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Saturday, June 30, 2018

Visiting Jamestown (Virginia) - The Original Site by Savvy Mom Ruth Paget

Visiting Jamestown (Virginia) – Original Settlement by Savvy Mom Ruth Paget

As we were walking around the stone foundations of homes in Jamestown, I thought of how to define “archaeologist” so a five-year-old girl could understand the term.

“An archaeologist is a person who uses her brain and imagination to show people today how people lived in the past,” I said.

Florence let the word go through one ear and out the other as we walked among the remains at Jamestown.

A statue of Pochahontas fascinated Florence.  Florence had dressed up like Pochanontas one year for Halloween in Wisconsin.  She could not believe she was a real person.

“She was much more interesting in real life than in the film,” I said.

“You will learn about her in the sixth grade,” I said.

“That’s too long to wait!” Florence said.

“Okay.  I’ll find a book at the library about Pochahontas to read to you, but not a cartoon book,” I said.  Some of our favorite outings in Wisconsin had been to the State Historical Society.”

Florence liked the miniature scenes of village life – no doubt, because they looked like dolls.

“Archaeologists play with clay and draw.  It’s not a bad job,” I said, hoping to influence Florence’s career choices.

“I want to be a singer,” Florence said to stop my propaganda for a career I would have liked for myself at one time until I read about forensic anthropology.

Inside the name of one of the original gentleman who founded Jamestown struck me – John Pennington.  He died three months after the founding of the town, so I could not claim to be a direct heir, but a cousin perhaps.

However, it was neat to see my family name in a historic place.  My mother told me that there was a Pennington at Roanoke as well, but I cannot confirm this information with online sources.

The English inheritance system of primogeniture, where the eldest son inherited everything, meant that younger sons had to seek careers in the military, the church, or as merchants in the Americas, Africa, or Asia.

Judging by the number of Pennington descendants in the United States, I would say that the Penningtons and allied families in western England sired many children at Muncaster Castle in Cumbria, where the Penningtons have resided since the thirteenth century. 

(The Penningtons, who are of Norman French descent, were in the army of William the Conqueror.  They are listed in the Domesday Book from 1,000 AD and have also sponsored the building of churches.  Rutherford’s novels Sarum and London talk about the Domesday book.)

Doing family geneaological work had given me much respect for the survival of the Penningtons and other families who were given seeds and guns for hunting and protection as ships from the mother country sailed off to collect the crown’s part of the harvest the following year.

My particular branch of the Penningtons settled in western Virginia (Pennington Gap and Robbins’ Chapel), Lexington (Kentucky), and Kingsport (Tennessee). 

Sir Isaac Penington was the founder of our line and created the Society of Friends Church (Quakers) in England before coming to the U.S. with his son-in-law William Penn. 

By my generation, my father told me non-violence does not always mean pacifism.  My parents were evangelical Pentecostals I think.  (They laughed at my failed efforts at attending a Friends’ School on the East Side of Detroit.)

The Penningtons are original settlers of Virginia, Sons of Liberty, and Daughters of the American Revolution.  I am not sure of our Civil War status, but my southern family has historically been fiscally conservative.

I talked about these topics with Florence as we set out for pizza.  I knew we were original settlers of Virginia, but I was somewhat floored that we were at Jamestown myself.


By Ruth Pennington Paget, author of Eating Soup with Chopsticks and Marrying France

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Admiring the White Sands of Virginia Beach (Virginia) by Savvy Mom Ruth Paget

Admiring the White Sands of Virginia Beach (Virginia) by Savvy Mom Ruth Paget

Shore Avenue was by our apartment.  We took it and drove out to Virginia Beach.  The blue Atlantic made me want to go swimming.  It was seventy degrees outside.  I knew the water would be cold even though the air was warm.

 A loud, prolonged banging ripped through the air.

“A jet just broke the sound barrier,” Laurent said.

“We live in Top Gun land,” I said to Florence, so she would feel her neighborhood was cool.

Oceana Naval Air Station was a few miles away from where we were driving on Atlantic Avenue.

“People around here call that the ‘sound of freedom,’” Laurent laughed.

We parked our car by the beach and strolled on the cement boardwalk, but the white sand encouraged us to take off our shoes and walk to the water’s edge.  We must have had “tourist” written all over us.

Florence splashed in the water.  We had to keep her from running right out into it.  Seagulls flew around the beach.  The low sand dunes put up a feeble defense against a hurricane.

The salty air invigorated us.  We went to the commissary hungry and had fun buying all kinds of foods that I would never purchase on a normal shopping trip from Europe.

Back at the house, Laurent made pasta with butter, parmesan chees, and fresh, chopped parsley.  We ate camembert cheese and salad after that.

