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little fort offered was a pottery shop, barely big enough for a couple of potters to squeeze into.
The colonists had no time for anything but basic necessities. It took every minute of the day to keep body and soul together and, as our guide explained it, the colonists even gave up on that.
Waving his hand towards the river, he reported that our forebearers had called it quits and loaded back onto their tiny ships for the roundtrip voyage to England when they were met by reinforcements at the mouth of the James. Persuaded by additional bodies and supplies, they turned back and saved the distinction of First permanent English colony for Jamestown by reoccupying their wretched village.
And wretched was the word for it. Wet and cold in the winter, wet, hot and bugbitten in the summer, plagued by Indians, disease and lack of agricultural know-how, it’s a wonder they made it at all.
Seeing the replica of that colony brought home the impossible odds that the Jamestown settlers labored against to maintain their precarious existence. Williamsburg seemed modern by comparison. All of us—kids and adults alike—left the fort with renewed appreciation for the heroism shown by our forebearers in reaching the New World and carving a home from the wilderness.
After the fort, we jumped forward in time: forward to the Williamsburg era in a visit to the colonial glass factory and last chance for a souvenir of our three-day adventure.
Instead of burlap, our hosts at the glass house were dressed again in hose and buckled shoes. We crowded around the guard rail to watch as they heated sand in ovens that looked like mud and stone nests put together by giant, mud-daubing wasps. Once heated to the melting point, the liquid sand was blown into vases, pitchers, candle sticks and glasses at the end of im'?pt><si&iy long pipes bycolonial ’craftsmen ,who produced 20 or more pieces in an hour.
Those of us who’d depleted the financial reserves we’d allowed for the trip leisurely enjoyed the glass blowing demonstration as our seventh graders scrounged in pocket and purse for bills and coins to buy one last present for mom and dad.
Then it was back to 20th century America and McDonald land. Lunch bought its share of excitement as we lost one of our buses on the trip to the fast food joint.
The drivers, John Henry Woodward and 'Peggy Sutphin, had earned admiration and confidence from the adult contingent by piloting school buses packed with suitcases and excited youngsters down crowded Richmond streets and along dual-lane highways without a mishap.
Like Little Bo Peep’s sheep, we knew the lost bus would eventually find its way. The only complaints that
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