href="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@13700@[email protected]#FlukerIdaMay" class="pginternal" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">Fluker, Ida May
Ford, Wash
Ford, Wash   [TR: second interview]
Fortenberry, Judia
Foster, Emma   [TR: interview]
Foster, Emma   [TR: story]
Foster, Ira   [TR: interview]
Foster, Ira   [TR: story]
Franklin, Leonard
Frazier, Eliza
Frazier, Mary
Frazier, Tyler
Freeman, Mittie
Fritz, Mattie

ILLUSTRATIONS

Sarah and Sam Douglas [TR: The Library of Congress photo archive notes "'Tom' written in pencil above 'Sam' in title."]
Millie Evans

[TR: Some interviews were date-stamped; these dates have been added to interview headers in brackets. Where part of date could not be determined -- has been substituted. These dates do not appear to represent actual interview dates, rather dates completed interviews were received or perhaps transcription dates.]

Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson
Person interviewed: Frank Cannon
     R.F.D., two miles, Palestine, Arkansas
Age: 77

"I was born three miles west of Starkville, Mississippi on a pretty tolerable large farm. My folks was bought from a speculator drove come by. They come from Sanders in South Ca'lina. Master Charlie Cannon bought a whole drove of us, both my grandparents on both sides. He had five farms, big size farms. Saturday was ration day.

"Our master built us a church in our quarters and sont his preacher to preach to us. He was a white preacher. Said he wanted his slaves to be Christians.

"I never went to school in my life. I was taught by the fireside to be obedient and not steal.

"We et outer trays hewed out of logs. Three of us would eat together. We had wooden spoons the boys made whittling about in cold rainy weather. We all had gourds to drink outer. When we had milk we'd get on our knees and turn up the tray, same way wid pot-liquor. They give the grown up the meat and us pot-liquor.

"Pa was a blacksmith. He got a little work from other plantations. The third year of the surrender he bought us a cow. The master was dead. He never went to war. He went in the black jack thickets. His sons wasn't old enough to go to war. Pa seemed to like ole master. The overseer was white looking like the master but I don't know if he was white man or nigger. Ole master wouldn't let him whoop much as he pleased. Master held him off on whooping.

"When the master come to the quarters us children line up and sit and look at him. When he'd go on off we'd hike out and play. He didn't care if we look at him.

"My pa was light about my color. Ma was dark. I heard them say she was part Creek (Indian).

"Folks was modester before the children than they are now. The children was sent to play or git a bucket cool water from the spring. Everything we said wasn't smart like what children say now. We was seen and not heard. Not seen too much or somebody be stepping 'side to pick up a brush to nettle our legs. Then we'd run and holler both.

"Now and then a book come about and it was hid. Better not be caught looking at books.

"Times wasn't bad 'ceptin' them speculator droves and way they got worked too hard and frailed. Some folks was treated very good, some killed.

"Folks getting mean now. They living in hopes and lazing about. They work some."

Interviewer: Bernice Bowden
Person Interviewed: Zenie Cauley
     1000 Louisiana
     Pine Bluff, Ark.
Age: 78
[-- 7 1938]

"I member when they freed the people.

"I was born in Bedie Kellog's yard and I know she said, 'Zenie, I hate to give you up, I'd like to keep you.' But my mother said, 'No, ma'am, I can't give Zenie up.'

"We still stayed there on the place and I was settled and growed up when I left there.

"I'm old. I feels my age too. I may not look old but I feels it.

"Yes ma'am, I member when they carried us to church under bresh arbors. Old folks had rags on their hair. Yes'm, I been here.

"My father was a Missionary Baptist preacher and he was a preacher. Didn't know 'A' from 'B' but he was a preacher. Everbody knowed Jake Alsbrooks. He preached all over that country of North Carolina. They'd be as many white folks as colored. They'd give him money and he never called for a collection in his life. Why one Sunday they give him sixty-five dollars to help buy a horse.

"Fore I left the old county, I member the boss man, Henry Grady, come by and tell my mother, 'I'm gwine to town now, have my dinner ready when I come back—kill a chicken.' She was one of the cooks. Used to have us chillun pick dewberries and blackberries and bring em to the house.

"Yes, I done left there thirty-six years—will be this August.

"When we was small, my daddy would make horse collars, cotton baskets and mattresses at night and work in the field in the daytime and preach on Sunday. He fell down in Bedie Kellog's lot throwin' up shucks in the barn. He was standin' on the wagon and I guess he lost his balance. They sent and got the best doctor in the country and he said he broke his nabel string. They preached his funeral ever year for five years. Seemed like they just couldn't give him up.

"White folks told my mother if she wouldn't marry again and mess up Uncle Jake's chillun, they'd help her, but she married that man and he beat us so I don't know how I can remember anything. He wouldn't let