A Rite of Passage: Sterling Silver Chesapeake Bay Bracelet

More Than Just Jewelry, The More Bangles on Your Wrist the Higher the Prestige or rather Commitment to the Cause

Back in my grade, it was almost tragic how desperate girls were to snag these bracelets. It didn’t matter if you were rich or broke, popular or invisible — if you didn’t have that stack, you weren’t officially a shore girl. It was this silent competition: who could pile on the most bangles and prove they belonged. Honestly, if you weren’t jangling like a human wind chime, were you even trying?

Here are the signs you grew up as a bona fide Shore Girl without even trying:

Signs You Were a Shore Girl: A List of Sweet, Salty Truths from the Eastern Shore of VA

1. Prom Night = Bonfire Night. You might’ve skipped prom altogether—or gone every year since 9th grade—but the real party was a beach bonfire with your best friends.

2. Morley’s Wharf Memories. You’ve smoked a rolled cig at sunrise there at least once, after a night of back-road joyriding with the crew.

3. Chincoteague Over VB. You've surfed both, but Chincoteague was always your preferred vibe.

4. Sandbar Summers. Hot July days spent anchored by the sandbar at Smith Beach—floating, sun-drunk, and free.

5. Cape Charles Before the Glow-Up. You remember the charm before the boutiques.

6. Doc Wilfong. No explanation needed.

7. The Burger Boat. You remember Jake and Jason Floyd’s floating burger joint in Machipongo. Legendary.

8. Garage Party Life. Your teen weekends were fueled by garages with lenient parents and a thirst for rebellion.

9. Movies = Event. You packed the car and made an entire night of going to the theater—because it was hours away.

10. "Across the Bay" = The City. MacArthur Mall or Lynnhaven was your Christmas shopping mecca if you’re 30+ now.

11. Taco Truck GPS. You know exactly where the good ones are parked and when.

12. No-Signal Bonfire Raves. You’ve been to at least one 40-person camping bonfire with live music, no GPS, and maybe no shoes.

13. Arts Enter & ESO. You’ve seen The Nutcracker or one of Sheila Cardano’s dreamy productions.

14. Graduation Social Events. Northampton or Broadwater graduations were practically community spectacles.

15. Little Italy Roulette. You’ve had both legendary meals and… less legendary ones.

16. You Know How to Skimboard. Not just a beach thing—a rite of passage.

17. You’ve Climbed the Fisherman’s Island Tower. Whether you were supposed to or not…

18. This List Could Be Longer. And it will be.

19. Father’s Day Blackberries. Picked fresh from the bushes down the road—because they grow everywhere.

20. The Muggy Summer Symphony. Heat so thick it buzzes, with honeysuckle in the air and the insect orchestra in full swing.

21. Route 13 Silence. You remember when it was eerily still—and you liked it that way.

22. Food Lion is King. Unless you count Quail Cove or that one spot that’s only open Tuesdays and alternate full moons.

23. Beach Horseback Rides. A rare childhood privilege—unforgettable.

24. You Knew Everyone. Names, faces, parents, cousins. The whole tapestry.

25. Up the Road vs. Down the Road. Don’t act like the rivalry wasn’t real.

26. At least one girl in your class started dating a guy seven years older in 11th grade—and nobody really batted an eye because, well, small town.

27. The rivalry between Kiptopeke and Occohannock didn’t start in high school—it started in daycare.
    Whether you went to Ms. Audrey’s, where there was a massive black horse named Candy you might’ve read picture books to, or somewhere else entirely, the line was drawn early—and you knew which side you were on.

28. The Kiptopeke vs. Occohannock rivalry came to a head in middle school,
    where both sides were suddenly funneled into the same building, like two wild rivers meeting. The tension was real—sizing each other up in the lunch line, side-eyes in the hallway—and it took the entire sixth grade (if not longer) just to find neutral ground.

29. People were afraid of Arcadia.
    Whether it was the size, the rumors, or just the general mystique of “up there,” Arcadia had a reputation. You didn’t know exactly why—you just knew it was “different,” and maybe a little intimidating if you weren’t from there.

30. You knew who slept with who, and who tried what drug—sometimes by 8th grade.
    That’s what happens when everyone knows everyone. Despite all of Mr. Harmon’s intense speeches about LSD melting your brain or the kid who thought he was an orange forever, some people still experimented anyway. The gossip was fast, the facts were fuzzy, and the consequences often hit way too early.

31. A strong work ethic was non-negotiable—
    Whether you were in the gifted program or barely passed algebra, in school or already working, laziness just wasn’t tolerated. And when it came to girls' sports? The rivalries were real. Softball girls vs. field hockey girls vs. soccer girls vs. volleyball girls vs. tennis girls—everyone had something to prove, and no one backed down.

32. Not having a job in high school was low-key shameful.
    Whether it was bussing tables, working at a seafood shack, babysitting, or summer shifts at Food Lion, everyone was hustling. If you didn’t have a job, people raised eyebrows like, “Must be nice.”

33. You snuck out at least once in 11th grade, driving back roads all night with your friends—
    Just to end up watching the sunrise at Morley’s Wharf or a hidden spot only locals knew. You finally had your licenses, and you’d been through absolute hell convincing your parents to let you borrow the car—or had to buy your own. The determination to drive at an early age was unmatched.

