West(Loudoun)side Story: A Tale of Two Towns

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way."

So waxed the grand master of realist prose himself, Mr. Charles Dickens, when reflecting deliberately, purposefully upon the state of affairs in the kingdom of Western Loudoun County--A geographical area so tersely travailed by the rabid rivalry that has taken hold of two townships for the last half century. Yes, the towns in which I refer to are, in fact, Lovettsville and Waterford. Not since the days of the Punic Wars, when Rome's resplendent conquering of Carthage was dubbed the day the earth did tremble, have two villages so vehemently been at odds with one another. And the Children of the earth did cry out, "What hath God wrought?"

I often find myself postulating about the modern remake of the film, "West Side Story" (no I don't), wondering if it will, in fact, be set in our modest dominion. In this revival, I will most certainly play the young Maria, a girl from the wrong side of the tracks, desperately dreaming of life abounding in the town where the grass is really greener. You see, since I was a child, I was very much aware of the inherent idiosyncrasies of my beloved hometown. I knew that Lovettsville was a community rapt with country bumpkin bucolic charm. I was well acquainted with the Redneck (You're damn right I'm capitalizing this word. Show some respect, people) raucous hang-out spot dubbed "the Pit"--a parking cul de sac in the middle of town, nestled in by our claim to fame (the 7-11) wherein the hicks of Lovettsville all would commune together to recount the absurdities of a day in the life of the modern farm worker/construction worker/bus driver/whatever the hell kind of goddamn profession these men had. I knew that country radio stations were the only presets in the automobiles owned by my neighbors, and that Roy Rogers fast food was preferred over any newfangled McDonald's Happy Meal. Conversations were simple, and social gatherings always involved strawberry wine and grain alcohol. My proverbial garden was indeed small, but life was sweet, sublime, stainless.

Fast forward to the sixth grade when I became friends with an expansive crop of kids, hailing from all over the county. The first true "best friend" I recruited went by the name of Sarah Cross; we bonded over our mutual love of 1950s culture, broadway musicals, and all things Elvis Presley. I remember recounting to my mother the fresh information I'd expertly gathered from Sarah when asking permission to have my first middle school sleepover at Miss Cross' abode. The look on her typically unassuming face when she heard the words "she's from Waterford," have been forever ingrained in my now riddled psyche. "What's wrong?" I so intriguingly inquired. What followed in her guarded explanation has heretofore shaped my views on societal intersubjectivity. Like the very moment when Romeo learns that his Juliet was spawned from the Montague's arch nemesis, my world imploded in upon me.

How could I have been so blind? After this life-altering exchange, I began gathering various forms of insight regarding the intricacies of said rivalry. The first morsel of malice I picked up on: most Waterford residents don't actually know there is a dueling opposition between them and Lovettsvillians (Ha--how aptly dubbed!). They don't know, or they pretend not to know. Every Lovettsville citizen that has lived in the town for more than ten years will be completely well versed on the general distaste for all things Waterford. We're taught by our elders to harbor certain resentments when referring to our classier neighbors. For instance, the overall attitude of the town itself: so quiet, so quaint, so charming, so fancy... all of these attributes are used to sarcastically point out the underlying sense of snob mentality that permeates Waterford culture (or should I say "H20ford,"... oh yeah, we hate that stupid nickname, too). Then, there is the communal mantras perpetuated by the township itself. The bumper stickers reading "20 means 20 in Waterford," referring to the speed limit within the town, the fucking Waterford Fair and all that entails, the goddamn school house and stories of field trips to that sacred sanctum of Waterfordness, the infamous pink house in the middle of town, and the overall acknowledgement that the majority of Waterford residents are innately bred liberals. In part, Lovettsvillians must be suffering from a deep-rooted sense of demonic jealousy and disappointment in themselves, fearing their own unsophisticated, childish and backwoods behaviors are never measuring up to Waterford--their metaphorical, overachieving older sibling.

