Jimmy Lockerman, a long-time friend, is salvaging lumber from a time-worn house that belongs to a cousin of mine, Joyce Wilkes. He asked about its history, but those who knew it best are gone. A walk through empty rooms one day made me wonder what they’d say, if walls could only talk.  

Murray Joiner, Joyce’s father, bought the farm in 1952 from Mag Scarborough, his wife’s aunt. Margaret Clemons Scarborough and John Virgil Scarborough farmed while raising four children there. He died in 1925 at age 43. She moved and rented the property out until selling it.

The dwelling was built around 1900 or perhaps earlier. A hand-sawn four by six inch post is helping support a front wall. Most of the lumber, however, was cut by a sawmill. Virgil’s parents are buried nearby at Wallace Cemetery, so possibly were the original owners. 

In my childhood it looked like a homestead which had enjoyed considerable prosperity. The spacious unpainted house and outbuildings hinted of a rich past. Joyce was told that split-rail fences once surrounded every field.    

After Virgil Scarborough’s death, the Charlton Cross family lived there and farmed the land. Roy and Lois Altman and their children followed them. Several years back Bobby Altman removed a piece of plank for a keepsake. He and his brother, Lamar, had scribbled their names on it eons ago.

My earliest recollection of residents is the Joe Ervin family. Joe farmed on halves with another of Daddy’s brothers, Emmett. Uncle Emmett provided land and inputs and Joe supplied labor. Walking through the house reminded me of a long-ago visit with Joe at the Scarborough Farm. But first, here’s some background. 

Daddy preferred row crops over livestock, so I used our empty pens for 4H and FFA projects. I was thrilled to get a purebred Yorkshire through the Sears Roebuck Pig Chain Program. The finely-bred gilt was free, except for giving back a pig from her first litter. 

We’d never owned swine of prestigious lineage. Feasting on ground corn and Purina supplements she grew into a portly beauty. The prospects of expanding my operation with her offspring was exciting. My heart sank, however, when she birthed only three pigs. It dropped lower when she rolled over on two of them. The bottom came knowing the sole survivor was not mine to keep.  

Shortly after that disappointing experience, Daddy and I were talking with Joe under the ancient Scarborough barn, a typical structure of an earlier era. Stalls for animals and cribs for storing corn and such lined each side of an open middle large enough to accommodate mule-drawn wagons. The hay loft’s exterior door was 20 feet off the ground.

Stretched out in one of those stalls was a skinny black sow nursing 14 pigs. I didn’t know that number was possible, especially from a hog with no pedigree or special diet. Daddy traded with Joe for me to buy her when the pigs were weaned.

My registered sow birthed one more disappointing litter of five pigs. I sold her and began making a little money with that scrawny hog of undocumented ancestry. It was a memorable lesson in practical economics.   

On another visit Joe told me about sharecropping elsewhere as a young man. When they settled up, he received far less than he should have. He respectfully questioned the landowner, who responded in anger, “Are you calling me a liar?” Joe moved his family that night. There are lessons in that experience too. It’s best to avoid folks you can’t trust or reason with. 

Sometimes Joe entertained us with impersonations of Uncle Emmett. He told Daddy and me about going to Joiner’s Store when needing money for crop inputs. My uncle could be moody, so Joe would test the waters.

He’d imitate Uncle Emmett’s chronic sniffing and monotone mumble, “Morning, Joe. Something for you?” Joe would pretend he’d just stopped by to speak. He’d wait a few days then try again, not talking business until he received a cheerful greeting. His comedic account helped me understand the value of finesse.   

Joe lived on the Scarborough Farm until he built a home on the far side of the same field. He told me countless stories during my youth that I wish I could recall. I realize now they often came with valuable lessons.   

And a walk through empty rooms one day made me wonder what they’d say, if walls could only talk.