Chapter VIII: Part 8

Yes, the gov'mint men with the blue uniforms and the shiny brass buttons had descended from the North on Athens--descended in spite of the double-barrelled cannon that the little master and the little master's men had tried on them. The blue clad invaders had come in despite of the quick breast-works, and the new-fangled cannon, and Bob Toombs boast that he "could beat the damn Yankees with corn-stalks before breakfast". (If only they had fought that way--if only they had [HW: not] needed grape-shot had enough to invent cannon mouths that spoke at the same time and were meant to mow down men with a long chain--if only they had not been able to fight long after Bull Run, and after breakfast!)

Yes, the Yankees had come over the classic hills of Athens (Athens that had so many hills that she would have been named Rome except for her first land-grant college,) had left, and had come again to stay, and to bring freedom to John Cole and his kind.

This was six months after Lee and his palandins had laid down the sword--the gallant, the unstained (but, alas, claimed Meade's batteries) the unconstitutional sword. Six months had gone and freedom had come.

But John Cole, slave of Henry Hull, the banker, found that his freedom was the freedom of "the big oak"--Athens famed tree-that-owns-itself. He was free, but he had no way to go anywhere. He was rooted in the soil and would stay fast rooted. He worked on with his master for 20 years, without pay.

Did he believe, back in slavery time in "signs" and in "sayings"--that the itching foot meant the journey to new lands--that the hound's midnight threnody meant murder?

No, when he was a young buck and had managed the bad horses, he had had no such beliefs. No, he was not superstitious. If the foot itched something ought to be put on it (or taken off it)--and as to the hounds yelping, nobody ever knew what dark-time foolishness a hound-dog might be up to.

But he was old, now. Death always comes in the afternoon. He does believe in things that have been proved. He does believe that a squinch-owl's screeching ("V-o-o-o-d-o-o! W-h-o-o-o? Y-ou-u!") is a sure sign of death. Lowing of a cow in afternoon Georgia meadows means death mighty close. If death come down to a house, better stop clock and put white cloth on mirrors. No loud talking permitted. Better for any nigger to bow low down to death....

To what factors did he attribute his long life, queried the gov'mint man.

Long living came from leaving off smoking and drinking.

Would he have a nickle cigar?

He would.

Yes, he was feeling quite tol'able, thank you. But he believed now in the owl and the cow and the clock.

In the morning-time one lives, but death always come in the afternoon. Better for any nigger, anywhere, to bow low down to death.

PLANTATION LIFE AS VIEWED BY EX-SLAVE

JULIA COLE, Age 78 169 Yonah Avenue Athens, Georgia

Written by: Corry Fowler Athens

Edited by: Sarah H. Hall Athens

Leila Harris Augusta

and John N. Booth District Supervisor Federal Writers' Project Residencies 6 & 7

A knock on the door of the comfortable little frame house which Julia Cole shares with her daughter, Rosa, brought the response, "Who dat?" Soon Rosa appeared. "Come in Honey and have a cheer," was her greeting and she added that Julia had "stepped across de street to visit 'round a little." Soon the neighborhood was echoing and reverberating as the call, "Tell Aunt Julia somebody wants to see her at her house," was repeated from cabin to cabin. A few moments later Julia walked in. Yellowish gingercake in color, and of rather dumpy figure, she presented a clean, neat appearance. She and her daughter, who cooks for a dentist's family, take much pride in their attractively furnished home. Julia was of pleasant manner and seemed anxious to tell all that she could. It is doubtful if Rosa made much progress with her ironing in an adjoining room, for every few minutes she came to the door to remind her mother of some incident that she had heard her tell before.

Julia began her story by saying: "I was born in Monroe, Georgia and b'longed to Marster John Grant. My Mamma was Mittie Johnson, and she died de year 'fore de war ended. I don't 'member my Pa. Mamma had four chillun. Richard and Thomas Grant was my brothers, but me and my sister Hattie was Johnsons. Marse John had a big plantation and a heap of slaves. Dey was rich, his folks was. Dey is de folks dat give Grant's Park to Atlanta.

"Dey called my grandpa, 'Uncle Abram.' Atter he had wukked hard in de field all day, he would jus' lay down on a bench at night and sleep widout pullin' off his clothes. Us had home-made beds in de cabins widout no paint on 'em. Evvything slaves had was home-made, jus' wooden-legged things. Even de coffins was made at home out of pine wood. Now me, I didn't sleep in de cabin much. I slept on a little trundle bed up at de big house. In de daytime my bed was pushed back up under one of de big beds.

"Marse John's son, Marse Willie Grant, blowed de bugle in de mornin's by 4 o'clock to git de slaves up in time to be in de fields by daybreak. When slaves got too old to wuk, dey took keer of de chillun in a house down below de kitchen. Mamma wukked in de field when she was able. Nobody on our place had to wuk in de fields on Sadday evenin's. Dat was de time de 'omans washed deir clothes and cleaned up.

