Reclaiming the Past

For many of us Southerners, there’s a barn in our past. I am no exception. With my father’s having grown up on a farm near Sumrall, Mississippi, I must have inherited a love for that land and all the simple, utilitarian buildings on it, especially for its barn.

 I should add here that barns of the Deep South are different. They’re not the huge, aesthetically pleasing barns found in other parts of the country, especially in places where winters are a reckoning force. We Southerners had no need for a barn large enough to accommodate cattle in winter nor storage space for a full year’s feed for them. Our winters could hardly freeze cattle, and our fields, along with hay, were perfectly capable of feeding them throughout the winter.

Thus, our barns were simpler buildings, used often as not for milking cows, for housing tractors, and even for providing owners with space for tinkering with machinery. They were modest structures, and as such, reflected owners’ tastes and needs, and without money for frivolities such as paint, these barns have not fared well through time.

Thus it was that we embarked on a project to reclaim our past. When we purchased the property previously referred to here as Our Piece of Paradise, we certainly admired its existing barn and enjoyed exploring it. But one day toward the end of last year, an idea dawned. Why not demonstrate what can be done with a humble pole barn?

The idea tumbled forward until we  began construction in June of this year. With little more than a hand-drawn plan, we found the perfect builders, ones who enjoyed the challenge and dared work without specifics. Every day for them has been a challenge, and now that this project nears completion, we appreciate them even more. It hasn’t been easy, but the end product will be a true reclamation of our Southern past.

To complete this project, we drew from two other barns. First, we secured permission to visit from the present owner of my family’s old farm in Mississippi.  This cordial gentleman welcomed us to the property and allowed us to take the ladder from the existing barn, the very ladder that I had climbed as a child. It will now go across the ceiling of our new “old” kitchen, and what had once supported my ascent to the hayloft will now support lights and wonderful memories.

The second barn is local. While going from our home in town to the farm property, we kept noticing an old barn in great disrepair. After finding the present owners, we asked permission to dismantle what remained of the barn and to use some remarkable wood as well as tools and a number of other farm memorabilia. This beautiful wood has found its way now to the floors of our  barn house, while objects such as incredible hinges, tin roofs, and stall doors will be used as decoration.

Once the project was underway, ideas snowballed. The cast iron sink with double drainboards has found a new home. Fifties bar stools, stored for decades in the attic, have been spruced up to sit at the kitchen bar. And once our friends learned about the project, they, too, began making contributions, turning our barn house a true reclamation of a shared past.

Now weary, but still exhilirated, we’ve set the date for the big party. With friends and family around us, we’ll celebrate not only that we will have a unique place in the country, but also that we have reclaimed an important part of our past. After all, we’re Southerners, and we like to keep the good parts of our past alive, especially when it comes to our barns.

From Encounters of the Southern Kind

Copyright 2011    All Rights Reserved

Dreams Dashed and Businesses Past

 　

Without doubt, every American city has these. I speak of the ghosts of American small businesses that exist no more. They were created by some enterprising person, often one just off a boat from Europe, and often with little more than the clothes on his back. But they came with something else, something more important—the hopes and dreams to create something new and wonderful in a country where anything was possible.

The Port City of Mobile was no different, but more times than not, our entrepreneurs were products of poor farming families determined to find a better life. Two of those were brothers Lem and Aubrey Morrison, who in 1942 bought a facility in Greensboro, Alabama, where local dairy producers could bring their Grade A milk for distribution to bottling plants. This simple operation soon turned into Blackbelt Creamery, which produced cheddar cheese for sale to Kraft.

That business, in turn, caused the brothers to look for bottling facilities of their own, and in 1949, with the help of over forty dairy farmers near Mobile, they purchased the struggling Dixie Dairies. The following year, a competitor in Mobile proved ready to sell its operation, and the Morrison brothers purchased what became known throughout the Southeast as Dairy Fresh Corporation.

Dairy Fresh went on to purchase an ice cream company as well as other dairies in Alabama and Mississippi, and it employed over 700 people. Throughout its history, Dairy Fresh maintained a strong connection with Mississippi State University and its Department of Dairy Science for their expertise.

On this subject, I can speak with authority. My father, graduate of that university, served as Quality Control Supervisor for many years at Dairy Fresh, along with another graduate of the university as farming operations manager. Thus, it was with great sadness that I learned recently of the sale of the company to a larger, national producer.

The familiar cow atop the building that swished its tail to and fro has disappeared. The building has been razed and the lot cleared to make room for “progress”. The blue and white trucks proudly proclaiming “Best in the Land” no longer cross the streets of our city. But for those of us in this town, their absence stands as another reminder of the family business that is no more.

Next week, I’ll talk about some other local businesses that made an impact on the national scene, only to become ghosts as well. In preparing for these posts, I’ve talked with some amazing people and walked with them down a bittersweet memory lane.

Please join me as I resurrect the ghosts of other businesses past.

