Seed to table. Dirt to mouth. The fabulous Authentic Corn Tortilla Project.

My babies. What stories we'll tell together.

I'm calling my farmtastical journey this summer the "Authentic Corn Tortilla Project." I bet you've heard nothing quite like it. There's a reason for that.

I have this crazy idea -- a notion, a fever, or maybe it's just a plain ol' halluciation -- that I can make something different, something good, something unique that starts in the dirt out by my shed just the other side of my drain field. Well, plenty the other side of my drain field.

I'm not sure if it's brilliant, or foolish. The line separating the two seems pretty darn thin.

My idea to make real corn tortillas from really old school corn with genes that go back hundreds, if not thousands, of years was birthed out of my own observations. It started with the corn I let dry on the stalk last summer and thinking, "What the heck? Couldn't I make corn flour out of this stuff?"

You know, for like cornbread? And, well, grits?

The answer proved to be yes. Or near as I could tell it was yes. Thanks to some fortuitous discoveries on the world wide web of the history of corn and masa -- the kinda gooey, corn flour-based substance from which legit tortillas are made -- some video of some hardcore food truck guys in LA who are really, really passionate about their tortillas, and assorted other articles and videos about ancient Mexican corn strains, I thought, "Why not?"

Why not try it here in my back yard? Why can't I go all foodie-grow-your-own with a big splash of experimentation that could, it really could, end up being amazing?

So here I am. On a chilly spring night listening to raindrops clattering against my office window, a day after I planted those first 50 seeds of Hopi Purple Corn. I'm plotting to plant a couple more squares of corn and wondering how -- if? -- it will all play out.

I scored my corn seeds from a catalog that was produced in podunk Missouri. For reals. Baker Creek Heirloom Seeds. You can find them at www.rareseeds.com. They produce this gloriously extravagant 146-page catalog and sell more than 1,800 varieties of seeds from more than 100 countries.

Seriously. These guys don't play when it comes to seeds.

Tomatoes from Iraq? Done. Cassabanana melons from Guatemala? Just a click away. And don't forget your wild apple seeds from Tajikstan. I don't kid! This stuff will literally blow your mind!

I mean, dude, it's a gardening nerd's paradise. I know because I'm one of those gardening nerds.

So yes, I really did just drop some purple corn seeds into a plot of dirt that I carved out of my back yard and fertilized with a pickup load of bona fide horse poop I got for free from a horse farm off Hickory Fork Road.

I'll water those seeds, let the rain fall on my corn, take photos and videos of it all. I'm not embarrassed to say I'll be out there speaking kind words to those babies of mine. I believe in positive reinforcement after all.

My lovelies. My early inspiration from last summer. 

I'll watch my corn grow in the oppressive, sultry Virginia heat. Then I'll watch my corn dry in the oppressive, sultry Virginia heat. Then I'll harvest my corn in the oppressive, sultry Virginia heat.

I'm worried about the bugs. So nasty, those bugs. The weeds are going to be a straight nuisance. I foresee lots of sweaty labor in my near future.

It'll all be worth it. Right?

Of course, because sometime late this summer, in the oppressive, sultry Virginia heat, after the stalks have shriveled and crunch like potato chips and the ears of corn have dried to like they're little tiny rocks, it'll be time.

Come to purple tortilla time.

I'll grind up the corn, tap my buddy Frank Villa's family masa-manufacturing expertise, and make those blessed purple tortillas. We'll have purple tortilla chips and dip them in salsa I make with onions, tomatoes and poblano peppers that I harvest right out of my garden, just a row or two from my corn. They'll all be best buds this summer.

Seed to table.

Dirt to mouth.

That's the plan.

I mean, that's my dream.

You start something and you never quite know how it will all turn out.

That's what's so great about it, though. It's what's so great about dreams. The finding out. The chasing. The determination to see things through. The seeing if you have it. That grit. That passion and drive.

The worst thing you can ever do is not try.

So here goes. Come along for the ride.

The great, the fabulous, the crazy Authentic Corn Tortilla Project.

For the YouTube version of all this tomfoolery, go here: Getting corny

Waking up on my 48th birthday and realizing one big thing

I spent part of my birthday teaching this crew how to skip rocks.

