costumed reenactors were few and far between, but we did see (or at least hear) a few soldiers out drilling
The "Pink House" is arguably the oldest surviving house in Charleston.(I'm actually not willing to argue about it, but some people are. I don't care if it's the oldest, but it's obviously pretty darn old.)
In any case, it is now an art gallery that is open to the public and well worth a visit, if you want to get a sense of how ordinary people lived in the 18th century. It is a not a palatial plantation mansion, that's for sure. The curved terra cotta roof tiles are different sizes; it is said they were shaped on the thighs of the slaves who made them.
This picture has absolutely nothing to do with the accompanying story except that it was taken during the same trip. One of these days, I'll remember to actually photograph the things I think I might write about...
It wasn't any easier to photograph the Factors Walk area than it was to describe it. (But it was fun, at least!)
Here's your mistletoe.
If you were decorating for Christmas in colonial days, this is about all you'd need. It doesn't blink, turn, dance, snow or play the Porky Pig version of "Blue Christmas" (which is my husband's favorite Christmas carol).
The Cheapskate's Guide to Williamsburg
As far as my kids were concerned, we had come to Williamsburg on this winter afternoon for one thing, and it wasn’t history. It was the water park at Great Wolf Lodge. So my plan to explore Colonial Williamburg before we headed for the chlorine did not meet with expressions of pleasure.
“What time is it?” my daughter asked.
“Can we have lunch now?” my son demanded.
I decided my goal for this visit was to figure out what we could see without paying admission. The dedicated staff of CW (shorthand for the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation) have worked for years to restore and recreate the colonial capitol, but they charge a small fortune to tourists who’ve come to see it. So if you don’t have time to examine 49 dollar’s worth of colonial interiors, what can you see?
Well, my learning adventure started in the parking garage (and we did pay admission for that, so I’d already blown my quest to see the town for free. But we didn’t HAVE to pay for parking. We could have parked on the street and moved every hour.) So the parking garage, I learned from a sign on the wall, was built on the site of a 17th Century plantation. As years passed, the site became home to craftsmen of the town. I was reading about evidence of window glazing implements when my family dragged me away because they were tired of standing in the dark.
Our next free stop was the Peanut Shop of Williamsburg because we’re always on the lookout for boiled peanuts, one of the few sources of protein that my picky daughter actually likes to eat. My son immediately began feasting on the free samples since he hadn’t dragged himself out of bed in time to eat breakfast with the rest of us.
So the peanut shop was a big hit.
As we walked into the actual colonial part of Colonial Williamsburg, it was a little disappointing at first. Many of the shops, taverns and sites were closed for the season. Very uncolonial cars lined the street. Gardens that we last saw bursting with colorful flowers were now lifeless and brown, piled high with dry oak leaves. The bare, twisted tree trunks in Bruton parish churchyard made a fitting counterpart to the tombstones around them. But as we drew closer to the church, we could hear the sound of a men’s choir singing part of the Sunday service and suddenly the street seemed to come to life.
My kids noticed a covered well next to nearby house and my son was dying to try it out. We started counting wells and it seems that almost every building in CW has one. Wells are something many historic sites have lost, and we wondered whether any of the ones we were seeing actually worked or whether they were just designed to look good on postcards. When we finally got close enough to touch one, we found the bucket firmly attached to the edge of the well and held in place with a few coats of paint for good measure. But given enough time, I’m sure my son would pry the thing lose and try it anyway.
We didn’t see too many costumed interpreters. There was one lonely guy in front of the Wyethe House who cheerfully answered my question about Venetian blinds. (The last time I actually toured the inside of any CW buildings, the only thing I remember was my amazement at seeing blinds because I thought they were a 1960s thing). Even though this wasn’t the house with lots of blinds, the interpreter told me that Venetian blinds had been around for 300 years by the time they were used in Williamsburg in the 1700s. Like spaghetti, they were invented in China, caught on in Venice, and then the English and Americans caught the craze. What I want to know is what the Chinese used to dust them, because we still haven’t acquired that technology yet.
We were soon up to a well count of five. My husband went to college at William and Mary and used to spend his free time at the CW visitors center reciting the lines of the orientation film like regulars at the Rocky Horror Picture Show. He showed us the “prettiest view in Williamsburg,” looking over a brick wall at a stream crossed by a little rustic bridge. I think it’s probably prettier in the spring. Anyway, because it wasn’t crowded, we could let the kids run down a hill to cross a couple of planks over a stream. I’m sure the CW lawyers wouldn’t like it, but they, like most of the tourists, take winter off. We also walked on a path that led next to some terraced gardens and a manicured pond. If we’d paid admission, we could walk around the pond. But walking near it for free wasn’t too bad.
