(Continued from Part One, here)
The South is not monolithic, and never has been, though both its cheerleading politicians as well as its detractors both want you to think it is. If you slow down and pay attention, there is plenty of that much overused and abused word “diversity,” though in the Southern context it comes off more as idiosyncrasy. For a region that used to be known as the “Bible Belt,” and more pointedly, “Christ-haunted,” it is not surprising to find much of this in the realm of religion. While in so many ways, the modern South is no different than the rest of the nation, we once were, at least, a tradition-minded people; part of that tradition involved taking religion seriously.
Much of what you see is exactly what you expect to see. I believe Georgia has more red-bricked white steepled Baptist churches per square mile than anyplace in the world; there’s just one after another. It reminds me of distant Georgia cousins who stopped and stayed with us on their way to California forty years ago. I remember her saying, with mock incredulity, “Y’all aren’t Baptist? I thought evahbody was Baptist!” She was joking, of course, but not by much. And then we are not immune to larger trends, either. I laughed at one church I passed, in North Carolina. It was a big, no-name wannabe megachurch. Their too clever billboard sign read, “Come Sit With Us: 9:00 am, 10:00 am, or 11:00 am.” Of course they had no idea how unintentionally funny this was to the occasional Orthodox driver who might pass by.
But there are oddities. For example, last summer, I discovered a pristine turn-of-the-century New England Universalist church, plopped down in eastern Alabama, with roots going back to the 1840s. There has got to be a good story about how that sect ever found a home in the rural Deep South. In a more recent short jaunt down to the Central Texas Hill Country, I stumbled upon a Mandean community and cemetery. I had to do a little research to remind myself of who they are, exactly. There are only 60,000 of them worldwide, now including Burnet County, Texas. And of course, I am always quick to point out the growth, here and there, of my own church slowly taking root in the South.
Seeking something more substantial and lasting than evangelical happy- clappyism on one side, or liturgical social justice warriorism on the other, Orthodox communities are slowly building in the South. In Columbus, Mississippi I checked out the lovely St. Catherine parish. Later, in Greenville, South Carolina, I sat on a patio and savored some Adjara khachapuri, walnut and eggplant paste rolls, while sipping some Kindzmarauli. None of that would be possible without the vibrant presence of the Orthodox church there. The manager, learning that this was not my first rodeo when it came to Georgian cuisine, came out and toasted me with a shot of cha-cha. I learned he is a catechumen at St. John of the Ladder Orthodox parish. I stopped in at the church for Wednesday night vespers service, finding probably close to a 100 people there first and last. All this is in the backcountry of South Carolina. On my return, I pulled off the road for gas in Virginia, finding a little store advertising that it had been in business since 1921. That sort of thing is a natural draw for me. A full tank, and handmade service-station sandwich later, I continued on my way. But around the cul-de-sac I noticed signs for a “Serbfest” the upcoming weekend. Come to find out, there is a Serbian Orthodox Church right up the road in this little rural corner of Virginia.
I continue to be amused at the alarm sounded by our online Orthodox “Guardians of the Faith” regarding the growth of Orthodoxy in the South. Apparently, there are Southern conservatives becoming Orthodox. Lord, help us! I think my sons and I must have been the last semi-moderate converts to Orthodoxy down here–everyone since has been more conservative than us. Somehow, we worship together just fine. And, if these converts stick with it, Orthodoxy will hone off the rough edges; as it did for me. It is not the end of the world.
***
But returning to the supposed subject of this post, my attendance at “heritage society” meetings is a new thing for me. While I have always been engaged in historical and/or genealogical research, joining associations never had any attraction to me. Several years ago, the head of my department suggested I become more involved with extracurricular history (so yes, Jeff, I blame you for this.) I took him at his word, and like most things I undertake, I became obsessed with it. I now count membership in six or seven of these groups, Sons of This and That. I find these civic associations to be a worthy support to our flagging sense of community. While it may be too late to be of much help to us as a country, that is no reason not to try.
The Jamestowne Society seems to be the gold standard of these groups. Some of them exist for no greater purpose than to host banquets and reward each other with certificates of appreciation, which becomes rather silly after a while. The Jamestowne group, in contrast, funds real historical research, preservation, and archeology. The entry requirement is an ancestor with connections to Jamestown prior to 1700. Considering the fact that by the tenth generation beyond yourself, we all have 1,024 unique ancestors (unless, of course, you have some who have double-dipped), most everyone whose family has been in this country for a while will have some ancestors who qualify. The trick is to be able to prove it.