I was scrolling back through my memories of birthdays past, thinking about some of the particular January 29ths that really stand out. I thought I’d share some. 

1976 — On my 7th birthday in the wintry cold of Bend, Oregon, I broke the two middle fingers on my right hand shortly before my friends arrived for my birthday party. I snapped the tips of those fingers in an unfortunate incident involving a wheelbarrow full of firewood, a rickety ramp consisting of a single flimsy board and a big drop down some steps on our back patio. Oh, and my older brother was in the mix. I soon adapted by learning to write left-handed. So I guess you could say that on my 7th birthday I learned about overcoming adversity. And not to use your writing hand to try and hold up a ramp beneath the weight of a wheelbarrow full of firewood being driven by your brother, even when he tells you to hold the ramp up with your hand.

1985 — I would turn 16 this year and mark it later that summer by competing on an “All-Star” track and field team from Oregon and Washington that traveled to Hong Kong, South Korea and China. I discovered firsthand the meaning of “abject poverty” on our train ride through the rice paddies and villages of rural China and recall how hordes of Chinese people would crowd around in awe and touch the hair of a girl on our team who had blond hair that was nearly white. I competed in a 5,000-meter race in a rustic, dirt-track stadium in Guangzhou, China, finishing third in sweltering heat. I remember distinctly three things about that race: 1) I was sure I was going to either burn up or melt to death, perhaps both; 2) You couldn’t drink the water in China so after the race I “quenched” my agonizing thirst with the only liquid available, a warm, fizzy orange soda pop; 3) I was overjoyed that our second meet got canceled because I was sure I wouldn’t survive another race. After the race we traded trinkets and jerseys with our fellow Chinese competitors and I remember one tiny, rail thin guy wanted my beloved Nike Spiridon racing shoes. I turned him down. To this day I think about that poor kid who had literally nothing and rue my selfishness: Why didn’t I just give him the shoes?

1993 — I turned 24 in the frozen tundra of Ontario, Oregon, which at the time was gripped in a brutally long, cold, snowy winter. I was married to Julie and we had two boys with a third on the way — Imagine that! Julie was pregnant! — and I was working for $1,200 a month as a sportswriter at the daily Argus Observer covering high school sports. Often I would leave my 1986 diesel Volkswagen Jetta with Julie and run the mile or so to work through the campus of Treasure Valley Community College. I remember distinctly on one frigid night running home for dinner through the crusty snow and underestimating how bitterly cold it was, thinking someone might come across me frozen solid in mid-stride sometime the next day. It took me a month to thaw out from that jaunt and to this day I hate to be cold, perhaps partly because of that moment of idiocy. But I get the warm fuzzies thinking about Ontario as well. The farming outpost on the Snake River next to Idaho is where we discovered the Calvary Chapel movement at a church on the outskirts of town and where we learned about expository Bible teaching. It changed our church lives forever. We also made lifelong friends who taught us so much about raising children, homeschooling and a family where Jesus Christ is at the center. 

2001 — I turned 32 in a couple of finished rooms of an old dairy barn on a 3-acre patch of land at the edge of Corvallis, Oregon, where we were holed up while we built a big dream house. We had seven kids, an eighth on the way — yes, Julie was pregnant! — and it was a hard time. Very hard time. All I can say is that God carried us through it. I learned plenty in that season of life, like DIY and how to use power tools such as a compound mitre saw, how to kill skunks nesting under your barn (it’s ugly and smelly and I don’t wish it on anyone) and what true friends look like (thank you Jim Bass and many others). I remember the strength of Julie in those hard times. A gritty perseverance and a deep, abiding faith and belief that God in His power will get us through anything. I’ve never met another woman like her. Don’t think I ever will. I’m so thankful for her.

2009 — After living in Virginia for four years, we returned to Corvallis in fall of 2008 so I could attend Cornerstone School of Ministry. On my 40th birthday at school I remember how one of my classmates ornately and rather gaudily decorated my car in embarrassing fashion, writing passages drawn from Song of Solomon referencing my “abs of carved ivory” on it … except it wasn’t my car. It was someone else’s. Now THAT was funny and made for a memorable birthday. But from 2009 I learned many things, above all that God is in control. And that He is a very good and loving God.

