Colonial Williamsburg

I think it is safe to say that I'd have been happy to wander the brick and cobblestone sidewalks and streets of Colonial Williamsburg for many more days, camera in hand, searching out little pockets of light and old, storied things to photograph.

On our way up to the Eastern Shore of Maryland for a family wedding last week, we decided a weekend stop in Colonial Williamsburg was called for.  What with the bonnets and the horses and the gardens and the old well-worn things full of history and other people's stories, it is most certainly right up my alley.  Right up the alleys of all three of us, truly.  Last Saturday evening, we checked in to the most budget-friendly of the Colonial Williamsburg-owned hotels and walked into the historic district after everything had closed up for the day.  It was quieter than it'd have been earlier.  Cooler, certainly.  We peeked in at the cooper's shop and walked through the gardens of the governor's palace.  We fed handfuls of grass to the oxen and we peered into shop windows and made plans for the following day.  We had an amazing meal at the Amber Ox and then, nighttime hotel pool swimming.  Because hotel pool.

Sunday morning, after a breakfast enjoyed outside (we dragged the chairs from the room outside and set them up on the sidewalk- super classy) and creatively put together from things scrounged from the cooler and the hotel's offerings (with me of course going back and forth grabbing different jars and things from the car to use for food acquisition in the hotel lobby- so as to avoid as much plastic as possible- because I do little things like that all the time that maybe drive my people nuts), we set out on foot to explore all that the historic district had to offer.  And then we did the same thing the following morning, heading north around lunchtime on Monday.  We walked and walked and walked.  We quickly realized we each had our own favorites- Claire would have been happy to spin and weave and feed grass to the oxen the entire time, while papa was keen on talking saws and cuts with the carpenters and outdoor brick oven plans with the baker.  Me, I mostly wanted to take photos and look at all of the gardens and touch all of the horses.  It became evident in no time that we all three have a strong preference for learning about and seeing the homes and workshops of the tradespeople and not the gentry.  I really wasn't impressed by the silver cup that king so and so had touched, but I was mighty captivated by the rough linen towels blowing in the breeze and the strong ink-stained hands of the printer and the smell of garlic and camphor in the apothecary.  The oyster shell paths in the gardens, the creative trellising and companion planting.  Oh yes please.

We took a house tour of one of the grander homes- a home owned by Robert Carter, a cousin of Thomas Jefferson's and an important man back in the day of the Continental Congress.  Indeed, his home was grand.  The tour guide lost me though when he started going on about how slaves during that time had it pretty good.  That it showed one's wealth if their slaves were well-dressed, well-fed, and even, because apparently it was never illegal for slaves to read and write in Virginia, literate.  He said they (the enslaved) likely looked down from the grand windows of the grand home and saw the poorer white men in the square and felt sorry for them.  Well.  I did that thing where you kind of simultaneously snort and laugh out of your nose in disbelief- what is that called?  Anyway- whatever it is called- I did that.  And I said something like "Really? You really think so? I bet they weren't very happy with not being free...."  He carried on without missing a beat and I noticed when he brought up the slaves again later he did so with what I thought was a bit more tact.  I honestly think he was just trying to illustrate that they weren't 'treated badly' (obviously this is relative here) in this home- trying to illustrate the 'goodness' of this man while still acknowledging the obvious fact that slavery was a very bad and very horrendous thing.  I don't know though- I can't really abide by that "well, so and so, he treated his slaves really well.........slavery was a 'peculiar institution" sort of talk.  In my book, I think if one finds oneself in the business of buying and selling PEOPLE, then they (the buyers/sellers) can't really be categorized as 'good people'.  Ugh.  I'd have been all sorts of mixed up if I lived in Williamsburg in the 1700s.  Happy to walk the oyster shell paths and hang all that linen to dry and cook over a fire, yet dodging the corsets and stays and wigs and all the other finer things as best I could.  With my heart heavy as lead in my chest with the awareness of how many of my darker-skinned neighbors were being treated.  Come to think of it, in a lot of ways that sort of describes the me of today.

Moving on.

What we really wanted to see in the Robert Carter house was the kitchen and the outbuildings and by the time we finished with the house the outbuildings were closed and that was when were realized we really just wanted to see the trade shops and the rougher bits.  Not that I can't appreciate fancy imported wallpaper and elaborate interior decor, but... well...... the blacksmith is a bit more my speed.

So we spent the rest of our time peeking over garden gates and talking to the cooks and the blacksmiths and the gardeners.  Papa talked shop with the carpenters and Claire and I rolled up our pant legs and stomped barefoot through the mud pit at the brickyard, laughing and yelping our way through it.  She played Elizabeth Cotten's 'Freight Train' on the harpsichord at the furniture makers' shop and we watched the firing of the noon cannon and listened to the fife and drums corp marching and playing across the big village green.  It was a pretty splendid weekend, really.

Many times as we wandered the streets I thought how, if I could choose a superpower, it'd be the power to look back into time.  Time travel, I suppose- though I wouldn't necessarily want to be visible or involved during my journeys.  I feel this way often when we are in places with centuries of amassed stories spanning several generations.  Maybe this is why historical fiction is my favorite genre when it comes to books.

Home now, though.  Where I can don my apron and hang my clothes on the line and heat our home with wood and tend my garden and dry and preserve each season's offerings at whatever pace I want to, if I choose to.  And then come in and enjoy the running water and the (mostly) reliable electricity and the fact that should all that preserving and gardening fall to the side for whatever reason, well...... there are about 4 grocery stores within a few miles of me and I can drive my car to any of them in a few minutes.  Ah, progress.