"I get a little assistance from the Welfare, and I get some commodities.
If it wasn't for that, I would be broke up."
[HW: Brooks-Baxter War was about 1872-74.]
Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson
Person interviewed: Malindy Robinson
8th Street, West Memphis, Arkansas
Age: 61
"I was born in Wilkerson County, Mississippi. My ma never was sold, She
said she was eleven years old when peace was declared. Master Sims was
grandma's owner. Grandpa was never sold. He was born in Mississippi. He
was a mulatto man. He was a man worked about the house and grandma was a
field woman. She said she never was whooped but worked mighty hard. They
was good to grandma. She lived in the quarters. My parents b'long to the
same owner. But far as I ever knowed they married long after freedom.
They was raised close to Woodville, Mississippi."
Interviewer: Mary D. Hudgins
Person interviewed: Tom Robinson
Aged: 88
Home: Lives with his son on outskirts of Hot Springs
As I entered Goldstein Grade school for colored I passed an old
fellow sitting on the sidewalk. There was somthing of that venerable,
dignified, I've-been-a-slave look about him, so much of it that I almost
stopped to question him. Inside I entered a classroom, where a young
woman was in conference with a couple of sheepish youngsters who had
been kept in after school.
Did she know the whereabouts of any ex-slaves? She beamed. Only the
other day an old man had appeared on the school grounds. She appealed to
her charges. Didn't they remember that she had told them about him and
about what slavery had meant. Sheepish looks were gone. They were agog
with interest. Yes 'um, they remembered. But none of the three knew his
name or where to find him.
Another teacher entered the room. No, she couldn't remember the name.
But the old man often came up to watch the children at play. He said it
made him happy to see them getting opportunities he never could have
had. Wait a minute--he might be outside at this very moment. A clatter
of heels and calls of triumph. "Yes! Yes! Here he is!"
Outside I dashed to _drop flat on the sidewalk_[HW:?] beside the
aged man I had passed a few minutes before. Out came my smile and a
notebook. With only a few preliminaries and amenities the interview was
in full swing. It neither startled nor confused him, to have an excited
young woman plant herself on a public sidewalk at his side and demand
his life's story. A man who had belonged to three different masters
before the age of 15 was inured to minor surprises. Tom Robinson long
since learned to take life as it came.
He is quite deaf in one ear and hears poorly with the other. Nobody
within a quarter of a block could have been in doubt of what was going
on. A youth moved closer. The kept-after-school pair emerged from the
building and stood near us, goggle-eyed thruout the interview. When
we were finished, Robinson turned to the children and gave them, a
grandfatherly lecture about taking advantage of their opportunities,
a lecture in which the white woman sitting beside him joined
heartily--drawing liberally on comments of ex-slaves in recent
interviews concerning the helplessness felt in not being able to write
and read letters from well loved friends.
"Where was I born, ma'am? Why it's my understanding that it was Catawba
County, North Carolina. As far as I remember, Newton was the nearest
town. I was born on a place belonging to Jacob Sigmens. I can just
barely remember my mother. I was not 11 when they sold me away from her.
I can just barely remember her.
"But I do remember how she used to take us children and kneel down in
front of the fireplace and pray. She'd pray that the time would come
when everybody could worship the Lord under their own vine and fig
tree--all of them free. It's come to me lots of times since. There she
was a'praying, and on other plantations women was a'praying. All over
the country the same prayer was being prayed. Guess the Lord done heard
the prayer and answered it.
"Old man Sigmens wasn't a bad master. Don't remember so much about him.
I couldn't have been 11 when he sold me to Pickney Setzer. He kept me
for a little while and then he sold me to David Robinson. All three of
them lived not so far apart in North Carolina. But pretty soon after he
bought me old men Dave Robinson moved to Texas. We was there when the
war started. We stayed there all during the war. I was set free there.
"We lived in Cass County. It was pretty close to the Arkansas border,
and 'twasn't far from Oklahoma--as is now. I remember well when they was
first gathering them up for the war. We used to hear the cannon often.
Was I afraid? To be sure I was scared, right at first. Pretty soon we
got used to it. Somebody even made up a song, 'Listen to the Home-made
Thunder'. They'd sing it every time the cannon started roaring.
