Last Saturday was a pleasant day for me, one that, upon reflection, allowed me to mentally re-order things into their proper perspective. The wife and I went into town together for the Spring home tour sponsored by a local historic preservation group. For two people who have such different interests, we do enjoy these outings together.
These annual presentations always run the risk of being merely “Pretense on Parade,” and there was some of that, to be sure. But the offering this year suggested something more: a cluster of five architecturally significant homes in one of the best older neighborhoods, ranging from an 1897 over-the-top Queen Anne wedding cake of a house to a 1927 Tudor wannabe. In between was an immense 1904 brick pile that couldn’t really decide if it was classical or Prairie style, a whitewashed and columned Southern manse by way of a poor Italian immigrant made good, and an austere Federal-style home that hid all its subtle treasures from the street. All predated the oil boom nouveau-riche of the 1930s, who have, of course, become today’s old-money crowd.
The houses that strove hardest to impress were the least impressive to us. The wife says I am too critical, but truth be told, she can hold her own with me in that department. I am more prone to laugh-out loud in the face of pretense and pomposity. She, on the other hand, waits until we get home, and then methodically picks it apart, piece by piece by piece. We agreed that only two of the houses could be classified as homes, in any real sense of the word. The proverbial wisdom ran through our heads, variations on “vanity of vanities,” etc. Except for one, there had been remarkably little turnover in ownership. But their denouement was familiar enough, for old money gone to seed is a story that never grows old. Whatever racket the original builder had going eventually played out. The money started draining away, and the kids would rather do something else with whatever was left than spend it maintaining one of these piles.
And so, the process starts over with a new family with something to prove. One of the easiest recognizable signposts seems to be the propensity to display a certain type of formally-informal casual family portrait. But of course, the daughters’ debutante pictures would take pride of place. The fact that all of these groupings of children in the various houses look exactly alike reminded me of the Olympia Dukakis line from Steel Magnolias, the one about her nephew’s family “looking like they’d been carved out of cream cheese.” Oh well, I’m being cruel, and snobbish in reverse, I suppose. I’m sure they are all lovely people. But really, if you are going to impress me, you are going to have to do better than a $32,000 table-top antique French porcelain clock, which our dog could reduce to a worthless pile of ceramic jiblets in about two seconds. Or, here’s a better idea: how about actual books in your richly-paneled libraries? Show books don’t count.
On the way home, the wife and I drove around our formerly rural part of the county. We saw the same impulse being played out here, albeit on a lower and broader scale. We’ve all heard the old saw, “be careful what you ask for, because you might just get it.” My variation on that might be, “be careful what you ask for, because you are eventually going to have to pay for it.” A better plan, as I see it, would be to reject this easy outward showiness, and rather lead an exuberant and expansive life, in a quiet and small way, hidden from the world behind your wall, or your overgrown shrubbery, or other screen of your choosing. Make people wonder what you are up to. With the ostentatious big house, the pool, the boat, and all the other accouterments, people know exactly what you are up to. And they will be bored by it.
Once home, I knew I would have to detox from all this stately pretension. And Max, my ever faithful Sheepadoodle, would need some attention, having been left behind on this outing. So, it is off to the farm we go! It is about seven or eight miles away, and he always starts whimpering and whining as soon as he recognizes the neighborhood. By the time I park the car at the end of the dead-end road, he is howling with delight. I let him out as quickly as possible and he began bounding around the pasture, in wild, joyful loops.
On this excursion, I was not interested in delving into mysteries, as referenced in a recent post. So I stayed away from the creek, and made my way towards a hillside overlooking the bottom where my nephew’s cattle were grazing. The sun was out, so I found a patch of shade at the edge of a locust thicket that had grown up in recent years. I chose this particularly, for in nature, as in life, you have to acknowledge the thorns amidst all the beauty. I laid down on the grass and stared into the few wispy clouds in the sky. I determined that I would simply be still and quiet, listening. I quickly heard some birds chirping away in the adjacent grove and, for the life of me, I could not identify the species. No doubt, I have heard them hundreds, if not thousands of times, but it sounded as if I were hearing this type of chatter for the first time. I considered raising myself up to try and make an identification, but that seemed counterproductive to my overall plan.
And so, I continued to lay still on the ground and just listen to this world around me. And then, I heard it–something completely unexpected. From deep in the woods beyond the creek, I heard the call of a hoot owl. Yes, owls live pretty much everywhere. But at least here, they are nocturnal creatures and never really seen. If you are in the woods at dusk, perhaps you might catch a glimpse of one as it flits away. But beyond that, they are rarely even heard. Soon the call was answered by a hoot-hoot further east. And then, far off in the west, maybe on the main creek, came a third response. For a few moments, I listened to the symphony of hooting between at least three of these majestic birds. And then it was silent again.
After a luxurious stretch, I arose and started back towards the car, signaling for Max to stop sniffing whatever had his attention and follow suit. But I stopped suddenly, noticing a small clump of blooming irises out in the middle of the pasture. These flowers were once ubiquitous around Southern homesteads, and now always denote either an old homesite, or possibly even a graveyard. We have two beds of them in our back garden. No matter how mean or hardscrabble the Southern shack, the wife could always transplant an iris or two to brighten up what could be an otherwise bleak farm-scape. Yards were “swept,” not mown, and these irises would return in greater numbers the following year, and then for every year thereafter. This had obviously been the site of an old share-cropper’s shack. A lone walnut gave added testimony.
