I Was Born in a Log Cabin
As hard as it may be to believe, child of the space age that I am, reveling in this modern 21st-century digital era, I was born and raised in a log cabin that was built in the 1880s in the virgin pine forests of the upper Big Level community of Stone County, Mississippi. That statement is true, though you may quibble on one point. I actually spent the first three days of my life in Hattiesburg in the newly-opened Forrest General Hospital, being delivered there in 1953, just a few months after it was founded. But at any rate, it’s true enough. I was raised from my infancy in that old log house, spending the first nineteen years of my life there, where it still sits at the end of a sandy gravel lane a few miles east of Wiggins, Mississippi.
I don’t know exactly when the logs were felled and dressed for the construction of that old home, but it was most likely around the time John Lampkin Bond’s land grant was applied for in 1890. The rules established under the federal Homestead Act of 1862 provided that adult heads of families were entitled to claim 160 acres of surveyed public land for a minimal filing fee and five years of continuous residence on that land. Applicants were required to improve the property by growing crops and building a dwelling of at least 12 by 14 feet (presumably feet, but, problematically, the legislation didn’t specify the unit of measure). After five years of residency, title to the land became permanent. The land patent making Mr. Bond’s ownership official was issued in 1895.
It’s possible that the original log house was built even earlier than 1890, as John L. Bond and Angie Taylor, his bride, were married in 1884. Was this log cabin constructed at the time of their marriage and the act of homesteading made official a bit later? That’s an interesting speculation. What I do know is that this plot of land is located less than a mile west of Angie’s birthplace, where her grandfather, Myles Taylor, one of upper Big Level’s earliest pioneers had settled in the 1830s and where her parents lived. I also know that John L. Bond, the son of Marion and Maria Bond, grew up in lower Big Level on his parents’ old place. It’s entirely possible that John and Angie lived the first few years of their marriage with, or near, his parents before deciding to homestead closer to the Taylors. Land records and census data do not provide a definitive answer to the question. But, whenever it may have been built, that little log cabin had stood decades atop that gently-sloping hill before my family acquired it and before I came along.
No actual pictures of that original cabin exist, to my knowledge; however, this stock photo depicts a log structure of the same approximate dimensions and configuration as that of the John Lampkin Bond house.
Daddy and Mama bought that old farm house and the forty-acre parcel upon which it sits in April of 1953, after living their first years of marriage in Wiggins. I was born six months later in October, joining my older siblings, Judy and Keith, who were then 4 and 2. Presently owned by my younger brother, John, this house, much enlarged and oft renovated, has at its core that original log room. The heart pine logs of the walls of that room and the piers upon which it sits are all that remain of the original cabin. Additional rooms and porches were later added to that central room, and through many subsequent renovations the house has evolved into the comfortable, modern dwelling that it is today.
Both of my parents were familiar with the house from their childhood, as in the 1930s and ’40s it was owned by the Cader (Decatur) and Anna Hickman family. Daddy grew up nearby — the Lott family’s place is barely a mile away and the Hickmans were cousins and long-time friends. And my mother, who was herself a Bond and a distant relative to the original owners, counted the youngest Hickman daughter, Lois, as her best friend, having gone through all twelve grades together at H.O.M.E. Vocational School (aka Big Level School). In fact, Mama had on many occasions as a school girl, spent the night in that house, riding the school bus home with Lois for sleepovers.
When my family acquired the house, the central log room had long been sealed with beadboard on the interior walls and ceiling and outside with plank siding from the area’s virgin yellow pine timber. As a result, a visitor wouldn’t have known there were logs in those walls, as they were only visible from the attic. At some earlier time, a front room had been built with a fireplace sharing the same chimney as the one in the central room. Also, two of the four porches had been walled up to make bedrooms and closets. In 1953, when my family moved in, the only modern amenities in the house were electricity, natural gas for a water heater, and running water in the kitchen. Heating was supplied by the two fireplaces. It was livable, but there were several things that old house didn’t have. As much as Mama loved the property, and though she was a country girl herself, she wasn’t overly thrilled about some of those deficiencies. She once commented, “That old barn had only two bedrooms and a path!”
