block and bid 'em off. A smart worker brought a big price, and a good
breedin' 'oman sho did fetch de money, 'cause all de white folks did lak
to have plenty chillun 'round. Dem breedin' 'omans never done no wuk a
t'all; dey made other slaves wait on 'em 'til atter deir babies was
borned. Slave 'omans what had babies was sont back from de fields in de
mornin' and atter dinner so deir babies could suck 'til atter dey was
big enough to eat bread and milk; den dey was kept wid de other chillun
for Granny Rose to keer for.
"Slaves didn't even git married lak folks does now. Dere warn't none of
dem newfangled licenses to buy. All dey had to do was tell Marster dey
wanted to marry up. If it was all right wid him he had 'em jump over a
broom and dey was done married. Slaves couldn't git out and do no
courtin' on other plantations widout deir marsters knowed it, 'cause dey
had to have passes to leave de place whar dey lived. If dey was brash
enough to go off widout no pass de paterollers would cotch 'em for sho,
and dey would nigh beat 'em to death. Dat didn't stop courtin',
'specially on our place, 'cause dey jus' tuk anybody dey laked; it
didn't matter whose man or 'oman dey had.
"Marster had a big old ginhouse on de plantation about 2 miles from de
big house, but I never seed in it, 'cause dey didn't 'low 'omans and
chillun 'round it. De menfolks said dey hitched up mules to run it, and
dat dey had a cotton press inside de ginhouse. Dey said it was a heap of
trouble to git rid of all dem old cotton-seeds dat piled up so fast in
ginnin' time. Dere was a great big wuk-shop on de place too, whar dey
fixed evvything, and dat was whar dey made coffins when anybody died.
Yes, mam, evvything was made at home, even down to de coffins.
"Dere didn't many folks die out back in dem good old days, 'cause dey
was made to take keer of deirselfs. Dey had to wuk hard, but dey et
plenty and went to bed reg'lar evvy night in wuk time. When one of 'em
did die out, deir measure was tuk and a coffin was made up and blackened
'til it looked right nice. Whenever dere was a corpse on de place
Marster didn't make nobody do no wuk, 'cept jus' look atter de stock,
'til atter de buryin'. Dey fixed up de corpses nice. Yes, mam, sho as
you is borned, dey did; dey made new clothes for 'em and buried 'em
decent in de graveyard on de place. Marse Jack seed to dat. Dey put de
coffin on a wagon, and de folks walked to de graveyard. Dere was crowds
of 'em; dey come from jus' evvywhar. A preacher, or some member of deir
marster's fambly, said a prayer, de folks sung a hymn, and it was all
over. 'Bout de biggest buryin' us ever had on our place was for a 'oman
dat drapped down in de path and died when she was comin' in from de
field to nuss her baby. Yes, mam, she was right on de way to Granny
Rose's cabin in de big house yard.
"No, mam, I ain't forgot when de Yankees come to our place. Dat was
right atter de end of de war, not long atter us had been told 'bout
freedom. When us heared dey was on deir way us tuk and hid all de stuff
us could, but dey sho tore up dat place. Dey tuk all de meat out of de
smokehouse and give it to de Niggers, but deir bellies was already full
and dey didn't need it, so dey give it back to Marse Jack soon as dem
sojers was gone. 'Fore dey left dem Yankee sojers tuk Marse Jack's mules
and horses slap out of de plows and rid 'em off, and left deir old
wore-out stock right dar.
"Freedom didn't make so many changes on our place right at fust, 'cause
most of de slaves stayed right on dar, and things went on jus' lak dey
had 'fore dere was any war. Marse Jack had done told 'em dey was free,
but dat dem what wanted to stay would be tuk keer of same as 'fore de
war. Dere warn't many what left neither, 'cause Marse Jack had been so
good to evvy one of 'em dey didn't want to go 'way.
"Honey, back in dem good old days us went to church wid our white folks.
