Volume 4 / Part 1 — ILLUSTRATIONS (continued 5)

"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:

"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.

"My husband was Samuel B. Davis, publisher of the Athens Clipper. I published this newspaper myself for a short while after his death, then sold it. We didn't have a big wedding, just a very simple one at my mother's house. I was married in a nice white dress, but it was nothing fancy. Our two children were born dead. Once I had a nice home, beautifully furnished. All I have left of it is this old house and my good bedroom suite. The rest of my possessions have gotten away from me during my continued illness.

"I often think of Abraham Lincoln; he did a good deed for my race. Jeff Davis was a good man and, no doubt, he thought he was doing the right thing. Booker T. Washington was a man of brilliant mind, but he was radically wrong in many of his views pertaining to education of the black race. He lectured here once, but I didn't bother to hear him speak.

"Yes Mam, indeed I had rather be free. Oh! religion is glorious. If God has set you free from the bonds and penalties of sin, I think you ought to live up to your Lord's commands. I dearly love to go to church and hear the preacher tell of God. It gives me strength to live until He is ready for me to go.

"Now, Miss, I hope I have told you what you wanted to know, but I must admit the things that took place way back there are rather vague in my mind. I'm an old woman and my mind is not as clear as it once was. Next week, if I am strong enough to make the trip, I am going to spend the day with Mary Colbert, and go over the old times you and I have discussed. She remembers them better than I do, because she is older."

Whitley [HW: Unedited Atlanta] E. Driskell EX-SLAVE MOSE DAVIS [APR 8 1937]

In one of Atlanta's many alleys lives Mose Davis, an ex-slave who was born on a very large plantation 12 miles from Perry, Georgia. His master was Colonel Davis, a very rich old man, who owned a large number of slaves in addition to his vast property holdings. Mose Davis says that all the buildings on this plantation were whitewashed, the lime having been secured from a corner of the plantation known as "the lime sink". Colonel Davis had a large family and so he had to have a large house to accommodate these members. The mansion, as it was called, was a great big three-storied affair surrounded by a thick growth of cedar trees.

Mose's parents, Jennie and January Davis, had always been the property of the Davis family, naturally he and his two brothers and two sisters never knew any other master than "The Old Colonel".

Mr. Davis says that the first thing he remembers of his parents is being whipped by his mother who had tied him to the bed to prevent his running away. His first recollection of his father is seeing him take a drink of whiskey from a five gallon jug. When asked if this was'nt against the plantation rules "Uncle Mose" replied: "The Colonel was one of the biggest devils you ever seen—he's the one that started my daddy to drinking. Sometimes he used to come to our house to git a drink hisself".

Mose's Father was the family coachman. "All that he had to do was to drive the master and his family and to take care of the two big grey horses that he drove. Compared to my mother and the other slaves he had an easy time," said Uncle Mose, shaking his head and smiling: "My daddy was so crazy about the white folks and the horses he drove until I believe he thought more of them than he did of me. One day while I was in the stable with him one of the horses tried to kick me and when I started to hit him Daddy cussed me and threatned to beat me."

His mother, brothers, and sisters, were all field hands, but there was never any work required of Mose, who was play-mate and companion to Manning, the youngest of Colonel Davis' five sons. These two spent most of the time fishing and hunting. Manning had a pony and buggy and whenever he went to town he always took Mose along.

Field hands were roused, every morning by the overseer who rang the large bell near the slave quarters. Women [TR: and] young children were permitted to remain at home until 9 o'clock to prepare breakfast. At 9 o'clock these women had to start to the fields where they worked along with the others until sundown. The one break in the day's work was the noon dinner hour. Field hands planted and tended cotton, corn, and the other produce grown on the plantation until harvest time when everybody picked cotton. Slaves usually worked harder during the picking season than at any other time. After harvest, the only remaining work was cleaning out fence corners, splitting rails building fences and numerous other minor tasks. In hot weather, the only work was shelling corn. There was no Sunday work other than caring for the stock.

On this plantation there were quite a few skilled slaves mostly blacksmiths, carpenters, masons, plasterers, and a cobbler. One of Mose's brothers was a carpenter.

All slaves too old for field work remained at home where some took care of the young children, while others worked in the loom houses helping make the cloth and the clothing used on the plantation. Since no work was required at night, this time was utilized by doing personal work such as the washing and the repairing of clothing, etc.

On the Fourth of July or at Christmas Colonel Davis always had a festival for all his slaves. Barbecue was served and there was much singing and dancing. These frolics were made merrier by the presence of guests from other plantations. Music was furnished by some of the slaves who also furnished music at the mansion whenever the Col. or some of the members of his family had a party. There was also a celebration after the crops had been gathered.