2017 — I awoke on my 48th birthday next to my wife of 26 years, who’s not pregnant I might add, in a little house a few blocks from the York River where around Christmas time all 14 kids were home. It’s 15 kids when you add in Taylor’s wife, Bethany, then 16 kids when you count the wee little lad she’s carrying in her womb. (We’re so stoked to be grandparents this year!) Then you add another to make it 17 for when Ethan’s fiancee Mandi, was here, plus throw in another “kid” to make it 18 when Brenton’s — and ours too! — good friend from Oregon, Parker Smith, stopped in for several days to visit. Julie glowed because all her babies were home and the house was just so full of life. And a ton of food. Literally a ton of food. I remember thinking that, yes our house is small and there’s kids everywhere, but there’s so much laughing and joy and love and I’m so thankful for all the Lord has done in our lives. And then a few days ago I got this text from Evie, who’s out in Oregon studying at Cornerstone School of Ministry for the year: “Okay. We were in prayer yesterday and I remembered in It’s a Wonderful Life at the end when Harry toasts George and says, `To George Bailey, the richest man in town.’ I know this is really mushy but I always thought of you when we watched that movie.” So yes, Evie is right. On my 48th birthday I woke up as the richest man in town.

We're Planning for a 2017 Wedding in the Sabo House

New Year's Eve was especially spectacular in the Sabo house this year thanks to a major family event/announcement: Ethan is getting married to the lovely Mandi Smith! Yes, she said yes! We were able to document not only the actual event, but some of the work that went into the "surprise" for Mandi. Ethan popped the question on a York River dock of a nearby residence after securing permission from the generous Sal Leone of Sal's Sicilian Pizza & Restaurant fame. Thank you Leone family!

Ethan lined a section of the dock with Christmas lights and he and Taylor built an "arch" fashioned out of a repurposed door frame fished out of the recesses of the Sabo garage ... an old closet door jamb has never looked so good and never been so useful! Ethan had a ton of help from siblings and yours truly on pulling off his big event. Taylor, especially, was helpful in creating the magical arch and Evie documented it all on camera. Without further ado, here's the pictorial!

Um, at least Ethan and Taylor had plenty of room in the garage to work!

Ethan and Taylor have always been real close brothers. Even when it comes to operating the compound mitre saw.

Professional craftsmen at work!

We know exactly what we're doing! Look at that cut!

Ethan with his wood building game face.

Hey Taylor, it looks like you've got things under control there so I'm just going to check the score of the Alabama-UDub game. 

Yep, go ahead and nail it right there bro. 

Carrying it across the threshold ... just about ready for painting! 

I'll let go and then you let go and we'll see if it stays up!

Whoa Nelli! She's staying upright!

Ethan: "Hey Taylor, you missed a spot."
Taylor: "Bro, the sun is in my eyes!"

The lads got the arch perfected and then Taylor and our friend who's visiting from Oregon, Parker Smith, helped him set it up on the Leone dock and get the lights strung up. MerriGrace got some music playing on the dock, where it was a wee bit breezy and chilly ... but things soon warmed up with the arrival of Ethan and Mandi.

Now that is some happy going on !

The young couple is something to behold but it's hard to take my eyes off that expertly crafted arch!

Awwwww. 

Well done son!

We're all so excited to welcome Mandi into our family sometime in 2017. She's a beautiful young woman inside and out who loves the Lord with all her heart and we're so thrilled for Ethan. The Lord is going to do great things through Ethan and Mandi! We love you!

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."

The little boy, now young man, who almost didn't make it past being a toddler

A kid in Air Jordan shorts can't be anything but confident.

Today we celebrate the 24th birthday of Taylor. It's a remarkable feat because he has come so far. Those who know Taylor might be surprised to learn that at the age of 2, as Sabo kids go he ranked right up there with the most difficult. There were days we weren't sure any of us would survive the Taylor toddler years. Yes, it's true. Just ask him. He will tell you.

Everything was a battle with Taylor when he was but a wee lad. He was just so particular. About everything. Rarely did he like the way his clothes fit and he would get this sour look on his face and grab at his pants, or stomp his feet, or whine and fuss. He was particular about what he would eat and prone to little fits about things in general. When his brothers would aggravate him, and boy would his brothers aggravate him, he would get so mad! He would grit his teeth and wrinkle up his nose and you could see the steam coming off his head -- which, by the way, it took him a while to grow a full head of hair -- and he would do this funny little thing.