"Chillun didn't have much to do. Us loved to hunt for turkey nests 'cause dey give us a teacake for evvy turkey egg us fetched in. Chillun et in de yard at de big house, whar dey give us plenty of meat and cornbread wid good vegetables for dinner. For breakfast and supper, us had mostly buttermilk and cornbread. On Sundays us had bread made from wheat flour and sopped good old syrup wid it. Sometimes Marse John would give us 'mission to kill little pigs at night and broil 'em over de coals in our yards, and how us did enjoy 'em! I ain't never suffered for nothin' in all my life, 'cause de Grants was mighty good white folks. De old White home on Prince Avenue was deir summer home. When dey built it, woods was all 'round and dere warn't many houses in dat section.

"Us had plenty of clothes made out of homespun checks, and Marse John give us brass-toed shoes. Our dresses was well sewed and made wid belts to 'em. Nobody went 'bout half naked on our plantation lak some of de old folks f'um other farms talks 'bout. Us had good well-made clothes, even if dey was made out of common cloth.

"Nobody on our plantation run away to de North, and de paddyrollers didn't git nobody at our place neither. Marse John was too good to evvybody for his slaves to want to cut up and run 'way and do things to make de paddyrollers hunt 'em down. Dey didn't have no jails 'cause dey didn't need none on our place. Sometimes Marse John made a colored man named Uncle Jim Cooper give 'em a good whuppin' when dey needed it.

"When us was sick, dey give us herbs and things of dat sort. In de springtime, dey give us jerusalem oak seed in syrup for nine mornin's and by den us was allus rid of de worms. Dey 'tended to slave chillun so good and dutiful dat dere warn't many of 'em died, and I don't never 'member no doctor comin' to my Mamma's house.

"Old Missus used to teach us in da blue back speller, and when I didn't know my lesson she made me run f'um de house to de gyarden gate for punishment. De more words I missed; de more times I had to run. Us had our own church services on de plantation under home-made brush arbors, and our colored preacher was Uncle Charles Cooper.

"Once some sojers come by our place lookin' for Marse John. He had done hid in de loft of de meat house and told evvybody on de place dey better not tell whar he was. Dey didn't find Marse John, but dey did find his son, Marse Willie, and dey tuk him 'long wid 'em. Marse Willie was de only chile dat Marster and Missus had and it nearly killed 'em for him to be tuk 'way from 'em. When Mr. Lincoln's general got to our place he was a-ridin' a big red hoss dat sho' was a grand animal. Dem sojers went in de smokehouses and stores evvywhar and tuk what dey wanted.

"Not long 'fore de war ended, my Mamma tuk a 'lapse f'um measles and died. 'Fore she died, she sont for Marse John and told him what she wanted done, and he done jus' what she axed. She give him my brothers, Richard and Thomas, and told him to take dem two boys and to make men out of 'em by makin' 'em wuk hard. I jus' lak to have died when my Mamma died. Dey carried her to de graveyard and put her down in de grave and I jus' couldn't help it; I jumped right down in dat grave wid her, and dey had to take me out. My brothers said I was plum crazy dat day.

"Atter de war was over, Marster moved his family to Atlanta on Peachtree Street. His grandson dat was born dat year died not long ago. Dey didn't have no farm in Atlanta and so dey didn't need all deir old servants. My sister Hattie was a baby and Auntie tuk her to Atlanta wid de Grants.

"I don't know what 'come of de others on Marster's farm. I had to git in a covered wagon and come wid my Uncle Jordan Johnson to Athens. I didn't want to leave, and I hid down under our things in de wagon when dey made me come. When us crossed de river, I was sho' us was 'bout to git drownded. One time atter dat us tuk a trip to Madison to see de old breastplates (breastworks) dar.

"My brother Tom got to be captain of a colored troop dat went to de Philippine Islands. Over dar de sojers kilt a big snake and et it all but de head. He had dat thing stuffed and brought it home. Atter he left de army, he got a job in de Atlanta Post Office whar he wukked 'til he was 'tired.

"I was hired out to de Marks family and stayed dar for years and dat was a mighty good place to be hired out. I was married twice. Me and Crit Clayton married at home. I ain't never seed nothin' lak dat pretty flowerdy weddin' dress dat I wore and I had de prettiest hat and things dat I ever seed. My next husband was Andrew Cole--He was Rosa's Pa. I forgits de name of de white preacher dat married us when us went to his house and axed him to. Four of our seven chillun is still livin'.

"Dey tells me our old big house near Monroe is standin' yit, and I sho' do wish I could see it once more 'fore I die, but since I broke my hip a few years ago I jus' don't ride in dem automobiles. No Ma'am, I don't limp. De Lord was good to heal my hip and I ain't takin' no chances on breakin' no more of my bones."

EX-SLAVE INTERVIEW

MARTHA COLQUITT, Age 85 190 Lyndon Avenue Athens, Georgia

Written by: Mrs. Sarah H. Hall Federal Writers' Project Athens, Georgia

Edited by: John N. Booth District Supervisor Federal Writers' Project Residencies 6 & 7 Augusta, Georgia

The aged Negress leaned heavily on her cane as she shuffled about her tiny porch in the waning sunlight of a cold January day. An airplane writing an advertising slogan in letters of smoke high in the sky was receiving but indifferent attention from Aunt Martha. Sha shivered and occasionally leaned against a post until a paroxysm of coughing subsided. "What would you have thought of that if it had suddenly appeared in the sky when you were a child?" she was asked. "It would have scared me plum to death," was the response. "I didn't come out here just to see dat," she continued, "I didn't have nothin' to make no fire wid, and I had to git out in de sunshine 'cause it wuz too cold to stay in de house. It sho' is mighty bad to have to go to bed wid cold feet and cough all night long."