　

　

　

　

　

The Ghost of Washington Square

Although nearly a year would pass before she could make any sense of what had happened, Joelle was in the house for only a few hours when she felt its presence. During those first curious hours, she suspected her mind had simply tired of reality and created a story fit for the old house. A product of New England upbringing, Joelle was no stranger to tales of witches and burnings and subsequent curses. This, however, was different.

Joelle’s dream house was in what locals call Washington Square. The reason for the name has been lost in history, but the old house was exactly what Joelle had always dreamed of owning; it was also the reason she’d taken the job down South.

As the real estate lady showed her the house, they both had been surprised to find an original painting over the mantel. Joelle considered the somewhat abstract water color beautiful as well as captivating, and she couldn’t imagine why someone would leave it behind.

“Do you think it belongs to the previous owners?” Joelle asked.

 ”I don’t know,” the agent told her. “They’ve moved back to England. But an artist built the house. Maybe it’s been left here all these years.”

When it was still there on moving day, Joelle took the picture down from the wall, wrapped it in brown paper, and placed it in her bedroom closet for safekeeping until the real estate agent could contact the previous owners. First mention of anything actually being wrong came later that day. 

She was coming down the stairs as movers brought in the last piece of furniture when she overheard,  ”Reckon we’ll be movin’ all this stuff back out ’bout the time she gets her fill of that ghost.”

“Does my house have a ghost?” she asked, intending to make a joke of the mention.

The man’s eyes squinted as he said, “No, Ma’am. You musta misunderstood. I was just tellin’ Jimbo how the wind whistles in these old houses in winter time. Kinda sounds like a ghost moanin’.”

But Joelle caught the look the men exchanged. All went well until the next night. Returning from her new job, Joelle turned on the light and was half way across the living room when it dawned on her. The picture she’d stored in her closet was back on the wall, and the brown paper she’d wrapped it in now lay on the floor beneath the mantel.

“Okay, calm down,” she said to herself.  ”There has to be an explanation.”

Once again, she lifted the painting from the wall. This time,  she carried it upstairs and relegated it to a storage closet, where she tucked it between two blankets.

But Joelle wanted to know more. Research at a local bookstore revealed that the original owner had indeed been an artist, and like so many others of that ilk, a very disturbed one who had killed himself for what he considered a lack of success.

Joelle returned to her house, but this time, the painting remained in the closet. Still, she wanted it out of her house. She took the painting from the closet and had started down the stairs with it when a misstep caused her to reach for the railing, and as she did, the painting slipped from her hands and tumbled down the stairs, where it landed face down. And as Joelle watched,  the painting turned over to reveal the playful scene once again.

Joelle remained in the house for several years, until her job took her to another city, but after that day on the stairs, she sold the painting to a local gallery. Owners of the gallery say that some strange things happened when that painting arrived, but I don’t know anything about all that.  I love the painting, and it looks really great in my living room. I hung it right there above the mantel.

Grand View

July 22, 2011

I suppose that every area of our vast country boasts ghosts of its own, but through the years, I’ve come to believe that Mississippi might have more than its share. I don’t know whether the state’s Faulknerian history is to blame, or whether the hauntingly simple landscape creates such impressions. But for whatever reason, hunting ghosts in Mississippi has become a popular pastime.

Thus it is that this week’s blog returns to the Magnolia State, in particular to a pretty town on the banks of the Mississippi River called Port Gibson. A drive down the town’s aptly named Church Street will get you in the mood. If the day is sunny, by all means, stop by St. Joseph’s Catholic Church. On such a day, its blue-tinted windows give the simple interior a most ethereal quality and could make even a serious doubter pause for thought.

The First Presbyterian Church, however, is probably more famous because of its peculiar architectural feature, a hand pointing toward heaven. When Reverend Zebulon Butler assumed the pulpit from the previous mission church in 1859, he had a vision of this grand structure, and with generous donations from members, the church was completed the following year. As irony would have it, the first service held in the sanctuary was the funeral of its creator, but Dr. Butler had already left a most fitting tribute to his faith.

The gold hand pointing toward heaven alone is worth the visit to Port Gibson, but I would be remiss in failing to mention Temple Gemiluth Chassed Synagogue a short distance down the street.

The cornerstone was laid for the building on January 3, 1892, and it served the Jewish community until 1986, when the congregation had dwindled to only two persons. A Moorish keyhole doorway below a prominent squared onion dome make it architecturally significant in the state as well as in much of the Southeast. In spite of its historical significance, this beautiful building was almost demolished in 1987 to make room for, of all things, a parking lot. Luckily, two local residents stepped in to save the structure, and today a “messianic” congregation meets there.

Having mentioned Port Gibson’s most notable churches, I must now get down to the business of ghosts. If Mark Twain were still alive, he would no doubt want to visit what I will refer to here for purposes of anonymity as Grand View. Perched high above the Mississippi River, this house is inhabited by some very real people, but they are quick to tell the visitor about its resident ghost.

