history comes to life

October 24, 2007

history comes to life

I am not a “history person”. Though I am vaguely aware of events that shaped our country I am more often blissfully unaware of the whens, wheres, hows, and whos. Dates blend dizzily together, names disappear in alphabet soup and places are only significant in relation to the state they are in and the geographic locations of that state (north, south, west, etc). Don’t misunderstand me, I respect history, I just don’t have the brain for remembering the details. I know general time frames, important events like the wars that defined our laws and defended our borders, but I am not smarter than a fifth grader. Often I have to consult my husband, an avid history channel watcher, for some specific reference that helps me to understand things in context. And while there is certainly an element of naïveté that surrounds me regarding historical facts and dates, I am keenly aware of the tendency for historical stories to conflict and the disappointing and unfortunate truth that history does tend to repeat itself in the worst way.

There are, however, specific areas of history that do capture my interest and spark in me a love for learning, though unfortunately not affecting my ability for retention! I am fascinated by living history – learning about how people lived in ages long past. I am intrigued about life on a southern revolutionary war era plantation, life in medieval times, workings of a Scottish castle before the Rising, life at court in England during the time of such notable figures like Anne Boleyn, and many similar scenarios. And the best way these itches of curiosity can be scratched for me is by visiting the places that remain as testaments to what once was.

It was on just such a visit, during the Charleston portion of my journey, when I had a moment. I know it sounds silly, and I don’t mean for it to sound all psychic and karmic, but I was standing on the banks of a free flowing creek at the base of a Southern plantation home built in the early 1700s when I connected with the historical significance of the spot where I stood. Suddenly I felt the drawbridge between past and present come clattering down, allowing me to cross. This sort of thing doesn’t happen often – especially not to practical people like me – but it has happened once before, on the grounds of a plantation home outside Williamsburg, Virginia the summer I was 15.

In these moments I can see things as they used to be, and no, I don’t mean I’m seeing ghosts, but instead the shadows of the way life was suddenly take more shape and form. I could feel the importance of this waterway as the only means of transporting rice, indigo and cotton into cities for sale and further on to oceans for trade. I could hear the rhythm of the workers in the fields as they harvested, baled, lugged, loaded, and sent the livelihood of the farm on the way to market. I could see the path I had walked from plantation house, now hidden behind me by the moss swinging gently from the tree branches, and as I stood on the water’s edge, watching the reeds blowing in the wind and the rush of water flowing towards the sea, I could imagine that I had simply retraced the footsteps of people who had been walking there for 300 years. I felt it, saw it, knew it to be true. Nothing had changed in the intervening years except perhaps the level of the water, the breadth of the bank and the height of the trees. It wasn’t just a tale told by a tour guide anymore - it was real. And I was standing there, an observer, waiting to absorb more. History had come to life for me, for one brief moment, and it had left a lasting impression.

the unexciting and yet significant location I spoke of

images from the nearby church. I regret I had run out of camera batteries shortly after arriving an so brought out the old film camera. You'll just have to wait, as will I, for images from the very old and very cool inside of the church.