Her visitor could not resist the impulse to say, "Let's make a trade, Aunt Martha! If I give you a little money will you buy wood; then while you enjoy the fire will you think back over your life and tell me about your experiences when I come back tomorrow?" "Bless de Lord! I sho' will be glad to tell you de truf 'bout anything I can 'member," was her quick reply as she reached for the money.

[TR: Return Visit]

The next day Aunt Martha was in bed, slowly eating a bowl of potlicker and turnip greens into which cornbread had been crumbled.

"My ches' hurt so bad I couldn't git up today," was her greeting, "but set right dar by my bed and I can talk all right, long as I don't have to walk 'bout none. Walkin' makes me cough."

Soon the bowl was empty and when she had wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her nightgown, Aunt Martha began:

"When I wuz born, my ma b'longed to Marse Billie Glenn and us lived on his big plantation way down below Lexin'ton. My pa wuz Anderson Mitchell. He come from Milledgeville and b'longed to Mr. D. Smith. The Smithies lived close by Marse Billie's place. My ma wuz Healon Mitchell. I don't know what her last name wuz 'fore she married. She wuz born in Virginny, and her and my grandma wuz sold and brought to Georgia when ma wuz a baby. Grandma never did see none of her other chillun or her husband no more, and us never did hear nothin' 'bout 'em.

"Ma had four chillun. Lucy wuz my onlies' sister. Mr. Davenport bought her and she growed up at his place, what wuz called 'De Glade.' It wuz a big fine place at Point Peter, Georgia. Lucy married a Taylor.

"My brother, Isaac, wuz raised at Mr. Hamilton's place at Point Peter. After he growed up, he worked in Atlanta and bought him a home dar. He got in a fight wid a man what had done stobbed his mule, and de man hurt Isaac so bad he went crazy and died in de 'sylum at Milledgeville, but dey took him back and buried him in Atlanta.

"My other brother wuz Anderson Mitchell, and after freedom come he got work in Athens at de compress. His boss man moved to Augusta and took Anderson wid him to work in de compress dar. One day somethin' blowed up and he wuz scalded so bad it paralyzed him. Dey brought him back here, but he soon died.

"Ma's house was right on de edge of Marse Billie's yard, 'cause she was de cook. Grandma lived in de same house wid ma and us chillun, and she worked in de loom house and wove cloth all de time. She wove de checkidy cloth for de slaves clo'es, and she made flannel cloth too, leaseways, it wuz part flannel. She made heaps of kinds of cloth.

"Our beds had big home-made posties and frames, and us used ropes for springs. Grandma brought her feather bed wid her from Virginny, and she used to piece up a heap of quilts outen our ole clo'es and any kind of scraps she could get a holt of. I don't know what de others had in dey cabins 'cause ma didn't 'low her chillun to visit 'round de other folkses none.

"Ma's chillun all had vittals from de white folkses kitchen. After Marse Billie's fambly done et and left de table, de cook wuz s'posed to take what wuz left to feed de house niggers and her own chillun, and us did have sho' 'nuff good vittals. All de other slave folks had day rations weighed out to 'em every week and dey cooked in dey own cabins. When de wheat wuz ground at de mill it made white flour, and shorts, and seconds. Most of de shorts wuz weighed out in rations for de slave folks. Now and den at Christmas and special times dey got a little white flour. Dey liked cornbread for reg'lar eatin'. Dey wuz always lots of hogs on Marse Billie's plantation, and his colored folkses had plenty of side meat. Slaves never had no time to hunt in de day time, but dey sho' could catch lots of 'possums at night, and dey knowed how to git catfish at night too.

"'Cross de road from de Big 'Ouse, Marse Billie had a big gyarden, and he seed dat his help had plenty of somethin' good to bile. Dey won't no separate gyardens. Dey didn't have no time to work no gyardens of dey own.

"In summertime us chillun wore just one piece of clo'es. It wuz a sack apron. In winter grandma made us yarn underskirts and yarn drawers buttoned down over our knees. Ma made our home-knit stockings. Dey called our brass toed shoes 'brogans.' I don't speck you ever seed a brass toed shoe!

"Our Big 'Ouse sho' wuz one grand fine place. Why, it must have been as big as de Mill Stone Baptist Church! It wuz all painted white wid green blinds and had a big old high porch dat went nigh all 'round de house.

"If I ever did hear what Marse Billie's wife wuz named, I done plum clear forgot. Us called her 'Mist'ess' long as she lived and I don't recollect hearin' her called nothin' else. Marster and Mist'ess never had no little chillun whilst I was dar. Miss Lizzie wuz dey youngest child and she wuz most grown when I wuz born.

"Marse Billie's overseer lived in a four-room house up de road a piece from the Big 'Ouse. Nobody thought 'bout none of Marse Billie's overseers as pore white folkses. Every overseer he ever had wuz decent and 'spectable. Course dey won't in de same class wid Marse Billie's fambly, but dey was all right. Dey wuz four or five homes nigh our plantation, but all of 'em b'longed to rich white folkses. If dey wuz any pore white folkses 'round dar, us chillun never heared nothin' of 'em.