This photo, taken in 1953, shows the house as it was when Daddy and Mama bought it. Pictured are Mama’s youngest sister, Wyvena Bond Hatten at age 9 (back center) and some of her nieces and nephews.
Daddy made several improvements early on, but I was nearly six years old before he got around to converting a portion of the porch on the west side into a much-needed bathroom—up until then there was only an outhouse in the corner of the backyard. You can believe me when I say that this modest addition was greatly welcomed by our growing family. However, Daddy built it with a tub, but not a shower, because he had earlier constructed a shower out in the shed where the washing machine was located. That was okay with Mama and the girls as they always bathed inside. It was okay with us menfolk, too. We actually preferred to use the shower in the shed except in the coldest weather. In fact, I was still using that shower when I moved away in 1971 at the age of nineteen.
No one, however, missed that old smelly, spooky outhouse. I can recall on several occasions sitting there doing my business while keeping an eye on the garter snake lying on a rafter or noticing, after I was already seated, a snake skin that wasn’t there the day before. Never did I linger long out there, nor did I often go at night, preferring to hold it till morning, if I could. That ancient two-hole convenience was discontinued immediately after the indoor facility was operational. After it was no longer needed, Daddy toppled the outhouse and cut it in half with his chainsaw, then moved the top portion out to the dog pen so that it could be repurposed as a shelter for his bird dogs. I’m sure those dogs didn’t know or care one whit about the history of their new digs.
This stock photo depicts a two-hole outhouse very much like the one of my youth.
Playing around that old house and its outbuildings and surrounding property was a daily adventure — we never knew what we would find. One morning, when I was 5 or 6, we were surprised to discover a hole some 25 feet deep that had opened up in the yard during the night. An old abandoned water well, this gaping hole was no more than five feet from our back porch, directly in front of the steps. It was about 30 inches in diameter and perfectly cylindrical, with still-visible marks left by the metal casing that had long ago rusted away. It scared me considerably to think that the small depression that had been there for years could have given way so abruptly, possibly even while we were walking or playing upon it. It scares me now even more. Amazingly, the same thing happened again a few years later, although in a different location, when another abandoned well with identical dimensions opened up just outside the washhouse door. Again, quite fortunately, it happened at night, and in this case there was also a small depression in the ground where we had stepped thousands of times going in and coming out of the shed. You would’ve thought we might’ve been a little suspicious of that second dip in the lawn, but we never imagined that there would’ve been two old decommissioned wells — Sheesh! These are just reminders of the long and varied history of that old homestead.
This photo from the 1970s shows the house as it appeared following its extensive renovation in 1968.
Besides the new bathroom, that old barn of a house received numerous renovations once our family moved in. Over the years, among several other improvements, Daddy covered the unpainted outside walls with asphalt siding, removed the tin roof and reroofed with shingles, built a cement front porch, placed linoleum over the splintered pine flooring in the kitchen and den, installed an attic fan for cooling and a wood heater to warm that still-drafty old house. A year after Daddy died in 1967, Mama used some of the life insurance proceeds to undertake a full-scale, inside and out, renovation and remodeling. Every room got a much-needed refurbishing with paint and paneling, new ceilings and floor coverings. New kitchen cabinets were built, and central heating and air conditioning units were installed. The exterior got vinyl siding and a double carport was constructed. Bro. Kirkland, our pastor at Paramount, and Granddaddy Lott, both master carpenters, did most of the work. As a result, the house became much more comfortable. I suspect this was something Mama had wanted to do years earlier, but money was always an issue in those early years of hers and Dad’s marriage.
An aerial view of the house as it appeared in the 1990s.
Under my brother’s ownership, the house has continued to evolve. It grew considerably when he added a large bedroom and playroom over the carport for his two boys. He later constructed an additional bathroom and master bedroom suite. Quite handy at this type of thing, he has done almost all of this work himself. And, just a few years ago, when replacing the paneling with sheetrock in the kitchen and den, he decided to leave a small section of one wall uncovered so that those old logs are now once again visible after 130-plus years.
In a recent renovation, my brother John left a section of one wall uncovered so that those old logs are once again visible.