I finally found an open shop to explore while my kids took turns locking each other up in the stocks (which I paid no attention to because they do this at every site that has punitive devices). The clerk at the Prentis Store was so helpful and informative and the store was so nice and warm that I decided I had to buy something even though about the only thing that they sold that I didn’t already have was as leather fire bucket that cost more than I make in a month.
The buckets, I learned, were usually filled with sand, at least in Williamsburg. The clerk explained that because Williamsburg was laid out shortly after the London Fire, the prevention of fire was a major factor in the planning of the town. Houses are spaced far apart, streets are unusually wide, and each building was required to have two fire buckets on any floor inhabited by people.
The Prentis store is the only CW store that is in an original building, not a recreation. It survived the early years of the 20th Century as an auto parts store. We couldn’t see a lot of old stuff in the building, but the clerk told us about places to spot 18th Century graffiti.
“Is it time for lunch yet?”
Well, first we had to find the graffiti and redeem our coupon for a free cookie.
We were up to seven wells.
And we also started counting ceramic redware martin jars on houses that were put out to attract the small birds that eat mosquitoes.
The best graffiti was on the secretary’s office, so were headed for that.
Lunch now?
After walking another ten minutes or so, we finally figured out that neither my husband or I had been listening when the clerk told us how to get to the secretary’s office.
Eight wells.
Lunch?
Through the blinding haze of hunger, we saw up ahead a building that might be the secretary’s office. Yep, there around the doorway there were hundreds of initials carved in the soft brick. Dates ranged from about the mid 1700s to the late 1800s, from what I could see in the 30 seconds I had to look at them. But they’ve been there hundreds of years and will be there for me to look at next time.
The important thing was to get our cookie and some hot cocoa and cider to sustain us on the long walk back to the excavation site/parking garage.
As it turned out, the cookie was not worth the effort. But at least it was was finally time for lunch.
So that was our most recent day in Colonial Williamsburg. We came, we saw, we learned, and we paid no admission.
We needed all our money for that water park.
Until next time...
--Kate
No Easy Answer
I think most thoughtful people would agree that preservation of historic sites is a worthwhile goal for a community. But what exactly is the best way to preserve a site?
This question came up during a recent visit to Charleston. I think preservation advocates (like myself) tend to see the issue in black and white: the good citizens fighting to preserve their heritage vs. the evil corporate moguls who want to develop property solely for economic gain. It’s never that simple, of course. But the case in Charleston is even more striking. It pits preservationists against what I can only describe as other preservationists. The good guys vs. more good guys. Who do you root for?
The battleground in this instance is the McLeod Plantation on James Island, just across the harbor from the old city of Charleston. First developed in the mid 18th Century, the plantation produced Sea Island cotton and was occupied by both Confederate and Union forces during the Civil War, including the African-American troops of the 54th and 55th Massachusetts Volunteer Regiments.
The site includes a three-story antebellum house and numerous outbuildings, but its most remarkable feature is probably the row of intact slave quarters, something that has long been erased from most sites. McLeod Plantation now sits as a 60-acre island of rural past in the midst of suburban housing developments. And the neighbors who have banded together to form the Friends of McLeod, Inc. would like it to stay that way. But Historic Charleston Foundation, to whom Mr. McLeod willed the property at his death, decided that the best way to preserve and maintain the property was to sell it to a new school called the American College of Building Arts, which, according to its website, “trains future generations of building artisans to foster exceptional craftsmanship and leadership and encourages the preservation, enrichment, and understanding of the world's architectural heritage.”
The decision to sell off the site was not made out of laziness, certainly. The property will take a lot of money to restore and maintain, and HCF probably did not have anywhere near the resources to manage this plantation in addition to their other sites. Something had to be done. But was this the right something?
Yes, the college is dedicated to preserving significant historical architecture. But American College of Building Arts plans to move virtually all of their school facilities to the site. The Friends of McLeod claim that the school will build 21 new buildings on the site, thoroughly disrupting the plantation setting. The College itself is more vague, claiming final plans and designs aren’t finished yet and that it will “take a number of years to appropriately and sympathetically create the permanent campus at McLeod Plantation.”