"I don't know just how many slaves Marse Billie had, but dey sho' was a drove of 'em. Sometimes he had 'em all git together in de back yard at de Big 'Ouse, and dey just filled up de yard.

"De overseer blowed a horn to wake 'em up just 'fore day, so as everybody could cook, eat, and git out to de fields by sunrise. Dey quit nigh sundown, in time for 'em to feed de stock, do de milkin', tend to bringin' in de wood, and all sorts of other little jobs dat had to be done 'fore it got too dark to see. Dey never wuz no work done at night on our plantation.

"If any of Marse Billie's help wuz whipped, I never knowed nothin' 'bout it. Dey used to say dat if any of 'em didn't work right de overseer would take 'em to de workshop. Us chillun never did know what happened when dey took 'em to de workshop. It wuz too fur away for us to hear what happened dar. De workshop was a big lone shed off to itself, whar dey had da blacksmith place, and whar harness wuz mended, and all sorts of fixin' done to de tools and things.

"Us never heared of no jail. Marse Billie bossed his place and us never knowed 'bout no trouble. De workshop wuz de nighest thing to a jail or a court dat anybody on our plantation knowed anything 'bout. Us never seed nobody in chains 'til long atter de War, when us wuz livin' in Lexin'ton, and Mr. Jim Smith come through dar wid some colored folkses all chained up, but us never did know how come dey wuz chained.

"No slave never runned away fron Marse Billie's plantation. Dey never even wanted to try. Dey wuz always 'fraid dey might not be able to take as good keer of deyselves as Marse Billie did for 'em, and dey didn't know what would happen to 'em off de plantation.

"I heared 'em talkin' 'bout paterollers, but I never did see one. Folkses said dey would git you and beat you if dey cotch you off de plantation whar you b'longed 'thout no pass. If any of Marse Billie's slaves got cotched by de paterollers, I never knowed nothin' 'bout it.

"I never heared of no trouble twixt de white folkses and dey colored folkses. Grandma and ma never 'lowed us to go to no other cabins, and us didn't hear 'bout no talk what wuz goin' on 'mongst de others. At night ma always spinned and knit, and grandma, she sewed, makin' clo'es for us chillun. Dey done it 'cause dey wanted to. Dey wuz workin' for deyselves den. Dey won't made to work at night. On Sadday night, ma bathed all her chillun. I don't know what de other famblies done den. Slaves wuz 'lowed to frolic Sadday night, if dey b'haved deyselves. On Sunday nights dey most always had prayer meetings.

"On Christmas mornin' all of us would come up to de yard back of de Big 'Ouse and Marse Billie and de overseer handed out presents for all. Dey wuz a little dram and cake too. Us chillun got dolls, and dresses, and aprons. Them stuffed rag dolls wuz de prettiest things! On New Year's day all de mens would come up to de Big 'Ouse early in de morning and would work lively as dey could a-cuttin' wood and doing all sorts of little jobs 'til de dinner bell rung. Den Marse Billie would come out and tell 'em dey wuz startin' de New Year right a-workin' lively and fast. Den he would say dat dey would be fed good and looked atter good, long as dey worked good. He give 'em a good taste of dram and cake all 'round, and let 'em go back to dey cabins for dinner, and dey could have de rest of de day to frolic.

"Dem cornshuckin's us used to have sho' wuz a sight. Corn would be piled up high as dis house, and de folkses would dance 'round and holler and whoop. Ma 'lowed us chillun to watch 'em 'bout a half hour; den made us come back inside our cabin, 'cause dey always give de corn shuckin' folkses some dram, and things would git mighty lively and rough by de time all de corn wuz shucked.

"On bright moonshiny nights folkses would invite de neighbors to come for cotton pickin's. After the cotton wuz picked dey would eat barbecue, and dance and have a big time.

"I never seed but one weddin' 'fore freedom come, and dat wuz when Marse Billie's daughter, Miss Lizzie Glenn, married Mr. Deadwyler. Dey had everything at dat weddin'. Yes, Ma'am, just everything. Miss Lizzie had on a white silk dress a-trailin' so far behind her dat it took two ladies to tote her train. Her veil wuz floatin' all 'bout her, and she wuz just de prettiest thing I ever did see in my whole life. A long time atter dat, Mr. Deadwyler, he died, and left Miss Lizzie wid two chillun, and she married Mr. Roan.

"I never seed no slave marriage. Ma went to 'em sometimes, but she never 'lowed us to go, 'cause she said us wuz too little. Marse Billie sont atter his own preacher, and de couple would come up to de Big 'Ouse and stand in de parlor door to be married 'fore Marster and Mist'ess. Den de colored folkses would go back down to da cabins and have a weddin' supper and frolic and dance. Dat's what ma told me 'bout 'em.

"Us used to play lots, but us never did have no special name for our playin'. 'Swingin' the Corner,' wuz when us all jined hands in a low row, and de leader would begin to run 'round in circles, and at de other end of de line dey would soon be runnin' so fast dey wuz most flyin'.

"Us all de time heared folkses talkin' 'bout voodoo, but my grandma wuz powerful 'ligious, and her and ma told us chillun voodoo wuz a no 'count doin' of de devil, and Christians wuz never to pay it no 'tention. Us wuz to be happy in de Lord, and let voodoo and de devil alone. None of us liked to hear scritch owls holler, 'cause everybody thought it meant somebody in dat house wuz goin' to die if a scritch owl lit on your chimney and hollered, so us would stir up de fire to make the smoke drive him away. I always runned out and tried to see 'em, but old as I is, nigh 86, I ain't never seed no scritch owl.

