Ian's Place

"Sturlin", as it is called by it’s natives, was founded by an Ian Fraser, from Sterling, Scotland, sometime in the early development of our nation. No specific date is mentioned in the hand written notes, labeled in fading pencil, "Early History", stuffed in a file drawer of the town hall record’s office, telling the name of the founder. The authors or author, as the notes appear to be written in a single hand, remain as much a mystery as the original source of the material itself. However, a search of property books in the town office does reveal an Ian Fraser as the first owner of many properties in the area. And local town’s people refer to the aged mansion on the east hill, across the North Fork Stream from the town’s center, as "Ian’s Place". As far back as one can research in the census books there are several listings for individuals named Fraser, but no Ians.

The unanswered questions created by this town’s existence dance through one’s mind as the North Fork dances along its ageless path west to the Mississippi. Yet, one knows the answers are contained in the mute homes, stores and even the stream, all refusing to reveal their secrets, shared in a mutual pact of revered silence creating the town’s only allure.

I happened upon Sterling City by accident and yet by intent. I was traveling through Tennessee as a part of a trip looking for a quiet, restful place to work on my writings and do some sculpture. Tennessee was not one of my pre-chosen locations thus I was speeding along Interstate 24 to get to the other side, the Rockies being my location of choice. Outside of Nashville, growing tired and irritated by the constant rush around me, deciding I did not need all this blur on the other side of the van windows, I pulled off the endless, concrete, gray line and began an adventure on the quiet, tranquil back roads. After a few hours I was forced again to join the speeding cattle on the gray line to cross the Tennessee River. In only a few minutes I was restless and could not wait to again take to the lanes and drives of the backcountry. Slowly following a small ribbon of water from its source downstream, I drove around a bend and there it was, Sterling City.

Surviving another trip over the swinging bridge, the U-turn and the climb, we arrived at the gates to the place. This time I made a little more of an effort to inspect the crests on the gate. It had also been covered by paint, as had the carvings on the doors of the place but the paint had peeled off these crests and made them much easier to make out the details. Both crests were identical but the right one appeared cleaner so it invited my closer scrutiny.

There was a shield in the center with two standing deer on either side resting their front hooves on the upper edge of the shield. A crown with a large deer head on top rested on the top center of the shield and supported a banner. There were three words across the banner, "Je Suis Pres." My French not being too good allowed me only the opportunity to know it was of French origin. The shield was divided into four parts the upper right and lower left being the same, contained three crowns, while the upper left and lower right, contained three round images each, apparently of some type of flower. These were heraldic crests of some sort but it would take more research to find their meaning or origin. I made a rough drawing of the crests in my notebook with BJ watching over my shoulder with great interest. However, during this entire process, much to my surprise, he never said a thing.

Opening the gates we moved on and parked under the portico. Seeing the place, the porch the doors, reminded me of my first attempt to enter, the odor, the dirt, the dust, the colored images flashing in my mind. But this time it would be different, this time I would get inside, this time I would explore this mass of stone and wood.

I stood looking at the doors as if they were some medieval castle gates, closed and secured against my assault, manned by all the forces within to stop my entrance. Armed with the key as my sword and a halogen bright bream flashlight as my shield against the enemy of darkness I began my attack. Marching up the steps, a fearless knight, advancing on the enemy. I strode boldly to doors only to step into the hole between the boards and awkwardly lose my balance collapsing in a heap at the doorstep to history.

BJ muffled a laugh behind me as I collected myself and adjusted my armor for my final assault. Inserting the key, a single twist and entrance was granted to me. I pushed open the doors, waiting for the stale air to engulf my nostrils, cramp my stomach, forcing me to step back and make a second assault. But it did not happen. Yes there was an odor, a smell but nothing like the repulsiveness of my previous experience. The beam from my light stabbed into the darkness, illuminating the interior for the first time in decades. What would I see? A ghost waiting to greet me? A rotted dead body left to decay in a tomb of darkness?