Easton Rounds

When people ask where Dave and I live, I say in a small farming town with over 50% open space. I say we live in an 18^th century house in the woods. I say sometimes bears lumber through our yard and chickadees alight on our fingers to eat seeds. As a rule, I don’t delve into the people - the farmers, first responders, departments, and services - but they are woven into life in Easton as much as the stone walls, streams, and trees. On a recent round of errands throughout town, I reflected on all of it, and the blessing of my sense of belonging here.      

The days have turned cold, the sky artfully brushed with a veil of wispy clouds. With leaves brown and dry on the ground, the ledges and slopes previously cloaked by foliage are open to view. With dark comfortably settling in early, the days fly by. Where did November go? Already it’s time to pull down our perilous folding stairs and haul the bins of Christmas decorations out of the attic. 

The holidays with their bustle of cooking, shopping, events, and gatherings have given me permission to avoid the news as best I can. Election-shock sent me reeling, and circling the wagons around friends and family is my stay-sane-strategy for now. My to-do list is ever-evolving and checking things off is a productive alternative to doomscrolling. So, I head out: first, to the post office to mail my grandson’s birthday gifts.  

On the drive down Morehouse Road past the stubbly brown fields in front of Staples Elementary School, I hum “Come ye thankful people come, raise the song of harvest home. All is safely gathered in ‘ere the winter storms begin.” This season always flips through my memory file of childhood Sundays at church and offers up that soothing song of preparation and provisions for winter. Today, I’ll do just that, stock up and look ahead.  

When I arrive at the post office, Mary greets me from behind the counter and indulges my sadness over our son’s decision to move his family to Zurich. Our grandson Paul turns nine this month; a bizarre twist since he just turned seven, didn’t he? How can I drink in every minute of Paul and Lexi’s little kid years when they are far away, and Time keeps passing, fast and fluid? 

Mary knows the story already but listens kindly while checking the weight of Paul’s presents and assessing the best packaging and price. An acquaintance pushes open the door, and that errand turns into a lovely chat among friends. 

My list compels me to move along, and next door, Greisers’ festive lights, gift ideas, and the thought of a slice of heavenly almond pie lure me inside. 

Shopkeeper Adrienne highlights local artists, and I wander about admiring beautifully crafted wooden bowls, hand-painted ornaments, and silver jewelry.  I linger over beaded fabric stars and hand towels depicting a red fox. Turns out, I’m not the only fan of the almond pie and there’s none left. Just as well.  

Next, on to the police station. Over the years, Easton’s officers have helped open my car when my keys were locked inside, calmed and guided us when our house was robbed, joined members of the fire department in investigating the source of a burning smell, and thrilled our grandkids with a tour of the police station. Next week, I’ll swing by for their Stuff-a-Cruiser event for Toys for Tots. But today, I seek advice about a possible scam. 

Like everyone else, we get more dubious phone calls, emails, and texts than those that are legit, and while this letter looks official, we have our doubts. Tara, the dispatcher, welcomes me with a hug and takes the letter back to a detective. 

While I wait in the foyer for the detective’s assessment - he judges the letter authentic and tells me what to do - I study two photographs of members of the Easton police force, one taken in 2014 and the other, this year. So many of our officers have been here over the span of those ten years, and we have come to know some of them personally. Uncertainty is part of life, but to the degree possible, those individuals and their continuing dedication to Easton make me feel secure.  

Down the road, I stop to drop off treats at EMS and then the Fire Department. It must have been a tense stretch for them with the drought and statewide burn ban. Dave and I have lived in town for close to 35 years, and some members of those departments have been serving for as long as I can remember. Several firefighters went to school with my kids, and I love seeing them at the summer carnival, manning the Bingo tent, giving back, be it for fun or in an emergency.

Dave is making soup, and I’ll stop at Tom Sherwood’s farm to visit Claudia and pick up some crusty bread and fresh mozzarella on my way home, but first, I head to Sport Hill Farm. 

‘Tis the season in Easton, officially designated the Christmas Tree Capital of Connecticut. In the weeks ahead the town’s tree farms will buzz with the sounds of saws and voices calling, “I found the perfect tree!” Even now, cars stream by with trees lashed to their rooves. A CD of traditional Christmas carols serenades me as I drive, and I look forward to special events, holiday markets, sales, and services held by the Senior Center, library, and churches. 

During the spring and fall, I set up a booth at the Sunday markets hosted by Farmer Patti at Sport Hill Farm. I sold a few things, had a great time chatting with friends and strangers, and commissioned some extraordinary pet portraits by visiting artist, Kathy Reddy. In December, the skeletons and ghouls greeting Patti’s October customers have ceded their post to white reindeer and a festive chicken in red and green.   