Membership is a bit Virginia-centric, well-connected sorts who have always known who their people are, and are quietly proud of them, in a classy, understated sort of way. The remainder largely consists of little old genealogy ladies in tennis shoes who have recently discovered who their people are and are a little too chatty about it all. I fit in neither group, but understand them both implicitly. I also sense that there is probably not a lot of overlap between the two groups outside of these gatherings.
All of my “qualifying ancestors” are on my maternal side, the Deep South side. My dad’s people were actually here earlier–on Massachusetts Bay by 1622, but that of course would not cut me any slack with the Jamestown group. In fact, all of my known ancestors on my dad’s side entered the continent elsewhere: Massachusetts, Connecticut, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, North Carolina–everywhere but Virginia.
My specific entry ticket is through two men, Robert Taliaferro who arrived in 1647, and Lawrence Smith who arrived in 1652. Things were in a Cromwellian bad way back home, and they both seem to be stereotypical Cavalier emigres to Virginia. The men were business partners, as well as brothers-in-law, marrying sisters who had been born in the colony. A bit of cousin marrying cemented the alliance even further in my line, as Robert’s son married Lawrence’s daughter. The families became successful in the usual ways: land speculation, tobacco, indentured servants, slaves, with a bit of shipping on the side. They also connected with families a little better known to history: Lawrence’s mother’s family brought in the Warners, the Washingtons, the Lees, and the Carters. And despite the region’s appalling mortality rate, the two families were each able to raise large families. This, and poor land stewardship, meant, of course, that they could not all remain in the Tidewater.
And so succeeding generations pushed on: first to the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, then Georgia, then Alabama and Mississippi, and finally on to Texas. At each step of the migrations, any aristocratic Virginia pretensions quickly sloughed-away, as the Taliaferro/Worthams married into families who came along later; the Anglo-Irish Brewsters, who in turn married the Germano-English Dinglers. By the time they were in Texas, the family were landowners, to be sure, but just barely, and without slaves. And so, it is with a certain bemusement that I found myself seated amidst this old Virginia set as if it were totally natural to me.
There’s an old country expression, “blood will tell,” meaning of course, that certain families will act in particular ways. Of course, properly understood, this does not mean that it is the blood itself that is determinative. In fact, I have come to understand that in relationships, blood is often the least important factor. I know this, having adopted a son who shares none of my actual blood, but who has come to think as much like me as another person could. So what is meant is the learned behavior of families that is passed down (albeit with obvious genetic tendencies). So if we are thinking about just the DNA, for example, these two ancestors have no more influence over me than the other 1,022 in the 11th generation. But I know about these men; most of the others are unknown to me.
I enjoyed the wine and cheese reception on Jamestown Island, though I had to nimbly evade the political quagmire. Just because people are nice and polite, do not assume that they are not batsh*t crazy about any number of things. While sitting on the patio enjoying my wine and cheese, I visited with a delightful octogenarian from Richmond (on the second glass of wine she laughed and shared with me her observation on her unsuccessful first marriage: “too bad is too late.”) She wondered about my accent, concluding that I had to be from North Carolina. I took this as a great compliment, as I am extremely self-conscious of my East Texas twang. Learning that I was from Texas, she asked me about “how we were coping with all those people coming in.” I knew exactly what she was talking about, but I didn’t take the bait. I replied, “Well, the Californians are simply overrunning our part of the state. They will pay any price for land or houses, and are consequently driving property values (and taxes) out of all reason.”
Then I chuckled and addressed the subject I knew she was asking about: the Border. I reminded her that Texas is a big place; Cheyenne, Wyoming is almost as close to El Paso as we are in East Texas. I suggested that native-born Texans have always been a little more laid-back about border issues, with the border being an actual river rather than an imaginary line across the desert. I noted that Hispanic immigrants were a vital part of our local economy and culture and that the current crisis is driven by conditions in Central America, not Mexico. I stopped short of mentioning our own complicity in the crisis in either location. The other Texan at our table, a business-like old genealogy lady from Dallas, seemed a little put out that I had cut off the Foxian talking points she had on the tip of her tongue. Later conversations at the table referenced news events of which I was completely (and blissfully) unaware, bringing home the realization that there is a national narrative completely unknown to me.
I listened with interest to the archeologists explaining their latest digs. A new well has been discovered, and all kinds of things get thrown down a well before it is finally clogged up. I also enjoyed the reconstructed church–the bell-tower being recently funded by the Society. In class, I’m often a little derisive about Jamestown’s location; asking why would you build on the edge of a marsh? But actually walking the island makes it clear. The seaward side offered access to shipping of all sorts. The landward side is really a marshy area between the now-island (though once connected by a narrow peninsula) and the mainland, offering protection from landward attack.
