The Wayland Inn

I work to remember

we write upon the surface of the earth
with hope translated into actions:
we clear, we build, we order the green,

and the earth forgets us as soon as it can,

today I searched out and explored the Wayland Inn, in Boyd’s Creek,








near Sevierville, TN, close to the French Broad River,
and home to Native Americans and the earliest of settlers,
built 50 years after the Declaration of Independence,
home of my great-grandmother
and where she returned to give birth to my grandmother,

much of the roof and lumber still good enough to hold,
but every window is smashed and glass is strewn upon every floor,








an old enamel tub remains downstairs, on its side, disconsolate,











great holes where windows opened the view still pull the eye out,












just inside the doorway, where there is no door,












the steps of the grand stairway still remember
the care and vision that went into them,
the entrance into the main road, designed to entice travelers
off their horses, out of their wagons,
and to stay awhile, is still open and inviting,
the slats below the railing and most of the embellishments on the stairway,
gone,
what passes for barbarians here have sacked the place,
mud daubers and paper wasps call it home now,








great vines of poison oak assault the front porch
where proprietors and guests must have sat
to watch the passings and anticipate whoever would come,

a quarter century ago I visited here
and the grounds were clear,
the springhouse still standing,
the inn itself a home for a man who welcomed us,

now the springhouse has rotted and been removed,
the inn itself is close to ruin,
and nobody keeps the grounds from a riot of weed,








I work to imagine it all occupied and vibrant,
my great-grandmother, a kid growing up here,
and then a young woman becoming a mother again here,

a distantly-removed grandfather, with a will of steel,
creating home and business, and even starting a Lutheran church,
so he wouldn’t have to be buried in a Baptist cemetery,

I work to find a way to a cemetery across the road,
and maybe nearby to where an academy existed just after the Civil War,
where another side of my family found itself for awhile,
now it’s overgrown woods and subdivisions of ticky-tacky:
expensive houses that the earth can easily forget in a few lifetimes.

by Henry Walker
August 8, ’11