About ‘Me’

From spoiled brat to The White House to NY Impressario to savvy Charlottesville luxury realtor

The Misadventures of Toby Beavers: From Crib Escape to White House Shenanigans

It all started with a thud, followed by 11 more… then total silence. Feet raced towards the upper marble stairway, and a voice howled, “Toby!” There I was, lying at the bottom of the stairway, sporting a black eye and a broken silver spoon in my mouth. I had finally accomplished the impossible: escaping from my crib! Little did I know, this was just the beginning of my wild journey.

Born and raised in the heart of Manhattan at 1115 Fifth Ave, I attended The Brick Church School kindergarten, where I earned the nickname “Dynamite Kid.” I was considered a well-behaved child, thanks to our strict English nanny and our towering 6’4″ butler. I merely did what I was told… most of the time.

Even the Governor of New York, Averell Harriman, was impressed by my angelic behavior. He proclaimed March 8th (my birthday) as “Toby Beavers Day.” I’m still waiting for the parade and the statue in my honor.

Next stop: St. Bernard’s School, where my older brother was a 3rd grader. I fondly remember getting lovingly punched by all his pals as we passed each other on the stairway. It was like a daily gauntlet of affection.

Next stop: St. Bernard’s School, where my older brother was a 3rd grader. I fondly remember getting lovingly punched by all his pals as we passed each other on the stairway. It was like a daily gauntlet of affection.

Summers were spent in Watch Hill, RI, where I roamed the fields and woods, collecting an assortment of animals, reptiles, and insects. My pet collection was legendary! In fact, I won the St. Bernard’s School 1966 Summer Project Award for my massive insect collection. My older brother, Charles, was so envious that he smashed it to bits while my parents were gallivanting around Europe. Sibling love at its finest!

After St. Bernard’s, I attended The Salisbury School in Salisbury, CT. My roommate was Chris Halaby, whose father was the President of Pan Am at the time. Our shared love for trouble knew no bounds. We annoyed our dorm master, Woody Rutter, to the point where he had our door removed for 24/7 supervision. (Fun fact: Chris’s sister, Lisa, later became Queen Noor of Jordan. I guess royalty runs in the family!)

Three years at an all-boys boarding school made me realize that I needed to get back to NYC to be around women. Salisbury didn’t argue with my proposition, and the headmaster swiftly sent my father a curt letter saying goodbye, good luck, and good riddance! I left with an all-around average of 61, a true testament to my academic prowess.

The Browning School in NYC was my next stop, and I was thrilled to be back in the city. New York was the place to be in ’72! Browning had never had a baseball team before, so 1972 was its inaugural year. I was the pitcher, and Jamie Dimon (yes, the Jamie Dimon who became the big shot at JPMorgan Chase) was my 2nd baseman, with hair down to his waist. We won 2 games and lost 8, a true underdog story. Between the two of us, we had 12 hits the entire season, while the rest of our team managed a whopping 0-3 hits. What a team, indeed!

To my surprise (and everyone else’s), Browning had a policy of not grading seniors below an 80 in any subject. This was their secret weapon to help us get into good colleges. I ended up with an 80 average, and Syracuse University’s Maxwell School of Citizenship accepted me, stating, “Toby’s amazing turnaround at Browning has bewildered us here at the admissions office. Well done. Little did they know…

I graduated from Syracuse, but I wouldn’t wish that weather on my worst enemy. Rain, sleet, fog, and snow were the norm, almost every day.

In 1979, I began my political science career as a personal assistant to President Jimmy Carter, earning a whopping $3.10 an hour. I was at the White House during the Iranian Crisis and the Billy Beer saga, standing a mere 10 feet from the President as he pleaded his case to free the hostages on the West Wing lawn. What a kind and honest gentleman he was!

White House Security Badge circa 1979

And so, my friends, that’s the tale of Toby Beavers: from crib escape artist to White House insider. It’s been a wild ride, and I wouldn’t change a thing… except maybe the broken silver spoon in my mouth. That was just plain uncomfortable.