Perhaps the most famous story involves wallpaper. The lovely owner had given me a tour of the home, which concluded in the hallway of an addition to the house. Stopping there, I suddenly had chills on that sultry Mississippi day, and I asked, “Is this the place where you’ve seen the ghost?”

She gave me a half-smile and nodded. “And that room,” she said pointing across the hallway, “is where he visits most. In fact, the previous owners finally gave up on papering the walls because every time they put up new paper, the ghost would tear it down during the night.”

That piqued my curiosity even more, and I asked, “So have you ever seen him?”

“I saw something once, down there in the garden, ” she said, shaking her head. “But then I don’t really believe in ghosts. Do you?”

I readily admitted that the jury is still out for me, but as I followed her back to the living room, I could tell I’d touched a nerve. She wasn’t willing to talk yet, but maybe, just maybe, some day she’ll tell me all about it.

　

　

Africa Town

This week’s encounter takes me to a place right here in my hometown of Mobile, but it is one that I had never really studied up close. For that I apologize as well as to those who might think my venture here invasive. Thus, I say in advance that my approach is with great respect and with a genuine interest in the lives represented by the dual flags of the United States and Pan-Africa that fly above the site.

Africa Town came about because of one man’s insolence and greed, but it has evolved into a proud representation for many Americans. When warring tribes of Africa captured those from opposing tribes, many of them were sold to Americans and brought to this country, where they suffered further indignity and abuse. By the late 1850s, even though slavery had been banned for some time, a wealthy Mobile businessman bet that he could still bring in a shipment of slaves under the noses of waiting federal authorities. Sadly, he won the bet, and his ship, the Clotilde, entered Mobile Harbor on the night of July 9, 1860. Under the veil of darkness, he then whisked the ship upriver to the present site of Africa Town.

In spite of the great wrong done, the arrival of these people now serves as a vital link between Mobile’s past and its present. Those who settled in this area were later joined by fellow tribesmen, and together they formed their own self-governing community. Speaking their native tongue for many years, these brave people preserved a sense of community that still exists today.

Among those early settlers was Cudjo Lewis (1835-1935), whose grave I am told is represented by the simple , tall monument above. As founder of the community, Cudjo left us his account of the war between the tribes in West Africa, the selling of his fellow Africans, and the voyage of the Clotilde to Mobile. The Africa Town Community Mobilization Project was formed in 1997 for the purpose of establishing an Africa Town Historical District and for encouraging the historical restoration and development of the site.

Visiting this place on a blistering July day, I felt a sense of awe. Some simple stones appear cast off, while others are quite elaborate testaments to a family’s love, but these generations gathered here represent a struggle of centuries. Ripped from their native land, these early settlers brought with them a culture that enhances our lives today and makes me proud to know their descendants.

As I wandered about the cemetery, I found no ghosts, except perhaps for the ghost of slavery. While these early settlers of Africa Town suffered man’s basest cruelty, their story also gives me hope. Their struggle represents mankind’s need to persevere, to give to our descendants a better life than we had ourselves. And to do that, we must remember the past, however shameful.

As I left Africa Town, I glanced once again at the peaceful scene and thought how wonderful it would be if only we, mankind, could bury the ghost of bigotry forever, not only in my home town, but also around the world.　

　

　

　

　

　

The Carport

The drive from Hattiesburg to Mobile is usually boring, but not last week. I can’t begin to tell you why I turned around and went back to that carport. You’ve all seen them. You know the type. Stuck off behind a little asbestos-shingled house, it didn’t look like anyting special, with stacks of stuff where a car should be and a closed storage area at the back.

But for whatever reason, I turned around and went back to it. A narrow asphalt road took me to the house, and for a minute, I just sat there on the road, looking. I’d gone that far, so I pulled up into the driveway. The house looked empty, and I hoped it was because I couldn’t think of any reason for me to be there. I had no idea what I’d say if somebody came along.

I got out of the car and stood there with the door open for a minute, then took the keys from the ignition and tossed them onto the driver’s seat and closed the door. Still, it would have been easy to leave, but I couldn’t. There I was, June in Mississippi, but for some reason I felt cold, and the closer I got to the carport, the colder I got. Shaking and by then nauseated, I reached out for the rusted door knob. It turned easily in my hand, too easily, and the door inched open.

Nothing but darkness. I couldn’t see a thing, and at first I thought the scream must have come from inside the storeroom, but then I turned in time to see its source fly down the steps of the house and bear down on me, all the while screaming in frenzied pitch. The old woman’s face had contorted with rage, and her hands pumped in anger. I tried to run, but it was too late. Bony fingers bit into my arms, and the harder I struggled, the tighter she held me.

“What are you doin’ with my boy?’ Shaking me, she screamed, “Git away from my boy.”

“Please let me go,” I pled. “I’ll leave. Just let me go.”