34. Your entire high school grade had 200 people or less.
    Probably way less. You knew everyone’s name, their sibling’s name, and who they’d dated since middle school.

35. Even if you’d been in Shore schools since preschool,
    you always knew you were still a “come here”—because some families had been around since the 1700s, and that history was everywhere.

36. If you didn’t go to church on Sundays—not the Church of Satan, but an actual church—
    you were kind of seen as a weirdo, sinner, or reject. Especially in a mostly Protestant Baptist culture where Catholics were already “different.” No one ever said it outright, but you felt it—until you either changed or kept your distance.

    In a place where the sea and bay rule life, not having a fear of the Lord isn’t just shameful—it’s like toying with strings of fate you definitely don’t want to unravel. Same goes for agriculture and crops—appreciation for the winds of change, the rains, and a spiritual connection to your harvest wasn’t just about reading the almanac. It was also about knowing the right folks down at State Farm insurance, just three pews away. (Haha, just kidding—but not really.)

37. In a very male-centric place, it wasn’t until years later you’d hear about so-and-so’s mom getting beaten or cheated on,
    but you felt the ripple effects much earlier—in the small, quiet ways only a tight-knit community could notice. The smallness and isolation of the Shore, especially 15–25 years ago, bred a “fake it ’til you make it” attitude. At times, it felt like everyone was just white-knuckling their way through faking a happy family life, smiling through the cracks. Not always, but frequently.

38. Loyalty is everything—
    Airing out secrets is a big no-no, and even when rifts happen, blood is always thicker than water.

39. Being different wasn’t really welcomed.
    If you were too rich, too poor, too fat, too thin, gay, a cutter, or wore all black—you learned quickly to keep your freak flag flying low and avoid raising too many alarms.

40. You kind of needed a car—or at least a friend/family member with one—to survive.
    Everything out here is spread miles apart. In the city, people act like a 10-minute drive is too far to visit a friend. Out here? That’s a quick hop. Sometimes you’re driving 45 minutes just to see your best friend. That distance shapes everything—from hanging out to just getting groceries. If you’re broke and not well-connected, it can feel like a real desert in more ways than one.

41. If you were smart or motivated, you did Academic Challenge or joined the debate team.
    And you definitely remember the time Emily Rippon squirted milk out of her eyeball—legendary.

42. No one was really that hard around here—
    Sure, people pretended to be tough, but most were too lulled by the quiet beauty of the Shore to be truly gangsta. The bad apples? They stood out like sore thumbs against an otherwise pretty mild backdrop (aside from the issues mentioned earlier). Oh, and if you’re wondering about music tastes? Most people here love country music—no contest.

43. You've been to the chair place in Craddockville at least once — the one with oyster tins lining the walls like family portraits. You’ve sat too close to the next audience member, maybe elbow-to-elbow, and that was just another Wednesday. Or Thursday. Depending on the decade.

44. You remember the old Cape Charles school before it became luxury apartments, when it was an abandoned stage. Back when it held class reunions with their own soap opera drama from the 70s. Still, the families ran deep and tight. You might have sneaked to the second floor and seen creepy rows of bunk beds and other relics from other eras, untouched for at least two decades.

45. You know what the Dew Drop Inn is. You’ve been to something there, even if it was just once.

46. You danced at your high school best friend’s quinceañera inside an abandoned Joann Fabrics cement shell, magically turned into a DIY festival by candles, tulle, and someone's uncle’s speakers.

47. You’ve done the NASA field trip. You ate that chalky space ice cream. Called it a day. Then got shit on by a seagull at Assateague.

48. Pony Penning? If you’re local, you avoid it. That whole side of the Shore becomes a no-go zone for two weeks, maybe the whole summer. Famous Pizza? It's fine. The ice cream? Different story. Unless you’re a journalist or have family friends who are into it, it’s mostly something people who are from here just read about in the papers the next week. Unless you go there one year to protest it.

49. You did at least one open mic night at Machipongo Clam Shack before it closed — nervous, proud, maybe a little buzzed on Sprite and ambition.

50. You got dressed up for prom dinner at Don Valerio’s. Felt fancy-fancy. Graduation dinners too.

51. A Slightly Stoopid concert in high school at The Norva or VB Amphitheatre was the event of the season. Bonus points if you duct taped a Bud Light to your thigh under a dress — just because you could.

52. You have a kayak — maybe used, maybe a hand-me-down — and you've paddled that bay like a pro. You might’ve even gotten cocky and tried under the bridge tunnel once. Learned real fast about sea vents, current, and humility.

53. Roadkill on the beach doesn’t shock you. Deer, dolphins, even sharks. You know life here means knowing death too. You've found fox cubs. Almost got bit by a water moccasin while creek-wandering barefoot. Mud on your legs, cuts on your shins, soul intact. Fiddler crabs shaking the mighty fist at you to leave.

54. You’ve had a family breakfast at Sting Ray’s. Before it was Sting Ray’s, it was also called Cape Center. Original family-run. Still tastes like heartburn and heritage.

