Slowing down and relaxing aren't things we do much. They're not particularly the easiest activities on our list, since both of us are notorious workaholics. But after weeks of lengthy days, it's a requirement to claim a weekend now and then for ourselves. This was one of those, spent on the instep of the Louisiana boot, just north of Baton Rouge in St. Francisville: Myrtles Plantation, "the home of mystery and intrigue." In Louisiana, a 90 minute drive in any direction makes all the difference: different dialect, landscape, different sensibility.
Making our way through the gate, up and around the winding drive, we discovered a secluded, yet hardly isolated place: oak trees and crepe myrtles draped with Spanish moss, boxwood hedges, aspidistra, camillias, Japanese magnolias. Tranquil, yet infamously haunted.
Room 10, the William Winters Room, was our weekend home. Modestly appointed. Tall four-poster bed. Illuminated by a brass chandelier suspended from an ornamental plaster medallion. The walls were painted green -- good for the eyes, as they used to say.
Lunch in the restaurant. Taking our places at table, we hurriedly perused the menu. Our wordy waitress announced the specials. I gazed impatiently over my eyeglasses at her as she delivered her commentary. Who has the time for all this? Jambalaya for him, half an oyster po-boy for me and a cup of sweet potato/andouille soup. Our server expounded: "It sounds weird, I know, but it's actually pretty good, and I don't push things I don't like." Small talk, waiting. Po-Boy was good, Jambalaya was flavorful. Soup was interesting. Not so much the candied yam flavor I was expecting than that of an unusual tomato cream with shavings of spicey sausage. I had eyed the white chocolate bread pudding on the dessert menu, and our colorful server indulged us. One to share. It had been some time since I had enjoyed a good bread pudding (Christmas Eve to be exact, having been fortunate enough to receive the prized corner square with all its crusty sweetness). Coffee, after a while. It is de rigueur to eat bread pudding, at least a good one, in a proper and methodical manner: each bite must be savored, accompanied of course with a tasty cafe au lait. We had driven an hour and a half to be here. All we had was time, yet our clocks ran fast. The Myrtle's clocks ticked far more slowly. What was only a few minutes local time was enternity for us. So impatient we were that we took our coffee cups "to go". We were captured by the plantation's charm and the utter gorgeousness of the gardens, yet we were still focused on the day planner, on-going projects, and upcoming scheduled functions and activities. All we had was time. We were there to spend time. Our server, whom we regarded at first with disdain, was doing exactly what she needed to do: force us to breath, have a seat, and allow us to enjoy the passing day. The spacious courtyard encouraged it further. Having borrowed an informational anthology from the gift shop describing various Louisiana haunted locations, we took turns informing ourselves of the place's mysterious history and countless tales of things paranormal. The History Tour was scheduled for later in the afternoon. Potential Tony nominee, tour guide Piper, wowed us with her dramatic re-telling of the unlucky slave Chloe, whose eavesdropping earned her a truncated ear, and whose vindictive nature inspired her concoction of an oleander potion added to a child's birthday cake. Two of the planter's daughters and his wife fell victim to the deadly gateau. Chloe, in reparation for her crime, was hanged in the garden, her corpse later weighted with bricks and sunk into the Mississippi. We were signed up for the evening "Mystery Tour" as well.
Up to the suite for a nap. Just what we needed finally to adjust ourselves to the time difference. When we emerged, we moved more slowly and reclaimed our seats in the courtyard. Relaxed. Now and then a brief walk about to take pictures and explore the extensive grounds. In the back garden there was a cypress tree pond featuring a little island complete with a tiny gazebo. A wooden bridge connected the island to the mainland. Wintery cypress debris had formed a thin red layer on the water. Cypress knees peeked up through the surface. So prolific they were, I supposed that the island was composed almost entirely of oxygen-seeking water roots. Blaine was the photographer. Both of us observed the guests. Our female neighbors in Room 9 were two of a larger party of friends who had converged on the plantation for a birthday weekend of one in their group. Broad Texas accents: "Come on down and meet us," one of them cellphoned her roommate, "We're sitting talking to the boys". We weren't the only ones who had priavately nicknamed others around us. Mystery Tour at 8pm. Full moon. Haunted house. Chandeliers on half light, the sizable group filed in. Piper had returned for an encore, yet peppered her detailed oral history this time with a several personal and second-hand ghost stories. As before, we exited the foyer to the dining room. All re-assembled, we heard the ominous announcement: "this is the room where the murder was committed, or at least, where the deadly cake was consumed." Immediately, I was overcome by a feeling of dis-ease and grew faint. Cold perspiration formed on my forehead. Predicament: antiques forbid use. No place to sit. As the explanations paused and we moved to the parlor, I made my way to the farthest corner to squat, supporting myself on my heels. I made several attempts to stand, but never without the return of intense dizziness. Each time the group relocated, I righted myself then found a new place to lie low. Not until outside on the back porch did the feeling pass. Odd. Whether this was some ghostly communication, or whether the room was simply stuffy from the humid Louisiana night and overheated by the crowd of tour participants crammed into tight quarters is open to interpretation. Uncanny at any rate how this happened to me at the precise moment that Piper began on about the malaise of poisoning...
Upstairs foyer outside the rooms. Time for indoors conversation before retiring. It's at such times when the corner of the eye catches movement. Indirect views reflected in mirrors or caught in a sideways glance. Blaine saw it: the shadow emerging from Room 10, our room. Fleeting. When we entered some time later, we took notice of the chandelier's calm rotation. Not a terrorizing experience. Just interesting. Ready for bed, lights out. At no time was either of us scared to fall asleep. Honestly, I was more worried about my ferocious snoring raising the dead and disturbing the living than being pestered in the night by the ghost of a curious girl. Blaine and I awoke almost at the same time as the sunlight began to stream into "the William Winters rooms". Coffee and breakfast. Moses, the evening caretaker, had assured us that he was an early riser, and that the coffee would start to drip some time shortly past 4am. Having spent a night in the most haunted house in the South, we were well ready to take our places again in the courtyard, now soundless in the dewy Louisiana morning to enjoy a demitasse of brew strong enough to float a nail (if it doesn't, it's just not coffee). The food preparation was underway: eggs, grits, gravy, biscuits, sausage, coffee cake, jam. By our second cup, the Texas ladies had emerged to recount their festive birthday observance and to join us for a fabulous plantation breakfast. A final walk through the front garden won several more photographs for the album. As we brought our bags to the car, Blaine commented that it felt as if we had lingered at the Myrtles at least a week, so well had the place helped us to accomplish what we had come here for: leisurely to spend time in each other's company apart from our everyday. The Myrtles Plantation in St. Francisville, Louisiana: make haste slowly. You may even see a ghost.
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