Fără îndoială că măcar de câteva zeci de ori (sute sau chiar mii – după cei mai înfocați dintre patrioții locali) a trecut Ion Pillat prin Darabanii începutului de secol trecut, în drum spre moșia sa de la Miorcani.
Poetul, recunoscut ca unul de modă veche și viță nobilă și apreciat mai ales pentru volumul „Pe Argeș în sus” din 1923, și-a petrecut copilăria în vecinătatea Darabaniului. Ani mai târziu s-a mutat cu totul la Miorcani, de unde administra treburile județului Dorohoi, al cărui președinte de consiliu era. E consemnată în arhive întâmplarea din 1937 când, din această calitate, Ion Pillat a cerut și obținut fonduri de la Guvernul României pentru sinistrații din Darabani ale căror case au fost mistuite în incediul din același an.
Cu acel prilej, dar și cu multe altele – fără îndoială, omul de cultură și de stat s-a oprit de-a lungul vremii în Darabani, ba cu treburi administrative pe la Primărie, ba cu unele mai de rând pe la hanurile târgului. De multe ori în aceste popasuri dărăbănene îl însoțeau poeții Horia Furtună și Vasile Voiculescu, dar și fiul lui – Dinu Pillat, scriitor și el.
Ion Pillat a fost un om politic important al vremii sale, dar și un valoros om de cultură. Astfel, Pillat a deținut funcții importante în stat (deputat liberal în două mandate, secretar al delegații române la Conferința de Pace de la Paris etc.), dar a avut și timp să publice aproape 20 de volume de poezie și să editeze altele (pentru Macedonski și Bacovia, de exemplu). A condus câteva reviste literare și în 1936 a primit premiul național pentru literatură, fiind ales membru corespondent al Academiei Române. În 1945 Ion Pillat se stinge din viață la București, afectat fără doar și poate de acțiunile întreprinse de noul regim comunist împotriva sa și a familiei sale: i-au fost confiscate proprietățile, iar poezia asta a fost îndepărtată din toate manualele și cărțile oficiale.
La Miorcani Ion Pillat și-a petrecut veri multe, încă din copilărie, dar și ani întregi de deplină maturitate. Aici a scris, inspirat de meandrele Prutului, versuri care îl mai leagă și astăzi de nordul Moldovei. De altfel, dacă din partea mamei Ion Pillat se trăgea din marea familie a Brătienilor (bunicul său a fost însuși fostul prim-ministru Ion Brătianu), dinspre tată poetul era de-al locului. Bunicul său, Nicu Vizitiu-Pillat, a fost arendaș și mai târziu proprietar al moșiei Miorcanilor, pe care a lăsat-o moștenire celor doi fii ai săi (Gheorghe Pillat și Ion N. Pillat – tatăl poetului). În memoria tatălui lor aceștia au ctitorit pe la 1870 Biserica din Rădăuți, unde au și strămutat mormintele părinților lor ani mai târziu (bunicii poetului sunt deci înmormântați în Rădăuți-Prut, lângă vechea lor moșie din Miorcani).
Mai jos, fotografii de la vechea moșie a familiei Pillat (Miorcani, 30 aprilie 2012).
La casa amintirii cu-obloane și pridvor,
Paianjeni zăbreliră și poartă și zăvor.(Aci sosi pe vremuri, vol. Pe Argeș în sus, 1923)
Începuturile școlii la Darabani 
Theodor Balș: Moștenirea (IV)
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“Yeah. Yessir. Dad.” Garrett mutters. “Yep. I’ve had one since I put on my gear at practice today.” He tells his dad.
“Coach told us. To go beat off. Seeing all those tents in our shorts; he said we should have all been working out naked. Our shorts weren’t covering up, anything, as our cock’s periscoped out and over the elastic waistbands of our shorts.” He says to his dad as he steps from the shower. Exactly a week after, daddy texted me with a different tone saying, “ get your ass ready tonight cause daddy is coming to your place tonight.” He was usually really sweet and nice, I was shot when I got the message. But automatically I said, “ yes daddy!” I guess I am a slutty whore for him right at the beginning as I knew my place where is always going to be inferior.
