Home of the Week: A makeover with help from an old friend
It was first subdivided in 1941 by a development company called Waterfront Estates. Small cabins dotted the island, most probably intended for summertime vacationers. Today, the island is smaller than it used to be: erosion and passing hurricanes have taken their toll, chewing away the shoreline. The community still has a narrow beach as part of its common area. A terrapin and horseshoe crab sanctuary was recently established in a marshy section of the island.
David Palmer estimates the rancher which he and his wife Carol purchased 14 years ago was built in the early 20th century. "It was originally a two-bedroom, one-bath beach cottage," he said. "Over the years, there were three additions built onto the house before we bought it in 1997."
The Palmers had previously lived in Bowie, but they first met in Anne Arundel County. "We were both gymnastics instructors and coaches at Docksiders in Millersville," said Carol. She is now a special education aide at nearby Mayo Elementary School. David is a firefighter in Washington, D.C. He is the tillerman, the gutsy guy who rides the very back of the big fire engine, steering the rear wheels as the truck whipsaws through the streets.
You need Sting to prove your love? Pfft. Use your imagination, Rich Guy
While I prepare a feast fit for a princess. “I was going to make your favourite,” I utter sweetly without making eye contact. You swoon, imagining what gourmet surprise I have in store. Is it scallop crudo in a Jerusalem-artichoke cream drizzled with hemp oil? Or magret de canard in an autumn-olive-berry jus?“I figured I ought to make something the kids will eat, too,” I announce in a voice gentler than dewdrops. Hot dogs with oven-ready French fries and sliced cucumber. The wieners, they have boiled too long. The skin has split, revealing a meaty engorgement suggestive of the carnal pleasures to come. The children wonder, “Don’t you want ketchup, mummy?” You kiss their foreheads and open another beer.
In the dishwasher, plates stand like toy soldiers in their rows, the upright forks like little hands, reaching up hugs. You close the door and press the button and wait for the warm gurgle of the sump pump. It does not come. The dishwasher is broken. Again. You wash the dishes by hand, baptizing plates in the soapy, greasy water. They come out clean and new.