Savannah Summer

By Dallas Releford

In the summer of 1859—the last summer before war comes to a troubled nation—sixteen-year-old Elizabeth Ann Rutherford struggles with the issue of slavery while working on her father’s farm tentatively called Savannah Plantation. Proud, hardworking and loyal to each other, the Rutherford Family confront their beliefs as war threatens to rip their peaceful world asunder. Descendents of a Scottish king and royalty, they know hardships except what is about to happen to them in the next few years is unexpected as they enjoy a tranquil life on a plantation near Savannah, Georgia. Elizabeth is quickly maturing into a young lady who is having difficulty following in the footsteps of her older sister Jenny. Jenny loves an active social life and doesn’t care how she accomplishes her goals as long as she does it. Elizabeth is simple, down to earth and not ready for the excitement her older sister adores.
Elizabeth’s father, John Rutherford (who has relatives that once were indentured servants) struggles with the question of slavery. He doesn’t believe in slavery except he is forced to use them in order to keep the plantation running. His oldest son Jed does believe in slavery and thinks that his father is too easy on the slaves. He fears that his kindness will lead to trouble.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dallas Releford
• Release date: Aug 5, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466038158

Book preview

Savannah Summer

By:

DALLAS RELEFORD

Published by

Dallas Releford at Smashwords.com

Savannah Summer

Copyright (C) 2011 Dallas Releford

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This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, places, events, organizations, areas, or locations are intended to provide a feeling of authenticity and are used in a fictitious manner. All other characters, dialogue and incidents are drawn from the author’s imagination and shouldn’t be accepted as real.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without explicit permission from the author or publisher except in brief quotations used in an article or in a similar way.

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Dedication

I would like to thank my wife Sharon for her understanding while I was writing this book. She passed away on August 18, 2010. She is dearly missed.

I would also like to thank my agent and typist, Harriet Smith and Martin Smith, my advisor and typist. Their hard work and dedication has made this book much better than it would have been without them.

Credit is also due to my lawyer, Daniel C. Atwood and my financial advisor Ova Helton, Jr. for their sound advice.

I am also grateful to many other people who kept me going through tough times I have faced in the last seven months.

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SAVANNAH SUMMER

Dallas Releford

Chapter 1

Papa was a good man, strong in his beliefs, absolutely convinced that a little hard work never hurt anyone and he was determined to make our lives on a southern plantation better. Whenever I complained about working in the fields, he patted me on my back and told me that it was for a good cause and the pain I was enduring was worth it. As I suffered in the fields under a blistering sun, I kept telling myself that nobody had forced me to do this. I had volunteered. Papa believed that his kids and especially his slaves should work at least as hard as he did. I couldn’t argue with that, except it was kind of hard for a sixteen-year-old girl to pick cotton or kill tobacco worms with her soft hands when there are other things on her mind. During that summer in 1859 I was quickly approaching sixteen and thinking more about men and other things young women sometimes have on their minds.

Being the daughter of John Rutherford, plan-tation owner wasn’t easy although I tried hard to please him because I loved him. He always called me Liz although my real name was Elizabeth and I got my dark hair from his side of the family and my sky blue eyes from my mother, Ellie Ruth-erford. My creamy white skin defied the southern sun like a ship on the ocean braving the waves. It always turned red and rarely did I get a decent tan during the summer.

As if working a cotton patch wasn’t enough, my father also raised tobacco, a crop that brought hefty prices in Eastern markets. In the hot June sun I walked through tall, green stalks of tobacco searching for green, slimy tobacco worms. The thought of taking those things between my thumb and index finger, squashing their tiny heads off still seems repulsive to this day.

Working the tobacco field on that day in 1859, I dreamed of what I wanted to be when I was old enough to be something. One thing was for sure I didn’t want to be like my older sister Jenny who spent most of her time with men at highly acclaimed social events. Aunt Celia, our Negro cook claimed that Jenny was a social advocate. Damned if I know where she heard those words. I guess I had decided a long time ago that I was going to be a writer. Reading was a favorite pastime for me and I read every book I could get my hands on. In sweltering heat, I daydreamed about becoming a famous, rich writer and living in a big house in Savannah or Charleston, South Carolina.