Although there was only one distribution of clothing per year nobody suffered from the lack of clothes because this one lot had enough to last a year if properly cared for. The children wore one piece garments, a cross between a dress and a slightly lengthened shirt, made of homespun or crocus material [TR note: "crocus" is a coarse, loosely woven material like burlap]. No shoes were given them until winter and then they got the cast-offs of the grown ups. The men all wore pants made of material known as "ausenberg". The shirts and under wear were made of another cotton material. Dresses for the women were of striped homespun. All shoes were made on the premises of the heaviest leather, clumsely fashioned and Uncle Mose says that slaves like his father who worked in the mansion, were given much better clothing. His father received of "The Colonel" and his grown sons many discarded clothes. One of the greatest thrills of Mose's boyhood was receiving first pair of "ausenberg" pants. As his mother had already taught him to knit (by using four needles at one time) all that he had to do was to go to his hiding place and get the socks that he had made.

None of the clothing worn by the slaves on this particular plantation was bought. Everything was made by the slaves, even to the dye that was used.

Asked if there was sufficient food for all slaves, Uncle Mose said "I never heard any complaints." At the end of each week every family was given some fat meat, black molasses, meal and flour in quantity varying with the size of the family. At certain intervals during the week, they were given vegetables. Here too, as in everything else, Mose's father was more fortunate than the others, since he took all his meals at the mansion where he ate the same food served to the master and his family. The only difference between Week-day and Sunday diet was that biscuits were served on Sundays. The children were given only one biscuit each. In addition to the other bread was considered a delicacy. All food stuff was grown on the plantation.

The slave quarters were located a short distance below the mansion. The cabins one-roomed weatherboard structures were arranged so as to form a semi-circle. There was a wide tree-lined road leading from the master's home to these cabins.

Furnishings of each cabin consisted of one or two benches, a bed, and a few cooking utensils. These were very crude, especially the beds. Some of them had four posts while the ends of others were nailed to the walls. All lumber used in their construction was very heavy and rough. Bed springs were unheard of—wooden slats being used for this purpose. The mattresses were large ausenberg bags stuffed to capacity with hay, straw, or leaves. Uncle Mose told about one of the slaves, named Ike, whose entire family slept on bare pine straw. His children were among the fattest on the plantation and when Colonel Davis tried to make him put this straw in a bag he refused claiming that the pine needles kept his children healthy.

The floors and chimneys on the Davis Plantation were made of wood and brick instead of dirt and mud as was the case on many of the other surrounding plantations. One window (with shutters instead of window panes) served the purpose of ventilation and light. At night pine knots or candles gave light. The little cooking that the slaves did at home was all done at the open fireplace.

Near the living quarters was a house known as the "chillun house." All children too young for field work stayed at this house in the care of the older slave women. There was no hospital building on the premises. The sick had to remain in their individual cabins where they too were cared for by slaves too old for field work.

Only one family lived in a cabin. Mose's mother and father each had a separate cabin. He did not explain the reason for this but said that he was made to live in his father's cabin. Whenever he could, (usually when his father was away with the Colonel for a day or two) he stayed in his mothers cabin. "The only difference between the houses we lived in during slavery and those that some of us live in now who said is that we had more room there than we have now." He says that even the community cook house was larger than some of the living quarters of today. All cabins were white washed the same as the other buildings on the plantation, and the occupants were required to keep the interiors and the surrounding clean at all times. The overseer's cabin was located a short distance away from the slave cabins, so that it would be easier for him to keep check on his charges.

There was little if any sickness but Colonel Davis employed a doctor who visited the plantation each week. On other occasions the overseer administered such remedies as castor oil, turpentine, etc., and the slaves had remedies of their own. For stomach ache they used a tea made of Jimson weeds. Another medicine was heart leaf tea. Manual and religious training were the only types allowed on the plantation. Trades like carpentry, blacksmithing, etc. were learned from the white mechanics sometimes employed by Colonel Davis. All slaves were required to attend church and a special building was known as "Davis' Chapel." A Negro preacher officiated and no white people were present. Uncle Mose doesn't know what was preached as he and Manning always slipped into town on Sundays to see the girls. Uncle Mose says he and Manning were together so much that occasionally they even slept in the same bed,—sometimes in Manning's house and sometimes at his own house.

A pool for baptism was filled with well water. The colored pastor performed all baptisms and marriages.

Book learning was prohibited in any form. Sometimes Mose tried to persuade Manning to teach him to read and write but Manning always refused. Mose's cousin who was taught to read and write forged Colonel Davis' name to a check and drew the money from the bank before the hand writing was discovered. For this act he was given a sound whipping and assigned to hard labor by the master, "And", said Uncle Mose, "he didn't even have the pleasure of spending one penny". When asked if his cousin was arrested and placed in jail he replied that the jails were not for the slaves, as their punishment was usually left to their individual masters. When his cousin was whipped this was an exception to "The Colonel's rule"; he was entirely against any form of whipping. His usual method of punishment was to cut off individual privileges for a limited amount of time (in proportion to the nature of the offense), along with an assignment of extra heavy work.

The fame of the "Paddle-Rollers" was widespread among the slaves, but none of Colonel Davis' servants attempted to run away or leave the plantation often without the required pass (if they did they were never caught).

There was very little talk on the plantation about the actual beginning of the Civil War. Slaves was very guarded in their talk as they feared the master's wrath. Uncle Mose thought little or nothing about the War and had even less to say.