Instead of seeing the construction of new school buildings and the existing buildings turned into office space, the Friends of McLeod would rather see the site preserved as a “passive park” with a heritage center and numerous walking paths filled with information about the culture and history of the sea islands. But their website makes it appear as though the group has a big cache of wishes, but only a very small cache of cash. Grants would be terrific. Corporate sponsors ideal. Unfortunately for them, the other side seems to have all the monetary and political support at this time.
So what’s the right thing to do? If the college carries through with its plans, much of the character of the site, and possibly artifacts as well, will be lost to development. On the other hand, even if the Friends of McLeod were able to scrape up enough money to buy the site, would they be able to maintain it? How long should they be given to raise the money?
The Friends of McLeod are currently battling in the courts to block construction, and I wouldn’t trade places with the judge on this one for anything. It’s no easy call. Since I described this as a battle of good guys vs. good guys, it seems like either outcome should produce a win. But I have a feeling that whoever wins, something will be lost.
Only time will tell...
--K
Get There Before the Lawyers Do
I am often drawn to grand stately buildings when I visit an old town, but that hasn't been the case with Savannah. Not that the city doesn’t have plenty of them—it does. Picturesque squares are lined with elegant antebellum, Victorian and even some colonial houses. But what interests me in Savannah are not the elegant homes, but a series of alleys known as Factors Walk. These stone walkways line the backsides of the old cotton warehouses along the river. The walkways enabled buyers to come in close to inspect cotton on a particular level of a warehouse; factors would bring samples out into the sunlight to check the quality.
The warehouse where we stayed during a recent visit (which has since been converted to a hotel—I’m not dedicated enough to really stay in a working cotton warehouse, no matter how fascinating the area) has five stories. It’s built into the bluff overlooking the river, so while ground level on the river side is level one, ground level on the other side of the building facing the city’s Bay Street is on the 4th floor. The levels below that make up Factors Walk. I’m finding it very difficult to describe, probably because I spent too much time enjoying the city’s nightlife. Anyway, Factor’s Walk is a series of terraced stone roads, with bridges periodically extending out to the big doors of the warehouses.
It looks like a set for filming Jack the Ripper.
And though these days everything is clean and well-patrolled, it’s easy to imagine when this was not the case. Even the supports for the air conditioning units look rustic and weathered.
On the other side of the warehouse was the main dock where ships landed, discharging sailors who didn’t have to go far to find places to spend their money on drink. Taverns lined the riverfront. Savannah is probably willing to admit there have been bars along the waterfront for 200 years. But an area that is essentially three floors of dark alleys also had to play host to some other nefarious activities. Other towns would capitalize on this with “Sin City History” guides or “Underworld Tours,” but not genteel Savannah.
So you can’t read much about Factor’s Walk or take a tour, but I highly recommend that you take a walk if you can, while you still can. Both Factor’s Walk and the bluff leading down to it are criss-crossed by networks of incredibly steep, uneven stone staircases that will probably soon be closed by lawyers. The roads leading down to the river appear to be nothing more than uneven piles of ballast stones that no one bothered to level out. As soon as someone important sprains an ankle, the whole place will probably be declared off-limits. So go fall down the stairs and trip on the cobblestones while you still can.
Tune in next time when I address the pressing question:
Is there life in Savannah on a Monday Night?
--K
Savannah After Hours
“Why do you have to go to Savannah without us?” my son asked as I packed for an overnight trip with my husband.
“Because we’re going to do stuff you would find boring,” I answered. “We’re going to walk a lot.” I wanted to spend time exploring the Factor’s Walk section of the town and that meant a lot of walking, looking and taking notes—not activities that kids usually find thrilling.
But as it turns out, another good reason to leave the kids behind this time was that we also ended up spending a surprising amount of our short visit exploring the city’s nightlife. Frankly, I didn’t expect to find much nightlife on a Monday night. But we had a very knowledgeable guide who introduced us to so many cool places that I decided I had to write about them. Not because I thought anyone else would really care to read about how much fun I had, but just so I wouldn’t forget what they were called so I can go back.
We started out with a wine and cheese reception in the tavern at our hotel, the River Street Inn, which is housed in a cotton warehouse. The first two floors were built in 1817 using mostly ships’ ballast stones. The tavern at the inn is on one of those floors, and at least one room smelled like it had mold dating back to those original ships. (The smell seemed to bother no one but me, however, so it might be ghost mold). Then we moved on to another part of town to Elizabeth’s, restaurant housed in a late Victorian house that was probably the newest and most sedate place we went on the entire visit.
