Monticello was one of the important stops on our recent east coast history trip. The premise of the trip was to bring our two grandchildren (aged 15 and 10) to see a bit of U.S. history that they wouldn’t see at home in California. “Having fun,” a category that presumably doesn’t exclude learning about U.S. colonial history, was also on our agenda.
After the drive from DC, we checked into two connecting rooms in a hotel in Charlottesville and rested, while the grandkids checked out their room and its amenities, including the expansiveness and springiness of its two king beds. During the afternoon of the second day, I decided I had just enough energy to take my granddaughter down to the indoor pool for some swimming.
The room was dimly lit and the pool tiny – I could cover its puny length in a few strokes. Of course, none of this bothered the 10-year old Olivia, who’s still learning to swim and seemed to find its dimensions quite appealing. After we’d crossed its length a few times, I settled in to watching her splash around in the safe, shallow end. The white noise of splashing and her excited, piping voice mingled and echoed against the tile and concrete.
After a while, two men entered the pool room and eased themselves carefully into the water. One was stocky and crew-cut and appeared to be in his mid-50s; the other was older, with swirls of white spiraling through his silky mop. They both wore t-shirts. The stocky one immediately struck up a friendly, inquisitive conversation with me.
He was very pleased to learn that my wife and I had taken our grandchildren into Virginia to learn about U.S. history. He and his older companion were brothers, from Orange county, the home county of James Madison’s mansion and plantation known as Montpelier, which we’d visited the day before. (The little railway station in Montpelier had preserved the separate “White” and “Colored” bathroom signs in the interests of historic accuracy.)
Based on the averages, I guessed that the two brothers and I could find a ready supply of topics to disagree on. I believe in the importance of authentic and respectful conversations with our fellow-citizens in healing our country’s divisions. But, at that moment, I knew I couldn’t manage a sensitive conversation and supervise my granddaughter in the pool at the same time.
I guess that’s why I found myself making the most bland, anodyne observations imaginable. And the younger brother seemed willing to second them all. Yes, the water in the pool felt cold until your body was accustomed to it. Yes, the heat had been wearing that day.
Yes, he knew where Berkeley was, the nearest well-known place to our home, and he had no observations to share about the city. He asked about my line of work before I retired. I explained that I wrote training for the federal government, working for a contractor, information he digested in silence, though he seemed to brighten a bit on the word “contractor.” I was gripping the rudder of the conversation so hard, I didn’t think to ask him about his line of work, or his brother’s.
Virginia was a very worthwhile place to visit, we agreed. The state had a lot of history, and that history was worth exploring. As we spoke, his older brother nodded vigorously and repeated key phrases, as if striving to emphasize our agreement. The sounds of those phrases – “very worthwhile,” “definitely worth exploring” – died softly in the echoey wash of sounds.
They stood waist deep at the opposite side of the shallow end. Olivia stood beside me, inventing new ways to disturb the surface of the water.
After a short pause, the older brother shook his head a little sadly and said something that lost all its shape before reaching my ears, but it ended with the word “history.”
“I’m sorry – could you repeat that?”
“Nowadays it seems a lot of people want to erase history.”
For a moment, I puzzled over that phrase “Erase history,” and then I remembered — the statue of Robert E. Lee on horseback. Its removal became the focal point of the “Unite the Right” rally in 2017. The people who were unhappy about the removal of confederate monuments called it “erasing history.”
Charlottesville, VA, REUTERS/Evelyn Hockstein
I nearly asked him for an example of “erasing history” before catching myself. Instead, I offered my own variation on his “erasing history” theme.
“There are a lot of painful things in our history, but it seems that some people want to deny that they happened.” I was thinking of Florida’s vague and chilling legislation that prohibits teachers from discussing “critical race theory.”
He nodded vigorously: “Yes, yes!”
Before we could determine what each of us really meant, I decided it was time to dry off and get ready for dinner.
“I enjoyed talking to you,” nearly telling the truth.
“Same here,” said the younger one. “Hope you and your grandkids have a great trip.”
“Thanks!”
Olivia gave them both a shy wave and we stepped out of the pool, dried off quickly and head back to our room. My wife and grandson might already be getting dressed. All we would have to agree on was where to have dinner.