When the Yankee soldiers came to the plantation they drove wagons to the smoke house and took all the meat away. "The funny part about it was that "The Colonel" had taken shelter in this particular house when he saw the Yankees coming," said Uncle Mose. "He didn't have time to hide any of his other belongings." When the soldiers had left, The Colonel looked around and said to Manning and Mose: "Just like I get that, I guess I can get some more."

Uncle Mose says that when freedom was declared, his father came rushing to their cabin waving his arms like a windmill, shouting: "Boy we is free—you can go and git yourself a job 'cause I ain't goin' to hitch up no more horses". Some of the slaves remained on the plantation where they worked for wages until their deaths. His father was one of them and after his death, his mother moved to another plantation to live with another son. Meanwhile Mose started traveling from place to place as soon as he was told that he was free to go as he pleased. He paid one visit to the plantation where he learned of his father's death. He then asked Manning, who was operating the plantation, for the ox that had belonged to his father and when Manning refused to part with this animal, he made a secret visit back, that night, and took the animal away. He has not been back since.

At this time Mr. Davis stretched himself, saying: "Well, I guess that's about as straight as I can get it—Wish that I could tell you some more but I can't." Smiling broadly, he bade the interviewer a pleasant good-bye.

EX-SLAVE INTERVIEW IKE DERRICOTTE, Age 78 554 Hancock Avenue Athens, Georgia Written by: Miss Grace McCune Athens Edited by: Mrs. Sarah H. Hall Athens and John N. Booth District Supervisor Federal Writers' Project Residencies 6 & 7 Augusta, Georgia August 19, 1938

[TR: One page of this interview was repeated in typescript; where there was a discrepancy, the clearer version was used.]

Ike Derricotte's brown-painted, frame bungalow, well back from the street, faces a wide grassy yard where tall pecan trees provide summer shade and winter nuts.

A mulatto woman answered the knock at the front door. Her long, straight, white hair was neatly arranged in a low-pinned coil at the back of her head. Her print frock and white shoes were immaculate. "Yes Mam, Ike is at home," was the answer to the inquiry for her husband. "Jus' have a seat on de porch here 'cause it's so much cooler dan inside de house, and I'll call Ike. He's jus' piddlin' 'round de back yard dis mornin'."

Almost at once a tall, well-built man of gingercake color appeared. He wore an old black cap, blue work shirt, blue wool trousers, and black shoes. "Howdy-do, Miss! Did you want to see me?" was his greeting. His eyes sparkled when he learned that we wished to record the story of his life. "Yes Mam, I'll be glad to tell you what I kin," he promised, "and Miss, I'll jus' bet I kin tell you somepin dat very few folks kin say 'bout dem old days. I was born right here on dis same street, and I'm still livin' on it, but dis house and lot ain't my birthplace. When I was born, dis section was mostly in woods. Jus' look at it now; houses has been built up and down both sides of what was den jus' de big road. Times has changed in lots of ways since dem days.

"My mother's name was Myra, and she was a laundry 'oman owned by Mr. Stevens Thomas. Mr. Thomas was one of de biggest merchants in Athens dem days. He owned de square between Thomas Street and Wall Street, and it s'tended back to Clayton Street.

"William Derricotte was my father, and he belonged to Col. Robert Thomas. My father spent most of his time beautifyin' de yards 'round de big house, and in dese days and times he would be called a landscape gardener. Dey jus' called 'em yard boys den. Atter Pa and Ma was married, Marster Stevens sold Ma to Marster Robert, so dat dey could be together. Mr. Robert Thomas' place was right up dis same old street, whar de Y.W.C.A. is now, and right dar is whar I was born. Dat was in 1860, a long time ago; and lots of things has happened since den. Lots of people has moved away and lots more has died out, 'til dere ain't many of de folks left here dat lived in Athens den. De Thomases, Dorseys, and Phinizys was some of de oldest families here.

"I was too little to know much about de war but, little as I was, dere's one thing dat's still as fresh in my memory now as den, and dat's how people watched and waited to hear dat old Georgia train come in. Not many folks was able to take de papers den, and de news in 'em was from one to two weeks old when dey got here. All de men dat was able to fight was off at de front and de folks at home was anxious for news. De way dat old train brought 'em de news was lak dis: if de southern troops was in de front, den dat old whistle jus' blowed continuously, but if it was bad news, den it was jus' one short, sharp blast. In dat way, from de time it got in hearin', evvybody could tell by de whistle if de news was good or bad and, believe me, evvybody sho' did listen to dat train.

"Times was hard durin' de war but from what I've heared de folks dat was old folks den say, dey warn't near as bad here as in lots of other places. Yes Mam! Sho' I kin 'member dem Yankees comin' here, but dat was atter de war was done over. Dey camped right here on Hancock Avenue. Whar dey camped was mostly woods den, and deir camp reached nearly all de way to whar Milledge Avenue is now. Us chillun was scared to death of dem soldiers and stayed out of deir way all us could. My Marster, Mr. Stevens Thomas, hid all of his family's silver and other valuables dat could be put out of sight, for dem Yankees jus' went 'round takin' whatever dey wanted. Dey stole all kinds of food out of de homes, went into de smokehouses and got hams, and cotched up de chickens. Dey jus' reached out and tuk what dey wanted and laughed about it lak dey hadn't been stealin'.

