Jules Collins lives in one of the little
four-room "negro houses" provided for the colored help of the
Fairmont Mill. Fragments of deep red paint still cling, after twenty
years or more, to this little cottage which stands on a high knoll
which affords a grand view of Middle Tyger River. The few colored
people employed by the mill company are segregated, and dwell on
this elevated locality.
Jules, his son Jim, Jim’s wife and her
small son are the only other occupants of the house. The walls of
the unpainted and misty front room are almost covered with a variety
of things - a battered guitar, a toy airplane, calendars dating
several years back old pictures of the departed, receipts for
everything from cow feed to payments on the little table radio, a
general collection of old coats and hats, and
numerous other smaller articles. Every crack in the floor is visible
through the worn linoleum rug which covers the middle part of the
room, and the mud from the red hills of the village has supplied a
coating of dirt which has been ground into the floor around the
edges of the carpet. Jules and his family do much of their "biling"
during the winter months on a small laundry heater which occupies
space before the fire-place. The fireplace is enclosed with a piece
of tin through which an opening admits the stovepipe. A "passel" of
firewood, coal, and kindling is piled up on the hearth, and several
buckets of ashes and pots are scattered around under the
stove.
The only piece of modern furniture in the
room is the radio. An old phonograph, the kind used about twenty
years ago, sits on one corner of an antiquated washstand; old books
and papers fill the rest of the space on it. A trunk and an old
sewing machine, too, hold enough old clothes and newspapers to reach
half-way up to the web-covered ceiling. Other furnishings of the
room consist of two double beds and a few straight chairs. A door on
one side of the room permits a partial view of the kitchen. Through
its opening can be seen a dining table, and on old lop-sided safe,
the panels of which are made of perforated tin. The gay colored
table cloth had much the same appearance as the mantle of a Gypsy
fortune teller. Various colored tumblers and plates also adorned the
table.
"Uncle" Jules smiles wanly in his
ramshackled dwelling and constantly repeats his philosophy in these
words: "You know you has to de bes’ you can." His features are
typically African. He is short, black, and moon-faced with a stubby
beard that curls on the ends. His hair is of the same color and
texture as his beard. When he smiles he shows his only teeth, and as
he says, "one pints no’th and t’other so’th", but he forgets to add
that he would have to be looking in a westerly direction.
Business recently occasioned my paying
Jules a visit. A smile passed over his face when I walked in, and he
pushed his chair back to a more comfortable position, in readiness
to hear what he anticipated as glad news. His appearance represented
a picture of sheer poverty. No place could be seen on his tattered
overalls that had not been patched and repatched. Only a few shreds
of cloth fell from the collar of what was once a shirt to the bosom
of his overalls. Not a single button could be seen on his garments,
but a safety pin dangled here and there from every other button
hole. He pushed aside his home-made cap and scratched his gray
head.
"Well, Miss," he said, "’cose I ain’t
disappointed, but I sho’ thought you wuz one dem women frum de
gov’ment offices. You looks just like Miss ---, can’t call her name
now, but I bet you know who she is. Yes, I put in fer my pension
last March 8, but I ain’t ev’r hyard a word yet. I thought when I
seed you coming dey wuz sending at last to ‘vestigate me. Dem, women
take me in a little room and ax me all de questions dey can think
of; den dey say somebody would be sent out to ‘vestigate. I ax’em if
dere’s anything else dey want to know, and dey ‘low t’warn’t nothing
else; but dat’s de last I ever hyard frum it.
"Oh yessum, I’se old enough to get de
pension, all right. I’se been gwine on sixty-five ever since I give
it to ‘em down dere last March. We runn’d up my age and found dat I
wuz bawn ‘bout time de war wuz over --- when dey freed de slaves,
you know. I sont by Mr. Gaston and told him to ax ‘em if dey had any
pleas aginst me. I knows too much to be sassy—don’t git no whar dat
way. Dey jest say dat dere’s nothin’ wrong, and dat’s all I know to
dis day. You know you jest has to do de bes’ you can and dat’s
all.
