Aunt Mollie Moss
# 88- Auburn Street,
Knoxville, Tennessee
There is no street sign or a number on any of the ramshackled frame
cottages that seemingly lean with the breezes, first one direction,
then another, along the alley that wind's through the city's
northernmost boundary and stops its meanderings at the doorstep of
"Uncle Andrew Moss" and his wife, "Aunt Mollie."
The City Directory of Knoxville, Tennessee officially lists the Moss
residence as # 88 Auburn Street. It rests upon its foundations more
substantially, and is in better kept condition than its neighbors. In
lieu of a "reg'lar" house number, the aged negro couple have placed a
rusty automobile lisence tag of ancient vintage conspicuously over
their door. It is their jesture of contempt for their nearest white
neighbors who "dont seem to care whedder folkses know whar dey lib an
maybe don wants em to."
As for Aunt Mollie, she holds herself superior to all of her
neighbors. She "Ain got no time for po white trash noway." She shoo'ed
two little tow-headed white girls from her doorstep with her broom as
she stood in her door and watched a visitor approach. "G'wan way frum
here now, can be bodder wid you chillun messin ups my front yard. Take
yo tings an go on back to yo own place!"
"Dats way dey do," she mummled as she lead the visitor inside the
cottage, through the dining-room and kitchen into the living-room and
bedroom. "Don know what I gwine do when come summer time. Keeps me all
time lookin out for dem chilluns. Dey's dat troublesome. Brings trash
in on my flo what I jes scoured, an musses 'roun, maybe tryin to steal
sumpin an me watchin em too. Dey wasnt teached manners and 'havior in
odder folkses houses like what I war."
When Aunt Mollie learned that it was to hear her story of how she was
trained in manners end behaviorism, that the visitor had come, and to
hear something of her recollections of slave days, her belligerent
mood vanished. The satisfied manner in which she drew up chairs before
the fire, took a pinch of snuff and settled her skirts, indicated that
was going to be quite a session. She leaned her elbows on her knees,
held her head between the palms of her hands and fumbled in her cloudy
memory to gather a few facts to relate.
Uncle Andrew, the more intelligent of the two, and quick to seize upon
his opportunity, began his reminiscences immediately, saying "Honey,
wait now," when his wife thought herself well organized to talk, and
frequently broke into his narrative. "Wait untell I gits through. Den
you can talk." Aunt Mollie would frown and grunt, mumble to herself as
she rocked back and forth in her chair. She pulled the two long braids
of brown silky hair, streaked with white, and tied at the ends with
cotton strings. She spat vigorously into the fire, kept muttering and
shuffling her feet, which were encased in men's shoes.
At last it came Aunt Mollie's turn to talk war-times. Uncle Andrew,
well pleased with his recital, retired to his corner by the hearth and
listened "mannerdly"--after first warning the visitor in a gentle
undertone, that "My wife she ain got much mem'ry an she don hear
good." Aunt Mollie's rambling reminiscences backed up his statement.
She began.
"Reckon I mus be 'bout eighty-two, three year old. I dunno exactly. Ef
I knowed whar to find em, deys some my white folkes lib in dis town.
Seem like I can 'member dey names. I b'longed to Marster Billy Cain,
and was raised on his farm in Campbell county, Tennessee. Oh, 'bout
six, seven mile from Jacksboro. Wish I could go back dar some time.
Ain been dar sence me an Moss married an live eight, ten or some more
years in a log cabin he built for us. We was married March 7, de day
atter Cleveland was 'lected presi-dent. In 1885 did you say? Well,
reckon you're right. I ain had no schoolin an I can 'member lots o
tings I used to know."
"Billy Cain worked me in de fields. An his wife Miss Nancy say she
gwine stop it, 'cause I was so pretty she fraid somebody come steal
me." Aunt Mollie buried her face in her apron and had a good laugh.
"Dey said I was de pretties' girl anywhars about. Had teeth jes like
pearls. Whoops! Look at em now. Ain got 'nuff left to chaw wid. You
notices how light-complected I is? My own father was a full-blooded
Cherokee Indian. De Yanks captured him an killed him."
"I was hoein in de field dat time Moss com 'long and see me and say he
gwine marry me. An, jes like he tell you, we was married in less dan
six months. We been livin togedder evy since and we gits along good.
We have had blessins' and got a lot to be thankful for. Could have
more to eat sometimes, but we gits along someways. I am a good cook.
Miss Nancy she teached me all kinds o cookin, puttin up berries, makin
pickles and bakin bread and cake an evy'ting. Her ole man Cain give us
good grub dem days. Monday mornins' we go to de Cains to git rations
for de week. Dey gib us three pounds wheat, a peck o meal, a galon o
molasses, two pound o lard, two pound o brown sugar, rice an evy'ting.
