| General Fiction posted September 9, 2020 |
  |
1,280 words. A new discovery while seeking the past..
Billie Part~1
by papa55mike
.JPG)
As an amateur photographer, in all of my travels around West Tennessee, I never leave home without my camera. You never know when an old, crumbling house or an abandoned car with a tree growing through the roof will pop up into view.
An average of 60,000 vehicles a day travel on Highway 45; I wonder how many people have ever noticed this old, deserted farmhouse that sits about a mile off the road. I drove to work in Jackson for many years before I caught a glimpse of it through the vines and saplings trying to engulf it. Since finding it, I've been longing to photograph it.
This gem sits at the end of a one-lane gravel road that's only used by the farmers to plant the fields surrounding the old farmhouse.
They planted corn this year, and the silks are reaching for the summer sky dappled with a few white puffy clouds.
When the corn gets tall and the grass covers the road, you have to search for this place to find it. If you blink, you missed it. I've slowed down a couple of times to a stop on the highway, peering down the lane, but the sun wasn't right, or something.
Not today! This site has haunted me for too long.
The sun is almost directly overhead when I turn on my emergency flashers and slow down to turn. I don't think a single soul noticed me. Two strips of gravel lead me through the tall grass toward a metal gate with a no trespassing sign. I stop about halfway down the road on solid ground.
After checking my camera battery, I slide out of my car and head for the gate. I know that I am legally trespassing, but I would never do anything to desecrate this place. I want to keep it as pristine and undisturbed as possible. Stomp down a little poison ivy, maybe.
The structure seems to be in the shape of a pyramid without a point. The square shape of the first floor lines up with the points on a compass. I'm walking towards it on the west side, and I think the rear of the home. There's a fifteen-foot roof over what I believe is the back porch. I base my measurements on the fact that a single piece of tin roofing is ten feet long.
The second floor reaches skyward for twenty-five feet. It looks like when the builders run out of lumber; they put tin roofing on it. Several vines grow up the right corner leading to a two window, gable roof that shoots out the tin. There's one in each corner around the house. They built this house to catch a breeze in any direction to help cool it in the summer.
Walking around the gate, I'd say this home was built in the late 1890s or early 1900s. It doesn't look like the Gothic mansions of a previous period.
There seems to be a worn path around the perimeter of the house, but I'd say no one has lived here in thirty years, judging by the old DISH satellites by the back porch.
Walking around to the southern side, I see a chimney shooting out beside the windows. There are two doors for each section on opposite ends. Could four families live in this house at one time? It sure looks like it. Honeysuckle vines completely cover a metal shed that's collapsed in front of one of the doors.
On the southeast corner, an ancient Oak sends its limbs in every direction. This must be the front of the home, and it has a porch that covers the entire section. I'd say ten rocking chairs could fit there comfortably. I can imagine the whole family drinking coffee and watching the sunrise.
The tree shades most of the porch from the afternoon sun. Two small handrails guide a person to the front door - they built this home for the comfort of a big family. I wonder how many generations worked on this farm - mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, keeping the tradition of a family farm going.
Standing here, I can feel the sweat and struggle to get to harvest season. The family may have been weary but proud when the crop was in the barn.
Their spirit still lives here.
I turn to take a picture of the field of soybeans. The light is perfect, with me standing under the tree. The meticulously planted crop, the dazzling white clouds, and the haze of summer hanging in the air - that's when I hear a light footstep behind me. The hairs on my neck stand straight up. If I'm correct, someone is standing there with a shotgun. Slowly, I turn to find out I'm right.
A tall, thin woman with steel-blue eyes stands there, but all I see is two barrels and her fingers on both triggers. "Do you know the Lord, mister, because you might be meeting Him soon. What are you doing on my land?"
"Let me introduce myself. My name is Robert Little, but you can call me Bob. I meant no harm, ma'am. I thought the house was empty. I only wanted to photograph your beautiful old home; you can feel the history of your family just standing here."
"What do you feel, mister?" She takes her fingers off the triggers.
"I feel the struggle to survive, but also the joy of living and lots of laughter."
"There was laughter here, mister. That was thirty years ago; I've lived here by myself ever since the family sold out and moved to Memphis."
