Things Worth Remembering-A Piece of Hamilton Place History

Last night I sat on the top of my father’s homeplace at a table in a wonderful establishment and was served dinner. People around me laughed and indulged in their own conversations while the bartender hurriedly made cocktails and merrily served the crowd. There were a few familiar faces and strangers with white hair much like my grandfather when he walked this ground talking about someone named Peg and what she was up to these days. There was a man with a beautiful black German Shepard named Panzer on a leash with a combat vest around him- that’s how I know his name- sitting at the table beside me and several others minding their own business as I watched. I imagine none of them knew the history of this dirt we all were sharing. I only know a miniscule amount; much less than what I wish I knew. As I drove from the place after dinner, I pondered on the thought of how much “progress” has occurred in that area alone. I cannot imagine that my grandfather, Jake, George Washington Hamilton, could have foreseen all of these changes that have taken over his once beloved farm now known as “Hamilton Place”.

Once upon a time not so long ago, there sat a meager barn with a shed full of hay beside it just over the hill from where Aubreys and Academy Sports is sitting now. There was a field full of cattle grazing lazily in the sun. There was a smokehouse that once provided meat for a family who lived in the house just at the bottom of the hill. There was an outbuilding of white painted lumber that had seen its heyday long ago sitting just at the top of the drive where my Papaw housed his Buick and probably many other tools and such that had not seen work of their own for many years. There was a tall black post with a dinner bell that sat at the end of the concrete patio that had been built later on after hard times had become easier and hard work would bring updates to the house which once had no running water and only simple electricity. Nothing fancy, just a warm home where 7 children were born. Correction… the last one was born in a hospital. There was a concrete birdbath that adorned the front yard and a metal swing rocker that sat under the trees in the back yard. Baseball games had been played in that wonderful backyard, the black dinner bell marking one of the bases. Mamaw’s lemonade would be served and for a moment, Sunday afternoon was all that mattered. A gravel driveway would never be replaced by asphalt or concrete and simple living was as abundant as the grass kept so beautifully manicured around the well-kept home. The home of Jake and Carrie Hamilton. But I have saved the best place on the property for last. The spring house. The spring house still remains. The only remnant left of a life once lived with fresh air and sunshine and no buildings to restrict the views. A springhouse that holds more memories than any journal could hold. Oh if that springhouse could tell stories. It is a small little white structure with a rough hewned door with a sort of clumsy large black metal knob. It stood proudly beneath a huge willow tree that provided the perfect shade so it was always cool, even in the hot summer sun. The ground surrounding the springhouse was always cold and the moss felt like heaven under your bare feet as you prepared to enter the strange, cold magical place. You would open the door and behold a space only large enough for one man or definitely two or three children. I know this because I often visited this place with cousins or friends. Inside hung a ladle with a long handle and a cup at the end. We would take it down from the nail where it hung and proceed to squat down on the large rock that was raised enough to be out of the cool water. We would then dip that cup into the rolling crystal clear water and bring out the most wonderful sip from mother earths very soul. I would gaze upon all the different colored rocks that sat beneath the busy spring and look for any tiny fish or other creatures that made this place their home. We would giggle and laugh likely with dirty bare feet and bruised legs that we wore as youngsters growing up not realizing the blessing being bestowed upon us just by being there. If I can recall correctly, there was a concrete block inside bearing the date the spring house was built. The story I have learned as an adult is that it was built for the workers building the railroad that runs above the tunnel just to the left of the property. We would return the ladle once everyone had gotten a turn to take a sip and close the door to a magical place that still holds that laughter and those memories inside. It is certainly a treasure.

Just above the springhouse was a fence with a large gate. I can still see large rocks that lay just beyond the fence. It was right around this area that my grandparents would spend days making molasses. If you have not had a good ole homemade buttered biscuit with hot molasses poured over it, well, you better get on the hunt and see if you can feed your soul some sugary goodness. I may have a vague memory of the making of molasses or maybe I have known the stories so long I just have an imagination of it. Either way, I was just a little girl when they stopped making them. I do have photographs somewhere of my papaw and his overalls with his mules making this amazing liquid gold. That is pretty much the extent of my memory. I will research my cousins and aunts for more about that sometime.

