Old Tisdale
House In North Barren Steeped in History
This is
an abstract of an article of unknown source.
Cited by Michelle Gorin Burris in Barren’s
Black Roots Volume 2,
Submitted by Sandi K. Gorin,
Gorin Genealogical Publishing,
(c) Aug 1992.
First a
description of the house:
The Tisdale
house was originally owned by a white
Tisdale family, well known for lavish
entertaining. The old house was built of
logs, weather boarded and built low on the
ground; there were two very large rooms on
the first floor and two in the half-store
above stairs, each having its own staircase;
there were few windows with small panes; the
doors were low but very wide. A huge chimney
stood at each end of the house, one each
side of which upstairs were small windows
and the family room down stairs was the
sewing window. The chimneys downstairs had
great cavernous-looking fireplaces, each of
which would hold a half-wagon load of wood
at a time. The slaves, many belonging to
this family, were kept busy cutting and
carrying food for their ever devouring
mouths, when the winter winds howled and
moaned around the house and seemed to play a
sad, plaintive requiem in the branches of
the leafless trees nearby and passed over
the hill with that particular soughing sound
so productive of sleep. In these fireplaces
stood great, tall brass “dog-irons”, which
ever shown as though just polished.
In the
summer, these same fireplaces were decorated
with great bunches of asparagus boughs
intertwined with the darker green of the
cedar. These people have their out-of-doors
living room, but it was not so called. The
long, summer evenings were delightfully
spent as they sat beneath the full-leafed
trees, through which the gentle harvest moon
looked down as if pronouncing a benediction
upon the scene. The soft notes of the fiddle
and banjo could be hard from the nearby
slave cabins and not infrequently the
musical voices as they sang their weird,
uncanny songs. Surrounding this house were
stately oak trees, the never omitted locust,
a magnificent hickory, in which “Old
Hundred,” the pea-fowl of enormous age
roosted and gave warning of anyone’s
approach, and two cedars, one of which was
almost covered with a trumpet vine.
Close by was
the never-failing orchard in which were
wring-jaws, maiden’s-bush, horse-apple,
cheese apple, janet, limbertwi? And many
other of the old time favorites. There was a
row of cherry trees, where the blue jays and
the blackbirds held wonderful feasts when
the fruit came to perfection. Two very large
bell-pears stood just at the entrance to the
old garden; there were plums and damson
trees in profusion. Around the yard and
garden was a split-paling fence. Instead of
a gate to enter the yard, there was an
old-fashioned stile-block, the most
delightful and tempting place in the world
to pause and rest, especially if they were
lovers. Some thirty, or forty feet from the
house, there were a cluster of one-story log
houses, which held the dining room and
kitchen, so placed for fear of fire. The
farther back were the slave quarters, from
which almost any time, day or night, one
could hear “The Old Ark Is A Moving” or some
similar song.
After time
has passed:
Death played
its part; new houses were built of brick or
frame; many conveniences were necessary
after the freeing of the slaves and living
conditions had to be re-adjusted. The
Tisdale House finally became a tenant house
where the Negroes lived.
The horrible
scourge:
Next, the
greatest blow of all befell it – a great
scourge of that, then most dreaded of all
diseases, small-pox, swept the country; the
Negroes in the Tisdale House became its
victims; it was quarantined; no one was
allowed, or wanted to go near the house; all
its inmates had the loathsome disease,
except one, Jim White, a great, burley giant
of a Negro. He waited upon the sick and by
himself buried the dead. The white neighbors
arranged to place food and medicine at a
certain place, then leave and Jim would come
for it. Among the number who died was Jim’s
wife. No one could come to his assistance,
so he dug a grave in the edge of the nearby
field, wrapped her in a blanket and carried
her in his arms to the grave in which he
placed her and shoveled the earth back in
place. So he did with the others who died.
For a number of years these graves were
marked with common Barren rocks, but the
woodland was clear up the plow and harrow
passed over the graves and they were lost.
After the scourge passed, the old house fell
into disrepute; everybody was afraid some
germ of small-pox might linger there still.
Then the doors, windows and floor were taken
away and tobacco housed there; the chimneys
soon followed in the desecration; all
outbuildings were torn away and a thicket of
locust trees grew up around the lonely old
house, once the scene of so much happiness
and such lavish hospitality. Bats, owls and
snakes made it their home. Then Dr. White,
its owner died; the land changed hands and
it became the property of Mr. P. L. Terry,
Cave City; the old house was razed and
today, no one would ever know a house had
ever stood here, where once was the center
of much of the social life of Northern
Barren County. Many ghost stories clustered
around the house and the cave a short
distance away. All the actors in the life of
the place have gone West and only tradition
and a few memories remain of the once
delightful old house. |