55. You’ve tasted Rebecca’s cornbread — the real kind, warm and a little sweet, straight from the source. You remember what Rebecca’s the restaurant was like, back when it felt like the center of a slow Sunday. You’ve sat at Bay Leaf Café, probably ordered something with sprouts or feta and felt slightly elevated. You had your go-to dish at Harbor Grille, maybe with a waterfront view of the marina before it was obstructed and a paper napkin stuck to your leg. And of course, you remember Delisheries — the red-checkered booths, the smell of freshly baked cookies.

56. You remember Rayfield’s Pharmacy before it moved into that big shiny building — back when it was tucked in where the Lemontree is now, small and familiar, like everything else used to be. You definitely had a tab there you couldn’t afford — mozzarella sticks, limeade, and lip gloss you didn’t need but swore you did. It sat unpaid until your parents finally found out and covered it, probably with a sigh and a side-eye. That place was a rite of passage — half diner, half general store, and fully part of growing up here.

57. If you're at T’s Corner getting a soda, you're probably staring down a 45-minute drive to Chincoteague and just need something cold for the ride.

58. You're lucky to be alive, considering all the adventures. Accidentally trespassing into creepy farms, bold enough to explore, naive enough not to care — the kind of childhood most city kids wouldn’t survive without therapy.

59. You learned which communities to avoid — not from maps, but from whispered warnings. Like that one near Vaucluse Shores everyone says is some kind of CIA bay creek op. And BAE Systems? Yeah, those folks aren’t “Before Anyone Else” — they’re just weirdly quiet government contractors in khakis.

60. You remember Cape Charles when it was a little rougher, and honestly? You kind of miss it. You miss the characters — the real ones — who drifted in and out with stories to tell and a friendly nod, sometimes even a bag of weed for 14-year-olds. (Haha, jk… maybe.)

61. You miss the generation that passed. There was a gentleness to the older crowd — the grandparents of your friends who treated you better than their own kin. You still think about them.

62. You’ve walked Savage Neck Dunes and come back changed. Lighter. Like the wind filtered something out of your bones. Maybe an allergy attack from the sheer volume of pine cones in spring.

63. You’ve put in five-mile days along the shoreline. You know how to walk a beach that’s more marsh than sand, dodging jellyfish, driftwood, and oyster shells that’ll slice open your heel like paper.

64. You miss the witchy energy. The coastal mysticism. You know it’s still there — hidden in plain sight — in the women who keep crystals in their pockets while painting watercolors and the men who talk to wind like it’s a person.

65. Talking to the dead? A normal Sunday. Honoring the Native land? Second nature. You’ve walked the woods alone, felt something breathe near you, and didn’t run.

66. You have a mental catalog of every gas station: which ones have sketchy bathrooms, which ones sell 40s, which ones close early, and which ones feel like a portal. Royal Farms opening? That was huge.

67. You’re used to isolation. You grew up making friends with your imagination — and sometimes you liked those friends better.

68. You miss the old WWII towers — the rusted sentinels that got knocked down in the name of "safety," but really just because someone with money didn’t want them "ruining the view."

69. If you’re from here, your relationship with the Shore is love/hate. But you’ll tell anyone: traffic’s easy, and that alone might be reason enough to never leave.

70. The vet in Cape Charles? Better than most people doctors. They know your dog’s name, your dad’s truck, and probably your birthday.

71. To be continued...
    Because this place?
    It never really ends.

72. Before you even knew what war was, you had a ninja outfit — maybe black sweatpants and a cut-up T-shirt — and you went on missions. Real ones. Recon on old neighbors. Patrols in the woods. You and your cousins or friends close in age were a full-on squad. You had code names, walkie talkies, maybe a dull pocket knife passed around like sacred gear.

    It was serious. Life or death. Or at least it felt that way.

    You miss those days — not just for the freedom, but because you probably clocked 20,000 steps without even thinking about it. All joy. All adventure. Sometimes you came home caked in mud, sunburned, or speckled with ticks, and still begged to go back out the next day.

    And now? You catch yourself resenting how those missions got replaced with group texts and doomscrolling. Nothing hits like the thrill of being ten years old in the middle of nowhere, on a made-up mission that felt like the most important thing in the world.

73. If you’ve been here long enough, the Road Gods will eventually gift you a stray. It’s a rite of passage. One day it’s just… yours. A dog limping down the yellow line like it’s hitchhiking. A kitten yowling from under a vending machine at a gas station. No collar, no questions, just eye contact and instant soul contract.

    You don’t go looking — they find you. And you take them in, because that’s what people here do. You skip adoption fees and paperwork and end up with a ride-or-die companion who somehow already knows how to sit in the bed of your truck or disappear into the marsh when company shows up.

    You name them something like Biscuit or Radar or Junebug, and they stay with you way longer than you expected. Wild but loyal. Like most of us out here.

74. You’re no stranger to the ego of a loud carburetor. That deep, throat-rattling rumble isn’t just noise — it’s a language. It says “I built this,” or “My uncle rebuilt this,” or “I don’t care what the gas mileage is.” It’s pride wrapped in exhaust, usually coming from an old Chevy, a boat with no muffler, or a four-wheeler tearing down a backroad like it owns time itself.

    You’ve heard them coming before you saw them. And maybe, just maybe, you’ve felt a little respect in your chest when they passed — even if you rolled your eyes.