I use to have plates an china white folks gib me. White woman come one
day, say she wan buy 'em. Took plum nigh all I had. Did'n pay me much
o nothin' either."
"Yes, Lord. I does 'member 'bout de war. I've see'd de blue an I've
see'd de grey. In 1862 I see'd de soldiers formin' in line. I was a
great big girl. Dem swords glisen' like stars. Can' member whar dey
was goin dat time. But I ain forgit de times soldiers come foragin.
Dey got all dey wanted, too. Hep' dey sef's an dont pay for it, never.
Soldier see a chicken go under de house, he plop down and shoot, and
den call me to crawl under de house and fetch it out." Aunt Mollie
buried her head in her apron again and laughed like a child. "Lordy
how scared I was of de old gander dat blowed at me, whilst I was
tryin' to drag 'em out alive, when I see'd de soldiers comin'."
"Billy Cain, he was brudder-in-law to Old Townslee, who lived on a
plantation in Alabama. How come my mother was give to Cain an come to
Tennessee, was one mornin' Old Townslee rode his horse out under a
tree to blow up de slaves. Blow de horn you know, to call 'em to work.
Somebody shot 'im. Right off his horse. It was so dark, 'fore
daylight, an' couldnt see and dey never did find out who shot 'im.
Heap o white folks had enemies dem days. So de slaves he owned was
divided munxt his chilluns. My mother was one of nine dat come to
Billy Cain dat way."
"Talk 'bout your shootin jest for devilment. Lemme tell you 'bout old
men John Wynn. He live down dar 'bout ten mile from whar Moss lived
when he was a boy. I've heard em tell it many a time. Dey say John
Wynn had 185 slaves. Evy time it come George Washington's birthday,
Old Wynn he had a feast and invite all de slaves! He celebratin! he
say. He seta a long table wid all kind good tings to eat. An he count
de slaves, so's to be sure dey all come. An' den he'd take an pick out
one and shoot him! Den he say, "Now youse all can go 'head an eat.
Throw dat nigger 'side an we bury im in mornin'." And he walks off to
de big house. No! He wasn't drunk. Jes de debil in 'im. Well, he shot
ten, twelve, maybe thirty dat way. An den de white folks hanged 'im to
a tree. Hanged im t'well he was good and dead, dey did."
"Now folkes can 'joy dey victuals wid sech goin's on. De slaves git
so's dey scared to hear de bell ring. Don' know what it mean. Maybe
death, maybe fire, maybe nudder sale o some body. Gwine take 'em way.
But when de bell ring dey had to come. Let dat ole bell ring and de
woods was full o negroes. Maybe 500 hundred come from all over date
county."
Aunt Mollie was beginning to ramble and babble incoherently, her
memories of her own and the experiences of others all confused in her
mind. When she had about finished a story about how one of the slave
women, "bust de skull" of the head of her marster,'" 'cause she was
nussin a sick baby an' he tell her she got to git out in dat field an
hoe" and the gory details of what the shovel did to the white
marster's head, it was time for the visitors to close the interview.
Both Uncle Andrew and Aunt Mollie followed the visitor to the front
door, and wished her "All de luck in de world. An thank you for
comin'. An come see us agin, nudder time."
INTERVIEW
ANDY ODELL
1313 Pearl Street
Nashville, Tennessee
"I wuz bawn east ob Spring Hill, Tennessee. I dunno in w'at y'ar, but
I wuz a ful' grown man w'en I wuz freed. (This will make him about 96
years old.). I wuz an onlies' chile en I nebber knowed mah daddy. Mah
mammy wuz sold 'way fum me. She ma'ied a man named Brown en dey had
seven chillun."
"At fust I 'longed ter Marster Jim Caruthers. W'en his daughter ma'ied
Fount Odell, I wuz willed ter her en den mah marsters wuz Fount en
Albert Odell who wuz br'ers. Mah white folks let us go ter chuch. I
b'leeves in de Baptist 'ligion. I nebber knowed any slave dat had ter
hide ter sing er pray. I members de comet en hit wuz a sta'r wid a
long tail en looked lak hit wuz burnin'. De sta'rs fell 'fore I wuz
bawn." (The stars fell in 1833).
"We had ter hab passes en if you didn't hab one, you got whupped. Mah
marster let me go ter chuch wid' out a pass. I members de Klu Klux
Klan but dey nebber bothered me, tho I 'yeard a lot 'bout dem. Dey
called demselves "White Caps" en said dey wuz rite fum de grave. W'en
a slave got whupped hit wuz cose dey disobey dere white folks en de
overseer whupped dem. I though mah white folks wuz awful mean ter me
sumtime."
