The only surviving image of Dr. Thomas Walker, Virginia Historical Society

Since it’s almost Independence Day, I decided to post about someone in my family who was involved with the revolution. Sure, there are the likely suspects: George Washington, John Adams, and Thomas Jefferson. And, they are indeed family members on either my mother of father’s side. But we all know those stories. One of my favorite distant grandfathers wasn’t as well known as the these others. Dr. Thomas Walker was born in 1715. He was Thomas Jefferson’s guardian, the first white man to explore Kentucky, and did a whole batch of impressive things.

But I like him because he risked everything for the revolution. By 1776, Dr. Walker was 61 years old and one of the wealthiest men in Virginia. He wasn’t a destitute revolutionary; he was firmly set as a member of the gentry. It would be as if a comfortable CEO of a Fortune 500 company decided to join a revolution today. Typically comfortable old white guys don’t do this. There is also an old family tale that is probably stretched, but who knows.

In 1781, British Colonel Banastre Tarleton marched on Charlottesville with the intent to capture then Governor, Thomas Jefferson. When the British Army reached the family estate, Castle Hill, my distant grandmother and Dr. Walker delayed them by preparing a fine breakfast. Legend has it they also supplied liquor. This gave the patriot Jack Jouett time to warn Governor Thomas Jefferson and the Virginia legislators of Tarleton’s plan to capture them, and they escaped.

Just after the American Revolution, a traveling author visited Castle Hill and wrote an account of his interview with Dr. Thomas Walker:

“One day, in a chat, while each was delivering his sentiments of what would be the state of America a century hence, the old man [Walker], with great fire and spirit, declared his opinion that, ‘The Americans would then reverence the resolution of their forefathers, and would eagerly impress an adequate idea of the sacred value of freedom in the minds of their children, that if, in any future ages they should be again called forth to revenge public injuries, to secure that freedom, they should adopt the same measures that secured it to their brave ancestors.’”

— Thomas Anbury (Travels Through the Interior Parts of America, 1776-1781)

I recently read an article about two families that reunited; one side of the family was white, the other was black. Their connection was a farm in 19th century Virginia. Of course, they were slaveholders and slaves. The inspiring part of the story was that both sides, when reunited, talked about the issue head on. They didn’t skirt around the elephant in the room.

I recall talking with my good friend Dori Tunstall at a conference. Tunstall is a family name we share, and we joked about how we might be related. Believe me, I’ll take credit any day to have someone as accomplished and intelligent as Dori in my family. While we were telling stories, we veered into a discussion about slavery, The people around us began to have that awkward smile on their faces, as if we had told a really offensive joke. I guess I should add slavery to sex, politics, and religion as subjects one shouldn’t discuss at a party.

I recently found images from one of my favorite books as a child, The Fireside Book of Favorite American Songs, Illustrated by Aurelius Battaglia in 1952. The site www.goldengems.blogspot.com is a treasure trove of fantastic imagery. Many of the images illustrate songs Stephen Foster wrote. Many of Foster’s songs have a romantic vision of the old south. The illustrations depict cavalier and chivalrous men, refined and delicate southern ladies, and happy slaves picking cotton. My mother is a true romantic, but when she read this book with me, she made it very plain that the reality was not as depicted.

Enjoying these images is a contradictory experience. They are light-hearted and well executed. But many of them are loaded with political baggage. We know the happy images are, in fact, portraying human beings in bondage. It would be easier to put the book away and pretend it doesn’t exist. I think it is better to look at these images, enjoy their technique, but understand them, and face the issue head on.