After dinner we tried to have drinks at one of my favorite places in Savannah, the Pirate’s House. Stories of pirates “shanghaiing” unwary pub patrons from this early 18th Century tavern inspired my first book, Langley’s Choice. The restaurant is made up of a bunch of really old buildings cobbled together, and it has a wonderful atmosphere, even if all the pirate stories are probably more fictitious than my novels. Alas, when we arrived, the last busload of tourists was departing and the “in” door was locked.
So we moved on to another 18th Century establishment, the Pink House Restaurant. This one was closing, too, but unlike the Pirate House, it had a bar in the basement that was very much open. An enthusiastic piano player entertained a crowd in front of the fire with corny songs that I couldn’t hate because he so sincerely enjoyed them. Telling my husband I was going to look for the bathroom, I instead ended up trying to sneak upstairs to peek at the rest of the house.
Turns out I didn’t have to sneak. Although they were busy setting up for the next day, everybody I met encouraged me to look all around, including the top floor. I was truly amazed. I don’t think I’ve ever been in an a converted 18th Century house that still felt so much like a house. There were fireplaces in every room, family portraits hanging all over—it felt like the family was welcoming you to join them for dinner.
I don’t care if the food is terrible. I will definitely come back to try this restaurant. And I don't think my husband will mind, either. While I was exploring, one of the waitresses downstairs in the bar was telling him and our guide about ghost sightings and other interesting stories.
Our next stop was decidedly different. Pinkie Master’s used to be a hangout for political types, so our guide told us stories about famous people and speeches and I wasn’t as impressed as I should have been because I pay so little attention to politics. Anyway, I think sometimes the place is still a favorite for political guys. But on this particular Monday, the small corner bar that serves virtually nothing but cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon was full of students from the Savannah College of Art and Design. How could we tell they were art students? Oh, I don’t know. They had a good time singing along with Boy George on the jukebox, that’s all I can say.
When we finished our PBRs, we headed back to the area near the Pirate House, to another really old tavern, the W&G. It too was a small, dark place full of personality, complete with very friendly talkative owners who went out of their way to create unique cocktails for me. (I needed something really different after that Pabst). Somewhere close to 2 a.m., the owners decided it was time to close, and that was good because it was long past time for us to leave. I felt especially bad for our guide, who had to work the next day (and whose name is being kept secret to protect the un-innocent). But he just shrugged it off and said he was just sorry he didn't have time to take us to the karaoke bar.
Any town that can produce this much fun on a Monday night is worth returning to ASAP.
Without the kids.
Until next time...
--K
Buy a Broom
When we started the museum tour, I didn’t bother to take notes because most of the collection was past “my” time period. This was the El Pomar Association Carriage Museum outside the Broadmoor Resort in Colorado Springs, and I was just trying to kill time on a cold, rainy day. Since the oldest carriage in the collection dated to 1841 and my historicals focus on 18th and early 19th C settings, I figured whatever I learned here would be purely for fun. But several times our tour guide said something that I thought I might want to remember later. So finally, half an hour into the tour, I excused myself to borrow scratch paper from the front desk so that I could take notes.
It was the carriage horn signals that did it. In addition to a collection of horns of all sizes, the museum had sheet music depicting the tune of different signals drivers would use to tell others to “clear the road” “move to the right” or even “buy a broom,” which was apparently an insult. If anyone can tell me WHY that’s an insult, please do! I’ll take guesses, too. Anyone who submits a good guess will win prize.
Anyway, even though this particular sheet of music was dated to 1901, I imagine that the use of musical signals probably goes back a little further, particularly in England where narrow roads hemmed in with tall hedges made it difficult for vehicles to see oncoming traffic.
Another interesting and surprisingly common feature of the carriages in the collection was the angle of the driver’s seat in carriages popular with “dashing young gentlemen.” Vehicles like phaetons and gigs hold only two people, so the gentleman serves as his own driver. Often the horses that pulled them were only “green broke” meaning that they were trained to wear a harness but not how to behave well in one. When they took off with a jerk, the angled seat enabled the driver to brace his feet against the floor and keep from being pulled out.
Phaetons could be dangerous vehicles if driven fast since they were prone to tip over. The museum has “ladies phaetons” with a lower center of gravity and more space for climbing up so that ladies might stand some chance of getting in without getting their gowns dirty on the wheels. There are also English and American gigs placed side by side for comparison. The English has a high axle to clear the mud of London streets. The American is a much lower vehicle with an even lower axle for stability in country winds. American carriages were also lower because on average, American carriage horses were an about two hands shorter than their British counterparts.