"I nebber b'leeved in ghos' but hab yeard lots 'bout dem. Lots of
peeples did b'leeve in dem back in dem times. Uster sing a lot but I
dunno names ob dem now. I dunno w'at ez gwine ter 'kum ob dis young
crowd. I sho don't think diff'ent culers oughter ma'rie. De Lawd
didn't mean fer hit ter be dun. Dunno ob any slave 'risin's in
Virginia er any uther place. Don't member now de tales en sayin' ob de
ole times."
"Member well w'en de war broke out en how dey had big dinners en
marched 'round ovuh de fiel's, gittin' ready fer de war. I had a br'er
kilt in de war en mah mammy got a lettle money fum 'im. Also member
dat w'en mah mammy got de money she bought me a hat."
"I don't git nuthin at freedum en I dunno ob any slaves gittin' any
land er money. I know dat w'en we wuz freed Marster Albert called us
slaves in en said, "You all ez as free as I ez, but you can stay 'yer
en wuk fer me ef'n you want ter." I staid wid 'im a good w'ile attar
freedum."
"Since freedum I hab plowed, hoed, cut wood, en wuk'd in quarries
pecking rock. Hab nebber wuk'd in town fer I dunno de things 'bout
town. I hab voted almost eve'y election since freedum 'til dese last
few years. I hab had two frens in office but both ez de'd now. I uster
think 'omen shouldn't vote, but I guess hit ez alri'te."
INTERVIEW
LAURA RAMSEY PARKER
715 Gay St.
Nashville, Tennessee
"I'se 87 y'ars ole. Wuz bawn in slavery. Wuz freed w'en de slavery
stopped. Mack Ramsey wuz mah marster en he wuz sho good ter his
slaves. He treated dem as human bein's. W'en he turned his slaves
'loose he gib dem no money, but gib dem lands, clothin' en food 'til
dey could brang in dere fust crop. Mah daddy rented a strip ob land
'til he wuz able ter buy de place. He lived on de same fer menny
y'ars."
"W'en I wuz ole er'nuff I wuz taught ter spin en weav. I bucum de nuss
ter de marster's onlies' chile. Soon atter I wuz freed, I went ter
Wisconsin, but only wuz dere fer a y'ar, den I kum back ter Tennessee
en Nashville. I settled in dis house en I'se bin livin' in hit fer
ovuh fifty y'ars. Dere wuz no uther houses 'round 'yer at de time. I
own de place. Hab wuk'd all mah life seem ter me. At one time I wuz a
chambermaid at de Nicholson House now de Tulane en later 'kum a sick
nuss, a seamstress, dressmaker but now I pieces en sells bed quilts. I
does mah own housekeepin' en washin'."
"I don't member now, very much 'bout de Ku Klux Klan. I do member dat
one nite dey passed our home en I grab'ed a shotgun en said dat I wuz
gwine ter shoot dem ef dey kum on de place. I members de Battle ob
Murfreesboro, but I'se got no membrances ob any slave uprisin'."
"I think very lettle ob de younger ginerashon. Dere's many things ter
day dat should be changed, but I'se 'yer en can't do nuthin' ter
change hit. I's min'in mah own business. I puts mah faith en trust in
Gawd's han's; en treats mah nabers right; en lives honest. I 'longs
ter de Christian Chuch, but don't wan'ter be called a "Campbellite."
"De songs I members ez:
Am I a Soldier ob de Cross.
Am I Bawn ter Die?
'Tis 'Ligion Dat Can Gib."
INTERVIEW
NAISY REECE
710 Overton St.
Nashville, Tennessee
"I wuz bawn in slavery, in Williamson County, guess I'se 'bout 80
y'ars ole. Think I wuz fou' w'en de wah started."
"Mah mammy en daddy wuz Mary en Ennock Brown."
"Mah missis en marster wuz Polly en Randall Brown."
"Dunno ob any ob our fam'ly bein' sold. W'en freedum wuz declar' we
wuz tu'n loose wid nothin'. Mah daddy tuk us down in de kuntry, raised
crops en made us wuk in de fiel'."
"I'se cooked a leetle fer urther peeple, but mos' ob mah wuk has bin
laundry. I didn't go ter schul much. I dunno w'at ter say 'bout de
younger gineratshun; dere ez sich a diff'unce now ter w'at hit wuz
w'en I wuz a girl. Dunno any tales dat I useter 'year."
"Didn't see any Klu Klux Klan, but I alluz got skeered en hid w'en
we'd 'year dey wuz kumin'. I 'long ter de Baptist Church. I neber went
ter menny camp-meetin's, but went ter a lot ob baptizins."
