Return to story

WINTER GETAWAY SPOUSES RECONNECT Birds of a feather flock to Staunton

February 17, 2007 12:51 am

BY JENNIFER STROBEL

We had survived Christmas, which, for all its professed delights, seemed like a logistical marathon to me.

"Hey, husband," I said one night in January 2006. "How about we take off for a bed-and-breakfast, just us two?" Maybe those weren't my exact words, but they're close enough to the message I was sure would please him.

I thought he'd see that I viewed him as something more than an errand machine. I thought he'd catch the romance in my tone. I thought he'd be pleased.

But as the book claims, "Women are from Venus and men are from Mars."

"Too expensive," he said.

End of discussion.

My Venus mind filed the little exchange in the over-active "hurt feelings" segment of my brain. His Mars mind forgot about it.

During the course of the year, it surfaced in little ways: a bit of whining, an occasional you-don't-care Venus flare-up.

Mostly, though, our budget, my laziness about traveling and my husband's radio announcer schedule superceded such frivolity. He's allowed only a narrow window of vacation--spring, fall and Christmas are out.

Who wants to go in midwinter? Turns out, we do.

Nearly a year after the first conversation, Brian-from-Mars became Brian-online-planning-a-little-trip.

I'm ordinarily our family's one-person entertainment committee, but I decided to take a break and let him handle everything.

I envisioned a quick over-night, somewhere close enough to get home fast if our sons needed us. They're 20 and 13, competent and trustworthy, but still

We didn't actually discuss all that, however, and, with no input from me, Brian booked two nights at Shenandoah Valley Inn in downtown Staunton, a compact city of about 23,000.

Not the woodsy country retreat I'd envisioned. And farther away. Two hours. And two nights.

"You don't seem excited," he told me.

"Oh. Sure. I'm excited," I said noncommittally as I plowed through yet another year's Christmas logistics.

Then came New Year's, a Monday. We'd managed another holiday season. The coast was clear for our getaway. That night, when I went online for a map to Staunton, I refrained from checking out the inn. I wanted to be surprised.

Next day, under a clear, blue January sky, we headed with ease down State Route 3 west, the highway that had been so jammed with shoppers and travelers days before. Now, all those people were back at work and school, and my husband and I were two hooky-players in a world lost to 9-to-5'ers.

As the scenery became more rural, we glimpsed the rolling Blue Ridge Mountains, and after two hours of easy driving and conversation, we pulled up to the Shenandoah Valley Inn.

The first good sign: a front porch swing. It's a personal quirk of mine, but to me that's one essential that makes a house a home.

Second good sign: Claire, the fluffy calico who stood beside the innkeeper, Dan Sager. Both greeted us in the spacious foyer.

There's something to be said for procrastination. Had we taken the trip when I originally suggested, we would not have met Sager, new owner of the inn previously known as the Twelfth Night, and we would not have reaped the rewards of his painstaking renovation.

He has repainted every room, installed new window treatments and floor coverings, and hung magnificent chandeliers in the four-story 1908 Colonial Revival.

He has furnished it with his personal collection of art, antiques and reproductions and created a library, where guests may peruse his collection of books, games, DVDs and CDs.

The names of the four guest rooms reflect the city's history. He considered every detail: plush terry robes, luxurious linens, extra blankets and pillows. Each room is equipped with a flat-screen television, a DVD player, a CD player and wireless Internet access.

We were his third guests ever, and the only guests that week. Settled in the Lady Rebecca Staunton Room at the back of the second floor, I soaked up the silence of a weekday January afternoon.

The next morning, I smelled coffee awaiting us in the dining room. Sager served a breakfast of waffles, yogurt and fruit on vintage china and juice in crystal stemware. His immaculate dining room sparkled.

We were ready for a day scheduled only to suit our personal whims. My husband had decided that once we parked the car at the inn, we would not move it until it was time to go home.

Not a problem. If Virginia is for lovers, Staunton is for lovers of walking.

