Nellie Smith
From:
Georgia
PLANTATION LIFE AS VIEWED BY EX-SLAVE
NELLIE SMITH, Age 78
660 W. Hancock Avenue
Athens, Georgia
Written by:
Miss Grace McCune
Athens
Edited by:
Mrs. Sarah H. Hall
Athens
and
John N. Booth
District Supervisor
Federal Writers' Project
Residencies 6 & 7
Augusta Georgia
September 2, 1938
Large pecan trees shaded the small, well-kept yard that led to Nellie
Smith's five-room frame house. The front porch of her white cottage was
almost obscured by a white cloud of fragrant clematis in full blossom,
and the yard was filled with roses and other flowers.
A small mulatto woman sat in the porch swing, a walking stick across her
lap. Her straight, white hair was done in a prim coil low on the neck,
and her print dress and white apron were clean and neat. In answer to
the visitor's inquiry, she smiled and said: "This is Nellie Smith. Won't
you come in out of the hot sun? I just knows you is plumb tuckered out.
Walkin' around in this hot weather is goin' to make you sick if you
don't be mighty careful.
"'Scuse me for not gittin' up. I can't hardly make it by myself since I
fell and got hurt so bad. My arm was broke and it looks lak my old back
never will stop hurtin' no more. Our doctor says I'll have to stay
bandaged up this way two or three weeks longer, but I 'spects that's on
account of my age. You know old folks' bones don't knit and heal quick
lak young folks' and, jus' let me tell you, I've done been around here a
mighty long time. Are you comfortable, Child? Wouldn't you lak to have a
glass of water? I'll call my daughter; she's back in the kitchen."
Nellie rapped heavily on the floor with her walking stick, and a tall,
stout, mulatto in a freshly laundered house frock made her appearance.
"This is my daughter, Amanda," said Nellie, and, addressing her
off-spring, she continued: "Bring this lady a drink of water. She needs
it after walkin' 'way out here in this hot sun." Ice tinkled in the
glass that the smiling Amanda offered as she inquired solicitously if
there was anything else she could do. Amanda soon went back to her work
and Nellie began her narrative.
"Lordy, Honey, them days when I was a child, is so far back that I don't
s'pect I can 'member much 'bout 'em. I does love to talk about them
times, but there ain't many folks what keers anything 'bout listening to
us old folks these days. If you don't mind we'll go to my room where
it'll be more comfortable." Amanda appeared again, helped Nellie to her
room, and placed her in a large chair with pillows to support the broken
arm. Amanda laughed happily when she noticed her mother's enthusiasm for
the opportunity to relate her life story. "Mother likes that," she said,
"and I'm so glad you asked her to talk about those old times she thinks
so much about. I'll be right back in the kitchen ironing; if you want
anything, just call me."
Nellie now began again: "I was born right near where the Coordinate
College is now; it was the old Weir place then. I don't know nothin'
'bout my Daddy, but my Mother's name was Harriet Weir, and she was owned
by Marster Jack Weir. He had a great big old plantation then and the
homeplace is still standin', but it has been improved and changed so
much that it don't look lak the same house. As Marse Jack's sons married
off he give each one of 'em a home and two slaves, but he never did sell
none of his slaves, and he told them boys they better not never sell
none neither.
"Slaves slept in log cabins what had rock chimblies at the end. The
rocks was put together with red clay. All the slaves was fed at the big
house kitchen. The fireplace, where they done the cookin', was so big it
went 'most across one end of that big old kitchen. It had long swingin'
cranes to hang the pots on, and there was so many folks to cook for at
one time that often there was five or six pots over the fire at the same
time. Them pots was large too--not lak the little cookin' vessels we use
these days. For the bakin', they had all sizes of ovens. Now Child, let
me tell you, that was good eatin'. Folks don't take time enough to cook
right now; They are always in too big a hurry to be doin' something else
and don't cook things long enough. Back in dem days they put the
vegetables on to cook early in the mornin' and biled 'em 'til they was
good and done. The biggest diffunce I see is that folks didn't git sick
and stay sick with stomach troubles then half as much as they does now.
When my grandma took a roast out of one of them old ovens it would be
brown and juicy, with lots of rich, brown gravy. Sweet potatoes baked
and browned in the pan with it would taste mighty fine too. With some of
her good biscuits, that roast meat, brown gravy, and potatoes, you had
food good enough for anybody. I just wish I could taste some more of it
one more time before I die.