"No, ma'am, there never was any fighting right around us. I never really
saw any fighting. Old man Dave Robinson was good to me. He didn't have
a big farm--just owned me. Treated me almost like I was one of his own
children. Course, I had to work. Sometimes he whipped me--but no more
than he had to. I was just a child and any child has got to be made to
mind. He was good to me, and old Miss was good to me. All my masters was
pretty good to me--lots better than the usual run. Which one I like the
best. Well, you might know. I kept the name Robinson, and I named my son
Dave. You might know which one I think the most of.
"One day I was out milking the cows. Mr. Dave come down into the field,
and he had a paper in his hand. 'Listen to me, Tom,' he said, 'listen to
what I reads you.' And he read from a paper all about how I was free.
You can't tell how I felt. 'You're jokin' me.' I says. 'No, I ain't,'
says he. 'You're free.' 'No,' says I, 'it's a joke.' 'No,' says he,
'it's a law that I got to read this paper to you. Now listen while I
read it again.'
"But still I wouldn't believe him. 'Just go up to the house,' says he,
'and ask Mrs. Robinson. She'll tell you.' so I went. 'It's a joke,' I
says to her. 'Did you ever know your master to tell you a lie?' she
says. 'No,' says I, 'I ain't.' 'Well,' she says, 'the war's over and
you're free.'
"By that time I thought maybe she was telling me what was right. 'Miss
Robinson,' says I, 'can I go over to see the Smiths?'--they was a
colored family that lived nearby. 'Don't you understand,' says she,
'you're free. You don't have to ask me what you can do. Run along
child.'
"And so I went. And do you know why I was a'going? I wanted to find out
if they was free too." (a chuckle and toothy smile) "I just couldn't
take it all in. I couldn't believe we was all free alike.
"Was I happy? Law Miss. You can take anything. No matter how good you
treat it--it wants to be free. You can treat it good and feed it good
and give it everything it seems to want--but if you open the cage--it's
happy.
"What did I do after the war was over? I farmed. I farmed all my life,
'til I got too old. I stopped three--four years ago. I lives with my
son--Dave Robinson--the one I named for my master.
"How did I farm? Did I share crop? No, ma'am!" (Sharply as tho
repramanding the inquirer for an undeserved insult.) "I didn't share
crop, except just at first to get a start. I rented. I paid thirds and
fourths. I always rented. I wasn't a share-cropper.[A]
[A: Socially and economically sharp distinctions are drawn between the
different classes of renters, both by owners and tenants themselves.
Families whom ambition and circumstances have allowed to accumulate
enough surplus to buy farm implements and have food for a year ahead
look with scorn on fellow farmers who thru inertia or bad luck must be
furnished food and the wherewithall to farm. In turn, families that have
forged ahead sufficiently to be able to pay cash rent on farms they
cultivate look down On both of the other groups.]
"It was awful hard going after the war. But I got me a place--had to
share-crop for a year or two. But I worked hard and saved all I could.
Pretty soon I had me enough that I could rent. I always raised the usual
things--cotton and corn and potatoes and a little truck and that sort of
thing--always raised enough to eat for us and the stock--and then some
cotton for a cash crop.
"My first wife, well it was kind of funny; I wasn't more than 19. She
had 11 children. Some of them was older than I was. No ma'am it wasn't
so hard on me. They was all old enough to take care of themselves. I
lived with that woman for 17 years. Then she died.
"I been married five times. Three of my children are living. One's
here--that's Dave. Then there's one in Texarkana and there's one in
Kansas City. Two of my children's dead. The youngest died just about
last year. All my wives are dead.
"Almost every day I comes up to sit here and watch the children. It does
me good to see 'em. Makes me feel good all over to think about all the
fine chance they has to get a good education. Sonny, you hear me? You
pay attention too, sonny. I'm watching you--you and all the other little
boys. You mind me. You learn all you can. You ought to be so thankful
you allowed to learn that you work hard. You mind me, sonny. When you're
grown up, you'll know what I'm talking about--and know I'm right. Run
along, sonny. No use hanging around the school yard too long."
Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson
Person interviewed: Isom Rogers, Edmondson, Arkansas
Age: 67
"I was born in Tunica County, Austin, Mississippi. I been in Edmondson,
Arkansas ten years. I come to do better. Said farming was good here. My
folks' owners was Master Palmer and George Rogers. My parents was never
sold. They was young folks in slavery time and at time of freedom. They
was farm hands. Their names was Pat and Ely Rogers.
