My Quest Begins

After my last visit with Celeste, my fifth grade teacher, I could not get thoughts of Hickory Hill (The Old Slave House) out of my head! Growing up less than ten miles from there I'd often visited 'The Old Slave House' when out of town relatives would visit us when I was young. After I grew up and had moved away from home I would bring friends home with me for visits and take them there to see a part of our local history. At the time, I don't think I fully realized what an important part of our Nation's history this lonely place had played or the other history that was born in this part of the country.

The Old Slave House had always been there, and in my mind it would always be. I never really gave much thought to the stories I'd heard of slave trading or Uncle Bob, the stud slave for Hickory Hill, or the Crenshaw's and their lives at this place. Hickory Hill had a different feeling for me, almost as if it were trying to tell it's own story. Not the sensationalized tourist version that had been floating around for the last one-hundred years.

Growing up, the furniture that decorated The Old Slave House was a mish-mosh of period antiques. Some original, some were thrift store or farm auction finds. Most of it felt as if it was simply not grand enough for the fine home that was once considered 'a mansion', earily placed on Hickory Hill where one could survey anything coming or going for miles in any direction.

The second floor with its large bedrooms and large pocket doors connecting to the center hall would also double as a 'ballroom'. The furniture would be emptied out and the pocket doors opened wide, tables and chairs brought in to accomodate the crowds, and then the band would begin to play and music, laughter and loud voices would ring on Hickory Hill till the wee hours of the morning.

The third floor, where the slave breeding operation was run, was originally built with heavy crown moulding, different sized rooms, some with bunks, some large enough for beds and a bit of furniture, each with its own door and window to the wide interior hall with large windows at each end, overlooking the land. The whole third floor had originally been plastered and little vines painted on the walls to decorate it, according to George Sisk (the most recent private owner). This didn't seem like the kind of hell hole you would set up just for slave breeding; no, there had to be another reason this had been built out in such a fine manor when the home was originally designed. There had to be more to the story. A better story.