Birth of the Beltway aka 495

Tysons Corner, Northern Virginia, 1952–1968.

94 Acre Woods: Stories of a land not forgotten

Story #1

We siblings, 5 boys and I, the one-and-only girl, grew up in a magical neighborhood in Northern Virginia. In a time when there were still patches of woods with creeks and critters to discover. In a time without constant adult supervision we learned to adapt, get along, imagine, and thrive.

A recent trip back to the neighborhood was depressing beyond tears. The entire 94 Acre subdivision and surrounding woods has been replaced with hotels, office buildings, off ramps and an expanded shopping mall parking lot. It wasn’t a shock like a sudden death is. It was more like watching a once healthy parent slip away slowly.

The first cut was the neighbor hood its self a 94 Acre track of land that was once a farm and timber lot. The developers put 26 houses on the cleared land and left the timber lot to wrap around the neighborhood. The next cut was the “Circumferential” now know as the “Beltway.” Today there are no houses remaining and less than an acre of the magical 94 acre woods that shaped a generation.

But once upon a time, in a land not forgotten, a family grew from 4 to 8. My parents and two children with one on the way moved into the small garrison colonial 3 bed-room house on an acre of land in 1952. Dad’s colleagues at work ribbed him for living in the middle of nowhere. “Nowhere” is Tysons Corner, now just Tysons, Va. To my dad it was near perfect as it had the illusion of space. He’d say, “I want to feel like I own the land but I don’t have to pay taxes on it!” The lot felt so much bigger than it was because it was next to an abandoned access road for the large woods behind the house.

My older brothers and the neighborhood boys formed their own corps of engineers. They reshaped the land with an underground fort complete with a steal bar brig. They damned the spring-feed creek to make a swimming hole. They scavenged the woods and near by gravel pit for scrap metals. They forged for berries and grains at Mom’s request. My older brothers were allowed to wield the cherished family machete to bush wack trails through the woods. As the one-and-only-girl, I wasn’t included in these adventures but I often tagged along anyway.

The neighborhood girls were all much older than I was. They were in junior and senior high school. It was a time, not so very long ago, when vinyl records and portable turntables were a thing, but air conditioners were not. I could hear the girls’ records playing through the open windows. The sound of squealing and high pitched giggles scrapped against my ears. I was invisible to them. They never even thought to invite me, the one-and-only girl, to their Beetles dance parties or hair and make up sessions or even to stand with them at the bus stop.

I found my friends and my place in the sugar maples and poplar trees on our slice of the 94 acre woods. I climbed as high up as possible, likely higher than was safe. I managed to get within a foot of the very tip top of the 20 foot sugar maple in the front yard. From there, I could see Highway 7 and the brand new 7–11 to my left. Straight ahead I could see into the back yards of the Cornwall’s and the Early’s slice of the 94 acre woods. And to my right, the Moore’s swing set. I was jealous of the swing set-I wished we had one. I loved the feeling of flying and weightlessness when you went really high, higher than was safe.

When safe was a better choice, I hung upside down for hours. Somehow the world looked more right to me upside down than right side up. This was my go to space, upside down in a tree, whenever I was sad, lonesome, or overwhelmed by the number of bodies crammed into the small Garrison Colonial 3 bed room house with 8–12 people living in it at any given time.

For years this climbing and hanging upside down took place in a dress. My mother’s one-and-only girl wasn’t going to be dressed in boys’ clothes. After a large family gathering at our house where I retreated to the trees for a little space of my own, my Aunts took notice. Aunt Rosie pointed out, “Julianna your daughter-the monkey-is climbing that tree in her dress.” Aunt Marion, chimed in, “ I have the cutest shorts that would look great on Carolyn, their called rehearsal shorts. I wore them when I was in dance class.” Mom paid no attention and simply replied, “She does that all the time. Where’s Carolyn? Check the trees”

A week later a large box arrived marked Miss Carolyn F. Chryst. I was over joyed- something just for me?Aunt Marion and Aunt Rosie conspired and filled the big box with shorts, tee shirts and gaucho pants. The pants had a ruffle, so girlie enough for mom. My mother not wanting to offend my Aunts gift of love and compassion allowed me to wear them.

I happily dawned the ruffled gaucho pants and shimmied up my favorite sugar maple, all the way to the tippy top, nearly. I could see over the roof to the woods in back there was a line of boys following behind Brother #2 clear cutting a path with the machete. I could also see a giant yellow bull dowser heading in their direction plowing down trees and tearing up the red Virginia clay. I let out a blood curdling scream. Grown ups seemed to manifest out of thin air, running toward my tree.

Dad coaxed me down. Through sobs I explained what I saw. The grown up men and older boys took off for the woods to rescue the boys. The women inspected the gaucho pants for rips or tears. I kept crying for my trees, their high pitched squeals were far worse than the neighborhood girls.

Read other stories from the 94-acre wood collection.