"Dem Yankees brought de smallpox here wid 'em and give it to all de Athens folks, and dat was somepin awful. Folks jus' died out wid it so bad. Dey built a hospital what dey called de 'pest house' out whar de stockade is now. It was rough and small but I reckon it helped some. It warn't near large enough for all de folks dat was sick wid smallpox at one time, and so dey finally got to whar dey used it jus' for de colored folks, 'cause it seemed dat smallpox went harder wid dem dan wid de white folks.

"When de war ended us didn't leave Mr. Stevens Thomas. Ma kept on cookin' and wukin' 'round de house, and Pa wuked lots for other folks, larned to do brick-work, build walls, and things lak dat. Atter he got to be a brickmason he allus had plenty to do.

"Marbles was de favorite game of de chillun dem days but us never got to play much lak chillun does dese days, 'cause times was so hard right atter de war dat as soon as chillun got big enough dey had to go to wuk. Some of our very best times was at de old swimmin' hole. Us dammed up dat little crick right back of whar de Seaboard Depot is now and it made a fine pool to swim in. It was cool for it was shady off down dar in de woods, and us spent many a hour dar on days as hot as dis one is. When dey missed us at home, dat was de fust place dey thought of when dey come to hunt us. I had some mighty good times in dat crick and I couldn't begin to count de duckin's I got dar and de whuppin's my Ma and Pa give me for stayin' so long.

"De biggest time in all de year was de Commencement Day; evvybody got busy and fixed up for dat. My Marster allus had lots of company at commencement times, and us had de most good things to eat. Out in town dey was 'pared for it too. Tables was all along de sidewalks whar you could buy any kind of 'freshments you wanted. Course dere warn't as many kinds of 'freshments den as dey has now, but dere was allus plenty of de strong sort. One time durin' commencement week, Ma give me a whole quarter to spend. I was de happiest and de richest boy in dis town; jus' had more money to spend dan anybody, and I walked de streets from one table to another tryin' to see whar I was gwine to spend all dat money." Here, Ike laughed heartily. "Miss," he said, "you jus' never could guess what I spent all dat money for. I bought a whole quarter's worth of ginger-cakes and lit out for de swimmin' hole. Us chillun had a fine time down at de swimmin' hole dat day. De Cobbs and Lumpkins owned all dat land in dar 'round our swimmin' hole den. Dey owned from de Catholic Church straight through to College Avenue.

"I mighty well 'member de fust wuk I ever done. I was still jus' a little fellow when Miss Belle Brumby told Ma she wanted me for a butler boy and dat she would pay me $2.50 a month. I jus' jumped up and down and begged her to let me wuk for Miss Belle. Why, I jus' knowed I would git rich right away, 'cause $2.50 was a mighty lot of money." Ike laughed as he said: "How many boys would wuk for dat pay for a week now, let alone a whole month? Ma did let me wuk for Miss Belle and I was happy, but I know my Mist'ess had a time wid me 'cause, when I got on dat white coat dey let me wear to wait on de table, I knowed more dan evvybody else put together and dere couldn't nobody tell me how to keep de flies off de table. Miss Belle is one fine 'oman, dey jua' don't come no finer and no better.

"When I was fourteen my Pa hired me out to be a shoemaker. De shop whar I was 'prenticed was down on Broad Street, jus' about whar de Bernstein Furniture Store is now. Dat old buildin' was tore down long years ago and evvything 'long dar is changed now. De Athens Hardware Store is de only Broad Street business of dem days dat has stood in de same place and endured through all dese years.

"When I went to wuk for Mr. Joe Barry in his shoe shop on Jackson Street, right in back of whar Mr. Lee Morris' store is now, I felt lak I had got to be a real sho' 'nough important shoemaker. I wuked for him 'bout 12 or 14 years. He was a good man to wuk for and he was de only shoemaker I ever knowed to git rich at his trade; he really did make money in dat shop. I've been a shoemaker ever since 1874, but I never have been able to git far ahead. In spite of all our trouble for 85 years atter de war, it seems to me dat times was much better den dan dey is now. Course, folks didn't make as much den as dey does now. Carpenters, bricklayers, shoemakers, in fact 'most any kind of laborers who got from $1.00 to $1.50 a day thought dey had fine wages den. Boys was paid from $2.50 to $5.00 a month. Cooks got $5.00 to $6.00 a month, and of course, dey got deir meals whar dey wuked. Sometimes odds and ends of old clothes was give to 'em, and dey got along very well, even if most of 'em did have families and big families at dat. Folks could live on less den 'cause things was cheaper. You could git meal for 50¢ a bushel; side meat was 5¢ to 6¢ a pound; and you could git a 25-pound sack of flour for 50¢. Wood was 50¢ a load. House rent was so cheap dat you didn't have to pay over $3.00 a month for a 2 or 3 room house, and lots of times you got it cheaper. Most evvybody wore clothes made out of homespun cloth and jeans, and dey didn't know nothin' 'bout ready-made, store-bought clothes. Dem clothes what dey made at home didn't cost very much. Livin' was cheap, but folks lived mighty well in dem days.

