Colonial Williamsburg: Part 2

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The big Mercury floated gracefully out of the parking lot, negotiated the roundabout in front of the Mt. Vernon Visitor's Center, and eased on to Highway 296 which would take us to Highway 1 at Ft. Belvoir and then down to Interstate 95. From there it would be smooth sailing south to Williamsburg.

As we cruised towards the Ft. Belvoir army base, named for William Fairfax's Belvoir Manor completed in 1741 and one of four large plantations (George Mason's Gunston Hall, Dennis McCarty's Cedar Grove, and Lawrence Washington's Mt. Vernon being the others) in the area, we passed Washington's distillery and grist mill. It was here that Washington ground his wheat into flour and corn into meal. In 1797, two years before his death, he was persuaded by his farm manager, a Scottsman named John Anderson, to build a distillery to take advantage of the surplus grain and nearby gristmill. Five stills were set up in the stone building and soon were turning our libations by the barrel.

Washington, a meticulous record keeper, shows his distillery made 11,000 gallons of both rye and corn whiskey during the years 1798-1799. So as not to waste anything Washington built animal pens nearby so any leftover mash could be fed to pigs. Archaeologists may be able to recreate the recipe for the presidential spirits using his very detailed accountings of the corn, rye and barley sent to the distillery. It was one of Washington's most profitable ventures and earned him over $7,500 in its first two years.

The George Jackson House
Our Colonial Home	The Back Entrance	Our Garden	Across the Street

Then there was the on-ramp up to I-95. The Merc showed its heritage, descending from a long line of police vehicles as it has, by turning tight and flat onto the highway as I pressed the accelerator to the floor. "Don't worry," I told Robin as she reached for the armrest to hang on. "It's a cop car. Cop engine, cop tires, cop shocks. It's supposed to do this." The car melted anonymously into the flow of traffic. I eased it into the left lane and wound up to seventy.

We'd noticed it during the first leg of our trip earlier that same morning. The highways in Maryland and Virginia seemed cut through the thickest of forests. There was nothing visible on either side of the road but trees. And unlike California there were no huge billboards every fifteen feet advertising German luxury car dealerships or the latest "dot com" that no longer exists. Instead small signs grouped together showed the services available at the next off-ramp. Good thing too because we couldn't see a thing through the trees. We struggled for a glimpse of habitation off to the side of the road but the forests on either side of the freeway insured our isolation from thngs human. I have often heard the maxim that a squirrel in colonial times could have climbed a tree on the shores of the Atlantic Ocean and hopped from branch to branch, never touching the ground, until it reached the Mississippi River. Were it not for the modern highways riding a swaths cut through the woodlands I believe the same could be said today.

As we drove southward to Williamsburg the placenames we saw on the passing highway signs read like the index of a history of the Civil War; Manassas, Fredricksburg, Spottsylvania advertised their modern incarnations and historic connections although usually on different signposts. Their lure was strong but not as strong as that of Colonial Williamsburg, to us at least, and we continued towards our goal promising to return someday to walk and talk with the ghosts of the those who fell in the battles that took place there.

We left I-95 for I-295 just north of Richmond and then left it too for I-64 travelling east, moving closer to Williamsburg minute by minute. Turning right off of I-64 we found ourselves on the Colonial National Parkway. In a few minutes we were outside the Williamsburg Visitors Center and in a few more we were driving under the historic area. We were here! A sign on the right shoulder announced a turn-off for the Williamsburg Lodge and Williamsburg Inn. We took it and found ourselves surrounded by all of the trappings of a world class resort, beautiful accomodations, a golf course, and of course, tourists. When we spied a gentleman in a frock coat, breeches and a cocked hat crossing the street in front of us we knew we were in the right place. I pulled the Merc up alongside him and asked where we might find the registration for the Colonial Houses. Shortly we were inside, graciously welcomed, and told we were expected. After the customary formalities we were introduced to a young man who led us, in an official Colonial Williamsburg van, to our very own colonial lodgings, the George Jackson House. He carried our bags to the back door, opened it with a flourish, and led us inside to our very own, very private colonial experience.

In 1773 Benjamin Waller sold a lot and house on York Street three houses down from Waller Street to George Jackson. Jackson operated a shop from the attached wing with public access just outside the neat, white fence that enclosed his residence. During the War for American Independence Jackson risked capture and execution when he chartered a ship and to run black powder from Bermuda for the Continental Army. It was the ground floor of this fine old building that we would call home for the next four days and nights. In the modern parlance it would be considered a "suite," with a sitting room complete with fireplace just off the master bedroom, once the main area of Jackson's store. The rooms were furnished entirely in the colonial manner with very nice reproductions. In each of the two rooms an armoire concealed a television and the one in the master bedroom also hid a small refridgerator. One step up out of the "sunken suite" a very modern bathroom waited quietly behind a decidedly eighteenth century-looking door. When we elected to stay in the colonial accommodations the one concern Robin expressed was, "Does it have a proper bathroom?" She needn't have worried. Like hotels everywhere the hot water was plentiful and in Colonial Williamsburg's case, very hot, with enough water pressure in the

shower to be a concern to those either unaware or slight of stature. Now Robin is always very aware and, at 6'4" and 230 lbs., no one has accused me of being "slight of stature" since I was fourteen. After more than a decade of water-consciousness in California it was a delight to be able to rinse off quickly.

The house itself was situated in one corner of a spacious half-acre lot with mature trees, a well-cared for lawn, and lovely flower garden. There was a wooden bench on the circular brick patio and another at the side of the house facing the garden. A hazlenut tree next to the patio was in the midst of dropping its bounty and we could have had all of the filberts we wanted by simply stooping to pick them up. A white well-house, no longer operational stood just off the patio and connected to it by a brick walkway. The "necessary" was about half way between the back door of the house and the back gate. I don't think it was in working order either, but I didn't check. The same neat white fence that seperated George Jackson's house from his store continued around the perimeter of the property as residents of Williamsburg were required by law to contain their animals. Across the street was another fenced in field complete with grazing sheep.

The George Jackson House
Our Colonial Home The Back Entrance Our Garden Across the Street

It did not take us long to decide that staying in one of Williamsburg's Colonial Houses had been the right thing to do.

Whether it influenced George Jackson's decision to purchase said lot and house, its proximity to Christiana Campbell's Tavern certainly provided us with a convenient place wherein to refresh and renew ourselves. Just by going out of our back door, down the brick walk and through the back gate we were almost behind the tavern. Indeed it was but a pleasant stroll through a beautifully planted and trimmed garden to the front steps of the Campbell establishment. The menu there is a blend of fine old Virginia fare with Chesapeake Bay seafood and Smithfield ham prominantly featured. After we had unpacked and wandered about for a bit we found ourselves back at the "tavern in our back yard" for dinner. Robin chose the "Carolina Seafood Muddle," a wonderful admixture of fish, shrimp, scallops, and clams served over noodles while I opted for a more traditional meal of filet mignon in a delicious claret sauce. It was here that I discovered a "new" drink that is sure to become a staple at many a rendezvous to come. It is called a "Rummer" and made of dark rum mixed with apricot and peach brandies served with a cherry and a slice of lime. It went down so easily that a second iteration was soon ordered. After

our sumptious repast we had only the short walk back to "our" house and queen-sized canopy bed. With our teeth brushed and our bed clothing donned we adjourned to crawl under the covers to muse on the good fortune that had befallen us. We were indeed at home in Colonial Williamsburg.

Tomorrow we would begin to explore the world of the eighteenth century!

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