"Mammy tole us how de sta'rs fell en how skeered eberybody got. I saw
de long tail comet."
_Signs_: "Good luck ter git up 'fore day-lite ef'n youer gwin sum
place er start sum wuk." "Bad luck ter sweep flo' atter dark en sweep
de dirt out."
_Songs_: "I Couldn't Hear Anybody Pray."
"Ole Time 'Ligion."
"Cross De Riber Jordan."
"I'se neber voted, en hab neber had any frens in office. Neber knowed
nothin' 'bout de slave mart er de 'structshun days."
INTERVIEW
MILLIE SIMPKINS
"BLACK MAMIE"
1004 10th Avenue, No.
Nashville, Tennessee
I claims I's 109 ye'ars ole en wuz bawn neah Winchester, Tennessee.
Mah marster wuz Boyd Sims en mah missis wuz Sarah Ann Ewing Sims. Mah
mammy wus named Judy Ewing en mah daddy wuz Moses Stephens en he wus
"free bawn." He wuz de marster's stable boy en followed de races. He
run 'way en nebber kum back.
Mah fust missis wuz very rich. She had two slave 'omen ter dress her
eve'y mawnin' en I brought her breakfust ter her on a silvah waitah.
She wuz ma'ied three times, her second husband wuz Joe Carter en de
third wuz Judge Gork.
Mah fust missis sold me kaze I wuz stubborn. She sent me ter de "slave
yard" at Nashville. De yard wuz full ob slaves. I stayed dere two
weeks 'fore marster Simpson bought me. I wuz sold 'way fum mah husband
en I nebber se'd 'im 'gin. I had one chile which I tuk wid me.
De slave yard wuz on Cedar Street. A Mr. Chandler would bid de slaves
off, but 'fore dey started biddin' you had ter tek all ob yo Clothes
off en roll down de hill so dey could see dat you didn't hab no bones
broken, er sores on yer. (I wouldin' tek mine off). Ef nobody bid on
you, you wuz tuk ter de slave mart en sold. I wuz sold dere. A bunch
ob dem wuz sent ter Mississippi en dey had dere ankles fas'end
tergedder en dey had ter walk w'iles de tradahs rid.
W'en I wuz sold ter marster Simpkins, mah second mistress made me a
house slave en I wuked only at de big house en mah wuk wus ter nuss en
dress de chilluns en he'ps mah missis in her dressin'.
De young slaves wuz hired out ter nuss de white chilluns. I wuz hired
as nuss girl at seven y'ars ole en started cookin' at ten. I nebber
had a chance ter go ter schul.
I'm de mammy ob 14 chilluns, seven boys en seven gals. I wuz next ter
de olest ob four chillun. Mah missis useter hire me out ter hotels en
taverns.
Sum marsters fed dare slaves meat en sum wouldin' let dem hab a bite.
One marster we useter 'yer 'bout would grease his slaves mouth on
Sunday mawnin', en tell dem ef any body axed ef dey had meat ter say
"yes, lots ob hit".
W'en dey got ready ter whup dem dey'd put dem down on a pit widout any
clothes, stand back wid a bull whup en cut de blood out. I member de
niggers would run 'way en hide out.
De only fun de young folks had wuz w'en de ole folks had a quiltin'.
W'ile de ole folks wuz wukin' on de quilt de young ones would git in
'nuther room, dance en hab a good time. Dey'd hab a pot turned down at
de do'er ter keep de white folks fum 'yearin' dem. De white folks
didn't want us ter l'arn nothin' en ef a slave picked up a lettle
piece ob papah, dey would yell "put dat down you--you wan't ter git in
our business."
De white folks wouldin' let de slaves pray, ef dey got ter pray hit
wuz w'iles walkin' 'hind de plow. White folks would whup de slaves ef
dey 'yeard dem sing er pray.
I wuz a big girl w'en dey build de Capitol. I played on de hill 'fore
hit wuz built en I toted blocks fum dere w'en hit wuz bein' built. I
wuz livin' in Dickson County w'en Fort Donelson wuz tuk. I seed de
fust gun boat dat kum up de Cumberland River. I wuz standin' in de
Do'er w'en I se'd hit kumin', but hit didn't tek me long ter git back
in de back ob de house. I wuz skeered dey would shoot.
Mah marster run a fer'y en atter de gun boat kum up de riber, he got
skeered en gib mah ole man de fer'y, en w'en de soldiers kum ter tek
Fort Negley he set dem 'cross de river.
