Equal Time for Federalists

May 21-22

I spent about three hours at James Madison’s plantation, Montpelier, on Sunday. It’s only fair. I’ve been to Monticello a couple of times.

I read Madison’s record of the Constitutional Convention a few years ago and have been a James Madison fan ever since. 

When the nation was tanking under the Articles of Confederation, he wrote a letter to John Adams outlining a plan that would largely become the U.S. Constitution.

I only learned about Montpelier on Saturday morning when I looked at the map and saw that Highway 15 passed close to it. That’s why I stopped at Orange, Va.

The house has been partly restored to the state it was in when Madison retired there after his presidential years. The building had been extensively enlarged after the Du Ponts bought it at some point in the late 19th or early 20th century.

The house is open only to groups on guided tours, but that’s OK. I learned that Thomas Jefferson was a frequent guest at Montpelier. That surprised me, because Jefferson had quite different political ideas from Madison’s. 

I don’t think he was a Federalist, like Hamilton, Madison, and Jay. He had no hand in the framing of the Constitution, for instance.

I learned that the bronze of James and Dolley Madison outside the visitor center may not have been in reduced scale. The figures are small, but the docent said Madison in real life was 5 feet, 4 inches tall and weighed a hundred pounds.

A huge Cedar of Lebanon on the property was a gift to the Madisons from the Marquis de Lafayette, another house guest. 

It stands near the gate to a formal garden. The Madisons had a garden there, but the current one was developed when the du Pont family owned the estate. They also built a race track that you pass on the way from the highway to the house.

Inside the house, the entrance hall is hung with picture frames. Many have pictures in them. Many others, perhaps half, are empty save for a brief description: storm at sea, landscape, etc.

A detailed inventory was taken of the paintings at Montpelier when Dolley Madison, in reduced financial straits, sold the place after James Madison died. 

According to the docent, conservators are researching to see if they can identify and recover the missing paintings. If they can’t, then substitutes of similar subjects and of the period will be installed instead.

A reproduction of a log cabin is called the stable quarter. It was built on the site of an original cabin. Lafayette may have visited an old slave there, a woman age 104 whose daughter and 70-year-old granddaughter lived with her.

The slave cemetery was discovered because of depressions in the ground, and has remained untouched. The family cemetery, where James and Dolley Madison are buried is near the site of original farmstead, built by James Madison’s grandfather early in the 18th century.

It was right on the border in those days. Across the nearby Blue Ridge was Indian territory.

I drove south from Orange to Durham, where I saw a La Quinta franchise on a hill. I went there.

When I checked in, I asked the kid at the desk about places to eat. I had seen Red Lobster. What else is there. He mentioned Chili’s.

Something local would be more fun. 

He paused for a few seconds and then said there is a Carolina Ale House about a mile up the road.

He gave me directions, but down here everything is very complicated. There is a U.S. 15, which I took, and U.S. 15 business, which I should have taken.

Suffice to say, I found the place on the second try.

Unless you are somewhere that serves pulled pork, Brunswick stew, or Krispy Kreme doughnuts, the food in North Carolina is uninspired. 

I got a reasonably palatable rib-eye, with some garlicky mashed potatoes.

Despite the name of the place, there were very few Carolina beers on tap. 

But I managed to find a couple that were good.

Appalachian Mountain Brewing in Boone, N.C., was on tap with Groaty-Oaty pale ale. The description on the menu said it had a suggestion of oat flavor from the hops. Not sure I detected that, but it was an enjoyably crisp pale ale.

Abby’s amber from Double Barley Brewing in Smithfield, N.C., is a dark concoction, a little sweeter than the pale ale, but not too much. It went well with the steak.

The best brew of the evening was a four-pack of Appalachian Mountain India pale ale that came from Target.

Monday was semi-boring compared with the previous three days. But that’s all right. It kept me on the move, and that by itself feels great.

And it had some high points.

On the way south, a billboard told me, “Visit Fayetteville.” All right.

The town was the subject of a Jeopardy question one night. The TV game gives players an answer and they have to come up with the question.