"I don’t ‘member nothin’ of slavery time,
fer dat’s ‘bout the time I wuz bawn, but ‘cose I’se hyard mammy and
pappy talk ‘bout de war sometimes. I wuz one of de little
"freedmen". My mammy wuz a slave of old Gen’al Miller dat lived down
at Moore’s. My pappy, he belonged to Mrs. Van Dyke, but he changed
his name to Collins - dat’s wuz his pa’s name - atter he wuz a free
man. Some spell it wid a ‘g’, and den some spell it jest like
Collins, Bee Hive. Don’t make no diff’uns.
"My mammy and pappy got married bofo’ thy
wuz set free. I’se hyard talked how dey married back den; some say
dat dey jumped over brooms and things like dat, but hit wuz all
changed time I got big enough to get married. Mammy said de slaves
wuz treated purty good and dey had plenty to eat, but dey had to
work mighty hard. When I wuz a little chap, I used to go to do
Nazareth Church with my mammy holding my hand. I’se ‘members dat
right good. De colored folks all [set?] in a corner to demselves.
Mr. [Reid?] wuz de fust man I ever hyard preach. He preached dar at
Nazareth fer a long time. I knowed his son well. His name Mr. Whit,
and he’s one of dem men dat measures off land—surveyors, dat’s
it.
"De slaves worked ‘round de house fer a
while atter dey’s sot free. I used to be one of de little house-boys
fer Mr. Joel Miller. Atter I got older dey sont me down in de
lowlands to make hit de bes’ I’se could. ‘Cose, de rest of ‘em had
to git out too. Dey had to furnish everything and de land; and de
slaves, or dem dat had been slaves - now freedmen - got one-third of
what dey made. Sho’ wuz hard times back in dem days, and the houses
den wuz made of hew’n logs, wid a door in one side and winder in
t’other. Jest plain old [mud?] wuz dabbed in de cracks to keep out
de cold and rain. All de cooking wuz did on a great big open
fireplace. Dey used pots and ovens to cook in. Coals wuz raked
out’en de fireplace and de oven set on ‘em; den some coals piled
upon top de oven, too. I’se sho’ [at some mighty good?] eatings
cooked on de open fire.
"In de fields dey raised jest ‘bout what
dey does now. I’se made a good hand in de wheat fields—I’se been
cradling all my life. De cradle has a whole pasel of fingers an hit,
and you jest sweep hit along and cut de wheat. De binder comes along
and stacks hit up, den de stacks is put in de stocks, atter dat
hit’s carried to de thrasher. ‘Cose, dem times done changed now—fust
dey used yoke oxen, den dey used horsepower, and now dey uses
engines to pull de machinery.
"My fust memory be when I wuz sent out to
‘thin grass’ and tote water. Dat’s what de little younguns had to
do. I’se went to school jest a little, but soon’s I’se got big
enough to work, den dey sent me to de fields. Time I got fifteen
I’se made a good hand, and I been at hit might near ever since. I
had brothers and sisters dat helped out on de farm, but soon as dey
got big enough to leave dey scattered out and I’se can’t give no
‘count of ‘em now. I had three or fo’ sisters, dere names wuz Sally,
Emily, and Katie. Had ‘bout fo’ brothers, too, I think. Les’ see;
Mike, Nelson, Henry, Mose—dat’s right, Adam, dat’s makes five.
Mike’s de oldest, he wuz bawn, I ‘specs, ‘bout
fo’ty-five."
Jules was more interested in finding out
about his pension than he was in relating his life history. At every
opportunity he would inquire: "What you spose dey gwine do ‘bout us
old folks? Looks like time is I’se be hearing something frum dat
pension money." Then reluctantly he would furrow his brow and try
hard to recall his early life.
