Wisecracking Across America - 39. Chapter 39

Sunday, June 20, 1999

The most amazing thing about Colonial Williamsburg---CW as the locals call it---is it's a furniture museum. There are no water slides. Yet it's mobbed every year. And it's not like they trot out new history.

The place does change, though strangely, not always getting prettier. In the '30's, the Foundation was happy enough to have anything that even looked like it belonged in the 1700's. With success, came accuracy---always a shock---and restoration sometimes moved backwards: Wallpaper was stripped to bare plaster. Flat paint replaced more interesting details. Wooden floors were left purposely unfinished, and uncarpeted, to reflect a time when mud and manure were daily friends.

Research also created more research, as people willed their family collections for the prestige it brought. Or they sent information---stories, diaries, even recipes---which helped historians refine their thinking. Much of the material was useful, though not all of fit the May 8th, 1769 date Williamsburg's curators use to ground their planning. "Just a day like any other," they modestly insist. If you happen to be stuck in the Twilight Zone.

The extra donations were warehoused, along with the overflow from Abby Aldrich Rockefeller's Folk Art collection. While alive, she and her husband John---who'd helped fund the initial restoration---lived in a comfortably non-colonial home near the site. Afterwards, her art was displayed in this house, 1930's style. But space was limited.

So two museums were created, devoted to Early American arts and crafts, though not limited to the 18th century. Worried these large buildings might overwhelm the small-scaled town, the architects simply buried one: you enter through the former mental hospital, plummeting like Alice into Wonderland. The second museum was placed near the previously-established 4-star hotel and conference center, already a warren of commerce.

CW always sold stuff, partly because people always wanted to buy. And some reproductions cost more than their originals: while president, Ronald Reagan commissioned a twenty-five-thousand dollar pierced-silver candy dish for Nancy's birthday. Regular folks settle for brass trivets.

"Where do you think this comes from?" I asked Tom in the Millinery Shop, tossing him a kid-sized three-cornered hat.

"China?" he guessed, no dummy about souvenirs.

"Close. The Philippines."

At least, we once owned them.

For addicted collectors, there's an annual catalogue, thick as a dictionary, full of furniture, fabrics, and color-coordinated paints. Everything can be quickly ordered, though patience is sometimes required for delivery. Heirloom linens aren't hand-loomed overnight.

The money raised goes straight back to continuing programs---and developing new ones. For years, the museums was proud of not talking down to kids, but that's no reason to bore the horsehair out of them. While we were visiting, there was a cartoon-style exhibit called When Virginia Was The Wild West (also sold as in comic book form). It may not jeopardize Return of the Jedi, but it's slicker than Johnny Tremain.

Money also goes for constant maintenance: Virginia winters are mild compared to New England, but humid summers explain why so few pieces of Southern furniture survive. The heat is no easier on the houses. One secret pleasure of the new museums is they're air-conditioned. Finally, for as much work as has been done, there's always more to go. As townspeople die, or as families consent, non-colonial houses are moved from Williamsburg's central Duke of Gloucester Street. That often leaves clues in the old foundations as to what stood there before, but doesn't fund their rebuilding. Formerly, much of this was subsidized by corporations. Increasingly, Williamsburg would like to be self-sufficient.

Because of that, some of the restoration seems to follow popular taste: since visitors always like to eat, a disproportionate number of the buildings are taverns. Unfortunately, they serve authentic Colonial food: heavy, overcooked meat, carrots, and potatoes. I wasn't expecting nouvelle cuisine---Lafayette didn't contribute that much to the Revolution. But something a bit lighter might help.

Other buildings are chosen to keep a community balance: not too many homes, or shops, and only a limited number of increasingly-hard-to-explain slave quarters. (During questions-and answers Thomas Jefferson's clone was asked about his supposed affair with Sally Hemmings, or as one tourist put it---all dialogue reported verbatim--- "Are you plowing that slave broad?" The red-wigged one coyly demurred: "Well, in 1769, Miss Hemmings was only four-years-old. So I really wouldn't know.")

Then there are the show buildings: The Governor's Palace. The Capital. Bruton Parish Church---still serving God after all these years. While not exactly immaculate---one guide explained that ceilings above the chandeliers would be black if candles were actually burned---they're certainly clean. No smelly spittoons in the tobacco-funded House of Burgesses. No diseased mice contaminating the governor's pantry. And no mention of how one particular governor was supposedly poisoned by his demented nephew. Or why that politician had more pairs of shoes than Imelda Marcos.

The sanitized reenactors---what they call the guides---try hard, but are limited not only by policy, but also by funding. Several explained the Williamsburg Foundation is actually trying to make a profit---nothing un-American there---so most of the reenactors are no longer paid. They're self-taught volunteers, or somewhat better-informed Civil War recreators (who at least seem comfortable sweating in leather breeches while the tourists run loose in tank tops and halters). Because there's limited training, some reenactors seem way too smug: maybe because their long-dead relatives came over on the Winken, Blinken, and Nod. And some are just stupid.

"She's completely wrong about that," I whispered to Tom when our teen-aged guide said a lathe was once used in a way it couldn't possibly be. Still, she wasn't as far off as a tag misidentifying a two-foot-long wooden cylinder in a Michigan antiques store. It claimed: 1880's Hand-Crafted Wooden Pipe. The thing was actually the base of a 1930's Sears dining-table.

162 miles