"I heard him say he made palings and went 'round mending the fences when
the ground was froze. He made boards to cover the houses with too--I
heard him say. He was strong and worked all the time at some jobs. Never
heard mother say very much.
"I been farming and I have worked on quarter-boat and back farming. I
been here ten years."
Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson
Person interviewed: Oscar James Rogers, Wheatley, Arkansas
Age: Up in 70's
"I come to dis state in 1885. I run off from my parents back in North
Carolina. They was working in a turpentine forest there.
"When freedom was declared my folks heard 'bout a place where money was
easy to make. So they walked from down close to Charleston up there and
carried the children. I was 'bout nine or ten years old. I liked the
farm so I left the turpentine farm. I got to rambling round and finally
got to Arkansas. I run off from my folks cause they kept staying there.
I was a child and don't recollect much 'bout slavery. I was at the
quarters wid all the children. My mother b'longed to Bob Plat and my
father to a man named Rogers. My father could get a pass and come to see
us every Sunday providin' he didn't go nowhere else or stop long the
road. He came early and stay till bedtime. We all run to meet him. He
kiss us all in bed when he be leavin'.
"I heard them say they 'spected a home and freedom but when the time
come they master forgot 'bout home cause they just took the few clothes
in bundles and left. Then they had a hard time 'cause they never thought
how freedom would be. They never axed for nothin' and they never got
nothin'. They didn't understand how to hustle lest somebody tell them
what to do next. They did have a hard time and it was cold and rocky
up in North Carolina to what they had been used to down close to
Charleston.
"When I got out to Arkansas I like it better than any country I seed and
I say 'I'm stayin' here.' I meant to go back but I married and didn't
get no money ahead for a long time. Then I had a family of 11 children.
Jes' 'fore I married I got to go to school four months' close to Cotton
Plant, where I married.
"When I was young I sho could knock off de work. I cummulated 80 acres
land in Lee County. I paid $900 for it, got in debt and had let it fur
'bout ($247.50) Two hundred forty-seven and a half dollars. All I got
outen it. I had a bad crop and had a little provision bill. I made on
time, man agreed to run me on then took it 'bout all.
"Then I still was a strong man an' we bought 40 acres 14 miles from
Cotton Plant and I had it 27 years. Then lost it.
"My second wife owned a house and garden at Wheatley half a mile or so
from town. We live over there. Our children all gone. She say she cooked
and washed and farmed for it. It cost $100.00.
"I could do heap work if I could get it. Old man can't get 'nuff regular
work to cover my house or buy me a suit closes. The Government gives me
$10.00 a month. That's a help out but it don't go fir high as provisions
is. Me an' the old woman both too feeble to do much hard work. I gets
all the odd jobs the white folks give me. Misses, I ain't lazy, I jess
gettin' old and not able to hold out to do much. Whut I could do they
give it to the young fellows cause they do it in a hurry.
"I used to vote right smart when they needed me to help out. I voted
for Hoover. Don't think it right the way the men settin' round and deir
wives workin' fer livin' and votin'. The women can vote if they want to
but I don't think it right. Seems lack the cart in front ob de horse
now.
"It wouldn't do no more good to vote in the Primary than it do in the
General election. It don't do much good nohow.
"Fur as I ever knowed the slaves had no uprisin's. They thought well
enough of their masters. Everybody worked then hard as they could. The
master he worked all time in the shop making things jess like he needed,
boards and handles, plows and things. Missus, everybody worked hard dem
days, both black and white, and that is the reason folks had plenty. The
old grandmas done work whut suited them and helped out. Now lack me, I
can't get the right work whut I able to do 'nuff to keep me livin'. It
is bad.
"If times was bad as they was few years ago all old folks done been
rotten, starved to death. Times is better but they sho ain't all right
yet.
"This young generation livin' so fast they stop thinkin'. They do well
to keep livin' their selves. They wastes a heap they outer save fur
rainy days. They ain't takin' no advice from old folks. I don't know
whut goiner become of them."
Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson
Person interviewed: Will Ann Rogers
R.F.D., Brinkley, Arkansas
Age: 70
"I was born three years after the surrender. I was born at Fryers Point,
Mississippi. The reason I ain't got the exact date when I was born, my
ma put it down in the Bible and the house burned up and everything in it
burned to ashes. No mam she got somebody what could write real nice to
write all the names and ages for her.