Her grip relaxed, and a calm passed over her face as she looked past me, into the darkened storeroom. I turned, following her gaze. At first, I didn’t see much, but as my eyes adjusted, the image came into focus. A scream now came from my gut, and I tried to pull away from her, but vacant eyes still watched me from the depths of the storeroom.

Releasing me, she entered the storeroom. “Hush, now baby. Mamma’s here. Mamma will take care of you,” she said lifting the mummified corpse from its high chair. “Hush, now.”

I made a run for it, but when I got to the car, the keys were missing, and in their place, vacant eyes stared back at me again. I spiraled backward onto a thorny bush, tearing skin in my fall.

I didn’t know which way to go, but I had to get out of there. Too terrified to look back at the carport, I picked myself up. There, on the front seat lay my car keys, right where I’d left them. In a single motion, I started the car and sped backward from the driveway. As I turned onto the asphalt road, I dared one last glance. The woman, once a raging lunatic, now rocked back and forth on her feet as she cradled empty air.

I didn’t stop until I got to New Augusta. I chose a truck stop and went inside, grateful for the noise and the people. After a while, I started to feel normal and picked up a pack of crackers and a drink and went to pay.

The woman behind the counter looked friendly enough. I asked, “Do you know who lives in that gray house a bit back?”

She gave me a blank stare, so I added, “You know. The one with the carport. It’s about five miles back toward Hattiesburg, on the left.”

This time she smiled and nodded.  ”Oh, sure. I know the one you’re talkin’ about. And that’s really odd.”

“Odd?” I asked, afraid to know. “What’s odd about it?”

“Oh, nothing odd about the house. Leastwise that I know about. But you’re the third lady that’s asked about it this week.”

As cold fingers wrapped around my throat, I asked, “Other people have asked about it?”

Again she nodded. “Yeah, sure ’nuff. But it’s like I told ‘em all. Nobody’s lived in that house for a long time. The woman there killed her baby and left it in the storeroom. Now the family can’t sell that house for love or money. It’s a shame, too. Used to be such a nice place.”

This story, a departure from my usual blog content, was written for a book launch for my friend and wonderful writer Carolyn Haines. Unfortunately,  I injured my foot falling from a bicycle and I didn’t get to make the trip to Natchez. If you like good stories and excellent writing, I strongly recommend Carolyn’s work. She’s the best!

Part Three of Carrie’s Cup

“Mother!” She yelled, racing to the kitchen.

Mother turned around from her place at the sink, holding a dripping piece of lettuce.

“What is it, Carrie?”

“Where’s my cup?”

Mother turned to the sink and laid down the lettuce. “Sit down,” she told Carrie and followed her to the table. “Didn’t I tell you not to put water in that thing?”

“I didn’t. Honest, I didn’t.”

“Well then, how did water get on your dresser and leave a big ring?”

Carrie shook her head, remembering how she had hurried to get the cup back before Mother opened the door. Again she asked, “But where is it?”

Mother gave her a look that said you’re just a child. “Honey, I took it to the antique shop with some other stuff we didn’t need any more.” She got up, went to the counter, and took the lid off the jar where she kept her secret money, took out several bills, and placed them on the table in front of Carrie.

“Look at all that money. It’s yours, and you can buy whatever you want with it.”

Carrie’s eyes clouded over like the water in her cup as she asked, “You sold my cup?”

“Baby, you found a treasure. I had no idea that thing was so valuable.”

“But I loved my cup. Why did you sell it?”

Losing patience, Mother said, “That old thing made a mess. Isn’t there something you’d like to buy now for school?”

“School? You already bought me what I need for school.”

“You can always use something cute to wear. What do you say we go shopping this afternoon? I’ll replace your shoes, and you can use this money for whatever you want.”

“Can we go to the antique store and get my cup back?”

“No, baby. I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Why not?”

“Mrs. Perry said she already has a buyer for it. A nice lady who collects ladles. It wouldn’t be fair of us to ask for it back now, would it?”

“I guess not,” Carrie said, lowering her eyes to her feet.

“Well then, why don’t we go look for those new shoes?”

“No thanks. My school shoes are fine. If you don’t mind, I’d rather go to the creek.”

“But Carrie, you can’t go to that creek by yourself.”

“Then I’ll ask Gary to go with me.”

“Remember what happened the last time you went down there with him?”

“It won’t happen again. I promise.”

Mother shook her head and sighed, the way she always did when she didn’t understand. “Okay,” she conceded. “If that’s what you really want.”

She called for Gary and turned back to her daughter. ” Carrie, baby, I’m sorry for selling your ladle. I thought you’d be happy. I guess I didn’t know it meant that much to you.”

“It’s okay, Mother. I understand now,” Carrie said, rising from the table. “I really do. But can I just go play at the creek?”

Gary waited for her at the fence, and he even held the barbed wire apart for her. When she’d squeezed through, he gave her one of those superior brother looks.

“What’s so important about going to the creek?”

“I just want to go there. It’s fun.”

