All God's Dangers (82 page)

I just wanted to make enough to eat and I knowed that was all I could amount to. I'd got old—but I was able to follow a mule out there and plow, but havin no help, and every year I'd get weaker and weaker. I spotted my chance—and right along about the time I married Josie, the government took over this cotton business to a greater extent than ever before; I jumped out right there. Didn't want to fill out them papers every year, and a whole lot of red tape to it. I can't read and write; Josie can't neither. And if I couldn't conduct my business myself, I weren't goin to have nobody do it for me. Then, too, outside of the labor of me and my wife, I couldn't hire no help at a price to help myself—time for me to quit.

Last cotton I made, I picked it with my own hands and hauled it to the gin, and I sold it directly to the gin folks at Beanville. It didn't amount to enough to carry into Calusa and try to sell it at the market place.

I moved off of Mosley's place in '59, moved all my business up on Warren Jenks' place. I was plantin nothin but corn then—comin down to my last farmin now.

Warren Jenks was a old man, older man than I was, and he owned over two hundred acres in his name and rented it out to colored folks, whatever he didn't divide amongst his children. And they rented some of theirs out. When I moved on the old man's place I agreed to pay him six dollars a acre for the land and six dollars a month for the house. Stayed there ten long years and every year I made a corn crop. Soon as I'd get my corn gathered—he had a drove of cattle and out would go his cows over the field, eatin up my waste—got nothin for that. Sent his cows over in my corn stalks just because it was his land. Payin him six dollars a month for the house in addition to the land rent—that was chokin me but I suffered it. And I suffered his cows to destroy the waste from my crop.

He had enough money to do him his lifetime; he was better off than a heap of white folks. He owned more land than that home place—he owned all this land up and down this road, bought it when he was a younger man. All of my boy days, way up yonder not ten miles from here where I was born and raised, I could hear talk of Warren Jenks, Warren Jenks, Warren Jenks down here. When his daddy died, he inherited a small lot of land—didn't no nigger, in the time his daddy was livin, own no great territory of land through this country. Warren Jenks had a chance—he farmed—land was cheap—and he put his head to a profitable use. Didn't have to pay no rent to nobody for the farm he worked, and with the money he saved on rent he bought more land if ever he could find a white man would sell land to a colored. He inherited a start in this world and used it, didn't throw it away. He had a chance and he added to it; didn't content hisself to stand still, and he become what he was before he died.

His daddy managed to give him a pretty good education someway—I reckon he had to scuffle to do it. And when he come out of school he traveled to Africa. Either the government sent him or he went hisself, to teach farmin, teach this and teach that and teach the other. Stayed over in the far countries four years, to my best understandin. When he come back here he come back with his boots on. He commenced farmin for hisself and buyin up these places. Right
smart of the white people respected him—he was independent to em. Didn't have as much as the biggest white men had, he kept hisself under them to protect hisself, but he had enough to paddle his own boat.

He had droves of hands here on halves with him and some that was rentin for cash. When I moved on his place I had possession of the house and nine acres and it was a straight cash deal. And that nine acres, after I worked it two or three years, it was so rough I quit workin on half of it, cut down to four acres of corn. I was gettin on some age and that land was carryin me down.

I had to do a heap of work on that old house and he wouldn't give me a penny toward it; wouldn't do the work hisself on it neither. And it was leakin in there, takin in the water every way. And on a cold day that house weren't no more good than a paper blanket. Wind blowed through the walls and up through the floor—

And I built me a little barn—that barn's standin there today. All he done was furnish me a few pieces of old second-hand tin and a few pieces of second-hand lumber. I bought lumber, bought tin, to complete the job.

He always called me Mr. Shaw; I called him Brother Jenks, my landlord, a man of my color. I went to him one day and said, “Brother Jenks, I need a well of water down there in my yard, I need it a little of the worst. And here's the proposal I'm makin: if you'll dig me a well of water—” We was totin water at that time from TJ's, across the road, and that was too much trouble for my wife. Heap of days I'd be out there in the field plowin and Josie would have to call me to come help her tote water. Well, that would be a hamper to my work. So I told him, “I want you to dig me a well of water in my yard. Me and my wife, we're both age-able, we aint able to tote water—” Weren't a barn or a chicken coop or nothin but a house on that place when we moved there, and I went ahead and built that little barn. My labor, my money—I have always had to back myself up. White men built nothin for me on their places. And now, this colored man—I said, “Brother Jenks, I wants a well of water in my yard, somethin that's never been. If you'll dig me a well of water I'll go fifty-fifty with you. If you dig the well, I'll buy the curbin to go in it. But I'll give you a choice—if you'll buy the curbin, I'll dig the well.”

“Uh-uh-uh-uh-uh, Mr. Shaw, I'll take it up with the boys.”

His sons. The devil! I said to myself, ‘The boys is in the northern states and you here yet controllin the place. You don't have to take nothin up with the boys. You gettin my rent on the place, you settin the figures and overseein the whole operation. And your cows eatin up every year the waste of my crop and you aint doin nothin on the house. And I reckon you don't intend to do nothin; just draw money as long as you five.'

I couldn't get nothin out of him. So I went on that year and had me a well dug, couldn't do without a well no more. Several months after I made my offer he aint done nothin, weren't goin to do nothin, and didn't do nothin.

Roy Willis, colored fellow, lived between here and Tuskegee, I hired him to dig my well—he was a well diggin man. I walked around my yard and I seen a sign that revealed to me the direction of water. Got me a stick and checked off right where I wanted the well dug. I went over to Roy's and said, “Mr. Willis, I'm ready for you to dig my well, any day you can come, if it's today, to start my well.”