A man at Ashland City dat made whisk'y would hab Mr. Simpkins bring a
load ob logs up ter Ashland City en den bring a load ob whiskey down
en hide hit so de Yankees would'nt git hit.
Mah marster had a fish trap at de mouth ob Harper en w'en de gun boat
passed dey shot thro' de trap.
I wuz right 'yer w'en de Civil wah wuz gwin on, en de soldiers wuz
dressed up en beatin' de drums.
No honey we didn't git nothin' w'en we wuz freed. Jes druv 'way widout
nothin' ter do wid. We got in a waggin en druv ter nuther man's
plantashun. Mah ole man made a crap dere. Sum ob de slaves might hab
got sump'in but I dunno nobody dat did. I wuz skeered ter op'n mah
do'er atter dark on 'count ob Ku Klux Klan, dey wuz red hot.
I member w'en de sta'rs fell. I wuz small but de ole folks run out en
looked at dem, kum back set down en cried, dey tho't hit me'nt de
worl' wuz kumin' ter an end.
De peeple wuz skeered w'en dey se'd de comet wid de long tail. Dey
tho't hit wuz a sign ob wah.
I'se cooked eve'y since I wuz freed. I stayed in Henry Galbles kitchen
five long y'ars, en since I'se had dese strokes hit's broke me up
'till I kin do nothin'. I 'long ter de Methodist Church. I think de
young peeples ez turrible, en dis white en black mar'iags not be
'lowed.
De songs I member ez:
"Dark wuz de Night".
"Good Ole Daniel".
I'se nebber voted but I'se electioneered fer dem. Hab nebber had any
frens in office.
I wuz 'yer w'en Henry Clay en James K. Polk wuz runnin'. I wuz hired
at de ole City Hotel ovuh on de river. I wuz din'in room servant dere.
Mah marster would hab me sing a song fer him 'bout de Democrats.
"Hooray de kuntry ez risin'; rise up en drown ole Clay en his pizen".
I guess ole Clay wuz a right good fellow but he played cards wid de
niggers in de cellar.
De only thing I member 'bout de 'structshun time wuz sum ob de whites
didn't wan' de niggers ter vote.
I stays 'yer wid mah daughter. Dat ez de only support I hab since I
had deze strokes en bin unable ter do fer mahse'f.
_Ex-Slave Stories_
Subject: _Joseph_ _Leonidas_ _Star_,
# 133 Quebec Place,
_Knoxville_, _Tennessee_
If the poetic strain in the Dunbar Negroes of the south is an
inheritance and not "just a gift from On High," Knoxville, Tennessee's
aged Negro Poet,--born Joseph Leonidas Star,--but prominently known in
the community as "Lee" Star, Poet, Politician and Lodge Man,--thinks
that Georgia's poetic genius Paul Lawrence Dunbar, "maybe took his
writin' spells" from him.
"My grandfather and Paul Lawrence Dunbar's grandfather was cousins. He
were a much younger man than I am, for I was eighty-one years old the
twenty-sixth of December, 1937. So I reckon I give it down to my
kin-man. But it seem to me, that Poets is just born thataway. Po'try
is nothin' but Truth anyway, and it's Truth was sets us free. And that
makes me a free-born citizen bothways and every ways. I were born
free. I were always happy-natured and I expect to die thataway. One of
my poems is named, 'Be Satisfied!' and I say in it that if a man's got
somethin' to eat, and teeth to bite, he should be satisfied. You cant
take your goods with you. Old man Rockefeller, when he died here
awhile back, went away from here 'thout his hat and shoes. That's the
way its goin' to be with all us, no matter what our color is."
"The people 'round here calls me "Lee" Star, and I want to tell you,
Lee Star is a free-born man. But of course, things bein' as they were,
both my mother and father were slaves. That is for a few years. They
lived in Greenville, Tennessee. My mother, Maria Guess, was free'd
before the emancipation, by the good words of her young white
mistress, who told 'me [TR: 'em] all when she was about to die, she
wanted 'em to set Maria free, 'cause she didn't want her little
playmate to be nobodys else's slave. They was playmates you see. My
mother was eleven years old when she was freed."
"When she was about fourteen and my father Henry Dunbar wanted to
marry he had to first buy his freedom. In them times a slave couldn't
marry a free'd person. So he bought his freedom from his Marster Lloyd
Bullen, and a good friend of Andrew Johnson, the presi-dent. My father
an' him was friends too. So he bought his freedom, for just a little
of somethin' I disremember what, 'cause they didn't aim to make him
buy his freedom high. He made good money though. He was a carpenter,
blacksmith, shoe maker and knowed a lot more trades. His Master was
broadhearted, and good to his slaves, and he let 'em work at anything
they want to, when they was done their part of white folks
chore-work."