"Us has been married more dan 50 years and dey has all been happy years. Us has had our troubles and hard luck, but dey come to evvybody. De Lord has been mighty good to us, 'specially in lettin' us be together so long. It was what you might call a case of love at fust sight wid us. I was visitin' down at Camak, Georgia at Christmastime. She lived at Sparta, and was spendin' Christmas at Camak too, but I didn't see her 'til I was 'bout to leave for Athens. I jus' thought I never could go 'way atter I fust seed her, but I did, and I didn't git to see her again for 12 long months. Us writ to one another all dat year and got married at Christmastime, one year from de time us fust met.

"Us has still got dat old pen I used when I writ and axed her to marry me; I'd lak to show it to you. 'Scuse me please whilst I goes in de house to git it." Soon Ike returned. "Ain't it a sight?" he proudly exclaimed as he displayed the relic. "I made it up myself in December 1886 and it got her consent to marry me, so I'se kept it ever since. My wife and me wouldn't part wid it for nothin'." The wooden pen staff is very smooth as though from long usage except at the tip end, where it appears to have been gnawed. It looks very much as though Ike may have chewed on it as he wrote that all important letter. The iron pen point, much too large to fit the standard grooves of the ordinary pen staff, was placed on the staff and tightly wrapped. After 52 years of service the pen point and its staff are still in good condition. Ike has the Prince Albert coat that he wore on his wedding day and he insists that it looks and fits as well now as it did on the occasion of his marriage. "I'm keepin' de coat and pen for our chillun," he declared.

Before resuming the conversation, Ike went back in the house to put the treasured pen away. In a few moments he returned. "God has been good to us," he said, "for He let us have all nine of our chillun 'til dey was grown up. Us wuked mighty hard to raise 'em and give all of 'em a good education. Dat was somepin us couldn't have when us was growin' up and I'm thankful to be able to say dat us was able to send 'em all to college. Four of our chillun has gone on ahead to de next world, and de five dat's left is scattered from place to place; none of 'em is wid us now, but dey don't forgit us. Dey writes to us and visits us often and us goes to see dem. One son is goin' mighty well as a lawyer in Washin'ton, D.C., and our baby lives in New York City. It's been 'bout 3 years now since my daughter Juliette died atter a automobile wreck near Dalton, Georgia. Did you know 'bout Juliette? She give her life to wuk for de Y.W.C.A., and she went all over de world tryin' to make things better for de young women of our race. Somebody writ a memorial book 'bout her. I wish dere was a copy of dat book here for you to see, but it was borrowed from us and it ain't been returned.

"Did you know I had jus' come back from Washin'ton, whar I visited dat lawyer son of mine? He sends for me nearly evvy summer and I enjoy visitin' dar, but I wouldn't lak to live up dar 'cause dem folks ain't lak our own southern people. I must say dey is mighty nice and good to me when I goes dar though. Once when I was dar somebody told me dat if I wanted to have a good time I mustn't let nobody know I was a Georgian 'cause dey said dat de northerners don't lak our State. De rest of de time I was dar on dat visit I tuk partic'lar pleasure in tellin' evvybody how proud I was of my State and my home.

"Dat reminds me of Miss Sally Hodgson. She was in de North, and one evenin' she was tryin' to tell de folks up dar dat de southern people warn't as bad as some of de Yankees had said dey was, and dat de white folks down South didn't mistreat de colored folks. Miss Sally said dat de very next mornin' de papers up dar was full of news 'bout de lynchin' of 8 Negroes in one night at Watkinsville. If you had knowed Miss Sally, you would know how funny dat was," Ike laughed. "She said atter dat dere warn't no way she could convince dem folks up dar dat Georgia was a good place to live in.

"Us had some good friends in de North and sometimes dey comes down here to see us. One of my wife's friends, a 'oman wid a lot of education has jus' gone back to Philadelphia atter a visit here in our home. Us travels a good deal and us has found dat de world ain't so large but dat us is allus runnin' up against somebody dat us knows wherever us goes.

