It's not just our own history that has occupied us this weekend. Yesterday we spent a couple of hours out of the rain and into a tiny local history museum in one of the nearby villages on the Northern Neck peninsula. Upon entering, we were greeted by a women who looked for all the world like the faded hippie she later proudly proclaimed herself to be.
Wire granny glasses rounded blue eyes that wrinkled on the sides when she smiled, which was often. Her reddish-brown hair was dusted in gray, and even the earth tones of her Indian-print tunic and ankle-length skirt were muted. "Am I expecting you?" she asked. "Are you teachers? Should I recognize one of you?" When she reached out and gave me a little one-armed side hug, we knew we were in for an adventure.
Over the next hour or so, she regaled us with stories of the heroes and villains of the town, enlisting the members of our group to act out some of the more dramatic scenes. Interspersed were tales of her own life and the personal journey that led her to that place and that moment. There were props and books and photographs to enhance her version of local history. Along the way, we found out that she was an Eccles scholar at UVa, like Bill, and she actually knew Emily's brother Chris, from the days when he lived about 45 minutes north.
Before our stories diverged she gave each of us a hug and a kiss, then we zipped up our raincoats and stepped back into the present, through the mud, and out to lunch.
Wire granny glasses rounded blue eyes that wrinkled on the sides when she smiled, which was often. Her reddish-brown hair was dusted in gray, and even the earth tones of her Indian-print tunic and ankle-length skirt were muted. "Am I expecting you?" she asked. "Are you teachers? Should I recognize one of you?" When she reached out and gave me a little one-armed side hug, we knew we were in for an adventure.
Over the next hour or so, she regaled us with stories of the heroes and villains of the town, enlisting the members of our group to act out some of the more dramatic scenes. Interspersed were tales of her own life and the personal journey that led her to that place and that moment. There were props and books and photographs to enhance her version of local history. Along the way, we found out that she was an Eccles scholar at UVa, like Bill, and she actually knew Emily's brother Chris, from the days when he lived about 45 minutes north.
Before our stories diverged she gave each of us a hug and a kiss, then we zipped up our raincoats and stepped back into the present, through the mud, and out to lunch.
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