This is where I come in as the prodigal anomaly. As soon as I befriended Sarah Cross and spent my first night away within the walls of whimsical Waterford, I became acutely aware of my own heritage and geographical shortcomings, wishing so intensely that I could have grown up in the national historic landmark itself. I soon became fast friends with a one Miss Aubrey Clendenin, Mr. Joshua Nesbit, Lauren Dennis, Caitlin Nicholson, Tim Cotter, Nick Clarke, and Greg Rickert (funnily enough, it wasn't until 9th grade that I truly became friends with Edward and Daniel. I blame this entirely on them). Oh, how I lamented the day when I'd have one of these classy cronies over to my humble house, set amongst the trees on a dirt road in Lovettsville. Were they too aware of the conflict of interest involved in our young friendship? If they were, they never showed it. My parents became weary over the time I spent pleading with them to move me into the city limits of Waterford; I promised them a multitude of perks (better grades, a better social life, a better appreciation of living history) that would undoubtedly follow after my relocation. Clearly, they never took stock in my burning desires to be transformed into a little Waterfordian debutante. I did my best to include myself into the culture of the town--spending as much time as I possibly could between Aubrey and Sarah's houses, even going so far as to date Greg Rickert, a local. Though I did have momentary glimpses of glory wherein I was so fully embraced by H20ford's citizens, I felt that, on the whole, I wore a gold star that would forever tip off all residents to my true nature.

And so it is— I stayed a Lovettsville resident throughout my youth and into my high school career. I was shipped off to college, I traveled the world, living in Manhattan and LA intermittently, and I've recently come full circle, returning back to the place from whence I came. They say you can never go home again, but here I am, as I live and breathe. My first day back in Lovettsville, after such an extended vacation from Virginia in general, was existentially uprooting to say the very least. After years of inner turmoil, wishing I'd sewn roots in Waterford Elementary's school grounds, spent my youth volunteering for the fair, came home each college break to the darling, meandering streets of the town that time hasn't tainted, I believe I've ultimately experienced a complete reversal of my own psychosis. Though I cannot yet divulge the details of my change of heart, I do know that I inexplicably enjoy the town of Lovettsville today more than present-day Waterford. Sure it has it's obvious flaws; the "squircle" that leads you into a complete cluster-fuck every time you try to drive towards the post office, the hillbilly connotations that pervade even now, the lack of jovial communal gatherings, the absolute reverence for all things Confederate, and the absence of any beautiful women, to name a few. But, in my own modest (yeah right) opinion that none of you are even asking for, I feel that Lovettsville has something Waterford never did, and never could— avidity, zest, earnestness, pep, irreverence, or, a total disregard for social graces or morality, in essence. Lovettsville has some bruises, some dirt under her fingernails. Waterford perpetually stands in full regalia and grace.

That is not to say Waterford should not still be revered as a haven of history and ineffable magnetism. Quite the opposite, really! Waterford is a mecca of all things charming and could truly never be tarnished by the curse of time— I have been, though. Time is the thing that knocks upon my skull, my heart, my soul, begging me to adapt, to evolve. I look back on the me of yesterday and it feels as though I've stumbled upon someone else's autobiography. I no longer yearn for someone else's backyard, but, to be fair, I also no longer feel at home in Loudoun County in general. I take pleasure in the (delusional) notion that I'm a citizen of the world, no longer confined to my own limitations and self-prescribed Dickonsonian or "Maria" tendencies. In short, I relate more, now than ever, to Lovettsville's grittiness and transmogrifications than to Waterford's preserved, pellucid perfection, unaltered by the outside changing world. Call me crazy (and I'm quite certain you will), but, to me at least, Lovettsville is "Runnin' Against the Wind," whereas Waterford will always sing out, "Strawberry Fields Forever" within the confines of my own feeble mind. Surely, I digress...

Basically, what I'm trying to say, though not so succinctly or eloquently or even effectively...... LOVETTSVILLE RULES. WATERFORD SUCKS. DEAL WITH IT.