HERITAGE LOST
The old Gordon Inn, dating from the
1700’s, was more than likely the origin of the name for the town of
Gordonsville. Our high school class took a field trip to tour the building
from bottom to top. It sat on large piece of property with many trees. The
state or some preservation group erected a large stone monument on the
corner of the property near Main Street. When I returned from World War II,
I could not believe that the property had been cleared, with the exception
of the monument. I am not sure if the monument is still on the site. I was
told that the two hundred year old plus building was demolished to make way
for the construction of a tourist court.
Apparently the proposed development
fell by the wayside. Such a waste; like selling your namesake with no
thought to ultimately gain nothing. I have never forgiven the citizens of
that town for the loss. Evidently the war erased any concern about their
heritage and its preservation.
ENDINGS AND BEGINNINGS
In the summer of 1939, Tom Downer
decided that he wanted to go back to house painting in a business already
established by his two brothers in Louisville, Kentucky. Since preparations
for my attendance at the University of Virginia that fall were already in
progress, Tom’s departure as the manager of the farm came as a surprise to
us. Tom left and Ruth soon followed.
Mother’s brother Alwyn died
suddenly. His immediate family was divided to live with others. Three came
to our area: Lucille went to live with Lucy and Jack Watkins, Frank, to Nell
and Jim Watkins’ home, and Mary Catherine joined our family. Suddenly,
having a “sister” younger than I was a wonderful experience. Her arrival was
a lot of comfort to Mother who was the last family member left on the farm
that September.
Mother never learned to drive the car so to have a
driver readily available, I obtained my driver’s license in Orange, Virginia
at the age of 12. I asked her one day if she was interested in learning how
to drive and she surprised me by saying yes. She took the driver’s seat and
we started out. With a little coaching, she did well. We turned on Route 231
and were riding at about 35 miles per hour. As we approached the left turn
to Lindsay, I cautioned her to slow down. The Lindsay road was angled back
about 45 degrees. She kept driving too fast for the sharp turn and
practically made the corner with the car tipped on two wheels. Instead of
continuing toward Lindsay, she kept turning. We ended up straddling a ditch
where the car finally stopped. We looked at each other and burst into
laughter.
The damage to the car was a broken front axle. I doubt that Mother ever got
behind a steering wheel again. Fortunately one of the farm hands could drive
and took Mother and Mary wherever they needed to go. One last recollection:
I mounted the bare back of Jack the mule to ride to the dairy barn. He was a
lively one, and I could not guess what he might do. This time he bolted and
started running down the hill with me clinging to his back. Mother was in
the yard and saw him take off and yelled, “Stop that mule!” With just a
bridle to control him I slid down to the base of his neck and was able to
lock my feet together to stay on. When Jack slowed from a gallop, I knew
that he was not going to lose me. Soon we were walking normally to the dairy
barn. I thought that the whole thing was a howl and a fitting end to my life
on the farm.