"When ma was a young woman, she said they put her on a block and sold
her. They auctioned her off at Richmond, Virginia. When they sold her,
her mother fainted or drapped dead, she never knowed which. She wanted
to go see her mother lying over there on the ground and the man what
bought her wouldn't let her. He just took her on. Drove her off like
cattle, I recken. The man what bought her was Ephram Hester. That the
last she ever knowed of any of her folks. She say he mated 'em like
stock so she had one boy. He livin' down here at Helena now. He is Mose
Kent. He was born around Richmond, Virginia jes' lack dat she say.
"When it nearly 'bout time for freedom a whole army of Yankees come by
and seed Mose working. They told him if he come go wid them they give
him that spotted horse and pair red boots. He crawled up on the horse
an' was gone wid 'em for a fact she said. She started right after them,
following him. She followed them night and day. She nearly starved, jess
begged 'long the road all she could. I heard her say how fast she have
to walk to keep on trail of 'em and how many nights. She say some nights
when they camped she would beg 'round and try to fill up. But she
couldn't get to Mose without them seein' her. When they got to Fryers
Point she went an' got him. They jess laughed and never give him
nuthin'. They left that army fast as they could she say.
"She married at Fryers Point. She had jes' one boy and I had four or
five sisters. They all dead but me and Mose. He think he 'bout ninety
years old. He come here to see me last year. He sho is feeble.
"How come I here? When I was fourteen years old my family heard how fine
this State was and moved to Helena. I lived at Moro and Cotton Plant.
Then, the way I come here was funny. A man come up there and say a free
train was comin' to go back to Africa. All who wanted to go could go. My
pa sold out 'bout all we had an' we come here lack they say. No train
come yet goin' to Africa as I seed. My pa give the white man $5.00 to
pay fer the train. Tom Watson was one of 'em too. He was a sorter leader
'mong 'em wantin' to go back. Well when the day come that the train due
to start everybody come to the depot whar the train going to stop.
There was a big crowd. Yes mam, dressed up, and a little provisions and
clothes fixed up. Jes' could take along a little. They say it would
be crowded so. We stayed around here a week or two waitin' to hear
somethin' or be ready to go. Most everybody stayed prutty close to the
depot for two or three days. Yes mam there sho was a crowd--a whole big
train full from here 'sides the other places. I jes' stayed here an'
been here ever since. The depot agent, he told 'em he didn't know 'bout
no train going to Africa. The tickets was no good on his trains.
"How I owns this place, I'll tell you. A man here had all dis land
'round here (Negro town) laid off. He couldn't sell none of his lots.
They wouldn't buy his lots. So he got after me. We had made a good crop,
so I got up the money and bought this place. One hundred dollars is what
I give him. Others then started to settlin' in and about close to my
place.
"I guess it was Spotsells in Virginia what raised her. She say her name
was Lizzie Spotsell Johnson. Then when Ephram Hester bought her they
learned her to do about in their house. She cooked and swept and knocked
flies and tended to the children. She stayed with 'em a pretty long time
till she run off and went to Fryers Point.
"She may have told us about the Nat Turner rebellion but I don't
remember it. They sung a lot in my mother's time. Seemed lack they was
happier than we are somehow. She sung religious songs and one or two
field songs. I don't recollect 'em now.
"I never did vote. I never cared nuthin' about it. Some of 'em 'round
here wouldn't miss votin' for nothin'.
"Lawd me, chile, the times is done run ahead of me now. I'm so fur
behind I never expect to catch up. I don't pay no more attention to the
young folks, the way they act now, 'an I do my little dog there. They
don't want no advice and I would be afraid I would 'vise 'em wrong.
When my children come I tell 'em you are grown and you knows right from
wrong. Do right. That's all I know to say.
"The way I am supported is my husband gets all the jobs he able to do
and can and the governmint give me an' him $10 a month. We has a little
garden."
Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson
Person interviewed: William Henry Rooks
Baptist Preacher; Brinkley, Arkansas
Age: 84
The slaves didn't spect nothing but freedom. Jes freedom! In Africa they
was free as wild animals and then they was so restricted. Jes put in
bondage for no reason at all.
