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Hanna Fambro, a checked gingham turban wound about her head and her astonishingly long hands smoothing down a well-starched plaid gingham dress, topped by the inevitable neck kerchief, presents the delightful picture of a real southern mammy.
A certain sense of timelessness is suggested by the placid figure at the window and as she hesitantly recalls her early days the listener is drawn back through the years with her. Once again life is being lived on a slavery plantation!
"Mammy an' me live on de plantation of Reuben Fambro, in Monroe Country, near Macon, Georgia. Wen Miss Nancy were married to Nathan Phillip my mammy went 'long ter care fo' de house and look aftah de fambly. She did de cooking, sewing and weaving. Wen she did de weaving she did nuttin' else all dat day. Aftah dark, she did de fambly washing. Oh yes, Nathan Phillip had lots of money an' hundreds of slaves --- but he kep his people in de fiel's.
"She was a good worker, my mammy, but one day Miss Nancy got all-fired 'bout sumpin' an' broke de broomstick ovah mammy's haid. Mammy wen' about her work but she kep' complainin' about her haid. A week after dat she dead and buried.
"A white preacher came fo' de funeral. De coffin was set out in de open, 'bout dat far from Massa's house." The old hand waved through the open window to the house on the opposite side of the narrow street. "All de people stood 'round de coffin in a circle, an' de preacher he say mammy a good niggah. Dat was mos' day evah say fo' a slave wen she be a good one. Usually dey don't say nuttin' --- jes' bury 'em.
"When Miss Lew were married to John Josey, de Massa he done gie me ter her. Oh yes, dat was befo' my mammy died --- I guess long befo'. I live 'bout a mile from mammy, an' wen she was washing after dark I cud see de light of her fire, an' den I'd slip into de bushes near Massa's house, an' peep, an' peep, an' peep until de lights ud go out, an' den I run down de road ter keep mammy company. 'Fraid? Yes, ma'am, I shu was 'fraid. Sometimes I run 'longside of de train dat run thru de plantation, so I hab company. I stay all night an' sleep wid my mammy, but I run back again befo' daylight so I don' get whipt.
"Mauss John he had a life pass for hisself and family ter ride on dat railraod --- it was called Central of Georgia ---'cause one time a train of cotton caught fire as it run thru de plantation, an' Mauss John he call out all his people an' day put out de fire, so Maus John he cud ride on de train whenever he feel like. Wen dat railread was built I worked on de gradin' 'long wid de other people of de plantation. Yes, ma'am, it was hard work.
"I pick cotton mos' de time, but sometimes wen it rain I shuck corn. We get up wen de morning star rises. De overseer he ring a bell, but we'd be 'round befo' dat mos' times. I was little gal wen dey put me in de cotton fiel, an' sometimes my haid ud go ovah on my shouldah I'd be dat sleepy, an' de overseer he say, 'Now, you Hannah, ef I ketch you idlin' any more I goin' ter wip you.' But he nevah did. I cud pick cotton so fas' aftah awhile I pick my 200 pounds an' help out ole Aunt Julie. I'd put great big han'fuls in Aunt Julie's bag so she don' git whipt.
"We call de overseer de ole man, even he be a verr' young un sometime. Ole man! Dat's what we call 'im.
"Breakfus'? Didn't had any 'less we save sumpin' from suppah de night befo'. Aftah we eat what dare was walk to da cotton fiel', 'bout three mile from de cabin. Sometime we hold our pone in our han' until we git to de fiel' den we set down an' eat. Sometime de overseer he come 'long and we jump up an' start pickin'. He say, 'Ain' you' eaten yet?' 'Set an' eat.'
"We work from sunup ter sundown. Dinner was sen' out ter us at noonday in a big tin dishpan an' we set ovah under a shady tree an' eat. What did we have? Oh, a little pork, wid peas or greens. Sunday mornings dey gib us cup of 'lasses and cup of rice. To dis day I don' like rice. What did I like bes'? None, I guess.
"Aftah sundown we go ter de big kitchen an' take a piece of pone bread from de oven, den we go ter de cabin an' eat it. Sometime we save a piece of pork 'bout like my thumb from noonday an' eatdat wid pone bread fo' supper. Sometimes we have a few greens an' pot liquor. How much pone? 'Bout size of my han'." And she measured off the bread by placing upright one simian-like hand and sawing across her waist with the other.
"I live in my sistah Fanny's cabin, 'bout de size of dis room." The upstairs bedroom in which the aged woman sat would perhaps take a 9 x 12 rug. "Dere was a bed in every corner, an' dere was a fireplace were we cooked some, an' a small table with a cupboard 'bove it. De chillun slep' on de floor.