"Why, Child, two of the best cake-makers I ever knew used them old ovens
for bakin' the finest kinds of pound cakes and fruit cakes, and evvybody
knows them cakes was the hardest kinds to bake we had in them days. Aunt
Betsey Cole was a great cake-baker then. She belonged to the Hulls, what
lived off down below here somewhere but, when there was to be a big
weddin' or some 'specially important dinner in Athens, folks 'most
always sent for Aunt Betsey to bake the cakes. Aunt Laura McCrary was a
great cake-maker too; she baked the cake for President Taft when he was
entertained at Mrs. Maggie Welch's home here.
"In them days you didn't have to be runnin' to the store evvy time you
wanted to cook a extra good meal; folks raised evvything they needed
right there at home. They had all the kinds of vegetables they knowed
about then in their own gardens, and there was big fields of corn, rye,
and wheat. Evvy big plantation raised its own cows for plenty of milk
and butter, as well as lots of beef cattle, hogs, goats, and sheep.
'Most all of 'em had droves of chickens, geese, and turkeys, and on our
place there were lots of peafowls. When it was goin' to rain them old
peafowls set up a big holler. I never knew rain to fail after them
peafowls started their racket.
"All our clothes and shoes was home-made, and I mean by that they growed
the cotton, wool, and cattle and made the cloth and leather on the
plantation. Summer clothes was made of cotton homespun, and cotton and
wool was wove together for winter clothin'. Marse Jack owned a man what
he kept there to do nothin' but make shoes. He had another slave to do
all the carpenterin' and to make all the coffins for the folks that died
on the plantation. That same carpenter made 'most all the beds the white
folks and us slaves slept on. Them old beds--they called 'em
teesters--had cords for springs; nobody never heard of no metal springs
them days. They jus' wove them cords criss-cross, from one side to the
other and from head to foot. When they stretched and sagged they was
tightened up with keys what was made for that purpose.
"Jus' look at my room," Nellie laughed. "I saw you lookin' at my bed. It
was made at Wood's Furniture Shop, right here in Athens, and I've had it
ever since I got married the first time. Take a good look at it, for
there ain't many lak it left." Nellie's pride in her attractively
furnished room was evident as she told of many offers she has had for
this furniture, but she added: "I want to keep it all here to use myself
jus' as long as I live. Shucks, I done got plumb off from what I was
tellin' you jus' ravin' 'bout my old furniture and things.
"My Mother died when I was jus' a little girl and she's buried in the
old family graveyard on the Weir place, but there are several other
slaves buried there and I don't know which grave is hers. Grandma raised
me, and I was jus' gittin' big enough to handle that old peafowl-tail
fly brush they used to keep the flies off the table when we were set
free.
"It wasn't long after the War when the Yankees come to Athens. Folks had
to bury or hide evvything they could, for them Yankees jus' took
anything they could git their hands on, 'specially good food. They would
catch up other folks' chickens and take hams from the smokehouses, and
they jus' laughed in folks' faces if they said anything 'bout it. They
camped in the woods here on Hancock Avenue, but of course it wasn't
settled then lak it is now. I was mighty scared of them Yankees and they
didn't lak me neither. One of 'em called me a little white-headed devil.
"One of my aunts worked for a northern lady that they called Mrs.
Meeker, who lived where the old Barrow home is now. Evvy summer when she
went back up North she would leave my aunt and uncle to take care of her
place. It was right close to the Yankees' camp, and the soldiers made my
aunt cook for them sometimes. I was livin' with her then, and I was so
scared of 'em that I stayed right by her. She never had to worry 'bout
where I was them days, for I was right by her side as long as the
Yankees was hangin' 'round Athens. My uncle used to say that he had seen
them Yankees ride to places and shoot down turkeys, then make the folks
that owned them turkeys cook and serve 'em. Folks used to talk lots
'bout the Yankees stoppin' a white 'oman on the street and takin' her
earrings right out of her ears to put 'em on a Negro 'oman; I never saw
that, I jus' heard it.
"After the war was over Grandpa bought one of the old slave cabins from
Marse Jack and we lived there for a long time; then we moved out to Rock
Spring. I was about eight or nine years old then, and they found out I
was a regular tomboy. The woods was all 'round Rock Spring then, and I
did have a big time climbin' them trees. I jus' fairly lived in 'em
durin' the daytime, but when dark come I wanted to be as close to
Grandpa as I could git.
