Lord Fairfax: Memories of the Barn
I moved to quiet little Warrenton in ‘89 or ‘90. I was in a very rocky relationship and I decided that it would be a good idea to take some college classes. I felt lucky when I discovered that I would not have to go to Manassas each day. I could pursue my interests in Warrenton--but that would require that I attend classes at a place called “the barn.” The barn, I thought. What the heck? I was raised in New York and had some reservations. But my curiosity got the best of me. So I made the trek to another little place called Middletown and enrolled.
Since writing had always been my strong suit, College Composition was one of the first things for which I registered. The instructor was Paula Lassiter, and I credit her with my interest in writing fiction. Until that point, my writing had been limited to interviews, research papers, and various informative articles. And one day, Paula gave a short assignment. Write a fictitious journal entry of a person who lived during an outbreak of the bubonic plague. It was the first time I actually got inside the mind of another person. I enjoyed it so much and received an A+. I still have the graded paper, and I still marvel at Paula’s comment in red pen: How Delicious!
Later, a history assignment would push me farther down the road of writing fiction. I presented antebellum and Civil War social issues through the creation of a slave diary. Through my work on that project, I realized how much I enjoy writing about people who lived during times of unrest. And I was encouraged by the instructor’s comments about my story-telling abilities.
Not only do I have fond memories of the people, but also of the place. To get to the barn, you would take route 29 south toward Opal. There was no light at the turn, and sometimes it would take quite a while before you could make the left onto the narrow dirt road leading up to the barn. The turn was about a quarter mile down from the current light to the college. The driveway was rocky and dusty, and if there was a car coming in the opposite direction, you had to squeeze over to the side so they could get by. Sometimes when it rained hard enough, some of it would get washed away, causing more bumps and ruts. I drove a small sports car back then, and I remember it bottoming out if I didn’t make the approach just right. The parking lot, too, was just dirt and rocks and was quite dusty on dry days. Arriving to class early was a good idea. There were only eight to ten parking spaces, and if there was no more room, one had to park somewhere along the driveway and walk the rest of the way up the hill. The barn was a small building, indeed an old barn it seemed. The inside was divided into a hallway down the middle and a few classes along the left and right sides. You could usually find a desk or two positioned outside the doors of a couple of the classrooms. I sat in one to take a make-up test once. There wasn’t an abundance of space. There was a small break room with a microwave in the back of the building. But not much else.
I remember taking a Psychology class in which there were only 5 or 6 students. We pulled our desks together in a tight little circle each time we met and we talked about Sigmund Freud and Phineas Gage and how he lived for years with a metal pipe through his head. It was more like a coffee klatch, but it was a unique experience and we learned a great deal. I remember Dr. Vandivere leaving open the side door, and I recall watching a little barn cat wander in and stroll around during class.
Although I was not the typical student (Is there such a thing anymore anyway?), my experience was always this: I would walk into class on the first day and find a seat somewhere in the back of the classroom. One by one, the others would wander in, looking much like me, unsure on the first day. And it never failed that before class had begun I would see them: neighbors, people from church, the lady from the grocery store. Even us uncool older folks would find a familiar face and send a friendly wave from across the room, and it didn’t feel so scary anymore.
I had the pleasure of taking art classes with Laurie Marshall. She would abandon the confines of the classroom and let us sit on the grass and sketch the hillside. There was nothing much there back then. Just a few cows and a rolling hillside, maybe a house or two. Our class painted a mural. It was, we were told, destined to be hung over the doorway at the barn. I don‘t know if it ever was, and I wonder if it sits collecting dust in storage there somewhere. It was a painting of a diverse group of students emblazoned with the words Lifelong Learners in a Global Society. Such truth. I was in my twenties when I took my first class at Lord Fairfax, and I was almost forty when I took my last one. But I never felt too old to learn something there. And that’s good because I am not even fifty, and I still have a lot to learn.
