HISTORY
History, especially American Colonial history, is one of my favorite subjects. I’m fond of reading books about our country’s Founding Fathers. I love visiting Colonial homes, like Washington Irving’s Sleepy Hollow estate. And for two years now, I’ve dressed-up as a pirate wench for Halloween.
I live in a locale with a rich, historical tradition. Slavery, decimated Native populations, piracy, political corruption — this place had it all. Europeans settled this area beginning in the early 1700’s. The city I live in was incorporated in 1739. That’s when there were enough taverns to entertain the transient population of sailors.
The city sits on a high bluff. It overlooks a river flowing directly to the Atlantic Ocean, just 20 miles south. The city became an important port for the inflow and outflow of trade goods in the 18th century. And the area was a vital source of naval supplies (like tar) derived from the primeval pine forests (now gone).
They used tar for building boats. “Tarring and feathering” political opponents was also popular. In the Civil War years, the port served as a shipyard for building naval vessels. By then, they needed even more taverns.
In the historical district, I’ve done the narrated ghost tour (every city seems to have one). I have a couple of favorite stories. One involves a ghostly man on horseback, in Colonial garb, dashing up and down one of the streets.
They say the apparition is a handsome, young gentleman. I’ve been on that road at night when he should be visible. But I’ve yet to run into him. I’ve gotten the brush-off from real men — why should a ghost be any different?
The other tale involves a married couple appearing at The Basket Case, a local store that used to be a hotel. The two of them stare angrily at the store merchandise and then disappear. If you were ghosts expecting a tumble in bed, but instead you’re in a gift store, wouldn’t you be pissed?
I prefer walking around town, reading about the area’s history via historical plaques and markers. Many are located near the front doors of personal residences. And most of the homes are set well back from the road. So you need to have exceptional eyesight or stand on someone’s porch to read the plaques.
I don’t know about you, but the latter makes me feel like a “peeping Tom”. When I stroll up to the door, it’s awkward if the homeowners are sitting outside. Using binoculars is only slightly less creepy – I still look like a pervert. So I quickly glance at the plaques as I walk or jog by. Repeating this over many months allows me to glean the essential information — like “John Doe, born x date, died y date”.
Obtaining historical recognition doesn’t seem difficult. George Washington apparently slept all over town — there are a lot of plaques on that. If you wrote a book on the city or were a philanthropist of some kind, you got a plaque.
If a homeowner was a judge or public official, they definitely got a one. There must have been bordellos in town, but I haven’t seen any markers for them. I guess the judges, politicians and philanthropists knew where they were — plaques weren’t needed.
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