I arrived Monday evening and went directly into the activity surrounding the Hilton West Palm Beach, the headquarters hotel for this year’s events.

Contestants, parents, volunteers, state leaders and former titleholders were already gathering in the lobby.

The competitions take place at the Kravis Center, but much of the week unfolds at the Hilton.

The lobby has become the unofficial meeting place, where people renew friendships, make introductions and catch up on news from the different state organizations.

Group dinners lead into the evening competitions, followed by visitation receptions where contestants can spend time with their families and supporters.

The parents deserve particular recognition. Maddie Marchant’s and Caedyn Riddle’s parents are here, along with many other families from across the country.

Their presence is a reminder that no contestant reaches the national stage alone. Behind each young woman is usually a family that has invested years of time, travel, encouragement and sacrifice.

The stakes are also substantial. Contestants are competing not only for national titles, but for major scholarship dollars that can help finance their education and future plans.

The Miss America program remains one of the country’s best-known and biggest providers of scholarship opportunities for young women, and that purpose is evident throughout the week.

Tuesday brought an unexpected and enjoyable encounter. While at the Hilton, I recognized Miss America 2026 Cassie Donegan and introduced myself.

I had been scheduled to escort Cassie at Christopher Newport University’s Arts for All Ball last winter, but bad weather disrupted those plans.

When I mentioned the CNU event, she immediately remembered the connection. We finally met several months later - and 900 miles south of Newport News.

I have been especially honored to spend time with Miss Virginia Maddie Marchant and Miss Virginia’s Teen Caedyn Riddle. I had the privilege of helping both prepare for their national interviews this year.

Interview preparation reveals what is expected of these young women. They must think clearly under pressure, communicate their beliefs and goals, demonstrate knowledge of current events and remain composed while being questioned and evaluated.

Maddie and Caedyn put serious work into that preparation, and both have represented Virginia well in Palm Beach.

I also reconnected with Miss Georgia’s Teen, Melony Tidmore. I served on the judging panel in Georgia in June when Melony won her state title. It has been good to see her and her family again as she represents Georgia at the national competition.

One of my favorite photographs (taken by her mother Lori) from the week captures Melony and I in the middle of a lively conversation.

It reflects the personal relationships that develop through these organizations and competitions - relationships that continue after the judges’ ballots are submitted and the state crowns are awarded.

Palm Beach has provided an impressive setting for the week. I have managed to see the waterfront, the boats along the Intracoastal Waterway and the palm-lined entrance to the historic Breakers between pageant events. The heat and rapidly changing weather leave no doubt that we are in South Florida.

Wednesday evening brought my first Miss America preliminary competition at the Kravis Center. The opening number was colorful, energetic and patriotic, with red, white and blue featured prominently as the country approaches its 250th anniversary.

The contestants then competed in fitness, evening wear and onstage questions. Maddie represented Virginia with confidence and grace. Watching from the audience after having participated in a small part of her preparation made the evening especially meaningful.

The schedule has been full, with events during the day, competitions at night and visitation receptions afterward. But the energy surrounding the contestants and the enthusiasm of their families and supporters has remained strong.

There is still a lot of the week left.

The combined Miss and Teen talent competition takes place tonight.

Friday brings the “Stars, Stripes and the Spirit of Miss America” gala, honoring the program’s patriotic and service traditions and its partnership with the USO.

Then come the weekend finals, when the fields will narrow and on Sunday Miss America’s Teen and the 99th Miss America will be crowned.

Natural Bridge is enormous. The limestone arch rises 215 feet above Cedar Creek. Photographs show its shape, but not its scale. You really have to stand beneath it and look up.

The Monacan tribe knew the site long before the first European settlers reached the area. They considered it sacred ground. By the middle of the 18th century, explorers and surveyors were moving through this part of western Virginia as the colony expanded toward the mountains and beyond.

George Washington allegedly visited Natural Bridge around 1750, when he was still a young surveyor. Initials said to be his were carved high on one of the stone walls. Historians have debated the details, but Washington was certainly surveying western lands during that period, decades before he commanded the Continental Army.

Thomas Jefferson first saw Natural Bridge as a young man. In 1774, he acquired the bridge and 157 surrounding acres through a land patent issued in the name of King George III.

Two years later, Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence and helped end the king’s authority over the American colonies.

Jefferson never lost his affection for the place. In Notes on the State of Virginia, he called Natural Bridge “the most sublime of nature’s works.”

He considered building a small retreat nearby and returned several times during his life. In 1815, he wrote that he viewed the bridge “in some degree as a public trust” and would not allow it to be damaged or hidden from view.

That was a remarkably early statement about preservation. Jefferson owned the property, but he knew Natural Bridge belonged to the country and to the future.

The history continued beyond the bridge itself. Nearby Saltpeter Cave supplied material used to make gunpowder. The Great Wagon Road carried settlers through the Valley as the young nation moved westward.

Natural Bridge became one of America’s earliest tourist destinations, drawing presidents, statesmen and travelers who wanted to see the place Jefferson had praised.

Virginia eventually made it a state park in 2016. Jefferson’s “public trust” is now truly open to the public.

During America’s 250th, this was a good time to be here. We spend a lot of time debating the Founders, usually through the politics of our day. Natural Bridge brings them back to human scale.

Washington came here as a young surveyor. Jefferson came as a curious young Virginian, years before either man knew the role he would play in history.

They stood beneath the same stone arch that visitors stand beneath today.

There is something poignant about that continuity. Governments change, generations die off and political arguments come and go. Natural Bridge remains where it has always been, part of the land and part of Virginia’s story.

Botkins column link in Virginian-Pilot

On July 14, New York paused approval of large-scale AI data centers while state leaders study their impact on electricity costs, water resources and local communities. Fifteen other states have seen bills that would impose a moratorium on data centers — but none have been signed.

The decision is about far more than one state or one industry. It signals the politics of artificial intelligence have shifted from Silicon Valley to city halls, state capitals and public utility commissions across America. And Virginia has been living it.

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Home to the world’s largest concentration of data centers, the commonwealth has become the nation’s proving ground for the digital economy. Local governments have weighed billions of dollars in private investment and tax revenue against concerns about land use, transmission lines, noise, water consumption and the long-term character of their communities.

Those debates are no longer uniquely Virginian. They are becoming national.

And we are all part of the story. Most American families carry multiple smartphones, stream movies and television on demand, shop online, store photos in the cloud, rely on GPS, conduct business digitally and increasingly use artificial intelligence in everyday life. We embrace the convenience of the digital economy every day.

But those conveniences don’t exist in the cloud alone. They depend on physical infrastructure that must be built somewhere.

Every digital interaction depends on something tangible: massive data centers, electric substations, transmission lines, power plants, water systems, steel, concrete and an electric grid capable of supporting unprecedented growth in electricity demand.

America has faced this challenge before. Railroads transformed the 19th century, but communities often resisted the tracks that made prosperity possible. Interstate highways accelerated commerce while disrupting established neighborhoods. The electric grid itself became essential to modern life, even as new transmission lines and power plants generated fierce local opposition.