I particularly enjoyed exploring the church. The beginnings of a brick church at Jamestown date back to 1617. A larger brick church was started in 1639. Nathaniel Bacon burned it in 1676. The church was rebuilt but was abandoned in 1750. By the 1790s, the church was dismantled and the bricks used for the graveyard wall. The belltower, however, remained, dating back to the 1639 church. The present Memorial church was reconstructed with some of the same bricks in 1907, and in so doing left the exposed foundations and flooring of the 1617 and 1639 church. The “Knight’s Tomb” effigy of Governor Yeardley, just outside the altar, made me think of so many English churches.
The next day, by bus, we rode the ferry from the Lower Peninsula to Southside Virginia, visiting Bacon’s Castle and St. Luke’s Church. I sat next to a nice man from Oregon. Originally from Virginia, he attended UVA, later Columbia, then Yale, I think, ending up with a graduate degree in Economics and two law degrees. He had represented a confederation of Native Tribes in the Pacific Northwest for about thirty years; a fascinating guy to talk to. He had his wife have no children, so there is no impediment to their travels, and they have been everywhere; literally everywhere. I plan to travel until I can’t, but it did reinforce in my mind the need to travel purposefully and thoughtfully; and not to dash here, there, and everywhere in a manic push to color-in destinations on a map. (I think I did best him once, however, with Cuba.)
Bacon’s Castle is simply the oldest surviving brick residence in North America. It’s all very evocative of England, but the house is really just a shell, impressive from the outside, but only empty chambers within, with none of the original furnishings. The flooring and the overall craftsmanship from the mid 17th-century is still of interest, as is the oldest “English garden” in America. What interested me most, however, was the slave quarters out back. This was a rather large house with a gallery across the entire front. There were 2 chambers, each with a fireplace at the end. They were divided by a narrow staircase coming off the porch, going up to the attic, where it was divided into 2 more chambers. So, this 4-room structure was the home for 4 families. Its proximity to the main house suggests that this was a home for house servants, and by extension, the cabins of the field workers would have been of a meaner sort.
I also enjoyed visiting St. Luke’s in nearby Smithfield. There has not been an active parish here since 1834, so it is not in the running for the oldest church in Virginia. But it is the oldest church building remaining in Virginia. And on that level, it is an impressive structure. Another of my early Virginia ancestors, Robert Bracewell (later Braswell), was an early minister here (and on an interesting side note, he was also a member of the House of Burgesses for 13 days before being ejected on the basis of what we would later call “separation of church and state.”) Our docent was a local Lutheran pastor from Pennsylvania who gave an even-handed overview of church history. I did get a better idea of how a local parish worked; the vestry, the tithes, the nature of services, etc. The Eucharist was only administered when an ordained minister was in attendance–which was perhaps only once a season. At other times, laymen would read sermons. They were required to have 4 sermons a year reinforcing the duty to obey the monarch. One suspects that this would not have been the topic of sermons in New England. And yes, just like back in England, you had to attend services at least once a month, and could be fined for failing to do so.
That night we attended a banquet at the resort headquarters (I stayed at a more affordable Airbnb across the York River in Gloucester County). Our table was a lively one, which included the speaker for the noon session the following day. At one point, I thought we were about to veer into political waters. A nice lady from Staunton mentioned that “real history wasn’t being taught in schools anymore.” I know where she was coming from: she envisioned every history class projecting the latest CRT talking points. I very nicely responded that “History is being taught, it just isn’t being listened to.” That is what I see every semester: Historical illiteracy on a grand epic scale. I do not have to list the reasons why this is so. Deep down, we all know why. But the one thing that symbolizes it all, I would say, is the small rectangular wireless device we all either have in our hands at this very moment, or at least within reach. If parents are so concerned about their little darlings being mistaught once they get to college, perhaps they ought to spend a little time teaching them themselves along the way, instead of sending them to us as the empty vessels we receive at the beginning of the semester.
The main luncheon on Saturday was nice as well, but I was ready to go as soon as it was over. And this led to some of my favorite discoveries that afternoon, the next day, and on Monday, where I checked out–to the best of my ability–a few nearby sites connected with my “Jamestowne Society” ancestors.
***
That afternoon, I checked out Moore House on the Yorktown Battlefield site. This was where Cornwallis surrendered to George Washington. This was also Lawrence Smith’s secondary plantation, owned by descendants by the name Moore at the time of the Revolution. I also visited Powhatan house in Williamsburg, designed and built by a Taliaferro cousin. But Sunday, with no parish within driving distance, I spent the day looping up through the Northern Neck–the peninsula with the Rappahannock on one side and the Potomac on the other. I visited four sites connected with my family, one being the most beautiful garden I have ever seen on this continent.
