“Teach them the quiet words of kindness, to live beyond themselves. Urge them toward excellence, drive them toward gentleness, pull them deep into yourself, pull them upward toward manhood, but softly like an angel arranging clouds. Let your spirit move through them softly.” ~ Pat Conroy, The Prince of Tides
So…where to begin?
That is, indeed, the question. For nearly three years now, I’ve thought about where to start this project. I’ve spent countless hours deciding what I want this to be, what it should look like, what it should mean. Two years ago, I saved my domain name. I also started looking – actively looking – for these homes, these places, and photographing them. Then, in the last year, I’ve worked on learning: improving my skills, researching histories, and locating resources. But what led to this project? Where did it all really start?
For me, it all truly started as a small girl on my grandparents’ farm, visiting during summers and at Christmas. I vividly remember long, hot summer days spent roaming freely, playing in attics, looking through old photographs, working in the fields and listening to stories of days gone by. I can still smell the rain coming across the fields, feel the cracked, black earth beneath my bare feet, and hear the crickets and frogs singing long into the night. I can hear the sound of a distant car passing miles away on the highway, feel the sharp, cold wind of winter at the washstand on the back porch, and smell kolaches – sweet and fragrant – baking in the oven. There was no air conditioning and the small house couldn’t hold all of us at one time when all the cousins were there, but it was filled with love and strong values and appreciation for simple pleasures. The home was built by my grandfather just before he married my grandmother. For over 60 years, it gave shelter to them, their children, their grandchildren and even great-grandchildren. The house is still standing, although it’s now the home of another family. I’m grateful it remains “alive” and loved, sheltering his family as they grow. These early memories instilled in me a deep love and respect for simple folk.
Years later, I moved to a rural community of my own. I enjoy the fields and pastures, the swamps and woodlands, the people and heritage here. They keep me rooted in my own. They are people and things that will make up the memories of my children, and mold them into who they will be and teach them what they value. Every day I see the past and the present, together. Sometimes they clash, but most often, they are partnered in an unending dance. Roots run deep here, tradition and families running back generations. Things have changed over the years, and while many things have remained true and strong, others begin to fade into the past. I clearly remember a day, 25 years ago, when I first saw the old homestead of the Hardee family, standing alone and seemingly forgotten in a field. That house, too, had sheltered a family. It had witnessed Christmases and long, hot summer days and probably even a barefoot child or two. What stories did it whisper?
As time has passed, I’ve found other homes, as well, and each seems to sigh its own story. Some I now know well, much as I knew my MawMaw’s house. Some, I only know the small things that the building itself can tell me. I have met a wonderful friend and colleague who is also interested in these old places and their stories. We each work, through our own means, to piece together what we can. Even with dates and names and some documented history behind them, though, these homes and churches and schools still have hidden tales, just waiting to be told. I want to know those secret memories that they hold, as well as the facts. So finally, all this time later, I am stopping to listen to old stories again.