Every generation embraces the benefits of transformative infrastructure while debating where that infrastructure belongs. Artificial intelligence is simply the next chapter. The challenge is balancing competing public goods.

Communities want economic opportunity, quality jobs and a stronger tax base. They also want to preserve the character of their neighborhoods. Energy companies must provide reliable, affordable electricity while preparing for historic increases in demand.

Technology companies need enormous computing capacity to compete globally. Residential customers expect they should not shoulder costs created primarily by extraordinary commercial growth. Who pays for the infrastructure required to support AI may prove to be a defining political issue.

New transmission lines, substations and generating resources require enormous investment. Businesses that depend on this infrastructure need it built quickly. Families want reliable and affordable electricity. Policymakers must find a path that encourages economic growth while ensuring costs are allocated fairly and the electric grid remains dependable for everyone.

All those priorities deserve consideration. Leadership does not eliminate tradeoffs. Leadership explains them honestly. Developers should bear the costs their projects create. Utilities should communicate long-term planning with greater transparency. Communities deserve meaningful engagement before decisions are made, not after.

Public officials should resist promising unlimited economic growth without acknowledging the investments required to maintain reliable service and the infrastructure that makes it possible. Virginia’s experience offers an early glimpse of a debate spreading across America.

Artificial intelligence is already reshaping the economy. The real question is whether our political institutions can build the physical foundation on which that future depends.

The AI revolution will not be decided by software alone. It will be decided by whether America still possesses the confidence, discipline and political will to build the infrastructure that innovation demands.

David Botkins of Henrico County has spent 35 years in energy, state government, politics and journalism. He is founder and CEO of Botkins Strategies, LLC

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On Tuesday evening (last night), I attended a special director’s cut screening of Reagan, starring Dennis Quaid, at Richmond’s historic Byrd Theatre. The fundraiser benefited the Republican Party of Virginia, where I serve on the State Central Committee.

It was my second time seeing the film. But last night’s viewing wasn’t really about a movie. It was about legacy.

Before the lights dimmed, former Governor George Allen, 74, and former Attorney General Jason Miyares, 50, welcomed the audience. Listening to them speak about Reagan, it wasn’t just two former politicians talking. I was watching two men shaped by the same president.

My own connection to that story goes back more than 30 years.

I first met George Allen in 1992 while covering his campaign for governor as a young reporter for The News Leader in my hometown of Staunton. I covered his nomination and convention battle, his general election campaign and resounding victory. The following year, I traded in my reporter’s notebook for a state employee badge when I joined the Allen Administration.

Covering George on the campaign trail, working for him - it didn’t take long to recognize Reagan’s influence. It wasn’t imitation. It was something deeper. An optimism about Virginia and America, a belief in individual freedom, and a leadership style that relied more on persuasion than grievance.

Sometime later, I came to know Jason Miyares. He has visited my home while headlining a political fundraiser and we’ve crossed paths many times through Virginia politics.

While Jason represents a different generation, I hear many of the same themes when he speaks about Reagan: optimism, opportunity, faith and confidence in America’s future.

Watching George Allen and Jason Miyares together on stage, I couldn’t help but think that leadership, like history, is often passed from one generation to the next.

The evening also reminded me why Reagan has always meant so much to me. I came of age during his presidency.

Born in 1965, my formative years unfolded during the Reagan era. Patriotism wasn’t something to apologize for. America believed in itself again. Like millions of young Americans, I found his optimism contagious.

Over the years, I’ve collected Reagan books, memorabilia, artwork, cufflinks and even a life size bust of our 40th president. Those aren’t just collectibles. They’re reminders of a leader who shaped how I think about America, public service and leadership.

One of my favorite keepsakes is a letter President Reagan sent to me in 1983 that I read at my high school graduation. I’ve written about this before.

At the time, I couldn’t have imagined the path ahead - from journalism, to Governor Allen’s administration, to a career in communications and public affairs. And today, serving on the state party’s board of directors - its own very “unique” form of service.

Funny how life comes full circle. As I left the theatre, I wasn’t thinking about Dennis Quaid’s performance, excellent though it was.

I was thinking about the legacy of influence. Ronald Reagan influenced George Allen. George Allen influenced countless Virginians, including Jason Miyares and myself. And along the way, Reagan influenced me.

Reagan believed America was worth believing in. I still believe that - as did everyone in the theatre Tuesday night.

Almost four decades after leaving office, Ronald Reagan’s long shadow still stretches across Virginia and the lives of many.

Note: George Allen is chairman of the Board of Governors for the Reagan Ranch Foundation and a Reagan Ranch Presidential Scholar. Learn more here: George Allen and here: Reagan Ranch

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So here’s my unsolicited advice to Taco Bell’s CEO and PR team:

Declare a “Hold the Lettuce Day.”

For one day, or two - give away tacos with no lettuce. Lean into it. Be transparent. Use a little humor.

Tell customers:

“We’ve taken the lettuce out of the equation. Enjoy.”

Sometimes the best crisis communications strategy is to acknowledge the elephant in the room before everyone else does.

People are remarkably forgiving when companies act quickly, communicate clearly, and show a little humility.

Besides, let’s be honest: most of us were never going to Taco Bell for the lettuce anyway. 🌮

The lettuce may have started the problem, but Taco Bell’s response will determine whether customers remember the outbreak - or how the company handled it.

Get Great PR Advice Here

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I was in Charleston this past May for other reasons when I realized I was only minutes away from The Citadel.

Before leaving home, my friend H.E. “Chunk” Neale - a proud graduate of the Virginia Military Institute - encouraged me to carve out time to visit the Citadel. It proved to be excellent advice.

I expected to learn more about one of America’s oldest military colleges. I left pondering something much larger: the enduring value of institutions dedicated not simply to educating students, but to developing leaders.

Founded in 1842, The Citadel has spent nearly two centuries preparing young men and women for lives of leadership and service.

That mission comes alive inside the school’s Archives and Museum. It is far more than a collection of artifacts. It is the story of generations who accepted demanding standards, embraced personal discipline, and understood that leadership begins with character.

One exhibit that especially caught my attention recreated a cadet room from an earlier era. The beds folded neatly into large wooden cabinets during the day. Living quarters were simple, orderly, and purposeful. Every item had its place. It wasn’t difficult to imagine generations of cadets learning lessons that extended well beyond the classroom.

Elsewhere were Civil War letters written in fading ink, uniforms spanning nearly two centuries, class rings representing generations of graduates, and the original instructor’s desk from the old Citadel campus on Marion Square.

Outside stands the monument commemorating the firing on the Star of the West in January 1861, one of the opening military events leading to the Civil War.

Nearby sits an AH-1 Cobra attack helicopter honoring Citadel aviators who served from Vietnam through later conflicts.

None of these exhibits glorify war. Instead, they tell the story of service, sacrifice, and an institution that has remained remarkably faithful to its mission while the world around it has changed dramatically.

Walking the campus, my thoughts naturally turned home to Virginia.

Virginians have long taken pride in the Virginia Military Institute in Lexington. Founded in 1839, VMI and The Citadel are the nation’s two oldest Senior Military Colleges.