As the harvest hymn intones, by now, most crops have been gathered in, and Dave needs kale, potatoes, and escarole for his soup. Michelle is helping a customer up front while Patti arranges artful holiday displays. I fill a basket with Dave’s requests and can’t resist picking up two heads of Romanesco, so exotic with their pale green florets clustered in mini spires. Hmm, packs of maple sugar candy would be a nice touch of New England in the Christmas package we send to Zurich, so I add that to my basket. 

Patti mentions that this is the 25^th anniversary of Sport Hill Farm. Whoa. Again, how can that be? Another customer joins us in marveling at time’s fleet passage, and we laugh, maybe a touch grimly, at its effects in our own aging. 

I really should get home, and I still have to stop at Sherwoods for bread, but a parking spot opens at Silverman’s Farm as I draw near, so I pull in. In July, Farmer Irv transformed the fields in front of Staples with thousands of sunflowers, a gift to every Eastonite and a tribute to Ukraine. For the holiday season, Nancy Silverman, managers Julie and Aiden, and their staff transform the farm shop with greens, poinsettias, Santas, and snowmen. On this visit, Irv happens to be out front with Julie, so I get a hug before heading in to browse. I select a felt snowman for granddaughter Eleanor’s stocking and two honey crisp apples for Dave.  

Last stop, Sherwoods, and a quick visit with Claudia. She asks about “the littles” as she calls my grandkids, and I pull out my phone to show her pictures of Eleanor dressed as Belle for Halloween. And yes, I remember to buy mozzarella and the last loaf of rosemary and olive oil ciabatta.  

Errands take longer when chats, hugs, and chance encounters pepper my route, but that’s the gift of this day and of living in this town for so many years. While I worry that Peace on Earth is, for now, unattainable, we are fortunate that in Easton, Good Will – and hugs – abound.  

 

 

Centuries of Service

In top hat and great coat, the tour guide swung his lantern to illuminate the stone façade of the building before him. A cluster of tourists crowded closer, eager to hear a ghostly tale. From my perch in the upper window of our room across the road, I could sense their disappointment in slumped shoulders and shuffling feet as the guide spoke of history, not spirits. 

Newport’s Clarke Street is lined with clapboard eighteenth and nineteenth century homes painted the dark colors of that era. The glow of streetlamps is just bright enough to light the way, and the past seems to coexist with the present. I must have made a movement that caught the attention of one of the tourists, and my face, suddenly glimpsed through the misted glass pane, seemed the eerie vision they’d hoped to see. There was a ripple of startled exclamations as heads turned and tipped, then a hesitant flutter of hands returning my wave. 

Because of that gathering in the street below, I keyed into the 1838 Artillery Company Museum, and the next morning, Dave and I went to visit. 

The stone building houses an extraordinary collection of military memorabilia and is home to the Artillery Company of Newport, chartered in 1741 by King George II of Britain. The company is now a ceremonial unit of the Rhode Island militia and the Council of Historic Military Commands.

We were greeted by men in navy blue polo shirts bearing the Artillery Company’s insignia. I could imagine each of the three volunteers, whether bearded, craggy, or clean shaven, in the  uniform of the Union or Confederate armies. In fact, this company fought in the French and Indian Wars, the Revolution, the War of 1812, and the Spanish-American War. Members of the Company have served in the country’s  20^th and 21^st century engagements as well. Memorabilia from each are preserved in the museum.

A faded American flag with a unique circular configuration of  37 stars spans most of a side wall, its tattered condition attesting to years of service to the company. Uniforms, still gold-buttoned and dignified in bearing, surround the room. Once worn by such illustrious individuals as Prince Philip of England, U.S. Secretary of State Colin Powell, Egyptian president Anwar Sedat, and Colonel Katherine Towle, first Director of  Women – U.S. Marine Corps, they stand guard now over four bronze cannons cast by Paul Revere in 1798. In glass cases, spent shells and bullets from the World Wars and the Battle of Gettysburg rest beside letters, medals, weapons, caps, and vintage photographs.

Near hidden in the shadows in the back of the museum is an ambulance jeep, the poles and canvas stretchers that once carried the wounded mounted on each side. I thought of Dave’s Uncle Jack, who was assigned to a medical unit in Africa as an ambulance driver during World War II. His brothers, Dave’s dad and Uncle Phil, served in the Air Force and Navy in Italy and the Pacific, respectively. All three boys were first generation Americans born of Italian immigrants.

Jack was a gentle guy, not cut out to carry a weapon that might harm someone else, but he saw, up close, the brutal aftermath of battle. 

Whatever wounds he tended, whatever fears he tried to soothe, whatever carnage he witnessed, came home with him after the war, pain as real to him as the suffering of the men he’d transported on stretchers. While he was always funny and dear to Dave and Steve, his little nephews, Jack was never the same.

