On Sunday, March 10, we left Becky Fontaine's retirement community and drove west on I64. The wind gradually increased until the steering wheel of Harvey felt like the helm of a supertanker caught in a typhoon. When embankments or dense woods fell away from the side of the road, yielding to pastures or patches of concrete or intersecting roads, the crosswind gusts hurled us out of our lane. The sides of the motor home - tall, long and flat - propelled us back and forth across the road like jibs the size of mainsails.
We intended stopping in Charlottesville for the night. After a short visit to Thomas Jefferson's house, we'd rest up at the local KOA. The local KOA wasn't open, but more on that later.
Our tour guide in Monticello was Patricia Abbitt. Short, brownish blonde with blue eyes, Ms. Abbitt brimmed with almost unflappable professionalism, enthusiasm and devotion to historic truth. But she did flap once. When asked by a tourist lady, much blonder and much less concerned with true history, if Mr. Jefferson had practiced Feng Shui in designing Monticello, Patricia stopped for a moment and blinked. Then, by way of answer, she remarked that Jefferson was a man of science before continuing her monologue.
I liked Monticello, just as I liked the books I've read about Jefferson. He was the consummate Democrat: brilliant, loving and flawed. I liked the weather vane repeater on the ceiling of the portico. It was a metal arrow, connected by a rod to the vane on the roof and pointing the wind direction on the compass points marked on the ceiling. Quirky, but just exactly what was needed to present the wind direction without venturing out into the wind.
I liked the master bedroom. Patricia chose that room, with all of us staring at the bed nestled in an alcove between two rooms, to broach the topic of Sally Hemmings. Things like that happened quite a bit in those days. There certainly was a story circulated back during Jefferson's life. Also, recent DNA tests have conclusively shown that the Hemmings family was related to someone in Thomas Jefferson's family by blood. "Draw your own conclusions," the hostess requested of us.
We took pictures of the house from the east and the west. Delphine and I walked to the gravesite, and, while the others rode back in the tour bus, we walked down through the woods. White oaks and other trees were labeled on the trail, something Jefferson would have approved, except he would have used the Latin as well.
Pumpi was lying on the table in the sun when we arrived at the RV. We stowed both cameras, battened down and set sail again.
Out on the interstate, the wind was worse. We climbed long stretches of hillside highway, the wind pushing straight at us, then left and right across the bow. Once, while descending a steep grade, I was delighted to find the oncoming gusts were supplementing my brakes. The RV started increasing speed, then a buffeting blast nearly pushed us out of our lane and we slowed by five miles per hour. Most of the time, though, the wind was not friendly.
Every campground we checked - in Charlottesville or further along - was closed. Arriving at the Pinehurst motel in Covington, Virginia just after six p.m., we were tired and resolved to motel-camp. Boondocking, we'd discovered at Becky's, is neither free nor hassle-free.