"Yes, Ma'am, I sho' does b'lieve in ha'nts, 'cause I done heared one and I seed it too, leasewise I seed its light. It wuz 'bout 30 years ago, and us had just moved in a house whar a white fambly had moved out. The ma had died a few days atter a little baby wuz born, and de baby had died too. One night I heared a strange sound like somebody movin' 'round in de house, and pretty soon a dim light comes a-movin' into my room real slow and atter goin' 'round de room it went out of sight in de closet.

"Next day I went to see de white folkses what had lived dar 'fore us moved in, and de husband tole me not to worry, dat it wuz his wife's ha'nt. He said she wuz huntin' for some money she had hid in de house, 'cause she wanted her chillun what wuz still livin' to have it. I went back home and 'most tore dat house down lookin' for dat money. Long as us lived dar I would see dat light now and den at night, and I always hoped it would lead me to de money but it never did.

"When folkses got sick, Marse Billie had 'em looked atter. Mist'ess would come every day to see 'bout 'em, and if she thought dey wuz bad off, she sont atter Dr. Davenport. Dr. Davenport come dar so much 'til he courted and married Marse Billie's daughter, Miss Martha Glenn. I wuz named for Miss Martha. Dey sho' did take special good keer of de mammies and de babies. Dey had a separate house for 'em, and a granny 'oman who didn't have nothin' else to do but look atter colored babies and mammies. De granny 'oman took de place of a doctor when de babies wuz born, but if she found a mammy in a bad fix she would ax Mist'ess to send for Dr. Davenport.

"Us didn't have no separate church for colored folkses. De white folkses had a big Baptist church dey called Mill Stone Church down at Goosepond, a good ways down de road from Marse Billie's plantation. It sho' wuz a pretty sight to see, dat church, all painted white and set in a big oak grove. Colored folkses had dey place in de gallery. Dey won't 'lowed to jine de church on Sunday, but dey had reg'lar Sadday afternoons for de slaves to come and 'fess dey faith, and jine de church. Us didn't know dey wuz no other church but de Baptist. All de baptizin' wuz done on Sunday by de white preacher. First he would baptize de white folkses in de pool back of de church and den he would baptize de slaves in de same pool.

"My grandma wuz a powerful Christian 'oman, and she did love to sing and shout. Dat's how come Marse Billie had her locked up in de loom room when de Yankee mens come to our plantation. Grandma would git to shoutin' so loud she would make so much fuss nobody in de church could hear de preacher and she would wander off from de gallery and go downstairs and try to go down de white folkses aisles to git to de altar whar de preacher wuz, and dey wuz always lockin' her up for 'sturbin' worship, but dey never could break her from dat shoutin' and wanderin' 'round de meetin' house, atter she got old.

"Dem Yankee sojers rode up in de Big 'Ouse yard and 'gun to ax me questions 'bout whar Marse Billy wuz, and whar everything on de place wuz kept, but I wuz too skeered to say nuthin'. Everything wuz quiet and still as could be, 'cept for Grandma a-singin' and a-shoutin' up in de loom house all by herself. One of dem Yankees tried the door and he axed me how come it wuz locked. I told him it wuz 'cause grandma had 'sturbed de Baptist meetin' wid her shoutin'. Dem mens grabbed de axe from de woodpile and busted de door down. Dey went in and got grandma. Dey axed her 'bout how come she wuz locked up, and she told 'em de same thing I had told 'em. Dey axed her if she wuz hongry, and she said she wuz. Den dey took dat axe and busted down de smokehouse door and told her she wuz free now and to help herself to anything she wanted, 'cause everything on de plantation wuz to b'long to de slaves dat had worked dar. Dey took grandma to de kitchen and told ma to give her some of de white folkses dinner. Ma said 'But de white folkses ain't et yet.' 'Go right on,' de Yankees said, 'and give it to her, de best in de pot, and if dey's anything left when she gets through, maybe us will let de white folkses have some of it.'

"Dem brash mens strutted on through de kitchen into de house and dey didn't see nobody else down stairs. Upstairs dey didn't even have de manners to knock at Mist'ess' door. Dey just walked right on in whar my sister, Lucy, wuz combin' Mist'ess' long pretty hair. They told Lucy she wuz free now and not to do no more work for Mist'ess. Den all of 'em grabbed dey big old rough hands into Mist'ess' hair, and dey made her walk down stairs and out in de yard, and all de time dey wuz a-pullin' and jerkin' at her long hair, tryin' to make her point out to 'em whar Marse Billie had done had his horses and cattle hid out. Us chilluns wuz a-cryin' and takin' on 'cause us loved Mist'ess and us didn't want nobody to bother her. Dey made out like dey wuz goin' to kill her if she didn't tell 'em what dey wanted to know, but atter a while dey let her alone.

