Meeting Margaret At The Farm On Old Receiver Bridge Road

Working in Washington afforded me the opportunity to meet some remarkable people. I was 26 and newly employed in the National Park Service at the Great Falls Tavern on the C&O Canal and the Potomac River. The canal and river at the fall line attracted many who had more than a passing interest in life. If anything, they were not about to let life happen to them. Instead, they grabbed opportunity and made the best of it. They loved the natural setting of the Great Falls of the Potomac and its river gorge just northwest of Washington. They loved history and the preservation opportunities afforded in multiple layers of settlement history over many centuries along the banks of the Potomac. They also loved their country, and many of them had defended it through employment in the armed services and the more clandestine agencies including the CIA and NSA. In their leisure time, they hiked the canal towpath and its more challenging trails on Billy Goat Island, did technical climbing in the Potomac Gorge, or took on the river challenges in canoes and kayaks as members of the Canoe Cruisers Association. They were a unique group. They loved to party, as well.

I liked to party, too, but I had yet to experience the drive that compelled many of my fellow partiers. Except for our intrepid leader who already retired from a career in the Navy and the National Security Agency, we were novices at challenging life and we relished opportunities to share in our “elders’” war stories. I especially recall an early evening event at Lock House 6 on the canal where we enjoyed drinks and hors d’oeuvres listening to one individual practicing verbal judo on social and world affairs. It was obvious he enjoyed being the center of attention and we allowed him to occupy the stage. I didn’t know what to call him then. Today, he would be one of the few polymaths I have had the privilege to meet. Not only did he seem to know something about everything, he knew what, to me, was everything about an astounding range of social and political subjects. He was a fountain that fed my “Potomac Fever” at every word. All his knowledge seemed wrapped in a nerdy, quirky personality almost as repulsive as it was attractive. But he was not alone, and it was satisfying to watch this cast party of the Greatest Generation unfold before me. As the party wore on, he announced that he had to leave, but would be quite willing to entertain again the following Saturday, at the farm of his friend, Margaret, one of his colleagues. It was an intriguing invitation for me, so I carefully noted the directions to Margaret’s farm in the rolling Piedmont just west of Frederick, Maryland. He announced he would be arriving there by helicopter late in the afternoon and we should plan to meet him at that time.

After our guest had left, our hosts remarked how unusual he was, dropping in unannounced, capturing everyone’s attention only to disappear for months or years at a time. He was an ephemeral being. They described him as a brilliant personality, a well-respected leader in the intelligence community who as a storyteller lived as much in the world of fantasy as in reality. Their comments only heightened my desire to be a member of the party at the farm. That following Saturday, I made certain to bring a change of clothes so I could shed my uniform, dress in civvies and head north on Interstate 270 toward Frederick without returning to my home in New Carrollton.

Although I had explicit directions, finding Old Receiver Bridge Road proved challenging, but I did find Old Receiver Road. It, however, proved to be a puzzlement. I had no phone number for Margaret, no last name, no local contact, And none of the locals had ever heard of Old Receiver BRIDGE Road. I drove up and down Old Receiver Road several times looking for the specific landmarks the guest had given me. Many were there, but it was a foreign landscape in the end. Nothing made sense. I returned home that evening a disappointed voyager. Had I been duped or was I just a poor listener? When I had a chance to ask my host at Lock House 6 about Margaret, he said he didn’t know of her or her farm. He also admitted there was no way he could contact his guest. Apparently he was as much a mystery to my host as he was to me. Either that or I was not in a “need to know” position. And either way, I never saw him again.

Over forty years, I have never given up on Margaret’s farm on Old Receiver Bridge Road. Earlier, I thought so much of it as a title, I intended to write a short story around the subject. Google Earth has provided me a chance to explore what is called Old Receiver Road and its remnants. Today, it rises at the foot of the Frederick Municipal Forest. It has farms and a threat of upscale subdivisions moving in from the east. The fragmented landscape has many ghosts. Could Margaret still be there? Was she ever there? I’ll never know. The polymath is a distant memory and my host passed away in Florida in 2007. I am left to run up and down that road in my mind and wonder where meeting Margaret, the polymath and other partiers may have taken me at a formative time in my early adulthood. I can only say it was a wonder meeting such fascinating people and, though I never encountered many of them for more than a few times over two to three years, their memories and influences were quite strong in shaping who I was then and what I have become. I like the mystery of it all and am content to let it be.

Photo: Old Receiver Road, Frederick, Maryland. Is it Margaret's farm?