In those days, young women were sometimes married by age sixteen. I was only fifteen—even though I already told people that I was sixteen—and had four months to go before the pressure would be on to find a nice man and raise a family. Papa wanted to keep us kids on the plantation to help him just as long as he could. Every hand counted and he knew it. You see, Papa didn’t believe in slavery, except he knew he had to have them in order to run our plantation. As I recall, we only had maybe forty slaves and servants to help us that summer. That may seem like a lot, except most of them were old and sick. They came with the farm when Papa bought it years ago. To compensate for our shortage of help, we worked in the fields with the slaves. It wasn’t fun, however it kept us all from going hungry.

Working my way through countless rows of tall tobacco plants, most of them taller than my five feet-five inches, I fought sweat bees that seemed to sting me every two or three minutes. The sizzling heat of the early morning caused perspiration to run down my body and that was one reason the sweat bees were so vicious. The tiny little devils were not very big, nonetheless their stingers carried quite a wallop and you knew when you had been stung.

I wore one of my mother’s old blue bonnets and a shirt that once belonged to my brother, Martin. I had a pair of his gray pants on to protect my legs. Papa didn’t like the idea of me dressing like a boy until I told him that it wasn’t Godly to make me work in the fields in a dress. My father was very religious. He had mentioned before that it was time for me to start acting and dressing like a lady. Nonetheless, since he needed help, he generally ignored my clothes. I guess he wanted the work done. After that, I dressed so the bugs wouldn’t crawl up my legs or find a home in my shirt between my breasts. I think demons or an evil spirit created them just to torture me.

On that hot day in 1859, I remember that it was so scorching hot I could hardly breathe and the birds were singing as if they didn’t have a care in the world. The cool woods in the distance and the trees along the fence line looked inviting. I remember thinking about the creek that ran through the woods where I often did a little fishing on Sunday afternoons. Thinking about taking a dip in that creek became more tempting the hotter it got. The only thing stopping me was the threat of my father up ahead of me keeping an eye on me. I often wondered if he were thinking the same thing I was thinking. If he gave in to the temptation of that creek, I never knew about it.

We had several slaves that helped us in the fields. Twelve Negroes were doing the same arduous chore that we were. Killing tobacco worms was a demanding cycle of boredom and sweat.

As a young girl, I worked in the fields and supported my parents no matter how hard it got. I was just helping my parents and trying to survive. The truth of the matter was that I was working because I didn’t want anything to happen to my father. Mother often said that he worked much too hard and that he needed to purchase more slaves. Father resisted that suggestion with every breath. I guess his demeanor had something to do with his upbringing and the way his parents taught him to do things.

As I worked, my growling stomach reminded me that lunch was several hours away. I thought about my family and what it meant to me. My family history goes back a long way—all the way to Scotland and France—in fact. My father’s name is John Clem Rutherford. His father, James Lee Rutherford came to America in the 1770’s with his family from Scotland. The Rutherford clan originated from an old Scottish King named King Ruther. Someone in the family told the tale about how the Ruther Clan became the Rutherford Clan. In those ancient times, the Ruther Clan owned large parcels of land, massive castles and had enormous armies. It seems that they were always at war with other clans. Scotland was a warring place. One day King Ruther helped several friendly knights cross a river or fjord. Escaping their enemies, they were so grateful that they named the place where they had crossed, Ruther’s Fjord or Rutherford. Forever after that event, they called the Ruther Clan, Rutherford.

On his way to America, James Lee Rutherford met a woman on the ship he was on and married her. She was from Ireland. Her name was Rose Garland. They settled in South Carolina and became farmers. They had four sons and five daughters. My father was born in 1802 on a farm south of Charleston, South Carolina. He married a girl that he met in church. Her name was Ellie Marie Dye. She was French. Her family owned a large plantation and was considered rich. My father didn’t get along very well with her parents because they thought Ellie was marrying out of her class since my parents didn’t own anything but a small farm. Regardless of the dispute, the Dye family gave Ellie Marie a rather large dowry. With money they had saved, sale of the farm and the dowry, my parents managed to purchase a large tract of land near Savannah where they built a house and began raising cotton. With the demand for cotton high in those days, they prospered and had three boys and four girls.

Jed was born two years after their marriage and Martin was born a year after that. Just as it seemed they might have all boys to help with the chores, Jenny surprised them two years later by coming into the world on a cold January day. She was the oldest of the girls. Following in succession were Elizabeth, Thomas, Sarah and Lynnette. I am Elizabeth Ann Rutherford, the second oldest daughter of John and Ellie Rutherford.