"Atter dey had told all de slaves dey could find on de place not to do no more work, and to go help deyselves to anything dey wanted in de smokehouse, and 'bout de Big 'Ouse and plantation, dey rode on off, and us never seed no more of 'em. Atter de Yankees wuz done gone off Grandma 'gun to fuss: 'How, dem sojers wuz tellin' us what ain't so, 'cause ain't nobody got no right to take what belongs to Marster and Mist'ess.' And Ma jined in: 'Sho' it ain't no truf in what dem Yankees wuz a-sayin', and us went right on living' just like us always done 'til Marse Billie called us together and told us de war wuz over and us wuz free to go whar us wanted to go, and us could charge wages for our work.

"When freedom comed my pa wanted us to move off right away over to Mr. Smithies' place so our family could be together, but us stayed on wid Marse Billie de rest of dat year. Den pa and ma moved to Lexin'ton, whar pa digged walls and ditches and made right good pay. Ma took all four of us chillun and run a good farm. Us got along fine.

"'Fore de War, all work stopped on de plantation for de funeral of a slave. Grandma didn't think chillun ought to see funerals, so de first one I ever seed, wuz when ma died two years atter de War wuz done over. A jackleg colored preacher talked, but he didn't have sense 'nuff to preach a sho' 'nuff sermon.

"Us heared a heap 'bout dem Ku Kluxers, but none of my folks never even seed any of 'em. Dey wuz s'posed to have done lots of beatin' of colored folks, but nobody knowed who dem Ku Kluxers wuz.

"A long time atter de War I got married to Traverse Colquitt. De weddin' took place at my sister's house, and us sho' did have a big weddin' and a fine dinner afterwards. Den next day my husband carried me to whar he wuz born, and his ma give us another big fine dinner. She had a table longer dan this room, and it wuz just loaded with all sorts of good things. De white folkses dat my husband had used to work for had sent some of de good vittals.

"Most of my life atter de War wuz spent in Lexin'ton. Does you know anythin' 'bout Mr. John Bacon dat used to run de only hotel dar den? Well, I worked for him for many a year. His daughter, Miss Mamie Bacon, lives here in Athens and she is old and feeble like me. She lives 'bout four blocks from here, and whenever I'se able to walk dat far, I goes to see her to talk 'bout old times, and to git her to 'vise me how to git along. I sho'ly does love Miss Mamie.

"My husband died 'bout a year ago. Us had eight boys and two girls, but dey ain't but four of our chillun livin' now. Least, I thinks dey is all four alive. Two of my sons lives somewhar in Alabama, and one son stays in New York. My only livin' daughter lives wid me here, pore thing! Since she seed one of her chillun killed last year, she ain't had no mind a t'all. I'se tryin' to look atter her and de other child. Her husband done been dead a long time. My neighbors helps me, by bringin' me a little to eat, when dey knows I ain't got nothin' in de house to cook. De storekeeper lets me have a little credit, but I owe her so much now dat I'se 'shamed to ax her to let me have anythin' else. De white folkses on Prince Avenue is right good to let me have dey clo'es to wash, and de young gals in the neighborhood helps me to do de washin'. I sho' is hopin' de old age pension will soon git started comin' to me. Some dat I know, has been gittin' dey old age pensions two or three months. I done signed up for mine twict, so maybe it will 'gin to come 'fore I is done plum wore out."

When her visitor was ready to leave, Martha hobbled to the door and bade her an affectionate farewell. "Goodbye, Lady! I prays for you every night. May de good Lord bless you."

PLANTATION LIFE AS VIEWED BY AN EX-SLAVE

MINNIE DAVIS, Age 78 237 Billups St. Athens, Ga.

Written By: Mrs. Sadie B. Hornsby Athens, Georgia

Edited By: Mrs. Sarah H. Hall Athens, Georgia

and John N. Booth WPA Residencies 6 & 7

August 29, 1938

The bareness of Minnie Davis' yard was relieved by a single rosebush, and her small house might best be described as a "tumble-down shack." An unsteady wooden box served as a step to the fragment of porch before the front door.

"Good mornin', Mam," was the greeting of a Negro man who hastened to answer the visitor's knock at the door. "Yes Mam, Miss Minnie's at home." He turned, tapped on the door of one of the four rooms adjoining the hall, and called: "Miss Minnie, a white lady wants to see you." Minnie hobbled to the door and invited the visitor to her bedroom, where a suite of handsome walnut furniture reflected the period when marble tops were standard parts of dressers and washstands. A low chair, an old table, and a rusty heater completed the furnishings of the room.

Age and ill health have not dealt kindly with Minnie, and her short-cut, kinky hair is almost white, but her eyes and face retain a remarkably youthful appearance. She is a small thin woman of gingercake color and, despite the sweltering heat, she wore a pink flannel nightgown, faded and dingy, and a pair of high top black shoes, so badly run over that she hobbled along on the sides of them. Minnie is well educated, and she taught school for so long that her speech is remarkably free of dialect.

When the nature of the visit was explained, Minnie said: "A white woman has been here several times before, but I was sick and didn't understand clearly what she wanted me to tell her." She then explained that she did not care to talk for publication at all. She said she was hungry and had nothing at all in the house to eat. Her nephew, Ed, an ex-postman lived with her, she explained, and he would go for food if there was any money. She might feel like talking a little if she had a little something to eat. The interviewer provided the cash and Ed soon returned with a pint of milk and some cinnamon rolls. After her repast, Minnie began to talk, giving the impression that every word was carefully weighed before it was uttered.