Now, the tactics employed by the Fascists in the 30’s are back in play: dehumanization of vulnerable populations, exaltation of a cult leader, violent rhetoric, and disinformation. Those who support them or remain silent dishonor the uncles, aunts, parents, and grandparents who endured grievous harm in striving to defeat such forces. 

We Americans have a critical choice before us. Now, all together, Vote as if Democracy depends on it… because it does.

 

Project 2025: What Would Change? What Would We Lose?

Project 2025, or The Presidential Transition Project, is no secret. A quick Google search opens Project 2025.com, and those interested can read on. Given the document’s daunting 900+ pages and extravagant language however, few people will. So, beyond the introduction that follows, I recommend the 17-page Foreword by Kevin Roberts, president of The Heritage Foundation, and a selective wade into the areas of greatest concern to you.

Because you should be concerned. We all should. If the Supreme Court ruling on presidential immunity didn’t shake you, familiarity with the changes Project 2025 proposes in our government policies, programs, and personnel will. 

Authored by contributors from over 100 conservative organizations and facilitated by The Heritage Foundation, Project 2025 is a game plan for the next conservative president and his administration. As Paul Dans, Project 2025 director states in his opening note, “Our goal is to assemble an army of aligned, vetted, trained, and prepared conservatives to go to work on Day One to deconstruct the Administrative State.” (pg. xiv)

When Donald Trump won the 2016 election, he was surprised, unprepared, and ill-equipped. The chaos caused by his style and lack of experience in governing was, to some degree, offset by civil servants with expertise in their fields as well as the checks and balances established in the Constitution… inconveniences that Project 2025 seeks to address. 

One might hope Congress would be a check on the expanded presidential power outlined in Project 2025, but beyond the divisiveness and inertia apparent in that body, impoundment is a means to circumvent policies by withholding money already appropriated by Congress. We saw impoundment in action when the former president sought to withhold money from Ukraine unless President Zelenskyy launched an investigation into Hunter Biden. Also, the document states that some significant offices and acts, such as those within the FBI, can be eliminated “without any action from Congress.” (pg. 550)

In the work of deconstruction, the crosshairs of Project 2025 are focused on ending the independence of the Department of Justice and the FBI. The document aims to “place the FBI under a politically accountable leader” (pg. 550) and “prepare a plan to end immediately any policies, investigations, or cases that run contrary to law or Administration policies.” (pg. 557, italics, mine.) In this, one can foresee a rash of pardons and dropped court cases related to January 6th.

In his Foreword, Kevin Roberts states, “There are many executive tools a courageous conservative President can use to handcuff the bureaucracy.” (pg. 9) The word “handcuff” is certainly troubling, but that aside, another tool, Schedule F, would reclassify nonpartisan, merit-based, career civil servants – experts in fields such as science, health, etc. -  to facilitate firing those viewed as inadequately dedicated to the president’s agenda. Reportedly tens of thousands of jobs could be affected, making way for that army of loyalists who lack independence and expertise in arenas important to the American people.  

It's fair to say that those arenas are, to some degree, common to most of us. “Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” covers them well, assuming our health and well-being and that of our loved ones fall under those headings. But as much as Project 2025 pays lip service to reducing the size and scope of government, its recommendations send that conservative army nosing into bedrooms, bathrooms, and mailboxes to gnaw away at established freedoms in ways not seen in half a century, the privacy protections of the Fourth Amendment be damned. 

Project 2025 proposes new goals for the Department of Health and Human Services (HHS): “Protecting life, conscience, and bodily integrity.” Existing social services such as Head Start, school meal programs, and Temporary Assistance for Needy Families (TANF) would be abolished or reduced. In reinforcing the “traditional family” – married mother, father, and their  children – programs supporting single mothers and funding for out-of-home daycare would be curtailed, all the better to restrict women’s job opportunities beyond motherhood. 

Across all departments, policies related to the LGBTQ+ community, gender-affirming care, and Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) would be assessed and for the most part, repealed. In the belief that “abortion pills pose the single greatest threat to unborn children in the post-Roe world,” Project 2025 states that the FDA should reverse approval of Mifepristone. Invoking the Comstock Act of 1873, the mailing and interstate sale of such medications would be prohibited. As Roberts affirms in the Foreword, “the Dobbs decision is just the beginning.” (pg. 6)  

The danger to women’s health in the wake of overturning Roe vs. Wade has been apparent in publicized cases of doctors immobilized by uncertainty as to abortion laws in their state. Whereas the Emergency Medical Treatment and Active Labor Act (EMTALA) was enacted to protect medical professionals deeming an abortion necessary for the health of the mother, Project 2025 states, “the EMTALA requires no abortion, preempts no pro-life laws, and explicitly requires stabilization of the unborn child.” (pg. 473) 

Funding for Planned Parenthood would be eliminated, and coverage under the Affordable Care Act (ACA) for “women’s preventative services” – i.e. contraception – would be rescinded. Despite a litany of new rules directed to women, their bodies, and reproductive rights, and in denial of the mutual responsibility for pregnancy, men are mentioned only to say that men’s “preventive services” should not be considered under a mandate for women.  

