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At the old Jamestown, we saw the scraggly Cyprus tree that sticks out of the James River, a last reminder of the settlement that once stood on the same spot. In the exhibition hall, we viewed artifacts dug up from the swampy ground and displayed in modern plastic cases with excerpts from diaries and letters penned by the first colonists.
On one wall are written more recent words of poet Stephen Vincent Benet. Reading them sent shivers down my spine, as he spoke of settlers who left the old world as Englishmen only to have the magic of the new transform them into something else, into Americans.
The shivers hit again as we walked*1h rough the refflica of the Jamestown fort and down to their pier where the Susan Constance, Discovery and Godspeed are docked. No matter how many times I see the tiny boats and mud and wattle huts, I will never lose my admiration for the spirit shown by our ancestors crossing the Atlantic and then sticking it out through starvation, mud, mosquitoes and Indians.
We gathered in the church, Jamestown's largest and finest building, to hear our guide tell of life at the settlement.
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