The musuem has a mail coach—what we usually call a stage coach—along with an 1860s list of “tips for mail passengers” with hints such as “spit on the leeward side.” Our tour guide also pointed out that you didn’t want to sit behind the driver because he would be spitting pretty regularly himself. And the windows would, of course, be open.
Ladies would be seated in the inside of this type of coach, while gentlemen might ride above. Many of the vehicles claimed to be able to hold well over ten passengers on top and to me that sounds even more likely to tip than a phaeton.
All in all, it was a fascinating collection made even more interesting by the enthusiasm of the very knowledgeable tour guide. There was even a small “bath car” that was built to be pull invalids through the spa town of Bath. It was pulled not by a horse but by a servant. From the size of the thing, though, I would say it would have to be a servant who was built like a horse.
During the hour-long tour, our guide regaled us with many stories about the origins of everything from dashboards to tailgating to cocktails. I’m not sure everything could be taken as literal truth (there are, for example, about a million different stories about the origin of the term “cocktail,”) but he definitely provided some food for thought. So what started out as a quick trip to kill time ended as a noteworthy visit. I just wish I’d started taking the notes earlier.
Until next time...
This month won't feature an article about fun facts unearthed during research trips. Instead, I'm posting a short story I wrote some years ago. My mom liked it, but I don't think anyone else really did. It was not written about her specifically, but it is about the everyday hero that she typified beautifully.
CLOUD NINE
When she woke, Alice realized that she was no longer floating. What a relief! She had spent the better part of the afternoon bobbing up against the ceiling like an untethered helium balloon, and found the experience rather unnerving. And the worst of it was that she had to watch her own lifeless body down below on the rigid hospital bed as doctors poked and prodded and her sister cried -- her own death performed like some sort of ghastly circus. All the while she remained powerless to do anything. She couldn’t even leave.
But now she had gone. Or so it seemed. From where she lay, she could see white walls all around and sense an emptiness that reminded her of the sterile atmosphere of the oncology unit at St. Joseph’s. But the hospital smell was now noticeably absent. Instead, the aroma of fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies hung almost palpably in the air, mingled with a freshness, like the clean air of a mountaintop.
The walls weren’t really white, either. Their surface was luminescent, gently reflecting colors of light as though made of pearls. Were they even walls? As she watched, the shimmering surface appeared to move in the rhythmic motion, as though gently breathing.
She bit her lip, steeling herself for the pain as she reached forward to touch the strange surface.
No pain. The searing ache which had accompanied her every movement for so long was gone. She tried the move again, and again felt no pain. Alice stood and stretched, then jumped for the sheer joy of movement. But when she looked down and saw another chair not too far from her own, she froze in awe. Then she giggled.
“Now I know I’m in heaven.”
On the chair next to her lay the sleeping form of Drake McKean, star of so many movies and her secret dreams.
A laughing voice suddenly boomed out, “You’re not in heaven yet!”
Alice spun around, but could see no one talking. The voice had not come from the sleeping man. But the sound apparently roused him. His eyelids fluttered open slowly. “You can auction off the bike, you know,” he mumbled, closing his eyes again. “Even though it’s a wreck. Someone will pay good money for it, since it was mine.”
Alice waited a moment to see if he would open his eyes again.
“What bike?”
His eyes snapped open. “Where’s Mick? Why won’t you let him in here? I know to you, he’s just my agent, but to me he’s family, and he should be here with me now as . . . am I dead?”
Alice giggled again as his outraged expression changed to that adorable puzzled look she knew so well from the big screen. “I think you are. At least, I’m pretty sure I am.”
“Oh.” He gazed around, and soon reached out toward the walls, or whatever they were, just as she had done a few minutes before. She felt content merely to watch his movements. It was Drake McKean, here in the room with her, and no one else. Except that they weren’t really in a room.
“Good morning,” the unseen voice boomed again, reminding her that they weren’t alone, either.
“Who are you?” The actor rolled smoothly off his chair, poised as if to do battle with a full squadron of aliens, or Mafia thugs, or whatever the script called for that day.
The voice laughed again. “It is good to see you feeling well again. As I mentioned a moment ago, you’ve not reached heaven yet, but your cloud will dock in just a few minutes. When it does, you simply follow the light. I must warn you, though, there’s quite a crowd awaiting your arrival. It seems your exploits on Earth have been followed with more than a little admiration. In fact, I might even go so far as to say you’ve got a fan club waiting. Now, relax and enjoy the rest of your flight, and please remain seated until the cloud comes to a complete stop.”