"When I’se wuz 18 years old, I’se had to
start paying road tax. I paid dem tax on and on ‘til I done got two
years past de age ‘fore I’se knowed hit. I told Mr. Scafe Gaston and
he went and seed Mr. Harper, and he de one dat got me off de
tax."
"Uncle Jules, did they ever pay you back
for the extra money that you had paid?"
"No suh, what dey gwinter do dat fer?
Besides, what I done wuz my fault. I shoulda axed ‘bout
hit.
"When us hands used to be working way
down in de bottoms on de farm [?] don’t come to de house fer eats.
De cook sont hit to us. We had enough to eat most de time—had lots
of corn bread, peas or beans, and de like of dat. S’pose no spring
was close ‘bout whar we’uns worked den dey brought water fer us,
too. We had a well at de house—yes’m, dey used a rope wid a bucket
tied to one end, like dey still does sometime. Dem boring wells jest
come out in de las’ few years, we didn’t knows noting’ of ‘em
den.
"Yes, I [’specks?] time is better’n dey
used to be in some ways. If a person got as much as twenty-five
cents a day, dey thought dat wuz a whole lot of money. Trouble now
is too many people - two to one to what dey used to be. Why, when I
fust comes here, dere wuz no houses a-tall, hardly. Dere’s five or
six to one house here in Fairmont to what dere wuz when I comes
here. So many [folkses?] - don’t knows how in de world dey is all
gwine to be tooken care of - dey jest gwine here, dere, and
ever’wheres.
"I ain’t never so much as been out’n de
county but one time - dat wuz befo’ I married. I ‘cided to go to
Asheville, so I sot out walking. I jest wanted to go and see a
little of de world.
When I get to Landrum I waited for de
gravel train. I wuz aiming to cotch it and ride de rest of de way,
but dat train got off de tracks some place down de road and never
did come; so I had to walk all de way. I sho’ felt like I wuz
gitting out’n de world when I got dere. Fust man I seed on de street
wuz Mr. Dave Cohen, from ‘round where I wuz - he one dem
Republicans. Oh, dat’s a man dat can lawfully marry people and sign
papers and things like ‘e dat. He says, ‘Jules, what you doing way
up here, no way?’ I feel kina important like, and I say dat I jus’
looking ‘round de world a little. I walked on a little piece and
stepped in a [restumrent?] and—who does I see? Nobody but Mr. John
Mucklerath—he marry one of my mistress’ daughters. I told him whar
I’se wuz gwine to stay and ever’thing so he could tell my folks back
home, in case dey jest wanted to track atter me fer somethin’ or
n’other.
"Well, I done jest a little of ever’thing
while I wuz in Asheville. Fust job I landed wuz in a quarry—dat’s
whar dey blasted rocks out ‘o de ground. I’se got fifty cents a day
den, as hired help wuz hard to find. Atter dat, dey put me to
cooking fer de men in de camp whar dey slept and et. I stayed up
dere in Asheville from August till Christmas eve. I’se wuz kinda
gittin’ homesick and hit got so cold up dere I’se figgered de bes’
thing fer me to do wuz make my way back home. I got myself all
bundled up and went down to de station, but fo’ I stopped at a
frolic fer a spell. De wind got to blowing—Lawd, how hit
blowed."
Here Uncle Jules rounded his thick lips
and made a buzzing sound, imitating the wind. He had heard of people
getting snow-bound and this was his main reason - he later admitted
- for leaving "so sudden like".
"I said to myself, I says, ‘Jules, chile,
hit’s high time you’se gittin’ to dat station’. So’s I struck out.
Well, when dat train pulled in, it wuz kivered with snow as deep as
my hand. Den ‘bout time it started to peppering snow all over de
place, and wuz I glad to git on de train, never gladder in my life.
By de time we got to Spartanburg, de snow wuz two hands high on top
of de train, but hit wuz aginning to rain here. Dat jest goes to
show you de diff’uns in de [elimate?] of de two places. Us don’t
have no big snow down here like Asheville folks do. I bet hit’s
snowing up dare right dis minute.