The Misadventures of Toby Beavers: From White House to Wilderness

While working at the White House, I decided to spice things up by studying ornithology at the Smithsonian at night. My tutor was none other than America’s top ornithologist, Roxie Collie Laybourne. With a name like that, you know she meant business!

The Smithsonian Institute, impressed by my newfound bird knowledge (and probably my charming personality), backed me on an Amazon expedition to collect birds and butterflies. Little did I know, I was in for a wild ride.

Picture this: I’m camping in a small opening in the jungle, minding my own business, when I wake up to the sound of my tent flapping in the wind. I peeked outside to investigate, only to discover that all the ropes had been cut in the middle of the night. It was like a scene from a bad horror movie, except I didn’t have the luxury of a stunt double.

Four months later, I decided to call it quits before I ended up kidnapped, shot, poisoned, or drowned. I landed in Miami with a measly 25 cents, a nasty case of amoebic dysentery, a fabulous butterfly collection, and rhinoceros beetles the size of my hand (some still alive and kicking!). But alas, no birds. Apparently, using mist nets in the jungle was harder than it looked. Who would’ve thought?

Not one to be deterred by a little danger (or common sense), I headed north above the Arctic Circle to photograph polar bears in Kotzebue, Alaska. Once again, after some incredible adventures, I decided to call it quits before I became a mosquito buffet or a polar bear’s chew toy.

Sure, polar bears look cute and cuddly, but did you know that one swipe of their paw can take your head clean off? As I arrived in Alaska, I met a fellow traveler at the airport who was returning to the Lower 48. He wished me good luck and casually mentioned that his great pal, whom he had just been with, had been killed by a polar bear while taking pictures. Talk about a warm welcome!

At that moment, I realized I was done with this type of wildlife. It was time to return to New York City for another kind of wilderness: the concrete jungle. I wanted to be a party animal, not an animal’s party snack!

And so, my friends, that’s the story of how I went from White House intern to Amazon adventurer to Arctic photographer, all while narrowly escaping death, dysentery, and becoming a polar bear’s toothpick. Just another day in the life of Toby Beavers, the man who puts the “wild” in wildlife!

Once upon a time, my brother and I found ourselves in a peculiar situation. After much convincing and a few white lies to our late father’s estate trustees, we managed to secure a loan and open the Surf Club. Little did we know, our lack of experience would lead to an overnight success, turning our humble establishment into one of New York’s most iconic nightclubs.

NY Daily News 1984

Our motto, “Guys with Ties & Girls with Pearls,” attracted the crème de la crème of society. Muffy, Buffy, Bitsy, and Binky practically lived there five nights a week, sipping champagne like it was water. In fact, according to the Moet Chandon sales team, we had sold (or given away) more bubbly than any other nightclub in 1986. We were on fire!

And usually by the time the song Shout had ended half the crowd (the men) were on the floor doing the ‘gator’. The FUN we had!

By 1988, I had my fingers in more pies than a clumsy baker. I was a partner in the Zulu Lounge, Kangaroo Club, Surf Club NY, Surf Club Atlanta, Surf Club Dallas, and Surf Club Southampton NY. It was like a yuppie paradise, and even celebrities like Mick Jagger, Andy Warhol, and Rick James couldn’t resist our charm. However, our success didn’t go unnoticed. John Gotti’s son, Junior, and a wild Irish gang called the Westies had their eyes on us, and they wanted a piece of the action.

One fateful night, as I was casually chatting with the stunning Bernadette Peters, my two buddies, Joey Cinque and Lenny Mangiapane, strolled in. “Pull up a chair,” I said, introducing them to Bernadette, who looked about as thrilled as a vegetarian at a steakhouse. Suddenly, a chair went flying across the dance floor like a UFO, causing women to scream and the music to screech to a halt. Before the Gotti boys knew what hit them, Lenny and Joey were on them like white on rice.