I forget the exact phrasing, but it was something like, “It was the first town in the U.S. to name itself after the Marquis de Lafayette.” The right question was “What is Fayetteville?”

Alex Trebek, the moderator of the show, explained that the townspeople who proposed the name thought the Marquis was de la Fayette.

Actually, now that I’ve had time to check on it, it seems the name may be right both ways. Biography.com on one page gives his full name as Marie-Joseph-Paul-Yves-Roch-Gilbert du Motier de La Fayette and also uses Lafayette.

Brittanica and Wikipedia have the name both ways. 

His signature, reproduced on Wikipedia, is one word, Lafayette.

I had seen his cedar. Why not his first town? Fayetteville seemed worth a detour.

And may indeed be, but I never found out.

Even the map was hard to follow. I wound up at Fort Bragg, and had gotten so lost that I had to give up and retrace my route.

One piece of arcana turned up on the road that made whole the side trip worthwhile. 

On the way down, I had sped past a historical market headlined “Flora MacDonald.” Say what? That’s the name of the main squeeze of Bonnie Prince Charlie, the Stuart Pretender, who enlisted the Highlanders to attack England in the 1740s.

That’s colorful stuff, “Master of Ballantrae” material. Could it be the same Flora?

I found the marker on the way back. It’s in front of a Baptist church, which makes the whole thing even stranger. 

Yes, it was the same Flora McDonald. She visited her half-sister who had a plantation not far from that spot in the 1770s, about 30 years after Prince Charlie’s rebellion failed and he escaped back to France.

Who knew that Flora MacDonald ever came to America? Obviously somebody, but not me, for sure.

The sign calls her a “Scottish heroine.” She was the girlfriend of the last guy who tried to restore the Catholic monarchy in England. 

If the Baptists know that, it’s pretty tolerant of them to leave the sign up in their front yard.

At this point of the trip, I had lost Highway 15. Three U.S highways—1, 15, and 501—unite at one point in southern North Carolina. I missed where they split up and stayed on Route 1. 

Just below a town called Aberdeen, they cross again, and I was able to get back onto Route 15 south.

It’s just as well, because Route 1 took me near a charming little town called Southern Pines. Having failed to find Fayetteville, I detoured to Southern Pines instead.

It’s a cute little place with an old railroad station, and several streets of preserved, restored, or maybe replicated shop fronts. Most of them, including the welcome center, are closed on Monday.

But that’s all right. I wasn’t shopping for antiques or clothes. 

I’ve been in a number of places like this. It’s a little more boutiquey than New Hope, Pa. It’s a lot like Southampton, N.Y. 

Rehoboth Beach, Del., which I saw last December, also comes to mind.

It was a pleasant place to stretch for a half hour or so.

Some time later I was in South Carolina. I had checked out Sumter and made for that, where I’m at a Quality Inn.

There is a Cajun restaurant in the motel. The gumbos I’ve had in New Orleans and at one of Larry’s parties are better than this, but it was still enjoyable.

Alligator balls are ground alligator meatballs breaded and fried. Strange flavor. Don’t know that I’ll order them again, but am glad that I did at least once. The hush puppies were great.

I was drinking red wine because that’s what I am drinking in the room. I brought a bottle with me. Didn’t care to start with beer and shift to wine.

The people are very friendly. A man just started talking to me at the bar. He commented on my hat. He enlisted the stranger on his right to help me with directions to a sight I want to see tomorrow.

The bartender was a cute youngster in short shorts and a pullover that showed some cleavage. She has letters tattooed to her right shoulder, and I had to force myself not to try to read it. 

That could have been embarrassing, my reading her shoulder and she thinking I was staring at her boobs.

When I asked her what red wines the bar had she brought over several, including one called The Big Easy. Wait. Louisiana doesn’t make wine, does it?

This was from the Fess Parker Winery in California.

“Davy Crockett,” I said.

She had no idea what I was talking about. So I had to explain: Disney World on TV, 1950s, Davy Crockett, Fess Parker, coonskin caps. 

A musician came in and played a short set that included a jazzy blues version of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” He had a straw hat on too.

It was a great evening.

So long for now, everyone, and don’t forget your hat.

Harry