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.  

Savannah: History's Revelations and Reversals

When I was a teenager, history classes touted states’ rights more than slavery as the cause of the Civil War, and the romance of “Gone with the Wind” further colored my perception of Dixie’s fall. When I visited my grandmother in the South, I was enraged by the destruction wreaked by General Sherman and enchanted by plantations and Spanish moss, eerie and elegant as lacy shrouds, trailing from massive live oaks. 

 

In April, when Dave and I arrived in Savannah after the two-hour drive from Charleston, again I was smitten. The sun and warmth had returned, and a profusion of pink azaleas bloomed in squares and parks. Stately homes with ornamental wrought iron railings were as vibrant and proud as their nineteenth century owners, and to Dave’s chagrin, I had a lengthy list of those homes I wished to tour. 

 

And tour we did, hopping on and off Old Town Savannah trolleys, intrigued as Arthur-of-the booming-voice pointed out the majestic Mercer Williams House and told of the murder there of Danny Hansford. We cruised by, and toured, the Green-Meldrim House, spared damage during the war because General Sherman used it as his headquarters. And later, we wandered the grounds of Bonaventure Cemetery, mysteriously lovely with its graceful headstones and mourning statues, serene and sheltered by ancient trees and draperies of moss. 

 

We ate a lot too. An extraordinary meal of pecan-crusted grouper in the gracious old world mansion of Elizabeth on 37^th. Grilled salmon at The Fitzroy. Creamy shrimp and grits and fried grouper fingers for lunch by the river. All so delicious, but it was the fried food, I think, that did Dave in.    

                        *              *            *

 

A voluminous bouquet of silver helium balloons preceded the gaggle of chattering girls. An inflatable “2” and “1” conveyed the reason for the celebration: a 21^st birthday and the right to legal alcoholic beverages. The girls took selfies, giggled, and ordered drinks. They were young and happy, fresh to the threshold of young adulthood. They were also black, and as I said, female. After the tours we’d been taking, I couldn’t help thinking that less than 200 years ago, they would have been slaves. They would not have been allowed in a restaurant as patrons, nor, for that matter, would I. For, most of that evening, I was alone, and an unescorted woman in such an establishment would have been scandalous. 

 

I’d found the Boar’s Head Grill and Tavern online and made our dinner reservation weeks in advance. As I refreshed my make-up before leaving our room at the inn, however, Dave had started to feel queasy. A nicer wife would have insisted we skip dinner, but I loved the website’s images of worn brick walls, wooden beams, and nautical décor: I wanted to go. “Maybe we’ll just have appetizers and a drink?” I offered.

 

My husband is a good sport and a master of mind over matter; usually he can will away physical discomforts. But not that night. 

 

When we arrived at the Boar’s Head, it was as wonderful as its pictures, but Dave felt even worse. He thought a seltzer would ease his stomach, but the scent of food, good as it was, drove him out the door. “I need to get some air,” he said. “I’ll feel better after a walk.” 

 

I was alone when our server, Sharon, came to greet me. I explained the situation, ordered Dave’s seltzer, and told Sharon I wasn’t sure when he’d be back. She assured me I was welcome regardless and suggested a light, ginger-based cocktail. Shortly, she returned with my drink – which really was tasty – and told me she’d stepped outside hoping to give Dave his seltzer, but he wasn’t in sight.

 

That was only the first of her kindnesses, for she stopped by the table often to see if I liked my drink, bring me a basket of warm bread, and to chat between stops at her other tables. We talked about her upcoming move, tales of hauntings, and the history of the Boar’s Head, originally an 1800’s cotton warehouse on the river front… just down the way from the dock where the ships of the Trans Atlantic slave trade unloaded their human cargo. 

 

Earlier that day, Dave and I had been transported to the 1800’s through a “Slaves in the City” tour along with my friend Edie, her husband Dave, and their son, Carson. We met with ten others at the African American monument, not far from the Boar’s Head. 