I was struck by the juxtaposition of the simple, but exquisite and seemingly perpetual beauty of the iris bed with that of the brick and mortar monuments we erect. The latter will last, and depending on conditions, will continue on generation after generation—but only with our vigilance and care for their preservation, fighting the battle that will ultimately be lost. And then there is the bloom of this iris, the very “lily of the field,” planted no doubt beside a black sharecroppers cabin, now gone from memory. And yet, it returns, and blooms, forever more.
My dad bought this farm back in 1962, and perhaps reflecting the very newness and transitory nature of all things Americans, we have, in fact, owned it longer than anyone else. I have a vague memory of the nine old sharecroppers shacks which dotted the place at that time. Only one was inhabited, occupied by the local black bootlegger known as “Sweet Lucy.” In an absolutely Faulknerian touch, his surname was that of the plantation owner who had once owned this land and his forebearers. But like sharecropping itself, the era of bootlegging was passing as well. He remained on for a while, but eventually moved elsewhere.
The Caddo Indians were here first, evidenced by a mounded burial ground down in the bottom, next to the main creek. Soon after my dad purchased the tract, he allowed archeologists from Southern Methodist University to canvas and map the site, finding any number of pottery pieces along one particular ravine–now grassed over. But the burial mound is a known site. My dad “gave” it to me when I was twelve years old, as I was fascinated with history even then. So when the family divided up the property a few years ago, I retained the tiny spot, accessed by an easement across a relative’s portion.
The Caddos were gone before any European settlement. Even the Cherokees who were ran out in 1837 or so had only been here for fifty to sixty years, having left the Carolinas in the 1770s. Indian trails crisscrossed the area, all converging on the salt flats a few miles down the creek (now under a lake.) Chief Bowles passed through here pursued by the Texian army in 1837.
Several large antebellum plantations developed in the region following independence from Mexico. This is not surprising, being the richest land around. Our county’s only surviving antebellum plantation house (and it is the real deal) is located about two miles south. Our farm was once part of the extensive acreage of this plantation. And while the core of plantation survived, for a while, the outlying acreages, such as our land, was sold off; some of it to former slaves.
But in time, much of the acreage came under the ownership of a Jewish merchant in town, with the acreage leased out to numerous sharecroppers, as was the norm for absentee landlords. Sharecropping ended with the Second World War, and by the early 1960s, the merchant’s heirs were scattered from San Antonio to Florida to St. Louis. And so, my dad purchased the property and began to make improvements in the long-neglected land. In the twenty-three years of his stewardship, he transformed it into an active working ranch, full of green grass and fat F-1 cattle.
A little dirt road snaked through the property. It dropped down into the bottom, crossing the creek by way of a rickety wooden bridge, edging the burial ground, then working its way up to high ground on the other side, coming out on the paved road opposite of the last patch of cotton grown in this county. But the new lake opened to the south caused water to occasionally flood the bottom, washing out the bridge. The county was only too happy to close the road across the low ground, resulting in the dead-end lane of today.
A few small tracts remained along the dirt road, outside of the acreage that my dad had purchased. Two of these tracts were owned by brothers, grandsons of a freed slave who had purchased acreage in the area in the 1870s. The younger generations, whether black or white, had no interest in remaining on these small plots. My dad always maintained cordial relations with them, so that when they were ready to sell, he was ready to buy.
One brother and his wife lived in a little shack in the curve of the road. My dad would often stop to visit with them on his farm runs. I remember going inside with him once. The couple was old even then, and they had no children of their own. They were proud of the faded portrait of their grandparents hanging on the wall. He was the former slave, while she was said to be Indian, we were told. I remember the old man telling us where this grandfather was buried. It was on land we owned, several hundred feet behind a church that faced the main road, beside an old road, underneath the sycamore tree. The sycamore is now gone, but even today, I think I could locate the spot within twenty-five feet. I am probably the only person living who know this. Unfortunately, this part of the place ended up with a family member who killed the goose. He quickly sold the part given to him, on a whim, not even out of necessity. Easy come, easy go. But I feel sorry for him. Now all he has is the money. There is no dirt on his boots.
The other brother lived in a more substantial farmhouse, close to the old road. He would usually be in the front yard, gregarious and friendly, ready to talk to my dad as he came through. His wife was always a solemn sort, watching from the front porch. She was, in fact, our kinswoman, related to me through my mother, and then also to my wife, who came a little later in the story. I will not pretend that my family held any enlightened 21st century ideas about race relations–they did not. They were products of their time and place. But both sides of the family–white and black–knew of the common relationship and how we connected. I will have to say, we were all pretty matter-of-fact about it. I once chatted with this couple’s son about the specifics of it all.
But all those little houses, with their own stories and sagas, whether owned or sharecropped, are now gone. Their owners’ descendants live in cities somewhere, I suppose. All that is left to stand witness to the lives they lived here, their labors and loves, are the “lillies of the field,” scattered here and there where the house places once stood. So the land remembers, I think. And it will remember my dad, as it does all good stewards. But I’m not at all sure it remembers those who pour concrete.
I am envious that I have never had that kind of rootedness in "place" in my life.
You are a great writer Terry. I always enjoy your material. My mother’s family lived 20-30 miles to your west in the 1920’s. Keep the stories coming! John