"Kind of beds? Wen dey wants a bed dey goes outside an' cut down a couple of trees, den smooth 'em off a little, an' bring em in de cabin. Den dey lace 'em back an' fo'th, wid cord, 'til it holds de weight. Den dey fill a mattress bag wid nice sweet-muellin' hay. Day makes sof' bed --- nex' to feathers it is!
"We wore homespun dress, mos'ly Oldenburg, an' de sunbonnets dey was made of Oldenburg too, wid long tales that come ovah de shouldahs like a cape. Dey tied undah de chin, an' 'bout noonday dose sunbonnets ud make us so hot and keep off so much air dat we'd open de strings an' tie 'em on de top of our heads. This ud take de tale a little bit from 'round our neck. But ef we see de ole man comin' we'd drop 'em in a hurry 'cause he'd whip us ef he ketch dose tales up. You see, he 'fraid to have us get brain fever.
"Dose Oldenburg dresses was white an' de sunbonnets was white, an' de fiel' shuh was full of flappin' ghostes wen we all dere. Dose dresses shoh'd get dirty an' full of mud sometimes. De house gals had sumpin' like dis," and she raised the corner of her blue and white checked apron.
"Yes, ma'am, we had Sunday clothes, to go to church wid. They was made of Oldenburg, too, but sometime dey have green stripe like a palm tree. On Sunday we'd all walk togedder 'long de railroad track until we come to de church ---'bout a half mile 'way --- an' we look, an' dere, all roun' de church, was de hosses an' carriages of de white people. An' we slide down de railroad bank an' go in de side door, an' dere in dis corner was a few benches fo' colored folk, an' we set down, an' dere was de preacher, an' all aroun' was de white folks, an' we look, an' look, an' look. Yes, ma'am, it was a Baptis' church. Its name was Shiloh Church. Yes, ma'am, we sing an'bing, but I don' know now what we sing.
"Yes, we had shoes --- in wintah --- oh, jes' 'bout de kin' I wear now." And up came a little soft-soled black shoe of the type worn by grandmothers half a century ago.
"Dat overseer shuh tear you up --- wid his whip - if he ketch you idlin'." She chuckled deeply. "Sometimes Maus John he come in de fiel'. We cud see him comin' ovah de hill a half mile off, an' fus' one ter see 'im he tell de others, 'Better git goin'. Here comes Mauss.' An' we all work an' work an'work. But Maus John he smart. He see dat un turn his head an' tell, so he know, an' dat un he git whipt. I tell yo' I cud pick cotton jes' like dis." The long hands shot forth with incredible rapidity for the better half of a minute. "Oh, no, I nevah git whipt. I pick de cotton."
"Sometimes de colored folk dey fight back at de overseeers --- dose pore white trash. Even ole Aunt Julie she fight back sometime. But den dey all git whipt. Sometimes de young fellas fight an' fight an' den run fo' de woods, but wen dey git hungry an' come back dey git whipt jes' de same.
"Dere was one Dave Jossy an' he fight an' fight wen dey wan' ter put 'im in de buck. He'd tear open his shirt an' beat his chest an' holler. 'Here, shoot me an' be damned,' but de overseer he don' shoot, an' Dave he run fo' de woods. But he allers came back an' take dat whippin'.
"A buck? Oh, dat's wen dey wants ter give a re'lar hidin'. Dey ties de man's hands in front wid a rope, den dey make him stoop to de groun' so dat a long stick can be stuck undah de knees an' up ovah de arms at de elbows. Wen dat's done he's buckled so he can't do anythin' an' den dey roll him an' do anythin' dey want --- dis way an' dat way like a ball --- an' dey whip an' whip, 'til dey is satisfied. Wen dey loose him? Why, he go on down to de fiel' an' work to sundown.
"Shuh, dere's a jail on de plantation, an' wen you git in yo' can't git out, I tell you'. Great big iron door! Oh yes, ma'am, dere's openings in de door so yo' kin talk to 'em inside, but dey can't git out.
"Paddyrollers? Shuh, we know ' bout 'em. Sundays dey go up an' down de roads, up an' down. No one dare ter leave de place less he hab a note from de overseer. dose paddyrollers ketch one widdout a papah he git whipt right dere by the paddyrollers.
"Shuh, we see runaways. We don' like 'em much an' we all call 'em runaway niggahs. Sometimes wen dey hide in de woods an' git close to starvin' dey git purty des'pret an' dey dash out of dose woods befo' do po' fella know what has happen', they dash back in de woods. But we know what happen 'cause we git no dinner. What do we do? Why, we jes' wait till sundown and den go up to de big kitchen fo' pone.
