Love of one’s country. What is it exactly?
A soldier in a foxhole in Afghanistan? A local guy running for town mayor? A musician writing a protest song? A volunteer at a food bank?
Love of one’s country — at least in American terms — is an action.
It’s doing something, whether modest in scope or monumental in sacrifice. It’s a pretty wide continuum.
I bring this up because I recently went to Williamsburg, Virginia, a place of immaculate preservation and where love of one’s country is expressed by wearing a petticoat and a three-pointed hat. I don’t say this with sarcasm or to make it seem silly alongside other examples of patriotism. But I find it compelling how the people who work and live in this town an hour east of Richmond do more than just an acting job to bring colonial America to life. It’s done with love for the United States of America and a curiosity for our compelling past.
In short, their expression of this love is what keeps the place from feeling like an amusement park.
After four days of excessive eating, imbibing, and Super Mario Brothers on Wii, Hailey, her father, her brother Jason, her sister-in-law Ali and I packed into the car and drove to Williamsburg to see a sliver of the American experience. We were there for three hours, which allowed for a small taste of the place. I’m told that to really feel the slow sway of American history in the area you need to see Jamestown and Yorktown, too. Plus, it helps to pay $58 for a Freedom Pass to gain entry to the historic sites. Another day, another visit.
Christmas in Williamsburg is a big deal. One easily can surmise why when considering this universal truth: any place with historic architecture seems to have its romance amplified by Christmas decor. Just look at Santa Fe’s adobe cubism decked in farolitos. In Williamsburg, the decor of choice is the wreath, where they take its artistry to a whole new level. And thank God. Usually when someone says “Christmas decor” and “whole new level” in the same sentence, I think of these nutjobs.
Nearly every door in Williamsburg was crowned by an elaborate wreath, the best ones labeled with a ribbon from a competition they had just held. Many are truly stunning works of art, like the two I’ve posted above. As I photographed them in the slanted winter light, I was sure I would discover some quaint story as to why Williamsburg was so wreath happy (or pineapple happy for that matter). Wreaths must be a tradition from colonial times…. Maybe they warded off ghosts…. Maybe they were delicious offerings for the town drunkard…. Surely Thomas Jefferson had something to do with it.
Turns out, they caught on in the late 1930s. You can read all about it on the town’s website, but I warn you, it’s not nearly as interesting as my imagination can make it.
As for the pineapples, the same website says they’re “native to South America” and that by 1681 they “became a Christian symbol.” OK. I’ll bite. Why?
Well, they’re kind of like pine cones, which as we know, the Romans used as a symbol of faith in the judiciary, thereby relegating them to imperial prowess. They also distribute seeds, which reminds one of fertility, propagation and survival.
I could make a sarcastic comment, but who am I to talk? After all, my generation of Americans does this at Christmas time.
Now I’m like many men: give me a box to wrap and you’ll end up with a wrinkled 7-sided mass of gift paper covered in 80 strips of tape and an off-kilter bow. So I’m easily impressed when it comes to delicate arts involving careful assembly. But the wreaths of Williamsburg would impress even the most cynical observer. They’re an act of love. Love for community and love for tradition. The roots of patriotism, really.
So what happened in Williamsburg? Why is it significant? On this day, I had no idea. We didn’t buy the Freedom Pass, and with only three hours to tour the massive historic quarter, I wasn’t all that interested. I’ll learn later, I told myself.
I know: sounds terrible for a photojournalist to say that, but it was actually kind of liberating as an artist to just compose a place without any baggage, motives or agendas.
Williamsburg was the capital of Virginia back when it was a colony of England (Jamestown was too buggy to be capital) and it is home to the second oldest university in the United States, the College of William and Mary. It was the sight of the Gunpowder Incident (I wish all historic events were so bluntly named), which was one of many precursors to the American Revolution. During the Revolutionary War, it lost its stature as capital because the Governor, Thomas Jefferson, felt it was vulnerable to British attack.
Oh, and they now have a Busch Gardens nearby.
Hailey is now seven months pregnant, so walking around in the cold for three hours staring at doors is more exhausting than it used to be. Just as we all hit a wall, we came upon the more modern downtown of Williamsburg, and the college campus. A gourmet food store overflowed with customers, kids played in the square, shoppers walked around with bags, and perspective diners read menus.
With Jason and Ali an hour away, it became clear to me that I wasn’t done with this place. We could easily come back, hit Jamestown and Yorktown, drive the scenic and tree-lined Colonial Parkway, and make a bigger photo story of it. I resolved to make a story pitch in the near future.
It was just then that Jason and I got arrested for Public Defamation of the Queen of England.
On the outskirts of the historic quarter lies a re-creation of the Great Hopes Plantation. I would have poked around, but a woman dressed in period clothing wanted to see my Freedom Pass. Entry wasn’t permitted without it.
Love of country. It’s a broad continuum: some get dressed up in period clothing to express it. Others uphold the rule of law. Some do both.
So I snuck off to this wood pile and snapped a shot of the setting sun.