Slaves sot in de gallery or in de back of de church. I'se been to dat
old Cherokee Corners Church more times dan I knows how to count, but de
fust baptizin' I ever seed was at de old St. Jean church; dere was jus'
three or four baptized dat day, but Lordy, I never did hear such
prayin', shoutin', and singin', in all my born days. One old 'oman come
up out of dat crick a-shoutin' 'bout she was walkin' through de pearly
gates and wearin' golden slippers, but I looked down at her foots and
what she had on looked more lak brogans to me. I kin still hear our old
songs, but it's jus' now and den dat dey come back to my mind."
For a moment Lina was quiet, then she said, "Honey, I wants to smoke my
old pipe so bad I kin most taste it, but how in hell kin I smoke when I
ain't had no 'baccy in two days? Chile, ain't you got no 'baccy wid you,
jus' a little 'baccy? You done passed de nighest store 'bout 2 miles
back toward town," she said, "but if you will pay for some 'baccy for
Lina, some of dese good-for-nothin' chillun kin sho go git it quick and,
whilst dey's dar, dey might as well git me a little coffee too, if you
kin spare de change." The cash was supplied by the visitor, and Lina
soon started the children off running. "If you stops airy a minute," she
told them, "I'se gwine take de hide offen your backs, sho' as you is
borned." As soon as they were out of sight, she returned to her chair
and started talking again.
"Yes, mam, Honey, things went on 'bout de same old way atter de war."
Suddenly the old woman leaped to her feet and began shouting, "Bless God
A'mighty! Praise de Lord! I knows de key to prayers. I'se done prayed
jus' dis mornin' for de Lord to send me some 'baccy and coffee, and God
is done sont Missy wid de money to answer my prayer. Praise de Lord!
I'se glad I'se here, 'cause I coulda been gone and missed my 'baccy and
coffee. Praise God! I'se gwine to smoke dat damned old pipe one more
time." She seized the visitor by the shoulder as she shouted, "I sho
laks your looks, but you may be de devil for all I knows, and you may be
fixin' to put me in de chaingang wid all dis here writin', but" here she
gave the startled visitor a shake that almost pulled her out of the
chair, "Damn, if I don't lak you anyhow."
Her granddaughter, Callie, came out on the porch to see what was wrong
with Lina. "Granny," she said, "I wouldn't talk lak dat. Missy will
think you is dat way all de time."
"Git back to your ironin', gal," said Lina. "I knows I talks right smart
ugly. Didn't my Miss Fannie, tell me one time she was gwine to put
potash in my mouth to clean it out? Now, Nigger, I said git, 'fore I
hits you." Her grandmother started toward her, and Callie lost no time
going inside the house. Lina went back to her chair, and as she sat down
started singing. With each note her tones grew louder. The words were
something like this:
"God A'mighty, when my heart begins to burn
And dat old wheel begins to turn,
Den, Oh, Lord! Don't leave me here."
It seemed from the length of her chant that the wheels would turn
indefinitely, but no sooner had she finished that song, than she started
another.
"When my old mammy died a-shoutin',
All de friend I had done died and gone.
She died a-prayin', she died a-prayin'.
"In dat day dat you died, dat you died,
Gwine to be a star risin' in dat mornin'.
Didn't you hear 'em say, 'gwine to be a
Star risin' in de mornin'.
"De Christians all will know in dat day,
Dat my old mammy died a-shoutin', died a-shoutin',
'Cause dat star sho gwine to be dar.
"Oh, Lord! Don't leave me now, Oh, Lord!
But guide me all 'long de way, 'long de way.
'Cause I'se in trouble, dat I am.
Lord! Oh, Lord! don't leave me now."
"Honey, I jus' feels lak prayin' and cussin' too, at de same time, but
it's 'cause I'se so happy. Here I is, I'se nigh 'bout crazy. If Old
Marster could jus' come back I'd sho have plenty of evvy thing I needs.
"I 'members dem old frolics us had, when harvest times was over, and all
dat corn was piled up ready for de big cornshuckin'. Honey, us sho had
big old times. Us would cook for three or four days gittin' ready for de
feast dat was to follow de cornshuckin'. De fust thing dey done was
'lect a general to lead off de singin' and keep it goin' so de faster
dey sung, de faster dey shucked de corn. Evvy now and den dey passed de
corn liquor 'round, and dat holped 'em to wuk faster, and evvy Nigger
dat found a red ear got a extra swig of liquor. Atter de sun went down
dey wuked right on by de light of pine torches and bonfires. Dem old
pine knots would burn for a long time and throw a fine bright light.