“Well, hurry up then. We don’t have long before dark.”

His long legs took him to the creek before Carrie could get there, and by the time she arrived, he was half way up the big oak tree. Feet dangling from a limb that spread out over the creek, Gary appeared caught up in his own world of adventure. After all, he was only there because Mother had made him go.

Carrie approached the creek and gazed into its coppery, clear water. The rush of a few days before had subsided, and what had been a near-torrent now glided gently by. She took off her school shoes, tucked her socks inside them, and set both at the base of the oak. Then she returned to the bank and sat down on the grass. Pushing off with her hands, Carrie slid downward until her feet rested on the sandy bottom.

First she walked upstream, sliding her feet along and watching tiny pebbles cascade over each other while stirred-up sand swirled into magical shapes. After a few minutes, she turned around and walked the other way. Making a game of it, she lifted one foot high into the air, then placed it down only a few inches ahead while she sang her favorite song.

It was one she’d heard in the movie that Mother took her to see. Although Carrie didn’t know all the words, she did know some because Daddy had taught her to wish on a star. Her voice rose with each step until she suddenly stopped. The water cleared, and there, half-hidden in the sand, lay her cup.

She squealed and reached down to touch it. Assured that it was real, she found a stick and freed it from the creek’s bottom. That done, she rubbed away the sand and silt, dipped it back into the water, and filled it to the brim. This time, when she drew it upward, the water inside glistened as if a thousand stars twinkled from within.

Carrie momentarily forced her eyes away from the cup to search the tree. She caught a glimpse of Gary as he scooted higher, and she knew he wasn’t paying any attention to her. She also knew that he’d tell on her since she’d gotten him into trouble aftter their last visit to the creek, but this time would be different. Carrie gazed back into the star-filled water, and, once again humming her favorite tune, lifted the cup to her lips.

Please join me next Friday at Encounters of the Southern Kind

Copyright 2011   All Rights Reserved

The Devil’s Trace

This gallery contains 4 photos.

Even if you’re not familiar with the Natchez Trace, you would probably find it worth investigating, whether for its ghost potential or simply for its peaceful beauty. In the late 1700s, at the inception of commerce in the South, adventurous souls devised a way to float merchandise down the Mississippi to Natchez and New Orleans. [...]

Piece of Paradise

Our Little Piece of Paradise

For years, my husband and I had dreamed of owning property in the country. We had no preconceived notions of how much we wanted or exactly where we wanted it to be, but the country life continued to beckon. So when we spotted that sign at an intersection between Alabama and Mississippi, we followed it like school kids on a scavenger hunt. The paved road we turned on to soon gave way to a single lane dirt one, which then turned sharply to the left before narrowing again into a lane shaded by magnificent oaks on either side.

The distance down that lane was hardly more than a hundred yards, but the city had already dwindled to a memory as we passed through the open metal gate and entered what would become our piece of paradise. Ahead, we saw two cars parked near a copse of trees, and we followed suit. However, as we got out of the car there, a mixture of sadness and longing overwhelmed me, and I started to cry. The property was surely beautiful, but what I felt was more than admiration. It was also more than appreciation for the beauty of a sunny, warm afternoon in February. I cried because I sensed the presence of the people who had lived and loved on that land before me.

Once I had dried the tears, we spoke briefly with the owners who were engaged in discussion with some other prospective buyers, then left them to wander about the property. After a while, we walked toward the northeast corner and gazed out over the adjacent meadow, where cows grazed in contentment.

As we watched, my husband put his arm around my shoulders and said, “Well, you know what Will Rogers said.”

“What’s that?” I asked, looking up at him.

“Buy land,” he said with a grin. “They ain’t makin’ any more.”

For me, that’s all it took. With the financial details ironed out, the land soon became ours, and those six acres have become our retreat and a safe haven for many of God’s creatures.

Everybody may not understand the joy of putting out crackers and peanut butter for raccoons in winter, and some may not share the joy of filling feeders or cleaning out bird baths in summer’s heat. While still others may not agree that digging holes for mulberry trees or picking gallons of blackberries is fun. But that’s okay. These six acres are our version of paradise, and we protect it with all the fury of a mother bear defending her cubs.

Through subsequent years, I’ve often thought about the spirits I sensed that Sunday afternoon, and I even had a vision about what their simple home looked like and of a tornado that lifted the roof from the house. When I shared that story with a descendant living nearby, this man looked askance at me and said, “I was asleep in the bedroom when it happened. How did you know?”

On another occasion, I asked if there had ever been rows of flowers planted on the south field. This time, the man paled. Nodding, he said, “My grandfather planted them for a big florist in town. He took ‘em into town once a week.”

And this time, he didn’t even ask how I’d known.

Neither do I know the source of such information. One thing, though, is for sure. I am tied heart and soul to this simple property. While I may not farm it as its previous owners had done, I love it heartily and am determined to see that its next owners do as well. The land and our ancestors deserve nothing less.