"T’warn’t long atter I came back ‘fore I
got married. Dat’s when my trouble rightly commenced. Ever since den
I sho’ is had hard times—Lawdy, hit’s been something awful. ‘Cose,
fer de fust twelve or thirteen years we got ‘long sorta smooth
sailing like. During dis time our chilluns wuz bawn. But atter dat,
things got worser and worser.
Nancy, dats my wife’s name, she jest got
so she wasn’t satisfied no place no time. Atter while she got so she
wouldn’t ‘tend to de chilluns and wouldn’t do noting a-tall. Jim,
here, he’ll tell you de same thing. He knows I jest as good to Nancy
as I could be to my mammy. He knows I had a hard time."
Dat’s sho’ is right, I’se don’t like to
say hit ‘cause she’s my mammy", said Jim. "I had to larn to cook and
do might nigh everything a woman has to do ‘round de house. Po’
little Roxie, dat’s my sister’s name, had to make bread when she had
to clamb up in a chair to reach de table. Yes, us all sho’ had a
hard time; den dere’s Joe - he’s my brother - who is ‘round two
years younger dan me, he went and most lost his mind and we had a
awful time wid him."
"Way hit was wid Nancy," Jules continued,
"atter so long a time she went plumb crazy. She talked ‘bout eating
jay birds and sich crazy talk. She got so bad dat everybody got
scared of her, ‘kaise we couldn’t tell what might happen. ‘Cose I
wasn’t ‘xactly afeared of her, but taint no use taking big chances.
One time she got atter some folks’es chillun and run’d hit all over
the place; right den and dere we knowed she had to be [sont?]
off.
"I’se went to Spartanburg and seed the
sheriff, and he got some doctors to ‘xamine Nancy, and dey say she
sho’ wuz crazy. Jest to make deirself ‘vinced, though, dey kept her
in jail for a day or two. Dey put her in a cell wid a ‘nother woman
to match and [wee?] what would happen. De other woman wuz not crazy
but wuz in jail fer stealing - some jewelry. I think - and she say
to Nancy, "What fer you in her?’ Den Nancy say, ‘What fer you want
to know, and more’n dat, what you doing in dis here jail?" The
sheriff is listenin’ all de time, peepin’ through a hole to see how
Nancy would act. Nancy grabs the woman and dey tangle up; fust
Nancy’s on top, den the other woman, up and down, ‘round and ‘bout.
De other woman commences to call fer help and dey had to take Nancy
out and put her in one dem solitary cells. Next day dey [sont?] her
off to Columbia.
"Oh yes’m, she got better and come back.
When I got de word she wuz coming back home, I sont fer her in a
buggy. Somebody had seed her on de road headin’ fer home, dat’s why
I sont fer her. When she come home, I say, ‘Nancy, I want a little
talk wid you’. I wanted to see what kind o’ mind she wuz in. So we
walked up de road and talked for a spell. I told her I had forty
dollars in my pocket, and if she would come home and stay and do
like she ought to do, I would give her de money to buy her some new
clothes and anything else she wanted to buy with it. But she only
say to me dat if I had dat much money I ought to spend it on de
chilluns. She say dat the gwine get herself a job cooking some place
and den she could buy her own clothes. She say, too, dat she didn’t
went to fool ‘round no home and dat she would come and get her
younguns. So Nancy got a job cooking for a lady dat lives over
yonder on de hill. Den one day Nancy comes back home and axes de
chilluns what dey ‘tends to do. Dey’s knows Nancy ain’t ‘sponsible
for her actions, so’s dey tell her day gwinna stay wid deir pappy
and dat her place is home wid her chilluns.
"Well, Nancy never did come back atter
dat, not [e’en?] when she got sick. You know what - dat woman went
and married agin, sho’ did. Den she went down agin and got past
going.