When he got really mad and he needed to really lash out he would grit his teeth and kind of ball up his fists ... then if it was Ethan -- or whoever he was mad at but Ethan seemed for some reason to be a frequent target -- he would reach out and with his thumb and forefinger rub Ethan's ears rather gently. That showed him! And Ethan would look at him like, "What on earth are you doing with my ears Taylor?"

I don't think he still does that anymore. I'll have to ask his lovely wife Bethany.

Along the way, Taylor became an amazing young man. Let's say that God moved mightily in his life. He's an extraordinary son and brother and friend and husband. He is kind and loving and generous, a hard worker, genuinely caring, a young man of great faith and a talented musician and singer who uses his gifts for the glory of the Lord.

It's always so much fun when Taylor comes home with Bethany. There's soccer games and laughs and crazy bedtime stories that Taylor tells his little brother and sisters -- so hilarious that they actually look forward to going to bed. That's all kind of amazing! He likes to help out around the house and when the two of them are here that means two more people singing beautifully and playing instruments in the house. A house full of musicians is a happy place I tell you.

So happy birthday Taylor! We love you! Taylor and Bethany graduate from Berea College in a little more than a week and we can't wait for them to come visit us! One last thing, Taylor: We knew you would make it to 24 ... really we did!

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.

The amazing thing I found down at my York River beach

The beach at Harbor Hills

At least a few times a week, perhaps more, I walk a few blocks down to the neighborhood beach on the York River at the end of Harbor Hills Road. I walk by a piney lot that a neighbor told me is the final repose of the bones of slaves resting in unmarked graves. I wonder if that's true. I have no reason to doubt, but I find it startling. And mysterious. I walk down a hill where on the corner is a house with distinctive Cape Cod-style siding that always reminds of something I might see on the Oregon Coast. It takes me back to the Yaquina Bay Bridge in Newport. 

There's a couple of spots on the road where I've encountered snakes. A copperhead once with its distinctive brown diamonds and then a long, skinny black snake another time. It's quite a journey down to that beach.

One time I glanced out my kitchen window and saw a summer storm had cropped up. I was hustling down to photograph the sinister clouds as they rose in ambush over the York River. I was nearly there to capture it all when the clouds unleashed their thunderous fury. I turned for home and ran, chugging uphill in a downpour as the pine trees bent around me, arriving home soaked, my ears ringing. I remember feeling quite happy I made it.

I'm drawn to the beach and it's dun-colored sand for the view, the peace, the water, the sky and the sun. It's a place to pray, a place to think, a place to ponder and wonder. I've been visiting the beach for a little more than two years. There's an inlet from the river that flows high and low with the tide and opens up into a long, narrow pond that's like a shallow natural harbor filling the low spot between two stubby hills. I suspect that's where the area got its name, as a harbor among the hilly bluffs jutting up above the York River, but I'm not quite sure. It's all silted in now and I wonder if it was once a place of shelter for boats, maybe back to colonial times. Who knows. Google doesn't seem to know.

The most remarkable thing of all has been how much the beach has changed in such a short span of my visits. The inlet's path changes almost daily sometimes. The wind, waves and tides alternately heap up sand and drag it away and the inlet's path and mouth has been altered steadily, moving farther and farther downstream of the river.

The changing path of the Harbor Hills inlet

I like to take my kids down there. When the weather is warm for a good part of the year they love to frolic in the little stream and catch minnows and small blue crabs. They don't notice the influence of the greater forces on that little stream. I imagine they're not like me, watching the stream carve out a path through the ever-changing sandy obstructions. Or noting how the new path of the stream yields little treasures, like a bed of colorful pebbles and stones that surprised me the other day. The pebbles, shells and even pieces of smoothed glass seemed so out of place, like they had been dropped there. I posted a photo of them on Instagram and said they were stars that had fallen out of the sky onto my beach.

