Several families who lived on the Scarborough Farm were mentioned in the original column. The aged homestead could tell countless stories if walls could only talk. There are two extraordinary bits of history I’m acquainted with. The earliest rarely comes to mind, slowly veiled by passing time. 

Verna Scarborough Thorougham was one of three children of Virgil and Mag Scarborough. She was born April 1, 1904, and died May 28, 1992. I never met her, but Verna’s name has been familiar since childhood. She was spoken of with admiration in our home and at Harmony Baptist Church. She’s the only person I know of from our rural community who served as a missionary in China.

Information I found online said she was living in China in 1935, but didn’t note when her stay began or ended. On May 6, 1929, she married Dr. James Chanslor Thoroughman, Jr., in a Dooly County wedding. I don’t know if overseas mission work was part of their original plan or a decision they reached later. Yellowed church minutes might shed some light on their calling.

Joyce Wilkes, owner of the Scarborough Farm, remembers Verna telling stories about China. She supported her husband, a medical doctor, in ministry, plus birthed three children while there. They left China as the Communists were taking over.

One aspect of mission work, which Verna shared with family members, was not having toilet paper. Joyce would cringe as her mother’s first cousin talked about collecting leaves. That’s not a subject I’d normally broach, but it reminded me that God’s work requires all sorts of sacrifices, some more daunting than others. It’s tempting to avoid service that’s inconvenient, to offer God our talents then tell him how we’re willing to use them. 

Another remarkable story from the Scarborough Farm involves Roy and Christine Kingdom’s family, the last residents of the historic home. Their children were exceptional athletes, claiming state titles in multiple events. And one of them, Roger Kingdom, won two Olympic gold medals in the 110-meter hurdles.

When Los Angeles hosted the 1984 Olympics, Roger placed first plus set a new world record. He did it again in 1988 in Seoul, South Korea, adding to his gold medal collection and becoming the first Olympian to break the 13 second barrier in that event.

Roger’s many accomplishments are well documented, and his name is revered globally in the track and field arena. When age finally caught up with his legs, Roger began using his coaching skills to help others achieve their dreams.   

While writing this column, I thought about various local homes with stories of their own. One of the oldest disguises its age until you open the front door.

Mr. Henry DeLoach and his family lived and farmed next to Harmony Baptist Church during my 1950s childhood. Their home looked much like it does today, typical of early 1900s architecture. What can’t be seen from the road, however, is the log cabin within.

Henry and Vennie Lee Deloach raised six children there. Tony, the last remaining sibling, said the log cabin was built in 1810 and eventually became the center room of an expanded structure. Those rustic logs have witnessed over 200 years of changes, like the long-removed stairway that once led to an upper level with four bedrooms. And when I’m passing by that way I often wonder what they’d say, if hand-hewn logs could only talk.  

Not far from there is where the John Henry Williams family lived for a while in a log cabin. They built a separate frame home in 1905, a well-preserved dwelling still in service. It has three exposed chimneys, an unattached kitchen-dining area, and an inviting porch that stretches across the front of the house. Modern conveniences have been added, but the never-painted exterior exudes the same antiquated charm it’s had as far back as I remember. There’s no doubt it holds untold stories. 

The community of my childhood has several aged homesteads. A number of them have been renovated and remain in use. Others are too far gone to restore, but like the Scarborough house have boards and beams quietly hoping for a second chance elsewhere. 

Some places I’m more familiar with than others, more closely connected to the families who once lived there. But there’s one thing I know to be true of each one. They all have stories to tell, if walls could only talk.