Toward that end, several years ago I wrote a short story called “Carrie’s Cup”. Featured in Clinton Brick Streets Winners Circle, 2009, the story represents my feelings for this special place. Because of length, the story will appear in three consecutive segments, concluding on June 25, 2011.

I thank you for reading and for peeking into our little piece of paradise.

Please join me next week for a continuation of “Carrie’s Cup” and another segment in Encounters of the Southern Kind.

Carrie’s Cup

Three children squeezed through rows of barbed wire fence behind a gray house and took off across rolling pastureland. Striding with the confidence of a leader, the taller, sandy-haired boy wound his way around gullies formed from recent rains and led his entourage downhill. Once he stopped to glance over his shoulder at the little blond girl on the hill behind him, but he turned back and quickened his pace to the creek below.

His long legs had no problem leaping across the creek, and he yelled back to the younger boy, “Come on! What are you waitin’ for?”

Hesitating only for a second, the other boy followed suit, as busy feet churned through the air, skidded on the opposite bank, then deposited him on his behind.

“Good one! For a minute, I thought you were gonna fly.”

“Yeah, me, too.”  The other boy grinned, picking himself up. “So, let’s go. Last one there’s a stinky butt.”

And the boys sprinted toward thick woods on the far side of the pasture.

The little girl now made it down to the bank, where the normally placid stream rushed by in a near torrent. Remembering Mother’s words about her new patent leather shoes, she looked down at how they sparkled in the sunlight.

“Carrie, if you’re comin’, hurry up. We gotta get to the fort.”

Now it was his little sister’s turn to jump. Her first foot landed safely, but the second stopped short and hit instead on a patch of slippery clay. Small hands reached out for help, tearing away bits of grass, but they did little to slow her descent into the creek below.

Heat of the day fell away as bubbly water rushed over her legs, and instead of crying, her first impulse, Carrie lifted a fistful of it to her face. It felt good, and an idea dawned. Cupping both hands together like she’d seen Daddy do, she held them under the water, then lifted them up over her head, while cool drops splashed down her face and onto her shoulders. Carrie squealed as again and again, she lifted her hands, her laughter growing louder with each splash.

“Go to your old fort,” she instructed the empty air.

After all, it wasn’t her fault that Gary had left her there. Water whirled and swirled around her waist and made strange patterns as it passed by. Turning her head to one side, she studied them, not unlike one might study an abstract painting. First, a dragon rushed by, curling its fiery breath. Next came a knight in blue armor on his prancing, white horse, followed by purple trees with talking toads yearing for a princess to kiss. Clouds made reflections in the water too, and at first she thought it must be one of those. She got onto her hands and knees and crawled closer to the object.

A bit of gray metal stuck out of the creek’s bottom. She tried to lift what she thought was a handle, but the object wouldn’t budge. Again she looked around for help, this time to the sticks at the creek’s edge. When she’d found the right one, she turned back to the object, prying and prying, each time a little harder, until eventually she lifted the cup from its resting place.

The cup was nothing fancy. Its handle was long, the metal dull and dented. The cup held little beauty, but Carrie saw it differently. She wiped away remaining sand with her shirt, then dipped the cup back into the water, filled it, and lifted it to her lips, savoring the cool water as no doubt queens before her had done. The cup felt good in her hands and reminded her of home. She would take it there.

She tossed her treasure up on to the grassy bank. The bank still proved slippery, but by wedging her new shoes into holes in the side of it, Carrie lifted herself onto dry land. For only a moment, she considered letting her brother and Doug see the cup, but they didn’t deserve to. After all, they had left her in the creek all alone, so Carrie started toward home with her newfound treasure.

 From the kitchen window, Mother watched her slip through the fence and head back to the house. Still wet and grasping what looked like an old ladle, Carrie appeared every bit the victim. As she climbed the back steps, each foot made a squishing sound. Mother held open the door and looked down in horror.

“Carrie! What happened? Look at your shoes.”

Carrie’s head dropped as she also took stock. Held back tears found release, and she cried, simple tears at first, then sobs that shook her shoulders and made her belly ache. She had begged for those Mary Janes. All her friends had them, and now hers were ruined.

“What happened?” Mother asked again.

“Gary and Doug jumped over the creek. I had to do it if I wanted to go to the fort.”

“You mean you fell in?”

Carrie nodded, and Mother’s suspicion now aroused, she asked, “And what did Gary do?”

Carrie couldn’t say a word.

“Did he leave you there?”

Then she didn’t have to say anything. Mother would deal with Gary when he got home. She hugged Carrie, promised to replace the ruined shoes, and sent her to take a warm bath. When Carrie finished, she put on her favorite gown, the one with the princesses all over it, and retreated into her bedroom, where she gave the cup a place of prominence on her dresser.

Later, when Mother came to tuck her in, she asked, “Are you sure you want to keep that old thing?”

