.

All those things are what drew me to this tree. After all these years in that field and through all the changing seasons and the relentless onslaught of storms, the tree has endured. The tree is still standing. Sure it's beat up and gnarled and when you get up close you can see it's rotting in patches. But I like how, as I gazed at it from the base of a low knoll, the tree rises out of darkness and above the line of trees behind it, seeming to touch the light in the parting dark clouds.

It reminds me of our hope in Jesus. There's things that go on in within this Christian life, in faith, in ministry, that are trying and difficult. There's discouragement and at times despair. I'm reminded it always occurs when my eyes are focused on circumstances. I'm reminded to fix my eyes on Jesus. My hope and faith is in Him. And I'm reminded that in Him I'm never alone.

A Gloucester Game-Changer: `Pocahontas Lived Here'

Gloucester: The view ain't so bad. Neither is the history.

When I tell most people I am from the lovely, photographically enchanting enclave of Gloucester, Va., they give me a blank look that says, "Where's that?" Or a blank look that says, "I thought Gloucester was in Massachusetts." Often I've aided the geographically-challenged by saying the Virginia strain of Gloucester is across the river from Yorktown and Williamsburg, or an hour east of Richmond on Chesapeake Bay, or 2 1/2 hours south of Washington D.C. and a light bulb goes off above their head. But I've been scrapping all that lately and just saying, "Pocahontas lived here." Eyes light up at the mention of Pocahontas.

Just this morning it happened. I am in Charlotte, N.C., for the week for a retreat/conference with my co-workers in TEN3, Transformational Education Network (www.ten3.org). We are here at the headquarters of Serving In Mission (most notably in the public eye recently because two of SIM's doctors contracted Ebola recently while serving in West Africa) from literally around the world. From California to Zambia, 10 of us TEN3 missionaries are here  from around the globe to talk strategy, plan, pray, encourage and exhort each other on our mission to provide transformational Christian education materials and technology skills to disciple and equip young people in Africa and the Caribbean.

This morning I met another missionary who is here for a separate conference. This missionary serves in Ethiopia but is from Australia. When she asked where I was from I told her Gloucester, Va., and explained roughly where it was. Then I mentioned it's where Pocahontas lived. That was the game changer. She had seen the movie. You know, the Disney animated film "Pocahontas." Even though the scenery in the Disney flick is utterly and completely lacking anything remotely close to what you'd find in Gloucester -- for example, the next waterfall someone stumbles upon in Gloucester will be the first -- and I have yet to meet a animals or trees that can talk, it's one of those things that's made Pocahontas famous.

Beyond the Disney flick, I asked the missionary what she knew about Pocahontas. She was an Indian princess, she said. That appears to be part of the fascination with Pocahontas; other fascinating things include that she was an Indian princess, saved John Smith's life, conversed with animals and traveled to England, among other things. In May, when I was still working as a reporter for the Daily Press, I attended an event in Gloucester in which the Virginia governor, Terry McAuliffe, paid a visit to the historic site of Pocahontas' village, called Werowocomoco, on the banks of the York River. He hopes the site will become a national park, something that would truly put Gloucester on the map. Historians and government officials say that around the world, Pocahontas is more well-known than George Washington and other iconic American figures. They say that if Werowocomoco received a designation as a national park, visitors from around the world fascinated by the story of Pocahontas would pay a visit.  I bet I won't be explaining so much where to find Gloucester if that's the case.

Here's a link to the story I wrote for the Daily Press about Pocahontas' old stomping grounds becoming a national park: Werowocomoco story

Oh, and one other thing. We look forward to you paying a visit to see us in historic Gloucester.