    Out here, volume is confidence, and a well-tuned carb isn’t just maintenance — it’s a personality.

75. Everyone used to hang out — Coast Guard families, local kids, teenagers packed into the theatre or running wild by the water. Jumping off the docks wasn't just allowed, it was expected. The nights felt endless, lit by streetlamps and mosquito bites, and fun didn’t cost anything but time. It was simple, it was messy, and everyone knew everyone — or at least knew who your parents were. You didn’t need much back then. Just a bike, a few friends, and a plan that started with “meet you down by the docks.”

76. You’ve been to the haunted house by the Coast Guard station — the one that used to be near the Sea Breeze apartments before everything got cleaned up and quiet. You remember the screams echoing off cheap plywood walls, the smell of fog machines and candy corn, and the adrenaline spike when Joe Abel came barreling out with a fake chainsaw, revving it like he meant business. You nearly pissed your pants. Might’ve actually. But you came back the next night anyway — because around here, fear was part of the fun.

77. You went on that weekend trip in middle school, the one chaperoned by your best friend’s mom, packed into a car bound for Ocean City. It was all sunscreen, bad snacks, and nervous laughs trying to act cool. You rode the boardwalk rides, collected seashells, and made memories that felt way bigger than your years. That trip wasn’t just a getaway — it was your first real taste of freedom, even if it came with a watchful adult and a curfew.

78. Another big deal was the 6th-grade bus trip to DC — leaving at 4 a.m., bleary-eyed and buzzing with excitement. The whole day was a blur of monuments, museums, and bad cafeteria food. Everyone came back with the same souvenir: a T-shirt emblazoned with “FBI,” because why not? That trip was less about history and more about the thrill of being somewhere bigger than the Shore, even if just for a day.

79. You remember Odyssey of the Mind — or O.M., as everyone called it — and all the weird, wild plays and challenges you had to pull off. Building crazy contraptions out of cardboard, memorizing lines that made no sense, and trying not to laugh while your whole team scrambled to keep it together. It was equal parts stressful and hilarious, and no matter how badly your project went, you were proud just for surviving the chaos.

80. You’ve been to Goshen Road past midnight — that creepy white church standing alone like it’s daring you to come closer. You and your friends sat in a car, windows cracked, music low, hearts racing until 3 a.m., waiting for that screech of a spirit or a freaky thump thump from the woods. Nothing happened — or maybe everything did, and you just didn’t see it. But you never forgot the feeling of being too close to something you couldn’t explain. You might have reenacted a witch burning for a home video.

81. Your friends’ neighbors stick in your memory like a song you can’t shake — like the one on the road to your friend’s house near Exmore, with those giant fish tanks she used to be scared of. You never knew why the tanks spooked her so much, but every time you passed by, you felt that same shiver, like something just wasn’t quite right behind the glass. Those little moments — strange and specific — are part of what made growing up here so unforgettable. Makes you wonder why.

82. You remember Meredith Dwyer’s store — the one with shelves full of odds and ends that felt a little magical, even if you couldn’t quite put your finger on why. You forgot the name, but it didn’t matter; it was the place where two best friends could wander after school, eyes wide and pockets empty, just soaking it all in. It was one of the few spots that made growing up feel like an adventure, a little secret hideout full of possibility.

83. Whether it was Camp Silver Beach, some kind of Bible camp, an ESO event, or Art by the Bay summer camp, there was always something happening every summer — a ritual that gave everyone a place to be. These camps and gatherings were more than just fun; they were how you got to really know people beyond the usual weekend hangouts. Getting invited or able to go felt like a privilege, like you’d earned your spot in the community for the season.

84. You remember a time when those wartime fears were just distant murmurs — quiet conversations adults had maybe once a week, over the paper or around the dinner table. Not this nonstop, 24/7 doomsday soundtrack that’s always buzzing now. Back then, you had mental space to breathe, to dream, to be creative without feeling like you had to pledge allegiance to one side or another. Imagine that freedom — where the world felt big, but not broken and in your face.

85. You have secret favorite spots you share with your mother — places you’d go every spring to pick daffodils, like that quiet stretch in front of Northampton High School. It was your little tradition, a moment just between you two, where the world softened and smelled like hope and fresh earth. Those flowers weren’t just blooms; they were memories growing year after year.

86. You actually remember what Cape Charles looked like before Bay Creek and Aqua Farms — back when that land was just open fields and whispers of what might come. And when it finally did, everyone called it the Jelly Bean Farm, because those colorful houses looked like a candy store exploded. It was something new, something that didn’t quite fit — but you watched it grow anyway, part of the changing Shore you couldn’t stop or slow down.

87. You used to wish, sometimes, that more people would come here — that the Shore wouldn’t stay so small and quiet. And now that new life is flowing in, you’re glad for it, truly. But you can’t help but miss the simplicity of an older era — the slow days, the familiar faces, the way time seemed to stretch a little easier before everything started changing so fast... you know, fast for the Shore.

88. You secretly love being cut off from the rest of the crazy world. That 17-mile-long bridge? Sure, it’s a hassle, but it’s also a welcomed sigh of relief — a clear line between here and there. If you’re from around here, driving across it becomes second nature, like brushing your teeth. Meanwhile, some folks see that stretch and have full-on panic attacks. For you? It’s just another day. Need groceries? Can afford the toll? Virginia Beach and back — quicker than driving all the way to Salisbury. Easy as that.