Drake flashed his trademark mischievous smile, but it was soon supplanted by a sigh that matched her own.
So much for having him all to herself. In her daydreams, she would meet him unexpectedly and they would just talk, he as interested in her mundane life as she in his tales of action and glamour. After they had become friends, then the relationship would naturally become more intimate and. . .
But now, when she had come so close, she would never even get that chance to talk.
“Well, just a few minutes before we get there, huh? I’m Drake McKean.” He offered his hand.
“I know.” She looked at his outstretched hand stupidly for a moment before extending her own. His grip felt warm and snug; her fingers tingled from his touch.
“May I ask who I have the pleasure of accompanying to heaven?”
This seemed like a line from one of his movies but it was not; and it was not a beautiful actress but she, Alice Brougham, who answered. And they did talk, just as she had imagined in her dreams. First about the illness and motorcycle accident that had ended their earthly lives. Then about those lives. His mother had been a grade-school teacher, like her, and they laughed over stories of children’s exploits. He had planned to become a teacher himself, but in college had found acting to be more fun, and eventually, much more lucrative.
“And I could never go back to teaching.” His sigh of regret was genuine.
“Why?”
“The fame. I couldn’t be a person anymore. I was a persona. I couldn’t do the things that ordinary people do.”
“Such as?”
“Okay, what would you do, back when you were alive, I mean, and before you were sick, if you found you suddenly had a morning of free time?”
“Hmm. I suppose I might go out and get a really fresh bagel and coffee, and sit outside somewhere with a good book.”
“Well I could never do that. People would come up to me, maybe not for an autograph, just to talk. And they’d be nice and all, but how much of that book do you think I’d get read?”
Alice smiled, nodding her understanding.
“And the coffee would sit while I shook hands, until it was cold. I hate cold coffee.” He sighed again. “I know it sounds petty of me, after I’ve been given so much. But I just wanted the chance to rest and be normal again. And now, even here, it looks like that won’t happen.”
“I’m sorry.” Alice felt sorry because he seemed so sad, but she still couldn’t see that fame would be the grave hardship he seemed to think it was. He had forgotten, or perhaps never known, what it felt like to have no one interested in your life at all.
“When did we stop moving?”
“Oh, I hadn’t noticed.” Alice stood, suddenly wondering what to do with her hands.
Drake sprang to his feet and waved toward the bright light. “After you.”
“Um, would you mind going first?” Better to let him get ahead so as to not disappoint the fans that had gathered to see Drake make his entrance. But, once she squeezed past the mob of his fans, heaven would be a wonderful experience, wouldn’t it? She would go look for Grandma Mabel. Or maybe a bagel shop.
“Here they come!”
“Can you see them?”
A crowd appeared through the fading mist. There was much waving and laughter and excited voices.
“Oh, look, she’s moving aside to let that man go first. She’s always so thoughtful.”
“Yes, it’s just like the time at the carnival, moving aside to let those girls ride with their friends.”
What in the world were they talking about? Alice knew all of Drake’s movies, and none of them involved carnivals.
“It’s like when she let her older sister win at Scrabble so she would think she was smarter.”
Alice smiled as she looked at Drake. She used to do that, too. It made her sister so happy.
"Did you see her last trip on the expressway? She signaled every lane change, let another car move into her lane at the toll booth, and even said hello to the toll collector.”
What movie was that from? And why were they saying “she”? Surely they couldn’t be talking about her.
“My favorite was watching her clean out the refrigerator at work after hours.”
“Ooh, I couldn’t watch! That was too gross.”
“I really liked watching her come home from work. She would always pet the dog first thing, even when she really had to go to the bathroom.”
Alice stopped walking. The crowd was talking about her. But how did they know all this stuff?
“I liked it when she used the dryer in her dorm at college. Whenever someone else had left their clothes in, she took them out and folded them before she put in her own.
Alice bit her lip and looked down, feeling as if her whole life had been suddenly ripped open and every detail shaken out like feathers from a pillow. Was there nothing these people didn’t know?
A warm hand grasped her shoulder. “Come on. Your fans want you to join them for coffee.” Drake smiled at her with the exuberant joy of a schoolboy suddenly let on holiday.
As she looked into his face, a flicker of hope started to warm her inside. The warmth swelled to a glow as she sensed the excitement and admiration of the crowd surging ever closer.