“All right, Mr. Shaw, I'll be there bout twelve or one o'clock—”

I come on back home and after dinner I was workin out in the yard and I looked out across there field and here come Roy Willis with all he could tote, his well tools on his shoulder. I showed him my mark right where I wanted it dug and he carried that well about three foot deep that evenin. And in two days' time with me drawin up dirt along with the hand he brought to help him, he went down there deep enough and he begin to feel the earth get moister and moister. Time he carried that well down about twenty foot he said, “Well, Mr. Shaw, the walls and banks seem to be solid. Has you got your curbins ready?”

I said, “Well, I haven't spoke for em yet but I'm aimin—”

He said, “You better get em in a hurry because I'm hittin water now.”

I quit drawin dirt, hitched up my wagon, and went up to Two Forks, spoke to Mr. Clifford Barrow. He knowed me well. I said, “I come up here, Mr. Barrow, to see if I could get some curbin from you, if you'll let me pay you by the month until I pay you in full.”

Told me, “You can have em any way you want em, Nate, cash or credit.”

I said, “Roy Willis is diggin my well and this very time we're
talkin. I believe about eleven or twelve curbs will get me by.” I paid him fifteen dollars down on that amount of curbs, best grade of well curb he sold, had wire reinforcements in em. He had two grown boys there and he had them boys to load them curbs on a long flat trailer truck, one standin on the ground and handin em up to the other one. Eleven curbs, definitely, two-and-a-half-foot curbs; we'd start with them and see how they'd hold up. Got the curbs loaded up and them boys took off on route to my house. Time I got home, they had got every one of them curbs eased off of that truck and they was headin back—met em in the road goin my way, they goin theirs. And I had to go back to Mr. Barrow to get another curb to finish the job. And they took that twelfth curb and put it on the back of my wagon. That was the finishin curb. I had a well then and I could say it was mine, but of course, when I moved away from there I couldn't carry it with me. It's there today and still drawin water. Warren Jenks, before he died, he got the benefit of it.

Some of these
Negroes
here in this country lets their money speak for em, not their color. Warren Jenks, he was just as hungry as the white man was.

I went out and dug a well and when I dug it it cost me—fooled around till that well cleaned me out; diggin it, curbin it, cost me right up close to a hundred dollars. And after that I went off to Philadelphia one year and I come back, the doggone well—it was gettin low with water before we left and when we come back, couldn't get a bucket of water out of it. Dug that well deeper, then I had to pay to clean it out. And by the time I got it all done and usable, it was a good well of water, cold, clear, no wiggletails.

I don't wash my feet with city water. I don't use none for no purpose. City water go right by my door but it don't come into my house. What use for me to let a company put water in my house when God put it here on earth for free? I aint livin in no city. I aint too lazy to step outside and help myself. And that company goin to charge me four dollars and after they gets it here, charge what they please. And the water aint fit for slops.

Here I am out in the country and they runnin water lines through here now just like I was in the city. If I was in the city I might expect to abide by city rulins. But I aint in no city, and I got a well of water that suits me just fine. Don't need nobody to catch
my water for me, pay him for it. Out in the country and I'm goin to fall under that yoke too? No, they'll never get me under there, I'll kick at it like a mule kick at a stable door.

W
HILE
I was livin down on Jenks' place, Francis gived me and his stepmother a trip to the northern states and back home. And we stayed a week at his home in Philadelphia; one Sunday evenin we caught a bus and went on over to Brooklyn, New York, and stayed a week over there with Vernon's daughters, Norma and Binty, which is my granddaughters. When we left out from there—we went in there on a bus and come out on a young colored fellow's car, dodgin them big trucks on the road, big trucks, they travels through in there all the time—I learnt that. The roads was wide and if he didn't fly out of Brooklyn that Sunday mornin, glory!

First trip I ever went north to amount to anything. Now I had been to a place once nearly out of the state of Alabama, and I been to Birmingham. In the times I had a car myself, I drove it to Fort Payne, Alabama, way in there close to Chattanooga, Tennessee. Outside of them trips I never did travel far, except for travelin around them different prison departments, until Francis called me to come to Philadelphia.

I enjoyed life in the city; of course, I was on a trip and I could only observe the life, it weren't
my
life. The rulins and laws is different there accordin to the descriptions I gleaned. I seen white and colored walk right out a colored man's home and walk right in a white one's. Just walkin and talkin and mixin like straws in the wind. I seen colored men that had white wives, white men that had colored wives, and good God, everything was just peaceable and quiet—quieter there than I ever known it here. Still, I didn't let that turn me into a fool. But folks enjoys a hundred percent more freedom up there, white and black, to move about and be with whoever they choose. It aint complete, though, it aint complete, but black and white both is recognized as people, the one aint less—he may have less but
he
aint less—and the other aint more. I watched for that. Now I've always been a man that didn't care anythin for this mixin for myself, but I taken it for a sign that my color is better off there. All I want is to be recognized as people—and it seemed to be goin on in Philadelphia.

My son told me a man is just a man there in Philadelphia.
They don't nigger you around and you don't have to “Mister” anybody on account of his color; don't have to make out like you worship nobody to get along. Colored man could get a job there like anybody else; he could drive as nice a car as anybody else; he could live in as nice a house as his ability allow him. Francis was livin in a big six-room brick home; had about six rooms above ground and a big underground department. He was workin at a storage house where he drove a lifter—that's where he's at today. And the job makes him satisfied. It's mighty seldom he talks about comin back here. He's at home in Philadelphia, his mind is attached to northern ways.