VIRGINIA, 1857—Twenty-five slaves lived in three log and daub cabins on our tobacco farm. We had no windows but we didn’t need any. The walls were not solid. There were spaces between the slats that did nothing to keep out cold and rain. I could lie in bed and count the stars through the cracks.
On top of the hill overlooking the whole farm, was a big sparkling white building, three stories high. Massa, Missus and the family lived in that house. We called it the Big House.
It was the tallest house in the town and it had three wings to it. The longest part was the front. The ground floor was a broad open veranda extending the entire length of the building. The enclosed porch was supported by a series of tall columns, which gave the house its look of dignity and grandeur.
The hill leading to the house was covered in lush green grass. The road to the Big House from the bottom of the hill was paved with shiny white pebbles. The bleached pebble road ran completely around the house in a long bright circle.
What a treat to my young and gradually opening mind to behold this elaborate exhibition of wealth, power and beauty.
The Big House was the highest point on the property. I’ve been to the top of the hill, to the steps leading to the veranda but I have never been inside the Big House. I expect that looking from the veranda you can see the entire farm and the countryside for miles around.
They say the stone floors inside the Big House were sparkling white and covered with wooly carpets made with threads of many colors. They say the walls were covered with beautiful pictures and the rooms were so big
you could toss an egg high with all your might and it will never touch the ceiling but fall back down and splatter at your feet.
To one side of the Big House there was a row of stately poplar trees. Flocks of red winged blackbirds hopped and chattered in the trees, filling the air with their joyous life and wild, warbling tones. Some mornings, you could hear their song all the way back in the slave quarters. I always felt those songbirds belonged to me as well as Massa. I could enjoy their singing just as much as he could.
The garden beside the Big House was a source of rare beauty in our lives. You didn’t have to climb the hill to get the benefit of it. You could see the rich vibrant colors from the bottom of the hill.
That was Auntie Bee’s garden. We called it Auntie Bee’s garden because she was the one who kept it for the Missus. She didn’t own it but she loved it as much as she loved any place on this earth. She kept a garden of her own right here by our cabin. At night after work you would see her tending her flowers, pulling weeds, looking for yellow jasmine, wild juniper, or daffodils and daisies to bring inside.
Auntie Bee sure did love her flowers. She kept jars of flowers inside, placing them in all four corners of the cabin. We had flowers mixed with berries and greens with us from early spring until the frost in fall. You’d only see the most glorious fresh flowers in our cabin. She was always pulling out the dry and droopy ones and replacing them with newly cut stems.
Believe me, all of us appreciated this. You’d think we’d be too tired to notice. But I can tell you that whenever we came back to the cabin at night, dragging our poor butts after a long day working the fields, as soon as you opened the door you were filled with a wonderful honey-sweet fragrance. I tell you, at the end of a long hard day, it was like the Good Lord himself came down smiling on you.
We called her Auntie Bee. Around here, the young ones call all the women “Auntie”. She’s everybody’s aunt, and I do mean everybody. She took care of us all, white or black, old or young, slave or free. I see her clearly now, as real as if she were standing here today. Auntie Bee was a tall, straight-backed woman, built wiry and tough, with short black hair and big clear eyes. Her age was somewhere around forty.
I still see that hard look on her face. She always had to be sober and strong. That’s how she met her life of meager rewards and unending
drudgery. Auntie Bee was always fixing, preparing, toiling, busy making something out of nothing and I can guarantee you that whatever she made was good. That woman kept going and going. The only time you ever saw her be still was when she was sleeping or praying.
One thing you never saw her do was complain. She went about her work with quiet dignity. She always did what she had to do and she was determined to do it right, no matter what, even if it killed her.
In the evening, you just might see that hard look of hers melt away. She would be working in her garden with those two young ones, Randall and Emily. Those two cherubs were about the only things in this world that brought her any kind of happiness. When little Emily came to her with a little flower she picked, Auntie Bee would break into a big wide smile, bend down and give her a big hug.
That rascal Randall, he didn’t care much for flowers. He was too busy searching for bugs and beetles or the greatest treasure a young boy could find—a mouse. When he brought her one of his little creatures, her smile grew as wide as if he had given her a shiny gold coin.
If you want to know the real treasure around here, it is Auntie Bee’s wonderful smile. When you saw that woman smiling, so warm, full and open, you found you just couldn’t help it—you had to smile too.
Auntie Bee was the one to see for your ailments. If you had a toothache or rheumatism or you suffered from “the miseries”, she would give you epsom salts or castor oil. She might fix you some root tea made with boiled herbs or her special mix of tree barks. She had a fixing for every complaint. Once she forced me to drink sassafras tea and I swore I would never do it again. It was nasty. But everyone swore her fixings worked like a miracle.
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If you want to purchase the book, it is available from the publisher:
www.synergebooks.com or at
www.wingsfirstflight.com
Posted By: Richard Kigel
Friday, February 10th 2012 at 1:54PM
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