Carrie’s chin poked out, and nodding, she said, “It’s mine. I’ll keep it forever.” Then she looked up at Mother. “Where do you suppose it came from?”

“I have no idea.” Mother sat down beside her. “Probably some people who lived on that old farm had it.”

“What did they do with it?”

Mother smiled patiently and said, “Honey, they didn’t have water inside their house like we do. They had to pull up a bucket from the well. And they probably used your ladle to drink water out of the bucket.” Leaning over to kiss Carrie’s forehead, she added, “But you shouldn’t drink out of it. Remember that now.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s full of germs. We’ll clean it up tomorrow. Okay?”

Carrie nodded again, and Mother added, “And don’t put any water in it. It could spill and leave a ring on your dresser.”

Carrie agreed and said goodnight. But the last thing she saw that night before sweet dreams took her away was the glint on her cup from the streelight peeping through her curtains.

Long before Mother came to awaken her, Carrie was up. Her last summer before starting first grade, and she had so very much to do. Those plans now included her cup. She wanted to show it off to her friends, to tell them all about how she had found it. Mother said that the people who lived on the farm were poor, but Carrie thought something else entirely. She knew their lives had been fun.

She slipped out of bed and headed for the dresser, but when she reached for the cup, her hand flew back in surprise. How did water get in it?

Mother had warned her about leaving water in it. Being more careful now, she took the cup, held it with both hands, and looked down into the mysterious water. About to lift it to her lips, she stopped as the water clouded over, as if somebody had stirred white paint into it; then, slowly, it cleared again, and a scene unfolded before her eyes.

She recognized the place, the pasture behind their house. Instead of the simple garden of tomatoes Daddy had planted, though, she saw rows and rows of flowers. Neat and full, the rows bloomed with vibrant yellows, reds, whites, and purples, and in the sunlight, they seemed to glow. Before long, a man appeared in a wagon pulled by a big black horse. He didn’t look like Daddy, dressed as he was in some sort of jeans with straps over his shoulders. The man got out and took some cans filled with water out of the back of the wagon and set them down between the rows of flowers. Then, using a really big pair of scissors, he clipped the prettiest flowers and put them into the cans. When he was done, he picked up the flower-filled cans one at a time and put them back on his wagon. He then situated himself on the driver’s seat, hitched the reins, and the horse pulled the wagon out of sight.

White paint clouded the water again, and the scene disappeared. Carrie gently shook the cup, waited, and shook it again. Still nothing happened. Shielding the cup from Mother’s view, she carried it to the bathroom, where she emptied it and watched the water slide down the drain.

 Copyright 2011  All Rights Reserved

 

Kali Oka Road

What lies beyond?

Memorial Day serves as the official beginning of summer, even here in the Deep South, where the weather has proclaimed it so for weeks. Whether we fire up the barbecue grills, head for the beach, or make ice cream with relatives, most of us do something special to commemorate the brave people who served our country and to salute the advent of summer.

With that in mind, I headed to Kali Oka Road, a name I’m told means place of hills and springs. Sweeping vistas, rare in this flat land, soon appeared, and coppery creeks laced the countryside. Long known for its mysterious lights, Kali Oka Swamp rightfully supports more ghost stories than it does skeeters, so it only seemed fitting to go looking for the paranormal there.

Perhaps the most familiar legend of Kali Oka centers on Cry Baby Bridge, just past Dead Man’s Curve. Several versions of the story exist, but all of them involve the mistress of the nearby plantation who, for various reasons, tosses her baby into the creek below and is forever cursed to search for the lost infant. Add to the mix a giant of an African American male, either her lover or her protector, and you have an instant classic.

Preliminary research had told me that when the owners of the plantation died, their once magnificent plantation fell into great disrepair and became host to all sorts of graffiti. However, a stop to talk with nearby residents quickly corrected that notion. The University of Mobile, previous owners, had in recent years sold the property, and new owners have now restored the plantation to its former glory.

And how truly glorious those houses are. The dirt road leading off Kali Oka  could hardly have prepared me for their beauty. Set in perfect isolation, their multiple brick chimneys, wide porches with swings, and shingled roofs belong  to another era. Without the American flags waving from their porches, I might have suspected that these houses had simply come alive from a history book. However, testament to their reality came in the form of strict warning signs, along with chains across the driveways to prevent entry. Apparently too many want to see the place of legends and fail to heed rules of common courtesy.

From the roadway, I spent some time admiring those marvelous homes, snapped a few photos, and left to find Cry Baby Bridge, the subject of many online postings. Some of those posting had been brave enough to visit the place in the dark, a few even on Halloween. While I’m not exactly frightened of the dark, I am genuinely afraid of crazy drivers, so there I was on a bright, sunny afternoon during the last weekend of May.