If the Christian Nationalism theme has not yet been apparent, Project 2025 proposes to change the name of the Office for Civil Rights to “Conscience Enforcement.” Feel free to think about that while your conscience is your own.

Beyond that, the Project seeks to rescind countless Biden initiatives and dismantle, reform, and reduce many departments and regulations established and enacted to protect and preserve the people, the planet, and the creatures. The authors ignore or disdain the reality of the importance of the health and connectivity of this shared Earth and global community in sustaining us all in terms of climate, trade, agreements, and alliances. 

Science that conflicts with the presidential agenda of “Energy Dominance” is seen as a threat. Offices, acts, and regulations that contain references to climate change, clean energy, renewable resources, and sustainability are viewed as impediments to the project’s reorientation of America’s energy programs toward nuclear research and development and increased drilling and mining for fossil fuels, natural gas, and coal. 

Viewed as “one of the main drivers of the climate change alarm industry” as it monitors and alerts the public to weather, storms, and rising temperatures, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) would be dismantled and many of its functions eliminated. “Scientific agencies like NOAA are vulnerable to obstructionism of an Administration’s aims if political appointees are not wholly in sync with Administration policy. Particular attention must be paid to appointments in this area.” (pg. 677)  

Through revocation of funding and termination of personnel, the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) would be reduced in size and scope. Provisions of the Clean Water Act and Safe Drinking Water Act would be reviewed as possible infringements on private property rights. Clean air standards related to interstate pollution, downwind impacts, greenhouse gases, etc. would be “reconsidered or repealed.” 

Redirection of Department of Commerce services would reduce protections for critical habitat and threatened species under the Endangered Species Act (ESA) and Marine Mammal Protection Act (MMPA). In this time of rising seas and temperatures, extinctions, extreme storms, subsequent human migrations, and international turmoil, it is at our peril that experienced scientists and experts would be relegated to the visions of a president and his or her loyalists. 

Project 2025 recommends abolishing the federal Department of Education and turning that responsibility and funding over to the states, thereby eliminating national standards for academics, civil rights, and psycho-social support. Programs and references to DEI, gender identity, and Critical Race Theory would be purged. Rather than an emphasis on meeting the needs of students, the Project’s contention, voiced by Kevin Roberts, is that “schools serve parents.” (pg. 5) 

National security under Project 2025 will undergo a “most significant shift” in discerning “who are friends and who are not.” (pg. 179) The State Department must “right the ship,” and presumably in a quaint reference to President Lincoln’s hat, “Bureaucratic stovepipes of the past should be less important than commitment to, and achievement of, the President’s foreign policy agenda.” (pg. 176) The text is clear that those stovepipes are existing international treaties, agreements, and organizations. Since it is not George Washington running for president, one must question what that foreign policy might look like under a president who admires authoritarian leaders and stores classified documents in his bathroom.

In the “execution of U.S. policy that is focused on [the president’s] vision for the nation and the world” (pg. 196), the authors propose dismantling the Department of Homeland Security while investing in a Department of Defense (DOD) devoted to “warfighting.” Additionally, military personnel would be deployed to prevent illegal crossing at U.S. points of entry as well as assist  in completion of the wall at the southern border. The Department of Energy would veer from alternative energy initiatives toward nuclear research programs and expansion of the nuclear arsenal. International nonproliferation agreements with the United Nations and Iran would be terminated.  

DACA, or Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals, is viewed as “unlawful,” thereby opening the “Dreamers” previously protected to inclusion in the expanded and expedited arrests, detention, and deportation of illegal immigrants outlined in Project 2025. State and local enforcement officials, as well as the military and secret service personnel not involved in a protective capacity, would also be enlisted in these actions. 

While Candidate Trump has claimed lack of knowledge or support for the Project, 25 of the 36 principal authors are involved in the former president’s current campaign or served in his administration. His speeches and posts have reflected many of the stances and policies outlined in the document. Presidential adherence to the Constitution and the rule of law is a drumbeat throughout the pages of Project 2025, but that rings hollow in the face of January 6, election denial, and 34 counts of falsifying business records.  