Honey, it was one grand sight out dar at night wid dat old harvest moon
a-shinin', fires a-burnin', and dem old torches lit up. I kin jus' see
it all now, and hear dem songs us sung. Dem was such happy times. When
all de corn was shucked and dey had done et all dat big supper, dey
danced for de rest of de night.
"Dey had logrollin's when dere was new ground to be cleared up. De
menfolks done most of dat wuk, but de 'omans jus' come along to fix de
big supper and have a good time laughin' and talkin' whilst de menfolks
was doin' de wuk. Atter de logs was all rolled, dey et, and drunk, and
danced 'til dey fell out. I'll bet you ain't never seed nothin' lak dem
old break-downs and dragouts us had dem nights atter logrollin's. Dey
sho drug heaps of dem Niggers out.
"When de harvest moon was 'most as bright as daylight us had cotton
pickin's. Dem big crowds of slaves would clean out a field in jus' no
time, and you could hear 'em singin' a long ways off whilst dey was
a-pickin' dat cotton. Dey 'most allus had barbecue wid all de fixin's
to enjoy when dey finished pickin' out de cotton, and den lots of
drinkin' and dancin'. 'Bout dat dancin', Honey, I could sho cut dem
corners. Dancin' is one thing I more'n did lak to do, and I wish I could
hear dat old dance song again. =Miss Liza Jane=, it was, and some of de
words went lak dis, 'Steal 'round dem corners, Miss Liza Jane. Don't
slight none, Miss Liza Jane. Swing your partner, Miss Liza Jane.' Dere
was heaps and lots more of it, but it jus' won't come to me now.
"One night not long atter day sot us free, dere was a big old Nigger
breakdown on our plantation, and such a lot of Niggers as you never seed
was at dat dance. Whilst us was havin' de bestest time, takin' a drink
'twixt dances, us heared a 'oman screamin' lak murder. Evvybody run, but
us jus' heared a horse runnin' and dat 'oman still hollerin'. De
menfolks got on horses and rid all night but dey never did find 'em. One
of our gals was gone; a real young one named Rose Billups. Some damn, no
'count Nigger had done stole 'er. Us didn't larn nothin' 'bout her for
nigh onto a year, den she writ to Marse Jack to come atter her. He went.
It was a fur way off, and I don't 'member now whar it was. Dat mean man
had done most kilt Rose, and had left her wid a baby. No, mam, dey
didn't never cotch 'im.
"Norman Green had two wives and dey didn't live fur from our plantation.
I knows 'bout dat, 'cause in years to come I lived on de same farm whar
dey was. It was dis way: his fust wife, Tildy, was sold off from him in
slavery time. He got married again, and atter freedom come Tildy come
right back to him. He kept both his wives right dar in de same one-room
cabin. Deir beds sot right 'side each other. One wife's chilluns was all
boys and de other didn't have nothin' but gals.
"Yes, Chile, us wuked hard. I'se seed my mammy plowin' in de fields many
a time, wid her skirt pinned up to keep it out of de dirt. Yes, mam, us
did wuk, but us had a good place to stay, plenty somepin t'eat, and
plenty clothes to wear; dere warn't nothin' else us needed.
"Missy did you ever hear dat old sayin' 'bout folks gittin' speckledy
when dey gits old? Well, 'cordin' to dat old sayin', I'se sho been here
a mighty long time. Jus' look at my legs." She raised her skirts to her
knees to display the white specks that stood out in clear contrast on
her dark skin. "Dat's a sho sign of bein' old folks," insisted Lina.
She stood up and peered down the road, impatient for the return of the
children, who were to bring her tobacco and coffee. Finally she saw them
come over the hill and could hardly restrain herself until they arrived
in the yard. Snatching the parcels, as the children came up the steps,
Lina called out, "Callie, come here, gal, fix my pipe quick, and put
dat coffeepot on de fire bucket, 'cause Glory to God! I'se gwine to
smoke my old pipe and drink me one more good cup of coffee."