Unexpected treasures, or fallen stars

As I've watched that little stream change course I've come to appreciate it. It always finds a path, no matter the barrier. I like to listen to it on its meandering track back to the river as it whittles away at the sand in its course, never relenting, always moving one way or the other depending on the tide. When it's warm out you'll find me wading in the Harbor Hills stream, sometimes alone, often with my kids and fishing for crabs and minnows.

Mostly when I get down there I see footprints. Several people like to take their dogs down there. There's people who walk around and I can see where they stop at the water. I wonder if they're like me. If they notice how the beach is changing. How it's captive to the fury of the storms that gather force across the mile-wide river. I wonder if they notice the unrelenting stream, the life of that little stretch of beach.

Celebrating Our Family's 12th Anniversary In Virginia

Sao family, circa late summer 2004. 

On this date 12 years ago, Feb. 8, 2004, we arrived on the eastern outskirts of Nashville, Tenn., a family of 11 journeying across the U.S. via Interstate 40. Several days before we had bid our goodbyes to the West Coast and pointed our packed 12-passenger van east, leaving behind my beloved Oregon -- where I gladly spent my first 35 years -- to stake our claim in Gloucester, Va. We had first traveled south to Disneyland and after a long, glorious day in the happiest place on earth we were hitting the road.

I have a few distinct memories of our trip across the country. Beginning with Los Angeles traffic. We made it as far as Barstow, Calif., that first night. Not quite Williams, Ariz., my planned destination thanks to a -- surprise! -- clogged freeway heading out of LA. The next day, Feb. 6, 2004, dawned clear and cold. Evie would celebrate her 7th birthday in three states that day. On Feb. 7, 2004, MerriGrace would throw up in three states.

From Barstow we made it to Albuquerque, N.M. I remember swimming in an indoor/outdoor pool at our motel and Brenton becoming a human scab after an unfortunate incident on a fitness room treadmill. Next stop, Henryetta, Okla., where we stayed in a motel that I do believe had the worst "breakfast" I've ever had in my life. I also remember nearly freezing to death unpacking the van that night as an Arctic wind howled down off the Great Plains.

As we headed to Nashville 12 years ago today, we stopped for gas in a little outpost off the freeway in Arkansas. Somehow I avoided becoming a human ice cube filling up the van and ducked inside the convenience store for supplies and food stuffs. While waiting in line, a man struck up a conversation with me. I had no idea what he was saying and apologized before asking him what he said. We went back and forth about two or three times before I figured out that in backwoods country Arkansas, the word "wind" has three syllables. Maybe four. He was talking about the cold wind.

We would make it eventually, well technically the next day, to Gloucester, Va., where we hunkered down in two rooms at the Comfort Inn, right next door to the Winn-Dixie. RIP Gloucester Winn-Dixie, a death caused by the opening of the nearby Wal-Mart Supercenter. There were still people living in the Comfort Inn who were waiting for their houses to get patched up from getting bushwhacked by Hurricane Isabel, five months after she had barreled through the county. And every morning at the continental breakfast we were greeted by grandmotherly Miss Bernice.

The kids remember playing in the snow in the woods out back of the motel. I remember hearing tree frogs hollering from the woods one day and thinking we were under attack. We got turned down three or four times for rentals, always with the same story: Either the well or septic system, or both, would in no way, shape, or form handle the volumes a family of 11 would surely consume and produce. Never mind that even with a bunch more kids since then we would never have a water or septic system problem in all the years of living here.

We spent a fortnight plus one in the Comfort Inn before we found temporary housing until our house in Oregon sold. We were able to close on a place of our own in the woods a stone's throw from Burkes Mill Pond. We've moved around plenty since we've been here. From Mill Pond Road to a new home on Ark Road, where out back of the house and a football field away, down by a mountainous gum tree, a stream trickled right out of the side of a hill.

Then it was on to a big house in a new subdivision off of Belroi Road ,where one night a micro-burst -- that's weatherman talk for a mini-twister -- dropped a neighbor's tree in our yard. It narrowly missed our house but it pitched a limb from the tree right through our bedroom window, prompting an unexpected tumult that was like a shotgun blast for an alarm clock. This was at midnight and I've never seen Julie move so fast. To this day I'm positive I heard the sound of a train right before that limb tore through our window. Mind you, there's no trains in Gloucester.