Federal safety nets for American citizens, from children to seniors, would be compromised as food programs, Medicare, Medicaid, Head Start, and the like are reduced or eliminated. In fact, the long-standing role, in a broad sense, of the United States federal government as a safety net for humans, planetary ecosystems, and world peace would be abdicated in consolidating power to serve the president’s agenda. Economics – bolstered by resource exploitation, military sales, and elimination and reduction of “entitlements” – would take precedence. States’ rights, touted as a cornerstone of Project 2025, would remain in force only in areas that suit that agenda. State policies governing environmental regulations, immigrant protections, and women’s health and reproductive rights would be overridden.  

Throughout their writings, the Founders considered the needs of future generations in an America beyond 1787. They enshrined the guard rails of checks and balances to protect against the rise of a dictator and included amendments to allow for a changing world. Partisanship has weakened those safeguards. Christian Nationalism and near-unbounded presidential power dominate Project 2025, and Americans are left with a new take on our unalienable rights as: Life (certainly for fetuses), “ordered Liberty” (whatever that means), and the Pursuit of “Blessedness” (or doing “what we ought.” Pg. 13). 

If that’s not your vision, VOTE… for Democracy.

 

Revolution... and the Man: Mount Vernon Part III

Surprisingly, when Washington returned to Mount Vernon for good after long years away as Commander of the Continental army and then as President, his finances were unstable. His policy had long been to keep enslaved families together, and as his “unavoidable regret” over slavery grew, he had vowed to no longer buy or sell humans, so there was no gain to be made there. Steve Bashore, master distiller, told our group that, knowing the perils of liquor, Washington was disinclined to encourage that industry when his Scottish farm manager, James Anderson, urged him to open a distillery. The estate was not producing enough to offset expenses, however, and when Washington discovered he could turn a much-needed profit from whiskey sales, he cautiously delved into that enterprise. 

                                                                      

After a delicious lunch of salads from the Mount Vernon Inn, it was time to visit the re-enactor encampment and browse the vendor’s wares. While my friends and I wished to support the distillery, we had not indulged in any noon whiskey tippling, planning instead to purchase some later at the museum gift shop. In the meantime, distant drumbeats bid us hasten to the field of battle. 

The Crown Forces were lined up at attention, impressive in striking red uniforms, targets as bold as a cardinal against snow. On command, they broke from the line in groups of six to wheel about, maintaining formation, to march to the far end of the field. Hup! Hup! Hup!

While Colonial Massachusetts had militias, for the most part, the soldiers of the Continental army were untrained, undisciplined, and unused to following orders, a source of tremendous frustration for General Washington. The re-enactors in the buff, blue, and cream uniforms of the Continental soldiers seemed similarly at ease compared to the strutting scarlet enemy. 

The sky was heavy with the threat of rain, and an announcer made clear that wet gun powder was no friend to war. As onlookers in capes tugged them closer and those in jeans raised umbrellas, the Continental soldiers loaded canons as the Red Coats closed in. Amid flashes of musket fire and billowing smoke that all but engulfed them, those engaged on the field appeared as ghostly as the long dead men they represented. 

After the re-enactment, it was fitting that we visit the Washingtons’ tomb. Every day at Mount Vernon, a prayer is read, and a wreath laid on the President’s sarcophagus. During our visit, we were given that honor. Washington himself chose the site and the design for the tomb where he and Martha rest. Unlike others who extol themselves with grand monuments and epitaphs, his bears no dates, no weighty words, and no mention of achievements… simply his last name.         

                                                                    

When the MVLA began their fundraising campaign, the country was still young, and the divisions that led to the Civil War were simmering. In America, no one was thinking to preserve historic sites… until Louisa Cunningham spotted the deteriorating mansion on the rise above the Potomac. In saving and restoring Mount Vernon, the preservation movement itself was launched. 

It was late afternoon when Dr. Susan Schoelwer, Executive Director of Historic Preservation and Collections, met us at the mansion. As we walked around to the piazza facing the river, I spotted a tourist from a bygone century, a member of the Royal Highland Regiment perhaps, craning to peek in the dining room window. How many different frocks, bonnets, boots, and overcoats have clothed those who explored these grounds and peeked in the windows in the years since The Ladies preserved the property? 

On the far side of the house, a flock of geese wandered and browsed the lawn as, with a sweep of her arm, Dr. Schoelwer gestured to the opposite bank. It was lush and green with no sign of human intrusion, “Just as the Washingtons would have seen it,” she said. “The Ladies felt this was an important feature, and through outright purchase and conservation easements they have ensured this view would remain.” 

We began our tour of the mansion in the front hall. I gazed up the staircase and into the adjacent rooms and mused about the many homes, taverns, and inns that boast, true or not, “George Washington slept here.” My nose prickled, as it did so many times during our visit, in thinking this was the man’s home.