 

Wearing flowing garments and a green turban, our guide, Sister Patt Gunn, greeted us, her face alight with welcome.  Formerly a lawyer for the ACLU, she was a force for the power of truth, stories, and human dignity. As we followed her over the cobblestone streets, she planted her vibrantly colored rain stick for emphasis and rhythm and spoke of the need to acknowledge the role of slavery in the past to further healing and reconciliation in the present. 

 

It was her 64^th birthday, and she was in a celebratory mood, for the years she’d lived as well as for the culmination of a successful campaign to mark 22 locations significant to the city’s history of slavery. “There are statues of white men all over Savannah,” she said. “Over half the population was enslaved back then, and over half the population now is black. Like John Lewis used to say, I got into some good trouble… and we’re gonna get those markers.”

 

Leaving behind the cheerful bustle of souvenir and candy shops, Sister Patt led us up a sloping brick-paved road to the Cluskey Embankment Stores: cavernous, crumbling vaults dating to the 1840’s.  She invited us to enter one of the dank enclosures where moss and feathery green ferns grew bright from chinks in walls streaked with seeping water. 

 

“Take a good look at the bricks,” she directed us. “What do you see?”

 

After learning of the fingerprints on the bricks in Charleston, that’s what I expected as I leaned in close. But[l1]  some of these bricks had been deliberately chipped and scratched. “Ashanti and Adinkra tribal symbols,” said Sister Patt. “When the slave ships arrived, there were sometimes days to wait before the auctions. What to do with the traumatized Africans who’d survived the journey? They kept them here.  Sick and terrified though they were, they left these signs. I’ve had folks come on my tours, stand within these walls, and wail, “Those are the symbols of my tribe!”

Outside the vaults, she indicated an informational placard and told us to read it. “I can barely stand to look at it myself,” she said, for it stated there was no documentary evidence to support the use of the vaults as holding pens. “And yet we’re finding and submitting new evidence all the time.” And of course, there were those marks, defiant symbols of identity and dignity carved in the bricks on the walls. 

 

From homeland to ship, to holding pen, to auction; from tribal member to slave; from person to property.  One’s past – name, position, relationships – stolen as surely as one’s body, as a new life of bondage to privileged whites obliterated what came before. 

 

In the 1830’s, George Welshman Owens –politician, planter, lawyer, mayor - enslaved over 400 people who labored in his household and his multiple plantations. When Dave and I began the tour of the Owens-Thomas House and grounds, we entered a room beneath the former slave quarters that was dedicated to those 400. “Minda,” “Gumbler,” “Doll,” “Pryan,” “Lucy,” “Caddy,” “London, “Bob”: the names spanned one wall from floor to ceiling. The bedrooms, laundry, and kitchens where they toiled and slept, exposed to heat and cold, were a stark contrast to the elegant rooms of the Owens family. How could one live in lavish comfort yet consign those who served you to inadequate lodging and malnutrition? 

While I’ve always felt for the women of the past, those suppressed by enslavement or societal decree, when I started this piece, I was comfortably grateful for my place in 2022, solid in my rights and, along with the birthday girls, welcome at the Boar’s Head. In recent weeks, that sense of solidity has been shaken. The Taliban has burqa-bagged the women of Afghanistan, who, in the fifties, were as free as my mother to wear a knee-length skirt. And Justice Alito’s leaked draft decision overturning Roe v. Wade threatens privacy rights far beyond abortion.

 

Ultimately, Dave returned to our table at the Boar’s Head, restored by a walk and sips of his seltzer. But what of us, the women of this modern world? Will those conservatives enraged that their freedom of choice was assaulted by mask mandates triumph in determining our rights, and in so doing, the trajectory of our lives?    

 

 

 

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 [l1] 

City With a Past

Once the four of us had clambered into his Uber and buckled in, the driver held up a palm-sized Alexa device and said, “Pick a song!” 