Roxie sho’ stuck by her mammy through all
o’ her devilishment; she went and waited on her till she died. Den
Roxie come back home, but hit wasn’t long atter dat Roxie got
married and moved off from us for good. She moved up de road ‘bout
two miles on de Anderson place and she’s been thar ever
since."
Jules estimated the time his wife had
been dead byu calculating the time that Roxie had waited on her at
the different places where she had work and had taken sick.
Altogether he figured that it had been about six years since she
died. "Uncle Jules" could not, though he tried very hard, recall in
order the incidents of his life on the farm or on the mill hill. To
the best of his knowledge he had been living around Fairmont Mills
about twenty years. When he and his family first moved there, mill
help was scarce. They had been on the farm and because "Uncle Jules"
was in declining health, and also because they thought that they
could make more money in the mill, and would not have to work so
hard. A Mr. Gibson and a Mr. Thomas were "white gentlemen" who were
instrumental in getting Jim and Joe jobs as pickers in the Fairmont
Mill. When Jules became confused, his son Jim, who had been a silent
listener, took up the story.
Jim is a very large Negro. He, too, is
black, and his head is covered with a mass of kinky hair. He bears
little resemblance to his father, if, indeed, Jules is he father.
Jules said that he "claimed" his children, but that certain
conditions kept him from being certain. Jim has a marked
characteristic of explaining everything he tells by motions of his
hands. He goes so far as to get out of his chair to mimic the
actions of those about whom he is talking.
"Our farming days wuz hard ones, I’ll
tell you. "Way back yonder durin’ de World War," Jim began, "my
pappy wuz runned out from a white gentleman’s house jest ‘cause he
wouldn’t tell a lie for him. You see, dis gentleman had a cow and
she went and got out and gits into another white gentleman’s crop
and jest ‘bout et it all up. So he tells my pappy dat if he don’t
swear dat hit wuz not his cow, but wuz somebody else’s cow, dat he
will have to move off his place. Dis not all he does, he sets the
law on me for not jining the war. He had a son dat jined and he
didn’t want him to. He claimed dat I’d been dodging hit, but dat
ain’t so. Dey comes and gets me all right, and puts me in the
calaboose. Didn’t dey, Pappy? Dat’s not the wurse part of it; dey
fined us. You see, dere wuz more dan me in hit. ‘War dodgers’ dat’s
what dey called us. Den we had to pay a fine of fifty dollars
apiece. Atter we’se git out of de jail dey ‘xamine us and everything
and den the man sends us home to wait for a ‘call card’ that never
come, jest like pappy’s old age pension he put/ {Begin inserted
text}in{End inserted text} fer, hit never come yit,
either."
With his last sentence, he lets out an
obstreperous laugh. Jim had been reticent, but now his mood had
suddenly changed and he wanted to talk. Jim’s temperament is quite
different from that of Jules. He smiles almost continuously and
keeps his hands and arms in motion all the time he is
talking.
Questioned about his early life, Jim said
"I never went very fer in school, ‘bout de fo’th grade, I’se specs.
You see, since mammy and pappy wuzn’t stayin’ together, I had to
take de part of de woman. I had to help brang up Roxie; den I allus
had to be takin’ care of Joe, ‘kaise his mind wuz bad. I went ‘round
on de hill and worked fer white folks when I had any spare time. I
used to scrub dere floors fer dem, and dey got so dey call me ‘de
little colored gal’. Dey liked my scrubbing ‘kaise I’se git de
floors jest as white as snow. Dem when I gits through wid one house,
dere allus be somebody waiting for me to go to dere house and scrub.
Fust I puts soap in hot water and lets it melt; den I gits me a
bucket of sand and wets it real good and throws it on the floor.
Atter dat I po’s de hot water on de sand and starts to work. Dat’s
de bes’ way in de world to git a floor clean—hit sho’ makes ‘em
shine. Dey all tells me dat I do’s a good job. Some gived me a dime,
and some, fifteen cents."