They have developed distinct traditions, spirited rivalries, and generations of fiercely loyal alumni, yet they share the same philosophy: leadership is earned through discipline, rigorous academics, physical fitness, accountability, and an uncompromising honor system.

VMI has produced military leaders, governors, members of Congress, business executives, educators, scientists, and public servants whose influence extends far beyond Virginia.

The Citadel has done the same for South Carolina and the nation. Their graduates have served with distinction in every major American conflict while also leading companies, classrooms, courtrooms, hospitals, and communities.

They are joined by four other federally designated Senior Military Colleges. Together with America’s five federal service academies - including West Point, Annapolis, the Air Force Academy, the Coast Guard Academy, and the Merchant Marine Academy - they represent one of the most successful leadership-development systems anywhere in the world.

Of course, not every graduate enters military service. That misses the larger point. These institutions prepare officers, but they also graduate men and women who carry the habits of discipline, accountability, resilience, and service into every profession they choose.

During the past year, we have all reflected on our nation’s founding while celebrating the 250th anniversary of American independence. Studying the Revolutionary generation naturally leads to an enduring question: Who will preserve those ideals during America’s next 250 years?

The answer will not be found in monuments alone.

It will be found in families, churches, civic organizations, and educational institutions that continue forming citizens of character.

Higher education serves many worthy purposes. It advances research, expands knowledge, prepares students for careers, and drives innovation.

Military colleges and service academies do all of those things while adding something that has become increasingly rare: an intentional commitment to developing leaders who understand that freedom carries responsibility, authority requires humility, and service to others is one of life’s highest callings.

I left Charleston impressed by The Citadel’s beautiful campus and outstanding museum. I left even more appreciative of the role America’s military colleges and service academies continue to play in preparing leaders for our nation.

America has now begun its next quarter millennium. Preserving historic battlefields, museums, and landmarks will always matter. So will preserving institutions that prepare each new generation to lead them.

In an era when leadership is frequently discussed and often questioned, The Citadel, VMI, our other Senior Military Colleges, and the federal service academies quietly continue doing what they have done for generations: challenging young Americans to become their very best.

That is a tradition well worth preserving.

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For two weeks leading up to July 4^th, Americans endured relentless heat and humidity. Culminating with a heat dome around the Independence Day holiday, air conditioners have run almost nonstop as temperatures climbed toward triple digits. It was uncomfortable, exhausting, and for many, there was a lingering question in the back of their minds:

Would the electric grid hold? It did.

The success of the grid was also impressive, because the newspapers and social media were full of articles and posts warning about the possibility of electricity shortages.

While the grid passed the test, that fact should not be taken for granted. It was the result of decades of planning, investment and the dedication of thousands of people working behind the scenes to ensure electricity remained reliable when demand was at its highest.

Demand surged as homes, hospitals, businesses, and manufacturers all relied on air conditioning to keep people safe, productive, and comfortable.

Regional grid operator PJM warned that electricity demand could approach or even exceed previous summer records and took prudent steps to prepare by coordinating available generation, delaying nonessential maintenance, and activating voluntary demand-response programs.

Local electric utilities across the region played their part as well. Control room operators, plant employees, engineers, line workers and field crews worked around the clock to keep power flowing safely and reliably.

When thunderstorms inevitably rolled through, crews responded quickly to restore service where lightning, high winds and falling trees caused localized outages.

That is an important distinction. While some customers temporarily lost power because of severe weather, the electric system itself had the capacity and operational capability to meet the extraordinary demand created by the heat.

That is worth recognizing. But it is also worth learning from. America’s appetite for electricity is growing. Population growth, advanced manufacturing, artificial intelligence, electrification, and data centers are creating new opportunities for economic development across the country.

That is good news for jobs, innovation, and our economy. But growth also requires the infrastructure necessary to support it.

Every generation builds the infrastructure that powers its economy. In the 19th century, it was the railroads. In the 20th century, it was the interstate highway system. In the 21st century, it is the electric grid.

Reliable electricity does not happen by accident. It depends on continued investment in power generation, transmission lines, substations, and other technologies that make modern life possible.

Also, as we expand the grid, major new electricity users should help pay for the infrastructure required to serve them, ensuring the benefits of economic growth do not come at the expense of existing residential and small-business customers.

Policymakers have a key role to play. We should streamline permitting for critical infrastructure while maintaining thoughtful environmental review and meaningful community engagement.

Utilities should continue modernizing the grid to strengthen reliability as demand continues to grow. Customers can help as well by participating in voluntary programs that reduce electricity use during periods of peak demand.

Small actions taken by many people can make a meaningful difference.
The recent heat wave should leave us with confidence - but not complacency.

The best days for the electric grid are often the ones no one remembers. When the lights stay on, hospitals keep caring for patients, businesses keep serving customers and families simply go about their lives.

This heat dome was a test the grid passed. The next one is only a matter of time. Whether we pass it successfully will depend on the investments we choose to make today.

David Botkins is the CEO and Founder of Botkins Strategies. He has 35 years of experience in the energy industry, state government, politics and journalism. He can be reached at dbotkins@gmail.com or at Botkins Strategies

Not by crossing days off a calendar, but by intentionally living toward it. Long before America’s 250th birthday arrived, it had already become part of the way I thought, traveled, served and lived.

Since 2016, I’ve written articles, delivered speeches, served on historic boards, and visited places where America’s founding story still lives.

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Jamestown. Williamsburg. Yorktown. Monticello. Charleston. Washington. The Governor’s Mansion. Wilton House. Even vacations and weekend getaways somehow became opportunities to reflect on our nation’s founding and share those experiences with others.

Whether I was writing about Virginia history, an unforgettable pilgrimage to Israel, or an unexpected conversation in a bookstore in Columbus, Georgia, I almost always found myself returning to the same themes: faith, freedom, gratitude, citizenship, and the remarkable experiment we call America.

So when friends have asked, “What are your plans for the Fourth?” they seemed surprised by my answer.

I’m staying home.

Not because there isn’t something exciting to attend.

Washington, D.C. will host what promises to be one of the largest Independence Day celebrations in our nation’s history.

I’ve experienced events like that - President Trump’s inauguration in January 2025, the U.S. Army’s 250th Birthday celebration, and earlier this year, the privilege of attending the State of the Union as Congressman Rob Wittman’s guest.

Each required navigating extraordinary security, crowds, and logistics. Each was unforgettable.

But today is different.

As I looked around the house this week, it clicked.

The places I’ve visited, the books I’ve collected, the historic organizations I’ve been privileged to serve, and the artifacts that surround me aren’t simply decorations or souvenirs. Together, they reflect what I believe about America.

George Washington quietly watches over my family room.

Patrick Henry reminds me daily that liberty requires courage.

Jefferson, the Declaration of Independence, Virginia history, books, flags, and paintings aren’t there because they match the décor.

They’re there because they have shaped the way I think. I wasn’t simply counting down to America’s 250th birthday. In many ways, I’d already been celebrating it. Because I live it.

Every speech, every article, every historic site, every conversation, and every American flag picture became another (monotonous to some) reminder of what it means to be an engaged American citizen.

Looking back, I realize I wasn’t preparing for America’s 250th anniversary.

