In 1891, on the land where this picture was taken, a house was built by a new groom for his bride. Two years later, a fire destroyed the home. With the help of gracious neighbors, family and friends, a new house was built and stood for over 100 years. During the first year the young couple moved into their new house, the second oldest child was born, followed in the next 25 years by six more siblings (all born in this house with the exception of the oldest). The 4th child, born in l898, lived only two years.
In its heyday, the house stood proud and tall. Laughter lifted to the rafters, love filled each room. The fireplaces, between the bedrooms, kept the family warm on cold winter nights. The pot bellied stove in the living area kept them warm during the days. There was a long screened back porch (added later) with a pump right outside the back door. It would be on this porch, after the water was heated, that bathes were taken in a big aluminum tub. The outhouse, smokehouse, and barn stood to the right and back of the house.
The fields were tended by the father and his sons. The house was scrubbed, and kept clean, by the mother and her daughters. The girls picked the pecans that fell to the ground from the numerous, beautiful pecan trees. The mother taught the girls to cook, shell peas and beans, and sew. Both parents taught their children the difference between right and wrong; to be upright citizens. Two sons became school teachers, one a shopkeeper, one a barber who later moved back to the farm. One daughter was a postmistress, one became a nurse, the youngest (my mom) was a full time wife and mother.
While their ages were scattered (over 27 years), and some moved to other areas, over the years, the house that was their original home became their meeting ground for family reunions, birthday parties and other occasions as often as possible. The grandchildren, great, and great-great grandchildren came to love the house, the land; the stories behind each and every nook and cranny. They would hear stories that made them smile and warm their hearts, but also stories of sadness as it is with every family.
They would hear of the devotion which was the glue that held the family together throughout their lifetimes. There was the story of how, when the father passed away at the age of 50, the older children (and then later the younger ones as well) rallied around their mother and took special care of her until her death in August 1978 at the age of 104 1/2. They would hear how hard the children worked to make it possible for their mother to live in the beloved house and home place. For as long as feasible that she lived, they chipped in together and hired someone to live with her. When she grew older and frail, which wasn't until her mid 90's, she lived between the homes of her children. But let it be known, this lady was persistent that whenever possible, she would be at her own home on Wednesdays for the quilting bee, usually with two or three grands and/or greats playing under the quilt frame at her feet. (And, we loved being there.)
Oh yes, there were some very happy and yet sad things about the old house. It was sad that one of the siblings oldest sister lived with epilepsy. There wasn't the medication like there is now back in those days to try and prevent seizures. She was the sister who became the postmistress. On and off again, she would be encouraged to move back in with the mother as they were all afraid of her being alone. There would be times also that she would live and work for one of her brothers who was the shopkeeper in a nearby little town (His house was right behind his store). She loved being
in his store and bossing him around since she was older. She had a quick and wry wit about her. What she loved most though was holding little black babies, and always told that she wished she had one of her own. In her fifties, she fell ill with cancer; she lingered long and hard until a night in l954 she passed away in the front bedroom of the old house in the picture.
She was my aunt, and I adored her. I've always thought we had a few things in common. She was a single mother with one daughter like myself, who loved and raised her with the help of family. She persevered through the years trying to withstand the issues in her life. She held her head high, and did the best she could. The difference between us, she was much braver than I, but I like to think she was a good example for me.
There are so many stories I could tell about the people I grew to love whose beginnings were born in that beloved house. The house, of course, is gone now, but my memories live still. When I pass that corner, where the pecan trees still stand, I get tears in my eyes. Some of the tears are for what was, but some are for happiness that I am part of the legacy of a family's devotion.
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