The Old Lanier Farm - Post Hurricane Helene Revision
My mind often drifts back in time to the shady sanctuary of my Grandmother Lanier's front porch. It was a welcome refuge for me during the late Sixties and Seventies when I was a freckled-faced, halter-top-wearing little girl.
As children my brother Andy, sister Amber, cousin Stuart and I roamed my Grandparents’ farm on countless hot summer mornings and although we did not have cell phones, iPads, computers or video games, there was always an unlimited supply of interesting things to do and see. Using cane poles and earthworms dug from the moist soil beneath bricks and stones, we plucked hungry bream from the small farm pond that sat quietly beyond my Grandmother’s bell pepper garden. We splashed in a small branch that flowed near the entrance to the farm and we devoured plump blackberries that grew wild along the fence lines. We routinely checked the nests inside the chicken coop for fresh eggs and using our bare feet as “forms” we built “frog houses” in the sandy soil near the mailbox. We took turns climbing into the seat of my Papa Lanier’s 1949 rusty red Farmall tractor and pretended to drive it up and down along rows of cotton. The four of us played largely unsupervised for many long happy hours, but by midday, exhausted and hungry, we retreated to the inviting shade of my Grandparents’ front porch.
The porch adorned the front of a simple yet gracious two bedroom wood frame farmhouse which was built in 1909 by my Great Grandfather Thomas Lincoln Lanier and his wife Deborah Daughtry Lanier before being passed along to my Grandmother and Papa shortly after they married in 1922. The porch stood watch over the 73 acre farm which is located 15 miles north of Metter, Georgia on a red dirt road near the intersection of Georgia Highway 121 and Rosemary Church Road.
The porch was, roughly 35 feet long, 10 feet wide and a mere 3 feet off the ground. There were no rails along the sides of the porch, but long, rectangular flower pots spilling with fragrant and colorful petunias lined the edges. Thick woody wisteria vines, dripping with pale purple blossoms and alive with humming birds and bees, wound their way up the four lattice pillars that supported the shiny tin roof. Two weathered wooden rocking chairs filled one end of the porch while a wooden swing supported by rusty chains occupied the opposite end.
After our morning adventures on the farm the four of us would ascend the three concrete steps that lead from the patch of thick St. Augustine grass and onto the green painted wooden deck of the front porch. As if by clockwork my Grandmother Maggie and Aunt Colleen would emerge from the screen door – the door snapping back with a resounding ‘thwack” to keep the flies out of the house. Adorned in simple cotton house dresses and lace trimmed aprons, Grandmother and Colleen served us “dinner,” as the midday meal was called, usually consisting of cold biscuits and thick cut bacon left over from breakfast, okra, peas, corn and tomatoes all fresh from the garden, fried chicken and of course plenty of sweet iced tea. Seated along the sides of the porch with our dirty bare feet dangling over the edge, we devoured our lunch without regard for the calorie count of the sweet tea, the fat content of the bacon or the number of carbs contained in the biscuits. Yes these were carefree times.
Lethargic from eating second and even third helpings of delicious southern fare we remained on the porch until we could regain enough energy to continue the important daily tasks that remained. Andy and Stewart would lay back with their feet up on the rockers and discuss issues of vital importance such as how to build a more effective rabbit trap or speculate on the size of “Old’ Moe”, the legendary monster sized bass that lived in the farm pond and shrewdly evaded capture year after year. My sister and I sat on the swing as it gently swayed back and forth in the negligible afternoon breeze. It was not uncommon for my grandparents’ old dog Whitey to timidly approach us as we lounged lazily in the afternoon warmth. Whitey was a “mut” no heavier than 35 pounds. As his name suggested he was predominately white with one tan spot about the size of a dinner plate on his right side. Whitey was bashful most likely because my Grandmother Lanier chased him off her porch daily with a straw broom. But with Grandmother safely out of sight in the kitchen on the back of the house, we would quietly encourage Whitey to venture onto the porch. He was scared and although he was reluctant to get close to us we could tell that he wanted us to pet him. My sister Amber would say to me, “he likes to be petted on his spot.” Never questioning the authenticity of the apparent mental telepathy she shared with Whitey, I dutifully obliged and stuck out my foot as far as it could reach in the direction of the reticent pup. To our delight, Whitey would cautiously sidle up even closer to us and allowing our outstretched toes to rub his spot.
Mealtime in the comfort of the shady porch was a nice break but we didn’t dwell there very long. The afternoons gave us plenty of daylight to explore the inside of the barn, climb the huge crepe myrtle trees in the front yard, sneak a peek down into the dark scary depths of the well and pick bouquets of colorful Old Maids from beside the corn crib. So, like paratroopers exiting a C-130, we would leap from the end of the porch, one by one, each landing in the pile of soft, powdery soil that was just below an ancient pecan tree.
I don’t know why, but the days lingered longer and time seemed to move more slowly perched on a swing or a rocker on that old front porch. Today, as I spend time on my own porch overlooking the woods behind my house, I often think about the old Lanier farmhouse. If I close my eyes, I can see the mighty pecan trees that surrounded the structure, I can smell the honeysuckle blossoms blooming nearby, I can hear the lonely cry of a whippoorwill at dusk, and wonder – where has all the time gone.
My Grandmother Lanier died in 1990, and my Aunt Colleen left us almost seven years ago. I miss them both dearly. Yet, even after the loss of family members and the damage caused by Hurricane Helene, that porch still stands, waiting for me to rest in its shade and remember. The storm swept through the Lanier Farm, felling trees and reducing the tobacco barn to rubble, but the old farmhouse remained miraculously untouched—a quiet testament to the generations of strength and love woven into its walls. Though the landscape has now been changed forever, the spirit of the farm endures, echoing of those cherished summer days and carrying forward the hope of new seasons yet to come.