ON THE WINGS OF THE WIND: The Untold Story of History’s First Flight. By Richard Kigel. Part 11
Next day I wasn’t even tired. Last night’s secret chase was exciting. Thinking about it filled me with an extra burst of energy. But by the afternoon, I needed all the energy I could muster because we were in the midst of one of those dreadful hot summer spells.
Those were the dog days. You had to have a hat and some good strong shoes to work out there under the blazing sun or you could not stand for long. You felt the broiling earth blistering your feet right through your shoes. Rivers of sweat would come pouring down your face, drenching your
skin. You had to tie a kerchief around your head to keep the salty water from stinging your eyes.
Between planting in the spring and fall harvest there wasn’t much farm work. Whatever the season, there was work for us. In summer we would chop down trees, clear brush, mend fences and build houses, barns and sheds. Every day of the year we would be running errands from here to kingdom come. The work was endless.
Spring was the hardest time. You had to be out in the field early, even before the sun and you worked till late at night. We worked the hours of a slave—from can see to can’t see. The night was shortened at both ends.
During planting season and again at harvest time everyone went to the fields. The children couldn’t do much more than pick worms off leaves, gather stones or tote water but they had to get used to being out there.
The overseer assigned the work. He told you which rows to hoe, what ground to plow and where to clear brush. You had to get it done or face the lash. We drove stakes in the ground to mark each section so he’d know how much work you had left. No matter how much you accomplished
there was always more to do. It seemed like the field stretched from one end of the earth to the other.
Everyone had his own hoe. They were heavy with a broad pig iron blade as wide as a shovel. It was made to fall hard on the ground. The biggest trouble we had was just lifting them. The handle was made from rough hickory limbs which splintered easily. We had to scrape it with glass and rub it smooth if we wanted to keep the skin on our hands.
The day after I followed Mose, we were out in the animal pens building fences for the horses and the hogs. We sawed timber, hauled logs,
dug holes and set the posts in the ground, then we buried the posts. I worked like a demon. Nothing could tire me out. Every minute brought me closer
to nighttime. I wasn’t working to get the toil over or to get out of the hot sun. It wasn’t the promise of free time or the joy of sleep. It was Mose.
The old man was on to something. He had a secret plan. Knowing Mose, it would have to be big. Everybody would find out about it some day and when we finally realized what he was up to we would be amazed.
“Whew!” we would say. “How did he do that?”
Whatever he was doing, I wanted to help him. When he makes his move, he might just let me come along.
Those were the dog days. You had to have a hat and some good strong shoes to work out there under the blazing sun or you could not stand for long. You felt the broiling earth blistering your feet right through your shoes. Rivers of sweat would come pouring down your face, drenching your
skin. You had to tie a kerchief around your head to keep the salty water from stinging your eyes.
Between planting in the spring and fall harvest there wasn’t much farm work. Whatever the season, there was work for us. In summer we would chop down trees, clear brush, mend fences and build houses, barns and sheds. Every day of the year we would be running errands from here to kingdom come. The work was endless.
Spring was the hardest time. You had to be out in the field early, even before the sun and you worked till late at night. We worked the hours of a slave—from can see to can’t see. The night was shortened at both ends.
During planting season and again at harvest time everyone went to the fields. The children couldn’t do much more than pick worms off leaves, gather stones or tote water but they had to get used to being out there.
The overseer assigned the work. He told you which rows to hoe, what ground to plow and where to clear brush. You had to get it done or face the lash. We drove stakes in the ground to mark each section so he’d know how much work you had left. No matter how much you accomplished
there was always more to do. It seemed like the field stretched from one end of the earth to the other.
Everyone had his own hoe. They were heavy with a broad pig iron blade as wide as a shovel. It was made to fall hard on the ground. The biggest trouble we had was just lifting them. The handle was made from rough hickory limbs which splintered easily. We had to scrape it with glass and rub it smooth if we wanted to keep the skin on our hands.
The day after I followed Mose, we were out in the animal pens building fences for the horses and the hogs. We sawed timber, hauled logs,
dug holes and set the posts in the ground, then we buried the posts. I worked like a demon. Nothing could tire me out. Every minute brought me closer
to nighttime. I wasn’t working to get the toil over or to get out of the hot sun. It wasn’t the promise of free time or the joy of sleep. It was Mose.
The old man was on to something. He had a secret plan. Knowing Mose, it would have to be big. Everybody would find out about it some day and when we finally realized what he was up to we would be amazed.
“Whew!” we would say. “How did he do that?”
Whatever he was doing, I wanted to help him. When he makes his move, he might just let me come along.
PRIMARY SOURCES:
• The night was shortened at both ends.
“The night, however, was shortened at both ends. The slaves worked often as long as they could see and were late in cooking and mending for the coming day and at the first gray streak of the morning they were summoned to the field by the overseer’s horn.” Frederick Douglass, 1892.
• We worked the hours of a slave—from can see to can’t see.
“They worked in a manner of speaking from can to can’t, from the time they could see til the time they couldn’t.” Abbie Lindsay, Louisiana, age 84, interviewed by Federal Wrioter’s Project, 1937
• Everyone had his own hoe. They were heavy with a broad pig iron blade as wide as a shovel.
“Lawdy, dem old slave-time hoes! Hammered out of pig iron, broad like a shovel. Dey make ‘em heavy so dey fall hard but de bigges’ trouble was liftin’ dem up. Use a hick’ry limb fo’ a handle. Slaves would always have
special hoes. Had to shave de knots off smooth an’ scrape ‘em wid glass ef you want to keep any skin on yo’ han’s.”
Allen Crawford, Virginia, age 99, interviewed by Federal Wrioter’s Project, 1937