No plantations was divided. I was born a slave and I remembers right
smart how it was.
My master was John Freeman and his wife's name was Fannie. I went to
Como, Mississippi twice a week to get the mail all durin the war. It was
eight miles. I rode a pony.
If you go to church you have to have a pass from the master. The
pattyrollers see you and you have to show it to them. It was just a
note. If you didn't have it they take or send you home. If they catch
you any more without a pass they whip you. They come to the church and
in all public places like the police stands around now. They rode around
mostly. Sometimes they went in droves.
They would let you go visiting sometimes and exchange work. Some masters
was good and some was mean jess like they are now and some slaves good
and some bad. That is the way they are now.
Some of the white men had a hundred slaves and had plenty money. The war
broke nearly all of them. The very worse thing I ever knowed about it
was some white men raised hands to sell like they raise stock now. It
was hard to have your child took off and never see or hear tell of it.
Mean man buy it and beat it up. Some of them was drove off to be sold at
auction at New Orleans. That was where some took them cause they could
get big money for them.
I never knowed of a master to give the slaves a dime when they become
free. They never promissed them nothing. The Yankees might have to toll
them off. The hands all stayed on John Freeman's place and when it was
over he give them the privilege of staying right on in their houses.
Some left after awhile and went somewhere they thought they could do
better.
They didn't have the Ku Klux but it was bout like it what they had.
They wore caps shine de coons eye and red caps and red garments. Red
symbolize blood reason they wore red. They broke up our preaching. Some
folks got killed. Some was old, some young--old devlish ones. They was
like a drove of varments. I guess you be scared. They run the colored
folks away from church a lot of times. That was about equalization after
the freedom. That was the cause of that.
There was uprisings like I'm telling you but the colored folks didn't
have nothing to go in a gun if he had one. White folks make them give up
a gun.
The first votin I done I was workin for young Henry Larson back in
Mississippi. He give my mother $120 a year to cook for his young wife
and give her what she eat and I worked on his farm. He told me to go
vote, it was election day. I ask him how was I going to know how to
vote. I could read a little. I couldn't write. The ballot box was at
Pleasant Mount. Ozan set over the box. He was a Yankee. He was the only
one kept the box. It was a wooden box nailed up and a slit in the top.
A.R. Howe and Captain Howe was two more Yankee white men there watching
round all day. Ozan was the sheriff at Sardis, Mississippi soon after
the war. Some more colored folks come up to vote. We stood around and
watched. We saw D. Sledge vote; he owned half of the county. We
knowed he voted Democrat so we voted the other ticket so it would be
Republican. I voted for President Grant. I don't believe in women
voting. They used to have the Australian Ballot System. It's a heap more
the man that's elected than it is the party. We all voted for Hoover;
he was a Republican and foe he got one term served out we was about on
starvation. I ain't voted since. That President claim to be a Democrat.
He ain't no Democrat. I don't know what he be.
I been farming and preaching. I started preaching in Mississippi. I
joined the conference in Arkansas in 1886 and started preaching at
Surrounded Hill (Biscoe). I come here in 1884 from Pinola County.
Mississippi. I had some stock and they was fencing up everything over
there. I had no land so I come to an open country. It wasn't long before
they fenced it in. I come to Brinkley and worked for Gun and Black
sawmill and I been here forty or fifty years. I don't know jess how
long. I couldn't starve to death in a whole year here. The people
wouldn't let me. I got lot of friends, both black and white, here.
I married December 17, 1874 in the Baptist church. Glasco Wilson was the
preacher married me. My wife died here in dis house nine years ago. We
had ten children but jes two livin now. My girl married a preacher and
live at Hope. Arkansas. My son preaches in Parson, Kansas.
I supports my own self. I works and I preaches a little yet. I saved up
some money but it nearly give out. The young generation, some of them,
do mighty bad. Some of them is all right. Some of them don't do much
and don't save nothing. I owns this house and did own another one what
burned down. A lamp exploded and caught it while I was going off up the
road but I never looked back or I would have seen it. It seem lack now
it takes more money to do than it ever did in times before. Seems like
money is the only thing to have and get. Folks gone scottch crazy over
money, money! Both is changing. The white folks, I'm speaking bout, the
white folks has changed and course the colored folks keeping up wid
them. The old white and colored neither can't keep up wid the fast
times. I say it's the folks that made this depression and it's the folks
keeping the depression. The little fellow is squeezed clear out. It out
to be stopped. Folks ain't happy like they used to be. Course they sung
songs all the time. Religious choruses mostly.
