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Wessyngton Plantation

Wessyngton Plantation

A slave cabin on the Wessyngton Plantation

John F. Baker Jr.

The slave cemetary

Wessyngton Plantation

The parents of Samuel Clemens (Mark Twain) moved with slaves to Missouri, where he was born, from Tennessee, where he was conceived. So we sought a Tennessee location where we could experience the life and death of slaves.

There undoubtedly is no better location than the Wessyngton Plantation, established in 1796 by Joseph Washington, a distant cousin of George Washington, and no better guide around the plantation grounds than John F. Baker Jr., a descendant of Wessyngton slaves.

Over more than three decades, Baker conducted DNA testing, interviewed dozens of descendants (three more than 100 years old) and laboriously reviewed 59 rolls of microfilmed plantation records. As for the 274 slaves who worked the plantation’s 15,000 acres and made it the largest tobacco plantation in America, Baker says, “I feel I know these individuals personally.”

He has created family trees for descendants of the plantation’s slaves that are filled with 400 to 600 names. He has helped erect a stone monument to the slaves in what had been their cemetery, about a quarter-mile through fields and cow pies from the main house and the cemetery for the plantation’s white owners. He has conducted dozens of tours of a reconstructed slave quarter, not far from where 40 slave quarters used to stand.

Baker’s almost lifelong research began in the seventh grade when he felt himself drawn to a photo of four former slaves in a school textbook about Tennessee history. He soon learned that two of them were his –great-great-grandparents. His history of the plantation—The Washingtons of Wessyngton Plantation—contains more than one hundred photos, including a front-cover photo of four slaves, one of whom looks as white as the plantation’s owners and reminds us that the slaves and their owners were often literally family.

Dan Tham’s video captures some of that slave history, as told by Baker.

Loren Ghiglione

Skidmore Garrett, attorney and owner of the Mark Twain Inn

While Mark Twain never visited or lived in Jamestown, Tennessee, the town makes the most of its claim that Mark Twain was conceived somewhere, sometime within its borders.

Skidmore Garrett, attorney and owner of the Mark Twain Inn, 104 South Main St., tells us a bit of history about race in Jamestown (its population of 2,000 is 98.3 percent white), while outside uniformed representatives of the Mark Twain American Legion Post 137, stationed in the middle of Main Street, collect money from the drivers of passing cars and pickups.

Across the street, in front of town hall, the Mark Twain Post erected a monument in 1931 to “fallen comrades” killed in World War I. Down the street, next to Mark Twain Avenue, and across from Mark Twain Apparel, sits Mark Twain Park with a Mark Twain spring and a carved wooden statue of Mark Twain.

Dan Tham’s video captures our interview of Garrett on the connection of Mark Twain’s family to Jamestown and a geography-challenged local sheriff.

Loren Ghiglione

Not every day on the road is as idyllic as this image. Even we sometimes suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.

I woke up with the light in my eyes, because I have been sleeping with at least one lamp on every night since the start of this trip (Embarrassing Admission #1). Vestigial childhood anxiety about the dark has made a ruthless comeback after a couple decades of tactical repression. Being on the road and being untethered to the places we visit and the people we meet has made me much more vulnerable to the demons of my past.

But before I noticed the light, I noticed the headache. It was a searing, splitting, shrieking number that conjured Medieval images of tiny demons hammering a man’s head with picks and scythes. I wanted to cry, but doing so worsened the pain, so I writhed on the motel bed, a mute sufferer.

I dialed Alyssa’s number, woke her up, requested pain medication and hobbled next door, arms outstretched, eager for Advil.

“Do you want two or three?” Alyssa the Apothecary asked.

“Three…” I muttered, wincing.

“You don’t look so good,” Alyssa said.

“I know.” I thanked her and downed the pills with a swig of water.

They didn’t help. We were due in an hour at the Tennessee State Fairgrounds to meet Sami Safiullah, a high school friend and student at Vanderbilt. Sami was going to take us to Eid ul-Adha, a Muslim festival commemorating the sacrifice of Abraham. I had grand plans of filming the prostrations and the sermon and capturing an interview with Sami afterward, discussing what it’s like to be a Muslim in Nashville. I grabbed the video equipment and walked out of the motel room, the migraine beating like so many Taiko drums, and encountered the ethereal sight of Alyssa, who, after being trained by a couple YouTube videos, was wrapped up in a green hijab. I thought to myself, Well, if Alyssa has the sticktoitiveness to see what Eid is all about, surely I could deal with this headache.

I ended up vomiting in the Fairgrounds parking lot and hugging Sami (it’s been more than a year since I last saw him) over the putrid content of my breakfast. It was then that Loren and Alyssa decided it would be best if I went to the hospital.

Sometimes it’s hard to remember when you’re putting in a thousand miles a week and meeting incredible people with moving stories to tell on a daily basis that you are indeed mortal and subject to the whims of illness and bad luck just like everyone else is.

In the emergency room of the Vanderbilt University Medical Center, I dozed off for hours at a time in a hideous greenish hospital gown. Nurse Nikeisha Michaeux stuck my arms three times with needles, looking for a vein that wasn’t flat. As the IV drip seeped its saline contents into my body and as I looked over at my travel companions—Loren, ever the workaholic, busy on his laptop and Alyssa, propped against the wall, sleeping and reading in equal measure—I felt incredibly blessed. There’s something about being carted around in a wheelchair, getting a lumbar puncture and a CAT scan and hearing the reassuring beep of the EKG machine that left me feeling especially spunky.

Here I was! Living the dream of every American romantic, a dream fabled in countless travelogues and backed by millions of ad dollars on the Travel Channel. This hospital visit wasn’t an inconvenient setback at all. Indeed it was all part of the package. It was a fine-print clause in the job description for vagabonds. This was so Americana.

What made it all worth it was getting an email from my father.

Dan,

You should watch the CPR video,it will be helpful.

(Embarrassing Admissions #2, 3, 4, 5)