I was preparing myself to appreciate the portrait I’ve unwittingly been painting and living inside of.

And now that it has finally arrived, I don’t feel compelled to add another brushstroke.

Instead, I’ll spend this Independence Day right here at home - in reverent observation and reflection.

The bunting is hanging. The flags are flying. A simple “God Bless America” greets visitors at the front door.

Neighbors will walk by. Children will ride bicycles. Grills will fire up. Fireworks will light the evening sky. Maggie-Reagan will almost certainly wonder what all the commotion is about.

And I’ll quietly give thanks. Thanks to God for His abundant blessings.

Thanks to the extraordinary generation that pledged their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor.

Thanks to every generation since that has preserved the blessings of liberty through courage, sacrifice, and service.

America has never been perfect.

But she has always been worth believing in. Tomorrow morning - July 5th - our nation begins its next 250 years.

The fireworks will fade. The bunting will eventually come down. But the responsibility of preserving this remarkable Republic will remain.

It belongs to each of us.

And somehow, after spending a decade telling America’s story, it feels entirely fitting to welcome her next chapter from the place that has quietly become my own reflection of it.

Happy 250th Birthday friends!

May God continue to bless the United States of America.

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Then the news spread. Thomas Jefferson was dead. Hours later came another report. John Adams was dead as well.

Two architects of the American experiment, gone on the same day the nation marked its birth. Five years later, on July 4, 1831, James Monroe -- another president, another founder -- also died.

Three Founders. Three presidents. One date.

Whether one sees coincidence, providence, or simply one of history’s remarkable convergences, the symbolism is hard to ignore. The timing reads like a passing of the torch from the founding generation to the nation they helped create.

Jefferson gave America its language of liberty.

Adams gave the cause its fierce defense.

Monroe guided the republic through its formative years and left a foreign‑policy doctrine that shaped American statecraft for generations.

Their personalities clashed. Their visions diverged. Yet each devoted himself to an unprecedented experiment in self‑government.

That is why their connection to Independence Day still captures our imagination two centuries later. The story reminds us that America was never the work of one individual.

Not Washington alone. Not Jefferson alone. Not Adams or Monroe alone. The republic was built by imperfect men and women who argued, disagreed, compromised, and still managed to move the nation forward.

That lesson feels especially relevant now.

Modern politics encourages us to view public life through personalities, campaigns, controversies, and daily combat.

The Founders thought in longer time horizons. They understood institutions matter. Ideas matter. Character matters. Citizenship matters. The survival of the republic depends on far more than any single election or any single leader.

And now, in 2026, as America marks its 250th birthday, we have every reason to celebrate what previous generations achieved.

The American experiment has endured civil war, economic depression, world wars, social upheaval, and international conflict. It has expanded freedom to millions.

It has generated opportunity on a scale the Founders could scarcely imagine. It has become one of history’s greatest engines of innovation and human flourishing.

But anniversaries matter only if they prompt reflection. The question is not merely what Jefferson, Adams, and Monroe accomplished. The question is what we will do with the inheritance they left behind?

Future generations will not judge us by how eloquently we commemorate the founding era. They will judge us by whether we strengthened self‑government, preserved constitutional principles, and passed on a healthy republic.

Virginia has a special connection to this story. Jefferson and Monroe were sons of the Commonwealth. Their lives were shaped by Virginia’s institutions, its debates, its ideals, and its sense of public duty. Along with Washington, Madison, Mason, Henry, Wythe, and Marshall, they helped establish a tradition of leadership that influenced not only a nation, but the world.

That history should inspire humility. The Founders were imperfect, yet they understood something every generation must relearn: liberty is not self‑sustaining.

Freedom requires stewardship. Self‑government requires participation. The work of citizenship is never finished.

On July 4, Americans will once again gather beneath fireworks, flags, and familiar traditions. We should enjoy every bit of it. But perhaps we should also pause to remember the extraordinary symbolism attached to this day.

Three Founders. One day. One destiny.

Two hundred and fifty years after independence, the question is no longer what Jefferson, Adams, and Monroe accomplished.

History has already answered that. The question is whether we will prove worthy of the republic they entrusted to us.

That answer remains unwritten.

https://www.jeffersonforum.org/three-founders-one-day-one-destiny/

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David Botkins serves on the Jamestown-Yorktown Foundation Board of Trustees and the Board of Managers of the Sons of the Revolution in Virginia. He has 35 years of experience in politics, state government, journalism, and the energy industry. He is the founder of Botkins Strategies, LLC

Twenty-four years ago, in the summer of 2002, I sat in Carl’s office along the James River interviewing for a communications position at Dominion Energy.

I can still picture that conversation. We talked about my career to that point, the statewide political campaign I had just completed, journalism, politics, faith, and where life might lead next.

Carl listened carefully, asked thoughtful questions, and made me feel at ease.

Not long afterward, I joined the company. Looking back now, that interview - and the career that followed -changed the course of my professional life.

I held Carl in the highest regard, and over the years that respect only deepened.

He became much more than a colleague. He was a mentor, an encourager, and a friend. We shared a love of journalism (having both been former reporters), history, politics, public affairs, and our Christian faith. We both liked the fact we were hard core conservatives.

As a former newspaper reporter, Carl never lost his curiosity about people or current events. He was thoughtful, well-read, and genuinely interested in the world around him.

Carl was also a proud Marine, an unapologetic patriot, a devoted Catholic, and a man of deep conviction. He had an infectious laugh, a whimsical sense of humor, and an unwavering moral compass.

He could be wonderfully stubborn when principle was at stake, and I admired him for it.

The beautiful Mass at St. Bridget Catholic Church yesterday in Richmond reflected exactly who Carl was. It wasn’t simply a service of remembrance; it was a celebration of a life rooted in faith, family, service, and the promise of eternal life - through the offering of communion.

Seeing Cathy, their children, grandchildren, relatives, friends, and former colleagues gathered together was a powerful reminder that the true measure of a life is found in the people it touches. Carl and men like him have made our country great.

Every Christmas, even after Carl and Cathy moved to Myrtle Beach, a Christmas card would arrive in my mailbox. It was a small gesture, but it perfectly reflected the kind of faithful and thoughtful man he was.

His passing came far too soon, making yesterday’s farewell especially difficult.

As we sat in church, it occurred to me that we eventually reach a season of life when the mentors who helped shape us begin leaving us. Their voices grow quieter, but their influence never fades.

Thank you, Carl, for your friendship, your counsel, your encouragement, your integrity, and your steadfast example. I am grateful our paths crossed, and I am a better man because they did.

“Well done, good and faithful servant.” — Matthew 25:23

Rest in peace, my friend.

Post a tribute to Carl here: https://www.blileys.com/obituaries/Carl-Farrar-Nicholas-Baab?obId=48767049

After breakfast, I stepped outside into a light mist and headed toward the historic downtown.

I came to Georgia to serve as a judge for the Miss Georgia and Miss Georgia Teen competitions. The days are filled with contestant interviews, meetings, rehearsals, and events. Evenings include more meetings, dinners and prep for the next day.

But for a few hours that morning, I had nowhere I needed to be.

Columbus is not a city I likely would have visited on my own. Had I not been invited to judge the pageant, there is a good chance I never would have experienced it at all.