"Both my father and mother was learned in the shoe makin' trade. When
they come to Knoxville to live, and where I was born, they had a great
big shoe shop out there close to where Governor Brownlow lived.
Knoxville just had three streets, two runnin' east and west and one
run north and south. I well remember when General Burnside come to
Knoxville. That was endurin' the siege of Knoxville. Before he marched
his men out to the Battle of Fort Saunders, he stopped his solider
[TR: soldier] band in front of our shoe shop and serenaded my mother
and father. I was a little boy and I climed up on the porch bannisters
and sat there and lissen' to that music."
"I remember another big man come here once when I was a boy and I
served the transient trade at a little eatin' place right where the
Atkin Ho-tel is now. Jeff Davis come there to eat, when he stopped
over between trains. That was in 1869. No, I disremember what he eat
or how he behave. He didnt seem no different from any other man. He
was nince lookin' wore a long tail coat and his boots was plenty
blacked. He favored pictures of Abraham Lincoln. Was about
middle-height and had short, dark chin-whiskers. I were very busy at
the time, an' if they was any excitement I didnt know it."
"Yes, I've seen many a slave in my day. One of my boy playmates was a
slave child. His name is Sam Rogan and he lives now at the County Poor
Farm. I make it a point not to dwell too much on slave times. I was
learned different. I've had considerable schoolin', went to my first
school in the old First Presbyterian church. My teachers was white
folks from the North. They give us our education and give us clothes
and things sent down here from the North. That was just after the
surrender. I did see a terrible sight once. A slave with chains on him
as long as from here to the street. He was in an ole' buggy, settin'
between two white men and they was passin' througn Knoxville. My
mother and father wouldnt lissen' to me tell 'em about it when I got
home. And I hope I forget everything I ever knowed or heard about
salves [TR: slaves], and slave times."
Joseph Leonidas Star, no longer works at the shoemakers trade. He
writes poetry and lives leisurely in a three room frame shanty, in a
row of shabbier ones that face each other disconsolately on a typical
Negro alleyway, that has no shade trees and no paving. "Lee's" house
is the only one that does not wabble uneasily, flush with the muddy
alley. His stands on a small brick foundation, a few feet behind a
privet hedge in front, with a brick wall along the side in which he
has cemented a few huge conch shells.
After fifty-four years residence here, a political boss in his ward,
and the only Negro member of the Young White Men's Republican League,
Star's influence in his community is attested by the fact that when he
"destructed", the Knoxville City Council to "please do somethin' about
it, Knoxville being too big a city to keep callin' street's alleys,"
the City Council promptly and unanimously voted to change the name of
King's Alley to Quebec Place.
When the interviewer called, Star's door was padlocked. But he
appeared soon, having received word by the grape-vine system that some
one "was to see him",--"They told me it was the Sherriff" he laughed.
He came down the long muddy alley at a lively clip. He claimes he is
able to walk about 20 miles each day, just to keep in condition. He
wore a broad-brimmed black "derby-hat", a neatly pressed serge suit in
two tones, a soiled white pleated shirt and a frazzled-edged black bow
tie. His coat lapels and vest-front were adorned with badges and
emblems, including his Masonic pins, a Friendship Medal, his
Republican button and a silver crucifix. The Catholic church,
according to Lee, is the only one in Knoxville which permits the black
man to worship under the same roof with his white brothers.
Many of Star's poems have been published in the local and state
papers. He keeps a record of deaths of all citizens, and has done so
for sixty years. He calls the one, which records murders and hanging,
his "Doomsday Book", and "encoached" in it he claims is an accurate
date record of all such events of importance in his lifetime. His
records are neatly inscribed in a printing form and very legible. His
conversation is marked by grammatical incongruities, but he does not
speak the Negro dialect.
INTERVIEW
DAN THOMAS
941 Jefferson Street
Nashville, Tennessee
"I wuz bawn in slavery in 1847 at Memphis, Tennessee en mah marster
wuz Deacon Allays. Mah mammy wuz de cook at de big house. Mah mammy
d'ed soon atter I wuz bawn, en de Missis had me raised on a bottle.
Marster en Missis treatus all dere slaves kindly en plenty ter eat en
eve'y one wuz happy. I dunno nuthin 'bout mah daddy er whar he went. I
hab no kin in dis worl'. All I eber yeard wuz dat all mah folks kum
fum Africa. Mah Missis would tell me dat I mus' be good en mine en
eberbody will lak' you en ef she d'ed, dey would tek keer ob me. Dat
ez w'at dey hab don."
