On South Church Street

The four lane highway was bumper to bumper with cars waiting to enter US 24. I turned into a cul-de-sac of office buildings extending about a quarter of a mile. Of similar style and side-by-side, one story, brick buildings announced Doctor’s offices, Insurance companies, Law offices, etc. I drove slowly looking for something familiar. Where were the big oak trees? the maples? the elms?

Parking the car I began searching on foot. Beyond and to one side of this cul-de-sac stood Faith Baptist Church—still nothing familiar.

Then standing alone and at an obtuse angle were two waist-high concrete columns. By squinting my eyes I could remember how these columns had stood, hitching posts for horses and carriages, just to the entrance side of my Grandfather’s house. Nothing else remained of this stately old home.

The original home was some distance from the then two lane road and set in a grove of large oaks. Built before the War Between the States, it was the scene of much Civil War activity. Federal soldiers occupied and overran the property. On the grounds of the home during the war were a large ice house, servant quarters and other outbuildings, a well, a garden and an orchard. A large brick kitchen with a fireplace and pantry set apart from the house. Stories concerning the Civil War said the Federals hitched their horses to the beautiful banisters of the stairway in the spacious entrance hall and Federal horses trampled the manicured garden.

When my Grandfather bought the house and 20 acres of the original tract in 1927, it had lost much of its earlier grandeur. Trying to modernize the structure he brought the kitchen indoors and destroyed the elegant dining room by bringing in a large furnace to heat the house. The pipes took up the whole room. He also added a small indoor bathroom. To my mind these modern additions never quite fit and created a tacky, rag-a-tag look to the house.

But the wrap-around porch remained where I have a vivid memory of my grandfather, seated in a wheelchair and making bird sounds to entertain his grandchildren. Also untouched at that time was the entrance hall with its breath-taking stairway. My Mother, at eighteen, descended these stairs to be married in the then still lovely parlor.

The out buildings were falling into decay during my childhood and I was continually warned about the open well. Will anyone remember how jonquils bloomed for what seemed like miles in the abandoned garden—a fragrant place where a child could lie down and see nothing but flowers?