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“. . . the default outlook at Lynch’s Ferry is that everyone in the world would
like to see the past depicted as fully and accurately as possible, preferably by using illustrative materials to expand the experience, evoke memories, and enhance learning. . . . Surrounded by authors and researchers who are working under the same assumption, it’s easy to lose sight of the fact that there are pieces of history some folks would prefer to forget—places and faces they hope never to see again.”
This issue finds longtime Lynch’s Ferry contributor Douglas McLeod hiking in
the woods around Monacan Park in Amherst County, searching for artifacts. In addition to spotting two unusual evergreen trees, he stumbles across “the rusted housing of an electric generator that once provided lights and power for light-duty appliances.” McLeod does more than correctly identify the dilapidated contraption, he knows who it belonged to, as well as when and why it was purchased. It’s just another part of his search to learn more about the “Riverside” mansion and resort that once occupied the site.
Mrs. E. Alban Watson had a similar knack for pairing long-lost objects with their original owners. And she would often follow through by acquiring those antiques and returning them to their proper historic homes. Her efforts piqued the interest of the IRS and merited a thank-you card from President Nixon.
Mrs. Watson was a founding member of the Lynchburg Antiquarian Club, an eighty-year-old organization devoted to “honoring the artistry and spirit of our forefathers.” Local writer Jessica Bemis Ward has been collecting anecdotes about the group and transcribing minutes from their early meetings. Her insightful and humorous article about the early Antiquarians begins on page 26.
Every essay Lynch’s Ferry publishes prompts a scramble to find “stuff”—artwork, photos, maps, newspaper clippings, uniforms, and other memorabilia—to help tell the story. Preserving these items is a challenge for well-equipped institutions, yet Lynchburg Museum curator Gregory R. Krueger is optimistic about at-home, do- it-yourself strategies. We hope his tips for “Storing Family Heirlooms” will result in keeping the pages of this magazine well-illustrated for years to come.
Of course, the default outlook at Lynch’s Ferry is that everyone in the world would like to see the past depicted as fully and accurately as possible, preferably by using illustrative materials to expand the experience, evoke memories, and enhance learning. Around here, even an unearthed fragment from a broken dinner plate can end up gracing the cover of the magazine. Surrounded by authors and researchers who are working under the same assumption, it’s easy to lose sight of the fact that there are pieces of history some folks would prefer to forget—places and faces they hope never to see again.
In the spring of 2004, Lynch’s Ferry published a few articles dealing with aspects of the Civil Rights era in Lynchburg. In that edition, the founder and former pub- lisher of this magazine, Peter W. Houck, wrote a brief letter that began:
This issue of Lynch’s Ferry might be considered controversial by some. Our editorial board tries to stick to historical issues and not more recent, sensational events. Looking back over a half century to what is called the Civil Rights era, we can now perceive that period as history, whether or not you believe in current political activism.
The heart-wrenching story of the Bedford Boys, the nineteen soldiers who perished during the invasion of Normandy on June 6, 1944, certainly predates
the Civil Rights era. The monument inspired by that story, the National D-Day Memorial dedicated in 2001, may or may not qualify for inclusion in Lynch’s Ferry depending on the context. The controversy surrounding the installation of a bust of Stalin at the Memorial is current news. What is appropriate? Should “The Dilemma of American Memory” appear in this magazine? Where is the line?
There was no line in the room author Kathleen Conti entered on July 7, 2010. The neat dividers placed between eras had disappeared. Decades were collapsing in on each other. The forum at the Bedford Museum was flooding with raw stinging memories of twentieth-century wars and atrocities. Those memories—unspeakable horrors and great sorrows—seem to dwell on the outskirts of time itself and are therefore never completely healed by its passage. The debate that took place on that summer evening is part of a painful, ongoing process. It is not pretty. This is how public memory (if such a thing as public memory even exists) is made.
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