My first stop was Yecominico Church, the fourth oldest parish in Virginia. The lovely current church was built in 1706, but the parish is much older. The parish contains the 1665 font where George Washington and Robert E. Lee’s father were baptized. Perhaps more so in the Northern Neck than in any other area of Virginia, family connections in this area formed really one vast cousinage. Lee’s great-grandfather was a half-brother to the sisters who married Lawrence Smith and Robert Taliaferro. Washington’s great-grandmother was a first cousin to Lawrence Smith. Like I say, one family. I visited here because this was the parish church associated with the estimable Rose Sturman Tucker Gerrard Newton. The mortality rate was high, and men originally outnumbered women 6:1 in early colonial Virginia. Her story is not untypical. She became the second wife of John Tucker of Tucker Hill. After his death she became the second wife of William Gerrard. After his death, she became the fourth wife of John Newton. After his death, she married no more. She was my 9th great-grandmother two different ways, as well as being my wife’s 9th great grandmother. Her granddaughter married the grandson of Lawrence Smith and Robert Taliaferro. She lies buried somewhere in the old churchyard around Yecomico. The adjacent newer section contains the grave of 20th-century author John dos Passos, interestingly enough. Down the road, I enjoyed seeing a road sign denoting the intersection of Rose Tucker Road with Tucker Hill Road.
I stopped at an Italian joint in quirky little Montross, before pushing on to Eagles Nest. Why this old plantation was on my list makes for an interesting story. Last year I gave a presentation at the Fall meeting of our chapter in Dallas. My subject was Cadwallader Jones. I found him to be a fascinating study, something of a proto-American. He was the much younger second husband of the widowed Catherine Dednam Taliaferro, and by that I mean he was the same age as her oldest son. Against the odds, theirs was a successful marriage; there seemed no resentment on the part of her children, and Lawrence Smith took his new brother-in-law under his wing. Doors were opened.
Jones was a young man in a hurry, however. He pressed forward on a number of fronts: tobacco, land speculation, shipping, Indian trading, etc. He thought big, but over-extension on all fronts, coupled with falling tobacco prices, meant that he also fell big. In those days there was no such thing as bankruptcy. You either paid what you owed, or you went to jail, or you fled. Jones chose Option 3. After a while, he resurfaced in London where friendly self-interested creditors managed to have him appointed Governor of the Bahamas. His tenure there was tempestuous and controversial, but that is another story.
One of the best sources of primary source material for Jones is the surviving correspondence of William Fitzhugh, an old neighbor, creditor (as was nearly everyone), and genuine friend who tried to see the best in Jones. Fitzhugh was among the wealthiest Virginians; he owned 54,000 acres stretching along the Potomac from Eagles Nest to the present site of Alexandria. The noted Custis family were his descendants, and the Custis money and land that was so important to George Washington and later Robert E. Lee was, in fact, Fitzhugh land and money in origin. And, I was pleased to learn, he was my uncle, after a fashion, as his wife was Sophie Tucker, daughter of Rose of the three husbands.
The original house is long gone, and the present house, a rambling two-story frame home in the Federal style, was probably built in the late 1700s. The homeplace sits along an elongated knoll. In the old days, you would have been able to see the Potomac, at the base of the north slope. An assortment of outbuildings–old barns, sheds, offices, corn cribs, and even 3 dovecotes dot the hilltop. I went to the door to let the owner know what I was doing, as the graveyard I was searching for was at the back of the property. The woman who answered the door could not have been more gracious. She and her husband had lived there for over 50 years. They were not old Virginia money at all, but rather hailed from Iowa. Her husband was a contractor who worked with the Navy.
What impressed me about the place, is that she had done what we are all called to do, whether we have an acre or an apartment stoop. For this was Paradise, or as near to it as we get. She planted many of the gigantic trees in this open park, pointing to a towering tulip poplar that she said was the same age as her youngest daughter–52 years. Scattered underneath the canopy were groupings of flowering shrubs, and beds of roses and peonies. And on the patios, were pots and pots of yet more trees and shrubs to plant. This octogenarian knew that you never finish; Paradise is never really attained, at least not this side of eternity. But it is the striving for it that counts.