A lot can be said about my mother, most of it good. It is from her that I learned most of what I have recorded in my journal. It is from her that I learned how to cope with a world that is sometimes harsh, sometimes loving, beautiful and almost always deceptive. My mother, Ellie Marie and me were close, as close as a daughter and mother can be, I reckon. From her, I learned about my family and about life in general. On cold winter days, I used to sit behind the old wood stove she used to cook on and listen to her talk for hours. I guess I wasn’t much more than four years old then. I still recall most of the stories she told.

Sometimes, I would sit on her lap in the parlor and she would comb my long black hair until it was so silky and soft that a draft from a crack in the wall somewhere would toss it all around my head. She told me stories while cold winds blew outside and there wasn’t much else to do except tell stories, cook and eat. Thoughts of warm stoves, cozy rooms and snow on the ground make me want to return to those days, except they are now gone and only reside in my memories, what few of them I have left.

I kept a journal following the tradition of my mother and grandmother. My mother gave me a nice, new journal bound in brown leather as soon as I learned to write. You record everything that is important in that book, child, she told me. In later years, you’ll be able to read about what you did when you were young.

Did you keep a journal, Mother, I asked candidly. I was only eight years old then. I could write fairly well and could spell too.

Of course, she said. Someday, I’ll give it to you.

With that for an answer to a perplexing question, she left me sitting in the parlor to go to the kitchen where she helped Aunt Celia, our black cook prepare the noon meal.

My father, John Rutherford had purchased nearly two hundred acres of Georgia land West of Savannah after he married my mother. Mother mentioned that they wanted to get away from her family since my father didn’t get along very well with her parents. I knew that there was contempt, mistrust and dislike between them. I could feel it and since he was a religious man, I figured things had to be real bad between them if he felt the way he did about them.

The first few years on the farm were difficult and hard. Crops failed and they thought they might lose the land until my father decided that raising both tobacco and cotton might not be such a bad idea. If one crop failed he might have the other one to fall back on. My father was one of the most versatile people I’ve ever known, and smart too. With only a sixth grade education, he could read and write almost as well as college graduates.

They made it through the lean times and after three years, the farm began to pay off and they prospered. He added a corn crop and bought more horses and cows. The corn was grown for the purpose of feeding the livestock in the wintertime and for providing us with cornmeal. We had milk cows that gave us fresh milk, chickens that supplied us with eggs and hogs that were killed for meat. In time, Papa had a nice grape arbor growing out by the expansive garden that they grew every year. My Mom and the women slaves canned everything that we didn’t eat during the summer. It kept us from going hungry when cold winds howled and when snow sometimes covered the ground. That was a long time before I was born. Mom told me all about it, or at least most of it.

When I was five, Papa was sitting at the breakfast table one morning—I can remember that like it was yesterday—in the summertime when his eyes suddenly lit up and an expression came upon his sullen face like he had just had the most wonderful thought in the world. I remember it most because the doors were all open, the sun was just peeping through the trees and cicadas were already singing their harmonious songs. The air had freshness to it that you don’t often get in the summertime in Georgia. Most summer mornings are so humid you feel like you live in the ocean instead of near it. Papa always said that he could smell salt in the air on days like that. We had our meals in an enormous dining room with chandeliers hanging over the table. A kitchen that was connected to the dining area was where Mom and Aunt Celia prepared our meals. On mornings such as this, you could smell bacon sizzling, eggs frying and the fragrance of fresh baked biscuits all the way upstairs. Aunt Celia, bless her soul, was one of the best cooks I ever knew and she never seemed to have a bad day. Aunt Celia, as we all called her, wasn’t really an aunt. She was one of the slaves that had been living on the farm when my father bought it. She stayed along with thirty-eight other Negroes when their master sold the farm to my father.

My father had sat at the head of the table as he normally did. I always thought he was a handsome man and I loved him dearly. Even at the age of forty-two, his brown hair still didn’t show any signs of grayness, his blue eyes still sparkled and his suntanned face still had that liveliness in it. He was so full of life and I felt his jubilation when I was around him. Occasionally, he would joke, smile and carry on with the kids, especially me.

My mother sat at his right side as she always had since I could remember. Her pretty white skin was still free of blemishes and wrinkles that time would bring her later on in life, her blue eyes were full of life and she seemed to be cheerful most of the time. Most of the time, Mom wasn’t the type to worry about a problem. She just hunkered down and found a solution to it.

The rest of the kids sat around the table eating breakfast and mostly dreading going into the fields to work. Even though that kind of life was difficult, we all were generally happy and content. Why shouldn’t we be? We owned one of the largest farms in that part of Georgia and it was showing signs of getting more prosperous every year.

