Williamsburg had observed visitors from around America with different personalities, stories, and lifestyles. To her, the large, homeschooled family was simply another group of eager sightseers. To my family and me, though, Williamsburg was new territory with a plethora of early American history. The town, built to resemble colonial Williamsburg, fascinated and excited my family. Little did we know how temperamental the East Coast weather was—and how swiftly it could reverse. The hot and sticky Williamsburg morning foreshadowed a wet and rainy evening, though my inexperienced family did not understand the warning.

We wandered down dirt streets, admired brick buildings, and browsed through souvenirs in colonial stores. From the wooden wagon and tools to the plainly-colored layers of clothing the workers wore, each aspect of the tidy town reflected colonial culture. The hot sun beat on my family as we strolled from the courthouse to the gunsmith. I, dressed in a summer skirt and lavender colored bonnet to compliment the sticky weather, exclaimed over the green fields, homemade furniture, and gardens lined with plants. Strangely, though, my favorite memory of the four day trip began on the first afternoon when the fickle weather cut our visit short. The sunny weather retreated as dark storm clouds rolled across the sky like angry soldiers assembling for war. My family and I, however, did not notice the gathering warriors as we toured the governor’s ornate house, admiring carved chairs and tables; detailed, flowered bed sheets; delicate china dishes; and lifelike, colorful paintings. Upon exiting the home, we discovered a maze in the lush garden. My siblings and I dashed between the thick bushes, excitement mounting within us. Then, as I turned sharp corners and sprinted down corridors, the clouds unleashed their fury. The first line of soldiers hurled from the sky and soaked into my fabric bonnet, sending my family scampering from our scattered whereabouts; as the cold raindrops increased in frequency, we hastened towards the dry shelter of a nearby building.

To our surprise, within seconds the light rain had transformed into a pouring waterfall. By the time we darted inside, my family and I were dripping. My intrepid father ventured into the fearsome battle to locate additional umbrellas while I waited with my sisters, watching the rain slip down the windowpanes like tears and listening to the drumming over our heads. The water congregated in the dirt streets like the determined colonists had done years ago, mingling and whispering together. When my father returned, my family and I clustered in groups of two or three. Gathering our scattered wits and belongings, we stepped out of the building’s warm safety, carrying our umbrellas like soldiers bearing shields. Immediately, raindrops swooped upon us. The wind tossed the water so that it snuck beneath the umbrellas, soaking us from head to toe; meanwhile, the street had turned into a turgid river that my family and I, dressed in flip flops and sneakers, waded through. Cold water surged around our feet like the smell of fresh rain enveloping our noses. By the time we reached the bus station, my family and I were soaked.

Williamsburg watched us depart, perhaps laughing good-naturedly at our lack of preparation. The rain had washed away our plans—but not our smiles. In fact, my siblings and I felt a strange rush of excitement. After all, it was an adventure. Together, my family and I created a unique memory we will never forget.