"I was born in Greene County near Penfield, Georgia," she said. "Aggie Crawford was my mother and she was married to Jim Young. My only sister was Mariah, and my three brothers were Ned, John, and Jim. Ned was a mulatto. I know who his father was, but of course you won't ask me that. I wouldn't want to expose my own mother or the man who was Ned's father. I was quite a small child during the war period, and I can tell you very little of that time, except the things my mother told me when I grew old enough to remember. My mother belonged to the Crawford family in Greene County, but when I knew anything we were living in Athens and were the slaves of Marster John Crawford.

"As children we played around the yard; those of us who were old enough had odd jobs to do. The unceiled house that my father and mother shared with three other families was weatherboarded and had a chimney made of sticks and dirt. There was a bed in each corner of the room and from one to three children slept in the bed with their parents: the rest of the children slept on the floor. The tall old home-made wooden beds had very much the appearance of beds used now, except that cords were used instead of the metal springs that came into use later. Our osnaburg mattress ticks were filled with straw. I'm quite sure there were no pillows. There was also a two-story house on the lot for slaves." She was asked what she called her father and mother during slavery time, and her reply was: "I have always said father and mother because I liked it better, and the Bible teaches us to say that.

"Grandmother Dilsey and grandfather Levi Crawford lived in Lexington. I saw my grandmother one time, but I don't know what she did at the white folks' house. Grandfather was a carpenter.

"I never got any money in slavery time. If the slaves ever got any, it was when the Yankees came through here. At that time the white people gave their money to the slaves for safekeeping, and after the Yankees went on it was returned to the white owners.

"My mother was the cook and looked after the house. Oh, yes indeed, we had good food to eat. Bread, milk, meat, collard greens, turnips, and potatoes. I would say we had just everything that was grown in the garden and on the plantations to eat at that time. The cooking was done in the kitchen in the yard. The fireplace was as wide as the end of this room, and a long iron bar extended from one end to the other. The great cooking pots were suspended over the coals from this bar by means of pot hooks. Heavy iron skillets with thick lids were much used for baking, and they had ovens of various sizes. I have seen my mother bake beautiful biscuits and cakes in those old skillets, and they were ideal for roasting meats. Mother's batter cakes would just melt in your mouth and she could bake and fry the most delicious fish. There was no certain thing that I liked to eat more than anything else in those days. I was young and had a keen appetite for all good things. Miss Fannie and Miss Susan often made candy and it was so good I could have eaten all they made, had they given it to me. My father hired his time out; he made and sold gingercakes on the railroad.

"In the summertime we wore homespun dresses made with a full skirt gathered onto a tight-fitting waist. In the wintertime the dresses were made of checked woolen material called linsey cloth. For underwear, we wore balmoral petticoats and osnaburg drawers. We went barefooted most of the time. I remember one particular time when the ground was frozen and I went about without any shoes, but it didn't bother me. Barefooted children seldom had bad colds in winter. We wore just anything on Sunday, but we had to look nice and clean.

"Marster John Crawford, son of the distinguished William H. Crawford, was my owner. Indeed, he was good to us. I'll tell you after awhile about the time he wouldn't let the town marshal whip my mother. They told me his wife was a fine woman and that she was as good to her slaves as she could be. She died very young in life and Marse John's sisters, Miss Fannie and Miss Susan, kept house for him after that. Marse John's three children were Miss Fannie, Miss Rosa, and Marse Allie. Miss Rosa married Marse Tom Golden, and Miss Fannie married a Gerdine; I've forgotten his first name.

"Marse John may have had an overseer on one of his plantations, but I don't remember. I do know he didn't have a carriage driver for he didn't have a carriage. I don't believe I can describe the peculiar shape of his fine eight-room house. It was on Dougherty Street, right back of Scudder's School. The Crawfords were considered very uppity people and their slaves were uppish too. Marse John didn't have many slaves and they had to get up and get going early every morning. Marse John was postmaster of Athens and had to be in his office by eight o'clock every morning so he ordered that his breakfast be served regularly at seven-thirty.

"No Mam, our white folks didn't teach their slaves to read and write because it was against the law. However, they did read the Bible to us, and the slaves that were smart enough, were asked to repeat the verses they had learned from hearing Miss Fannie, Miss Sue, and Marse John read. The Crawford children were caught teaching my mother to read and write, but they were made to stop. Mother was quick to learn and she never gave up. She would steal the newspapers and read up about the war, and she kept the other slaves posted as to how the war was progressing. She knew when the war was over, almost as soon as Marse John did.

"I don't recall any certain reason why the slaves were punished; they needed it, I'm sure of that. Some folks need to be punished now. Miss Sue, as we called her, whipped the slaves for misbehavior. I remember one time there was quite a commotion. The town marshal came to our house to whip my mother. It had been told that she had been writing letters, asking people to buy whiskey from her, but Marse John wouldn't let the marshal touch her. There was a jail, but I don't recall that any of Marse John's slaves were ever put in there. I was told that his slaves were, as a rule, well behaved and that they gave him no trouble.