The Fireside Book of Favorite American Songs, Illustrated by Aurelius Battaglia, 1952

The Fireside Book of Favorite American Songs, Illustrated by Aurelius Battaglia, 1952

The Fireside Book of Favorite American Songs, Illustrated by Aurelius Battaglia, 1952

The Fireside Book of Favorite American Songs, Illustrated by Aurelius Battaglia, 1952

The Fireside Book of Favorite American Songs, Illustrated by Aurelius Battaglia, 1952

The Fireside Book of Favorite American Songs, Illustrated by Aurelius Battaglia, 1952

The Fireside Book of Favorite American Songs, Illustrated by Aurelius Battaglia, 1952

The Fireside Book of Favorite American Songs, Illustrated by Aurelius Battaglia, 1952

The Fireside Book of Favorite American Songs, Illustrated by Aurelius Battaglia, 1952

The Governor's Palace, Colonial Williamsburg

Last week, I traveled through North Carolina and Virginia. Part of this visit was for speaking engagements. I also wanted to do some family history scouting in Virginia. In the same way that people return to the county of their ancestors in Ireland, or the village in Italy, I wanted to visit my roots. The only experience I have of Virginia is either stories told by my grandmother, or history books. I expected that I would be a cousin to everyone I met on the street. Oddly, this wasn’t the case. As I was reminded, it’s not 1850. I was surprised to find many streets named after family members, and Colonial Williamsburg was like a family reunion. I had some of the best fried-chicken of my life. I met some remarkable people working incredibly hard for their community. And, I now know what Henrico and Albemarle counties look like.

My grandmother talked about Virginia in a poetic and tragic way. I assumed that it was because she was dramatic. But, I found myself feeling the same way. I felt a constant undercurrent of family history everywhere I went. I thought about the great achievements and terrible deeds committed. The entire time, I was aware that all of these people were gone, all of their accomplishments completed by the 18^th century, and that the families had long ago dispersed. I definitely felt the ghosts of many of them at each stop. Whether it was Peter Meriwether Fry at the Jefferson Hotel, or Dr. Thomas Walker at Castle Hill, or Thomas Jefferson at Monticello, I could see their world through my eyes.

Monticello

George Wythe, Elizabeth Taliaferro Wythe House

detail, Monticello

detail, Declaration of Independence

detail, Declaration of independence

detail, gravestone, Colonial Williamsburg

garden marker, Monticello

Brochure, The Jefferson Hotel, Richmond

Robert Carter house

paint color detail, Colonial Williamsburg

paint color detail, Colonial Williamsburg

paint color detail, Colonial Williamsburg

Peter Meriwether Fry, 1895, The Jefferson Hotel

Today I’m in Richmond. I spent yesterday in Raleigh with the enormously generous and patient Denise Gonzales Crisp. I’m staying at The Jefferson Hotel. I was recommended to try another hotel that was less stodgy, but I’m, yes, stodgy. It suits me fine. I also decided to stay here because my grandmother’s Uncle Peter Meriwether Fry was the hotel’s long-time general manager from its opening in 1895.

Like most of the “official” information I have, there is no mention of anything salacious. In this instance, this could be true, as I never heard my grandmother say anything bad about her Uncle. And in Southern terms that would have been, “Well, I’d rather not say anything.” I have an old clipping from “Men of Mark in Virginia” published in 1908. It’s rather dry. But I like what is written between the lines.

The tone reads pleasantly and suggests a life of peace and harmony, but any of our lives could be rewritten in these terms. Clearly there was an issue of a lack of purpose, he tried agriculture and didn’t like that. He preferred to read about history, but was pressured to take on law, which was a common family profession. He dropped that and ended up in the family business as his father owned several resorts. It drives me mad that there is so little substance here. However, in the Jefferson’s little historical case, I found a nice portrait of his daughter at her Coming-Out party. Supposedly, he made a scrapbook at the Virginia Historical Society. That will be for my next visit.

FRY, PETER MERIWETHER, was born in Richmond, Virginia, March 21, 1856. His parents were Col. William H. Fry and Jane Margaret (Watson) Fry. His ancestry begins with Joshua Fry, who was educated at Oxford University and settled in Essex county, Virginia, between 1710 and 1720. He filled many public offices; was master of the grammar school at William and Mary college; professor of mathematics; member of the house of burgesses, and presiding justice and county lieutenant of Albemarle. With Peter Jefferson, the father of Thomas Jefferson he made a most interesting map of Virginia. In 1754 he was commissioned by Governor Dinwiddie as colonel and commander-in-chief of the Virginia forces with George Washington as major and next in command. He was stricken with fever at Fort Cumberland, and Washington and the whole army attended the funeral. On a large oak tree Washington cut the following inscription which can be read to this day: ” Under this oak tree lies the body of the good, the just and the noble Fry.”

