Whippings

“I been whipped from sunup till sundown.  Off and on, you know.  They whip me till they got tired and then they go and res’ and come out and start again.  They kept a bowl filled with vinegar and salt and pepper settin’ nearby, and when they had whipped me till the blood come, they would take the mop and sponge the cuts with this stuff so that they would hurt more.  They would whip me with the cowhide part of the time and with birch sprouts the other part.  There were splinters long as my finger left in my back.  A girl named Betty Jones come over and soaped the splinters so that they would be softer and pulled them out.  They didn’t whip me with a bull whip; they whipped me with a cowhide.  They jus’ whipped me ’cause they could—­’cause they had the privilege.  It wasn’t nothin’ I done; they just whipped me.  My married young master, Joe, and his wife, Jennie, they was the ones that did the whipping.  But I belonged to Miss Evelyn.

“They had so many babies ’round there I couldn’t keep up with all of them.  I was jus’ a young girl and I couldn’t keep track of all them chilen.  While I was turned to one, the other would get off.  When I looked for that one, another would be gone.  Then they would whip me all day for it.  They would whip you for anything and wouldn’t give you a bite of meat to eat to save your life, but they’d grease your mouth when company come.

Food

“We et out of a trough with a wooden spoon.  Mush and milk.  Cedar trough and long-handled cedar spoons.  Didn’t know what meat was.  Never got a taste of egg.  Oo-ee!  Weren’t allowed to look at a biscuit.  They used to make citrons.  They were good too.  When the little white chilen would be comin’ home from school, we’d run to meet them.  They would say, ’Whose nigger are you?’ And we would say, ‘Yor’n!’ And they would say, ’No, you ain’t.’  They would open those lunch baskets and show us all that good stuff they’d brought back.  Hold it out and snatch it back!  Finally, they’d give it to us, after they got tired of playing.

Health

“They’re burying old Brother Jim Mullen over here today.  He was an old man.  They buried one here last Sunday—­eighty some odd.  Brother Mullen had been sick for thirty years.  Died settin’ up—­settin’ up in a chair.  The old folks is dyin’ fas’.  Brother Smith, the husband of the old lady that brought you down here, he’s in feeble health too.  Ain’t been well for a long time.

“Look at that place on my head. (There was a knot as big as a hen egg—­smooth and shiny—­ed.) When it first appeared, it was no bigger then a pea, I scratched it and then the hair commenced to fall out.  I went to three doctors, and been to the clinic too.  One doctor said it was a busted vein.  Another said it was a tumor.  Another said it was a wen.  I know one thing.  It don’t