"One time, durin' those days at Rock Spring, I wanted to go to a Fourth
of July celebration. Those celebrations was mighty rough them days and
Grandpa didn't think that would be a good place for a decent little
girl, so he didn't want me to go. I cried and hollered and cut up
something awful. Grandma told him to give me a good thrashin' but
Grandpa didn't lak to do that, so he promised me I could go to ride if I
wouldn't go to that celebration. That jus' tickled me to death, for I
did lak to ride. Grandpa had two young mules what was still wild, and
when he said I could ride one of 'em Grandma tried hard to keep me off
of it, for she said that critter would be sure to kill me, but I was so
crazy to go that nobody couldn't tell me nothin'. Auntie lent me her
domino coat to wear for a ridin' habit and I sneaked and slipped a pair
of spurs, then Grandpa put a saddle on the critter and helped me to git
up on him. I used them spurs, and then I really went to ride. That mule
showed his heels straight through them woods and way on out in the
country. I couldn't stop him, so I jus' kept on kickin' him with them
spurs and didn't have sense to know that was what was makin' him run. I
thought them spurs was to make him mind me, and all the time I was I
lammin' him with the spurs I was hollerin': 'Stop! Oh, Stop!' When I got
to where I was too scared to kick him with the spurs or do nothin' 'cept
hang on to that saddle, that young mule quit his runnin' and trotted
home as nice and peaceable as you please. I never did have no more use
for spurs.
"Grandpa used to send me to Phinizy's mill to have corn and wheat
ground. It would take all day long, so they let me take a lunch with me,
and I always had the best sort of time when I went to mill. Uncle Isham
run the mill then and he would let me think I was helpin' him. Then,
while he helped me eat my lunch, he would call me his little 'tomboy
gal' and would tell me about the things he used to do when he was 'bout
my age.
"My first schoolin' was in old Pierce's Chapel that set right spang in
the middle of Hancock Avenue at Foundry Street. Our teacher was a Yankee
man, and we were mighty surprised to find out that he wasn't very hard
on us. We had to do something real bad to git a whippin', but when we
talked or was late gittin' to school we had to stand up in the back of
the schoolroom and hold up one hand. Pierce's chapel was where the
colored folks had preachin' then--preachin' on Sunday and teachin' on
week days, all in the same buildin'. A long time before then it had been
the white folks' church, and Preacher Pierce was the first one to preach
there after it was built, so they named it for him. When the white folks
built them a new church they gave the old chapel to the colored folks,
and, Honey, there was some real preachin' done in that old place. Me, I
was a Methodist, but I was baptized just lak the Baptists was down there
in the Oconee River.
"Me and my first husband was too young to know what we was doin' when we
got married, but our folks give us a grand big weddin'. I think my
weddin' cake was 'bout the biggest one I ever saw baked in one of them
old ovens in the open fireplace. They iced it in white and decorated it
with grapes. A shoat was cooked whole and brought to the table with a
big red apple in his mouth. You know a shoat ain't nothin' but a young
hog that's done got bigger than a little pig. We had chicken and pies
and just evvything good that went to make up a fine weddin' supper.
"Our weddin' took place at night, and I wore a white dress made with a
tight-fittin' waist and a long, full skirt that was jus' covered with
ruffles. My sleeves was tight at the wrists but puffed at the shoulders,
and my long veil of white net was fastened to my head with pretty
flowers. I was a mighty dressed up bride. The bridegroom wore a real
dark-colored cutaway coat with a white vest. We did have a swell weddin'
and supper, but there wasn't no dancin' 'cause we was all good church
folks.
"We was so young we jus' started out havin' a good time and didn't miss
nothin' that meant fun and frolic. We was mighty much in love with each
other too. It didn't seem long before we had three children, and then
one night he was taken sick all of a sudden and didn't live but a little
while. Soon as he was taken sick I sent for the doctor, but my husband
told me then he was dyin' fast and that he wasn't ready to die. He said:
'Nellie, here we is with these three little children and neither one of
us had been fit to raise 'em. Now I've got to leave you and you will
have to raise one of 'em, but the other two will come right on after
me.'"
