The Sound of the South
Pebble Hill Plantation. Thomasville GA.
The sun filters through the wisps of spanish moss dangling from the overwintered branches above. the quiet is absolute at times, broken only by the twitter of birds hopping from tree to bush and the occasional but distant whuff of a horse shaking his head and blowing flies off his nose. though this plantation isn't very old, the seemingly ancient and achingly tall oaks give the impression that many wanderers have gone before me, walking these same dirt roads, shadowed by these same arches, listening to these same sounds, leaving footsteps that no longer are visible except as ghostly shapes in the wind of memory. if you listen very closely, you can hear the clip clop of horse drawn carriages, the laughter of children, the call of a dog to hunter when prey becomes victim. this home is one of the many, some crumbling and invisible, some dwindling on the edge of forgotten, that line the now-paved roads of civilization. here and there, tucked out of sight and away from the chatter of daily life, the cotton still grows. the fields, though less of them, are still tilled for profit. and the world that once was meets the traveler of today who wishes to remember. this is history come to life. this is the sound and the season of the south. listen.
The sun filters through the wisps of spanish moss dangling from the overwintered branches above. the quiet is absolute at times, broken only by the twitter of birds hopping from tree to bush and the occasional but distant whuff of a horse shaking his head and blowing flies off his nose. though this plantation isn't very old, the seemingly ancient and achingly tall oaks give the impression that many wanderers have gone before me, walking these same dirt roads, shadowed by these same arches, listening to these same sounds, leaving footsteps that no longer are visible except as ghostly shapes in the wind of memory. if you listen very closely, you can hear the clip clop of horse drawn carriages, the laughter of children, the call of a dog to hunter when prey becomes victim. this home is one of the many, some crumbling and invisible, some dwindling on the edge of forgotten, that line the now-paved roads of civilization. here and there, tucked out of sight and away from the chatter of daily life, the cotton still grows. the fields, though less of them, are still tilled for profit. and the world that once was meets the traveler of today who wishes to remember. this is history come to life. this is the sound and the season of the south. listen.
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