The lady slowly lowers the shotgun, and I can finally get a look at her - those dark blue eyes sparkle and are full of life. Deep wrinkles start at the corner of her eyes and drift down very tan cheeks with a long gray ponytail running down her back. She's attired in a gray dress that reaches the ankles. It looks homemade. Those are some tattered farm boots. I'd say she might weigh a hundred pounds with a bucket of water thrown on her.
"What's your name, ma'am?"
"My name is Billie, Billie Washington."
"You've lived here for thirty years by yourself?"
"Yes, sir."
"I don't see a car. How do you get groceries?"
"I live off of the land. There's a truck patch full of fresh vegetables over there. I take the corn from the field and grind it for cornmeal, and there's plenty of fish in the pond. Besides, the rabbits and squirrels I hunt. The only thing I'm missing right now is some flour. I can't find any wheat in the fields."
"What about electricity and how do you keep your food from spoiling?"
"Oh, they cut the power off a long time ago. I've got a wood stove to cook on, and can for the winter. I don't need a light to read my Bible."
"In other words, you trust God to provide."
"Yes, sir, and He ain't never failed me yet."
"When did they build this house, Miss Billie?"
"It was built in 1897. I was born in 1923, and I've always lived here."
"Amazing! You look mighty spry for 97. Miss Billie, I have an appointment in Milan. Can I stop by and see you tomorrow? I would love to hear about your life."
"I reckon it would be all right, Mr. Little."
"I'll bring you some flour."
"That would be right nice of you to bring me a fifty-pound sack of flour."
"I don't think Wal-Mart has them that big."
"What's a Wal-Mart?"
"I'll try to explain tomorrow. Thank you, Miss Billie."
As an amateur photographer, in all of my travels around West Tennessee, I never leave home without my camera. You never know when an old, crumbling house or an abandoned car with a tree growing through the roof will pop up into view.
An average of 60,000 vehicles a day travel on Highway 45; I wonder how many people have ever noticed this old, deserted farmhouse that sits about a mile off the road. I drove to work in Jackson for many years before I caught a glimpse of it through the vines and saplings trying to engulf it. Since finding it, I've been longing to photograph it.
This gem sits at the end of a one-lane gravel road that's only used by the farmers to plant the fields surrounding the old farmhouse.
They planted corn this year, and the silks are reaching for the summer sky dappled with a few white puffy clouds.
When the corn gets tall and the grass covers the road, you have to search for this place to find it. If you blink, you missed it. I've slowed down a couple of times to a stop on the highway, peering down the lane, but the sun wasn't right, or something.
Not today! This site has haunted me for too long.
The sun is almost directly overhead when I turn on my emergency flashers and slow down to turn. I don't think a single soul noticed me. Two strips of gravel lead me through the tall grass toward a metal gate with a no trespassing sign. I stop about halfway down the road on solid ground.
After checking my camera battery, I slide out of my car and head for the gate. I know that I am legally trespassing, but I would never do anything to desecrate this place. I want to keep it as pristine and undisturbed as possible. Stomp down a little poison ivy, maybe.
The structure seems to be in the shape of a pyramid without a point. The square shape of the first floor lines up with the points on a compass. I'm walking towards it on the west side, and I think the rear of the home. There's a fifteen-foot roof over what I believe is the back porch. I base my measurements on the fact that a single piece of tin roofing is ten feet long.
The second floor reaches skyward for twenty-five feet. It looks like when the builders run out of lumber; they put tin roofing on it. Several vines grow up the right corner leading to a two window, gable roof that shoots out the tin. There's one in each corner around the house. They built this house to catch a breeze in any direction to help cool it in the summer.
Walking around the gate, I'd say this home was built in the late 1890s or early 1900s. It doesn't look like the Gothic mansions of a previous period.
There seems to be a worn path around the perimeter of the house, but I'd say no one has lived here in thirty years, judging by the old DISH satellites by the back porch.
Walking around to the southern side, I see a chimney shooting out beside the windows. There are two doors for each section on opposite ends. Could four families live in this house at one time? It sure looks like it. Honeysuckle vines completely cover a metal shed that's collapsed in front of one of the doors.
On the southeast corner, an ancient Oak sends its limbs in every direction. This must be the front of the home, and it has a porch that covers the entire section. I'd say ten rocking chairs could fit there comfortably. I can imagine the whole family drinking coffee and watching the sunrise.
