Luxmanor Farm
Job Well Done
By 1942, the Edgar Clay Company had finally managed to select its new President. Concerned with America’s expanding war effort and yet still very much interested in the Foreign Service, Dad resigned from the family company and rejoined the State Department as “divisional assistant.” This job change called for a family move from New Jersey to Rockville, Maryland. Curiously, even today it remains unclear exactly where Dad worked and what he was doing during the short stint we spent in Rockville.
It is interesting to note that in June of 1942, shortly before our family moved to Maryland, President Roosevelt created the powerful Office of Strategic Services (O.S.S.), which had established new training facilities in Bethesda, not far from our new Maryland address.
As I understand, prior to the creation of the O.S.S., much of America’s intelligence gathering around the world was the responsibility of the U.S. State Department via its embassies, consulates and legations.
On reviewing Dad’s Foreign Service history during the 1930s, it is easy to identify a number of his international assignments as “hot spots.” More specifically, during the time he was assigned to Cuba, the Dominican Republic and Switzerland, his responsibilities included gathering information. Then, as he returned to the State Department in 1942 is it possible he became more focussed on, and actively involved with, intelligence gathering through the nearby O.S.S. facilities? We simply don’t know.
Luxmanor Farm
So, in September, 1942, our family moved south to Luxmanor Farm in Rockville, MD. By the time I was five, we already had moved a great deal, quite apart from our travels on ocean liners. Immediately following my birth, home was at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in New York City where we resided for over a month. Luxmanor Farm would be our seventh address in five years.
Absent Dad, having packed our belongings at The Farm we headed south of the Mason-Dixon line to a new address, Luxmanor Farm. The “Woodie”station wagon had luggage strapped on the roof with three children, a pet or two, and a number of crates filled with chickens crammed inside. Mom drove the “Woodie” for the long, steamy trip traveling mostly along U.S. Route 1, America’s then primary, 2,400 mile, north-south highway extending from Maine to Florida. Dad would follow in several days.
Our Rockville address was a formidable, three-story, half-timber, country house with an outside swimming pool and extensive fields. That fall I was enrolled in kindergarten at the public school. Within several months a wee brother, Thomas (Tommy) Ashley Edgar, arrived on November 15, 1942. We three children then became four.
Roof Challenge
On arriving at Luxmanor, Jock and I were assigned separate but connecting bedrooms in the garret, each with its own dormer. The rooms were located on the third floor looking out over a large flagstone terrace. On the top floor, the dormers opened out onto the house’s slate roof with a 30 degree pitch.
It was during that stage of life when Jock and I were beginning to test one another. At every opportunity, he would taunt me to do things he himself wouldn’t do. As a younger brother, I always looked up to Jock. I relished accepting even his most dangerous challenges. At five, I had little if any fear of their consequences. The resulting pain from the few failed challenges simply did not weigh on me. Fortunately, rarely did I fail. Over time the two of us bonded as pals and, more often than not, we stuck up for one another.
The spring of 1943 brought a new challenge. During regular nap times, Jock would call over to me from his room. Each of us would lean out of our respective dormers and chat back and forth. I recall the two dormers were 15 feet apart and twenty-five feet above the flagstone terrace below.
One day, Jock taunted, “Wouldn’t it be fun to climb out your window, Tony? You could then cross over the roof and come in through mine. That would be really great.” He continued to push his taunt. From my dormer, I looked at the steepness of the roof and the twenty-five foot drop to the flagstone terrace below. Like most of Jock’s challenges, this one seemed tough ...but doable.
Jock was always the instigator - the driving force in most everything we did together. Of course, as with most of his ideas, I would go first and, usually, he would follow. This time he insisted I go first. Down inside me, I wondered whether he would follow suit.
As further encouragement, Jock snarled: “Chicken.” Again, peering down the steep roof, I tried to think it through. What if I lost my footing? If so, would the gutter at the roof’s edge be strong enough to stop the twenty-five foot fall? Were there enough handholds? After silly, back-and-forth taunting, I decided to accept Jock’s challenge.
Dressed in shorts and having put on sneakers, ever so slowly I mounted my window sill. Jock, still leaning out his window, coaxed me on.