While most of the original furnishings were dispersed to family members or sold after Martha Washington’s passing, one item, weighty in fact and symbolism, has remained in the house since the President placed it in a display case in the foyer. Presented to Washington by the Marquis de Lafayette after the demolition of the notorious prison during the French Revolution, it is the key to the Bastille: “a tribute I owe as A Son to My Adoptive father, as an aid de Camp to My General, as a Missionary of liberty to its patriarch.”  

As Dr. Schoelwer led us from room to room, commenting on the research commissioned by The Ladies that led to the upholstery patterns and surprisingly vibrant paint colors, I tried to conjure Washington as the human who lived here. In paintings and statues, he is frozen, regal as the king he refused to be. Since he is always portrayed tight-lipped, I wondered, was he much of a talker? The curse of terrible teeth caused him constant pain, and his spring-loaded dentures must have made speech a challenge. No doubt people expected profundity whenever he opened his mouth, a pressure he probably wished to avoid.  

Correspondence from early in his presidency indicates that he would have preferred to avoid being president as well. As he approached the day of his inauguration, he wrote to Henry Knox that he felt like “a culprit going to his place of execution.” To Edward Rutledge, he worried that he would not meet the expectations of his fellow Americans. The man was nervous, like any of us would be.

Toward the end of the tour, we entered the bedroom in which Washington died. Against the wall under four portraits of the Washington grandchildren, was a small desk. “Although Martha burned all their correspondence, two letters from the President to his wife were discovered behind the drawer in this desk,” said Dr. Schoelwer. “One told her of his call to head the Continental Army; the other of his election to the Presidency. Given their significance to the two of them as a couple, I think she held on to them on purpose.” 

Dr. Schoelwer then told us about a postscript to one of the letters in which Washington mentioned that he had purchased some fabric Martha had requested, and he hoped it was what she wanted. 

“He was shopping for her!” exclaimed Dr. Schoelwer.  

And, like any husband, hoped he had done the right thing.   

                                                          

While Washington was widely esteemed and felt to be the one man who could, perhaps, unite the new states, this remained a challenge. Within his own cabinet, Thomas Jefferson was wary of centralized government and the President’s popularity and sought to undermine him, and the heated debate over slavery already threatened to divide the fledgling nation. Washington’s Presence was his power, and he knew the people needed to be convinced. To familiarize himself with the customs of the formerly separate colonies and to bring that personal power into play, Washington undertook several lengthy tours after his inauguration. 

Over the years, the towns he visited have perpetuated legendary tales of his stay. How many are accurate? Historian and writer Nathaniel Philbrick was curious, and in his book Travels with George, he recounts his findings as he, his wife Melissa, and their dog, Dora, followed the routes Washington took from 1789 to 1791. 

One anecdote seemed, to Philbrick, almost ubiquitous. Whether from the mouth of a disappointed youngster expecting to see a god-like vision or from Washington himself when encountering the high expectations of his countryfolk, the line “he’s just a man” surfaced countless times. Because of the repetition, Philbrick doubted the tale…but it makes sense to me. As my friends and I strolled the grounds of his home, gazed at his books and belongings, and stood by the bed where he died, I was inclined to drop the “just” but marveled at what he accomplished, human as he was. In walking away from the presidency, he left to succeeding generations and leaders his legacy and challenge: to have the integrity, patriotism, and belief in the country’s ideals to do the same. 

 For Further Information:

Johnson, G.W., Epilogue by Ellen McCallister Clark. (1991). Mount Vernon, the Story of a Shrine, Mount Vernon Ladies Association  

Philbrick, N. (2021). Travels with George. Viking

Thompson, M. (2019) “The Only Unavoidable Subject of Regret,” George Washington, Slavery, and the Enslaved Community at Mount Vernon, University of Virginia Press

 

 

 

 

 

 

Evolution of a Leader... and a Republic: Mount Vernon Part II

Gracious mansions, handsome youths in uniform, flirtatious belles in lavish dresses, and devoted servants: Gone with the Wind’s portrayal of 19^th century plantation life seemed romantic when I was 16. A spring vacation trip to South Carolina with Andy to visit my grandmother added to the mystique. The heady scent of gardenias, trees shrouded with gray-green Spanish moss, and tales of destruction during Sherman’s March to the Sea cemented my teenage southern sympathies. 

How had I missed the stain of slavery permeating those impressions? How could a country touting equal rights and liberty condone it for over 200 years? How could George Washington, a man idolized for his virtue, have been a slave owner? 

In my 1960’s American History classes in Pennsylvania, we were taught that the roots of the Civil War were largely economic, a collision between the industrialized North and the agrarian South. Beyond that, we were told, pointedly, that slavery was not the cause: the war was fought over states’ rights. True enough, but, as Confederacy vice president Alexander Stephens proclaimed in his Cornerstone Speech, the right so fiercely pursued by Confederate states was the right to own humans. 

