Driving the Byways

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There is a sort of person who loves a road trip.  The idea of a wide open road stretched out like a crisp blank curl of paper; an unused but perfectly sharpened yellow No. 2 pencil; the dense aroma of muddy coffee as it percolates but before the first steamy sip; the sound of the cracking spine as you ready to read the fist page of the anticipated new book; slipping into freshly washed, slick white percale sheets; these delights are akin to the road trip for that certain sort of person.  The thrill of rounding the corner to see that breathtaking vista of trees and mountain cliffs, or a simple slightly slumping red barn.  The joy of finding that quaint restaurant that perhaps no one but you has discovered, or at least that's how it feels as you pull in next to the only car in the lot, a 1978 red and white Ford Bronco.  The silly fun of singing aloud to every song you ever knew, and the pride that comes with remembering the words, even the words to Paradise by the Dashboard Lights, or Seasons in the Sun, or really any song from the 1970's.  These are the feelings, if not the actual happenings, on a road trip.  I am that sort of person.

As September unfurled, I began planning a car trip up the east coast.  It would be a history meets literary meets antqiuing meets ancestry trip.  First the navigational plan, I needed maps--actual paper maps that I could spread out on the dining room table to plot the best route.  Maybe even a good old fashioned Atlas--I wondered if they still printed such antiquities.  This was not a task for Google.  I wanted to pick the best road, not just the scenic alternative, although that was important, but equally important the route that would allow just enough accidental site seeing to satisfy but also allow me to fit in the key stops within a two week tour.  I felt two weeks was about as long as I could be away without to much annoyance and just enough for the missing me to kick in.

I also needed to plan a route that would be safe and allow me to stay in modest spots so as to stretch the budget.  Many hours were spent reading reviews of this hotel and that one, trying to guess which were truly quaint (not falling apart), clean (not bare and cold), with comfy beds, and of course good water pressure in the shower.  I planned to take my own granola, fruit, peanut butter, chocolate, emergency coffee and wine because the best Best Western could not be relied on to provide these critical creature comforts.

 

The fist stop on my agenda:  Williamsburg.   While my planned start time of nine o'clock came and went I rationalized that packing the car like a jigsaw puzzle was equally important as getting off early.  Day One was eight hours of non stop driving if I was to reach old Virginia by nightfall.  Heading north on I85 was not the most beautiful highway but it was serenely navigable without many trailer trucks, and when driving midday on a Monday, fairly empty.  As the city suburbs gave way to the foothills of the mountains, I listened to NRP, satellite radio, and finally settled into a good audio book:  Living History, written and read by Hillary Clinton.  (Already a fan, I highly recommend this book as a great way to learn about the personal history and motivations of this intelligent, dedicated and purposeful leader.)  I travelled through Greer, Charlotte, and Greensboro, and finally through Richmond and over to the Atlantic coast.  The first night I stayed in a small Holiday Inn Express.  Night had fallen slowly as summer lingered, and I had a real sense of travel mission so I didn't go out for dinner, opting instead for peanut butter crackers and a glass of wine, the perfect gourmet road trip pairing.  Off to bed early, I was giddy for the first day of touring.

 

Day Two, I was up early, freshly showered and ready as if heading off for the first day of school.  Practically first in line as the Colonial Williamsburg gates opened, I determined a one day pass was the prudent choice.  One of the satisfying things about a solo road trip is that every decision is unanimously agreed upon--little compromise is necessary. The sign at the entrance was a little challenging--one day was not enough time? Harrumph...we'll see about that.  Off I went down the dirt path to start the day with interpreters reading the Declaration of Independence.  First stop bakery and latte, pretty sure the early Puritans didn't offer these treats so neatly packaged for carry out? But it was easy to slip back in time. Before I knew it, I was tearing up watching actors portray George Washington and Patrick Henry.  Funny how this land of America sneaks up on me, flaws and all. Patriotism often gives me a slight nudge from behind, sparking awareness of the freedoms I enjoy.  As I walked down the main thoroughfare, Duke of Gloucester Street, I tried to imagine what it must have been like during those times, the early 1700's.  Dirty roads full of rocks and weeds, sun blazing and mosquitoes circling, horses and all that goes with them, inn keepers, farmers, soldiers, and artisans.  Did they know that it was a time of historical importance?  Did they understand their role in shaping what would become one of the most dynamic democratic societies in the world?  