The tree shades most of the porch from the afternoon sun. Two small handrails guide a person to the front door - they built this home for the comfort of a big family. I wonder how many generations worked on this farm - mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, keeping the tradition of a family farm going.
Standing here, I can feel the sweat and struggle to get to harvest season. The family may have been weary but proud when the crop was in the barn.
Their spirit still lives here.
I turn to take a picture of the field of soybeans. The light is perfect, with me standing under the tree. The meticulously planted crop, the dazzling white clouds, and the haze of summer hanging in the air - that's when I hear a light footstep behind me. The hairs on my neck stand straight up. If I'm correct, someone is standing there with a shotgun. Slowly, I turn to find out I'm right.
A tall, thin woman with steel-blue eyes stands there, but all I see is two barrels and her fingers on both triggers. "Do you know the Lord, mister, because you might be meeting Him soon. What are you doing on my land?"
"Let me introduce myself. My name is Robert Little, but you can call me Bob. I meant no harm, ma'am. I thought the house was empty. I only wanted to photograph your beautiful old home; you can feel the history of your family just standing here."
"What do you feel, mister?" She takes her fingers off the triggers.
"I feel the struggle to survive, but also the joy of living and lots of laughter."
"There was laughter here, mister. That was thirty years ago; I've lived here by myself ever since the family sold out and moved to Memphis."
The lady slowly lowers the shotgun, and I can finally get a look at her - those dark blue eyes sparkle and are full of life. Deep wrinkles start at the corner of her eyes and drift down very tan cheeks with a long gray ponytail running down her back. She's attired in a gray dress that reaches the ankles. It looks homemade. Those are some tattered farm boots. I'd say she might weigh a hundred pounds with a bucket of water thrown on her.
"What's your name, ma'am?"
"My name is Billie, Billie Washington."
"You've lived here for thirty years by yourself?"
"Yes, sir."
"I don't see a car. How do you get groceries?"
"I live off of the land. There's a truck patch full of fresh vegetables over there. I take the corn from the field and grind it for cornmeal, and there's plenty of fish in the pond. Besides, the rabbits and squirrels I hunt. The only thing I'm missing right now is some flour. I can't find any wheat in the fields."
"What about electricity and how do you keep your food from spoiling?"
"Oh, they cut the power off a long time ago. I've got a wood stove to cook on, and can for the winter. I don't need a light to read my Bible."
"In other words, you trust God to provide."
"Amazing! You look mighty spry for 97. Miss Billie, I have an appointment in Milan. Can I stop by and see you tomorrow? I would love to hear about your life."
"I reckon it would be all right, Mr. Little."
"I'll bring you some flour."
"That would be right nice of you to bring me a fifty-pound sack of flour."
"I don't think Wal-Mart has them that big."
"What's a Wal-Mart?"
"I'll try to explain tomorrow. Thank you, Miss Billie."
An average of 60,000 vehicles a day travel on Highway 45; I wonder how many people have ever noticed this old, deserted farmhouse that sits about a mile off the road. I drove to work in Jackson for many years before I caught a glimpse of it through the vines and saplings trying to engulf it. Since finding it, I've been longing to photograph it.
This gem sits at the end of a one-lane gravel road that's only used by the farmers to plant the fields surrounding the old farmhouse.
They planted corn this year, and the silks are reaching for the summer sky dappled with a few white puffy clouds.
When the corn gets tall and the grass covers the road, you have to search for this place to find it. If you blink, you missed it. I've slowed down a couple of times to a stop on the highway, peering down the lane, but the sun wasn't right, or something.
Not today! This site has haunted me for too long.
The sun is almost directly overhead when I turn on my emergency flashers and slow down to turn. I don't think a single soul noticed me. Two strips of gravel lead me through the tall grass toward a metal gate with a no trespassing sign. I stop about halfway down the road on solid ground.
After checking my camera battery, I slide out of my car and head for the gate. I know that I am legally trespassing, but I would never do anything to desecrate this place. I want to keep it as pristine and undisturbed as possible. Stomp down a little poison ivy, maybe.
The structure seems to be in the shape of a pyramid without a point. The square shape of the first floor lines up with the points on a compass. I'm walking towards it on the west side, and I think the rear of the home. There's a fifteen-foot roof over what I believe is the back porch. I base my measurements on the fact that a single piece of tin roofing is ten feet long.
