If Walls Could Talk

“If Walls Could Talk!”, We do talk, but we do not get the credit. It has always been given to the thieves of literature; however, it has been us all the time. You see,

Whenever you read an obituary, I told the tale.

Whenever you see a play, I am in the background.

Whenever you watch a movie, or read a story, it’s me! It’s we! It’s Us, it’s always been us.

Yes, Walks Talk….

Let me remind you of the family that lived here back in the 50’s and 60’s. The husband and wife at the time, well, they had thirteen beautiful children on an acre of land in Maryland, if I remember that fact correctly. Seven boys and six girls. The youngest four of those children were girls, their names were Deborah, Joan, Libby, and Barbara. Very lovely young girls. Colorful personalities. Every morning, the father, Joseph was his name, would rise early, put his work suit on, his old tired brown boots, grabbed two boiled eggs his wife made for him and some cigarettes. Off to work he would go, but the mother. She stayed behind and woke those girls up for school. She was a short woman, with bright yellow skin. She sang every morning, or at least to me it sounded like she was singing. Every time she talked it was melodious. She was a big woman, the kind of woman made for mothering many children. The kind of woman that never stopped giving. Her name was Harriet.

Every Morning, she called Deborah, Joan, Libby, and Barbara. She roused her youngest from their bed. She hurried them outside to the porch, where during the summer it was warm enough for them to bathe on the porch in the morning hours. One by one, she had them sit in the wooden tub. She rubbed the yellow soap bar until it produced rich bubbles. She scrubbed each child diligently and dried them and sent them back in to dress one by one.

And one by one, they grew, into women.

And one by one, they left.

But the youngest, Barbara, was her name. She was a wild child. I remember, she was always in trouble, and when she left. She got pregnant; she had a baby. That little girl named Archelle, came to stay with Mr. Joseph and Harriet, and they loved her. They taught her to read and write. Every day during the summer months out in those woods, that child would read out loud to her grandparents. Then she would go outside to play, to explore the woods. Since, at the time she was an only child, and they were out in those wood, Joseph, her grandfather bought her a dog. She called him Benji, and Benji followed her around. Ever her faithful friend that Benji was, while she explored and explored those great big woods.

Speaking of woods, walls are like trees. We are there, watching, listening, waiting, and communicating with each other. We know your deepest darkest secrets, but no one pays us much attention. For some reason, people keep referencing these flies…. that could care less, but that’s here nor there. Now Archelle, a woman of her own volition. With big brown eyes, and who was tall and skinny, but had that yellow tone like Harriet. Was trying to find herself. It’s hard trying to find yourself in North Carolina, on three acres of land, and like Maryland, woods for days, but she was trying. She moved here because Maryland was expensive and not forgiving of those with no college degree. Here, in North Carolina she decided to get herself some schooling. She rented a house from her aunt, but she did not live with her aunt, she shared the place with her boyfriend. Unfortunately, all the while we are here to hear, all the fights, and the arguments. The late-night conversations, and the new baby they have welcomed into the world, squeal, and play. At some point, Archelle’s grandmother had lived here too, but that time had come and gone years before she moved in. However, that did not stop her from wondering what it was like for her to live here, what room was hers, and what she did in her free time.

There came a day, not like any other. A phone call was made from Maryland. It was from Archelle’s aunt. She explained that her grandmother had passed away, and when the funeral would be. Archelle packed her baby up, kissed her boyfriend, and took the trip to Maryland. At the funeral, the obituary read, “Well done, my good and faithful servant”. In that pamphlet, the story of a woman, that raised 13 children of her own was told. During her time on this earth, she had gotten a degree, and taken care of numerous children from the town closest to where she lived. Archelle kissed her aunt Debbie, and hugged her mother Barbara, and we those walls, breathing a sigh of relief because a family of women divided by distance are once more reunited. Because Archelle would never leave home again.

You see walls are like DNA, we carry the memories of our guests. We remind people of where they came from, and who they once were. We are here to bring you back close to your families. We help you tell stories by letting you sit within our framework and FEEL THE MEMORIES. Walls do talk, we talk through YOU!