"I wuked 'round de house 'tel I wuz 'bout ten y'ars ole en de Marster
put me ter wuk in his big whiskey house. W'en I got 'bout 21 y'ars
ole, I would go out ter collect bills fum Marster's customers en hit
tuk me 'bout a week ter git all 'round. I wuzn't 'lowed ter tek money
but had ter git dere checks. I also wuked 18 y'ars as bar tender.
Marster en Mistress d'ed 'bout four y'ars 'fore whiskey went out ob de
United States. I stay wid dem 'til dey d'ed."
"Atter de Marster en Missis d'ed de doctor sezs I would hab ter leave
Memphis on 'count ob my health. I kum ter Nashville en got a job at de
"Powder Plant" durin' de Worl' War, en stayed dere 'til hit wuz ovuh.
I den gets wuk at Foster en Creighton in Nashville 'till dey tole me
dat I wuz too ole ter wuk. I makes mah livin' now by haulin' slop en
pickin' up things dat de white folks throw in dere trash pile en sum
ob hit I sell ter de papah en junk dealers. De white peeple he'p me
now also."
"I se'd dem sell a lot ob slaves in Mississippi, jes' lak hosses en
hogs, one time w'en de Marster en Mistress made a trip down dere. Lots
ob times dey made trips 'round de kuntry en dey allus tuk me 'long. I
se'd sum cru'l Marsters dat hitched up dere slaves ter plows en made
dem plow lak hosses en mules did."
"Atter de slaves got dere freedum, dey had ter look atter demselves,
so dey would wuk on plantations till dey got so dey could rent a
place, lak you rent houses en farms terday. Sum got places whar dey
wuk'd fer wages."
"I voted three times in mah life but lawdy dat wuz a long time ago. I
voted fer Teddy Roosevelt en Woodrow Wilson, en mah last vote wuz
'bout two y'ars pas'."
"Hab no tales handed down by mah peeple. W'en I would try ter git
info'mation, atter I got o'ler, all dey would say wuz, "You wuz raised
on a bottle en hab no peeple ob you own."
"Oh mah goodness! Hit jes par'lises me ter see how dem young peeple ez
doin' terday. Lawdy hab mercy but dere ez as much diff'ent fum ole
times as day en nite en hit looks lak things hab gone astray. Wuz tole
lots 'bout de Ku Klux Klan en how dey would catch en whup de cul'ed
peeple, but mah white folks made me stay in en dey neber got me."
"I member seein' Andrew Jackson, General Grant en Abraham Lincoln,
member seein' General Andrew Jackson git'in ready fer war by marchin'
his soldiers erroun'. I se'd 'im ride his big white hoss up en down
ter see how dey marched."
"One song I lack'd best ob all wuz, 'Mah ole Mammy ez De'd en Gon','
'Let me Sit B'neath de Willow Tree.' Don't member uther songs now."
INTERVIEW
Sylvia Watkins
411 14th Avenue N.
Nashville, Tennessee.
I'se said ter be 91 y'ars ole. I wuz young w'en de War wuz goin' on. I
wuz bawn in Bedford County. Mah mammy wuz named Mariah. She had six
chillun by mah daddy en three by her fust husband.
Mah missis wuz named Emily Hatchet en de young missises wuz Mittie en
Bettie, dey wuz twins. We had good clothes ter w'ar en w'en we went
ter de table hit wuz loaded wid good food en we could set down en eat
our stomachs full. Oh Lawd I wish dem days wuz now so I'd hab sum good
food. Ob course, we had ter wuk in de fiel's en mek w'at we et.
Wen we'd finish our day's wuk our missis would let us go out en play
hide en seek, Puss in de corner, en diff'ent games.
Mah mammy wuz sold in Virginia w'en she wuz a gurl. She sezs 'bou 60
ob em wuz put in de road en druv down 'yer by a slave trader, lak a
bunch ob cattle. Mah mammy en two ob mah sistahs wuz put on a block,
sold en carried ter Alabama. We neber 'yeard fum dem nomo', en dunno
whar dey ez.
I wuz willed ter mah young missis w'en she ma'ried. I wuz young en, ob
course, she whuped me, but she wasn't mean ter me. I needed eve'y
whupin' she eber gib me, cause I wuz allus fightin'. Mah missis allus
called me her lettle nig.
Mah daddy could only see mah mammy Wednesday en Saturday nites, en
ef'n he kum wid'out a pass de pat-rollers would whup 'im er run 'im
'til his tongue hung out. On dem nites we would sit up en look fer
daddy en lots ob times he wuz out ob bref cose he had run so much.
