the two histories

On Monday I found myself at Monticello, wandering through row after row of veggies, with views only of vineyards and orchards and Jefferson's favorite trees. The house itself was incredible. Every detail was carefully designed, down to the triple hung windows that double as doors if fully open. His designs put most architects' work to shame and not because of the extravagance of the home, but possibly because of the amount of time he spent conceiving of his ideas and his respect for the site he inherited. The house was full of books and seed dryers and gadgets he invented. It was surrounded by his gardens, mostly experimental. He believed that one of the greatest gifts you could give to a country is a useful plant. He sent olive trees to the south, and cultivated many exotic plants. He kept detailed notes in his garden book carefully recording the phenology of his gardens.

After wandering through a bit of our history, the history we miss out on in the west, I met up with Andrew and we wandered through a bit more history: the UVA campus, or grounds, rather. We hopped fences and strolled down the Lawn and explored the oldest buildings on the grounds. We wandered through the gardens and past the new architecture building under construction. We nerded out about buildings and snuck into the library that resembles the library in Ghost Busters with its green narrow stairwells and maze- like layout.

The experience made me realized the difference between knowing a place (saber) and knowing a place (conocer). In Oregon I grew up on what was historically tribal land. I grew up in what should have been a reservation. The US government carelessly threw together three tribes that were historically enemies. The sold their land for money. They have no reservation. I grew up as a minority in a 80-90% native community. I grew up with stories of Captain Jack; we went to pow wows and herded cattle and raced horses.

every household must own a gun remains in the legislation of the town of Chiloquin. We had several. We had a couple bows and practiced by target shooting hay bails. We shot clay pigeons. I know cowboys, the real kind.

I don't know the east. I don't know the 'history' of our country. And so we met for the third time. The first: Nashville. The second: NYC. The third: Virginia, The Declaration of Independence, the home and life of Thomas Jefferson, The South.