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See first paragraph in interviewer's comment for residence
Age 90, or more
"I was born in Hempstead County, between Nashville and Greenville, in Arkansas, on the Military Road. Never
been outside the state in my life. I was born ninety years ago. I been here in Pulaski County nearly fifty-seven years.
"I was born in a old double log house chinked and dobbed. Mary a window and one door. I had a bedstead made
with saw and ax. Chairs were made with saw, ax, and draw knife. My brother Orange made the furniture. We kept
the food in boxes.
"My mother's name was Mandy Bishop, and my father's name was Jerry Bishop. I don't know who my grand folks
were. They was all Virginia folks---that is all I know. They come from Virginia, so they told me. My old master was
Harmon Bishop and when they divided the property I fell to Miss Evelyn Bishop.
"The first man that came through here writing us up for the Red Cross, I give him my age as near as I could. And
they kept that. You know peace was declared in 1865. They told me I was free. I got seared and thought that the
speculators were going to put me in them big droves and sell me down in Louisians. My old mistress said, 'You
fool, you are free. We are going to take you to your mammy.' I cried because I thought they was carrying me to see
my mother before they would send me to be sold in Louisiana.
My old mistress said she would whip me. But she didn't. When we got to my mother's, I said, 'How old is I?' She
said, 'You are sixteen.' She didn't say mouths, she didn't say years, she didn't say weeks, she didn't say days, she just
said, 'You are sixteen.' And my case worker told me that made me ninety years old.
"I was in Hempstead County on Harmon Bishop's plantation. It was Miss Polly, Harmon's wife, that told me I was
free, and give me my age.
"I know freedom come before 1865, because my brothers would tell me to come home from Nashville where I
would be sent to do ransing by my old mistress and master too to nurse for my young mistress.
"When my old master's property was divided, I don't know why---he wasn't dead nor nothin'---I fell to Miss Evelyn,
but I stayed in Nashville working for Miss Jennie Nelson, one of Harnon's daughters. Miss Jennie was my young
mistress. My brothers were already free. I don't know how Miss Polly came to tell me I was free. But my brothers
would see no and tell me to run away and come on home and they would protect me, but I was afraid to try it.
Finally Miss Polly found that she couldn't keep me any longer and she come and told me I was free. But I thought
that she was fooling me and just wanted to sell me to the speculators.
"My mother was the mother of twenty children and I am the mother of eighteen. My youngest is forty-five. I don't
know whether any of my mother's children is living now or not. I left than that didn't join the militia in Hempstead
County fifty-seven years ago. Them that joined the militia went off. I don't know nothin' about them. I have two
girls living that I know about. I had two boys went to France and I never heard nothin' 'bout what happened to them.
Nothing---not a word. Red Cross has hunted 'em, Police Mitchell humted 'em---police Mitshall in Little Rock. But I
ain't heard nothin' 'bout 'em.
"The first work I did was mursing and after that I was water toter. I reckom I was about seven or eight years old
when I first began to nurse. I could barely lift the baby. I would have to drag them 'round. Then I toted water to the
field. Then when I was put to plowing, and chopping cotton, I don't know exactly how old I was. But I know I was a
young girl and it was a good while before the War. I had to do anything that come up---thrashing wheat, sawing
logs, with a wristband on, lifting logs, splitting rails. Women in them days wasn't tender like they is now. They
would call on you to work like men and you better work too. My mother and father were both field hands.
"Oo-oo-oo-ee-ee-ee!! Man, the soldiers would pass our house at daylight, two deep or four deep, and be passing it
at sundown still marching making it to the next stockade. Those were Yankees. They didn't set no slaves free. When
I knowed anything about freedom, it was the Bureaus. We didn't know nothing like young folks do now.
"We hardly knowed our names. We was cussed for so many bitches and some of bitches and bloody bitches, and
blood of bitches. We never heard our names scarcely at all. First young man I want with wanted to know my initials.
What did I know 'bout initials? You ask 'em ten years old now, and they'll tell you. That was after the War.
Initials!!! "Have I seen slaves sold! Good God, man! I have seed them sold in droves. I have worn a buck and gag in
my mouth for three days for trying to run away. I couldn't cat nor drink---couldn't even catch the slobber that fell
from my mouth and run down my chest till the flies settled on it and blowed it. 'Scuse me but jus' look at those
places. (She pulled open her waist and showed scars where the maggots had eaten in---ed.)
"I been whipped from sunup till sundown. Off and on, you know. They whip me till they got tired and then they go
and res' and come out and start again. They kept a bowl filled with vinegar and salt and pepper settin' nearby, and
when they had whipped me till the blood come, they would take the mop and sponge the outs with this stuff so that
they would hurt more. They would whip me with the cowhide part of the time and with birch sprouts the other part.