From there we moved down the county to a Marshall Lane rancher in a peaceful neighborhood at the Point. It's where my kids walk a few blocks to the beach and fish minnows and little blue crabs out of a salty York River inlet not far from where the big rivah eases gently into Cheseapeake Bay.

We've had a grand time here in Gloucester. It's the only place where I've been asked more than once if I'm a Yankee. That makes me laugh. I usually answer that Oregon didn't become a state until 1859 and thanks to its relative newness, a general lack of a supply of able-bodied men and its great distance from the action in Virginia and elsewhere on the bloody Southern battlefields, the War of Northern Aggression wasn't really our scrap. Truth be told, however, I guess I am a Yankee seeing as how I count Ethan Allen of Vermont's Green Mountain Boys fame as an ancestor. But let's just keep that between us.

I usually greet people with a lively, "Howdy," something I trace back to my roots east of Oregon's splendid Cascade Mountains range. I guess people aren't used to my Oregon howdy because sometimes I have people respond, "Ah'm fah-ahn thanks, how're y'all doin'?" I've been asked about my accent, even though I've never known an Oregonian, not even those out east in John Day, Burns, or heck, metropolitan Fossil, to have one. I've been introduced to okra and collard greens, the glories of Chesapeake Bay, country ham biscuits and the best rivah sunsets in all of Virginia. Or anywhere for that matter.

I admit it. There's things I miss about Oregon. That meadow between the groves of towering ponderosa pines just east of Sisters alongside Highway 20 where the snow capped Three Sisters mountains seem to take up the whole sky. I can't ever help but stare at the awesome sight. Or the amazingly vibrant colors of the Painted Hills outside of Mitchell, where God got crazy with the paintbrush. Or the nights staring up in awe at the High Desert skies without a tree or a city light for a hundred miles to hide a single star that, as the prophet Isaiah tells us, like the millions of other stars in the Milky Way was hung in place and named by God.

My home  -- our home -- is here in Gloucester now. You know the place. Where one day in February the kids are playing soccer in the yard in shorts and t-shirts and two days later they're making Olaf out of the snow. Where the Coleman Bridge spans the York River at its narrowest point, a full three-quarters of a mile wide and where dolphins frolic in the summer. It's the same place Pocahontas called home and where she intervened, as the story goes, to ensure John Smith wasn't the first Englishman to get his head lopped off in the New World.

It's also where, in 1642, an Englishman named Augustine Warner settled by a branch of the Severn River and whose most famous descendant, a great- great-grandson, was a man by the name of George Washington. Yes, that George Washington. And, of course, a Confederate general and Southern icon named Bobby Lee traced his lineage back to ol' Augie Warner.

It's an amazing place, populated by a great many people with whom we've made enduring memories. I expect many more memories to come, even if it doesn't involve another Sabo baby. I can't imagine living anywhere else. Twelve years on now and Gloucester is the place we Sabos call home.

Augie Warner's old place, now a B&B known as The Inn at Warner Hall

A Winter Respite, A Taste Of Spring In Virginia

Our beach

A week ago we were snowbound here in Virginia, the kids sledding down our homemade toboggan hill in the back yard. Today it hit 66 degrees and we trekked a few blocks down to the beach. We didn't exactly work on our tans -- it was windy and the water is cold, cold, cold -- but we had a blast and were joined by our friends from Harrisonburg, Matt and Karmen Basinger and their 8-month-old son Mason who spent a couple of days with us.

One of the things that's always been remarkable about our time here in Virginia over the past almost 12 years is how winter can have these lovely spells of pleasant weather. I remember years when we've had a week of 70s and even 80s in January, the kids playing outside in their t-shirts and shorts and even the occasional winter mosquito bite. The warm days -- not the mosquito bites -- are a nice break from the onslaught of cold. I'm not a fan of cold. Actually, I hate being cold. Every year about this time I dream about relocating to Aruba. Today, no so much.

The weather here can definitely be schizophrenic. Or maybe it's bi-polar, like what looms ahead. The forecast calls for 70 degrees and even thunderstorms on Wednesday. Thunderstorms in early February is plain crazy. Then Friday just might put the polar in the bi-polar weather forecast when the North Pole might pay a visit and there's a chance of snow.