Picture this: Joey, in his dapper tuxedo, lying on the ground in front of me, pounding a guy and then taking a bite out of his ear like it was a gourmet snack. Mid-chomp, he looked up at me and yelled, “Toby, helpppp!” I nonchalantly sipped my champagne and replied, “Go, Joe!” Bernadette had already vanished, probably wondering what kind of madhouse she had stumbled into. And that’s just one of the thrilling stories I hold dear to my heart.

After a decade of laughter, chaos, and endless fun, I met the love of my life, Terri McDermott. I decided it was time to hang up my party hat and settle down. We eloped from Atlanta to Savannah, much to the relief of my in-laws, who were spared the expense of a colossal wedding for 2,000+ guests, most of whom I barely knew. And thus, the curtain closed on my wild nightclub adventures, but the memories will last a lifetime.

Amateur Duffer Show-Off

One sunny afternoon, while cruising through the charming town of Aiken, SC, I stumbled upon a public golf course and thought to myself, “What better way to impress my lovely wife Terri than by showcasing my superior golfing skills?” With a brand-new driver in hand, I confidently strutted to the first tee, ready to obliterate the ball.

I took a mighty swing, and with a resounding “Whack!” the ball soared through the air… followed by an earth-shattering “BANG!” Terri and I exchanged puzzled looks and set off to investigate the commotion. To my horror, I discovered that my hook shot had veered so far off course that it had crashed through the siding of the club’s dining room, sending panicked diners diving for cover.

Trying to play it cool, I casually pointed towards the fairway, pretending my ball had landed there. The diners hesitantly resumed their meals, casting suspicious glances in my direction. Undeterred, I yelled “Mulligan!” and prepared to redeem myself.

I teed up a new ball, determined to show Terri my true golfing prowess. With another Herculean swing, I nearly launched myself out of my golf shoes. “BAMMMMMMMMMM!” The sound echoed across the course like a thunderclap. I slowly turned towards the dining room, only to witness the diners hitting the deck for a second time, their faces a mix of terror and disbelief.

Terri and I couldn’t contain our laughter, despite the gravity of the situation. But the question remained: where had my second shot ended up? We cautiously approached the clubhouse, and as I peeked into the first hole, my jaw dropped. There, nestled together like two peas in a pod, were both of my golf balls. Somehow, my mulligan had managed to find its way into the exact same spot as my first tee shot.

This was a moment for the ages! I couldn’t resist capturing this once-in-a-lifetime golf shot on camera. After all, who could repeat such an astonishing feat of inaccuracy? As we left the course, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride. Sure, I may have traumatized a few unsuspecting diners, but I also managed to create a truly unforgettable golfing memory. And isn’t that what the sport is all about? Here’s the damage…

PS – I left both balls in the wall and high-tailed it over to the 2nd tee.

Picture this: I was sprawled out on the couch in Watch Hill, laughing so hard at Married with Children that I nearly choked on my popcorn. Suddenly, a knock at the front door interrupted my sitcom-induced euphoria. As I peered into the darkness outside, a face appeared at the window like a ghost from a B-rated horror movie. But fear not, it was just my neighbor, Bob Richins – the phenomenal realtor and unofficial mayor of downtown Watch Hill.

My wife, with the speed of a cheetah, bolted to the door and flung it open. With a stern look on her face, she declared, “Bob, you either give my husband a job or don’t come over at night anymore. We’ve got a strict ‘no solicitors after dark’ policy, and that includes you!”

And thus, my illustrious and lengthy real estate career began in 1996. I became Bob’s chauffeur, driving him around while he did all the work. It was like being paid to be a professional passenger – what a deal!

But as time passed, my four brothers began to quarrel like a pack of hungry hyenas fighting over a scrap of meat. “Sell!” they demanded, their voices echoing through the halls of our family home.

Determined to keep the peace (and my sanity), I enlisted the help of Bob (again) and my incredibly talented wife. Together, we hatched a plan to transform our 19th-century Queen Anne summer cottage into a Decorator’s Showhouse. You see, my late mother had been one of the three founders of the Kips Bay Boy’s Club Decorator Showhouse in New York, so I figured it was in my blood.

