Walking in Their Footsteps

We just returned from a wonderful vacation to Washington, DC, Virginia and West Virginia. Now, I’m not a fan of big cities. A dream holiday for me would be an escape to where there are less people, not more. DC was different. To be sure, it was noisy and hectic, sirens day and night, people scurrying about in jumbled streams of humanity, car horns blaring if someone dared react to a green traffic light a smidgen too slowly. Yet all this was tempered by the fact that the people we encountered were helpful and courteous. Surrounded by a constant throng of tourists, I expected the locals to be annoyed by our presence. Instead, most seemed genuinely concerned if it looked like you were lost or appeared unsure how to navigate the subway system. They were proud of their city, our city, and happy to help.

The first few days were spent making the customary rounds:

• Arlington National Cemetery, where we arrived in time for the changing of the guard and a wreath-laying ceremony;
• the Lincoln Memorial, outside crawling with people like so many ants on an anthill, inside a hushed silence except for the flashes and whirring noises of cameras;
• the War memorials, each with a handful of surviving veterans immersed in memories of glory and misery;
• the Washington Monument, its impressive height serving as a central beacon for the city;
• the Jefferson Memorial, etched with words that stir emotions and invite quiet reflection;
• the Capitol Building, oozing with power, symbolism, pomp and circumstance;
• the Supreme Court Building, an elegant, stately, silent sentinel perpetually eyeing the Capitol;
• the White House, more magnificent and grand than its condensed presence on news programs.

Everywhere we found ourselves in the company of others just like us, standing with cricked necks, mouths agape, eyes full of wonder.

On the second leg of our tour we rented a car and left the city, enjoying a peaceful ride along Skyline Drive, the northernmost portion of the Blue Ridge Parkway. We chased fleeting glimpses of sunlight as the weather began to turn against us, trying in vain to capture the majesty of the Shenandoah Valley below as well as the serene beauty we experienced traveling underneath a thick canopy of trees. The journey was taking us toward southwestern Virginia, where we hoped to learn more about Dave’s colonial ancestors. Their story will be told in a separate journal, but we later discovered they followed a similar route when, in the mid-1700s, the family moved from northern Virginia and settled near the New River in Giles County, Virginia. There we spent a rain-soaked day searching library collections and photographing family gravestones before heading toward our next destination.

We woke again to a persistent rain but were determined to make the most of it. Arriving first thing in the morning at Monticello, home of Thomas Jefferson, we found his beautiful neoclassical mansion shrouded in fog. Our tour guide was so animated and passionate about her work, it was a delight to listen to her tales of the man who was not only our third president but also a paleontologist, an architect, and an inventor. After the home tour we wandered the grounds including Mulberry Row, where the slave dwellings were located, then through the plantation’s gardens and on to the family cemetery. The thick fog lent an eerie, ghostly quality to the morning. I half expected to see a lone rider on horseback, dressed in colonial garb, emerge from the shadows.

During our trip to New England three years ago, we stumbled upon a picturesque old cemetery in Chelsea, Vermont. For some reason, I was intrigued by the Civil War grave of Captain Orville Bixby of the Second Vermont Volunteer Infantry, who was killed at age 29 in the Battle of the Wilderness, Virginia. Located not far from Monticello, the Wilderness Battlefield is now preserved as a National Military Park. Still drenched by rain, we took a driving tour through the Chancellorsville and Wilderness battlefields. Research tells me that Captain Bixby was shot in the head on the second day of battle. His troops moved him to the rear of the regiment, where he lingered and died later that evening. I have no connection to this man other than curiosity. Yet it meant so much to be able to trace his footsteps all the way from Vermont to Virginia. Peering into the dense woods, I couldn’t even begin to imagine the horrors he must have witnessed that day.

We returned to the city, completing our stay in Old Town Alexandria. The last day we planned an outing to Mount Vernon, home of George and Martha Washington. The rain was relentless. It was cold and clammy and our resolve was weakening. During the home tour we heard the story of Washington’s death. After returning from a day spent inspecting his farm in snow and freezing rain, he sat down for dinner without changing his wet clothes. Two days later he succumbed to an illness that had turned from a bad cold into a serious infection. So despite the nasty weather, we continued touring the grounds, examining the outbuildings, wandering through the orchard, walking in the footsteps of the father of our country.

Walking in their footsteps from Deborah French on Vimeo.