That would have been my loss.

The mist softened everything. The brick buildings seemed older. The streets felt quieter. I wandered through the historic district with no particular destination, stopping occasionally to read a marker, admire a building, or take a photograph.

One sign told the story of Empire Mills, once among the largest flour mills in the South.

Another described a public fountain built for both people and animals.

A massive millstone sat as a reminder of an era when entire communities depended upon industries that have long since faded into history.

What struck me most was not any single landmark but the sense of place.

Columbus feels comfortable in its own skin. It isn’t trying too hard to impress visitors. Its history is simply there, woven into the streets and buildings for anyone willing to notice.

At some point during my walk, I wandered into JudyBug’s Books, a small independent bookstore tucked along Broadway.

What began as a quick visit became a lengthy conversation with one of the two proprietors, Tommy White.

We talked about books, business, downtown revitalization, faith, the challenges of operating an independent bookstore, and the city itself. One topic naturally led to another. Neither of us seemed particularly interested in ending the conversation.

I’ve always been curious about people. Some of the most rewarding experiences in my life have started with a simple question and a willingness to listen.

Most strangers stop being strangers if you’re willing to spend a little time getting to know them.

Tommy was no exception.

For more than an hour, we talked about life and community. The conversation felt natural, as though we were continuing a discussion that had somehow begun long before either of us walked into the bookstore that morning.

At one point, I looked at Tommy and said something that surprised even me.

“Tommy, I think this may have been divine providence.”

I told him it felt as though we were two characters in a much larger story, crossing paths for a reason neither of us fully understood.

Only then did he reach for a book.

Its title was Theo of Golden.

Tommy explained that the bestselling novel by Allen Levi was inspired by Columbus and the people who live here.

Many readers see the city reflected throughout its pages. Some even believe local personalities helped inspire certain characters.

He then described the themes of the book: faith, kindness, generosity, and the unexpected ways people influence one another’s lives.

The irony was not lost on either of us.

There I was, standing in a bookstore in the town that inspired the novel, talking with a man many believe helped inspire one of its characters, expressing sentiments remarkably consistent with the book’s central themes before I had ever read a single page.

Some encounters feel random. Others don’t. This was one of the latter.

When I eventually left the bookstore, I resumed my walk through downtown. The mist still hung in the air. Historic markers and old buildings seemed a little more meaningful now that I had spent time with someone who knew the city so well.

Back at the pageant, my fellow judges and I spend much of our time getting to know young women from across Georgia.

On paper, each contestant arrives with accomplishments, awards, leadership positions, and service projects. Those things matter.

But interviews are ultimately about something deeper. They are about discovering the person behind the résumé. Perhaps that is why the morning resonated with me.

Cities reveal themselves much the same way people do - not all at once, but through stories, conversations, and small moments of discovery.

I arrived in Columbus because of the Miss Georgia competition. I spent Tuesday morning learning a little more about Columbus itself.

And somewhere along the way, I discovered a book I now feel compelled to read. Not because it became a bestseller. Not because it was inspired by the city I happened to be visiting.

But because any story rooted in faith, kindness, and genuine human connection is probably worth the time.

Especially when, for a brief moment on a misty Tuesday morning, it felt as though I had already stepped inside its pages.

It’s a significant commitment of time, but one that has become a meaningful part of my year.

If I’m honest, this is not a world I ever expected to be part of.

Like many people, I assumed these competitions were mostly about what happened under the stage lights.

I learned quickly that the real competition takes place somewhere else entirely - in the interview rooms, during months of preparation, and in the discipline it takes to pursue a goal with purpose.

My introduction came through my friend Nancy Lucy, Miss Virginia 1993 and now co-executive director of the Miss Virginia organization alongside Mark Schreier.

Nancy and I attend the same church and have shared many conversations over the years. At one point she asked if I would help prepare contestants for the national Miss America competition.

Media training. Panel interviews. Message discipline. Public speaking.

They are the same skills I’ve spent decades developing in politics, business, and communications. Working with these young women gave me an appreciation for how seriously they approach the opportunity before them.

What surprised me most was the level of preparation and the stakes involved.

These are not casual competitions. For many contestants, scholarships earned through the program can help pay for college, reduce student debt, and open doors that might otherwise remain closed.

That realization led to deeper involvement. Today I serve on the Miss Virginia Advisory Board, helping raise money, recruit sponsors, and build awareness of the program’s impact.

Last year I had the privilege of serving as a judge for Miss Virginia. During that experience I met Trina Pruitt, who leads the Miss Georgia organization. She invited me to join this year’s judging panel, and I was honored to accept.

The work itself is demanding. Judges spend long days conducting interviews, watching performances, comparing notes, and getting to know the contestants beyond what the audience sees.

By the end of the week, the panel becomes a small community of its own, bound together by the responsibility of making difficult decisions.

The young women who compete come from a wide range of backgrounds and ambitions. They are pursuing degrees in science, education, business, and the arts.

Many have created community service initiatives or advocacy projects of their own, and nearly all are competing for scholarship opportunities that can change the trajectory of their lives.

The public often sees the evening gowns and stage lights. What they don’t always see are the countless hours of preparation, the interview practice, the talent rehearsals, and the commitment required to perform at a high level under pressure.

The Miss America Opportunity remains one of the nation’s largest providers of scholarship assistance for young women. Local and state organizations such as Miss Georgia and Miss Virginia play an important role in that mission.

The financial support they provide helps students continue their education and build a stronger future.

This week in Columbus, I’ll meet dozens of contestants who have invested time, energy, and heart into earning the chance to represent their state.

I’ll hear their stories, learn what motivates them, and watch them support one another while handling the pressures of competition with remarkable maturity.

The responsibility of judging is significant because one of these young women will go on to represent Georgia at the Miss America competition this September in Palm Beach, Florida.

I’m grateful to Nancy and Mark for introducing me to this world, and to Trina for the opportunity to serve again. More than anything, I’m grateful for the reminder that these programs are built on purpose, discipline, and opportunity.

The young women who step onto the stage are not simply chasing a title. They are investing in their future.

At a time when it is easy to be cynical about the next generation, experiences like this leave me optimistic. I meet young women who are disciplined, thoughtful, articulate, and committed to serving something larger than themselves.

That’s a future worth investing in - and one I’m honored to witness from the judges’ table.

I just pulled into Costco on West Broad Street in Henrico County to fill up my vehicle.

Costco is frequently among the least expensive places to purchase gasoline in central Virginia. Yet even there, regular gasoline was selling for approximately $4.05 per gallon.

Virginia’s gasoline tax currently stands at 31.7 cents per gallon. If that tax were suspended and the savings fully passed through to consumers, that same gallon of gasoline would cost $3.73 instead of $4.05.

A driver purchasing 20 gallons would save about $6.34 per fill-up.

That may not sound like much to the General Assembly. But for families with multiple vehicles, long commutes, summer travel plans and already-stretched household budgets, those savings add up.

As lawmakers return to Richmond to finish work on an unfinished state budget, they should consider a temporary 60-day suspension of Virginia’s gasoline tax during summer travel.