Julie said it best today when she was talking to Matt and Karmen about Virginia winter weather. You never put away all the summer clothes -- the kids broke out shorts today, for example. But you also never put away the snowsuits too early. Late this afternoon I took another jaunt down to the beach at sunset. Here's what I found.

Captivated by winter in Virginia

The Faith Race That Goes To The Committed, The Courageous

Back in my college running days. That's me on the right there, the one you wouldn't recognize these days.

My last college cross country race was held on a warm, sunny November day in a big, hilly park in Fresno, Calif. It was 1990. I was 21, married with a little boy and in my senior year at the University of Portland. The race was an NCAA regional meet, my last chance to qualify for the national cross country championships and I was running with the big boys from the West region. All the Pac-10 (back when it was the Pac-10) schools were there along with big schools from other major conferences.

I was ready, if not a bit intimidated to race with the elites. To qualify for the NCAA championships your team has to be in the top three. Or for individuals, you have to be in the top three from non-scoring teams. I had a legitimate shot. A very good shot. The race was 10 kilometers, or 6.2 miles. I always felt like we were at a slight disadvantage racing in California at that time of year because in Portland it was 50s and raining sideways, so a warm day in the 70s was a bit taxing for us and not something for which we could prepare. But that's not an excuse. The conditions were the same for everyone.

As the race went on I knew our team was in the running for a shot at the NCAAs and I was as well. I remember distinctly with a half-mile left thinking that this was the last cross country race I would ever run. In high school I had been fortunate enough to be a part of an amazing turnaround. My freshman year of high school, when I started running at Bend High School in Oregon, we were horrible in cross country, finishing somewhere close to last in our district. By the time I was a junior we dominated our district and finished second in state. My senior year we destroyed the competition, winning the state title by 69 points. That state title was by far the highlight of my high school athletics experience.

College was similar. My freshman year we weren't that good, but by the time I was a senior we had a shot -- albeit something of a slim one -- to get to the NCAAs. So with a half-mile left in the race I did something that I never did. I sprinted. I never had much of a kick and usually conserved energy for the very end of the race, maybe the last 100 meters. Not this time.

I don't recall how many runners I passed but it was a lot. Maybe six, possibly eight. Could be more. I absolutely crushed that last half-mile. And paid the price for it. As I stumbled across the finish line in 11th place, two runners who kicked much later burst past me. But I had beaten them to the line and the officials pushed me in front of them in the finish line chute.

Gasping for air I literally stumbled through the line on legs of rubber and I remember the strangest thing happened to me. I couldn't keep my eyes open. I was so exhausted I literally was falling asleep as I walked through the chute. I found a picnic table and promptly crashed onto the bench to go to sleep, or possibly die. My teammates probably thought I was dead, maybe just nearly dead at best, and kept trying to help me up to walk me around and keep me alive. I would have none of it. I told them to leave me alone. I just wanted to sleep. Or maybe die.

My effort was seemingly noble, yet all for naught. Our team finished 4th and I was the 4th individual. My cross country season, really my cross country career, was over. Since then I've looked back on that race and comforted myself knowing how hard I fought that last mile. I've even used it in messages I've preached at Calvary Chapel Gloucester about finishing the race well. To push yourself to the limit.

Yet that's not the truth. I've thought about that race a lot over the past 25 years. (Wow. Has it been that long? Mercy sakes.) And while it's a nice narrative I've told over the years it's not quite right. I've been wrong to talk about that race in the manner I have. It's long past time to come clean. I'll explain.

Here's why I've been thinking about this. I see too many Christians practice their faith exactly the way I ran that race. We all gather at the starting line -- that moment when you come to faith in Jesus Christ and make Him your Lord and Savior -- and from that point there are some who really go for it and are all out for the Lord. They are passionate, unwavering and zealous and the love of Jesus shines in them and through them. They are lights in a dark world, continually pointing people to Jesus, being compassionate, loving and radiating His grace. I admire them greatly.

Others run comfortably, more or less lukewarm. This is your typical Christian and a group I would characterize as the vast majority. Some flat out dawdle and others, sadly, drop out. But for pretty much everyone who sticks in the race there's a sprint at the end as the realization hits them that the end of their life is near and they want to "do something for the Lord."