Why did my teachers hedge?

Our decade is not the first to dodge “discomfort” while teaching the young. Was it deemed too discordant for a country founded on equality and liberty to delve into the brutality and hypocrisy of slavery when televisions were broadcasting into American living rooms scenes of violence against peaceful civil rights protesters? Were those images already tarnishing, to a distressing degree, the heroic post-WW II image of the United States? Could be. From the country’s founding, denial has continued to prove dangerous in masking past shame, allowing the resulting wounds to linger, and impeding the attainment of democratic ideals.  

President Washington was born into a world where denial thrived as fortunes flourished due to enslaved labor. While field hands were kept cowed and at a distance, the intelligence, talents and humanity of house servants, skilled seamstresses, weavers, carpenters, cooks, and farmers would have been evident. One must imagine, for those of heart and integrity such as Washington, a constant struggle of conscience. 

Washington’s thinking, and, equally important, his willingness to voice it, evolved during the Revolutionary War. In the courage of Black soldiers, in his bond with his valet William Lee, and in meeting accomplished Black – female! - poet Phylis Wheatley, it would have been ever harder to deny what was apparent. In 1786, he said, “There is not a man living who wishes more sincerely than I do, to see a plan adopted for this abolition of [slavery] but there is only one proper and effectual mode by which it can be accomplished, & that is by legislative authority.” 

In his will, finally, he made peace with his conscience and freed his slaves. 

                                                *

On Saturday, as predicted, my friends and I woke to a light drizzle. In raincoats and sensible shoes, we left the Quarters, enjoying the scent of wood smoke wafting from the re-enactors’ encampment. George Washington as farmer and gardener was our focus, and Dean Norton, Director of Horticulture, was our guide. 

With eyes bright and every gesture conveying his knowledge and love of the glorious gardens and plants surrounding us, Dean was a font of anecdotes and information acquired during his fifty years at Mount Vernon. He led the way beneath towering trees planted by the first president and, as we strolled the brick path bordering thriving lettuces and prickly artichokes in the vegetable garden, pointed to the spot where he, Dean, had proposed to his wife. 

George Washington loved his home and grounds and was meticulous about documenting everything, including the timing and success of different plantings. He was fascinated by innovation and science, and when wrenched from home and family by duty to this new country, he wrote constantly to his farm managers with questions, instructions, and adaptions. Every change in approach brought new burdens for the enslaved, some of whom, one must note, also knew the agony of being wrenched from home and family. But Washington drove himself hard in all he undertook and demanded from his laborers the same devotion to work. 

One of our pilgrimages was to the memorials dedicated to Mount Vernon’s enslaved individuals. Some are buried in unmarked graves on a wooded rise not so far from George and Martha Washington’s tomb.  

                                                   *

For over three centuries, presidents of these United States have commissioned or been honored with presidential libraries. The country’s first president - he who accepted the challenge of a radically new democracy and set the precedent honored until 2020 of a peaceful transfer of power - had none. The Mount Vernon Ladies Association (MVLA) wished to remedy that, and in 2010 launched a fundraising campaign to construct a library. They raised $106.4 million, all from private donors, and broke ground in 2011. The library opened in September of 2013, and in 2024, with Andy and archivist Rebecca Baird, we were invited into the inner sanctum.

Shelves of 18^th and 19^th century books lined the room, some formerly owned by the Washington family, others, actually the President’s. In one, held open by a looping “book snake,” Washington had written his name in the upper right corner of the title page, just as I have done in my books any number of times. Another volume, a replica of an original owned and acquired by the MVLA through heated bidding at a Sotheby’s auction, was Washington’s personal copy of the Constitution. Did I imagine the glow that seemed to surround it?     

And how to explain the aura in the conference room. Was it the lighting? The warmth of burnished sycamore paneling from a single three-hundred-year-old tree? Or was it the busts of the Founders, elevated on high, Washington presiding as Jefferson and Hamilton eyed each other warily from their plinths across the room? 

Encircled by images of those whose vision shaped our government, I sensed something beyond solemnity. Given today’s divisiveness and threat to Democracy, I was reminded of Benjamin Franklin’s charge in response to Elizabeth Willing Powel’s question in 1787: “Well Doctor, what have we got? A republic or a monarchy?”   

“A Republic, if you can keep it,” he replied.

Can we? Are we, the voters, going to honor that charge and prevent a Project 2025 styled dictatorship? 

