Memoirs of a Southern Belle

We'd just completed our finishin' school. It was the summer of 1891. We had grown up and now it was time for us to find a husband, be married, and raise children of our own.

Our family owned a plantation. I am well aware of the negative connotations that may arise from that word. Simply put, we live a lifestyle in which a high value is placed on a love for our Creator and growin' our own food. On our farm, we've never had one slave. Our workers, whatever their color, have always been compensated sufficiently for their labor. Our mother and father always made certain of it.

Of course we grew the traditional gardens that supplied our tables with a bountiful spread. But the main source of our livelihood was a fruit orchard. In the center was a beautiful pond with a gazebo nearby, surrounded by row after row after row of spectacular pear trees. In the middle of all that splendor we would assemble together for weddin's, church functions, festivals, and events of those kinds. We called it "The Gatherin' Place".

In the winter time the pond would freeze over and we would enjoy for ourselves escapades on the frozen tundra. I particularly loved the spring when the beautiful flower clusters emerged from every tree. Branch cuttings in vases providing lovely displays around our home each year. When I would notice the arrival of those buds, an excitement would fill my heart and I would know then, spring had finally begun.

In the summer, glorious marigolds encircled the base of every tree. Vivid orange-red colored petals bursting forth by the thousands. Planted in order of keepin' the trees safe from pestilence. An invigoratin' hue of vibrance casting it's presence throughout our fields.

There are thousands of kinds of pears. My family grew a handful of varieties. Our ancestors had thoughtfully selected those that would grow in our climate and bare fruit in succession. Harvestin' at different times to extend the growing season. Each year we make cuttins' from all of the different kinds to secure a yield for future generations to come.

One of my favorites that we cultivate is the Red Anjou. Decadently delicious baked in a pie or a cake. I also quite enjoyed picking one right off of the tree for a juicy bite.

Pears are so versatile. You can bake them, you can can them. Make butters and jams. They can be poached. They're a wonderful addition to many sweet or savory dishes. Growing up around that many pears, you developed imagination when it came to their preparation. And we certainly used our creativity. In fact, my great grandmother won a few baking competitions in her day. The family still enjoys her recipes.

It was a wonderful life. We grew up together, the four of us cousins. We were more like sisters, all born within a few months of one another. We would spend hours playing in those fields. Each tree providing shade. Sometimes a tasty treat, or just a place to be lost for a while. From time to time we would bring a picnic and a book.

After we returned from our etiquette schoolin', mother packed us a basket and sent us where the first tree had been placed. The original pear tree. The one that started the orchard, which had been in our family for a few generations now.

We reached the top of the hill where it had sat looking over the magnificent fields of fruit. You couldn't help but get lost gazing at the beauty beneath.

Planted in a high place representin' a light on a hill. A beacon of hope for the dreams to come. Our forefathers had traveled from far away with vision and a wisdom to build a heritage. A legacy that lives on to this very day.

Our parents knew we loved to sit under the canopies, enjoy a nice summer breeze, and read. So they built us a covered structure to sit and enjoy this beautiful scene our ancestors had worked so hard to achieve. Complete with a table and four chairs. A swing and a plaque, crafted by our grandfather, now sitting in the place where that first tree had been. The plaque engraved Proverbs 29:18.

As we unpacked the grand picnic and set it out across the table, we uncovered an array of goodness. She had sent us with some boiled eggs. Some biscuits with pear jam. Raspberries from Daddy's berry patch. Some beef jerky and to top it off, Momma's highly desired chocolate cake. The one she only made on special occasions. One slice and you thought you had died and gone to heaven.

When we were around the delicate age of 6, our dear Pastor Williams unexpected death transpired right after eatin' a piece of that very cake. Rumors have always circulated of how his passin' went down in the record books as "death by chocolate cake". Of course, he was just elderly and it was his time, but it didn't stop the whispers.

One of my cousin's noticed in the bottom of the basket there was a curious brown paper package. Intrigued, we open it to reveal a letter and a copy of the book, Little Women.

The letter told us of how proud Momma was that we'd completed our trainin'. She expressed how pleased she was at our growth as young women. Sending us her best wishes for the years to come, and a hope that we would enjoy the pages of this book.

Thrilled with this gift, we ate our picnic feast and immediately became enthralled in the pages. The daylight quickly became dusk. As the moon peaked through the tree tops, shadows of a green light dimly flooded the grassy foundations. Reflecting the tone of green from our surroundin's.

As we came back again and again to those words. Each of us identified with a character in the book. It's probably why Momma chose it for us. I think I was most like Jo. A writer, cautious and progressive. I hoped to find love but afraid all in the same.

One day we had found a comfortable spot in our forest of pears. We laid down in the cool grass and began taking turns reading the chapters aloud, as was our usual practice. When suddenly we found ourselves in a predicament. There we were, face to face with a ghastly bull. It was the most frightened I have ever been in my entire life.

He was somehow able to push through the fences that had kept our cattle in. Cautiously, and slowly we backed away and were able to get help. Thankfully, none of the others followed him through that fence. The men wrangled him back into the herd, repaired the damage, and the crisis had been averted.

Day after day we read the chapters of that book, until the very last page. It was quite a summer, one to remember. The best one ever, at least in my fond recollections.

After that season, we went on to build homes of our own. Now our children run around under those marvelous trees making memories of there own. I pray we are good stewards of all the glorious blessin's we've been given. And we teach our children to teach their children to do the same.

I am so very thankful for the future my family, in eras gone by, forethought to prepare for our generation. I've learned a valuable lesson because of their determination and perseverance to see their dream come to pass. Never underestimate the power of hard work and a vision.

Proverbs 29:18

"Where there is no vision, the people perish:..."