Apart from the horrible stench of some poor animal that didn’t make it across the road, I rather enjoyed the view from the bridge and ventured down the pathway to the creek. Again, I enjoyed the tranquil view, took  some photos, and turned to leave. But as I did, a sound stopped me in my tracks. Had there been traffic on the bridge overhead, I might have attributed it to an approaching car. Had the creek not been almost completely still, I might have thought it to be the sound of rushing water. So while I cannot honestly say that it sounded like a baby’s cry, I also cannot say what had produced the sound. Who knows? Maybe I’ll go back on Halloween night and listen again.

Back on the roadway, I continued my adventure with one last stop at a nearby cemetery. Nestled amid a thick forest, that little cemetery reminded me of what’s right about the South. Perfectly manicured, it shows that those laid within its boundaries are not only remembered, but also that their families still love them. For a brief while, I walked around the grounds reading inscriptions and becoming increasingly interested in the lives of those represented there. I marveled at inscriptions dated from the inception of the nineteenth century, but the recent grave of a Marine brought me to tears.

Well done, good and faithful servant; enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.

In that small cemetery, life in the South had been encapsulated. Infants, children, and those with lives spanning decades had all come together in a simple, rural setting. Gazing out over their memorials, I, too, felt a part of their lives. I know what it feels like to love a place so much it hurts and to agonize over separation from kindred souls. I know the splendor of azaleas bursting beneath tall pines in spring.  I know the feel of salt water on my sunburned skin, and I know the smell of football on a September afternoon. Many years may separate me from some of those folks, but one thing remains constant. We are all part of this place and of its never-ending pageant of humanity. We are part of this land called The South.

I encourage you to come back again next week when we visit another place of legends.

from Encounters of the Southern Kind

Copyright 2011   All Rights Reserved

The Ruins of Windsor

As a lifelong Southerner, I love this place, warts and all.

Talk to any Southerner long enough and you’ll understand. When our ancestors turned up the soil to feed their families, they must have also turned up a bunch of ghosts because they somehow find their way into most all our stories. Any ordinary incident becomes fodder for the supernatural, and more often than not, the story will include a ghost, or at the very least divine intervention. In an area where churches dot every street corner, divine intervention might be expected, but ghostly encounters run neck and neck with it. What might be a simple event soon turns, in our vernacular, to a ghostly presence and the subject of many stories.

One visually striking example stands off Highway 552 near Port Gibson, Mississippi, the town dubbed by General Grant as Too Pretty to Burn. It is called the Ruins of Windsor. For the casual observer, the ruins of this once majestic mansion are just that. But for the Southerner, the site itself has been anointed with enough ghost stories to make the skeptic cringe.

In 1861, Smith Daniel Coffee II completed a house to make other plantation owners green with envy. Even Mark Twain had visited the magnificent house and subsequently wrote about it in Life on the Mississippi. As these stories so often go, the owner sadly passed away before he had much chance to enjoy it, but surviving family had planned quite the party in May of 1890. From miles around, beaux and belles had donned their finest attire, but a carelessly dropped cigarette caused the house to burn from the roof to the ground. Today all that stands are the twenty-three Corinthian columns and a plethora of ghost stories.

Determined to see it for myself, I happened there on the hottest of summer days in August. Supposedly, a Confederate gentleman wanders the premises from time to time, spreading goose bumpse among visitors, and I secretely hoped he’d make an appearance for me. With that in mind, I toured the grounds, talked with a couple visiting from another town in Mississippi, and took some pictures to bring home.

No ghost appeared, and aside from the heat that surely could have come from down below, I experienced nothing out of the ordinary. However, the conversation with the couple took an interesting turn when the man said that he had been born on the grounds and pointed to remains of a chimney from his childhood home. He went on to say that his family had once served in the mansion, and he, generations later, had returned to the place with fondness.

That made me wonder. Do those who have once been enslaved feel the same love for our South? I didn’t ask this kind man. After all, he’d been eager to share his love for and knowledge about the place with me. He could as easily have avoided any contact, but what he had displayed was a pride in his upbringing and a pride in ownership of a place now controlled by the state.

There I was all ready to see a ghost, but the insight I gained was far better. This person who had nothing to gain by our encounter had taken time to share his past with me. I had hoped to see a ghost, but the ghost I encountered can’t be seen. It’s the ghost of our common past. We can accept our past, or we can deny it, but it’s a very real part of us.

The ghost of Windsor also lives on at nearby Alcorn State University. The stately staircase that had once greeted guests to Windsor now welcomes students searching for a better life. I can think of no better tribute to the ghost of our common past.

Through the weeks, I’ll share stories of how we, as Southerners, assign supernatural or spiritual significance to our everyday lives. While I won’t try to debunk any myths or explain good stories away scientifically, I will focus on the core of the Southerner who would rather make up a story than tell the truth any day of the week. That’s what this blog is about.

I invite you to come along with me as we travel back roads of the American South in search of ghosts, genuine characters, and just plain good times and eats. So, ya’ll come back now because you can’t make this stuff up.

From Encounters of the Southern Kind

Copyright 2011 All Rights Reserved