The top decorators in New England lined up like groupies at a rock concert, eager to showcase their amazing and colorful summer interior designs. It was like watching a parade of peacocks, each trying to outdo the other with their vibrant feathers and flamboyant displays.

When Traditional Homes featured Wayne Cottage, it sold faster than hotcakes at a lumberjack convention. And just like that, my real estate career took off like a rocket, all thanks to Bob’s guidance, my wife’s brilliance, and the power of interior design. Who knew that a few well-placed throw pillows and a fresh coat of paint could solve family feuds and launch a career? But hey, stranger things have happened in the wacky world of real estate!

We were returning after attending Jim Bob Moffett’s daughter’s spectacular 4-day wedding in New Orleans when we found an amazing plantation for sale on the Mississippi River called Como Plantation in St Francisville, LA.

Como Plantation had a 6-mile driveway with 2 miles of the Mississippi River frontage. We picked it up as a foreclosure and dreamed of becoming a tourist destination. We slowly began to realize our underestimation. We had two young children, no cell phone service, and the nearest school was 36 miles after you drove the 6-mile gravel driveway. It was time to sell again.

Gov Edwin Edwards of Louisiana purchased it. It was his dream to make it a high-stakes poker retreat however, 6 months later he was indicted with his son under the Federal RICO Act and sent to prison for 5 years. Today Como Plantation is a religious retreat.

We moved to Charlottesville in 1997 where I began practicing my singing and dancing (a la Frank Sinatra, Jack Jones, and Fred Astaire) and in 1998 produced a Broadway show called Girls, Girls, Girls at the world-famous The Supper Club in the Edison Hotel featuring yours truly with the world-famous, 26-piece, Tony Corbicello Orchestra.

The opening night show was over, and it was at that moment I realized I had a serious decision to make. Do I stay in New York City and sing with The Peter Duchin Orchestra and live the Sinatraesque, late night party lifestyle? Or retreat to Charlottesville with my young family and try and be a good father?

Well, I chose the smart route. I tossed my tuxedo into a laundry bag and drove my wife and kids back to Charlottesville.

Now what, I thought…

I needed to do something more than play golf all day. (I repeatedly had caught myself cheating myself when I missed an easy putt).

Real estate I thought! Yes, that was it. But then I thought, how can I compete with the ‘gift of gab’ from all the attractive female Charlottesville luxury realtors?

No way could I compete! I saw them in action when we joined Farmington Country Club and attended the new members coctail party. My wife and I were surrounded by attractive women in colorful Lily Pulizer dresses chating us both up. Wow, I thought, we are popular already. Little did I know but they were all realtors. 🦊

Enter Google…You throw up a website enter a few keywords and you rank.

So I purchased 20 domain names from Charlottesville real estate, Charlottesville homes, Charlottesville new homes, Charlottesville farms, Charlottesville historic homes, Charlottesville townhomes, to Charlottesville condos etc.

All those sites quickly ranked #1 on Google’s search engine…except Charlottesville townhomes which ranked #2.

I was showing properties twice a day, 7 days a week.

I burnt through two Ford Explorer transmissions and one Ford Expedition (actually my son backed into a large oak tree when he was learning to drive). The tree just died…(and that was back in 2006!).

As I got older and wiser (after driving 2.5 hours to look at a farm in Frederick County and with my customers refusing to get out of their car (“Toby, we don’t like the neighborhood!”); I decided to work my local Charlottesville luxury market.

If Harald Grant, the top realtor in Southampton NY can do it, I could! I knew Harald from the Surf Club when he was one of New York’s most elible bachelors.

Today, 2024, I have slowed down a bit and only do 3-5 deals a year. I oversee the entire process to make sure every closing works seemlessly and hassle-free.

I live on a small, historic farm in Ivy called The Shadows circa 1754.

It would be an honor to work for you and I hope you would consider using me as your Charlottesville realtor.

Best,

☘️

Toby Beavers – Charlottesville Luxury Realtor 434-327-2999