I walked through the park, past the dovecotes, to the graveyard, hemmed-in by a modest hedge. There I saw the flat tablets of William Fitzhugh and Sophia Tucker Fitzhugh, and innumerable Fitzhugh and Custis descendants. Interestingly, there is the 1726 grave of Francis Taliaferro. This kinsman had come to Eagles Mount to marry a Fitzhugh daughter. He became ill and died before they could wed, and was buried here rather than at Taliaferro’s Mount.
My last stop was at White Hall plantation, a few miles away. This was the Berryman plantation, and Benjamin Berryman had married Sophia Fitzhugh’s half sister, Elizabeth Newton. It was their daughter, another Rose, who married the grandson of Lawrence Smith and Robert Taliaferro, just across the Rappahannock River. A quintessential Southern mansion sits atop the hill, though this house was probably built 100 years after my Rose. The place is now a vineyard, so I sat in the old barn that Sunday afternoon, sipped on a glass of wine, and listened to the earnest combo. I tried to clap as much as I could.
The next day, I turned my car towards home, but before I left Virginia, I had two final stops to make: Wortham Hill in Middlesex County, and the grave of George Wythe in Richmond. Middlesex County is on the middle peninsula, between the York and the Rappahannock Rivers. Wortham Hill is an old place–granted to the first Wortham immigrant in 1658 by the “Crown” (or whatever they called it under the Cromwell regime). The site of the old graveyard dates to 1670. The house–not the original–but it still dates back to 1692. And so, 11 generations later, it is still owned by a Wortham descendant, now 87 years young. My branch of the family branched off at about the 4th generation. That Wortham married Rose Taliaferro, daughter of Richard Taliaferro and Rose Berryman Taliaferro. They followed her family, eventually to Georgia. I spent a fascinating morning with the proprietor of Wortham Hill, hearing about the old place and touring the house and farm.
I was struck by how completely unique this is in our country, almost underheard of outside of an isolated case here or there in Virginia. The wife and I were exposed to a bit of it back in 1994 when we visited a home connected with her side of the family. Elmwood, the Garnett seat, commanded a high ridge overlooking the Rappahannock in Essex County. The land was acquired in the 1680s, but the current Georgian brick residence was not built until 1775. The house was 100 ft. long by 30 ft. wide, two full two stories with a full basement and attic. A graveyard was right out back. Mrs. Garnett spoke with a bit of an old English accent, pronouncing “house” almost as “hoose.” When I will still occasionally speak of our house as the hoose, my wife and oldest son know what I am saying. We had tea in the drawing room, and was shown the Jacobean sideboard, and the empty library–for the books had been donated in total to the University of Virginia, where a special room was constructed to house the collection. She explained that during “the War” that Mrs. Garnett was a Stevens from New Jersey. In 1862, her brother, Lincoln’s Secretary of War, sent gunboats up the Rappahannock. A detachment of soldiers marched up to the house and escorted Mrs. Garnett, the children, and presumably the family silver, down to the gunboats and back to Washington, DC. The fact that the family kept everything going afterwards was due entirely to Yankee money. Mrs. Garnett still cooked lunch every day for the farm workers at that time. For us, it was a glimpse into an older age.
In Richmond, I visited the grave of George Wythe, the prominent Virginia scholar who signed the Declaration of Independence, was a member of the Constitutional Convention, and along the way taught Thomas Jefferson, John Marshall, and Henry Clay. My interest was piqued in him because he married a Taliaferro, but was fascinated to learn of his career. I use Wythe, along with George Washington and Robert Carter, III, as “what if” case studies to teach the evolution of anti-slavery thought in the last quarter of the 1700s—even among the planter elite—before being snuffed-out by the economic juggernaut the cotton gin created. It is a shame that history is now viewed by many without nuance, but in a binary way, good vs. evil, governed by economic or dreary class struggle determinism. No allowance is made for the evolution of thought or conscience. Wythe had just a few slaves after the American Revolution. He freed them and they all continued to live in the same household. With no children, he left his entire estate to these three former slaves. In a sensational development, a disgruntled and disreputable nephew poisoned Wythe and two of the three blacks in a effort to gain the inheritance.
(to be continued)
As always, fascinating history even if I'm not related to anyone in the stories! An interesting thing... In our 9 week tour of the South, we also avoided highways and interstates. The thing that struck me was we never saw a single Mormon church even in the "big cities" we visited. In my city, Mesa, an east suburb of Phoenix, there is literally a Mormon church every square mile, sometimes more. With its American exceptionalism at the core of its theology I wonder why it hasn't taken hold in the South?
Concerning the growth of Orthodoxy in the South: Thanks for these reassuring words about rough edges getting knocked off. They're very timely, and I'll refrain from saying any more than that, just in case someone might be looking.