Not permanently. Not irresponsibly. And not at the expense of transportation funding.

Just for 60 days.

Let’s begin with what this proposal is not. It is not a solution to global energy markets. It is not a cure for inflation.

It is not a statement about foreign policy. And it is not an attack on Virginia’s transportation system.

Reasonable people can debate why gasoline prices have risen in recent weeks.

But that doesn’t change the reality facing Virginia motorists today. Families are paying more at the pump than they were just a few months ago. Virginia cannot control events in the Persian Gulf. It cannot control OPEC.

It cannot control geopolitical tensions or disruptions to global shipping routes.

But it can decide whether Virginians receive temporary relief amid rising costs. Critics will correctly note that fuel taxes exist for a reason.

Virginia’s gas tax helps fund transportation infrastructure, road maintenance and improvements across the Commonwealth. Suspending the tax without replacing the lost revenue would be shortsighted and fiscally irresponsible.

That is why any temporary holiday should be fully backfilled.

The goal is relief for motorists, not disruption for transportation planners. The obvious question then becomes: Can Virginia afford it?

The answer appears to be yes.

Virginia’s latest revenue forecast projects approximately $1.5 billion in additional revenue through fiscal year 2028 beyond previous estimates. At the same time, the Commonwealth’s reserve funds are projected to exceed $4.5 billion.

A temporary gas tax holiday would undoubtedly cost hundreds of millions of dollars in foregone transportation revenue, requiring lawmakers to decide whether the benefits justify using a portion of Virginia’s unexpectedly strong fiscal position to provide temporary relief.

Viewed against Virginia’s current fiscal position, a temporary, fully backfilled gas-tax holiday would consume only a small portion of the Commonwealth’s available financial reserves and projected revenue growth.

More importantly, it could be accomplished without creating a structural deficit, raising other taxes, borrowing money or jeopardizing transportation funding.

Some critics will say the average Virginian will not meaningfully feel relief. But that’s not the point.

Public policy is not always measured by the size of a benefit. Sometimes it is measured when government recognizes that citizens are under pressure and has the means to help. Virginia finds itself in that position.

The General Assembly is currently consumed by billion-dollar debates involving data centers, tax policy, spending priorities and budget negotiations. Those discussions are important.

Meanwhile, ordinary Virginians experience the economy differently.

They experience it at the grocery store. They experience it when the electric bill arrives. And they experience it every time they pull up to a gas pump.

A temporary gas-tax holiday would not solve every affordability challenge facing Virginia families.

But it would provide immediate, visible and measurable relief at a moment when many households could use it — especially during peak summer travel. It would send an important message: Government understands the pressures citizens are facing. That lawmakers are paying attention.

And when the Commonwealth can help, it’s willing to do so.

Virginia cannot control OPEC, global oil markets or events in the Strait of Hormuz. But it can control 31.7 cents of every gallon sold within its borders.

This summer, lawmakers should consider giving that money back to Virginians — even if only for 60 days.

David Botkins is founder of Botkins Strategies, LLC, and has spent 35 years in Virginia’s energy industry, state government and journalism.

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At the time, I thought I was taking the trip of a lifetime. Looking back, I realize I was carrying home something far more enduring.

I did not go as a biblical scholar. My knowledge of Scripture was, and still is, more limited than I would like.

I went because I felt compelled to go. It was an opportunity to see places I had only read about, and I trusted the people who organized the journey.

That simple decision became one of the most meaningful experiences of my life.

Like many Christians, I had spent years hearing the names. Jerusalem. Bethlehem. Jericho. Gethsemane. The Jordan River. The Sea of Galilee.

They were familiar, but they were also distant. They lived in sermons, Sunday school lessons, and the maps in the back of my Bible.

Then suddenly they were real.

The desert around Masada was not an illustration but a landscape. The Sea of Galilee was not an idea but a body of water reflecting the evening sky. The walls of Jerusalem were not ancient sketches but stone beneath my feet.

The Bible came alive in technicolor.

One of the surprises of the journey had nothing to do with geography.

It was the people.

Shared experiences have a way of accelerating friendships, and this was unlike any trip I had ever taken. We walked together, learned together, laughed and cried together, and occasionally sat in silence together.

By the time we came home, we were more than fellow travelers. We had become a small community connected by memories that only we could fully understand.

Even now, when I look through the photographs, I think as much about those friendships as I do the places themselves.

Of all the places we visited, the Garden of Gethsemane remains with me the most.

The desert was magnificent. Jerusalem was unforgettable. The Mediterranean coast at Caesarea was beautiful. Masada was breathtaking.

But Gethsemane was different.

It was quiet.

Standing among those ancient olive trees, I found myself thinking less about the crowds and miracles and more about solitude, sacrifice, and the burdens every person eventually carries.

It is one thing to read about Christ praying there. It is another to stand in that garden and let the moment settle over you.

That memory has never left me.

People occasionally ask what I prayed when I placed my hands on the Western Wall.

The honest answer is that I do not remember.

Seven years later, the words are gone. Perhaps I prayed for family, for wisdom, or for direction. I cannot say with certainty.

What I do remember is the feeling.

I remember touching those ancient stones and realizing that countless people, across countless generations, had stood in that same place carrying hopes, fears, gratitude, and grief.

For a few quiet moments, I simply became part of that story.

As someone who loves history, I have long believed that places matter. That is why I encourage people to visit Jamestown, Williamsburg, Yorktown, and the many sites where the American story unfolded.

Reading history is important, but walking where it happened changes your perspective.

Israel reinforced that belief.

It reminded me that faith, like history, is rooted in real places inhabited by real people. The names that fill the pages of Scripture are not abstractions. They belong to landscapes that still exist and to a story that has shaped civilization for thousands of years.

When I returned home, I felt deeply connected to the people with whom I had shared the journey. I also found myself reading the Bible differently.

The words had not changed, but my understanding of them had. The places now had texture, color, and light.

They had become real.

I can still see the Western Wall.

I can still see the olive trees of Gethsemane.

I can still picture the waters of Galilee.

I can still feel the desert heat.

And I remain grateful that, for several days, I was able to walk through a story I had spent a lifetime reading.

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A small tuft of grass growing between the bricks of my porch steps.

Not in a lawn.

Not in a flower bed.

Not in one of the carefully tended spots around the yard where grass is actually supposed to grow.

Just a crack between old bricks.

And there it was. Green. Healthy. Perfectly content.

What made the sight even more amusing is there are places elsewhere in my yard with actual soil, sunlight, water, fertilizer, and every conceivable advantage where I can’t get grass to grow at all.

I’ve seeded. I’ve watered. I’ve waited.

Nothing.

Meanwhile, this little patch of grass apparently looked at a narrow crack between two bricks and thought, “This will do.”

The whole thing struck me as unfair. And then it struck me as familiar. Life rarely unfolds according to our assumptions.

We like to believe that favorable conditions produce favorable outcomes.

Good soil should produce growth. Hard work should guarantee success. Careful planning should lead to predictable results.

Yet experience teaches otherwise.

Sometimes the opportunity we’ve carefully cultivated never materializes.