I guess Jenny—my oldest sister—was the first to notice my father’s strange expression. He was staring straight ahead as if he were looking at something on the far wall that none of the rest of us could see. Jenny thought of herself as Papa’s favorite daughter and she was always trying very hard to please him. When I came into the world, and she thought he gave me more attention than she got, she became furious. My father’s love for Jenny and me drove a wedge between us that would last until Jenny died.

Jenny had light auburn hair and beautiful green eyes that reminded me of two emeralds. Her creamy white skin was spotless and she strived to keep it that way. She must have washed her face twenty times a day. Papa, are you all right? Jenny sat on his left side opposite of our mother. What is bothering you? Are you sick?

Jenny had a habit of asking a dozen questions before anyone could answer. That was another fault of hers that I could never understand.

My father finally realized that she was concerned about him and looked at her. His face changed as a smile grew on his lips. Just thinking, Jen, he said. That was what he called her most of the time, Jen. I guess that sort of made her feel special. Then, looking around the table, he said, This is something I’ve been thinking about for a long time now.

Mother put her hand on his arm and looked as troubled as Jenny. I continued eating. I figured I could listen to whatever he had to say without missing a single bite. What is it John?

Why, don’t you all figure that it’s about time we gave our plantation a name?

Plantation? Is that what we’re going to call it? Jenny asked. Why, father I never really thought about that. What are we going to call it?

I remember Aunt Celia grabbing the coffee pot off the stove and moving closer to the table so she could hear the conversation as she served my parents more coffee. She liked nothing more than to pick up gossip she could pass on to the other slaves. I suppose that made her feel like she was important or something. To us she was important. She kept us well fed.

Well, I was thinking of Savannah, he said glancing at each of us for a nod of approval. I remember that nobody said anything for a long time. You could have heard a roach crawling across that floor if it weren’t for the noisy cicadas outside.

Savannah what? Jenny asked. How about Savannah Gardens or Savannah Point?

Just Savannah Plantation, Papa insisted and we all knew that was the name of our home. Once Papa made up his mind not even the devil could change it. I guess you know that we no longer live on a farm. We now live on a plantation.

Days later my father had one of the Negroes help him put up a big sign out by the main road that had the letters, SAVANNAH PLANTATION written on it. He was proud of that sign and stood for a long time looking at it.

Of course, he decided to name our home Savannah Plantation when I was five years old. Now in 1859, as we all sat around that table each lost in his or her thoughts, I dreaded what I was thinking. After breakfast, we could follow my father down to the barn where we would meet with the slaves and after a few casual greetings we would head for the fields. Mom and Aunt Celia would wash the breakfast dishes, help the servants clean the house and start preparing for our noon meal after we had gone.

Jed was twenty-four years old and quiet for his age. With long dark hair and sky blue eyes, he was everything any girl would want, except Jed had expressed more interest in going to West Point than he had talked about women. Lena Pullman was the closest he ever came to falling in love, I guess. She was a sweet, gentle girl who lived on a farm not too far from us. She had auburn hair and emerald eyes almost like Jenny. We thought a romance had developed between the two of them since she was the only thing he talked about for months. Then one day, Jed came home all bloody, his nose bleeding and his clothes torn. He wouldn’t tell us what happened, except we all guessed it concerned Lena. Then he finally told us that he had caught her in the barn with Todd Jenkins. The two of them had fought and Jed lost. Jed hated Todd Jenkins for the rest of his life.

As I watched him eat, I wondered what was on his mind. The reason I was wondering was that he would take a bite of food, chew for a while and then look at Papa as if he were trying to make up his mind to ask him something. What ever it was, I knew it had to be important. Jed didn’t say much that wasn’t important.

Pa, I got somethin’ I want to ask you, Jed finally said all serious like. I noticed he had placed his fork on his plate and then I realized just how serious it was. Hardly anything stopped him from eating once he got started. I been thinkin’ about it for a long time, Pa.

Well, Jed, I hope you found yourself a female, Papa said picking up his cup and taking a big sip of Aunt Celia’s black coffee. He loved teasing Jed and took advantage of him every chance he got. We could use a big surprise around her like maybe you plan on getting married. It’s nothing like that, is it son?

Jed looked embarrassed. Glancing at Sarah who was smiling at him, he frowned and mumbled something ferocious that none of us could make out. Sarah cringed and found something else to do such as stuff her mouth full of eggs. Sarah wore her blonde hair in long twisting curls that hung down to her shoulders. Her blue eyes glittered when the light caught them just right. Nothin’ like that Pa, Jed replied with a sullen look on his face. I been thinking that you don’t really need me so I want to go to West Point and get me some education. A man ain’t worth much these days without education. You said that yourself, didn’t you Pa?