89. For a brief, shining moment in the history of the Earth, this place — the very tip of this peninsula — was the oyster, the center of your whole world. You reveled in it, breathed it in like salt air and sunshine. It was a time unlike any other, raw and alive, and you know deep down it will never be replicated. Before you cared about the outside world — before Facebook showed up in our lives, before everyone started pulling your attention every which way except at what’s right in front of you. Back when your world was this patch of land, this community, these faces, and nothing else mattered as much. Those were the days when here was everything, and that felt like enough.

90. You remember the old horses by Kiptopeke — that abandoned house that eventually got torn down for a new housing development, right where that really cool old gas station used to stand. You’d go there to feed carrots to the horses, and wild white peacocks roamed freely like they owned the place. Nobody said a word or tried to stop you. There was a soul in those stretches of fields and open land leading to Kiptopeke — no condos, no noise, just supreme, peaceful quiet that felt like the world itself was holding its breath.

91. You can’t help but miss it — the way those soul ties were whole before life scrambled them, before new faces (not unwelcome, just different) came in and things got shuffled, mixed up, rearranged. People left, got married, got sold on the idea of school and college, and it felt like all those special years somehow didn’t really happen. Of course they did. But they’ll always be etched in your mind — for better or worse — as the summers that never really ended. The summers of your youth, the magic of knowing this land in the last few years of its true wildness.

    You remember old beach spots like the walk from Kiptopeke to the World War II tower by Pickett’s Harbor — back when it was all continuous, before erosion carved it apart. You’d see the big cliff where the road used to end, weird concert blocks and rocks strewn about like forgotten art installations, giant white beaches and endless sandy shorelines. Sometimes there’d be random druid gatherings or bonfires, older kids wandering the beaches — maybe doing drugs in their mid-twenties, the ones who felt a little scary but were part of the wildness too. That was a time that felt alive, untamed, and completely unforgettable.

92. You miss how connected your family used to be — those endless days going to the beach together, laughing, teasing, and just being with your siblings and cousins who genuinely were the people you had fun with. It was just the effortlessness of youth, that is all. Before marriage, before kids, before everyone changed and started drifting apart, before bills and stress. Back when no one felt the need to run the opposite direction the second they had a chance, like being around each other was some kind of chore. You miss that raw closeness, the simple joy of shared moments that felt effortless and real.

93. You remember the annual Harvest Festival near the bridge — it was a big deal. Everyone and anyone showed up, and it was truly a social gathering. No phones in hand, no footage or selfies, just you showing up, fully present, genuinely looking to connect and have fun. You’d seek people out, talk to them, laugh together, and hope the night would bring something good. None of that quick “hey, let me snap a selfie and bounce” stuff, or the weird, distracted energy that comes with everyone glued to their screens. It was real life — messy, loud, and completely alive.

94. You’ve seen newcomers come here and pick up the classic Shore traits — sometimes even becoming better Shore people than those you grew up with, the ones who lingered and maybe got forgotten, caught up in hidden struggles: mental health battles, job losses, economic uncertainty, and a world changing faster than any of us were prepared for. Still, it feels strange, like you’re watching your youth play on a loop for people who just prance in and assume the identity as if it were something a real estate deal could buy. It’s not that simple, and you can’t help but notice the difference. But hey, the more the merrier~

95. You’ve felt that slow, creeping resentment toward real estate agents — not personally, but in general — as more and more For Sale signs pop up like weeds, and you find yourself wondering, Is there ever an end to this? Will any of this land remain untouched? And yeah, you feel bad because everyone needs a job, and people have to make a living, but still… sometimes you catch yourself thinking, Weren’t we supposed to cap this at some point? Or is that just what they call being unfriendly, unwelcoming, a curmudgeon?

    Your best friend growing up once attended town hall meetings at age 11 to plead for the saving of certain trees — trees!— so how can you not feel protective? How can you not get a little heartbroken when yet another special spot gets bulldozed? Sure, it’s not as bad here as it is in other places — not yet — but still… Cape Charles has a mini putt-puttnow? Really?

96. You can’t help but laugh — and maybe even admire — the efforts of the newcomers. All the things they’ve done to bring a taste of the lives they left behind, sprinkling in bits of “more stuff to do” from wherever they came. It’s earnest, it’s sometimes sweet… and it’s also kinda hilarious. Because deep down, you know that if the elders who’ve passed were still around today, they’d be ruthlessly roasting half of it. They would’ve put these folks in their place with a single raised eyebrow, a muttered comment under their breath, and maybe a full-on rant if the mood struck. And yet, here we are — smoothie bars, art walks, curated beach picnics — trying to balance between what was, what is, and whatever’s coming next.

97. You’ve walked down Cape Charles’ main street and instinctively tread lightly as you passed the unofficial Old Men in Rocking Chairs Association posted up outside Watson’s. You didn’t dare make too much eye contact, speak too loudly, or do anything that might spark commentary — because one thing’s for sure: if you caught their attention, you were gonna get talked about. Enough said.