 

Unprepared for this unexpected invitation, the four of us - Dave, Edie, her husband Dave, and me – waffled a bit before Edie called out, “Alexa! Play ‘Build Me Up Buttercup’!” As the music filled the car, the driver distributed strawberry candy, switched on the strobe lights of a mini disco ball, and said, “Welcome to Abdullah’s party car!”

 

What? So fun!  The music was loud, and we sang along and rocked out as “Addicted to Love” followed “Buttercup” during the drive from dinner back to The Vendue, our hotel in Charleston. Abdullah got a great tip, and we experienced yet another example of the surprises travel can hold.

 

The Uber party was quite the contrast to our day of touring Fort Sumter, the Nathaniel Russell House, and the Aiken-Rhett House. But Charleston is a city of contrasts: breezy porches, aromatic gardens, cobbled streets, and beautiful homes, many built of bricks… bricks bearing the fingerprints of the enslaved people who made those bricks. 

 

During a walking tour on our first day in the city, our guide, Theresa - slim and blond, lively and informative - pointed out the fingerprints. A Charleston native with family ties dating back to 1763, Theresa had an abundance of current connections too, and she waved and promised phone calls to those she encountered along our way. She was proud of her city, and with feigned indignation, said that Charleston’s history was not confined to slavery and the Civil War; she felt its role in the Revolution had been overlooked.  Two signers of the Declaration of Independence had lived there, and the city had survived British shelling and a siege. 

 

The weather was fine during that walk, and we admired magnificent churches, craftswomen weaving baskets, perfect pink camellias, gracious homes shaded by live oaks, and the harbor beyond the sea wall. When Theresa pointed out the “earthquake bolts” fortifying several houses, we marveled at Charleston’s endurance despite bombardment by man and Nature. 

 

Perhaps it was the chill and rain that followed over the next few days, but it was hard for me to slip off the shadow of Charleston’s pivotal role in the slave trade. 40% of the enslaved entering America came through the city’s port, and Charleston has been diligent in documenting the torment of the people who pressed their fingertips into those bricks. Reminders of that torment are ubiquitous as slavery was enmeshed in every aspect of the economy. Bronze plaques mark auction sites in parks and on street corners, and the former slave market and Old Exchange are now museums. 

 

Perhaps the shadow was sustained by the book I was reading, “The Invention of Wings” by Sue Monk Kidd. The story is inspired by abolitionists Sarah and Angelina Grimké, sisters whose childhood in a wealthy slave-owning family gave rise to their abhorrence of slavery. Ms. Kidd is a masterful writer, and it was painful to read her portrayal of the oppression of those enslaved. 

 

In touring two museum houses, Ms. Kidd’s book attained reality, substance, and color, as the home of the Grimké sisters would have been of the same era and opulence.   Slave trader Nathaniel Russell’s house is fully restored with extravagant moldings, elegant table settings, and period furniture. The Aiken-Russell House, on the other hand, has been preserved - though not restored - along with the slave quarters, kitchen, stables, and work yard. During the self-guided audio tour, we learned, to the extent recovered by research, the names, positions, skills, relationships, and rooms of the enslaved people whose harsh lives of toil enabled the luxurious lifestyle of their owners. 

 

Visiting these homes in the city and region that prospered because of kidnapping and enslavement forced me to reflect on a life with no rights, no recourse, and no refuge, one’s worth measured in dollars, and documented as property.  Trouble-aversive as I am, I could imagine too easily the fear of making even minor mistakes given the threat of flogging or punishment in the workhouse. And when exhausted from constant labor, how much more likely those mistakes - excess salt in the soup, a spilled tray, a broken vase - accidents common to us all?

 

 And what of resentment? How would one quell it? 

 

Some politicians seek to suppress the evils of the past, even as they inflame residual prejudice and grievance. I seethe at the anachronism of white supremacy, the spirit of the Klan still fueling policy. America’s history is marred by shame, but the journey has always been one of aspiration.  To its credit, Charleston has chosen education to confront its grim legacy. May the power of painful lessons guide us forward.