The second floor reaches skyward for twenty-five feet. It looks like when the builders run out of lumber; they put tin roofing on it. Several vines grow up the right corner leading to a two window, gable roof that shoots out the tin. There's one in each corner around the house. They built this house to catch a breeze in any direction to help cool it in the summer.
Walking around the gate, I'd say this home was built in the late 1890s or early 1900s. It doesn't look like the Gothic mansions of a previous period.
There seems to be a worn path around the perimeter of the house, but I'd say no one has lived here in thirty years, judging by the old DISH satellites by the back porch.
Walking around to the southern side, I see a chimney shooting out beside the windows. There are two doors for each section on opposite ends. Could four families live in this house at one time? It sure looks like it. Honeysuckle vines completely cover a metal shed that's collapsed in front of one of the doors.
On the southeast corner, an ancient Oak sends its limbs in every direction. This must be the front of the home, and it has a porch that covers the entire section. I'd say ten rocking chairs could fit there comfortably. I can imagine the whole family drinking coffee and watching the sunrise.
The tree shades most of the porch from the afternoon sun. Two small handrails guide a person to the front door - they built this home for the comfort of a big family. I wonder how many generations worked on this farm - mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, keeping the tradition of a family farm going.
Standing here, I can feel the sweat and struggle to get to harvest season. The family may have been weary but proud when the crop was in the barn.
Their spirit still lives here.
I turn to take a picture of the field of soybeans. The light is perfect, with me standing under the tree. The meticulously planted crop, the dazzling white clouds, and the haze of summer hanging in the air - that's when I hear a light footstep behind me. The hairs on my neck stand straight up. If I'm correct, someone is standing there with a shotgun. Slowly, I turn to find out I'm right.
A tall, thin woman with steel-blue eyes stands there, but all I see is two barrels and her fingers on both triggers. "Do you know the Lord, mister, because you might be meeting Him soon. What are you doing on my land?"
"Let me introduce myself. My name is Robert Little, but you can call me Bob. I meant no harm, ma'am. I thought the house was empty. I only wanted to photograph your beautiful old home; you can feel the history of your family just standing here."
"What do you feel, mister?" She takes her fingers off the triggers.
"I feel the struggle to survive, but also the joy of living and lots of laughter."
"There was laughter here, mister. That was thirty years ago; I've lived here by myself ever since the family sold out and moved to Memphis."
The lady slowly lowers the shotgun, and I can finally get a look at her - those dark blue eyes sparkle and are full of life. Deep wrinkles start at the corner of her eyes and drift down very tan cheeks with a long gray ponytail running down her back. She's attired in a gray dress that reaches the ankles. It looks homemade. Those are some tattered farm boots. I'd say she might weigh a hundred pounds with a bucket of water thrown on her.
"What's your name, ma'am?"
"My name is Billie, Billie Washington."
"You've lived here for thirty years by yourself?"
"Yes, sir."
"I don't see a car. How do you get groceries?"
"I live off of the land. There's a truck patch full of fresh vegetables over there. I take the corn from the field and grind it for cornmeal, and there's plenty of fish in the pond. Besides, the rabbits and squirrels I hunt. The only thing I'm missing right now is some flour. I can't find any wheat in the fields."
"What about electricity and how do you keep your food from spoiling?"
"Oh, they cut the power off a long time ago. I've got a wood stove to cook on, and can for the winter. I don't need a light to read my Bible."
"In other words, you trust God to provide."
"Yes, sir, and He ain't never failed me yet."
"When did they build this house, Miss Billie?"
"It was built in 1897. I was born in 1923, and I've always lived here."
"I reckon it would be all right, Mr. Little."
"I'll bring you some flour."
"That would be right nice of you to bring me a fifty-pound sack of flour."
"I don't think Wal-Mart has them that big."
"What's a Wal-Mart?"
"I'll try to explain tomorrow. Thank you, Miss Billie."
 Recognized |
Everything about this story is true, except Miss Billie. But the inspiration for the story hit me walking around this beautiful old place. I'll show you more pictures in the upcoming parts.
Many thanks for stopping by to read!
Have a great day and God bless.
mike
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Many thanks for stopping by to read!
Have a great day and God bless.
mike
You need to login or register to write reviews. It's quick! We only ask four questions to new members.
© Copyright 2024. papa55mike All rights reserved.
papa55mike has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
