Can we talk?

Thomas Jefferson, a family friend

    I grew up in the shadow of Monticello, one of the nation’s best known historic mansions. I lived on the west side of the Rivanna River (I lived as close as anyone could out of the flood zone), and Jefferson’s home was on the mountain on the east side of the river. We could drive up to the front gate in less than 10 minutes. There actually is a series of mountains that always seemed to overlap to me: Monticello, Carter’s, and Brown Mountain.

    Of course, TJ didn’t have electricity. And having died bankrupt, a series of owners had the home without electricity as well. In the 1930’s the house was in the possession of the foundation that was formed to preserve it. My grandfather was the electrician who brought electric lights for the first time to the mansion. I’m sure it’s been updated many times since then.

    He took my dad, then a young boy, maybe 5 or 6, to work with him. Young Harry ran around the private areas of the house, the secluded staircases, and other employee-only areas. He learned stories from people who worked around the place. Later he read books about Jefferson and newspaper articles. As a young teen on a bike, he explored the woods and trails on that mountain with his friend Bill.

    So when my brothers and I were young, we were raised with tales of TJ and Monticello. They were personalized stories, real anecdotes about our river and our neighborhood. He told them with enthusiasm, and we listened in awe. As a young adult, I researched for myself and discovered that he told them with little embellishment.

      I also had the opportunity to tour with my school groups in the spring, and later, to chaperone my little brother’s tour group when I came home from college for the summer. I also attended many Sunrise Easter services there. (They quit doing that.) Easter afforded me a chance to get there in the dark and witness the rise of the sun from that mountain top. It would be really cold up there, even if it turned out to be shirt sleeve weather later on. The sun reflected off the old glass windows, casting rainbows out onto the grand porch.
   
      The complex, or campus, which is now Monticello has grown considerably sophisticated. It was much simpler for TJ. I have witnessed tremendous changes in the tourist attraction side of the business. I’ve seen the changes in parking, access, and trams, and now a new entrance road. Further down the mountain, overlooking the southeast part of the downtown area, there is the Michie Tavern (with a restaurant and gift shop today), and a road to Carter’s Orchard on Carter’s Mountain.

      Across from the Tavern is a cemetery. The name, of course, is Monticello Memory Gardens. The name Monticello or Jefferson is used repeatedly in businesses of all sorts around here. In that cemetery are many of my relatives, including my mother. My oldest brother and I also have sites there. Trying to make it easier for one of my nieces, I lay down on the ground next to my mother’s site, just to try it out. You know, to see how it feels. It feels quiet and peaceful there despite the busy road in front of the Tavern that runs by the old Monticello gate. She laughed at me. I told her I could stand to let my bones rest there for centuries to come.

    It seems fitting. We grew up with all those tales of TJ. The local people tend to deify him at times, forgetting that he was a human, first and foremost. So there is an obsession with him and his home and his university. And we will rest there below his home in familiar territory as long as the earth lasts. Even when we are forgotten, we will be in his shadow, a familiar place.