My grandparents lived on and managed Orton Plantation Gardens in Wilmington, NC.  What a great place to be a kid.  It was the quintessential Southern plantation with enchanting live oak trees draped with Spanish moss, and a sprawling Colonial mansion in the center of the gardens.  Vibrant azaleas, hydrangeas, and pansies bloomed among the hundreds of plants and trees that graced the plantation. Lazy alligator’s basking in the summer sun dotted the shores of the lagoons, as visitor’s to the garden’s snapped pictures at a safe distance. 

 The mansion itself was used as a hospital during the civil war, and there is history around every corner.  All of this beauty over looks the Cape Fear River, where barges make their way down the waterway daily.  At night you can hear the deep bass sounds of their horns calling out that there is still life on the river.  I use to lie in a hammock with my Grandfather on the back porch and we would guess where they were going and what adventures surely lay ahead of them.

  Summer days were spent with my Grandfather keeping the gardens operating.  I felt like a little manager in training.  We would get up at 6:00 am and set the hands to work.  The men were in one location, and the women were in another.  That was a time of propriety, when men and women who were not married considered it improper to be together in an unsupervised situation.  My Grandfather would allow me to assign work details to the women.  I started doing this at about the age of four.  I thought the important jobs were things like, baking me a chocolate cake.  They would laugh and agree, but my Grandfather would quickly overrule my assignments for more important things like planting and weeding.  I had a couple of Uncle’s and Aunt’s that worked for the gardens.  Being so young I thought that all the worker’s were my relatives, even the African Americans.  To me, family was a matter of heart, not skin color.  It remained that way all those years, until my Grandparent’s retired and moved away from the plantation.  It was such a sad time to say goodbye to that wondrous place, and all those friends that had been such an integral part of my childhood.  One of those special people was Clarence.  There was one particular green house nursery that was set apart for specialty trees and plants not indigenous to that region. Whenever I walked through there it felt like I was being transported to another place on the other side of the world.  Taking care of those plants was one of Clarence’s many jobs.  It was often so hot in the green house that Clarence would have to come out and sit in the ninety degree heat to get a cooler breath of air.  I would take advantage of that time to rush over and sit with him in hopes of hearing one of his great stories.  Oh, he was the best story teller, and I loved him dearly.

  My Grandparent’s have both gone home to be with the Lord now, and many years separate me from those care free days of childhood.  Over the years I have returned to Orton Plantation to reminisce, but nearly ten years went by before I returned last spring for another visit.  I was on the coast for a conference, and Orton was less than an hour away.  Returning there is often bittersweet and as soon as I approached the gates, my eyes filled with tears. 

I drove that one mile sandy stretch under a canopy of live oaks to the office to purchase a ticket to tour my once home.  I got out of my car and looked longingly across the way to my grandparent’s house.  The place we laughed, and loved and shared holidays.  I just wanted to run through the door and embrace my past, but all that was left was sweet memories.  As I toured the gardens I could barely see through the tears, but I could clearly see a memory with every step I took.  I saw someone working in an azalea bed up ahead of me and, I blinked away the tears hoping to see a familiar face.

  It was a man about my age, and we struck up a conversation.  He was the new manager at Orton, and he was excited to tell me about all the new changes.  I was excited to tell him about the wonderful past.  He said that one of the worker’s from my grandfather’s era was actually still living.  My eyes grew wide, and he said the name…Clarence.  I was overwhelmed with disbelief.  It couldn’t be my Clarence, but in fact it was and he was ninety nine years old.  I was told he was still of strong mind, and lived on his own in the same house where I had visited him all those years before.  I nearly ran back to my car to get to Clarence as soon as possible.  I didn’t want to waste another minute.  I drove straight to his house, and when I got out he was sitting on his front porch, talking on the phone.  I walked up to the screened in porch and waited.  He politely told the person on the other end of the phone that he had company and would need to go.  He looked up at me with the blue tinted eyes of age, and said, Can I help you, maam?”  I called him by name and asked him if I could come in.  He said of course, but then looked confused and said. “Am I suppose to know you, Miss Lady?”  I said, ”Clarence, I’m Sherry lynn.”  His eyes lit with familiarity as he reached out to hug me.  He just kept laughing in disbelief and asked me to sit and talk with him.  I was transported back in time over thirty years as if I were sitting at the feet of Clarence outside that old greenhouse.  He began telling me stories about my family that I never knew.  Lessons my grandfather had taught him about gardening, but more importantly about life.  He told me of long talks with my Grandmother in the office about Jesus.  He said, “Child, your Grandmother loved Jesus above all.  She was the real thing, and if more people were like her this world would be a better place.”  He told me stories about my Mom who was only five years old when they moved onto the plantation. I listened intently trying to glean even the smallest morsel of wisdom from this ninety nine year old man.  He asked me if I was happy and having a good life and I assured him that I was.  I wondered at that moment what kind of life he had lived.  Was it successful by his standards? Was he satisfied with all his accomplishments?  It was then that Clarence began to speak with the wisdom of the ages.  He began slowly, “Child, your Granddaddy asked me one time to go and get some plants for a customer.  I was tired and hot and didn’t want to, but I did.  I was being rough with the plants, and throwing them in the pots.  I took them plants up to your Granddaddy, and he took one look at them and he knew what I did.  When the customer left, he looked at me and said, ‘Clarence, you need to treat people the way you want to be treated.’  That’s all he said, and that was all that needed saying.  I felt so bad I couldn’t even look myself in the mirror.  I knew that what was done was done, and the only way to make it better was to live my life by that rule as long as I lived. Child, that one day made my life better, it made me better.  But you know what? It wasn’t your Granddaddy that said that really, it was Jesus.  He is the only one that matters.  You live your life for Him, and you will be happy all your days, just like old Clarence.” 

   I let his words fall on me fresh.  The Golden Rule is not new, but to hear it from him, from his perspective made it all brand new.  I realized that I get caught up in my complex life and forget the basics, the important keys to a full life.  Love. To love the Lord my God with all my heart, all my soul, all my mind, and to love my neighbor as myself.  

  I noticed Clarence was starting to get tired, and I didn’t want to wear out my welcome although I could have stayed all afternoon.  I began my goodbyes when he reached out his trembling arms and said in that familiar way, “Come love my neck child.” I hugged him as tight as I could without hurting him and hesitantly let go to walk away.  He waved his curled fingers that I had watched worked the soil all those years in a final goodbye.  I soaked in every breath of that moment.  Here sat the connection to my past that I had so strongly longed for. Here sat the man that taught me that the color of skin is no indicator of family.  Here sat Clarence, my friend. 

Clarence went home to be with His Jesus last November at the age of one hundred.  I will miss him with all my heart, but I will never forget the things he taught me. I will never forget the simple things, I will treat others the way I want to be treated, and far above the rest child, remember Jesus is the most important.

Keep Walking In Truth

All my love,

Sherry

Chapel at Orton that my parents were married in 55 years ago