Afternoon Jaunt: Alexandria Black History Museum

The Alexandria Black History Museum is tucked into a residential part of Alexandria not far from both S. Patrick Street and S. Washington Street. Though small in square footage, it offers historical context, gallery and presentation space, and books and gifts to those hoping to learn more about African American history in the Old Town area, which is heavily tilted toward the history of white statesmen and merchants.

For me, the most interesting aspect of this museum is its being partially housed in the Robert H. Robinson Library, a one-room building originally constructed for Alexandria's black residents in response to a 1939 sit-in at the larger, segregated Alexandria Library. A short video at the museum shares more details on the history of this protest, led by Samuel W. Tucker, a 26-year-old lawyer. 

The former Robert H. Robinson Library is now part of the museum.

Inside the bright exhibit space are placards spanning the history of African American enslaved people, city residents, and community leaders in Alexandria. I learned that it was especially difficult for sites of import in the local black community to be preserved during an urban renewal phase of the 1960s and '70s that made it a struggle for any building or neighborhood to be saved for its historic significance alone.

The interior of the 1940 library is now an exhibit space.

The current special exhibit, "Before the Spirits are Swept Away: African American Historic Site Paintings by Sherry Z. Sanabria," features 20 of Sanabria's paintings of sites of conscience related to African American heritage. Her portraits are each of a specific place: a church, a school, a slave cabin. The emptiness and stillness of each building, along with Sanabria's use of light, invite contemplation, and the museum has placed information about each site next to its painted depiction.

Paintings from the series "Before the Spirits Are Swept Away."

Like any good museum, this one whets your appetite to learn more, and fortunately, the gift shop provides options. I bought three books, including one with further details on the historic sites in Sanabria's paintings, and took a few brochures on both guided and independent walking tours of black history in Old Town. Also, you can learn more on the museum's website through links to videos, interviews, teacher resources, and books.

The museum is open Tuesday through Saturday from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m.

Cape Henlopen State Park: My New Favorite Delaware

As a resident of the D.C. area, my former associations with Delaware have been limited to interstate tolls on my way up to Philadelphia and a day trip to the rowdy beach town of Dewey in my 20s.

Now, I have a new and improved definition of Delaware: Cape Henlopen State Park, near Lewes. This area was recommended to me by a friend who knew that I care more about nature and history than tanning. He was right. It’s tailor-made for those in search of a quieter beach experience.

My trip involved driving on two-lane highways past cornfields that would make Iowa envious. But bring your patience, as many drivers are considerably slower than you’d find in D.C. Less than three hours after hitting the road, I was on the Atlantic coast. I drove straight to Cape Henlopen State Park, where you can either buy a day pass or an annual pass. They handed me a map with all the sights and facilities clearly marked.

A clearnose skate swims over to investigate.

Making a stop at the nature center, I discovered a child-height water tank full of clearnose skates and horseshoe crabs. You are allowed to touch both species. The skates swoosh around the tank and one another, and what is more, they apparently like to be petted. This made my inner eight-year-old extremely happy. If you duck down below the water line, they will swim over and stare at you through the glass while they think inscrutable skate thoughts.

After driving for so long, I wanted to stretch my legs, so I took the 1.5-mile Pinelands Nature Trail, an easy walk in the woods. The forest path takes a level journey through widely spaced pines, with sections of dirt, pine needles and bright white sand underfoot. The sound of your sneakers on the pine needles makes a satisfying clomp, and the only other noise is the pleasant background of frogs, insects, and birds. I passed only one other hiker.

A close-up from the piney woods.

I took a quick break to check in to my motel back on the highway, then returned with full beach paraphernalia in the late afternoon. There is plenty of parking at the main beach (at least, there was in September), as well as a large and surprisingly clean bathhouse for showering and changing. The beach was dotted with bright umbrellas, families, and retiree couples enjoying the waves.

Since I’m used to the Great Lakes, the behavior of the ocean caught me by surprise. Instead of a series of whitecaps, the water seemed serene except for one single breaker that endlessly curled over, struck the sand and surged up the beach. Walking up to what I thought was several feet from the water’s edge, I was caught off guard when the water flooded in past my knees and almost pulled me off balance with its strength. The frothy whiteness reached far up onto the sand and then receded with a slight hissing sound.

Tiny shorebirds followed each receding wave, pecking in the sand for some food too tiny for my eyes to catch. Then they’d race back up the beach ahead of the next encroaching wave.

Cape Henlopen beach on the Atlantic coast.

After leaving the main beach and following the winding park road to “the Point,” I found a vista overlooking the peninsula and lighthouse, with a tiny, quiet stretch of sand. Driving out of the park as the sun went down, I passed a herd of deer taking a twilight nibble in an open space across from the nature center.

Sunset on "the Point."

Tower 7 offers a high-level view of the park.

Strolling in downtown Lewes after dark was the perfect way to end the day. Only a tinge of cool in the air, old-fashioned lights in the windows of the 18th and 19th-century homes lining the street, and inviting shop windows made an appealing tour.

The next morning, I returned to the park to see the WWII-era lookout Tower 7, a concrete cylinder representing one of several built on or near Fort Miles. Today, a spiral iron staircase replaces the ladders used by soldiers of the time. You can climb all the way up to the top, though a wire screen shields you from both falling and getting unimpeded photos of the view. The best shots are to be gained from the wide slits a floor or two below, the same slits through which soldiers kept watch over the coast.

The whole Fort Miles area is great for exploring. The concrete barracks—the only remaining example of that type—are open and empty, allowing you to fill them with your imagined depiction of bunks, lockers and soldiers writing letters home. Historical signs throughout help fill you in on the context. The guns in the park are either replicas or real guns similar to those used in Fort Miles, but are not original to the setting.

A short uphill walk on the paved road takes you to the top of the “Great Dune,” from which you get a gorgeous view of the beach, scrubby pines and waving dune grasses. There’s a picnic table nearby, if you’ve brought provisions.

My final stop before heading home was one more visit to the water’s edge. The sky was lightly overcast, and kids were playing in the waves. Their parents watched from underneath those ubiquitous bright beach umbrellas. I wandered along the shore for a while, now more expert in planting my feet when a particularly speedy wave rushed up past me.

Beachgoers playing in the surf.

My decision not to put on my swimsuit for the stroll proved shortsighted, though, as the surf was mischievous enough to require a change of clothes when I got back to my car. But no matter. The way that being out in nature disrupts our comfort zone—sometimes playfully, sometimes dangerously—is part of its appeal.

Back at the car, knocking the sand out of my beach shoes, I felt like myself again—back in my body, the mind quiet. Summer, to me, is fundamentally this feeling: the remnants of sunscreen and sweat on my skin, windswept hair, makeup mostly gone. It’s the absence of thoughts and the sensing of the physical environment.  No one knows or cares who I am, how much I make, or what I accomplish. I belong to nothing but myself and the water.

Cape Henlopen is definitely a place I will return to. It combines so many of my favorite things: history, natural beauty, wildlife. I'm curious to see it in all seasons.