During the height of Covid, I took precautions along with everyone else.  I stayed home as much as I could.  I wore a mask when I did go out.  I had a Purell pump front and center on the kitchen counter.  And I watched, and I waited. 

I watched my husband and stepson deal with symptoms and testing, initially negative and later positive.  I waited for the worst to be over and life to resume some sense of normalcy.  And I waited for the day when symptoms would find me. 

Although that day was slow in coming, it did eventually come.  After months of watching everyone else deal with it, I found myself dealing with it as well. 

Since Covid was then still prevalent, I couldn’t get an appointment for a test anywhere locally.  Literally everywhere was booked.  (Home test kits weren’t readily available yet, at least not that I was aware of.)  And since this was my first brush with Covid, I wanted to be sure.  If I had it, I wanted to know.  I booked the best slot available – one at a CVS 35 minutes away.

So it was that I found myself on a sunny Saturday afternoon a year or two ago driving from south Georgia to a small town in north Florida.  Over bridges, over hills, under canopy coverings on beautiful back roads, I drove at a leisurely pace.  The scenery that stretched out before me consisted of winding rivers and vast cypress swamps.  Scenic views in beautiful weather – even though I didn’t feel all that great physically, it wasn’t a bad way to spend the day.  Alone on the road, alone with my thoughts, and with the soothing sound of Pachelbel’s Canon filling my car, time passed quickly and easily. 

My map app finally brought me out of the woods and deposited me downtown in a small town, where standing as sentinel atop a hill, was the Wardlaw Smith House.  The brown historic marker told me the name of this impressive house and that it was somehow significant.  I made a mental note to research it later, but for now, all I had was the name and the sighting – a house with a history.  Two stories of white brick with black shutters and imposing columns on a lush lawn. 

Large old homes like this are common in small towns.  Many seem not to be private residences anymore but business offices or museums.  It made me even more curious about this place.  I continued to ponder it as I passed it and made my way to my destination. 

Wardlaw Smith.  What an interesting name.  Who was this man?  Was he kind to his wife and children, or did he view them as property?  Or was he a bachelor?  How did he make his fortune?  What did he look like?  Did he have a handlebar moustache and wear spectacles? 

Wardlaw Smith House…

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I blink and suddenly the scene changes.  It’s the summer of 1856, and Mr. Wardlaw Smith is dismounting his horse in front of the house.  He is dressed in a top hat and black suit – he is in mourning.  His father’s recent death has left him the house, the responsibility for his mother and sisters, and the pressures of providing for their future and the future of his own budding family.  He looks up as the front door opens and sees his young wife, heavily pregnant and glowing, smiling down at him.  And at that welcoming sight, his cares are eased, just for a moment.  A breeze tickles the long strands of Spanish moss draping the live oak trees in his yard, and the scent of magnolia follows him up the steps.  After a long journey, he is home. 

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I blink again, and it’s 1935.  Miss Julia Smith, Wardlaw’s great-great granddaughter is descending the grand staircase to meet young Lieutenant Harper.  All her hopes hang on this evening.  After six weeks of earnest courtship, she is certain this is the night he will propose. 

Her father likes the promise of a successful military career, her mother likes that he comes from a respectable family, but Julia just likes the way he makes her laugh.  The air is heavy with expectancy.

For his part, Lieutenant Harper also has high hopes for the evening.  His star is on the rise thanks to a recent promotion, but he doesn’t want to venture forward without this woman by his side.  He doesn’t want to envision a future without her in it.  In his pocket, he carries a small but precious burden – a ring that once belonged to his grandmother.

The Christmas tree in the foyer reaches nearly to the top of the staircase.  Holly and ivy line the banister, and the family that have gathered in this home are wrapped in the warmth of the season.  It’s a contest as to what shines more brightly – the light of the candles in the windows or the light in Miss Julia’s eyes.

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Again, I close my eyes and open them to a new scene.  It’s 1969, and the world is in uproar.  So much has changed since the first brick was laid in this house.  Mr. John Smith is at home in his study, wondering about his sons in Vietnam, worrying about finances, and wondering about the future.  He does not want to leave his home, but the repairs needed to maintain the aging house are costing a fortune.  He wants his sons to have a house to come home to, but more importantly, he wants his sons to come home. 

So many cares, so much change.  Just this summer, a man walked on the face of the moon.  Things that were never thought possible, never even dreamed of, have happened.  Where, he wonders, do we go from here? 

On this Saturday in September, his wife is enjoying a late afternoon stroll with friends, leaving him alone in the house, alone with his thoughts.

As his mind wanders, he gets up from his desk and moves to a more comfortable chair near the bookcase.  He can’t seem to focus on much of anything.  In a daze, his eyes land on a book on the bottom shelf.  It’s one of the old family books, a large leather-bound tome that he has never even opened, mixed in among genealogical records and photo albums.  He opens it and discovers the words of Mr. Wardlaw Smith, his ancestor. 

This is his personal diary, and it records much the same cares and questions he himself is now facing.  Questions about money, concerns for family, questions about the future – it’s all recorded in his elegant script.  How interesting that though much has changed since these words were written, much is still the same.  Family, love, struggles, hope – these remain even though horse-drawn carriages and top hats have faded. 

John smiles to himself, knowing that, though some questions remain unanswered, though winter is around the corner, spring will come again, just as it always has, year after year since the days of Wardlaw Smith.  Some things are certain. 

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Once I returned home from getting my Covid test (which was negative, thankfully), I forgot to Google this house, and I still haven’t done so.  I have no idea what its backstory is.  I don’t know what its current use is or if it’s still a private home. 

All I know is that the Wardlaw Smith house still stands.  Through war, through hurricanes, through political and social upheaval, across millennia, this house endures.  And from the outside appearance anyway, it appears relatively unchanged from what I imagine it looked like when it was built.  What a testimony to the long march of time, to the unfolding of history. 

Just as the man this house is named after took his place in history, just as every generation after him has taken their place, so we too must take ours.  We too have a place in history – purposes to fulfill, people to love, situations to impact.  We have much good to do.  And whether history records our names or not, may we do all the good we can.

I hope Mr. Wardlaw Smith, handlebar moustache and all, would be proud that the house that bears his name is still standing.