 

  

Expressway to Revolution

Perhaps it’s the popularity of the Broadway show “Hamilton,” or whispers from the spirits slipping unseen through our 1780’s house. Or… maybe it’s my despair at the frailty of the Constitution’s checks and balances in fending off the maelstrom of policies of an administration of aging white men unconcerned about the morale of the country or the health of the planet.  Yeah.  That might be it.  Whatever the causes, lately I have fled to history and the refuge of events resolved. Washington, Jefferson, Hamilton, and Lincoln have been my between-the-pages companions.

So, when I learned that a Museum of the American Revolution had opened in Philadelphia, I was eager to visit.  While home with my mother, I asked if she’d be willing to check it out with me.  Trudging brightly lighted galleries flanked with glass cases can tire anyone, and I know Mom’s not a fan of lengthy excursions, but she must have detected the plea in my voice, and trooper that she is, she agreed.

She held her concerns about hiking those halls to herself, and I kept quiet about my own worry:  city driving.  My experiences behind the wheel in big cities are limited, and have occurred only under duress.  The first, 24 years ago, was when my friend Carey was in the hospital in NYC for an emergency operation.  I was navigating those New York streets pretty well, feeling a little cocky, in fact, as I maneuvered my car, flinching only slightly at honking horns and aggressive drivers.  When I neared the hospital, I thought I had it nailed.  Confidently, I took a left turn… onto a one–way street.  OMG!!!  Cars were coming straight at me!  There was no place to go but the sidewalk!  Yes!  The sidewalk!  And that’s what I did!  Like some crazy cabbie told “Follow that car!” I cut the wheel and did a U-Turn… onto the sidewalk!  Good lord.  You understand my current reluctance…

But this was a trade-off:  a morning hike through the museum for my mom, and Lea as chauffeur through the narrow streets of Philadelphia.

Both WAZE and MOM were my guides.  We wanted to beat the tourist crowds at the museum and so, headed in just after rush hour.  The Schuylkill Expressway is a beautiful route along the river, but traffic-wise, it is no treat no matter the time.  I programmed the GPS to help us once we needed it, but we took back roads for as long as possible.  Unaware of our plan, the WAZE lady with her calm, authoritative British voice tried to convince us to take the Expressway… and Mom contradicted her every direction.

“Go left,” said the WAZE lady.

“Not yet,” said Mom.  “Go straight.”

“Go left,” said the WAZE lady.

“No,” said Mom.  “I think you’ll want the second light up ahead.”

“This one?”

“No.  Not yet.”

“Go left,” urged the WAZE lady.

I felt like an eager, over-anxious schoolgirl perched well forward in my seat, both hands gripping the wheel, posture erect, hoping to please everyone, but given those competing commands, unable to.

Once we reached “town,” as my parents call Philadelphia, we gave WAZE lady the lead. I thought I discerned a smug satisfaction in her tone as she led us unerringly to a parking lot a block from the museum.  “You have reached your destination!” she announced.

With the help of my two guides, I safely delivered us to the heart of early America, so my burden was lifted.  Mom’s museum march still lay ahead. 

We walked down a lane flanked by centuries-old brick buildings.  I noted an inviting tavern and filed it away as a future possibility. Several blocks ahead, I spied Independence Hall and, having not crossed its threshold since a field trip in fifth grade, felt a tug of yearning.  That stop, and the tavern, would have to wait. 

Acquiring our entrance tickets had been another minor challenge.  For years, I had taken pride in being one of the last people on the planet to carry a flip phone and gave in only when my grandson was born.  With its text, phone, GPS, and photo components, my iPhone has opened a new world.  I had no need for its other fancy capabilities, thank you very much, until it was suggested that museum tickets be purchased in advance. The day before our visit, therefore, I called Dave in Connecticut and he talked me through the process using Safari and Google. Neophyte that I was, I was wary, and as it turned out, rightly so. 

While the Viator ticket site assured me, “Your booking is paid for and confirmed,” no voucher appeared when I tapped “View Voucher,” nor when I checked my emails. After several convivial chats with Ella at the museum, Tamara at Visa, and Sarah at Viator, I was assured two tickets would be waiting for us at the will-call desk.  And Alleluia, they were.  Another potential problem overcome.

