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Milledgeville, Georgia (Baldwin County)
"Howdy, Miss, Howdy. Come on in. George is poly today. My grandchillun is doin' a little cleanin' up fer me 'cause us thinks George ain't got long on this earth an' us don' want de place ter be dirty an' all when he's gone."
The home of Aunt Carrie and Uncle George Mason, a two-room cabin surrounded by a dirty yard, stands in a clearing. Old tin cans, bottles, dusty fruit jars, and piles of rat-tail cotton from gutted mattresses littered the place. An immense sugarberry tree, beautifully proportioned, casts inviting shade directly in front of the stoop. It is the only redeeming feature about the premises. Aunt Carrie, feeble and gray haired, hobbled out in the yard with the aid of a stick.
"Have a seat, Miss. Dat cheer is all right. It won't fall down. Don't git yo' feet wet in dat dirty water. My grandchillun is scourin' terday. Effen yer want to, us'll set under de tree. Dey's a cool breeze dar all de time.
"You wants to fin' out my age an' all? Law Miss, I don' know how ole I is. George is nigh 'bout 90. I 'members my mammy said I was bawn a mont' or two 'fore freedom was 'clared. Yas'um I rekymembers all 'bout de Yankees.
How cum I 'members 'bout dem an' de war was over den? I cain't tell yer dat, but I knows I'members seein' 'em in de big road. It mought not uv been Mister Sherman's mens but mammy said de Yankees was In de big road long after freedom was 'clared, an' dey was down here gettin' things straight. Dey was sho' in er mess atter de war! Evvythin' was tore up an' de po' niggers didn't know which away to turn.
"My mammy's name was Catherine Bass an' my pappy was Ephriam Butts. Us b'longed ter Mars' Ben Bass an' my mammy had de same name ez marster 'til she ma'ied pappy. He b'longed ter somebody else 'til marster bought him. Dey had ten chillun. No, mam, Mammy didn't have no doctor," Aunt Carrie chuckled, "Didn't nobody hardly have a doctor in dem days. De white folks used yarbs an' ole 'omans to he'p 'em at dat time. Mammy had er ole 'oman whut lived on de place evvy time she had a little 'un. She had one evvy year too. She lost one. Dat chile run aroun' 'til she was one year ole an' den died wid de disentery.
"Us had er right hard time in dem days. De beds us used den warn't like dese here nice beds us has nowadays. Don't you laugh, Berry, I knows dese beds us got now is 'bout to fall down," Aunt Carrie admonished her grandson when he guffawed at her statement, "You chilluns run erlong now an' git thoo' wid dat cleanin'." Aunt Carrie's spirits seemed dampened by Berry's rude laugh and it was several minutes before she started talking again. "Dese young folks don't know nuthin' 'bout hard times. Us wukked in de ole days frum before sunup 'til black night an' us knowed whut wuk was. De beds us slep' on had roun' postes made cuten saplins of hickory or little pine trees. De bark was tuk off an' dey was rubbed slick an' shiny. De sprangs was rope crossed frum one side uv de bed to de udder. De mattress was straw or cotton in big sacks made outen osnaberg or big salt sacks pieced tergether. Mammy didn't have much soap an' she uster scrub de flo' wid sand an' it was jes ez white. Yas mam, she made all de soap us used, but it tuk a heap. We'uns cooked in de ashes an' on hot coals, but de vittals tasted a heap better'n dey does nowadays. Mammy had to wuk in de fiel' an' den cum home an' cook fer marster an' his fambly. I didn' know nuthin' 'bout it 'till atter freedom but I hyearn 'em tell 'bout it.
"Mammy an' pappy stayed on Marster's plantation 'til a year or mo' atter dey had dey freedom. Marster paid 'em wages an' a house ter stay in. He didn't hav' many slaves, 'bout 20, I reckon. My brothers was Berry, Dani'l, Ephriam, Pully, Bob. Lin, an' George. De yuchers I disremembers caze dey lef' home when dey was big enough to earn dey livin' an' I jes don't recollec'.