"Sometimes when you is in a strange place it's mighty handy to find somebody you have knowed a long time ago. I 'member one time when I was visitin' in Washin'ton and wanted to git a glimpse of de President. I didn't say nothin' to nobody 'bout what was on my mind, but atter my son went to his wuk in de mornin' I slipped off to de capitol widout tellin' nobody whar I was gwine. I found a waitin' room outside de President's office and I made up my mind I would set dar 'til de President had to go out for dinner or to go home for supper. I never thought about he might have a side door he could come and go from widout usin' de door to de waitin' room. Atter I had set dar in dat waitin' room de best part of two days watchin' for de President, somebody said: 'Howdy, Uncle Ike! What is you doin' here in de President's waitin' room?' I looked up and dar stood Albon Holsey. He had growed up in Athens. He was de boy dey 'signed to wait on President Taft when he was at Miss Maggie Welch's home for a day and night in January 'fore he was inaugurated. I bet Albon is still got dat $5.00 Mr. Taft give him de mornin' he left Athens, but he don't need to spend it now 'cause folks say he got rich off of his chain of stores for colored folks, and anyhow he's got a fine job dese days. Well, I s'plained to Albon dat I was jus' waitin' to git a peep at de President whenever he happened to pass through dat room. Albon he smiled sort of wise-like. He tuk out one of his cyards and writ sompin on it, and axed a lady to take it right in to de President. She warn't gone 2 minutes 'fore she come back and said: 'De President will see Mr. Holsey and his friend now.' I was wuss skeered dan I has ever been at any other time in my life. Us walked in and I was 'fraid de President could hear my knees knockin' together, and my heart was beatin' so fast and loud it seemed to me lak it was 'bout to bust. De President spoke to us and when he found out dat I was from Athens, he axed me lots of questions. He said dat he was interested in Athens. Soon Albon said us must be goin' and when us got out of dar I was right weak, but I was might proud and happy to think de President had tuk time to talk pleasant lak wid a pore old Negro shoemaker.

"Another time in Washin'ton a friend of my son's tuk me to a club one night whar some of de richest of our race is members. Dat night I met a man who had went to school wid de Mr. Teddy Roosevelt dat was President atter Mr. McKinley; den I met another Negro dat had been a classmate of President Hoover and one dat went to school wid President Franklin D. Roosevelt. It's right strange how dey all heads for Washin'ton, D.C. to stay.

"Athens has allus been a real quiet town, and dere never was no real serious trouble here 'tween de races, not even when Matt Davis and Pink Morton was Postmasters here. People was allus predictin' trouble 'bout dat, but de folks here was too level-headed for dat. Dey knowed dey could straighten out deir own troubles widout havin' to fly off de handle in a race riot, and so dey 'tended to deir own business' and de races got along all right through it all.

"Atter all, Athens is a good place to live in. Here us has de best neighbors in de world; dey's allus ready to look atter one another in times of sickness and trouble. Wid de kind of good, Christian folks dat lives here, Athens is bound to go ahead."

PLANTATION LIFE BENNY DILLARD, Age 80 Cor. Broad and Derby Streets Athens, Ga. Written by: Grace McCune [HW: (white)] Athens Edited by: Sarah H. Hall Athens and John N. Booth District Supervisor Federal Writers' Project Residencies 6 & 7 Augusta, Ga.

Benny's rocky little yard is gay with flowers and a flourishing rose vine shades the small porch at the front of his ramshackle two-room cabin. The old Negro was busily engaged at washing his clothes. He is of medium size, darker than gingerbread in color, and his clothing on this day consisted of a faded blue shirt, pants adorned with many patches, and brogans. A frayed sun hat covered the gray hair that is "gittin' mighty thin on de top of my haid."

Benny was singing as he worked and his quavering old voice kept tune and rhythm to a remarkable degree as he carefully and distinctly pronounced:

Almost in the same breath he began another song:

About this time he looked up and saw his visitor. Off came the old sun hat as he said: "'Scuse me, Missy, I didn't know nobody was listenin' to dem old songs. I loves to sing 'em when I gits lonesome and blue. But won't you come up on my porch and have a cheer in de shade? Dere's a good breeze on dat little porch." Having placed a chair for the visitor and made himself comfortable on a crude bench, Benny began his story:

"Missy, de good Lord gives and he takes away, and us old darkies is a-passin' out of dis world. Dat was why I was a-singin'. One of my bestest friends done passed on to Glory dis very mornin'. I knows I'se goin' to miss old Randal Clayton 'cause both of us warn't no good but for to set and talk 'bout old times." Tears rolled down his face as he told of his friend, and the visitor, fearful that he was too much overcome by grief to be able to give a good story, suggested that another engagement be made to record his reminiscences, but he objected. "Lawsy, Missy!" he protested. "Please don't go now, for dem old times is on my mind today and I would so love to talk 'bout 'em now, if you don't mind. If I talks too much, jus' tell me, 'cause I'se mighty apt to do dat when onct I gits started.

"My Mammy and Daddy, dey warn't from dis part of de country. My Mammy said dat not long atter she got to America from a trip on de water dat took nigh 6 months to make, dey brung her from Virginny and sold her down here in Georgy when she was jus' 'bout 16 years old. De onliest name she had when she got to Georgy was Nancy. I don't know whar my Daddy come from. Him and Mammy was both sold to Marse Isaac Dillard and he tuk 'em to live on his place in Elbert County, close to de place dey calls Goose Pond. Dey lived at home on dat big old plantation. By dat, I means dat Marse Isaac growed evvything needed to feed and clothe his folks 'cept de little sugar, coffee, and salt dey used. I don't 'member so much 'bout times 'fore de big war 'cause I warn't but 6 years old when us was made free. Tellin' de slaves dey was free didn't make much diff'unce on our place, for most of 'em stayed right on dar and wukked wid Old Marster jus' lak dey allus done. Dat plantation was jus' lak a little town, it was so big and it had evvything us wanted and needed.