Tickets clutched tight, we turned to see a stately, but formidable, twisting staircase to the second floor galleries.  “There has to be an elevator, Mom.  There are people in wheelchairs waiting in line.”

“I know, but this will be fine.”  At 85, few things daunt my silver-haired mother, and when they do, she’s determined to best the circumstances.  She took hold of the bannister and, resolute, climbed right up. 

I loved the museum.  Open only a month, the exhibits were a mix of traditional glass cases, three-dimensional vignettes, and interactive digital screens. I could imagine the excited volley of ideas in the brainstorming sessions that led to an entire room dominated by a full-size privateer ship, available for bow to stern clambering; a movie immersion in the Battle of Brandywine where smoke and the smell of sulfur filtered into the room as we “charged” through tall grasses with a battalion; wall-sized time-lines on which the touch of a finger to an event or document generated a blow-up and history of that item; and two real stuffed horses, mounted by British dragoons, frozen in their race.  Dramatic as it was, several visitors wondered aloud how those horses died.  A nice lady assured us that the horses lived a full life on a lovely farm and died a natural death.  Mom and I would have liked to know their names.

Slavery, the “peculiar institution” that Lincoln abolished and that troubled our Founding Fathers’ consciences (clearly, not enough) was highlighted throughout, more than I expected given the usual coverage of the Revolutionary period. The historians who planned this museum wished visitors to contemplate the enigma of those who fought for their own equality and unalienable rights while holding others’ enslaved.

One of the interactive screens provided images of a number of historic people and events and asked viewers to consider “What would you do?”  In one case, Eve, a slave for the wealthy Randolph family of Williamsburg, feared her son George would be sold, so mother and son fled to the British lines in search of the freedom they promised. They arrived to find the British camp infested with smallpox.  Eve was confronted with a terrible choice: stay and chance disease, or return to the Randolphs where punishment, enslavement, and the possible sale of her boy awaited. 

What would you do?

I stood before the lighted panel and pondered.  I‘d learned about Eve when Dave and I visited Williamsburg two years ago.  I tried to conjure this flesh-and-blood woman whose life was unpredictable and beyond her control.  I thought about being owned… owned by a master who could sell my son.  Eve was so respected in the Randolph household that she carried the keys to almost every lock in the house, but she could be sold like a bureau or table if the master wished. I pushed the button marked “Stay in the British camp.”

In a flash, the screen told me my choice matched Eve’s.  But the British lost the Battle of Yorktown… and Eve was returned to slavery.

Several years ago, the Fairfield Museum hosted a traveling exhibit about Abraham Lincoln.  A pen used by the Great Emancipator to sign the document that freed the slaves was in a lighted glass case, low to the ground.  In awe, I sank tearfully to my knees – again, the case was low, but still, the actual pen once held by that extraordinary man and employed to such purpose?  Praise God and thank you, Mr. Lincoln. I respect General Washington, and enjoyed seeing his blue sash, leather duffle, and war tent, but Lincoln holds my heart. 

In 1776, Thomas Jefferson wrote of equality, rights, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness while owning his fellow humans.  Just shy of 100 years later, Lincoln took a step toward upholding those assertions.  To this day, we falter in living them.  The Revolution is behind us, its principles touted and enshrined, but abroad and at home, Americans continue to fight.  Peace, respect, tolerance, and compassion are sacrificed because of distrust… oh, and for oil, money, and power. I ache at our willingness to kill and be killed for such things.

Mom had marched ahead of me, her hike complete, and was waiting on a bench in the hall. As I exited the final gallery to meet her, I passed through a wall of mirrors with a sweeping sign in large gold letters:  MEET THE FUTURE OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION.  The founders wrote often of their responsibility to posterity; we must give more thought to the generations ahead whose well-being depends so fully on what we do now.

Or, what will they have to say of us?