If those old logs could talk, what stories they could tell! They could tell us stories of close-knit families, of marriages, death, and divorce, of happy times and times of immense sorrow.
Those logs could tell of crops and cattle, the timber boom, and the great depression. They could tell of numerous sleepovers with visiting relatives and schoolmates, of music and dancing, of the coming of rural electrification, of victrolas, radios, party-line telephones, televisions, and hosts of other modern inventions and conveniences.
They could tell us of two world wars and seemingly endless other wars and conflicts. They would tell of a mother’s prayers for her son who enlisted in the navy and who would not be coming home, of another mother’s thankful prayers that her oldest sons would escape the Vietnam-era draft and that that war would end before her youngest would come of age.
Those logs could tell us of countless overheard conversations:
“Pa, the Gulf and Ship Island Railroad is gonna be completed soon, I heard that the train is coming through Niles City, I mean Wiggins, tomorrow. Can we go see it?” “Well son, we’ve got plowing to do tomorrow… but I guess it’ll wait. Let’s all go… Your mama and sisters have been wanting to pick up some sewing notions, anyway.”
“Angie, I saw the new preacher over at Paramount when I was coming back from Dad’s place yesterday. I invited him to our house on the next preaching Sunday. You think you can fix a pot of your chicken and dumplings for him and his missus?”
“Jack! Come quick! There’re two navy men at the door. Lord, it must be bad news about your big brother. Hold me up, son, I think I’m going to faint.”
“Anna, go tell those girls to turn off that victrola and go to sleep.” “Well, Cader, they’re just so excited about the big school play tomorrow.” “Well, if they don’t settle down soon, I’m going in there with my belt!”
“Mama, the rock band “Chicago” is coming to USM for a concert next week and some of my friends have invited me to go. Can you spot me $10 for the ticket?” “Well, Russell, that’s a lot of money and I don’t have it to spare… plus, I wouldn’t feel good about you going anyway.” “Aw, Mom, everybody’s going!” “But we’re not everybody, are we, son?”
They could tell of myriad other episodes of love and laughter, heartache and pain, and all the momentous and mundane ups and downs of life in the country. Yep, that old pine-log house, built in the 1880s or thereabouts, has heard plenty. And, it’s still standing today, decades into its second century. Imagine what future stories those logs will be able to tell.
Notes:
Imperialism and Expansionism in American History: A Social, Political, and Cultural Encyclopedia, Four Volumes, edited by Chris J. Magoc and David Bernstein, 2016 ABC-CLIO LLC.
“The county seat of Stone County is known to most everyone as Wiggins — but it hasn’t always been known by that name. Early in the 1820s, the area’s first settlers came to this beautiful country that was completely covered with virgin timber. In 1886, James Madison Hatten homesteaded 160 acres of north central Harrison County. A small village was established on a portion of Mr. Hatten’s land. The village was named Niles City, in honor of Judge H. C. Niles. In 1896, an attempt was made to get a post office in that name, but since there was a Niles City, Michigan, the Post Office Department declined and then the name Wiggins was chosen to honor Mr. Hatten’s father, Wiggins Hatten, who was one of the area’s earliest pioneers. [http://www.cityofwiggins.com/our_history.htm]
John Lampkin Bond (1862-1938) is buried at Paramount Baptist Church, where he and his parents were long-time members. Founded in 1878, the church is located in eastern Stone County, MS, on Paramount Road.
Burnis Leroy Bond, son of John Lampkin Bond by his second marriage to Ellen Sinclair, was one of the earliest casualties of World War II. He died aboard the U.S.S. Arizona when it was bombed in Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941.
Terms TO PONDER
eu·phe·mism (noun): an agreeable word or phrase substituted for one that may offend or suggest something unpleasant.
merriam-webster.com
at any rate (idiom): whatever happens or may have happened. Used to indicate that what you have just said might be incorrect or unclear in some way, and that you are now being more precise. Something you say to show that you are going to say something more exactly or clearly.
dictionary.cambridge.org
SONG OF THE DAY
“Our House” by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young (Déjà Vu 1970)