Aunt Effie

Aunt Effie

Despite the ravage of war that had swept over the land, one could tell that the orchard had once been a scene of great beauty. Gone were the neatly ordered rows of trees with the cultivated furrows between them. Many of the prize trees now lay gnarled and broken in the field. Tall grass and a tangle of vines had begun to reclaim the land. Here and there, in pairs, or small groups, some of the trees remained standing. The peach trees, like ladies of fashion, raising their hems from the mud in the streets, did their best to lift up their branches above the disarray at their feet. Nature rewarded their efforts by covering the trees in petticoats of delicate pink flowers. The was a strange beauty even in the ruin of the once immaculate orchard. We had come to see beauty in so many scenes such as this, for much of our homeland still lay in ruins. At the foot of the hill was a brick and wood entrance gate. The gate stood open, lazily, keeping watch over the drive leading to the house at Sycamore Hill. The drive beyond the gate was clear but deeply rutted. I turned to look at Aunt Effie. Josephine sat holding both of Aunt Effie's hands in hers. The two women gazed across the fertile valley. Lizzie, unusually quiet, sat on the seat beside them staring blankly straight ahead. Aunt Effie wore a smile of peace and happiness on her face.

"Oh Aunt Effie, it is breathtaking," said Josephine.

"Thank you my dear, this is always the most beautiful time of year to see Sycamore Hill."

I could tell that Aunt Effie was not seeing the orchard as it looked today, she was seeing it in the heyday of her youth. I believe that she fully expected to see Philippe or her father come galloping down the driveway to greet her.

"Are you sure you want to do this Aunt Effie?" I asked.

"Yes Charles, I need to do this," said Aunt Effie softly.

I flicked the reigns, and the carriage lurched forward. Just a few minutes later we were standing at the site where Euphemia's home had once stood. The grove of fire damaged sycamores from which the house took its name, stood around the pile of rubble that had once been the big house.

It had been just two months shy of four years since the house had been burned. Four years worth of rain from spring showers and summer storms had washed much soot from the walls and columns. Nature was doing her best to cover the scars on the trees with green. In the dappled late morning sunlight the ruins looked soft and peaceful. The scene reminded me of the ruined cathedrals I had visited in Europe. It was hard to imagine that the house had ever looked any other way.

The steps and gallery floor were still recognizable. The six Corinthian columns that had once supported the gallery roof stood, like silent sentinels, steadfast in a row. With quiet dignity, they guarded the remains of the once proud house. The four walls of the original center section were still standing, as were the walls of the west wing. A small portion of the front façade of the east wing now lay shattered and broken, like a child's toy, across the drive. The other three walls remained in place.

As she had burned the house, had consumed herself from within, collapsing in layers onto the foundation. I could see in my mind the once elegant rooms lit buy the glow of terrible, crackling, red and orange flames. I could hear the groan of the support beams as they pulled free from their foundations. I hear the breaking of glass as the windows blew out, and tinkle of the chandeliers as they pulled from the ceilings and crashed to the floors. I could hear the final, awful cord that the piano forte sounded as the ceiling came crashing down upon it. I could smell the acrid smoke and the burning wood. And then, there was silence and peace. Like the grand lady Sycamore Hill had been, she grew weary and simply laid down and gone to sleep.

I shook the images of the mansion's final moments from my head. I turned in my seat to look at Aunt Effie. It was difficult to read her expression. She did not wear a look of sadness but rather her face gave the impression of being at peace.

A haunting winsome smile crossed her lips as she said, "Sycamore Hill was the finest home in the county, how we laughed and enjoyed ourselves, so much life and so much love, within these walls." Aunt Effie closed her eyes. "Listen. Can you hear that?"

"Hear what?" I asked.

"In the breeze, listen, You can hear the laughter as my sisters tease Papa, and my Mammy scolding Philippe to take his boots off before he goes into the house. I can hear the sound of mother's piano in the parlor."

Aunt Effie smiled again and tilted her head toward the music. She began to weave side to side as she hummed some tune recognizable only to her.

I smiled at Aunt Effie. I didn't want to disturb her daydream.

"Oh Aunt Effie," said Josephine. "I hear it too, it's Chopin."

"Yes, yes that's it, Chopin," said Aunt Effie.

Completely lost in the moment, listening to music only she and Aunt Effie could hear, Josephine said, "How lovely and how beautiful the house must have been."

I turned to watch the ladies in the back seat of the carriage. I regretted not being able to shelter them from all that had happened. They should have lived their lives surrounded by garden parties and balls. Their only worries should have been what to wear, or what to have the servants serve for supper.

Nevertheless, the war had come. The ladies were forced to see the ugliness that can be reality; they were forced to work like field hands. They were forced to witness the destruction of their homes and villages, forced to bury their families and friends. Yet, in spite of the hardships they hitched up their skirts, rolled up their sleeves, and did what needed to be done.

Yes, before the war, the women of the South had been pampered and spoiled, but when hard times had come, they had shown what they were made of. Now they were the backbone of the South, encouraging their men and finding ways to care for their families and communities.

"Well, have we seen enough?" I asked.