We ambled along the hilly sidewalks, admiring stately homes on the way to our first destination, the Blackfriars Playhouse, one of the focal points for a renaissance of the town that seemed to have reached a dismal low point in the '70s and '80s.

This was the only "dark week" of the year, but that was fine with us. We'd seen the theater company perform in Fredericksburg many times at the Fredericksburg Festival of the Art's annual Shakespeare Weekend.

This morning, as the sole guests on the public tour, we were happy to follow our graduate-student guide around the theater, the world's only reconstruction of Shakespeare's indoor theater in London. The company plans to reconstruct Shakespeare's outdoor theater, The Globe, as well.

Next door, the Stonewall Jackson Hotel and Conference Center has recently undergone what its Web site calls a "massive restoration" to return the property to its former glory when it was built in the 1920s.

Much as we enjoyed our walk around town, we did cheat a bit--but only because we didn't want to get lost--and took the free city trolley to Gypsy Hill Park, one of my childhood favorites when I lived in nearby Waynesboro.

The bandstand I remember from the '50s is still there, and so is the fenced pond. I knew right where to go--the convenience store across the street--for a loaf of bread. We tossed it to the grateful ducks and swans, no doubt descendants of the ones I enjoyed many years ago.

It seemed as if the day had been made just for me, complete with classical music, my favorite, in the trolley, of all places.

We opted for a comfort food lunch at the Beverley Restaurant on Beverley Street. Years ago, in our chatty honeymoon days, I would notice married couples sitting in utter silence. As my husband and I sat in the restaurant reading local newspapers, I realized we must look just like those people. But what a comfort to enjoy just being together.

Back at the inn, while he relaxed and read, I wandered around the terraced garden, engrossing myself in a romanticist's fairy tale of the lives and drama of the people who built Gospel Hill, the historic residential district where the house stands. The name dates to the 1790s, when religious meetings were held at a blacksmith's shop on the hill.

During our visit, I kept wondering about the mix of people that make up Staunton: generations of wealth brought by the railroad industry in the 19th century; the intellectual culture of Mary Baldwin College, the American Shakespeare Center and its playhouse; and country music--it's home to the famed Statler Brothers, who have a museum there.

Add to all that the many people involved in the multitude of services for people with disabilities. These include Western State Hospital, Woodrow Wilson Rehabilitation Center and the Virginia School for the Deaf and Blind, whose picturesque campus backs up to the sloping garden of Shenandoah Valley Inn.

A book of "then and now" photos showed the care the city has taken in its revival from the down-in-the-dumps '70s to the 21st century. Sager, the innkeeper, said Staunton is attracting retirees; I chatted with his neighbor who had moved from Williamsburg to retire.

A January New York Times article about second homes noted that the town has been discovered by people who are "moved by mountains and history."

The town boasts five national historic districts of Victorian, Greek Revival and Federal styles. Washington architect T.J. Collins moved to Staunton in 1890, and over the next 20 years designed or remodeled more than 200 of the buildings, most of which still stand.

While enjoying a couple of days in the slow lane, we were happy with the delectable slow food from restaurants a few blocks from our home away from home. Night one was rack of lamb at L'Italia, where our innkeeper had made reservations for us. For night two, Brian chose the Mill Street Grill, located in a former mill in the Wharf Historic District. Even at 9:30 p.m. on a Wednesday in January in this small town, it was packed with diners enjoying the food, the ambience and the jazz band.

We worked off a few of the calories on the uphill walk back to the inn.

With one more morning to go, I was getting over my initial shyness about having the run of this beautiful, immaculate house. I could almost pretend I was back at my grandmother's house, another turn-of-the-century homestead with a porch swing, wraparound staircase, window landing, outdoor balcony and grand piano.

The smell of coffee hung in the air. Downstairs, Brian was relaxing in the library. I strolled across the hallway, where Claire the cat stretched out on her chair beside the window. Sunlight streamed in. I played the piano.

It took a while, but the wait was worth it.

Brian-from-Mars, you did good.

Jennifer Strobel: 540/374-5000, ext. 5698
Email: jstrobel@freelancestar.com