Mah white folks had a loom en we wove our own clothes. I wuz nuss en
house girl en l'arned how ter sew en nit. Mah young missis wuz blind
'fore she died. I useter visit her once a Ye'r en she'd load me down
wid things ter tek home, a linsey petticoat, ham bones, cracklins en
diff'ent things. She died 18 years ago almos' a 100 ye'r ole.
De white folks wouldn't let de slaves hab a book er papah fer fear
dey'd l'arn sumpin', en ef dey wan'ed ter pray dey'd tu'n a kettle
down at dere cabin do'er. I member yearin' mah mammy pray "Oh Father
op'n up de do'ers en sho us lite." I'd look up ter de ceiling ter see
ef he wuz gonna op'n up sumpin'; silly, silly me, thinkin' such. I's
'longs ter de Missionary Baptist chuch but I don't git ter go very
off'n.
I wuz tole 'fore freedum dat de slaves would git a mule, land en a new
suit, but our missis didn't gib us a thing. She promis' me, mah
br'rer, en three sistahs ef'n we would stay wid her a ye'r, en he'p
her mek a crop she would gib us sump'in ter start us a crop on w'en we
lef' her.
Mah daddy's marster wus named Bob Rankin, he gib mah daddy a hog, sum
chickens, let him hab a cow ter milk en land ter raise a crop on. He
wan'ed mah daddy ter git us tergedder ter he'p daddy raise a crop but
since mah missis had promised us so much, daddy let us stay wid her a
ye'r. On de nite mah daddy kum fer us, mah missis sezs I've not got
nuthin ter gib you, fer I won't hab nobody ter do nuthin fer me. We
went wid our daddy. We lived dere on Marster Rankin's farm fer ye'rs
in fact so long we tho't de place 'longed ter mah daddy. We had a
house wid big cracks in hit, had a big fier place, a big pot dat hong
on de fier en a skillet dat we cooked corn bread in. Had a hill ob
taters under de house, would raise up a plank, rake down in de dirt
git taters, put dem in de fier ter roast. We had meat ter eat in de
middle ob de day but none at mawnin' er nite. We got one pair ob shoes
a ye'r, dey had brass on de toes. I uster git out en shine de toes ob
mine, we called hit gol' on our shoes. We wuked in de fiel' wid mah
daddy, en I know how ter do eberting dere ez ter do in a fiel' 'cept
plow, I wuz allus ter slender ter hold a plow. We had grease lamps. A
thing lak a goose neck wid platted rag wick in hit. Would put grease
in hit.
Durin' slavery ef one marster had a big boy en 'nuther had a big gal
da marsters made dem libe tergedder. Ef'n de 'oman didn't hab any
chilluns, she wuz put on de block en sold en 'nuther 'oman bought. You
see dey raised de chilluns ter mek money on jes lak we raise pigs ter
sell.
Mah mammy tole me 'bout de sta'rs fallin' en den I se'ed de second
fallin' ob sta'rs. Dey didn't hit de groun' lak de fust did. I member
de comet hit had a long tail. I lef' mah daddy en kum ter Nashville
wid missis Nellie Rankin, (daddy's young missus) in 1882; hab bin 'yer
eber since. I'se dun house wuk fer a lot ob peeples. Kep house fer a
'oman in Belle Meade fer 14 ye'rs. Now I'se aint able ter do nothin.
I'se bin ma'ried twice. Ma'ried Jimm Ferguson, libed wid 'im 20 ye'ars
he d'ed. Two ye'ars later I mar'ed George Watkins, lived wid him 8
ye'ars; two ye'ars ago he died. I'se neber had any chilluns. I kep
wan'in ter 'dopt a lettle gal, de fust husban' wouldn't do hit. 'Bout
5-1/2 ye'ars ago de second husban' George kum in wid a tiny baby, sezs
'yer ez a boy baby I 'dopted. I sezs dat ez you own baby cose hits jes
like yer. He denied hit, but eben now de boy ez e'zackly lak George.
He's six ye'rs ole en gwine ter school. I'se got mah hands full tryin'
ter raise 'im 'lone. W'en George died he had a small inshorance
policy. I paid mah taxes, I owns dis home, en bought mahself three
hogs. I sold two en kilt one. Den I got three mor' jes' a short time
ago. Sum kind ob zeeze got among dem en dey all d'ed.
Yas I'se voted four er five times, but neber had any frens in office.
I don' think dis white-black mar'iage should be 'lowed. Dey should be
whupped wid a bull whup.
As far as I know de ex-slaves hab wuked at diff'ent kins ob jobs en
now sum I know ez in de po-house, sum git' in relief order en urthers
ez lak mahself, hab dere homes en gettin' 'long bes' dey kin. I needs
milk en cod liver oil fer dis lettle boy but can't buy it.