If the Men Won't, "The Ladies" Will: Mount Vernon, Part I

What were her thoughts the day Louisa Cunningham spotted the derelict mansion on the grassy rise above the Potomac? She’d been visiting her daughter in Philadelphia and was probably preoccupied, worried about Ann Pamela’s declining health. Ever since a riding accident caused a spinal injury when she was 17, Miss Cunningham’s symptoms had worsened, and in 1853, in her mid-thirties, she was an invalid, tormented by chronic pain. While discomfort, mercury-laden purgatives, and laudanum would have agitated humans of any gender, her physician, a specialist in women’s “nervous diseases” recommended she rest and avoid mental stimulation. For an intelligent, once active young woman, those instructions must have been a stultifying sentence. 

As was tradition, at a certain point, when the steamboat bearing Ann Pamela’s mother chugged by on the river - the wind luffing her long skirts, gulls crying, water slapping the hull – the captain clanged the ship’s bell in tribute. One can imagine Mrs. Cunningham’s smile of anticipation fading as she turned her head and gazed at the peeling paint and rotted fences of George and Martha Washington’s former home, Mount Vernon. 

But her dismay led to inspiration: a way to engage her daughter while serving the country. Miss Cunningham had long been fascinated by George Washington, and despite the doctor’s orders, it was precisely mental stimulation, a mission, that might intrigue and uplift her.   

Unlike his famous great granduncle, John Augustine Washington III, the current owner of Mount Vernon, had been unable to manage the estate. Even though enslaved people continued to provide the labor, this particular Washington was unequal to the challenges posed by crop failure, erosion, and lawn-trampling, souvenir-stealing tourists. He wanted to sell but recognized the property’s symbolic importance to America’s foundation and wished to preserve it. Surely the Commonwealth of Virginia or federal government would be willing to invest the $200,000 Mr. Washington had decided to ask?

No. Both declined.   

The pain-plagued Miss Cunningham, however, embraced the cause, saying, “If the men of America are allowing the home of its most respected hero to go to ruin, then why can’t the women of America band together to save it.” She solicited women of means, contacts, and determination and formed the Mount Vernon Ladies Association (MVLA) to raise the money required for the purchase.

When Miss Cunningham and her committee launched their initiative, women could not vote, and married women could neither buy nor own property. Female intellect, desires, and efforts were generally dismissed or patronized. Despite the legal limitations on all but white, land-owning men, The Ladies persevered… and succeeded. The MVLA raised the money and bought the property. They have preserved, maintained, and owned it ever since. 

                                                                        

I’d never been to Washington’s home nor heard of the MVLA, and when my high school roommate, Andy, mentioned that she was on the board of Mount Vernon, I asked if I could hitch a ride during one of her trips down. Graciously, she agreed and extended an invitation to several other former classmates. Six of us were able to go, and we settled on dates in early May that coincided with a Revolutionary War Weekend at the estate.

Andy and I drove south together, and as we neared our destination, we swung past the Mount Vernon Inn, the walkway to the visitors’ center, and a series of parking lots. I saw no glimpse of the mansion itself as we pulled up to a locked security gate. Andy spoke into an intercom and was greeted by a disembodied male voice. The gate swung wide to admit us, and I surmised that this was not the usual entrance for most visitors. 

While planning the excursion, Andy had said we’d be staying on the property. 

“On the property?! At Mount Vernon?!” I could barely contain my glee.

“Yes, in the Quarters. It’s nice. Plenty of room.” 

In the days ahead, there would be much to learn about the enslaved who’d worked for our first president, but despite the name, our accommodations had not once been theirs. If only it had, for the Quarters were lovely, with comfy bedrooms, a living room, and a well-stocked kitchen. This was the residence of the regent and vice regents, “The Ladies” of the MVLA, when they came to meet and work. At that time, I didn’t know their story nor the critical role they continue to play… much less that Andy was the vice regent for Massachusetts.  

The afternoon was warm and sunny, but the forecast for the rest of the weekend was grim, so once everyone in our group had arrived, we headed out for a stroll around the mansion grounds and gardens. 

It has been over fifty years since the six of us were at school together. A host of movements – anti-war, feminism, civil rights, environmental activism – colored those times, and as girls, we were buoyed by the conviction that our generation would get it all right. For a while, it seemed we were making headway, and then… Well, it has not gone as we believed it would. So much has changed, yet, as I looked into the dear faces around me, I still saw the girls they had been. And on that day, reflected in each, was the same euphoria and near disbelief I was feeling, that we were together … at Mount Vernon.   

We strode briskly along in our vests, sweaters, and slacks: weather-appropriate, twenty-first century garb; not the norm, it turned out, during a “Rev War Weekend.” Outnumbered we were by those in capes, breeches, tri-corn hats, and sweeping skirts as hundreds of re-enactors bustled about pitching tents and arranging displays of antiques and colonial reproductions. We were excited about the tours Andy had lined up for the following day… as well as a chance to visit those vendors.