The old shack stands tottering at a graceful angle. It's split-hewn wood has absorbed the grey/weathered colors of the gnarled, leafless trees that surround it.
Still, today, there is a certain regal-ness, majesty and statement; hidden stories between the chinks in the lumber.
Railroad tracks, four meters away, once hauled a commodity desired by many world wide.
Money barons flourished because of it.
What stories are closeted in this centuries old building.
Doors are rusted shut and silent.
Perched on beams stand carved owls acting as stewards of this building of
historical significance to Whites, Blacks and Native Americans.
Windows reflect another time, our century filled with
paved streets, street lights, fast cars...
all racing past this monument to the past and ancient Indian grounds.
Nailed to the weathered wood of this old building, secreted with stories and perhaps a few ghosts,
is a sign .
This preserved building was one of a long string of tobacco shacks, along the Waccamaw River, home to the Waccamaw Indians.
This tobacco shack stands as a witness to another time in our history where wealth
was created through the toil of others
in the steaming-humid heat.
A poem written by Edward Madahbee
The creator has only created life
It is not his duty to show us the way
We must guide ourselves through life
To truly be accepted into his arms
We should not have to ask for favors
And he should not have to provide them
What we take from our mother earth
We must give back with respect and love
Until we are able to accept who we are
We will always suffer at our own fate
We have to create our own destiny
Or does destiny create us?
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