In my groggy state from sleeping on a hardwood floor in a sleeping bag, I spent the next two weeks doing all those activities that you have to do when you move.

I had the electricity turned on much to Florence’s delight.  She kept opening the refrigerator door just to make sure we had light again.

I had to admit that it was nice to take showers in the morning and not in the afternoon while there would be light in the bathroom.

With the installation of the telephone came my job hunting tool – the phone book.  I wanted to find a job that would fit around Florence’s school schedule.  As backup, I would call a temporary agency, if I could not find a job.

I also wanted to avoid childcare expenses at all costs.  I would end up working for a few dollars, if had to pay a babysitter.

I knew we would have to get babysitting in the summer, but I wanted to make sure we were solvent when school was in session.

Summers just killed us with its childcare expenses.  I wanted to work to be somewhat self-supporting and to have money for some “cultural outings.”  I worried about how to provide stimulating experiences for Florence on so little cash.

With these thoughts crowding my mind, I looked up market research firms.  I had worked for one in Wisconsin and liked the work, which was usually part-time.  I found several and wrote cover letters to two of the larger ones.

I would type the letters once our furniture and belongings arrived.  It was mid-May and Florence was still not in school.  We were waiting on her physical, which she needed before she could begin school.

I had to think about childcare for the summer.  Without childcare, I could not work.  I started panicking.  What if it took the movers took two more weeks to deliver our household goods.

My fretting ended somewhat when our belongings were delivered, which created new problems.  We now lived in a sea of boxes.

We had little furniture.  We sold everything when we moved from France, so we could set up a wine consulting firm in the U.S.   After that, we took care of my mother’s house in Wisconsin for three years.

I had twelve boxes of books and no bookshelves.  The good thing about our slim pickings on the furniture was that the military movers could not break anything.

Filling out damage claim forms is a military procedure that a spouse becomes used to doing as I learned on subsequent moves with the military and as a military civilian.  You learn to photograph and .pdf valuables before they go on a truck.

None of my Haviland dishes broke in the move.  I put them along with all the kitchen gear that I would never part with in the kitchen cabinets.  Renaissance Florentine and Venetian families are still dominant today, because they keep their kitchen equipment, know how to use it, and buy sets for all their children and grandchildren.

I knew where I would stash sherry for cooking, sea salt, Balsamic vinegar (full of vitamin C), and glasses of water to keep parsley fresh.  (My French mother-in-law does this.)

These were my creative implements.  I could eke out fulfilling meals in this kitchen space with many cabinets.  I felt like Catherine de Medici in there at Blois.

By Ruth Pennington Paget, author of Eating Soup with Chopsticks and Marrying France

Click here for:  Ruth Paget's Amazon Books




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Eating Oysters in Virginia Beach (Virginia) by Savvy Mom Ruth Paget



Eating Oysters in Virginia Beach (Virginia) by Savvy Mom Ruth Paget


Laurent came in and sat down in one of the chairs in our hotel, so Florence could sit in his lap and hug him.  The Navy had taken the edge off skinny dink Laurent’s impatience as well as his waistline.

I was a mommy now and just ate some sundaes and did not care too much, if I gained weight.

“I’m starved” Laurent said.

“What about you, Florence?” Laurent asked as he stood up and threw a squealing Florence up in the air.

“Me, too.  Me, too!” she yelled.

Laurent went to change clothes in the bedroom.  He exchanged his blue dungarees work outfit with his name stenciled on the pocket for a Lacoste shirt and khaki pants.  (Lacoste sponsors the French Open Clay tennis tournament.  Tennis as a sport was created in France.)

When he came out, he folded the dungarees in the way that he learned how to in boot camp, so that it looked like they were ready to go into a package for sale.  (We play acted Free France all the time.)

No one would suspect from our clothes how tight our budget really was.

We set out in our six-year-old, blue Chevy Nova and drove down Shore Avenue through Norfolk and into Virginia Beach.

The fine grain, white sand that blankets Virginia Beach draws tourists from the Northeastern seaboard, who cannot make it down to Miami (Florida).  It is also close to Washington, D.C.

We could not see the sand at night.  We were the only tourists in off-season April prowling the streets.  We opened our windows and let the salty air blow through the car.  The restaurants stayed open in the off-season, which gave us hope to find a seafood place for dinner.

After awhile an oyster bar glimmered through the rain. I felt I was seeing a mirage, because the weather was so bad.  We had not eaten oysters, since our return to the United States.

“Do you think the oysters are fresh,” Laurent asked, meaning “raw” when he said “fresh.”

“They usually are at a bar,” I said.  Laurent turned abruptly into the restaurant’s parking lot.  I hoped they would have a decent children’s menu for Florence.