Interviewer: Samuel S. Taylor
Person interviewed: Amanda Rosa
817 Schiller Street, Little Rock, Arkansas
Age: 82
"I was nine years old in the time of the surrender. I know I was here
in that time. I don't know nothin' 'bout their carryin'-on. I know they
whipped them with hobble rods. You don't know what hobble rods is!!!
Ain't you seen these here long thin hick'ry shoots? They called hobble
rods. I don't know why they called 'em hobble rods. I know they made you
hobble. They'd put 'em in the fire and roast 'em and twist 'em. I have
seen 'em whip them till the blood run down their backs. I've seen 'em
tie the women up, strip 'em naked to their waist and whip 'am till the
blood run down their backs. They had a nigger whipper, too.
"I was born in Salem, Alabama. I came up here about twenty-five years
ago.
"Isaac Adair was the name of the old man who owned me. He owned my
mother and father too, Hester and Scip. Their last name was Adair, the
same as their master's.
"I don't remember the names of my grandfather and grandmother, 'cause we
was crossed up, you see, One of my grandmothers was named Crecie and the
other was named Lydia. I don't remember my grandfather's name. I spect
I used to call 'im master. I used to remember them but I don't no more.
Nobody can't worry me 'bout them old folks now. They ast me all them
questions at the Welfare. They want to know your gran'pa and your
gran'ma. Who were they, what did they do, where did they live, where are
they now? I don't know what they did. That's too far back for me.
"My mother and father had nine children. I have only one sister living.
All the others done gone to heaven but me and her.
"My mother and father lived in a log cabin. They had one-legged beds
nailed to the wall. They had benches and boxes and blocks and all sich
as that for chairs. My daddy made the table we used. He made them
one-legged beds too. They kept the food in boxes and gourds. They had
these big gourds. They could cut holes in the top of them and put things
in them. My mammy had a lot of 'em and they were nice and clean too.
Wisht I had one of them now.
"Some folks didn't have that good. We had trundle beds for the children
that would run under the big bed when they wasn't sleeping in it. We
made a straw mattress. You know the white folks weren't goin' to let 'em
use cotton, and they didn't have no chickens to git feathers from; so
they had to use straw. Oh, they had a hard time I'm tellin' you. My
mother pulled greens out of the garden and field, and cured it up for
the mattress.
"For rations, we'd eat onions and vegetables. We et what was raised.
You know they didn't have nothin' then 'cept what they raised. All the
cookin' was done at one house, but there was two cooks, one for the
colored folks and one for the white folks. My grandma cooked for the
white people. They cooked in those big old washpots for the colored
people. We all thought we had a pretty good master.
"We didn't know nothin' about a master.
"I ain't positive what time the hands ate breakfast. I know they et it
and I know they et at the same time and place. I think they et after
sunrise. They didn't have to eat before sunrise.
"When they fed the children, they cook the food and put it in a great
big old tray concern and called up the children, 'Piggee-e-e-e-e,
piggee-e-e-e-e.' My cousin was the one had to go out and call the
children; and you could see them runnin' up from every which way, little
shirt tails flyin' and hair sticking out. Then they would pour the food
out in different vessels till the children could git around them with
those muscle-shell spoons. Many of them as could get 'round a vessel
would eat out of it and when they finished that one, they'd go to
another one, and then to another one till they all got fed.
"My master worked seventy hands they said. He had two colored overseers
and one white one. He didn't allow them overseers to whip and slash
them niggers. They had to whip them right. Didn't allow no pateroles to
bother them neither. That's a lot of help too. 'Cause them pateroles
would eat you up. It was awful. Niggers used to run away to keep from
bein' beat up.
"I knowed one gal that ran away in the winter time and she went up into
the hollow of a tree for protection. When she came in, she was in sich
a bad condition they had to cut off both her legs. They had froze out
there. They taken care of her. They wanted her to work. She was jus' as
nice a seamstress as you ever saw. And she could do lots of things. She
could get about some. She could go on her knees. She had some pads for
them and was just about as high as your waist when she was goin' along
on her hands and knees, swinging her body between her arms.