For several moments Nellie was still and quiet; then she raised her head
and said: "Honey, it was jus' lak he said it would be. He was gone in
jus' a little while and it wasn't two weeks 'fore the two youngest
children was gone lak their daddy. I worried lots after my husband and
babies was taken. I wanted to be saved to raise my little girl right,
and I was too proud to let anybody know how troubled I was or what it
was all about, so I kept it to myself. I lost weight, I couldn't sleep,
and was jus' dyin' away with sin. I would go to church but that didn't
git me no relief.
"One day a dear, good white lady sent for me to come to the hotel where
she was stayin'. She had been a mighty good friend to me for a long,
long time, and I had all the faith in the world in her. She told me that
she had a good job for me and wanted me to take it because it would let
me keep my little girl with me. She said her best friend's maid had died
and this friend of hers needed someone to work for her. 'I want you to
go there and work for her,' said the white lady, 'for she will be good
to you and your child. I've already talked with her about it.'
"I took her advice and went to work for Mrs. R.L. Bloomfield whose
husband operated the old check mill. Honey, Mrs. Bloomfield was one of
God's children and one of the best folks I have ever known. Right away
she told her cook: 'Amanda, look after Nellie good 'cause she's too
thin.' It wasn't long before Mrs. Bloomfield handed me a note and told
me to take it to Dr. Carlton. When he read it he laughed and said; 'Come
on Nellie, I've got to see what's wrong with you.' I tried to tell him I
wasn't sick, but he examined me all over, then called to see Mrs.
Bloomfield and told her that I didn't need nothin' but plenty of rest
and to eat enough good food. Bless her dear old heart, she done
evvything she could for me, but there wasn't no medicine, rest, or food
that could help the trouble that was wearin' me down then.
"Soon they started a revival at our church. One night I wanted to go,
but Aunt Amanda begged me not to, for she said I needed to go to bed and
rest; later she said she would go along with me to hear that preachin'.
Honey, I never will forgit that night. The text of the sermon was: 'Come
unto me all you weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.' When
they began callin' the mourners to come up to the mourners' bench
something seemed to be jus' a-pullin' me in that direction, but I was
too proud to go. I didn't think then I ever could go to no mourners'
bench or shout. After a while they started singin' Almost Persuaded,
and I couldn't wait; I jus' got up and run to that blessed mourners'
bench and I prayed there. Honey, I shouted too, for I found the Blessed
Lord that very night and I've kept Him right with me ever since. I don't
aim to lose Him no more. Aunt Amanda was most nigh happy as I was and,
from that night when the burden was lifted from my heart, I begun
gittin' better.
"I worked on for Mrs. Bloomfield 'til I got married again, and then I
quit work 'cept for nursin' sick folks now and then. I made good money
nursin' and kept that up 'til I got too old to work outside my own
family.
"My second husband was Scott Smith. We didn't have no big, fancy weddin'
for I had done been married and had all the trimmin's one time. We jus'
had a nice quiet weddin' with a few close friends and kinfolks invited.
I had on a very pretty, plain, white dress. Again I was blessed with a
good husband. Scott fixed up that nice mantelpiece you see in this room
for me, and he was mighty handy about the house; he loved to keep things
repaired and in order. Best of all, he was jus' as good to my little
girl as he was to the girl and boy that were born to us later. All three
of my children are grown and married now, and they are mighty good to
their old mother. One of my daughters lives in New York.
"Soon after we married, we moved in a big old house called the old White
place that was jus' around the corner from here on Pope Street. People
said it was haunted, and we could hear something walkin' up and down the
stairs that sounded lak folks. To keep 'em from bein' so scared, I used
to try to make the others believe it was jus' our big Newfoundland dog,
but one night my sister heard it. She got up and found the dog lyin'
sound asleep on the front porch, so it was up to me to find out what it
was. I walked up the stairs without seein' a thing, but, Honey, when I
put my foot on that top step such a feelin' come over me as I had never
had before in all my life. My body trembled 'til I had to hold tight to
the stair-rail to keep from fallin', and I felt the hair risin' up all
over my head. While it seemed like hours before I was able to move, it
was really only a very few seconds. I went down those stairs in a hurry
and, from that night to this day, I have never hunted ghosts no more and
I don't aim to do it again, never.