"One time one o' dese runaways he scare us so we nearly die. Aftah sundown we uster go up an' get porbe an' eat a bit an' den go down to de branch an' wash our clothes. Yes, ma'am, we had hot water --- we done built a good fire down there an' heat water. Wal, Lucy an' me was a-washin'. an' I was a-rubbin', an' a rubbin' an' a-rubbin'" The turbaned head bent low over two doubled hands rhythmically rubbing against each other. "an' all of a suddent dat gal Lucy she holler, 'Handalula, Handalula,' an' I jes' jump right ovah dat wash tub, I dat scairt. I say, 'What de mattah wi' yo??, gal?' An' she say, "Didn you' see sumpin?" I said, 'No, I didn' see nuthin'.
"Wal, we jes' lef' dat washin' right that, I tell yo', an' we run an' holler fo' de Maussa, de boss-man, an' we tell 'im what happen, an' de boss-man he git all de men out, an' dey look an' look, an' nex' day dey ketch dat niggah in de woods. Aftah dat, two 'oomans was 'lowed ter leave de fiel' half an hour befo' sundown, so de cud get der washin' done befo' it were too dark.
"Ef we was sick? Oh, we nevah tel' unless we was Awful sick, 'cause dey allers make us take caster oil fus' --- a great big dose --- an' den if we was still sick Maussa he git de doctor. Dey keep us well if dey can, so's dey can git de work out o' us.
"Ghosts?" The amazing resonance of the voice faded out to a sort of murmur. "Yes, I see white figgers out in de fiel' many a time. Yes, I seed 'em. What kin'? I don' know. Dere was nevah any need to go near 'em. We ud look an' look an' aftah awhile dey's jes' sink down in de groun' like dis.
"No, ma'am, I nevah seen slaves bein' sold --- dat was done up at de big house ---but I seed 'em plenty times leavin de place aftah dey'd been sold, or wen dey's a-bein' taken to de markets. Dey jus' look like cows a-bein' herded 'long de road as dey wen' 'long from one market place ter another, until they was sold.
"Christmas?" A smile flitted over the old face, "We had dat day off, an' I 'member we'd go up in de woods a-huntin' fo' chestnuts and chinkapins. Chinkapins? Dose are nuts, too.
"Work songs? Yes, ma'am, we had 'em --- songs that ud move wid de work, but I don' know any of 'em now. Dare was plenty of singin' allers --- aftah sundown, on Sundays, in de fiel' --- mos' any old time. But I don' know any of 'em now.
"Yes, ma'am, we know all 'bout dey war dat was goin' ter set us free 'cause one of de men cud read. De overseer he don' know it, though. No one was 'lowed to read or write. If dey ketch yo' writin' dey'd cut yer fingah off. Wal, dis overseer he'd go in to supper at sundown, an' he'd leave his paper in his pocket, 'cause he nevah know dat man cud read. De man ud go ovah an' take de paper out o' de pocket an' read to us --- all 'bout de war, an' Abraham Lincoln, an' ole Jeff Davis. Nevah had any use fo' dat ole Jeff anyhow 'cause folks say he so mean. Wen dat overseer he come back aftah supper we'd all be laughin' and talkin', an' he look at us an' he couldn't understan' what ud come ovah us, but we know all 'bout dat war. Yes, ma'am!
"Yes, we done saw Yankee sojers. We done saw 'em wen day burn down de crib an' gin house 'cause Maussa wouldn't do dere biddin'. I don' seems ter know what dey did wan' him ter do.
"I was 22 years old wen de war am ovah am' we all was turned off de place wid jes' our han's ---jes' two han's, dat's all --- an' Miss Lew, she say if she has her way she'd put millstones 'bout our necks, tight so dey couldn't come off, an' throw us in de river. Dat's wat she say."
"Fus' money I owned was $4.00 a month I git on de job I had aftah I was freed. For dat $4.00 I git de white folks' breakfus' ready by time de mornin' star rises. Den, jes'as soon as it was light I'd plough, den later I come back into de house an' do all de work dere. I'll never forgit one mornin' wen it was too dark ter go out an' plow an' I was waitin' for dem to come to breakfus'. I lay down on de settle an' dozed fo' a minute, an', land sakes, what a holler dey made 'bout dose 40 winks.
"I was married aftah dat to William Fambro. Billy live on a place close by. A white preacher he come to whar I was workin' an' married us. I only see Billy on Saturday nights. Rest of time I work an' he work. In slave times dey didn' 'low us ter have a preacher. De overseer he jes' call de man an' de 'ooman up to de house an' tell 'em dey cud live together.
"Later we rent a little place near Lorain, Georgia. We give 'em two 500-pound bales of cotton fo' rent every year. We pick cotton from beginnin' of September to Christmas. 'Bout September de fus' bolls ud crack an' we'd pick dat cotton, an' it ud go on dat way till 'bout Christmas.
"Billy died in 1907 an' from den on until 1918, wen I wen' up to New York, four gals an' myself worked de place. A grandson helped wid de plowing wen he got ter be 10 years ole. But dat grandson was drowned in de Hudson River wen he was 21, ane I've nevah been really well since. De doctor he say it affec' my nervous system.