When Callie finally succeeded in filling and lighting Lina's pipe to
suit her, and the old woman had inhaled with an exaggerated air of
satisfaction for several moments, she indulged in a few more shouts of
"Praise de Lord!" then she said, "Honey, I'se ready to talk some more
now. Damned if I ain't gwine to git right on talkin' for you, 'fore I
starts off singin' again.
"Oh, it's 'bout my marriage you wants to know now, is it? Well, me and
Jeff Hunter got married up whilst I was still stayin' on Marster Jack's
place. Jeff went to de courthouse and got us a license lak de white
folks, and us had a nice weddin'. My dress was mighty pretty; it was
white lawn, made long waisted lak dey wore dresses den. Mrs. Lizzie
Johnson made it, and it had long sleeves, and a long full skirt wid lots
of ruffles. De two petticoats she gimme to wear wid my weddin' dress was
ruffled to beat de band and had trimmin' on evvy ruffle. My weddin'
drawers even had ruffles on 'em; I was really dressed up. Us had a big
fine supper and two dances. Sho, mam, dat ain't no mistake. Us did have
two dances, one was at home, and den us went over to my brother's house
whar he give us another one and served cake and wine to de weddin'
party. Atter us drunk dat wine, it warn't no trouble to dance for de
rest of de night.
"Me and Jeff moved on de Johnson place, and Jeff wuked some for Mrs.
Johnson's daughter, Mrs. Fannie Dean, but for de most part he wuked in
de wagon shop wid Mr. Tom Anthony.
"I'se still got one of my old weddin' petticoats; I wore out four bodies
on it." Lina excused herself and went inside the house for a moment. She
returned to the porch with an old-fashioned suitcase or "grip," as she
called it. "Dis here's older dan old Lina is," she said. "It belonged to
Miss Lizzie's daddy, but I sewed it back together atter dey throwed it
away, and I'se gwine to keep it long as I lives." She opened it and took
out a petticoat that was yellow with age. It was several yards wide and
was encircled by numerous embroidered ruffles. The skirt was sewed on to
a tight, straight body-waist that was much newer than the skirt and this
waist was topped by a rose-colored crocheted yoke. "Mrs. Fannie Dean
made dat for me," declared Lina. "Look at dis old black shawl. See how
big it is? Dat's what I used to wear for a wrop on church days 'fore I
ever had a coat.
"I'se still sleepin' on one of Miss Lizzie's beds. Come inside, I wants
you to see it." A part of the tall headboard had been removed so the bed
could be used in a low-ceiled room. The footboard was low, and Lina
insisted on showing the small double locks that joined the side pieces
to the head and foot boards. These are rarely seen now. She was using
the original old wooden-framed wire fabric springs, and a straw
mattress. As she displayed the latter, she said, "Yes, Chile, I still
sleeps on my straw tick, 'cause dat's what I was raised on and dere
ain't nothin' sleeps as good as dat old tick when it's full of good
fresh wheat straw."
Lina's coffeepot on the charcoal bucket was steaming and the visitor
prepared to depart so that the old woman could enjoy her drink while it
was fresh and hot. Lina followed her to the veranda and said with much
enthusiasm, "God bless you, Lady. You sho is done made me happy, and
I'se gwine to pray for you evvy day and ask de Lord to take keer of you
all de time. I'se gwine to do dat, 'cause I wants you to come back and
let me sing some more of our good old songs for you sometime." After the
house was no longer in sight, Lina's high pitched voice could be heard
singing =My Old Mammy Died a-Shoutin'=.