"Conjur' woman! Law miss, I aims ter git ter Hebem when I dies an' I show don't know how ter conjur' nobody. No mam, I ain't never seed no ghost. I allus pray to de Lord dat He sper' me dat trouble an' not let me see nary one. No good in folks plunderin' on dis earth atter dey leave here de fus time. Go 'way, dog."
A spotted hound, lean and flop-eared was scratching industriously under Aunt Carrie's chair. It was a still summer day and the flies droned ceaselessly. A well nearby creaked as the dripping bucket was drawn to the top by a granddaughter who had come in from the field to get a cool drink. Aunt Carrie watched the girl for a moment and then went back to her story.
"Effen my mammy or pappy ever runned away from Marster. I ain't heered tell uv it, but Mammy said dat when slaves did run away, dey was cotched an' whupped by de overseer. Effen a man or a 'oman kils another one den dey was branded wid er hot i'on. Er big S was put on dey face somewhars. S stood fer 'slave, ' an' evvybody knowed dey was er mudderer. Marster din't have no overseer; he overseed hisself.
"Why is George so white? 'Cause his marster was er white genemun named Mister Jimmie Dunn. His mammy was er cullud 'cman name' Frances Mason an' his marster was his paw. Yas mam, I see you is s'prised, but dat happ'ned a lots in dem days. I hyeared tell of er white man whut would tell his sons ter 'go down ter dem nigger quarters an' git me mo' slaves." Yas mam, when George was borned ter his mammy, his pappy was er white man an' he made George his overseer ez soon ez he was big e'nuf ter boss de yuther slaves. I wish he was able to tell yer 'bout it, but since he had dat las' stroke he ain's been able ter talk none."
Aunt Carrie took an old clay pipe from her apron pocket and filled it with dry scraps of chewing tobacco. After lighting it she puffed quietly and seemed to be meditating. Finally she took it from her mouth and continued.
"I ain't had no eddication. I 'tenden school part of one term but I was so skairt of my teacher that I couldn't larn nuthin'. He was a ole white man. He had been teachin' fer years an' years, but he had a cancer an' dey had done stopped him frum teachin' white chillun'. His name was Mister Bill Greer. I was skairt 'cause he was a white man. No mam, no white man ain't never harmed me, but I was skairt of him enyhow. One day he says to me, 'chile I ain't goin to hurt yer none' 'cause I'm white.' He was a mighty good ole man. He would have larned us mo' but he died de nex' year. Mammy paid him ten cents a mont' a piece fer all us chillun. De boys would wuk fer dey money but I was the onliest gal an' Mammy wouldn't let me go off de plantation to make none. Whut I made dar I got, but I didn't make much 'til atter I ma'ied.
"Law honey, does yer want to know 'bout my ma'ige? Well, I was 16 years ole an' I had a preacher to ma'y me. His name was Andrew Brown. In dem days us allus waited 'til de time of year when us had a big meetin' or at Chris'mus time. Den effen one of us wanted ter git mai'ed, he would perform' de weddin' atter de meetin' or atter Chris'mus celebratin'. I had er bluish worsted dress. I mai'ed in Jannywerry, right atter Chris'mus. At my mai'ge us had barbecue, brunswick stew, an' cake. De whole yard was full uv folks.
"Mammy was a 'ligous 'oman an' de fust day of Chris'mus she allus fasted ha'f a day an' den she would pray. Atter dat evvybody would hav' eggnog an' barbecue an' cake effen dey had de money to buy it. Mammy said dat when dey was still slaves Marster allus gived 'em Chris'mus, but atter dey had freedom den dey had ter buy dey own rations. Us would have banjer playin' an' dance de pijen-wing and de shuffle-toe.
"No mam, George's pa didn' leave him no lan' when he died. Us went ter another farm an' rented when de mai'ge was over. George's pa warn't dead, but he didn't offer to do nuthin' fer us.
"Yas'um, I'se had eight chilluns of my own. Us ain' never had no lan' us could call our'n. Us jes moved from one farm ter another all our days. This here lan' us is on now 'longs ter Mr. Cline. My son an' his chillun wuks it an' dey give us whut dey kin spare. De Red Cross lady he'ps us an' us give along somehow or nother."
PLANTATION LIFE
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