Rowan Oak Misadventures

"I would say that music is the easiest means in which to express, but since words are my talent, I must try to express clumsily in words what the pure music would have done better."
-William Faulkner
Date of incident: 6/17/10

I literally wrote this half sweat soaked, half rain soaked, but I knew if I didn't write it down when it happened, some details would get left out; you'll soon know how I live for the details.....I am including pictures from Rowan Oak for kicks. They were taken at a later date for a Flat Stanley project for Claire Lusk, a visit where we had fewer problems. I'm in the gray looking goofy and Lisa is in black.

    

"Last night for Dr. Hall's Southern Lit class, we finally got to read some contemporary works by none other than our very own William Faulkner. First "Red Leaves" and then "Delta Autumn."  Well, after class Lisa and I stated for approximately the 432nd time since we've moved here that we needed to go to Rowan Oak and browse. Since we had nothing to do, I said "Why don't we go today?" This was met with a "Sure, why not."



     We got out of class at 2pm, came home to eat a late lunch. By 2:30 we were in the car driving to Faulkner's house. We get there, walk around inside, ponder whether Faulkner used the toilet we used. Came to the conclusion that, yes, he had to have, how weird, etc. I think our favorite room was his office where he had written all over the walls the plot of "A Fable." After looking through the house we came back downstairs right as a herd (the word herd is most appropriate here) of what had to be 75-107 year old men and women who all had lanyards around their neck marking them as some group from the University of Alabama. They were all sweaty and I felt that a call for an ambulance was in the near future, as some of the group members threw themselves on to the stairs so they could regain breath. We sneaked away from the nursing home crowd and wandered around the servant quarters, the stable, the garden. The whole visit of the grounds might have been 20 minutes. On the way back to the car, I noticed that we had parked right at the mouth of the beginning of a "clearly marked quarter of a mile trail into Bailey's Woods." We had discussed Bailey's Woods in class and the sign said it would end in the parking lot. We were in the parking lot. You can see the logic, yes? We see the sign at the same time, Lisa and I just kind of looked at each other and nodded. After all a quarter of a mile is nothing, right? We start walking, I get paranoid about snakes, I get attacked by granddaddy long legs, hit my toe on a stick, the usual.

     We come to several forks in this "clearly marked path" and in true English major fashion,  quote Robert Frost and decide almost every time to take the less traveled looking of the forks. I don't know about McComb, but it's HOT here right now. So about 10 minutes into our little Bailey's Woods adventure (which I was not enjoying because I was too busy watching for venomous reptiles)  I get sweaty. I am silently praying we haven't taken some weird fork that is for hard core hikers or something. Just as I think this, I hear, as might be expected, an ominous roar of thunder. "Great. Grand. Awesome," I say. We pass over a bridge on a dried up creek bed and I say something cheerful like, "I bet some slaves drowned here or something, my gosh. Do you think those old people walked here earlier and that's why they were so sweaty?"  All of a sudden, we hear really loud techno music? Are the old people at the house partying? Surely not, thinks Lisa. "Did you see them? They looked like they were about to stroke out. They are not dancing."
     Another fork. I have given up on navigation. What I have not given up on is Googling Rowan Oak's telephone number so that in the event of an emergency (like the impending snake bite I am expecting to endure) we'll be able to call them, or 911 depending on the severity. About this time, we pop out unexpectedly of the woods AT THE BASEBALL FIELD on campus. My first words are something along the lines of "What in the hell."   I am ill, sweaty, and most importantly have NO clue how to get back to the car. We pop back into the woods, find a wide clearing, follow it and end up across the street from St. John's Catholic Church on University Ave. Again, I have no idea how we got there and no idea how to get back to the car. I call the boyfriend and say "Unless your apartment is on fire or something equally as catastrophic, I'm a long, long way away from my car. I do not want to explain this. Please come pick me up at St. John's. I am freaked out, it's lightning. There are snakes somewhere looking for me. Hurry" *click* Just as I hang up, I notice the time: 4:45. Then, the bottom falls out.  We don't even try to find somewhere to get out of the rain; We just sit. Boyfriend shows up about 5 minutes later. "Do not ask any dumb questions, Steven," says Lisa. I grimace appreciatively in her direction. He takes us back to Rowan Oak. As we pull into the driveway, a charter bus with the old people is pulling away. No one seemed to be in mortal danger or anything. Good for them. We pull up next to the car, at the mouth of the pathway and are greeted by scores of fire flies. I can imagine them forming the word "HA" as we drove away. Lisa, reflecting on our misadventure said, "Yeah those old people definitely didn't do the trail......"

Faulkner visit = fail

After sharing this misadventure with my former English teacher, she replied with this little anecdote:


     "In case I never told you, Faulkner employed a black man on his place, who mainly helped tend things. He was a friend as well. Somehow the name Joe comes to mind, but maybe that is Freudian....ANYWAY, he was interviewed after Faulkner's death and talked about hunting with Faulkner and tending his place. What I MOST remember reading is that he said that Faulkner would not allow him to kill any snake on his property. The man said something to this effect in his interview..."I was sho nuff careful to watch my feets...."


I like to think "Joe" was watching out for me that day. Somebody was.

Cheers,
Erin