"Yes Mam, we went to church, that is, those of us who cared to go did. There wasn't any separate church for colored people in Athens, that I can remember. We went to church and Sunday School at the First Presbyterian Church, where the slaves were allowed to sit in the gallery. I recall that Dr. Hoyt used to pray that the Lord would drive the Yankees back. He said that 'Niggers were born to be slaves.' My mother said that all the time he was praying out loud like that, she was praying to herself: 'Oh, Lord, please send the Yankees on and let them set us free.' I wasn't enough of a singer to have a favorite song, and I was too happy playing with the Crawford children to be interested in going to baptizings and funerals.

"I did go to my father's funeral. When he was taken sick Dr. Holt attended his case, and it was not long before he told Marse John that Father would never get well. When he died Mother hollered and screamed something terrible. Miss Sue told her not to cry because, 'the Lord knows best.' 'Yes, Miss Sue,' answered Mother, 'but you have never loved a man to lose.' With that, they both cried. When anyone died in those days, the people sat up all night and didn't go to bed until the funeral was over. Now, no real sympathy is shown.

"I don't believe any of Marse John's slaves ever went to the war. He was good to them and everyone of them loved him. I heard of patterollers chasing slaves and whipping them if they were caught away from home without a pass, and sometimes they locked them up. However, nothing of the kind ever happened to any of Marse John's slaves. He was a highly respected citizen and everyone in Athens knew better than to touch his Negroes.

"After the work for the day was finished at the big house, the slaves went to their quarters to weave cloth and sew, but when ten o'clock came and the bell sounded, everything had to be quiet. Slaves on our place worked Saturday afternoons the same as any other day. On Saturday nights the young folks and a few of the older folks danced. Some of them got passes from Marse John so they could visit around. They popped corn, pulled candy, or just sat around and talked. Those of us who desired went to Sunday School and church on Sundays; others stayed at home and did their washing and ironing, and there was always plenty of that to be done.

"Christmas was a grand time at Marse John's. We had everything good to eat under the sun at that time and, as my mother was the cook, I was sure of getting my share of the good things. Miss Fannie and Miss Sue played Santa Claus to slave children. I was sorry when Mary got too smart and peeped to see what it was all about, for after that they just came to our house and handed us the things that would have come as Santa Claus.

"New Year's Day was no different from other days, except that Marse John gave the grown folks whiskey to drink that day like he did on Christmas morning. They couldn't risk giving slaves much whiskey because it made them mean, and then they would fight the white folks. They had to be mighty careful about things like that in order to keep down uprisings.

"My mother went to cornshuckings, cotton pickings, and quiltings. They must have had wonderful times, to hear her tell it. She said that after the corn was shucked, cotton picked, or quilts quilted, they always gave them plenty of good things to eat and drink and let them aloose to enjoy themselves for the balance of the night. Those things took place at harvest time, and everyone looked forward to having a good time at that season. Mother said that Marse John was particular with his slaves, and wouldn't let them go just anywhere to these things.

"About the only game I can remember playing as a child was a doll game. The Crawford children would use me for the doll, and then when my turn came to play mamma and claim one of them for my doll, Miss Fanny or Miss Sue would appear and then I would have to be a doll for them. I didn't mind, for I dearly loved them all.

"Now about Raw Head and Bloody Bones; I am going to tell you, Miss, my Marster's people were cultured and refined, and they wouldn't allow such things told to their own children or to their slaves' children. They didn't want anything said or done to frighten any little children, and if a nurse or anyone else was caught doing such a thing, that person was punished for it. With the heritage of training like that I could hardly be expected to believe in such things.

"Marse John was grand to sick slaves. He always sent for Dr. Moore, who would make his examination and write out his prescription. When he left his parting word was usually 'Give him a sound thrashing and he will get better.' Of course he didn't mean that; it was his little joke. Dr. Holt, Dr. Crawford Long, and Dr. Jones Long were sometimes called in for consultation on particularly serious cases. We didn't like Dr. Moore and usually begged for one of the other doctors. I don't think my white folks used teas made of herbs, leaves or roots; they may have, but I don't remember it. However, I do know that we wore little sacks of asafetida around our necks to keep off diseases, and the white folks wore it too.

"On the day we learned of the surrender, the Negroes rallied around the liberty flag pole that they set up near where the city hall is now. All day long they cut up and there was a song they sung that day that went something like this:

'We rally around the flag pole of liberty,
The Union forever, Hurrah! Boys Hurrah!'

"Next morning when the Negroes got up the white folks had cut that pole down. We were mortally afraid of the Yankees when they appeared here a short time after the surrender. We were afraid of the Ku Klux Klan riders too. The Negroes did act so bad; there were lots of killings going on for a long time after the war was supposed to be over.

"Mother was glad and sorry too that she was free. Marse John had been so good to all his slaves that none of them really wanted to leave him. We stayed on a while, then mother left and rented a room. She worked hard and bought a house as soon as she could; others did the same. There were very few slaves that had any money at all to begin on.

"Immediately following the surrender northern people opened Knox Institute. One of my teachers was Miss Dora Brooks, a white woman from the North. The principal was a white man, he was Mr. Sortur. After I graduated from Knox Institute, I went to the Atlanta University four years, then came back to Athens and taught school here forty years. I taught whatever grade they assigned me to each year, never any certain grade from year to year. First and last, I've taught from first grade through high school. I would be teaching now if it were not for my bad health. I receive a teacher's pension, but have never applied for an old age pension.