Well, yes I reckon I did, Jed. My father got a real serious look on his face about that time. I guess it took a few minutes for it to sink in because it took him a few minutes to answer. In fact, he took another bite of eggs and bacon, chewed and swallowed before he finally said anything to Jed. Papa was a slow eater, a slow talker and a fast thinker. You gave this a lot of thinkin’, huh?

That’s right, Pa, I did, Jed replied hopeful that our father would agree with him. I’m old enough to go. In fact, most of the other boys around here are already in the army or going to West Point. I want to go too.

Well, Jed, I reckon you got every right to go except I was going to make you my foreman this year. Right now there’s only me to see that things get done around here. I won’t be around forever and somebody besides me needs to learn the ropes so I reckon it should be you. You’re the oldest, Jed. Why don’t you think on it for a few more days.

I have been thinking, I reckon, Jed announced as if it was something he had never done before. Realizing that Sarah and Lynette were whispering about him, he gave them each a scornful look and continued talking as if nothing had happened. After a couple years at West Point I will have a good education that will help me to run this place. I won’t mind taking over then, if war doesn’t break out or something like that.

I don’t think we’re going to have a war Jed, so you can forget about that. Why don’t you stay here. I’ll teach you everything I can about running this place. You can go to West Point next year.

Pa, all of my friends have gone away to military school or to the military. I feel like I should be doing something with my life. Why can’t you see that without me having to come out and tell you about it?

I reckon I do see, Jed. It takes all of us workin’ night and day to keep this place running and I can’t afford to lose you, at least not until I can get prepared.

You have had twenty years to get prepared, Pa. Fine, I’ll stay six months. You can teach me in that amount of time. Meantime, I can do some studying at night or something.

That’s fine, Papa said although I wasn’t sure that he didn’t have tears in his eyes. I think he didn’t want to lose Jed. The talk of war and all that upset him. You can get started today. I want you to take Isaiah and a couple of the other Negroes over to the west acreage and start putting up that fence we were talking about. I want to have about twenty more cows running in there this summer. We can sell more milk if I can produce it and some of the cattle can be sold. We gotta’ make it while we can, Jed. That’s a lesson you should never forget.

Jed looked at my father with a puzzled look on his face. On that morning in 1859, the first words of conflict entered our family and should have been a warning of things to come, except none of us thought about what our future held for us. Pa, why don’t you just buy more slaves? We sure can use them. If we had more of them, we wouldn’t have to work so hard.

My father looked at Jed for a long time before answering. Jed, I don’t believe in holding other folks against their will. The Children of Israel were slaves to the Egyptians and the Lord set them free. That should be a lesson to all of us.

Why do we have slaves Father, if you don’t believe in them? I thought Aunt Celia is a slave. Sarah spoke candidly. She was only ten years old. None of us thought of the Negroes on our plantation as slaves. Sarah was only implicating that Aunt Celia was a slave because she had heard other children calling her that.

Hush, child, Mom said. Aunt Celia was sitting at the other end of the table eating her breakfast. It was uncommon in those days for Negroes to eat at the same table as white folks, except in our home, Celia was treated the same as everyone else. Celia hung her head and slowly chewed on a bite of food. Aunt Celia is not a slave. She is free to leave anytime she wishes, my mother told Sarah. We inherited Celia and all the rest of the Negroes when we bought this place. You will treat them with the same respect as you would any white folks.

That’s the way we feel in this family, Sarah, Papa said. In the eyes of society, we have slaves except we treat them the same way we want to be treated. They are not forced to work or do anything else except follow a few simple, practical rules. My rule for them is the same for us, if you want to live here and eat, you work. If you don’t work then you are free to go somewhere else. Everyone has to carry their own load unless they are sick and can’t work.

I don’t know, Pa, Jed said. I think we should go to Atlanta and buy several more slaves. We need the help and we can’t run a plantation this size without help. That’s the only way we’re going to get anything done. We have to do it, Pa.

So, you’re saying that you believe in slavery, is that it, Jed?

Yes, Pa. Especially when our livelihood depends on it. Who else can we get to work the fields?

We’ll make it, Papa told him with a stern look on his face. It was that look that told us that he would not change his mind.

