The Plantation House

December 15, 2009
By JacobM SILVER, Broussard, Louisiana
JacobM SILVER, Broussard, Louisiana
6 articles 0 photos 0 comments

Favorite Quote:
Every artist was first an amateur. --Ralph Waldo Emerson

Repetition. That old man has been doing the same thing every weekend for years. From my front porch across the street from his farm, I see him out in the fields from dawn to dusk, picking the tobacco leaves, inspecting each one before he saved it in the potato-sack satchel that was slug across his shoulder. I snuggled up in the rocking chair on the porch with my glass of iced tea on the pedestal next to me. He had been living on that plantation for years, ever since I could remember him being there. They built our neighborhood behind it, facing the back of the marvelous white house and the infinite acres of tobacco plants.

I’d never been to the plantation house, not many people have. It was surrounded by a tall stone and wrought iron wall, with no leeway in the rusted bars for a person to fit into. They say it’s haunted, which wouldn’t surprise me. It’s been around for hundreds of years—I’m sure that there’s at least one or two unhappy spirits wandering around the grounds.

I watch him pick the tobacco leaves, one-by-one. He goes in every now and then, when his tired old bones become too sore to continue on or the beaming sun burns his brow. In about an hour, he’ll be back out again, picking tobacco leaves. Devious clouds roll in, and thunder is heard in the distance. I look towards the sky and see the black clouds encroaching upon the plantation house. I go to get up from the white whicker rocking chair and go inside as I take one last glance at the man picking the tobacco leaves, and he was gone. I head inside to escape the inevitable rain, and glance to my mother,

“Mamma, who’s that man on the tobacco plantation across the street?” I ask, Looking up at her with curious eyes, and she gives me a funny look.

“Honey…there is no man on that plantation.” She replied, raising one eyebrow.

“Yea there is. He picks the tobacco leaves every day from sundown to sunrise…” I trail off, looking out of the window to the plantation, and back to her.

“Mr. Landry died forty years ago. That plantation is abandoned. Probably some kids looking for trouble is all…”

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