"We had mighty tough times on dat farm sometimes. In January, wen it too cold to start farmin' I split cord wood an' my husband he pile it roun' de fire to dry an' he cart it to de city an' sell it, an' dat ud tide us over a little.
"Sometimes I get a little day's work wid white folks an' dey give me meat scraps an' other things fer de chillun, an' wen I'd be gettin' 'long toward home I'd see 'em that waiting fot me, an' I'd call to 'em, 'Mammy's comin'. She's got some meat to grease yo' little stomachs one more time.'
"I had eight livin' chillun, two sons an' six gals. Dare is 41 grandchillun, younges' bein' six weeks ole.
"Yes, ma'am, I sews an' knits an' makes patchwork quilts, so I keep busy mos' of de time. No, ma'am, I don' have a need fo' space."
Hardening of the arteries causes Hanna much discomfort and at times seriously interfers with her memory, but on the whole, she is in wonderful condition. Remarkably few wrinkles trace the broad face --- instead, age has stretched the skin taut from one high cheek bone to the other, like fine old parchment --- and her smile shows an almost perfect accounting of strong white teeth.
Hanna lives with her widowed daughter, Mamie Jones, in a quiet residential section of the so-called Cleveland Black Belt. The long block of single homes seems to have deteriorated very little since the colored people took it over. The houses seem to be in good repair, and each one shows a well-kept front lawn and flower beds, while many of the porches have thriving flower boxes. Mamie Jones is buying the house in which they live, trying to complete the investment she and her husband started. She has been keeping her mother, with little or no help from the other children, for the last few years. Hanna, the mother, has not worked for the past 20 years, but the children have not forgotten that she worked "like a hoss" for many years to give them food and shelter, and they respect and love her for it.
The family is now widely scattered. Carrie, now 59 and married, lives and works in New York. Cora, who is 65 years old, lives with Carrie. Ronda Franklin, another daughter, lives in Detroit and is at present on relief. Fanny Fambro, single, is in domestic service in CHicago. Johnny, who is 67, is in Lorain, Georgia. Living in Cleveland are Will Fambro, a plasterer's helper, 56 years old, and Lillie, 48 years old, who has just started a home bakery.
There is little money in the family, but there are close ties here, both between the mother and her children and between the children themselves. The daughter with whom Hanna lives is an intelligent woman. When asked about the ghost stories she smiled and said, "Oh, yes, some of our people still believe in them --- just about the way the white folks used to believe in witches."
Fanny Fambro, who is here visiting her mother, is of a more credulous nature. When asked about "hants"she smiled gently and murmured, "Dere's some as still sees an hears 'em. Yes, ma'am, I seed 'em wan we live on de place in de South. Mammy could see 'em but she couldn' hear 'em. What did she see? Oh, animals an' sech --- dogs with red eyes. Once we seed a headless man. It was jes' at dusk an' we were sittin' roun' an' we seed dis man come down de road an' step over whar we wah. Mammy says, "I wonder who dat is." And we girls says, 'Why, mammy, don' you see dat man has no head?' But it didn't look dat way to her --- she could see a head. Finally, one of de neighborsh come down de road, an' de man jes' sink right down into de groun'.
"No, I never saw anythin' aftah I wen' to New York, but I heerd one. I work for a Mrs. Crawford, an' she call me an' she say, 'Fanny, who went upstairs?' I say, 'Why, nobody can go upstairs, Mrs. Crawford, fo' de bolt is on de front door.' But she say she heard somebody go up, so I go up an' look, but nobody was dere.
"But, when I got in bed I heard him undah de bed, crying, 'Who-o-o-o! 'Who-o-o-o! I was so scairt but I git out of bed and look undah, an' dere was nuthin' dere, so den I git back in bed, an' dere it was again, 'Who-o-o-o! Who-o-o-o!' So, I git out an' go over an' look de door, an' wen I git back in bed I hear dat lock turn back but I see nobody, an' den it started again, 'Who-o-o-o! Who-o-o-o!' An' right then I say, "In de name of de Father, an' de Son, an' de Holy Ghost."
An' it stopped right there an' I never heard anything since.
"Wen I tell Mrs. Crawford de nex' morning, she say a man died dere once, an' she think it him."
The birth certificate furnished Hanna by "Mauss John" Josey shows her to be in her 95th year, while the Federal Census of 1900, taken in Bibb County, Hazard District, State of Georgia, gives May, 1850, as her birth date --- a slight difference which detracts little from her imposing fullness of years.
Wade Glenn (Miriam Logan, Compiling Walter Richardson, Revising Former Slave Interviews District # 2 Harry Graff - Cincinnati)