You’ll change your mind and you’ll see that I’m right, Jed said. Eventually, you’ll have to buy slaves. If Lincoln becomes President of the United States a lot of people will have to make a decision as to which side they are on.

We all fell silent. Some of the kids didn’t understand what was going on and what was at stake, except that I understood it. Mom had told me a few things about Mr. Lincoln. Mom

said that if Lincoln were elected that it would mean war. She was right, too. I could hear the sound of distant thunder and I knew that morning that a terrible storm was just over the horizon ready to descend down upon Savannah Plantation.

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Chapter 2

Life on a plantation was normally a good life for most folks, except we weren’t most folks. The only help we had were the few slaves we had inherited with the property. Since Papa wasn’t too anxious to buy more slaves we had to make do with what we had. Jed, Martin and Thomas worked the fields and did many of the other chores. In all, we had about forty slaves. We needed three times that many to run the plantation properly without having to work ourselves to death. The oldest of the Negroes was a seventy-year-old man that we called Uncle Moses. I don’t know exactly why we called him that except maybe because he was so old. Uncle Moses wore an old felt hat that was torn in several places and the brim flopped down over his face sometimes. His hair was white and his face was wrinkled with age. That didn’t seem to deter Uncle Moses from doing what he wanted to do. He had arthritis in his right hip and had difficulty walking. When you looked into his soft dark brown eyes, you knew right away that Uncle Moses was the most cheerful and happy person you had ever met. He was always whistling and singing up a storm. Uncle Moses lived down near the creek with the rest of the Negroes.

The houses they lived in were unlike anything on any other plantation anywhere. I had only been down there once when I was ten years old with Aunt Celia. The houses were constructed of cut stone from the creek and the nearby Ogeechee River a few miles to the east of us. Plank floors had been laid down so the Negroes didn’t have to contend with dirt floors like most slave shacks. Papa said the slave quarters were there when we bought the place. He had bought the planks from a sawmill and laid the floors to make the buildings a little more comfortable. Someone had dug a well years before we bought the plantation. Papa made sure the slaves had enough land so that each family had a garden for food. He told us at supper one night that if the slaves got sick that we would be in a lot of trouble. I always knew that wasn’t the only reason he felt for them though. He had a heart and a conscience.

Jed had made the comment that the previous master was too good to the slaves. He was referring to the decent slave quarters, I suppose. Anyway, Papa let him know right away that Horace Jessup wasn’t good to anybody and that he didn’t want to hear Jed talk like that. The only reason the slave quarters had been built from stone was the fact that the stone was plentiful and cheaper than constructing the houses using wood. Papa said that the slaves themselves had built the houses while Jessup watched over them. From what my father told us about Horace Jessup and from what Aunt Celia said, he was a cruel master. As testimony to what she said, she reminded us of the whipping post that had been set up in the center of the little village. A few days later, Papa hooked a team of horses to the whipping post and pulled it right out of the ground, much to the dismay of the startled Negroes.

The slave quarters consisted of twenty houses laid out like a small town. A dirt road ran down the middle of it. They had an old dilapidated building they called the church and another old building that was used as a barbershop. As well as I can remember, when they were sick, Papa called the doctor from town.

Savannah Plantation was located about a mile from the main road that went from Savannah to other towns to the west of us. That suited me fine. I don’t think I would have liked it any closer to the road. We were located on level land for as far as you could see. Weeping willows and a variety of other trees stretched along the long gravel road that led from the main road to the house creating flowing green scenery that mesmerized me every time I looked at it. Popular, pine and maples were strewn about the rest of the property and the front yard that stretched from the house to the main road. We had plenty of shade and a place where we could go on picnics on hot summer days in the front yard. The house was something that I will never forget either.

Every time I think of that house, I can see it in my mind just as if I were standing in front of it. Two stories tall, it stood under tall maple trees on one side with ancient pine trees on the other side of it providing a picturesque view that was wonderful to see. Four tall, round pillars held up a porch with a balcony on top of it. From the upstairs, you could walk out onto that balcony from two different doors. Mom liked to sit up there on Sunday afternoons and read her bible. When I was a kid I used to stay with her and listen to her tell me bible stories.

The house was made from wood and was white. The windows were kept sparkling clean and when the house needed painting Papa and the boys took care of it. Several buildings were located behind the enormous house. Utility buildings, a smoke house, a harness shop, a cellar and wood shop were located back behind our home. Since Uncle Moses wasn’t able to work in the fields, he sort of inherited the job of taking care of all these buildings. We also had barns where cattle were kept and a stable for