So what really happened in that race of mine 25 years ago? In every cross country race there comes a point fairly early when you have to decide your level of commitment. The great runners push themselves to the limit from the start. For me, the moment of truth in that 10k in Fresno came around two miles into the race. At that point I backed off a bit and didn't fully go for it, opting to conserve my energy until the end. I played it safe. I ran comfortably, easily within my limits. It proved to be a decision I would regret. And still regret. Why not just go for it? It was my last cross country race! Ever!

Here's why I made the decision I did. I simply lacked the courage. And commitment. The race doesn't always go to the fastest or strongest. It's often to the most committed. The most courageous. That wasn't me on that day.

Which brings me to my Christian life. And yours, if you're a believer. What's your level of commitment? What's the courage meter of your faith? Are you coasting? Have you settled?

I've settled in my faith far too often. I've coasted in my faith far too often. It's too easy to just back off -- daily Bible reading, prayer, sharing my faith, pressing into the Lord, missions and other elements of the Christian faith can all take a back seat to "life" and its distractions and enticements. It really comes down to who Jesus is in my life. And yours. Is Jesus worth living for? Worth dying for? Didn't Jesus lay down His life for you and me?

I say all of this because I'm wrestling hard with some major decisions. It has everything to do with my level of commitment and the essence of my faith. I'm guessing you have these decisions to wrestle with as well.

It's the two-mile mark and time to make a decision. What's my level of commitment? What's yours?

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 ...

Day 1 Of Snowmageddon 2016 In Virginia

The long, white walk home

We have good news at the Sabo house. We've survived Day 1 of Snowmageddon, the biggest snowstorm in the history of the world, if you believe the media. Which I don't. I remember bigger snowstorms here in Gloucester but don't want to get in the way of a concerted media hype effort. And any way you slice it, the several inches we got today doesn't compare to the 30-inch dump that socked Bend, Ore., one day when I was a kid. That was the winter of '73, I believe, or thereabouts. That humdinger of a snowstorm is best remembered in the Sabo house for causing my disappearance. We had a front porch and when I went outside after the snowfall I took a wrong turn and disappeared into the abyss of white stuff. Fortunately I was found before I froze to death and so I lived to tell about it. I guess that's kind of obvious, eh?

We got several inches of snow today in a storm that those TV weather guys are calling "Jonas." It strikes me as bizarre to name winter storms and I think it's purely to goose ratings and draw viewers but whatever. You go TV weather channel guys. It's supposed to rain tonight so tomorrow could be a royal disaster on the roads and disrupt any and all transportation plans.

Brenton has already received word that Starbucks isn't opening tomorrow so he has the day off. Let's not let the Starbucks stores in places like Maine, Minnesota, Montana, the Dakotas, the Midwest, Sibera, Northern Europe, the Yukon Territory and most everywhere else that gets snow know that they shut things down here in Gloucester after several inches "piled up." That's pretty embarrassing. I wonder if Howard Schultz knows about the store closing practices of his Starbucks stores in Tidewater Virginia. I imagine he wouldn't be overly impressed. Whatever you do don't let Donald Trump know about it. He would probably try and deport the Starbucks employees here for being sissies at best and un-American at worst.

We plan on hunkering down in the Sabo house tomorrow -- rain, snow, shine, or all of the above -- and doing puzzles, playing board games, watching movies and eating. Julie managed to clean out the local Food Lion last night ahead of Snowmageddon so we're in good shape here. If things get real bad we'll deck the lads out in snowsuits and point them toward the 7-Eleven a mile away for provisions. I think that would be a good parenting move.

One benefit of living in my neighborhood is that my boss' house is about a mile away. I had a conference call with them today and so I walked to work, as is my usual practice. By the time I headed home early this afternoon the snow was coming down at a right brisk clip. I shot some video of my trip: Down the dirt road past the cemetery, through the woods and then took a quick detour a couple of blocks down to the beach on the York River. I put together a video of my trip. Jim Cantore's got nothing on me, as you'll see.

I'm signing off for the night. I can already hear the wind blowing and rain pounding against the windows. It's about to get real weather-wise around here. Adios. Here's the link: Snowmageddon 2016

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.