[TR: Date stamp: MAY 8 1937]
SUBJECT: EMMA HURLEY OF WASHINGTON-WILKES
RESEARCH WORKER: MINNIE BRANHAM STONESTREET
EDITOR: JOHN N. BOOTH
SUPERVISOR: MISS VELMA BELL
DISTRICT: W.P.A. NO. I
DATE: MARCH 22, 1937
EMMA HURLEY OF WASHINGTON-WILKES
With snow white hair peeping from underneath a spotless "head rag" and
wearing a big white apron, Emma Hurley reminds one of the plantation
days of the long ago. She is eighty-odd years old, but does not know her
exact age. From all she remembers she is sure she was at least 7 or 8 at
the beginning of the war for she clearly recalls the talk of war and all
the excitement of those anxious days.
Unfortunately, Aunt Emma was born of parents belonging to a family that
bought and sold slaves as they did cattle and thought of them only in
terms of dollars and cents. The story she tells of her childhood would
make a Simon Legree turn pale with envy. She is not resentful, but is
honest in telling of those early years of her life, years of suffering
and great hardship.
Although she has never been to school, she uses very little dialect: "No
mam, honey, the folks I belonged to said it wouldn't do fer niggers to
learn out'n books; that schools warn't fer them. They said learnin'
would git us so they couldn't do nothin' wid us. After freedom I wuz
nussin' here in Washin'ton. The mother of the chillun was a good lady
an' she let me look on the books when she read to them an' larned me the
lessons 'long with her chillun. She said it wuz a pity I couldn't ov
went to school, cause I wuz a apt pupil. I larned easy, yassum, that's
what she said."
"My Ma wuz name Margaret an' she had thirteen chillun, six of 'em twins.
I wuz the oldest one, but I ain't a twin. I wuz born on a plantation in
Wilkes County right on the line of Oglethorpe. In the white family I
belonged to there wuz a mother, four boys, an' two girls, all grown.
They come to Wilkes County from Maryland. All four of the men went to
the war an' three of 'em died of sickness caught in the war."
Aunt Emma told of how the slaves had to live on the plantation and an
unpleasant story it was. There were no neat cabins all in a row making
up the "quarters" where the slaves lived. Instead they were made to live
around in any old hut they could find shelter in. Her mother and three
other women stayed in one room of the house the white family lived in.
The little slaves were fed pig-fashion in the kitchen, but they were
given just so much food and no more. They were alloted two garments at
the time, summer and winter: "Why, honey, I never had no shoes 'til
after freedom come. I've walked on snow many a time barefooted with my
feet so cold my toes wuz stickin' straight up with no feelin' in 'em.
The white folks had a trained shoe-maker slave an' he made shoes fer
them, but us little niggers didn't have none. The first shoes I ever
remembers had wooden bottoms an' sich a sound as they made when the
folks walked 'round with 'em on."
The slaves did plenty of hard work done on the plantation. The women
labored all day in the fields and then spun at night. Each one was given
the task of spinning six broaches a week. On Saturday "a white lady"
reeled off the spinning and if one of the women had failed in her task
she was severely beaten. The men worked all day and until ten o'clock at
night shucking corn or doing other chores by lamp light.
Every Wednesday night the slaves had to go to the spring and wash their
clothes by torch light. They did have all day Sunday as a resting
period, but they were not allowed to go to church and no religious
services were held for them. There was one day holiday at Christmas,
"but I never heard of a Santa Claus when I wuz a child," said Emma.
When a slave died on the place he was wrapped in a sheet, put into a
pine box, and taken to a "burying ground" where he was put in the ground
without any services, and with only the immediate family attending. All
other slaves on the place had to keep on working just as though nothing
had happened.
There were no marriages. The slaves being told to "step over the broom
stick." Many families were separated by sale. "I recollects good when
Mr. Seaborn Callaway come over to the place an' bought my Grandma an'
some other slaves an' took 'em away. We jest cried an' cried an' Grandma
did too. Them white folks bought an' sold slaves that way all the time."
"Honey, there wuz one time when them white folks wuz good to us slaves,"
said Aunt Emma, "an' that wuz when we wuz sick. They would give us
homemade remedies like tansy tea, comfort root tea, life everlasting
tea, boneset tea, garlic water an' sich, 'cordin' ter what ailed us.
Then if we didn't git better they sont fer the doctor. If we had a
misery anywhere they would make poultices of tansy leaves scalded, or
beat up garlic an' put on us. Them folks wuz sho' 'cerned 'bout us when
we wuz sick, 'cause they didn't want us ter die."
