Fanlight

Demolition by Neglect

Its fanlight, that semicircle of recessed glazing immediately above the three-panel double doors in the entryway, had been smashed.

Where clapboard siding of the front walls had not yet peeled, a filthy accumulation of grime from passing traffic appeared, despite its distance above the Old Carolina Road.

For a moment, his eyes took in the symmetry of the pediment and raked architrave, the smooth curves of the echinus topping Roman Doric columns.

It was a short walk from the bridge where Goose Creek seasonally overflowed its banks, and with it, stopped both north and southbound traffic.

The missing six-over-six casement window on the north side, had been replaced with unadorned plywood nailed from the inside, when the window was blown in.

The Parish House with four-columned Greek Revival porch, had slowly sunk into decrepitude in recent years, with the chaos of weather and neglect taking its toll.

That small edifice, and its descent into ruin, recalled the recent destruction at Notre Dame: he could not avoid comparisons. The signs and symbolism of faltering religious practice in Western Europe, and in the Mid-Atlantic States north, appeared wherever they were sought.

What was once touted as moral turpitude, faded with retiring generations, replaced with other social priorities.

Some historical guides had suggested the outlines of Parish Hall history, the way the Carter family of Oatlands had encouraged an informal congregation that met Sundays near a blacksmith shop a dozen miles south of the nearest city during hostilities, with no means of travel but by foot.

Every local stable had been deprived of horses by both armies that marched and countermarched through this and adjacent counties throughout the War, and the compact building designed on classic Greek Revival patterns, was completed in summer 1878.

Beyond the hall, was a modest brick chapel in whose abandoned yard, a few graves could just be made out from beyond the fence where he stood.

He wondered about the Chapel, its former congregants, and whether their Dead were abandoned.

* * *

Years later, and that following Sunday afternoon, the horses returned as was local custom in April, to Oatlands Plantation. That once expansive estate had passed from private to public trust as a historical site, for tours and weddings. In that countryside of tradition, the Race was approaching its fifty-third annual running.

There had been talk of trying to limit encroaching housing developments beyond the windbreak of tall trees, so that the illusion of historically open space, at least, might be maintained long after the land holdings of the family had been subdivided and parceled out.

The rising cultural erosion he could not quite define, that cast off tradition with efforts to remove and discredit all that had ever been Virginia, made him uneasy. It was the way newcomers sought to first discredit, devalue and then destroy.

Such modern notions could only be maintained by presumption of imaginary social constructs that seemed to seep through the cracks in what had once been among the best educational systems in the world. There remained a few open places where classic architecture had been preserved, more so in Northern Virginia than elsewhere.

It was a matter of state: he did not advocate return to what came before. Likewise, ignorance was no excuse abandonment.

“You seem to be lost, Sir,” the parking attendant told him as he glanced around at the crowd. The directness startled him out of reverie. As he stood there, elegantly dressed ladies in Spring garden hats passed him, led by a fancy dog on a leash.

“Have you seen Larry or Ron?”

“The MFH and Point-to-Point organizers?” replied the young man in a navy windbreaker with yellow lettered “Parking” on the back.

The broad lane leading to the large house in the distance, flanked by ancient hickories, seemed to compress the crowd and prevent excursions into the grass track nearby, just behind a whitewashed post and board fence.

To one side under that colonnade, were the cordoned tailgate booths offered for high stakes visitors. Most would showcase an expensive car, a few card tables, perhaps a makeshift awning or tent, and a silver ice bucket with uncorked champagne for those sitting in the shade, or standing to chat with purse on one arm, and leash over the other.

He eavesdropped on nearby conversations.

“Who won Best Ladies Hat contest, and a Best Dog, last season?”

“Yes: always have. Tradition, you know.”

“Weather’s a little overcast. It could have been better.”

“Oh Charles, such a spoil spot,” a woman laughed, touching his arm lightly with a gloved hand, and held on to her hat as a brief gust passed. She was such a piece of work, especially dressed like that. Not too young, but of notable figure. Perfect makeup. Could have been a model a decade or two earlier.

He watched groups and couples pass, and instantly knew from how closely they walked, how they looked at each other as they talked, whether it was a formal or an informal coupling, and whether the race held their interest more, or less, than their companion.

In the distance, a jockey in brightly shimmering silk, led his horse through the crowd. The effortless strides of the animal were nonchalant as if he were used to being fawned over and admired. The jockey gave a sharp tug when the horse’s attention wandered as passersby stopped and marveled at his sleek gait.

“…and a labradoodle is a mixed breed…”

The passing comment brought to mind breeding, and the fundamentals of Southern culture, of bloodlines in Virginia hounds, and thoroughbreds. All grounded in biology and the obvious that neither hounds, nor horses were all created equal. Merit would shine past bloodline: he sensed that.

Among heritage Americans, the big points of identity were family and background, not culture, he mused strolling along, hands thrust in his khakis. Majority culture in the South was established, no matter how much that inherent bias was attacked by those without it.

How that mindset was transported, suddenly and shockingly, emerging in the present miasma of social media, was anyone’s guess, but the generously open green acres of places like Oatlands brought up those things he could not discuss in public.

Perhaps he was an antique from a former age, or perhaps a seer of some future vision. There were times he felt he must act to stem the tide, but it must be done anonymously.