98. You’ve ventured out to Pungoteague thinking you knew where you were going — and inevitably ended up completely lost on some winding backroad, no phone GPS, just vibes and maybe a vague memory of a landmark someone’s cousin mentioned once. It’s a rite of passage: driving in circles past the same soybean field three times, debating whether that dirt path is actually a road, and finally making it out by sheer luck or divine intervention.

99. You’ve been to the Dream Roller Skating Rink before it shut down — whether it was for a birthday party, a school event, or just a Saturday night hangout. The lights, the music, the awkward-but-glorious feeling of rolling around with friends while trying not to fall in front of your crush — it was a whole vibe. And when it closed, it felt like the end of an era you didn’t realize you were still holding onto.

100. If you haven’t been to Ebenezer Baptist Church on Lankford Highway or Hungars Episcopal Church — even just once, for a service, a wedding, or to hear the music — then, let’s be honest, you’re basically a godless heathen with no class, no roots, and absolutely zero spiritual credibility. These places aren’t just churches, they’re institutions — where soul, history, and community collide. At least pretend to know what a hymn sounds like before you go talking about being from here.

101. You’ve heard Stefan Dulcie play piano — and let’s be real, his intensity lowkey scared you. It wasn’t just music; it was a full-body spiritual experience that left you unsure whether to clap or cry. You knew Vernon McCart, or at least ofhim — the piano teacher who gave after-school lessons and carried a kind of quiet mastery you didn’t fully appreciate until later. And then there was Marijana Grandjean, especially in the late 2010s — her contributions were unforgettable, layered, and deeply felt.

     Honestly, this list could never capture them all — there were so many gifted mentors and teachers, not just in music but across the schools and the community. They weren’t just instructors; they were lifelines, inspirations, and sometimes the only reason some of us believed we could be more than the place we came from.

102. The Eastern Shore teaches you how to be lost without ever really going far. Just take a couple lefts or rights, and suddenly you’re somewhere your soul feels but your brain can’t place — wondering how you never knew this road, this field, this feeling existed. Especially the further north you go, where the roads get more twisted, more quiet, more strange — like they were laid down by memory or dream instead of surveyor. You’ll find yourself looping, doubling back, passing the same tractor twice and asking, was that there before? There’s a kind of magic in it — a disorientation that feels both sacred and unsettling.

     There’s a lot to unpack here. A lot of stories live in those turns. To an outsider, it looks like nothing, but if you’ve been here long enough, you will understand that there’s so much more than meets the eye if you’re heart and mind are open to it. First, above all else, if you are not a nature lover, you will never survive here… for long at least.

103. You’d be surprised how many people figure out how to disappear out here — not in some dramatic way, just... fade into hermit mode. For years. Sometimes even a decade. Recovering from a bad upbringing, a breakup that shattered them, or a venture into the “real world” that spit them back out bruised and broke. And they come back — or never left — finding refuge in some crumbling house tucked behind a field, slowly growing cobwebs in their hair and letting time stretch out in slow-motion solitude.

     And then one day, you're back for a visit and it's like, wait... is that hey-and-hey from 2004? Still here? And yeah — they are. Maybe a little weirder, maybe thriving in a quiet way you’ll never understand. Maybe slowly going mad with isolation, but with privacy, fresh air, and space to scream into the wind if needed. Not everyone's version of survival looks the same — but on the Shore, it’s not uncommon.

104. It’s a very cliquey place. If you’re not already in someone’s circle, chances are… you won’t be. But the good news is that what you don’t know won’t kill you, and most of those cliques are very off the books, not on social media and you have no fucking idea what they’re up to besides having a bonfire, going to work during the week, drinking some beers on the weekend. In peace. Not because people are outright rude (well, sometimes), but because the Shore runs on the slow burn of long-standing bonds and unspoken codes. Folks are slow to change, suspicious of disruptions, and they like their routines just the way they are — tight-knit, predictable, and largely untouched.

     Now, if you’re truly new and bring some fresh, exciting outside-world energy? You might just be welcomed with open arms — novelty has its charm. But god help you if you remind someone of an ex-friend, a past flame, or some long-burned bridge. These circles overlap like spider webs — sticky, sensitive, and territorial. And when that happens, you’ll be shocked how fast the smiles go stiff and the memories go selective. People will pretend they’ve never seen your face before — even if you sat next to them in homeroom or dated them just a few years back.

105. Gossip here is strong — and usually it’s not based on anything credible or even close to the truth. But for some reason, it echoes louder on the Shore than anywhere else. Maybe it’s because you’d expect a place so steeped in spirituality to carry more grace, but instead, the mix of isolation, small-town dynamics, and what some call the “great recycling” of relationships stirs up all kinds of messy emotions.

     Jealousy bubbles under the surface, misunderstandings grow wild, and old wounds fester quietly. People here are easily rattled, and when something goes wrong — whether it’s a falling out, a friendship gone sour, or a secret kept too long — it cuts deep. Even if no one talks about it, or they act numb, the weight lingers. It’s just part of the undercurrent of life on the Shore.

106. You've driven all the way down Cashville Road only to find — to your disappointment — that there's no cash, no treasure, and definitely no pot of gold at the end. Just another peaceful dead end in the middle of nowhere.

