Photo by Jill Moore
Animal Farm: A merry ménagerie in Wilkinson County
It was raining, and had been raining for days. As I drove the scant two miles from my house to Bethel Plantation, I imagined I heard Meryl Streep’s voice in my head, drawling, “I had a fahrm in Ahfrica.” If this was Ahfrica, then it must have been the wet season, I surmised, as I flipped the windshield wiper lever to High.
Turning at a simple roadside stand, its water-soaked sign announcing “Fresh Farm Eggs - Herbs -Vegetables,” I drove cautiously up the red clay drive, overshadowed on both sides by dense shrubbery. A tall white structure appeared amongst the trees, with slender columned porches wrapped around first and second stories, curved like a Mississippi riverboat. A very large, elderly dog rambled out to greet me, and we made our way through a parterre garden and up the slick brick steps to the front door while he playfully licked and pawed at my shoulder bag. Through the leaded glass I could see my friend James and his two children, who I knew were there to purchase young chickens to replace their own hens who’d recently disappeared from their coop, presumably the nocturnal work of some four-footed predator.
As no one answered my tentative knock, I opened the door a bit and offered a shy “yoo-hoo?” A little tanned sprite of a woman in a fresh white peasant blouse, heavy jewelry and impeccably painted nails flashed me a bright, stunning smile and called out, “Come on in, and don’t worry about the mud. It’s a farmhouse!”
The double parlor, soaring interior columns, antique furnishings and polished grand piano somehow belied the lady’s breezy proclamation, but I entered anyhow. “Hi, I’m Monique Wagner,” said our host, “We were just about to go see the chickens. Want to join us?” I glanced furtively around the spacious rooms and hallway of the restored, circa 1908 plantation house. The Wagners, it seemed, had done a marvelous job of making what I knew to have been a sagging, termite-ridden grande dame into a warm, sheltering, family-friendly home. We followed the children as they bounced out the back door and into the farmyard.
An hour earlier some strange, uncharacteristic foresight had led me, at the last minute, to replace my linen trousers and light summer sandals with jeans and rubber gardening shoes, and I now uttered a quick, silent prayer of thanks to the gods of practical fashion. As we walked through the tranquil, picket-fenced garden and out the gate, the terrain abruptly turned to mush, sculpted by thousands of paw prints from fowl and fauna. A heady aroma of horse manure and the rich perfume of fur and feather, hay and feed awoke my city-bred nostrils like a sharp tap on the nose. My eyes feasted. In addition to the mud underfoot, several days of steady, steamy summer rain had created a test tube of leafy new growth everywhere. Here was real life, teeming with the unavoidable richness of being, throwing down a gauntlet of “go through or go home.”
Suddenly, then came the animals. Herds, flocks, gaggles, packs and broods of animals—all loose, and all at our heels, amicably jostling each other and bumping against our knees. It was a welcome party not to be believed. The chickens, ducks and geese were apparently throwing an extemporaneous parade in our honor; Nigerian dwarf dairy goats formed a ragged second line, gathered as thick as paparazzi. Adult peacocks strutted at the edges of the melée while their peachicks ran with the fray. There was lots of activity, to be sure, but there was also an overriding cheer and camaraderie. A small herd of regal Appaloosa horses reigned over all from behind their fence around a weathered Cypress barn, and young foals cavorted blissfully in a grassy field beyond.
“Most of the time the animals run free and mingle,” said Monique, as she and John doled out grain to the chickens, sharing a few tiny morsels with the goats, “and by and large, everybody gets along.” We turned to see that the entire goat population seemed to be making a rapid beeline for the chicken yard, rushing two abreast through the open gate and into the coop. Both John and Monique sprang into action, enticing and herding the goats out into the yard and away from the chicken condo. “Goats are crackheads for chicken feed,” stated Monique. “It gives them the bloat,” John added as he closed and secured the gate, “Once they broke in and ate a whole bushel.” I could imagine how a goat with bloat might present a problem.
Monique and husband John discovered Bethel Plantation while sightseeing just outside of Woodville, Mississippi. The property was overgrown and the house, though completely furnished, appeared to have been abandoned. After exploring the gardens and tentatively peering into the windows, they left a note at the front door, introducing themselves and stating their contact information, and that they wanted to discuss buying the house and some acreage. Later they received a phone call from the owner, who told them in no uncertain terms that the house was not for sale. Within the month the owners called again, saying that their plans had changed, and wondering if the Wagners might still be interested in purchasing the house and some acreage.
John and Monique moved into the three-story home in December of 2007 and began the arduous task of repairing and restoring the 100 year-old house and grounds. Farm life had not been a part of either of their previous resumés. Both were high-powered executives, living a privileged, globetrotting lifestyle as consultants, marrying after having developed an online relationship.
The dream of the Wagners was to build an organic, self-sustaining farm and open it to the public, where families, school and church groups, historians and tourists might experience a taste of life as it was when our relationship to our food sources was more intimate and satisfying. And by offering tours by appointment, they have done just that. This one-of-a-kind working farm is a thrill to the senses and to the heart, as young and old visitors can view, pet and feed the animals, gather eggs, handle baby chicks, learn how to milk a goat, and enjoy the colorful flowers, herbs, and veggies happily thriving in Bethel’s sunlit gardens—and get a real feel for what life was like when people lived off the land.
Already an experienced public speaker, Monique loves to intrigue young visitors by asking, “What color are eggs?” “What color are carrots?” and “Is there any such thing as a polka-dot horse?” before showing them the myriad of ovate hues collected that morning from her English Orpingtons, French Black Copper Marans, Welsummers, Buff Laced Polish, and famous "Olive Eggers" which lay a beautifully dark, olive-green egg; the purple carrot varietals; striped Zebra tomatoes, and the lovely spotted Appaloosa horses.
How these two happened to settle on this particular property and adopt this particular lifestyle is a long and interesting story filled with faith, prayer, prophetic visions and serendipity, as many of the best things are. I won’t divulge it here, but I will say that the tale includes more than a few unusual bits of happenstance, like the startling fact that, completely unbeknownst to the Wagners, the name they chose for the property, Bethel Plantation, was in truth the long-lost original name given to the plantation by the Morris family back in 1803. When you schedule your visit to Bethel Farms, perhaps Monique and John will tell you the whole story.
DETAILS • DETAILS • DETAILS
For more information on Bethel Plantation home and working farm, visit bethelplantation.com or the Bethel Farms Facebook page.
Bethel Plantation
2392 Pinckneyville Road
Woodville, Ms
(601) 888-7690