The relationship doesn’t work. The job offer never comes. The business venture stalls. The dream remains frustratingly out of reach. The illness drags on or we lose a loved one.

And then, unexpectedly, something wonderful begins in a place we never would have chosen.

A chance conversation. An unlikely friendship. A new purpose discovered after a setback.

A door that opens only because another one closed. These are universal truths for so many.

History offers countless examples. The American colonies were hardly the obvious favorite to defeat the most powerful empire on earth.

Abraham Lincoln emerged from circumstances that offered little hint of future greatness. Winston Churchill spent years in the political wilderness before becoming the voice Britain needed in its darkest hour.

The crack is often where the story begins. Perhaps that’s why this little patch of grass caught my attention.

It reminds us that life is not nearly as predictable as we imagine.

We want formulas. We want guarantees. We want to believe that the best conditions always produce the best outcomes.

But life remains gloriously, frustratingly mysterious. Sometimes the prepared ground remains bare. Sometimes the crack becomes a garden.

The older I get, the more I suspect wisdom comes from making peace with that mystery. Doing the work. Planting the seed. Tending the soil. Then accepting that growth often occurs in ways we never expected. Looking at that little tuft of grass, I couldn’t help but smile.

The bricks were orderly. Planned. Engineered. Predictable.

The grass was none of those things.

It simply found a tiny opening, reached toward the sunlight, and made the most of what it had. There may be a lesson in that.

Or perhaps several.

Either way, my eyes weren’t drawn to the bricks. They were drawn to the life growing between them.

And maybe that’s because life - especially the unexpected life - is what we’re all really searching for.

Even in the cracks.

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First, the stillness.

The air changes. The breeze turns cooler. Leaves begin to whisper against one another as the sky darkens from blue to gray to that deep charcoal color that seems to swallow the horizon whole.

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Clouds churn overhead. The trees begin to sway. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolls low and slow like a warning from another age.

Even the dog knows.

She lifts her head before the first crack of lightning ever arrives — pacing a little, watching the windows, sensing what’s coming long before we do.

Then the storm finally breaks.

Lightning flashes across the sky in sharp white veins. Rain pounds the roof. The wind pushes against the house. For a few moments, nature reminds us just how small we really are.

And oddly enough, that feeling can be comforting.

On evenings like that, the modern world suddenly feels unnecessary. My Verizon FIOS has been down all day anyway. No TV or internet

Turn off the lights. Light a candle. Pour a small glass of brown. Settle into a favorite chair with a good book while the storm does its work outside.

No scrolling. No noise. No hurry.

Just thunder, rain, flickering candlelight, and the quiet peace of being safely home while the world outside rumbles and shakes.

Some of life’s best moments are not found in sunshine at all — but in the calm, reflective beauty of a passing storm.

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Cannons still point toward imagined enemies. Church windows still glow at night. Ancient brick buildings still stand beneath trees that were already old when the republic itself was young. In the gathering darkness, Williamsburg does not feel like a museum nearly as much as it feels like a reminder.

That matters this Memorial Day weekend.

As we turn 250, it’s worth remembering our national story did not begin as certainty. It began as sacrifice. Young men left farms, workshops, churches and families not knowing whether the experiment would survive. Many did not survive themselves.

Memorial Day, of course, came later.

Its roots trace largely to the years following the Civil War, when grieving Americans began decorating the graves of fallen soldiers with flowers.

Originally known as “Decoration Day,” the observance slowly evolved into a national day of remembrance for all Americans killed in military service. After World War I, the meaning broadened beyond the Civil War dead alone.

In 1971, Memorial Day became an official federal holiday observed on the last Monday in May.

But even though the holiday itself came generations after the Revolution, its spirit reaches back to the very beginning of the republic.

You can feel that connection in places like Williamsburg.

You see it in the worn brick sidewalks and the flicker of lantern light against old walls. You see it in the outlines of buildings that existed before the Constitution was written. You see it in the cannons positioned to defend a fragile idea that, at the time, must have seemed anything but inevitable.

In one small burial ground tucked behind old brick walls, weathered stones sat quietly beneath the evening sky. Names fade. Time passes. Yet remembrance remains.

That, ultimately, is the purpose of Memorial Day.

Not celebration alone. Not nostalgia. Remembrance.

Before it became the unofficial beginning of summer, Memorial Day was something more intimate: a nation stopping to honor those who never returned home.

Most Americans this weekend will enjoy cookouts, travel, family gatherings and time away from work. There is nothing wrong with any of that. In many ways, those ordinary freedoms are part of the point.

But Memorial Day also asks something deeper of us.

It asks us to remember that every generation inherited this country unfinished.

From the Revolutionary War to the Civil War…from Normandy to Korea…from Vietnam to Iraq and Afghanistan…there has always been a small percentage of Americans willing to carry extraordinary burdens on behalf of the rest of us.

As we move toward America250, I sometimes worry we speak too casually about the country itself — as though the United States simply appeared fully formed and permanently guaranteed. History teaches otherwise.

Nations are sustained culturally before they are sustained politically. They survive because people choose to preserve institutions, traditions, civic habits and shared memory. They survive because generations decide that inheritance carries obligations.

That may be one reason historic places continue to matter.

Standing quietly near sunset this week, looking across the old capital of Virginia, it was impossible not to think about the long chain of Americans who carried this country through moments of uncertainty, sacrifice and division. Not perfectly. Not without contradiction. But faithfully enough that 250 years later, the republic still stands.

That is no small thing.

Lanterns glowed softly along Duke of Gloucester Street.

Ancient trees stretched across the darkening sky.

The old Capitol stood watch as it has for generations.

Nearby, a small lamb pressed close beside its mother — a quiet reminder that inheritance itself is part of the American story.

What we receive, we are also expected to preserve.

Memorial Day asks us to remember those who carried that responsibility before us at enormous cost.

And as the nation turns 250, perhaps that remembrance matters more than ever.

I pray we prove worthy stewards of the inheritance we’ve been given.

The great plantation house sits quietly near massive live oaks outside Charleston, its walls carrying nearly three centuries of American history.

Unlike many historic homes, Drayton Hall does not hide its age. The worn paint, visible cracks, weathered textures, and empty rooms remain intentionally preserved, as if the house understands history is more truthful when its scars are left visible.

I visited Drayton Hall after several days wandering Charleston’s polished historic district — the church steeples, harbor views, gas lanterns, gardens, and pastel homes that make the city one of the most admired places in America.

But I wanted to see more than postcard Charleston.

So I called an Uber and headed toward the plantation.

At first, I barely noticed much about my driver beyond ordinary politeness. I was distracted by my own thoughts and discomfort.

My sciatica had been flaring throughout the trip, and I was fumbling in the back seat making sure I had my hotel key, wallet, sunglasses, reading glasses, and phone as we drove away from the historic center of the city.

Gradually the scenery changed.

The polished beauty gave way to something more familiar and harder. Small pockets of poverty appeared. Worn storefronts. Urban grit. The kind of landscape that exists in many American cities once you leave the carefully curated streets visitors tend to photograph.

Eventually we started making small talk about Charleston, and I told him I planned to write about my impressions of the city. I explained that I wanted to visit Drayton Hall specifically because I hoped to gain a fuller understanding of Charleston and its complicated history.

