Plantation
So here we are. The day most people shuttle back to work, sip crap coffee in their cubicles, and chat with coworkers about their long weekend of sun, fun, and hot dogs. Myself, I've been out of town since early Thursday morning attending a friend's wedding in Richmond, VA.
The wedding was held on the grounds of a old southern plantation--yes, that kind of plantation--deep in the woods an hour outside of Richmond. Despite what some believe to be the long-dead fantasy of movies and novels, Civil War era plantations very much exist--at least architecturally. The original family was long gone, the rusted farm equipment stood silent, and tourists poked their heads into clap-board shacks formerly occupied by slaves.
Like many other plantations throughout the South, the grounds were now a tourist attraction and available for functions like weddings. You could visit the Gift Shop and pick up coasters, keychains, books, and other crap most likely filled with the revisionist history of the founding family. Little museum style signs were mounted to poles and rammed into the grass next to anything, and everything, that looked old.
Sitting outdoors in the warm sun, feeling the warm humid air punctured by soft jolts of cool breeze, I blurred my vision, closed my ears, and tried to imagine the same setting in a different time, a different nation.
Blur out the signage, the outdoor lighting, the automobiles, and of course, the cheesy DJ shouting provocations while spinning "Blistered in the Sun," and you're almost there. Modern comforts fade. Laughter and music give way to the sound of wind and buzzing of flies. Horses stomped their hooves and snorted in the afternoon sun. Rusted machinery on the cusp of the field came alive and squealed with pleasure. Pebbles on the driveway crunched under carriage wheels entering the wrought iron gates.
And like a slap on the cheek, your wife taps you on the shoulder, asking if you're alright. Your sensory snaps back. 2002. The clothes, the music, the haircuts, the bounty of finger foods, the wine bottles with perfect typography, the young bride dancing up a storm. Your wrinkle of time evaporates, releasing the pain, the joy, the politics, and the countless untold stories of the plantation's past. Life is happening all around you, and your wine glass has run empty.