And she had never minded cold coffee.
_____________________
Dedicated to Betty Dolan, 1934-2008
copyright 2008 Kate Dolan
--k
A Partridge in a Summerville Tree
Six hundred miles is a long way to drive to get to a Halloween party, but it was worth it.
Of course, my family did not drive nine-plus hours to Augusta, Georgia just to enjoy the creepy decorations, wonderful fattening food, or the games and music. We made the trip because it gave us the chance to spend time with my dad, aunt, cousins and their friends. And one nice bonus of the trip was that it gave us the opportunity to stay at the historic Partridge Inn.
The inn started out as a house built in 1836 in the village of Summerville. Given the name, it should be no surprise that Summerville was originally a summer retreat for wealthy people who wanted to escape the sweltering heat and humidity of riverfront Augusta. But by the time the Partridge Inn became a hotel at the end of the 19th century, the city had annexed Summerville, and the hilltop area had become a winter retreat for wealthy northerners. It was never known as Winterville, as far as I know.
Nevertheless, from the 1890s until about 1930, Summerville was quite a popular place to be in the winter. People from New York and New England flocked down in droves to ride horses and play golf from September to April. Of course, the weather in Augusta isn’t always that warm in winter, so sometimes vacationers had to resort to extraordinary measures to get in those golf matches. More on that later.
Anyway, the Partridge started as a two-story house, with twenty rooms added in 1909. And then more rooms were added -- and more. Five additions between 1909 and 1929. Now the building is five stories tall and takes up an entire block, so it’s very difficult to tell where the original house was.
But that was what I wanted to know. My daughter and I set out to explore one morning. The very friendly people at the front desk (and everybody there was always friendly, which is how I knew I wasn’t in Maryland anymore) pointed outside to the courtyard and described where the old section began. The hotel has been renovated so many times that from the outside, it’s impossible to see a difference. It looked like the room my dad was staying in was part of the original house, and our room looked to be just outside of that. But we were on the third floor and the original house had been two stories. So maybe Dad’s room was just above the original house.
Back inside, we patrolled every meandering corridor, up and down steps, noting odd angles, rounded walls and inclines that would be perfect for Meg’s stuffed bunny to use as a skateboard ramp. (To see how this ill-mannered bunny turned the historic Halifax site into a skate park, see the articles from the fall of 2006). The place was definitely interesting and definitely old, but it was difficult to tell which part of it was any older than any other part. The guest rooms that I’d seen were completely different from those in most hotels. Instead of a uniform rectangular area, the rooms were chopped into weird angular spaces, as if made by a child with a limited number of odd-shaped Lego pieces.
On all floors, vintage photographs line the walls depicting the hotel and other parts of town during different periods of history. One of those photos showed ladies in long gowns playing golf in the lobby of the hotel. Apparently, that was one of the arrangements the hotel made to accommodate guests when the whether did not. What was identified as the lobby in the photo looked like what is now the hotel dining room on the second floor. And sure enough, the nice people at the front desk confirmed that originally the lobby was on the second floor. The ground floor had been just a dirt-floored basement.
So our third floor rooms were originally second floor rooms. Dad’s room was indeed in the original house.
Of course, it didn’t look much different than our room, except that the ceiling was low enough for me touch it if I jumped. And actually, the ceiling was low enough to do that in one section of our room, where you went up a flight of stairs to get to a little loft area adjacent to the bathroom. We didn’t have a particularly large room, it was just odd. So we decided that the little loft area and our bathroom were both part of the original house, too. For some reason, it made me feel better to know that I’d been staying in the 1836 part of the building - even if it felt more like it had been built in 1896 or even 1936.
Summerville declined in popularity throughout the 1920s as Flagler’s railroads opened up more of Florida for the northern vacationers. You could play golf outside in Florida in winter - no need to resort to putt-putt in the lobby. Partridge Inn proprieters must have known hard times were ahead. A 1930s ad emphasizes the exclusivity of the hotel and brags about “white table service” in the dining room. At first I thought of the white table cloths. Then I realized they meant something else entirely. This was an ad aimed at northerners, mind you, so it wasn’t just the South that was racist at that time.
These days of course, that aspect is long gone. Those friendly hotel staff members I referred to were of the race that would not have been bragged about in 1930. And they were not only nice but knowledgeable and helpful. They provided me with a free guide that gave an overview of the hotel’s past and described all the historical pictures lining the halls. And they could always tell me when my Dad had last been sighted in the lobby drinking coffee and reading the newspaper or when he had gone upstairs to have lunch.