Then somewhere during the drive, something quietly dawned on me.

Here I was — a white visitor from Virginia being driven through Charleston by a Black driver to one of the Deep South’s most historically significant plantation homes, a place built and sustained through slave labor.

So I asked him a question:

“Does it bother you to drive people out there?”

He paused only briefly.

“No,” he said. “Not at all.”

Then he added something I have not stopped thinking about since.

“This one doesn’t bother me,” he said. “But there’s another one with the tiny little houses around the big house. That bothers me a little bit.”

He explained quietly that it was hard to imagine the struggle, suffering, hard work, and having to live like that.

There was no anger in his voice. No lecture. Just honest reflection.

And suddenly the trip to Drayton Hall became something much deeper than tourism.

By then, we had become so engaged in conversation that he actually missed the entrance to the plantation and had to make a U-turn and circle back toward it.

In retrospect, that moment feels fitting. Sometimes understanding history requires slowing down and coming back around to it more thoughtfully than we first approached it.

Construction of Drayton Hall began around 1747 under John Drayton, a wealthy rice planter whose fortunes depended upon enslaved labor. His son, William Henry Drayton, later became a Revolutionary-era patriot and signer of the Articles of Confederation.

During the Revolutionary War, British forces under Cornwallis reportedly used Drayton Hall as a headquarters before the siege of Charleston.

The house somehow survived both the Revolutionary and Civil Wars, becoming the only major plantation house on the Ashley River left standing intact after the Civil War.

Historians still debate exactly why Union forces spared it while so many nearby plantations burned. One long-standing story holds that quarantine flags warning of smallpox may have discouraged troops from approaching the property.

Whatever the reason, Drayton Hall survived.

And perhaps survival is the real story there.

Walking through its rooms, I found myself studying not only the beauty of the architecture — the symmetry, staircases, fireplaces, and craftsmanship — but the visible evidence of time itself.

The fading walls still reveal older layers beneath the paint. Sunlight pours unevenly through tall windows onto worn wooden floors. Empty rooms echo softly with silence rather than performance.

Nothing about the place feels artificial.

Drayton Hall does not sanitize the past or polish history into something comfortable. Instead, the house stands honestly before visitors — beautiful, complicated, weathered, imperfect, enduring.

Too often today we are pushed toward two incomplete views of history. One romanticizes the past while avoiding its injustices. The other treats history primarily as evidence for condemnation and grievance.

Neither feels sufficient.

Mature patriotism requires something harder. It requires confidence to admire the craftsmanship, courage, and civilization earlier generations built while possessing enough honesty to acknowledge the suffering and inequities that existed alongside it.

Standing beneath the giant live oaks outside the house, looking back at the weathered brick structure framed by Spanish moss and South Carolina sunlight, I found myself thinking less about politics and more about continuity.

How many generations had walked those grounds?
How many lives unfolded there?
How much labor, suffering, ambition, beauty, hardship, and endurance had passed through those rooms?

The house survives all of it.

As my driver dropped me off, he looked back before I shut the door.

“So,” he asked, “you said you’re a writer?”

“Well,” I laughed, “kind of. I used to be a reporter. I’ve done a lot of other types of writing over the years.”

He asked for one of my cards so he could look me up sometime and read what I wrote.

This essay is dedicated to him.

Not because we solved history during an Uber ride through Charleston.

But because for a brief stretch of road beneath the South Carolina sun, two Americans from very different backgrounds shared an honest conversation about the country we both inherited.

And in its own quiet way, that felt every bit as meaningful as Drayton Hall itself.

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I have spent much of my adult life around historic Richmond, Virginia.

Heck, I worked in the Governor’s office in Jefferson’s designed Capital.

It is home. Its rhythms, monuments, contradictions, and civic instincts are familiar to me.

But after several days walking through historic Charleston, South Carolina, I found myself asking an uncomfortable but fascinating question:

Which historic Southern city is actually “better” — Richmond or Charleston?

The answer depends entirely on what one values most about history itself.

Charleston is preservation.

Richmond is consequence.

Charleston feels almost suspended in time. The architecture is astonishingly intact. The narrow streets, church steeples, hidden gardens, pastel facades, gas lanterns, harbor breezes, and meticulously preserved homes create the sensation that the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries never fully left.

Walking through the historic district near Rainbow Row or along The Battery can feel cinematic. One almost expects a carriage wheel or a Continental Army officer to appear around the next corner.

Charleston understands presentation. It curates beauty exceptionally well.

And yet beneath the elegance is immense historical gravity. Charleston was one of the wealthiest cities in colonial America.

It was shaped by Atlantic commerce, rice and indigo fortunes, slavery, faith, warfare, and maritime power. The opening shots of the Civil War thundered in its harbor at Fort Sumter.

The city carries both extraordinary beauty and enormous moral weight simultaneously.

Richmond, however, feels different.

Charleston invites admiration.

Richmond demands engagement.

Richmond is not as uniformly picturesque as Charleston. It never will be. Time, fire, industrialization, war, political upheaval, interstate construction, and twentieth-century urban planning altered Richmond in ways Charleston largely escaped.

But Richmond possesses something Charleston does not quite match: the feeling that American history was not merely preserved there — it was decided there.

Richmond was the capital of Virginia during the founding era and later the capital of the Confederacy. Patrick Henry’s “Give me liberty or give me death” speech echoed from nearby St. John’s Church.

George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, James Monroe, John Marshall, and countless architects of the republic moved through Virginia’s political orbit.

The ideas that shaped constitutional government, religious liberty, federalism, and the American experiment itself were debated, refined, and institutionalized in Richmond and its surrounding sphere.

Charleston preserves the Southern past beautifully.

Richmond shaped the American future profoundly.

Even the geography reflects this difference.

Charleston rests gracefully beside the harbor, elegant and outward-facing. Richmond rises along the falls of the James River with a harder edge — commercial, political, industrial, and strategic.

Charleston feels mercantile. Richmond feels governmental. Charleston feels aristocratic. Richmond feels ideological.

And yet both cities share something increasingly rare in modern America: historical continuity.

Neither city fully surrendered its identity to modern homogenization. One can still sense distinct regional character there.

The churches still matter. The cemeteries still speak. The old homes still anchor neighborhoods. The Revolution, the Civil War, the founding generation, and the long American story still feel physically present rather than abstract textbook concepts.

That matters.

Especially now.

America is 250 years old. And places like Charleston and Richmond remind us that history is not merely something archived in museums.

It lives in streetscapes, architecture, memory, civic culture, and inherited institutions.

These cities still force Americans to wrestle with the full complexity of our national story — the triumphs, contradictions, brilliance, suffering, ambition, faith, and flawed humanity that built the country we inherited.

So which city is better?

If one values beauty, preservation, walkability, atmosphere, and immersive colonial charm, Charleston probably wins.

But if one values political consequence, intellectual legacy, constitutional history, and proximity to the actual machinery of American nationhood, Richmond still holds a unique and perhaps unmatched place in Southern history.

Charleston may be the South’s most beautiful historic city.

But Richmond may still be its most important one.

God bless America.

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