There were splinters long as my finger left in my back. A girl named Betty Jones come over and soaped the splinters
so that they would be softer and pulled them out. They didn't whip me with a bull whips they whipped me with a
cowhide. They jus' whipped me 'cause they could---'cause they had the privilege. It wasn't nothin' I done they jus'
whipped me. My married young master, Joe, and his wife, Jennie, they was the ones that did the whipping. But I
belonged to Miss Evelyn.
"They had so many babies 'round there I couldn't keep up with all of them. I was jus' a young girl and I couldn't
keep track of all then chilen. While I was turned to one, the other would get off. When I looked for that one, another
would be gone. Then they would whip me all day for it. They would whip you for anything and wouldn't give you a
bite of meat to eat to save your life, but they'd grease your mouth when company come.
"We at out of a trough with a wooden spoon. Mush and milk. Cedar trough and long-handled cedar spoons. Didn't
know what meat was. Never got a taste of egg. Oo-ee? Weren't allowed to look at a biscuit. They used to make
sitrons. They were good too. When the little white chilen would be comin' home from school, we'd run to meet
these. They would say, 'whose nigger are you?' And we would say, 'Yor'ns' And they would say, 'No, you ain't.'
They would open those lunch baskets and show us all that good stuff they'd brought back. Hold it out and snatch it
back? Finally, they'd give it to us, after they got tired of playing.
"They're burying old Brother Jin Mullen over here today. He was an old man. They buried one here last
Sunday---eighty some odd. Brother Mullen had been sick for thirty years. Died settin' up---settin' up in a chair. The
old folks is dyin' fas'. Brother Smith, the husband of the old lady that brought you down here, he's in feeble health
too. Ain't been well for a long time.
"Look at that place on my head. (There was a knot as big as a hen egg---smooth and shiny--ed.) When it first
appeared, it was no bigger than a pea. I scratched it and then the hair commenced to fall out. I went to three doctors,
and been to the clinic too. One doctor said it was a busted vein. Another said it was a tumor. Another said it was a
wen. I know one thing. It don't hurt me. I can scratch it; I can rub it. (She scratched and rubbed it while I flinched
and my flesh crawled---ed.) But it's got me so I can't see and hear good. Dr. Junkins, the best doctor in the
community, told me not to 1st anybody out on it. Dr. Hicks wanted to take it off for fifty dollars.
I told him he'd let it stay on for nothin'. I never was sick in my life till a year ago. I used to weigh two hundred ten
pounds; now I weigh one hundred forty. I can lap up enough skin on my legs to go 'round 'em twice.
"Since I was sick a year ago, I haven't been able to get 'round any. I never been well since. The first Sunday in
January this year, I got worse settin' in the church. I can't hardly get 'round enough to wait on myself. But with what
I do and the neighbors' help, I gets along somehow.
"If it weren't for the mercy of the people through here, I would suffer for a drink of water. Somebody ran in on old
lady Chairs and killed her for her money. But they didn't get it, and we know who it was too. Somebody born and
raised right here 'mongst us. Since then I have been 'fraid to stay at home even.
"I had a fine five-room house and while I was down sick, my daughter sold it and I didn't get but twenty-nine
dollars out of it. She got the money, but I never seed it. I jus' lives here in these rags and this dirt and these old
broken-down pieces of furniture. I've got fine furniture that she keeps in her house.
"I get some help from the Welfare. They give me eight dollars. They give me commodities too. They give me six at
first, and they increased it. My case worker said she would try to git me some more. God knows I need it. I have to
pay for everything I get. Have to pay a boy to go get water for me. There's people that gits more 'n they need and
have plenty time to go fishin' but don't have no time to work. You see those boys there goin' fishin', but that's not
their fault. One of the merchants in town had them out off from work because they didn't trade with him.
"You gets 'round lots, son, don't you? Well, if you see anybody that has some old shoes they don't want, git 'em to
give 'em to me. I don't care whether they are men's shoes or women's shoes. Men's shoes are more comfortable. I
wear number sevens. I don't know what last. Can't you tell? (I suppose that her shoes would be seven E---ed.) I can't
live off eight dollar. I have to eat, git help with my washing, pay a child to go for my water, 'n everything. I got
these dresses give to me. They too small, and I got 'em laid out to be let out.
"You just come in any time; I can't talk to you like I would a woman; but I guess you can understand me."
Sallie Crane lives near the highway between Sweet Home and Wrightsville. Wrightsville post office, Lucinda Hays'
box. Molain Birch, 1711 Wolfe Street, Little Rook, knows the way to her house.
Her age is not less than ninety, because she hoed cotton and plowed before the War. If anything, it is more than the
ninety which she claims. Those who know her well say she must be at least ninety-five.
She has a good memory although she complains of her health. She seems to be pretty well dependent on herself and
the Welfare and is asking for old clothes and shoes as you will note by the story.
Interviewer Miss Irene Robertson"
