You are Not in Kansas Anymore, Dorothy

I happen to love the colonial style of village and house that you find in Southern Virginia.  Today we drove through Fredericksburg while picking up and dropping of  child #1 at college after our short Easter get-together, and I admit I had location envy.  A lovely downtown area, small enough to walk and paralleling the rushing Rappahannock River, was filled with intriguing restaurants and antique stores that were exploding with ancient goodies. Just a few blocks into town, deep red brick-style homes with painted black or white shutters and steep roof lines drew my awe, as did colorfully painted Victorian-style homes with crisp, clean trim and the occasional turret.  So did the large, white, plantation-style homes with black shutters and sturdy white columns supporting the porches. I spent some quiet time happily playing the "If I lived here, I'd live in that house..." game.

I was startled back into reality, however, when a camo-wearing, cigarrette-smoking young man drove by in a souped up truck with huge tires and a confederate flag firmly planted in the bed of the truck.  There's always one, I thought as we pulled ahead.  Then, I spotted a sweet cottage that looked right out of a Civil War movie set, wooden logs caulked with a white daub, frilly curtains hanging in the glass-paneled windows. My neck craned, as we drove by, trying to read the historical marker, and I was shocked to see a confederate flag hanging over the garage door.  I slumped down in my seat, shaken. We are in The South I said to myself, as if that made it ok.  We swung onto 95N and after watching a few minutes worth of trees flash by, a huge confederate flag waved gently on right hand side of the road, as if saying goodbye and sending us back to the north.  I'm struggling a bit with what these sightings might mean, but for sure, the town doesn't look quite as idyllic to me.