I stepped one leg out onto the roof gingerly. So far, I could identify only a few nails protruding from various slates between the two dormers. Always the optimist, I sensed they were indeed strong enough to snag the soles of my sneakers. Reluctantly, I began to move in the direction of Jock’s dormer. I inched very carefully across the roof as I left my dormer behind. After only several feet, it became clear the pitch of the roof was, in fact, awfully dangerous. Once well out onto the roof, I dropped to my stomach, spread eagle, hugging the slates. My overriding fear was the risk of sliding down the roof towards the gutters. Blessedly, one of my sneakers snagged yet another nail. It was then Jock realized how truly exposed I was to danger. Then he started to encourage me. In due course, I came across several broken slates located near my outstretched fingertips providing additional purchases. I continued moving carefully from one anchor point to another. Keeping an eye on Jock’s window, my cheeks were planted firmly against the hot slates. My arms were spread out and upwards towards the peak of the roof trusting that my shoes and fingertips would hold. Breathing was becoming difficult. Retracing back to my window was no longer a safe option. It crossed my mind that if I lost traction and fell, this high-risk caper would result in serious consequences. I continued inching forward, still convinced I would succeed. Jock’s voice wavered. He had become frightened.
After what seemed like a long, perilous undertaking, finally I was able to grasp Jock’s window sill and climbed inside, tumbling into his room totally breathless. Together, Jock and I realized just how dangerous our caper had been. That secret was never shared with our parents for many years.
First Cigarette
Soon after the “roof caper,” Jock became interested in cigarettes. We discussed the pros and cons about learning how to smoke. To him, smoking was “cool.” After all, it must have been “cool” as our parents were social smokers and would remain so throughout their lives. And, smoking was fashionable and common among their friends. There was no difference between the displays of cigarettes and Mom’s fresh-cut flowers throughout the house. Silver boxes containing cigarettes (Lucky Strikes and Camel), elegant ashtrays and cigarette lighters, all were regularly displayed tastefully on living room tables, the dining room sideboard, in Dad’s study/library and, occasionally, in bedrooms. Going back to the Edwardian Era and through the Roaring Twenties, Prohibition, and then World War II, smoking had become de rigueur throughout much of the Western world.
Wanting to try a smoke, one day Jock picked up a pack of cigarettes from our parent’s bedroom. He then sought me out as an accomplice. It would be more fun were we to smoke together someplace, a spot where no one would know. Also, Jock was fully aware that parental punishment for such an illicit act involving two of us was always less severe than if the punishment were meted out to just one child. As usual, I agreed to join Jock sensing that something sinister was in the offing.
With a pack of cigarettes in Jock’s pocket, we left the house, crossed the front yard, passed the pool and left through the back gate and into the vast, uncut hay fields beyond. The paved county road that passed our house also ran parallel to the fields, not far from the area where we were heading. Jock chose the spot in the fields near a sizable boulder but, unfortunately, not far from the road. The hay around us was three to four feet high providing good cover. We hunkered down out of sight. Inspecting the Lucky Strikes, we debated how to open the pack efficiently. The pack was tightly wrapped in cellophane, a tax stamp glued across the top, and finally, tinfoil was wrapped about the cigarettes.
Quite by chance, I noticed several cars driving by on the road scarcely a hundred yards away. Jock mangled the pack trying to open it. Despite his pressure, I reassured him I didn’t want to smoke. His lighting efforts required half a box of matches trying to light only a couple of cigarettes. Coughing and spitting followed as the first cigarette sputtered prematurely. He tried another as I kept wafting away the billowing smoke.
Jock’s convulsions continued as he worked his way through most of the pack. He was intent on smoking just one complete cigarette. His eyes were watering as he lit one after another, all without paying any attention to me throughout the entire ordeal. Realizing the great amount of smoke created by Jock, I continued keeping an eye on the road. Shortly, I spotted a car slowing down not far from us. I told Jock to put out his cigarettes as we had to leave right away. The car finally stopped and two farmers got out. Slowly they began wading through the field in our direction towards the billowing smoke. Without any more urging on my part, I left Jock. I crawled away on my hands and knees as quickly as I could through the tall grass, away from the road and back towards our house. In the deep fields I couldn’t be seen by anyone. Now some distance away from the “smoking rock,” I saw the two men grab Jock by his shirt and escort him back to their car. Jock was weeping from fear. Or, was it from embarrassment? I kept crawling for a hundred yards or so towards home. Jock, instead, was taken to our front door where Mom received them. The two farmers explained he had endangered the fields with his smoking. Terribly disappointed with Jock, Mom sent him to his room. On returning from work that evening, Dad disciplined Jock for stealing, playing with fire, smoking and endangering the fields. I heard later from Jock that his punishment had been harsh. The most severe punishment Jock and I ever received involved belt strappings on our bare behinds.
While Jock was in his bedroom being punished, I was in the safety of the kitchen with our nurse munching on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, unscathed by the morning’s excitement. Jock didn’t squeal on me. He realized I had been clever. For whatever reason, though we were still young, Jock and I rarely tattled on one another.
After a relatively short stay in Rockville and for whatever reason, in July of 1943, Mom and Dad decided to leave Maryland having purchased a townhouse in “Old Town” Alexandria, VA. There we were situated close to Washington, D.C.
Jock, Tony and Heather at Luxmanor Farm, c. 1942