As I was driving away from his once farm last night, I could almost smell the inside of the home. I recalled the feeling of comfort that engulfed me as I played in their house. I can see the green carpet that covered the bedroom floor and hear the creak of the narrow steep stairway that made its way upstairs to 3 modest bedrooms at the top. There was a sliding wooden door at the top. It would usually be closed and depending on the season, it would rush cold or hot air once you slid it open to venture through to the other side. There was a light green room that I remembered as my Aunt Jacques. She was the youngest and the last child to leave the home. Then there was another room that had some things in it that I believed to be my Aunt Joanns. There were only two girls, the oldest and the youngest. In between them would be 5 boys and my mind understood the last room at the end of the hall to be the one the boys shared. Only 4 boys would reside there as the heartbreak of George, the 18-month-old namesake would pass from meningitis. It was the blue room. Blue carpet and light blue walls with one bed in it. This would have been my dad’s room that he shared with the brothers that lived at home when they were young. I can hear my dad talking about how cold it would be crawling into bed as there was no heat up there. The only benefit of sharing a bed with his brothers was the warmth they provided in the cold months. At the end of the hallway was another sliding door. It seems that it was more difficult to slide open because of the carpet. Upon the other side was a dark wooded staircase that led you up to an even more strange place. The attic. My grandmother would keep it as neat and tidy as an attic could be. It stretched as long as the house was long and there was a window at the end with curtains. The slope of the roof would design the ceiling and there would be rows of Christmas decorations and childhood memories lining the pathway to the window. Outside the window would be a roof… and maybe I am referring to the upstairs bedrooms but regardless of the exact details, my eldest cousin would recount a story for me about how she would help Mamaw cut apples and lay them on a sheet pan and set them out on that roof top to dry. No dehydraters were available back then so she invented her own. She was a master at feeding such a family. Which leads me to the cellar…

At some point, the large house got a more modern addition. A kitchen, bathroom, den, laundry room and sitting area was included if I am right. Corrections to come later! There was a cellar door leading from the room off the kitchen. Now this was not a magical place as much as it was a place of mystery to me. Upon opening this door, there would be rough wooden stairs taking you down into a dank, strange but strangely good smelling room. Earthy. Pure. Clean. It had red clay walls and some wooden shelves that housed canned goods my grandmother had prepared herself and stored. There was another wooden door in between those clay walls that I was scared to look behind. On the stairs, often was kept ceramic crocks. My dad would tell the stories of how my grandmother would pack those full of meat for the winter and cover them with the rendered lard of a hog they butchered to seal the meat and preserve its integrity for the coming months. She would pull that lard back enough to obtain enough meat for a meal and cover it back up to save the rest. She made 100 biscuits a day and made a breakfast that Cracker Barrell would cry over. Grits, bacon, sausage, oatmeal, eggs and the most incredible biscuits and gravy that an angel herself must have taught her to make. Orange juice, milk and coffee would not be left out. She would handmake the sausage and pass on a legacy of making it to my dad who would later use her recipe in his own sausage making at his butcher shop Hamilton Meats. Every Thanksgiving and Christmas he would butcher a hog and return to his roots by hand mixing and preparing her sausage that he would provide as gifts to his friends. My brother, Brian, and the guys at the shop still hand mix and prepare it as it was passed on from generation to generation. I bet not many folks know that either. Now you do.

My father worked that farm as did his brothers and sisters along side of my grandparents until they were old enough to strike out and make lives of their own. My grandfather held a job at the Eastman for years until retirement as a pipe fitter and farmed the rest of the time. My dad is the only one who carried that tradition of farming on into his own life. My dad could tell the best stories of sitting by the radio by the wood stove cracking Walnuts and other nuts to sell while listening to Boston Blackie on the radio. Dad was always an entrepeneur even as a kid. He was always trapping for pelts to sell, gathering herbs to sell or cracking nuts to make some money. That mentality would serve him the rest of his life. Helping his father on the farm, my dad would plow a garden or a field with a mule. Jack. Jack was dads mule he rode bareback. Lord, talk about tough. He helped harvest corn by the moonlight with a sithe to avoid the heat of the day. He had a scar across the palm of his hand to mark that memory. Oh his hands could tell so many stories of their own. Another little notable piece of nostalgia. The man with the black German Shepard would have no idea that once there ran another German Shepard across that farm. My fathers dog. A dog he deeply loved as he would all of the best friends he had over the years. Currently, his last best friend, Jake, the black labrador is perched on the bench in front of me as I write this watching for anyone to greet should they come a visiting.

As these memories came flooding back to me last night, I found it compelling to write it down. This is only a scratch on the surface of the history that particular piece of ground holds. I thought it deserving of being told. I also thought of that green carpet and the scent of the home my Mamaw made for all of us to come home to and an overwhelming sense of things absolutely worth remembering. JH+