"Slaves lived in log cabins what had red mud daubed in de cracks 'twixt de logs. De roofs was made out of boards what had so many cracks 'twixt 'em, atter a few rains made 'em swink (shrink), dat us could lay in bed and see de stars through dem big holes. Even if us did have leaky houses, folkses didn't git sick half as much as dey does now. Our homemade beds was made out of rough planks nailed to high poles; leastways de poles was high for de headpieces, and a little lower for de footpieces. For most of dem beds, planks was nailed to de wall for one long side and dere was two laigs to make it stand straight on de other long side. Dey never seed no metal springs dem days but jus' wove cords back and forth, up and down and across, to lay de mattress on. I never seed no sto'-bought bed 'til atter I was married. Bedticks was made out of homespun cloth stuffed wid wheatstraw, and sometimes dey slept on rye or oatstraw. Pillows was stuffed wid hay what had a little cotton mixed in it sometimes. Atter a long day of wuk in de fields, nobody bothered 'bout what was inside dem pillows. Dey slept mighty good lak dey was. Dey fixed planks to slide across de inside of de holes dey cut out for windows. De doors swung on pegs what tuk de place of de iron hinges dey uses dese days. Dem old stack chimblies was made out of sticks and red mud.

"De fireplaces was a heap bigger dan dey has now, for all de cookin' was done in open fireplaces den. 'Taters and cornpone was roasted in de ashes and most of de other victuals was biled in de big old pots what swung on cranes over de coals. Dey had long-handled fryin' pans and heavy iron skillets wid big, thick, tight-fittin' lids, and ovens of all sizes to bake in. All of dem things was used right dar in de fireplace. Dere never was no better tastin' somepin t'eat dan dat cooked in dem old cook-things in open fireplaces.

"Chillun never had no wuk to do. Dey jus' et and frolicked around gittin' into evvything dey could find. Dey never got no lickin's 'less dey was mighty bad, 'cause our Marster said he warn't gwine to 'low no beatin' on his Niggers 'cept what he done his own self, and dat was pow'ful little. In hot weather chillun played on de crick and de best game of all was to play lak it was big meetin' time. White chillun loved to play dar too wid de little slave chillun. Us would have make-believe preachin' and baptizin' and de way us would sing was a sight. One of dem songs us chillun loved de best went lak dis:

"When us started playin' lak us was baptizin' 'em, us th'owed all us could ketch right in de crick, clothes and all, and ducked 'em. Whilst us was doin' dat, us was singin':

"One day our Marster hid in de trees and watched us 'cause Mist'ess had done been fussin' down 'bout chillun all comin' in soaked to de hide. He waited 'til he seed all de preachin' and baptizin', den he hollered for us to stop and he tuk de ones what was doin' all de baptizin' and made 'em pray and sing, den he ducked 'em good in de water and made us all go up to de house to show Mist'ess how come so many of dem pore chillun had done been gittin' wet so much. Us got a tannin' den dat Marster 'lowed would help us to git sho' 'nough 'ligion.

"De wooden bowls what slave chillun et out of was made out of sweetgum trees. Us et wid mussel shells 'stid of spoons. Dem mussel shells was all right. Us could use 'em to git up plenty of bread and milk, or cornpone soaked wid peas and pot likker. Dey never let chillun have no meat 'til dey was big enough to wuk in de fields. Us had biscuit once a week, dat was Sunday breakfast, and dem biscuits was cakebread to us. De fust bought meat us chillun ever seed was a slab of side-meat Daddy got from de sto' atter us had done left de plantation, and us was skeered to eat it 'cause it warn't lak what us had been used to.

"Chillun jus' wore one piece of clothes in summertime and dey all went bar'foots. De gals' summer gyarment was a plain, sleeveless apron dress, and de boys wore skimpy little shirts and nothin' else. Dey mixed cow-hair wid de cotton when dey wove de cloth to make our winter clothes out of, and I'm a-tellin' you Missy, dat cow-hair cloth sho' could scratch, but it was good and warm and Marster seed to it dat us had all de clothes us needed. De 'omans made all de cloth used on de place; dey cyarded, spun, and den wove it. Mammy was de weaver; dat was all she done, jus' wove cloth. Dey dyed it wid red mud and ink balls, and sich lak.

"Marster never lakked to git up real early hisself in slavery time, so he had one man what got de Niggers up out of bed so early dat dey had done et breakfast and was in de field when daylight come. Atter de war was over and evvybody was free, all de Niggers used to jus' piddle and play 'round evvy mornin' whilst dey was waitin' for Marster to come. Dem and de mules would be jus' a-standin' still and when de word was passed dat Marster had done got up all of 'em would start off wid a rush, jus' a-hollerin': 'Whoa, dar! Gee haw!' jus' lak dey had done been wukkin' hard all mornin'. One day Marster cotch 'em at it, and he didn't say a word 'til time come to pay off, and he tuk out for all de time dey had lost.

