Not much happens in Croaker, Va., a rural expanse named for a noisy fish. Yet there on a sprawling property, amid mountains of mulch and tidy lines of row crops, is a curious assemblage of United States presidents. The 43 busts are the strange remnants of Presidents Park.

Virginia’s Historic Triangle – anchored by Jamestown, Yorktown and Williamsburg – is home to world-class historic landmarks and theme parks. A million people a year come both to stand at the cradle of the American nation and for the thrills local attractions can offer. It turns out that visitors’ willingness to open their wallets in the name of cultural enrichment, however, has its limits.

Presidents Park is just such an example. In the early 2000s, Haley Newman opened the park near Williamsburg. Guests could walk a snaking quarter-mile path through the 18-to-20-foot concrete busts – each weighing 7,500 pounds – of all U.S. presidents (up to that point). The gargantuan heads were the work of sculptor David Adickes.  Inside the park’s main building were replica interiors of the Oval Office and Air Force One.

Despite the fact that 350,000 people walked among these giants during the seven years it was open, the sluggish economy caused the park to close its gates. The owner tried to sell off the busts piecemeal, but no one bit. After all, who’s really in the market for an 18-foot bust of Millard Fillmore? Or Warren Harding?

Howard Hankins, who had helped develop the property, moved the busts to his farm in Croaker, hoping that someday there would be a buyer. To date, no one’s been willing to step forward and repurpose the statues. So they sit on Hankins’ property, at the mercy of time and the elements.

Meanwhile, the story of 43 presidents wasting away in a field has been too good for gawkers to ignore, and major news outlets, such as Smithsonian Magazine and NBC News, picked up the story, not to mention curious amateurs who recorded drone footage of the heads.

Oddly enough, I never had occasion to visit Hankins’ property, despite the heads being just a few miles from my home. Hankins strictly controls access because of all the heavy machinery that operates there daily.

That changed when my second-grade son received an invitation to a birthday party on Croaker Road. His classmate’s family lives on the property as caretakers of a home situated there. You can imagine my delight when I Googled the address only to discover that I’d have permission to be among the crumbling busts.

The hosts were generous with their guests, granting full access to the heads, allowing us all the time we needed to take in so bizarre a collection.

An arc of three titans – George Washington, Andrew Jackson and Abraham Lincoln – stands sentinel in front of their fellow commanders-in-chief. Concrete has flaked off Washington’s face, leaving what resembles the trace of tears. Jackson – Old Hickory – is the least damaged, though his soldierly poise is beginning to fade. Appropriately enough, Lincoln now has a gaping hole in the back of his head.

The presidents resting in rows behind them have fared no better. They’re all in some state of disrepair. And as time goes on, the less likely it is that they will ever be rehabilitated. So tiny Croaker, Va. may likely be the final resting place of a tribute that, giant as it was, could never capture the same attention that its demise has.