Wooden benches and tables inside invited us to relax our weary bones.  Laurent and I ordered a dozen raw oysters each.  We ordered glasses of the house Chardonnay from California and awaited our dainty yet pricey supper.  Florence ordered fish sticks.

Our oysters appeared on gnarled, wide shells.  These were not the uniform-sized oysters that are raised in Brittany and Arcachon (Bordeaux), France.  I tried Tabasco sauce on some of the oysters I ordered and liked the way that tasted.

We enjoyed our meal, but both of us said we would seek out crab for our American food epiphanies in the future in the South and maybe lobster in the North.  (I love the Southern chain called Joe’s Crab Shack with its steam pots of crab and sausage.  They make red snapper with chile pepper and cream sauce, too.)

The food and wine made us sleep peacefully.  We woke up at 5 a.m. the next day to take our showers and eat breakfast.  Laurent had to be at work by 7 a.m.

We took I-64 and drove back down I-264 to the tunnel. 6:30 a.m. is rush hour in Norfolk as everyone tries to make the 7 a.m. roll calls.

Lots of cars cut us off as people jockeyed for position.  I wondered how I was ever going to manage freeways when I was still afraid to merge with Suffolk Confederate “bastards.”  (I think I am still the only woman, who has driven on these freeways in Norfolk still.)

This time I located landmarks (the Wu-Tang Klan Rap Star posters in the shipyard.)  The streets around the shipyard had garbage strewn in them and lots of worn out cars with what my family’s Japanese exchange student called “accidentry” when viewing jalopies in Detroit.


By Ruth Pennington Paget, author of Eating Soup with Chopsticks and Marrying France

Click here for:  Ruth Paget's Amazon Books




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Going to Portsmouth (Virginia) - the Shipyards by Savvy Mom Ruth Paget

Going to Portsmouth (Virginia) – the Shipyards by Savvy Mom Ruth Paget

The sixty-five degree, humid air outside made the sweat on my hands feel even more cooler as I clenched my car’s steering wheel and entered the tunnel that connected Portsmouth with Norfolk (Virginia) – my first week as a Navy wife.

“Why aren’t we picking daddy up?” cried Florence as she brushed a wisp of straight, brown hair aside that had stuck to her forehead in the day’s heat.

Her round, kiddo cheeks flushed as she cried in sobs that increased with intensity each time that she asked about her father.

We had just spent an hour looking for my husband Laurent through the sprawling United States Naval Shipyard, which seemed to be one bumpy, pot filled parking lot.

My husband’s ship, the U.S.S. Austin (lead battle ship) was resting in dry dock for repairs.  When I had come to the ship with Laurent earlier in the day, we had to go to several gates to find the right ship.

I had forgotten what the right gate looked like.  That was easy to do, since all the gates resembled one another with puddles filling potholes, electric fencing, a lone gatehouse, and a pay phone.  Wu-Tang Klan rap group posters covered the warehouse walls around the dry dock areas.

My inquiries as to where the U.S.S. Austin was were greeted with shrugs and “I don’t knows.”  No one put forth the effort to find Airman Paget for me.  (Laurent did his French military service in the air force and served in Chad (Africa), a French-speaking “Black” African country.”)

Florence fretted more and more with each “the Austin isn’t here” answer.

Dusk was approaching.  I decided to drive back to the Navy Lodge where we were staying until we could find an apartment as our new home.

I could still make out the streets and took advantage of that to find my way back to the hotel.

This was my first day driving solo in the Norfolk – Virginia Beach conurbation of 1.5 million people.  Freeway driving still made me nervous.  (I grew up walking and taking public transportation in Detroit and Chicago.) 

Testosterone drivers in Norfolk zigzag in and out of traffic all the time, especially since I still had Wisconsin license plates on the car. 

Taking I-264 made me do a big loop around Norfolk that I could have avoided by taking Tidewater Drive, but I was unsure of bearings in my new city.  Florence continued crying, “Don’t worry.  Dad will take a taxi to the hotel.”

I hoped he had some spare change to make a call from the pay phone as well as access to the yellow pages, so he could call a cab company.  I worried that he might catch cold in the damp air at night.

“I want my daddy,” Florence continued.  Laurent had been away for three months at boot camp before our arrival in Virginia and was afraid he would disappear again.

Florence reacted to this boot camp situation by throwing temper tantrums with me.  I was worried about how she was going to hold up when Laurent would have to go on his six-month deployment in the Mediterranean.  Some deployments were even extended to one year and sometimes two in war situations.

I was not so sure how I was going to hold up myself as a single parent for such a long period of time.  I was absolutely learning how to drive on freeways with speedy, single guys and peanut farmer Southerners from Suffolk (Virginia) to make sure I could take care of the two of us.

By Ruth Paget, author of Eating Soup with Chopsticks and Marrying France

Click here for:  Ruth Paget's Amazon Books




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