The plantation that we visited was small and separated from the rest of the town. The guide told us that the owner’s descendants had sold off all but twenty-five acres of the land. The property was owned by the state of Georgia now, including the house. It was huge and built in the Greek Revival style. The guide was an elderly white man with a thick head of white hair that would have made the old man envious. He was tall and thin, with a blue polo shirt tucked into khaki pants that were pulled up several inches above his natural waist. He told us that he was a retired history professor, and an expert on antebellum architecture.
There were no other guests on the tour, only Dr. Oludara and me, but our guide’s voice was loud, his laughter timed with the amused tone of his statements. This house had been built in 1841. The original size of the property had been seven hundred and fifteen acres. Then the owner had sold off five hundred of his acres to a Yankee carpetbagger after the Civil War. Don’t be fooled by the thick green lawn at the back of the house—right there had been a man-made pond that the owner had stocked with trout. And the columns on the front of the house? They had been chiseled out of whole trees and painted to look like stone, because the owner lied to his neighbors about the columns and told them that’s what they were made of. It was only a hundred years later, when the state took over the plantation, that the truth of the columns was revealed.
“Thank goodness the termites hadn’t eaten through them,” our guide declared dramatically. “There was some chemical in the plaster and paint used to cover the wood that poisoned the termites. I can’t tell you what it is, though. I’ve been trying for years, but nobody knows what it was. Probably some secret of the Indians!”
I’d brought a small notebook and scribbled my impressions. I leaned close to but did not touch the shiny emerald-green fabric that covered the walls of the plantation house. I counted the number of steps to the second floor. I noted that the portraits of the master and his children showed dark hair and eyes and wrote down that perhaps that meant Native American blood. I leaned and peered at the furniture in the parlor. What kind of wood? Cherry or walnut? It was too dark to be oak.
The tour took an hour. By the time it was over, the pits of my sundress were soaked with sweat. The house had not been altered, and there was no air-conditioning. And I had several mosquito bites, one in the middle of my back. Our guide thanked us for coming and led us to the front hallway, where our tour had started. He invited us to sign the guest book and offered to sell us postcards with scenes from the plantation as it would have looked before the Civil War. Also, there was a booklet with information about the architecture, and how the plantation had escaped Sherman’s March to the Sea during the Civil War. The original property was located too far inland and surrounded on three sides by a river that the soldiers had not wanted to cross. The owner had burned the bridge that crossed the river.
“Are there any other buildings on this property?” Dr. Oludara asked.
“There’s the old kitchen house, but it’s closed for renovations. That will be opening next year for tours.”
“Any other buildings?”
“Well, there’s the quarters.” Our guide waved his hand. “But those are further back in the woods.”
“Aren’t they part of the tour?”
“Technically, yes, but I refuse to go back there. They’re practically falling down. I don’t know why the state hasn’t destroyed them. They’re a real safety hazard.”
“I know how busy you are, so just a couple more questions. Who was living here before the owner took over the property?”
“Oh, nobody! He was the first owner.”
“But what about the Indians?”
“Oh, them. Well, they left. After the Removal and all that.”
I made a noise, and Dr. Oludara grabbed my hand. She asked, how many slaves were owned here? After a long pause, our guide told her, there had been thirty-nine people who labored on the plantation. They all had been treated exceptionally well.
“This house was built by slave labor, no?” Dr. Oludara asked.
Our guide’s blue eyes twinkled. “Oh yes! And you can be very proud of that, can’t you? That your Negro people built this wonderful place!”
I caught my breath loudly, and Dr. Oludara squeezed my hand several times, an emotional Morse code: Keep it together.
“Is it all right if we walk to the quarters?” she asked.
“Surely, but I must warn you that any injuries incurred are your own responsibility. Thank you so much for visiting Moss Road Plantation.”