My daughter wants to go back and stay at the Partridge Inn for Christmas, mostly because of the name. But I thought it was a great place to spend Halloween, even if we didn’t hear any ghost stories, and the scariest thing we saw was a stuffed bunny doing skateboard tricks in the hallway on the fourth floor.
Until next time...
--K
Colonial Humbug
Christmas in colonial Williamsburg? Bah, humbug!
But wait, you say. That’s Scrooge’s catchphrase. Written by Dickens. So it’s Victorian.
Ah, but so are most of the traditions of “colonial” Williamsburg.
Several people told me they’d always wanted to see the recreated colonial village decorated for Christmas. And I considered myself fortunate that we had the chance to spend a day in December enjoying the sights of the old rebuilt colonial town before moving on to the real purpose of our visit - another day at the indoor waterpark. But while Colonial Williamsburg was quite festive, it was not really colonially festive.
Since we arrived in the evening, we first saw the quaint homes and shops by candlelight. Sort of. The lights look like lanterns, but of course they’re lit with electricity. And there were some surreptitious spotlights, too. So, all in all, the scene throughout the village was much brighter than it would have been in the colonial era, or possibly even up through the days of gaslight.
Okay, complaining about the extra light is pretty picky, I realize. The light did enable us to see the elaborate wreaths that the town is famous for. But I think those wreaths are the sort of thing you’d find on a house in the Victorian times, rather than in the colonial era. Even Lou Powers, a historian for Colonial Williamburg, admits that “[n]o early Virginia sources tell us how, or even if, colonists decorated their homes for the holidays.” Looking at the few extant English prints to see how people decorated in the 18th Century, Powers notes that the main feature is usually a large sprig of mistletoe, with some sprays of holly or bay leaves in vases or laying against windowpanes. No evidence of those big fancy wreaths full of fruit and greenery that are de rigeur on the fronts of buildings in Williamsburg today. But Powers notes that the practice of forming greens into wreaths for midwinter decoration dates back at least to Roman times, so we can’t say for certain that the shopkeepers of colonial era Williamburg didn’t have them.
There are a lot more shops in Williamsburg now than there were in colonial days, because we have the recreated old businesses and the modern ones that have sprung up to capture trade from the tourists who come to see the old ones. Windows--edged with those wreaths--are full of toys and other gifts for Christmas. But in colonial days, there was little gift-giving, and usually it was just cash, little books or sweets given from superiors to their inferiors. That is, masters to apprentices, slaves, and servants or parents to children. So no one needed to look for the perfect gift for the dad who had everything. He was the one doing the giving. And though children might get a small gift at Christmas, the holiday did not focus on kids the way it does now. Period accounts describe the highlights of the season as balls, foxhunts, and other revelries to which children would not be invited.
And one final Christmas tradition I noticed in Colonial Williamsburg was stacks of “old fashioned” Christmas cards. You’ve probably guessed that those are a Victorian tradition as well. However, it was interesting to discover that there were actually pre-printed Christmas cards of a sort in the 18th Century. Schoolboys in London wrote “Christmas pieces” on special paper with a pre-printed holiday border. But the merchants probably couldn’t sell too many of those -- boys haven’t changed that much over the years so you can count on the fact that they wrote as few of those Christmas cards as they could get away with.
The last thing I will say about Christmas in Colonial Williamsburg is, appropriately enough, about the end of it. And the beginning. Since the recreated village relies on the modern commercial tourist trade, it also has to rely on the modern commercial calendar. That means you start selling Christmas before Halloween and have it torn down by Christmas Eve. In the colonial era, however, the “holidays” didn’t start until December 25. The Advent season before that was a time of preparation, not office parties. So the colonial Christmas season started at the time we now end it. And they continued until Epiphany, or Twelfth Night. While I like the wreaths, Christmas trees, Chipmunk Christmas songs and all the other un-colonial parts of the modern holiday, I do wish we could time the celebrations the way they did in colonial days. Celebrating the twelve days of Christmas before Christmas--while still getting ready for Christmas- is a little crazy.
And that’s my excuse for leaving my Christmas decorations (and probably this Christmas article) up until February.
Until next time...
--K
Quoted material comes from “Christmas Customs” by Emma L. Powers, reprinted from The Colonial Williamsburg Interpreter, vol. 16, no. 4, winter 1995-96 and at the Colonial Williamsburg website.