When asked about the war and what she remembered of those terrible
times, Aunt Emma slowly shook her head and said: "I never wants to live
through sich sad times no more. Them wuz the hardest an' the saddest
days I ever knowed. Everybody went 'round like this: (here she took up
her apron and buried her face in it)--they kivered their face with
what-somever they had in their hands that would ketch the tears. Sorrow
an' sadness wuz on every side. The men all went off to fight an' left
the women an' chillun an' niggers behind to do the best they could."
"Times wuz so hard, why, honey, in them times folks couldn't git so much
as some plain salt to use on their victuals. The white folks had the
dirt dug up from out'n their smokehouses an' hauled it up to Mr.
Sisson's an' he run it an' got what salt he could out'n it. I 'members
one day I went over there fer sumpthin' an' the dirt what he had run wuz
piled way up high like sawdust these days. There warn't no soda neither,
so the white folks took watermelon rinds, fixed 'em keerful like we does
fer perserves, burned 'em an' took the ashes an' sifted 'em an' used 'em
fer soda. Coffee giv' out an none could be bought so they took okra
seeds an' parched 'em good an' brown an' ground 'em an' made coffee
out'n 'em. Some folks made coffee out'n parched ground wheat too.
Everybody had to do the best they could in them times."
"Durin' the war," continued Aunt Emma, "the mother died an' all her
property wuz divided 'mongst the chillun. My Ma an' all her chillun fell
to Miss Mary what had married an' wuz livin' in Lexington, over in
Oglethorpe County. She moved us all up there an' we wuz there 'til
freedom, then we moved down to Washington where we have lived ever
since. Miss Mary's husband's Ma had over two hundred slaves an' she sho'
did take on when they wuz all freed. I 'members how she couldn't stay in
the house, she jest walked up an' down out in the yard a-carrin'-on,
talkin' an' a-ravin'.
"Word come one day that the Yankee soldiers wuz comin' an' all us niggers
went down to the road to watch 'em go by. It wuz a sight. They all
marched by singin'. 'Fore they come, though, the white folks had all the
niggers busy hidin' everything they could. Stock wuz tied out way down
in thick woods, an' silver, money, an' good clothes wuz buried deep in
the ground an' leaves put all over the earth so they couldn't see where
it had been dug. When the Yankees did come they called all the slaves up
an' went into smokehouses an' throwed out the meat to the niggers an'
said: 'Here, take all this, we knows it's yours anyhow, you worked fer
it.' But most of the niggers give it all back to the white folks it
belonged to. The Yankees poured out all the syrup an' 'stroyed
everything they could. I tell you, honey, them wuz bad times an' us all
wuz skeered 'most to death."
Aunt Emma had only one sign: "No mam, I ain't 'tall superstitious, I
never thinks of things like that. But I does know when it's goin' to
rain hard, an' that's when my haid itches an' itches up under my haid
rag."
When asked about the amusements of her day Aunt Emma said: "I ain't
never danced a step nor sung a reel in my life. My Ma allus said we
shouldn't do them things an' we didn't. She said if we went to the devil
it wouldn't be 'cause she give us her 'mission!"
"How come I done lived so long? I dunno, only I allus been truthful an'
honest an' tried hard to treat people good as I want them to treat me.
Once I wuz so sick they all thought I wuz goin' to die. I thought so
too. But I lay there sufferin' an' the Spirit seemed to come 'round an'
reasoned that I would be spared days longer in this low ground of
sorrow. That's been long ago an' here I is livin' yet."
Not even the faintest smile crossed Aunt Emma's wrinkled face while she
was talking. Although she lived to marry and have a home of her own with
good children, she is sad when she thinks of her childhood with all its
injustice and suffering. "I'se glad my race don't have to suffer now
what we did on that plantation. Some of my old friends tells me they had
good homes an' wuz took keer of an' all that, but from my own
'sperience, I'se glad my chillun never knowed slavery."
CONSULTANT:
Emma Hurley
Washington, Georgia