"I've been here a long time, Honey. When them first street lights was
put up and lit, Athens was still mostly woods. Them old street lights
would be funny to you now, but they was great things to us then, even if
they wasn't nothin' but little lanterns what burned plain old lamp-oil
hung out on posts. The Old Town Hall was standin' then right in the
middle of Market (Washington) Street, between Lumpkin and Pulaski
Streets. The lowest floor was the jail, and part of the ground floor was
the old market place. Upstairs was the big hall where they held court,
and that was where they had so many fine shows. Whenever any white folks
had a big speech to make they went to that big old room upstairs in Town
Hall and spoke it to the crowd.
"You is too young to remember them first streetcars what was pulled by
little bitsy Texas mules with bells around their necks. Hearing them
bells was sweet music to us when they meant we was goin' to git a ride
on them streetcars. Some folks was too precise to say 'streetcars'; they
said 'horsecars', but them horsecars was pulled through the streets by
mules, so what's the diffunce? Sometimes them little mules would mire up
so deep in the mud they would have to be pulled out, and sometimes, when
they was feelin' sassy and good, they would jus' up and run away with
them streetcars. Them little critters could git the worst tangled up in
them lines." Here Nellie laughed heartily. "Sometimes they would even
try to climb inside the cars. It was lots of fun ridin' them cars, for
you never did know what was goin' to happen before you got back home,
but I never heard of no real bad streetcar accidents here."
Nellie now began jumping erratically from one subject to another. "Did
you notice my pretty flowers and ferns on the front porch?" she asked.
"I jus' know you didn't guess what I made them two hangin' baskets out
of. Them's the helmets that my son and my son-in-law wore when they was
fightin' in the World War. I puts my nicest flowers in 'em evvy year as
a sort of memorial to the ones that didn't git to fetch their helmets
back home. Yes Mam, I had two stars on my service flag and, while I
hated mighty bad that there had to be war, I wanted my family to do
their part.
"Honey, old Nellie is gittin' a little tired, but jus' you listen to
this: I went to meetin' one night to hear the first 'oman preacher that
ever had held a meetin' in this town. She was meanin' to preach at a
place out on Rock Spring Street, and there was more folks there than
could git inside that little old weather-boarded house. The place was
packed and jammed, but me and Scott managed to git in. When I saw an old
Hardshell Baptist friend of mine in there, I asked her how come she was
at this kind of meetin'. 'Curiosity, my child,' she said, 'jus' plain
old curiosity.' The 'oman got up to preach and, out of pure devilment,
somebody on the outside hollered; 'The house is fallin' down.' Now
Child, I know it ain't right to laugh at preachin's of any sort, but
that was one funny scene. Evvybody was tryin' to git out at one time;
such cryin', prayin', and testifyin' to the Lord I ain't never heard
before. The crowd jus' went plumb crazy with fright. I was pushed down
and trampled over in the rush before Scott could git me out; they mighty
near killed me." The old woman stopped and laughed until the tears
streamed down her face. "You know, Honey," she said, when she could
control her voice sufficiently to resume her story, "Niggers ain't got
no sense at all when they gits scared. When they throwed one gal out of
a window, she called out: 'Thank you, Lord,' for the poor thing thought
the Lord was savin' her from a fallin' buildin'. Poor old Martha
Holbrook,"--The sentence was not finished until Nellie's almost
hysterical giggles had attracted her daughter who came to see if
something was wrong--"Martha Holbrook," Nellie repeated, "was climbin'
backwards out of a window and her clothes got fastened on a nail. She
slipped on down and there she was with her legs kickin' around on the
outside and the rest of her muffled up in her clothes. It looked lak her
clothes was jus' goin' to peel off over her head. It took the menfolks a
long time to git her uncaught and out of that predicament in the window.
Pretty soon the folks began to come to their senses and they found there
wasn't nothin' wrong with the house 'cept that some doors and windows
had been torn out by the crowd. They sho did git mad, but nobody seemed
to know who started that ruction. My old Hardshell Baptist friend came
up then and said: 'Curiosity brought us here, and curiosity like to have
killed the cat.'"
Seeing that Nellie was tired, the visitor prepared to leave. "Goodbye
and God bless you," were the old woman's farewell words. At the front
door Amanda said: "I haven't heard my Mother laugh that way in a long,
long time, and I jus' know she is goin' to feel more cheerful after
this. Thank you for givin' her this pleasure, and I hope you can come
back again."
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Paul Smith
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Nancy Smith