"Sometimes slaves run away and hid out in caves. Dey would pile up rocks and sticks and pine limbs to hide de caves, and sometimes dey would stay hid out for weeks, and de other Niggers would slip 'em somepin t'eat at night. Dere warn't many what run off on our place, 'cause our Marster was so good to all of 'em dat dere warn't nothin' to run from.

"Marster made all his wuk tools at home. Plow-sheers was made out of wood trimmed to de right shape and fastened to a iron point. When dey was plowin' in de young cotton, dey nailed a board on one side of de plow to rake de dirt back up 'round de cotton plants.

"Marster's gin was turned by a mule. Dat big old gin wheel had wooden cogs what made de gin wuk when de old mule went 'round and 'round hitched to dat wheel. Dat old cotton press was a sight. Fust dey cut down a big old tree and trimmed off de limbs and made grooves in it for planks to fit in. It was stood up wid a big weight on top of it, over de cotton what was to be pressed. It was wukked by a wheel what was turned by a mule, jus' lak de one what turned de gin. A old mule pulled de pole what turned de syrup mill too. Missy, dem old mules done deir part 'long side de Niggers dem days, and Marster seed dat his mules had good keer too. When dem mules had done turned de mill 'til de juice was squez out of de sugarcane stalks, dey strained dat juice and biled it down 'til it was jus' de finest tastin' syrup you ever did see. Marster's mill whar he ground his wheat and corn was down on de crick, so de water could turn de big old wheel.

"Dem old cornshuckin's was sho' 'nough big times, 'cause us raised so much corn dat it tuk several days to shuck it all. Us had to have two generals. Dey chose sides and den dey got up on top of de biggest piles of corn and kept de slaves a-singin' fast so dey would wuk fast. De fust crowd what finished got de prize. Dere ain't much I can 'member of words to dem old cornshuckin' songs. One general would start off singin': 'Shuck up dis corn, shuck up dis corn, 'cause us is gwine home,' and de other general would be a-shoutin': 'Make dem shucks fly, make dem shucks fly, us is gwine to go home.' Over and over dey kept on singin' dem lines. Come nighttime Marster would have big bonfires built up and set out torches for 'em to see how to wuk, and evvy time he passed 'round dat jug of corn likker shucks would fly some faster. When all de corn was done shucked and de big supper had been et, dere was wrastlin' matches and dancin' and all sorts of frolickin'.

"'Til dey could git a colored preacher, slaves had to go to church wid deir white folks. Missy, I 'members yit, de fust preacher I ever heared. He was a white man, Preacher Gibson dey called him, and his sermons made you mind what you was 'bout 'cause he preached straight from de Bible. Dat day when I fust heared him his text was: 'If you gits lost in sin, den you is lost from God's word, and will have to be borned again.' Dat's de trufe, Missy, it sho' is. Young folks dese days is headed plumb straight for 'struction, 'cause dey won't listen to de Gospel. If dey don't change from de way dey is goin' now de old debbil is gwine to ketch 'em sho. All of us had better mind what us is 'bout, for 'ligion most times now is by our own minds and thoughts, and somebody else is apt to follow de 'ligion he sees in us. De Bible says to teach young folks de way dey should go, and dey won't depart from deir raisin'. You sho' can't raise 'em right by jus' teachin' 'em dese days; it evermore do take plenty of layin' on of dat rod. I would jus' lak to see how dese young folks would lak it if dey had to ride for miles and miles in a oxcart, or else walk it, to git to 'tend church. Dere wouldn't be many of de ones I knows 'round here would git dar. Us used to have four steers hitched to our old cart, and it was slow-goin', but us got dar.

"Atter us got our own churches us still had to have white preachers for a long time and den us was 'lowed to have colored preachers. When somebody wanted to jine our church us 'zamined 'em, and if us didn't think dey was done ready to be tuk in de church, dey was told to wait and pray 'til dey had done seed de light. Anybody can jine up wid de church now, Missy, and it ain't right de way dey lets 'em come in widout 'zaminin' 'em. De good Lord sho' don't lak dat way of handlin' His church business. One of dem cand-i-dates was a mean Nigger and our preacher and deacons wouldn't let him in our church. Den he went over to another church and told 'em dat he had talked wid de Lord 'bout how us wouldn't let him jine up wid us, and he 'lowed dat de Lord said to him: 'Dat's all right. I done been tryin' to jine up in dat church for 15 years myself, and can't git in, so you go on and jine another church.' Dat other church let dat bad Nigger in and it warn't long 'fore dey had to turn him out, 'cause he warn't fittin' to be in no church.

"Our preacher used to give us parables. One of 'em was lak dis: 'I'se seed good cotton growin' in de grass.' He 'splained it dat dere was some good in de wust sinners. Another of his parables was: 'If you can't keep up wid de man at de foot, how is you gwine to keep up wid de higher-up folks?' Dat meant if you can't sarve God here below, how is you gwine to git along wid him if you gits to Heben? Our preacher told us to sarve both our marsters. De fust Marster was God, he said, and de other one was our white marster.

"I ain't never been inside no courtroom and don't never 'spect to be dar, 'cause, missy, I don't mind nobody's business but my own, and dat's all I can do.