“I look forward to the day when you are a fully grown man, my son.” His father says. “I am anxious to see the fruit of my loins reach his fully-adorned manhood. Adulthood.” “I ain’t a-talking ‘bout how big ya cock is, boy. I am talking ‘bout ya, weight. Your height.” His dad says. “I kinda figured on how big you are down there. That’s obvious. It makes me proud of you. My son. Of what I created, along with ya mother.”
“You know what you have to do. Doncha. Son.” His dad says. He looks down. And then smiles at his dad.
“Yeah, dad, it’s me.” He shouts over the blistering rush of the shower spray as it pelts him hotly with force. “It was a rough practice.” Garrett nods his head as he wraps the jock over his head, and takes a hearty breathe of the pouch placed over his nose.
“Yes, sir.” He says as he straightens up, standing erect as his member pulses to life between his legs, and in his father’s right hand, which are firmly locked on his balls. “Yes, sir, I do.” “Stoke your cock while you sniff that jock.”
“I look forward to the day when you are a fully grown man, my son.” His father says. “I am anxious to see the fruit of my loins reach his fully-adorned manhood. Adulthood.” “What are ya now, by the way?”
Garrett nods his head as he wraps the jock over his head, and takes a hearty breathe of the pouch placed over his nose. His father unbuttons his shirt and throws it to the bathroom floor. Where his son is like the mythical David, cast in stone with blonde locks and cherubic face. The father is dark and with a day’s growth of stubble on his face.
“I don’t wanna jack-off, dad.” He says flabbergasted to his dad as he turns off the tap to the hot and chilly water in the shower. He dries himself but his throbbing cock continues to pulse as it grows harder because of his youth. The sensation intensifies. The feeling is wonderful. He can hear his cock throbbing in his ears.
“You know what you have to do. Doncha. Son.” His dad says. All the blood rushes from his brain to his throbbing erection plus the heat of the shower, making the young lad, light-headed.
“That you are, son. You are busting at the seams with your youth and muscles. Rippled from those vigorous physical workouts and stroking sessions. I bet.” His dad says. “You are gonna hafta to take care of that or you are gonna be miserable. You know that son, doncha. You know, I am right.” “Nope.” He says. Flatly. As he runs his hand over his still steely-hard length of his curved cock.
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The one shower after his workout and practice had been a good start. But the walk home had tired him. But the massaging jets of water caressing across his muscular frame takes the weariness from his bones from this stressful day. “I managed to lift nearly two hundred today. I believe.” He explains. “But I strained a lot to do it. I was moaning. Groaning.”
His dad takes a seat upon the closed commode lid. “You know what you have to do. Doncha. Son.” His dad says.
His father unbuttons his shirt and throws it to the bathroom floor. Where his son is like the mythical David, cast in stone with blonde locks and cherubic face. The father is dark and with a day’s growth of stubble on his face. “Have you fucked, son? Have you fucked? Have you dumped that seed of yours in those balls into a moist hole?” His father asks as he leans forward on the commode-chair. His hand squeezing the bulge growing larger in his tan khakis.
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“That you, son?” A voice chimes in from the hallway. Daddy gave me a look implying his shoes are needed to be removed. “Can I take off your loafers, daddy ?” I asked so quietly. He looked at me and nodded. I took off both his loafers and put them away neatly in front of me. Daddy then raised his right leg and stepped on my forehead, pushing me down into his loafers. It is a mixed smell with sweat, testosterone, and leather. I couldn’t help but take a big whiff every time I breathed. “Hands-on the floor” he commanded. He moved his feet from my head to my hands. “Kiss them and make the stink goes away using only your fag tongue.” “Yes sir.”
“You have not fucked, have you, my son? Have you?” His father asks, as he readjusts the cock covered and swelling in his khaki pants. “I thought as much.” “What happened at today’s practice today that was so different from any other day, son?” His dad asks.