In addition to historical and anthropological curiosity, I was also armed with genealogy, thanks to my mother, Gayle.  She has meticulously and lovingly spent years researching family trees to uncover and discover the personal stories of our forefathers and foremothers.  In Williamsburg I was searching for clues to the Maupin family, Gabriel and Marie Hersent my the 8th great grandfather and grandmother, who immigrated to Virginia in the late 1600's by way of France and then Great Britain.  Their son Gabriel Maupin owned and operated a a tavern in Wiliamsburg called the Market Square Tavern.  It is one of the restored homes in the village and I was able to walk through the hallways and on the grounds where my colonial relatives once lived.  There is something magical about remembering those who came before you.  Trying to imagine what they might have been thinking when they walked through those doors out into a city on the precipice of a revolutionary war.  Were they excited, frightened, or inspired?  What was going through their minds as they gathered eggs, or bathed children, tended sheep or mended a torn skirt?  

 

According to my mother's research, Gabriel Maupin purchased the property "for the purpose of Keeping Tavern" as noted in a newspaper article (that I viewed--a facsimile copy--at the John D. Rockefeller, Jr. Library).  He also operated a harness and saddlery on the property and Patrick Henry was one of his customers, according to actual receipts for payment that are also archived in the library.   Another restored property, The Custis-Maupin House was also owned by the Maupins and has been reconstructed to specifications of a home built in 1840 by John M. Maupin.  It was intriguing to walk through the gardens envisioning the family as they carried out their daily chores and routines.  

I also visited the Bruton Parish and inquired about Maupin gravestones.  One of the curators overheard me asking about the Maupin family and volunteered that his wife was also distantly related to the Maupins.  Did I wish to speak with her on the phone?  Of course!  I wound up talking with a lovely woman about the history of the Maupin family and her knowledge of their homes in Williamsburg over the years.  She also clued me in to a Maupin cemetary that could be found, but was not obviously marked, behind the Custis-Maupin homestead.  I walked over to find a herd of sleeping, muddy sheep guarding the small brick memorial.  There wasn't an easy way to view the cemetery, so as on any good road trip, a little trespassing ensued.  With a quick hike of the skirt and a fairly graceful leap, I was over the split rail fence in no time.  To my chagrin, the cemetery was wild and unkempt...tall grass towering over the head stones, and several headstones completely collapsed.  But it was ironic and morosely romantic too.  All this care, time and investment in the grounds, but the space where the actual people rested has not received much attention.  I said farewell to the sheep curiously edging closer and closer, and set back out along Nassau Street (Nassau was the name of the ship that my ancestors had taken on their voyage to the new world).  

“Hymn to the Creator

O God! whose word spake into birth,
Whate’er existence boasts;
The moon, the stars, the sun, the earth,
The heavens, and all their hosts.
From world to world from sun to sun,
I turn my wondering eyes;
Their swiftest glance thy works outrun:
New suns and worlds arise!”
— The Poems of St. George Tucker of Williamsburg, Virginia 1752-1827

I stayed on the grounds until the sun set and made my way back to the inn, armed with books on the homes, gardens, kitchens and crafts of the Maupins, and the other families of Williamsburg.  Much research ensued late into the night at the Holiday Inn Express to connect the births, marriages, trades, baptisms and deaths of the people that came before me.  Excited by the colors, textures and curiosities of the past, I fell asleep to sweet dreams of  wrought brasswork, succulent dishes of fresh vegetables, and the colonial garden's beauty still present in the modernity of today's fractional, high speed world.  Perhaps the original colonists would be perplexed by what they set in motion, or perhaps they would be admiring, noting the fluidity and flashes of the great beauty and connectedness in our shared lives.