107. You've felt something ancient and unspoken in the old Shore graveyards — especially the hidden, unmarked ones deep in the woods. They're often flanked by crows, maybe a silent raven, or, if you're lucky (or unlucky), a ghostly albino deer passing through.

108. You've witnessed the quiet, stunning beauty of Burton Shores under the light of a full moon — and felt something bigger than yourself settle over the marshes.

109. You carry a vague mental map of all those random historical markers scattered along backroads — like where Debedeavon and Tom Savage shared a harvest, or where the Taylor family first settled. There's even that one about the Chief Dancing Bear Church and the Baptist Siege Bonfire — or something like that. It feels more wild and authentic than the curated vibe of Williamsburg or Jamestown. Like, if you squinted hard enough, you might actually time travel back there. No wonder so many writers move here.

110. You've driven by creeks in summer where every tree is draped in white egrets — an entire glade come alive with still, ghostly wings.

111. You've gotten used to the bald eagles that drift between loblolly pines like flying omens — majestic, fragile, and determined.

112. You've often wondered what Moses’s restaurant near Townsend was like back in the day. It has a near-mythical status.

113. You've noticed how many mysterious fires there have been — not just the infamous arson spree, but others like the Lewin Farm blaze in the 90s that tragically killed some very cute farm animals like ponies, one near the refuge, and a few haunted homes that seemed destined to burn.

114. You've had the joy of Traci or Bobette personally crafting your Rayfield’s breakfast when you were a kid — a rite of passage in Shore life few will ever have the honor of experiencing.

115. You knew who Roxanne was — and while her personality could be vivacious, she is missed, and part of a time now gone.

116. You remember a time when all levels of housing — from the wealthiest to the barely-making-it — coexisted side by side in town without too much friction.

117. That beige brick building on Main Street? It used to be a store. You might've bought earrings there once, or maybe just wandered in and browsed with friends on a hot summer day.

118. You remember when the Hansel and Gretel shop run by Eve Meditz was still open on the way into town — a magical, slightly eerie decorative store that felt like stepping into another world entirely.

119. You actually saw the futuristic Cape Charles Museum exhibit back in 5th grade — the one imagining what the year 2020 would be like. Flying cars, robot butlers, shimmering skylines... not a single mention of a pandemic or global meltdown. Just pure Jetsons-level optimism. Epic presentation. Run by Marian Narr, of course.

120. You remember Teli, the puppeteer guy, who played a magical role in an ESO circus-style Nutcracker or similar production — a true character with a whimsical, slightly mysterious energy. It felt like being part of something bigger, something enchanted, where local talent and imagination created entire worlds.

121. You vaguely remember meeting mysterious figures who invested in land around here, then vanished into thin air — names like Occhiefinto, who sounded like an Italian mob ghost from a Scorsese side plot, or Tavi, the worldly wanderer from distant lands with grand visions and elusive motives. They were real… right? Or maybe they were just characters in the larger mythos of the Shore.

122. You definitely had a favorite gas station — probably run by the Rampersaud family near Belle Haven — and it wasn’t just about gas. They had specialty candles, snacks you couldn’t find anywhere else, and a vibe that made stopping there part of the ritual. You’re pretty sure it’s shut down now, which honestly feels like the tragic end of an oddly specific era.

123. You know just how important duck carving and wood craftsmanship are around here — not just as hobbies, but as heritage. You remember the Lewin family and their Windsor House chair business, or the meticulous, artful duck decoys carved by Jack and Bill Burton. Whether or not you hunted, you respected those guys — duck blind philosophers and hands-on historians who passed on quiet wisdom through cedar shavings and shared stories.

124. You’ve had the absolute privilege of witnessing Black Elvis perform live — yes, the Black Elvis who made it all the way to Apple’s homepage — and if you were lucky (and coordinated), you even danced on stage with the band when you still had dance moves worth bragging about at The Palace Theatre, among many places. Truly iconic times.

125. When you were little, you did an Easter egg hunt on the lawn of ESCC. Years later, in high school, you rode the bus from Northampton to take college classes there — back when the campus wasn’t nearly as polished/reconstructed from scratch as it is now. A full-circle kind of place. Their science fairs had a certain prestige to them and walking through those halls as a younger child was very intimidating.

126. When all your usual trails no longer give you the soul-fix you need, you make the trek up to Brownsville Nature Preserve. If you’ve got the time, energy, and bug spray (lots of it), you’ll lose yourself on a 4-hour walk through the woods and marshes. Don’t count on too much cell service — which is kind of the point.

127. Every time you drive by Painter, you think about Will Smith and his house. Not that Will Smith — the other one. The one who lived right off the road and somehow always came up in stories, as if the town itself whispered his name like local folklore. You can’t help but remember one of your BF’s from high school “Omg, Will’s having a party this weekend, let’s go!” Because Will’s grandma gave him a house.

128. You've attended a Battle of the Bands at Nandua High, where the gym felt like a full-blown concert hall and someone's older cousin’s garage band almost made it big — or at least had a sick guitar solo that lived rent-free in your head for months.

129. You’ve possibly rescued an animal and reached out to Gay Frazee, the local wildlife rehabilitator with a huge social media following now — but you knew her and her work way back, like around 2017. Whether it was falcons, herons, cardinals, foxes, rabbits, or more, she’s the one who takes them all and knows just what to do.