Rev. Henry Fry was the second son of Col. Joshua Fry, and the latter was father of Joshua Fry, the great grandfather of the subject of this sketch. His grandfather was Hugh W. Fry, who was in business for years in Richmond, was president of Hollywood cemetery company, and of the old Dominion Iron and Nail works, and had a share in other business enterprises. His father, Colonel William H. Fry, was in business in Richmond for years, was captain of the Richmond light infantry blues and colonel of the 1st Virginia regiment, and during the latter part of the war was stationed in Richmond in charge of Camp Lee. He owned an interest in several summer resorts, and was one of the best known men in Virginia.

Peter Meriwether Fry, the subject of this sketch, spent his time in early boyhood partly in the city and partly in the country. While he had no regular tasks, he would assist on the farm during the summer with many things. He had a private tutor until he entered the Virginia Agricultural and Mechanical institute, where he was graduated in agriculture in 1876. Mr. Fry read a great deal of history and literature and put much time upon the study of law, but never graduated or practiced the profession.

He began the active work of life as chief clerk at the Alleghany Springs during the season of 1876, representing his father’s interest, liked the hotel business and determined to make the work his profession. From 1876 to 1895 he was chief clerk at the Alleghany Springs and the Greenbrier White Sulphur Springs, and since 1895 he has been employed at the Jefferson Hotel the finest hotel in the South first as chief clerk for one year and afterwards as manager.

Mr. Fry is a member of the Hermitage Golf club, and president of the Richmond Chapter of the V. P. I. Alumni association. He has always been fond of athletic sports, preferably

base ball, but he has little time for such things at present.

In politics Mr. Fry, is a Democrat, who has never swerved from his party allegiance. In religious preferences he is a member of the Episcopal church. His advice to young men is never to keep so busy as not to have a little time each day for exercise in the open air.

On June 15, 1897, he married Miss Irene Virginia Hancock, and they have had three children all of whom are now (1907) living.

His address is the Jefferson Hotel, Corner Franklin, Jefferson and Main Streets, Richmond, Virginia.

great-great grandmother Octavia Walker Fry White, my grandmother, great-great grandfather William Powell Shields Booker, 1902

This week, I’m traveling between North Carolina and Virginia to do a series of lectures. Since my mother’s side of the family is an old Virginia family, I’ll be posting this week about family stories. If this bores you to death, come back next week, we’ll be back to design. Otherwise, I’ve got courage, lies, death, murder, and love affairs to cover.

My grandmother, Janice Ann Booker Flint, was one tough cookie. On the surface, she couldn’t be more genteel. She spoke in a slow Virginia drawl, and was always reminding me that men should always seat a women facing out at a restaurant, or it was tasteless to monogram too many things, or a life without service was not a life. She dressed in pastels and liked large hats. This, however, was the same woman who, at 15, had homesteaded in Aspen with only her mother. For her entire life, she believed her father had died in an elevator accident in Chicago in 1914. After she died, we learned that he had actually simply walked out and lived the rest of his life in Florida.

She learned to shoot, and claimed she was the only woman in the valley to shoot a bear. She raised three daughters by herself, but never seemed to work. There was a rumor that she worked in a brassier factory for a week during the war, otherwise she wrote poetry. She wasn’t the type of grandmother who made cookies. In fact, I never saw her cook anything. Our great Aunt Weegie (a nickname) did all the cooking and cleaning and stayed with my grandmother from 1935 until she died in 1988.

My grandmother taught me that people were contradictory, and you could definitely follow your own path. I inherited her white and wavy hair, features, and hopefully graciousness.

Jance Ann Booker Flint, and great grandmother, Katharine Fry White Booker, Aspen, 1916

Janice Ann Booker Flint, 1918

Janice Ann Booker Flint, 1969

Janice Ann Booker Flint, me, my aunt Barbara, my mother, great-aunt Weegee, 1967