The Joys of Learning Neighborhood History

We spend much of our time concerning ourselves with places and people far removed from us. The things closest to us, by contrast, often become negligible and disposable. If you make an effort to reconnect with your neighborhood, town, and community, you may come to see your home in a new light—hallowed by time and history, and perhaps even imbued with heroism or romance.

Once upon a time, people had a profound attachment to their home—their town or neighborhood or patch of land—and its history and traditions. They attended band concerts on the green, watched baseball games and parades, witnessed the dedication of a Civil War cannon in the town square. In the evenings they strolled through their neighborhood greeting neighbors on their front porches, where Sheriff Andy Taylor strummed his guitar with Opie and Aunt Bea.

Then, with the growth of urban life, traffic, chain restaurants, and mass communication, we became more interested in what was happening in Angola than what was happening in our backyard. The backyard itself became uglier and less interesting through neglect. History itself ceased to matter, so absorbed were we in the whirl of the new. In short order we became anonymous, brain-befogged beings, walking city streets with our heads down staring at pieces of plastic (and occasionally bumping into large poles of metal).

Such is the romantic-nostalgic view of things, which undoubtedly has elements of truth in it. As for myself, I have been making a conscious effort lately to learn about the history of my suburban neighborhood in Alexandria, Virginia, something that didn’t occupy me much before. I’m not sure now what brought this new interest about, but the results have been stimulating. I don’t claim this is always the case, but it could very well be that many of us have fascinating parcels of history right under our noses. Learning about this history can help us cultivate a unique historical imagination, enabling us to see the origins and heritage of the common places and things around us. If we are lucky, we may even see the everyday become transfigured in our mind’s eye.

For years I had valued my neighborhood for its placid Charlie Brownish atmosphere, reminiscent of the 1950s and early ‘60s, as well as its proximity to greater centers like historic Old Town Alexandria and, farther beyond, Washington. For the most part, though, I just thought of it as a mundane suburb, prettier than most, perhaps, but nothing extraordinary. Thanks to my recent delve into its history, I have come to an appreciation of the neighborhood for its own sake. Among other things, I was surprised to discover not only that it goes back farther than I had ever imagined, but that it was something of a stronghold for loyalism—loyalism to Great Britain during the Revolution, and loyalism to the Union during the Civil War.

I was astonished to learn that the seeds of my neighborhood were planted as far back as 1723, when a Virginian named Daniel French built a farm and manor house on the site, the original location of which I can still visit on my daily walks (currently there is a modern housing development there). The farm, called Rose Hill from the flower beds in the front yard, passed on to French’s son, Daniel French, Jr. The junior French was a loyalist to Great Britain in the lead-up to the American Revolution. This might have been dangerous for French, but he was saved by his friendship with George Washington, who lived in nearby Mount Vernon. It may have been significant, however, that when French tried to sell his estate to Washington, Washington refused. The Independence movement was on, and Washington would shortly be called up to lead it to war.

Among Daniel French’s other accomplishments was building nearby Pohick Church, the Episcopal house of worship patronized by both George Washington and George Mason. Debates among historians about the nature of Washington’s religious beliefs have often centered on how often George and his family took pains to travel on horseback from their home at Mount Vernon over the sludgy and unreliable country roads to the Pohick Church.

It is said that in the 18^th century, you could stand at a high vantage point at the Rose Hill farm and see as far as the Potomac River and Mount Vernon. The farm remained in the family for the ensuing generations, up till the Civil War, when new strife entered the neighborhood in the form of Mosby’s Raiders. Mosby’s Raiders, led by Colonel John Singleton Mosby, were a Confederate cavalry outfit famous for carrying out lightning strikes on Union targets.

Virginia had two rival governments during the Civil War: there was the Confederate government, and there was Restored Government of Virginia, which remained loyal to the Union. Francis Harrison Pierpont, the governor of the Restored Virginia, became a prime target for the Raiders and, on September 28, 1863, Mosby’s men rode in search of him. They expected to find him at Gadsby’s Tavern (now in Old Town, Alexandria) but, not finding him there, burned a railroad bridge and rode straight to Rose Hill Farm, hoping instead to capture Pierpont’s aide, Col. Daniel Dulaney—a descendant of Rose Hill’s founder, Daniel French.

The soldier who burst into the farmhouse was none other than Daniel Dulaney’s own son, named French Dulaney (yes, the names are a little confusing).

This confrontation—the young Confederate versus his father loyal to the Union—would have made a great climax to a play or opera. We even have some of the dialog on record. The son, about to arrest his own father, greeted him thus: “How do, Pa, I’m very glad to see you.” To which the unionist father replied, “Well, sir, I’m damned sorry to see you.” And they dragged the elder Dulaney off to Richmond.

You’d never know any of this to look at the modern neighborhood today. Yet this past is hidden there in plain sight and can be conjured up using the lenses of a historical imagination. (Before I forget, I’d like to register a brief word of praise to the suburb, that much-maligned place that mediates between city and country.)

This to me is an exciting slice of history. But even better is when the history of a local place has a personal connection with you or your family. Then history strikes very close to home. Genealogy has had a boom in recent times owing to the desire of many to delve into their origins and roots. If we’re lucky, some fragments of the past have been passed down to us through word of mouth and no research is necessary. There’s one story that has been passed down in my family which I have always found poetically profound, particularly if you happen to be a Catholic.

Several generations ago, some relatives of mine immigrated to America from Italy. They settled in a town called Baptistown. They settled, however, not knowing whether there was a church in town or nearby at which they could worship. A young boy of the family rejoiced to find a church along the side of the country road. What he and his folks didn’t realize, though, is that there’s a solid reason why the village was called Baptistown. The young boy entered the church…and immediately burst into tears, because, as he phrased it, Jesus wasn’t there; there was no crucifix, nor image of the Holy Family to be found.

In time, the family built a Catholic church in town, to which my grandfather laid the cornerstone. And that is the story passed on to me about how the little country church Our Lady of Victories came to be.

I recount these stories not because I assume everybody will be interested in these particularities or relate to them as I do. It is only to illustrate the point that an interesting and significant past is often hiding beyond the commonplace things around us. The people who settled our country often came armed with strong convictions, and what they did while here was often imbued with drama, and that drama that left its mark on the places where we now live.

We spend much of our time concerning ourselves with places and people far removed from us and pursuing professional responsibilities that carry our minds far and wide. The things closest to us, by contrast, often become negligible and disposable. It’s well worth our while to reconnect with these smaller local elements in our lives, such as the neighborhood, town, and community, with their distinctive histories and aesthetics. It’s a good thing to live in one’s home instead merely taking up space in it. If you make an effort to do this, you may come to see your home in a new light—hallowed by time and history, and perhaps even imbued with heroism or romance.

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The featured image is courtesy of Pixabay.