130. You’ve attended—awkwardly or not—at least one of Major Jones’s legendary parties sometime between 2000 and 2017, where the music, stories, and vibes made it unforgettable whether you wanted to be there or not.

131. You remember being disturbed by the wrestling team’s extreme weight loss tactics—like Mandi B., who also suffered from seizures but still dropped ten pounds in one week by not eating and sweating it out, then somehow packed on muscle in just five days. High schoolers being high schoolers, but it still haunts you how intense and dangerous those methods were.

132. You remember that sharp moment of crestfallen disappointment when you realized the Cape Charles Coffee House’s dessert section didn’t magically appear fresh on-site—it actually came discreetly rolled in by a white van. Having worked there one summer and once been a regular, it blew your mind back in 10th grade when you started noticing the behind-the-scenes supply chain logistics in small local spots. For some reason, that stuck with you and reminded you of just how isolated we really were.

133. You’ve witnessed the seamstress magic of Vera Miller, who for over 15—maybe even 35—years crafted incredible hand-sewn costumes for local plays, including those at the Theatre. She brought a warmth and joy with her presence that’s deeply missed. Vera made stunning ball gowns, including one for Cinderella that everyone adored—so beautiful and bright red that every woman wanted one (maybe even some men, who knows). Truly, so much talent!

134. You have a vivid memory of Mara Ifju, the ballet teacher, Elbert Watson leading a guest workshop, and Herb Williams with a giant carrot blender—all crammed into the same lobby, whipping up some serious dancer and theatre kid magic for the local kids. It’s hard to explain, but they all were in a different realm of vibes than the rest of us.

135. You did a theatre camp with Gwen Skeens from Snowhill, MD.

136. You remember who Jim Chapman was.

137. You might have danced in a Cape Charles street parade—willingly or not, but it happened. In a potato sack to Enya. Barefoot.

138. You’ve developed a strange patience and appreciation for giant tractors—especially when they take up both lanes going 12 mph.

139. Not many people are into social media here, and if they are, it's either to promote their art, track storms, or keep tabs on lost dogs.

(to be amended later)

For those of us who grew up in it, we didn’t just survive it—we were molded by it. Some of us adapted, some of us resisted, and some of us got lost in it. The Eastern Shore of the early 2000s isn’t ancient history. Its effects linger, shaping the people who lived through it.

There was a time—maybe not so long ago—when certain bracelets weren’t just accessories. They were symbols. A quiet, shining token that marked a milestone, a passage from one chapter of life to the next. For many women, these bracelets became a tangible rite of passage, a daily reminder of growth, strength, and identity.

If you grew up seeing these bracelets around wrists—whether from your mother, your sister, or your closest friends—you might remember the feeling: If I don’t have this bracelet, my life will fall apart. It’s not just superstition. It’s the emotional weight of tradition wrapped around a delicate chain or band.

Browsing through collections like the ones from CD Marsh Jewelers (check them out here), you realize how these bracelets are more than decorative. They are personal badges of honor, often gifted at key moments: first jobs, graduations, relationships, or simply as a gesture of self-love.

Why do they matter so much? Because they’re more than metal and stones. They’re promises—to yourself and to others. They carry stories, memories, and a kind of female solidarity passed from one generation to the next. Losing or not wearing the bracelet feels like losing a piece of yourself.

From the CD Marsh Jeweler website:

Our family jewelry store in Onancock is located on the Eastern Shore of Virginia. The Eastern Shore is across the Chesapeake Bay from the rest of Virginia. It is a peninsula that is connected to Maryland but we are definitely a part of Virginia. Just ask any Eastern Shore-man. The Eastern Shore contains many quaint small towns and is an historical part of Virginia. Onancock was founded in 1680.

In 1984, we had many calls for a plain silver bracelet to fit different size wrists. We couldn't obtain these from suppliers so we devised a method for making them and we named them Chesapeake Bay Bracelets. Our customers like to collect them, some wearing as many as twenty-five. These bracelets come in different widths and lengths and are available in sterling silver, 14K gold, and 10K gold. These are made from silver and gold strips which are cut to length, filed and buffed many times to a fine patina. They can be engraved inside with names or personal messages. We shape them to fit different size wrists. Welcome to the world of Chesapeake Bay Bracelet collectors!

These bracelets remind us that rites of passage don’t have to be grand ceremonies; sometimes, they’re a clasp on your wrist, a constant companion through life’s ups and downs. They are an emotional armor, a daily ritual, and, in some ways, a lifeline.

So, next time you see one of these bracelets, remember—it’s more than jewelry. It’s a rite of passage, a statement of identity, and a treasured piece of feminine heritage. And hey, if you're a guy, you're totally welcome to join in too. The era that’s burned into my memory the most—2005 to 2009—didn’t usually see guys wearing these bangles, but no one would’ve stopped you if you wanted to.

And here’s the thing—if someone gave you one as a gift, like an aunt or a family friend, it meant you were truly loved. These bracelets weren’t just fashion; they were tokens of connection, especially around places like Chincoteague, where you could spot them on wrists everywhere, telling stories of belonging and tradition.

Wrote this before coffee, will fix later.