Flying Violets

Chapter 22

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 Jack was not a fan of me in the driver’s seat, and I refused to give it up.  He would have to remove me physically.  I needed to have control of something, and Jack was  this to me by letting me drive the three short miles to Sparrow House.  I was a  farm, not a former rice plantation.  As we drove up the drive, Jack revealed the history of Sparrow House.

The plantation, even though neglected since the latter part of the nineteenth century, was still 1500 acres and still in the Moran Family.  It had been purchased by Edward Moran in 1809, had been a prominent rice planation in the Georgetown area.  The original plantation before the Civil War had been 2500 acres.  Over the years the family had to sell off parcels of land to help make ends meet. 

 The old battered truck entered under an archway of sprawling oaks and magnolias.  We drove under a once stately iron sign that read: “Sparrow House” that hung over the entrance at the main road. The timeworn graveled drive was ridden with weeds and grass, and the property was overrun with underbrush and bramble.  I was in total awe and couldn’t keep my eyes on the road. Several times Jack would retort: “Eyes on the road, Violet.”

 “Jack this is a wonderful place.” I murmured in wonderment.

 “This was my father’s childhood home.” Jack said “I would come up from Charleston every summer with Genevieve and visit my Grandmother and Grandfather.” 

  I stopped the car in front of the main house as Jack reminisced.

 “Mother hated coming here. But Ginny and I always had freedoms here that we never had in Charleston.  There are so many memories in this old place.”

 I could tell that Jack was lost in thought as he gazed fondly at the old house.  Sparrow  was lovely and sat up on a rise nestled under several oaks that gave her shade.  The old copper roof had a lovely greenish patina that graced an upper story and spread across a wrap-around veranda.  Two double stair cases curved up to the front veranda, and the entire house was elevated off the ground in the Tidewater style with beautiful brick arches that formed open galleries.   Much of the paint on the porches and railings were in need of repair, but overall the house was restorable.  I had fallen in love instantly with this house. 

I couldn’t wait to go inside. “Oh Jack” I squealed. “It’s gorgeous.” 

Once the truck was parked.  I jumped out in excitement.  What a wonderful place?  So serene; so peaceful, and from the house you could see the Pee Dee River. 

 “Jack if this were mine I would never leave.”  I said without thinking, leaving him standing at the truck.  I ran like a child up the stairs of the house to the front veranda to gaze out over the plantation.  It was beautiful.  Rolling hills and river as far as the eye could see. 

For the first time in weeks I felt at peace here.  I walked around the house gazing at the views from each direction.  All were spectacular.   The shutters were closed on every window, and I wished I could have seen the house in its heyday.  Having lived in Boston for most of my life, I was in awe at the vastness of the land here and its beauty.  I wanted to know what was farmed here, and if it was worked by any farmers locally.