Name: Smith, Nellie

Address: 660 W. Hancock Avenue Athens, Georgia

Age: 78

Written by: Miss Grace McCune (Athens)

Edited by: Mrs. Sarah H. Hall (Athens) and John N. Booth (District Supervisor Federal Writers' Project Residencies 6 & 7 Augusta, Georgia)

Citation: Federal Writers' Project: Slave Narrative Project, Vol. 4, Part 3, Kendricks-Styles (1936), Library of Congress, Manuscript/Mixed Material. https://www.loc.gov/item/mesn043/

Interview

Large pecan trees shaded the small, well-kept yard that led to Nellie Smith's fiveroom
frame house. The front porch of her white cottage was almost obscured by a white
cloud of fragrant clematis in full blossom, and the yard was filled with roses and other
flowers.

A small mulatto woman sat in the porch swing, a walking stick across her lap. Her
straight, white hair was done in a prim coil low on the neck, and her print dress and white
apron were clean and neat. In answer to the visitor's inquiry, she smiled and said: "This is
Nellie Smith. Won't you come in out of the hot sun? I just knows you is plumb tuckered
out. Welkin' around in this hot weather is goin' to make you sick if you don't be nighty
careful.

"'Scuse me for not gittin' up. I can't hardly make it by myself since I fell and got
hurt so had. My arm was broke and it looks lak my old back never will stop hurtin' no
more. Our doctor says I'll have to stay bendaged up this way two or three weeks longer,
but I 'spects that's on account of my are. You know old folks' bones don't knit and heal
quick lak young folks' and, jus' let me tell you, I've done been around here a mighty long
time. Are you comfortable, Child? Wouldn't you lak to have a glass of water? I'll call my
daughter; she's back in the kitchen."

Nellie rapped heavily on the floor with her walking stick, and a tall, stout, mulatto
in a freshly laundered house frock made her appearance. "This is my daughter, Amanda,"
said Nellie, and, addressing her off-spring, she continued: "Bring this lady a drink of
water. She needs it after walkin' 'way out here in this hot sun." Ice tinkled in the glass that
the smiling Amanda offered as she inquired solicitously if there was anything else she
could do. Amanda soon went beck to her work and Nellie began her narrative.

"Lordy, Honey, them days when I was a child, is so far back that I don't s'pect I
can 'member much 'bout 'em. I does love to talk about them times, but there ain't many
folks what keers anything 'bout listening to us old folks these days. If you don't mind
we'll go to my room where it'll be more comfortable." Amanda appeared again, helped
---ellie to her room, and placed her in a large chair with pillows to support the broken
arm. Amanda laughed happily when she noticed her mother's enthusiasm for the
opportunity to relate her life story. "Mother likes that," she said, "and I'm so glad you
asked her to talk about those old times she thinks so much about. I'll be right back in the
kitchen ironing; if you want anything, just call me."

Nellie now began again: "I was born right near where the Coordinate College is
now; it was the old Weir place then. I don't know nothin' 'bout my Daddy, but my
Mother's name was Herriet Weir, and she was owned by Marster Jack Weir. He had a
great big old plantation then and the homeplace is still standin', but it hes been improved
and changed so much that it don't look lak the same house. As Marse Jack's sons married
off he give each one of 'em a home and two slaves, but he never did sell none of his
slaves, and he told them boys they better not never sell none neither.

"Slaves slept in log cabins what had rock chimblies at the end. The rocks was put
together with red clay. All the slaves was fed at the big house kitchen. The fireplace,
where they done the cookin', was so big it went 'most across one end of that big old
kitchen. It had long swingin' cranes to hang the pots on, and there was so many folks to
cook for at one time that often there was five or six pots over the fire at the same time.
Them pots was large too - not lak the little cookin' vessels we use these days. For the
bakin', they had all sizes of ovens. Now Child, let me tell you, that was good eatin'. Folks
don't take time encugh to cook right now; They are always in too big a hurry to be doin'
something else and don't cook things long enough. Back in dem days they put the
vegetables on to cook early in the mornin' and biled 'em 'til they was good and done. The
biggest diffunce I see is that folks didn't git sick and stay sick with stomach troubles then
half as much as they does now. When my grandma took a roast out of one of them old
ovens it would be brown and juicy, with lots of rich, brown gravy. Sweet potatoes baked
and browned in the pan with it would taste mighty fine too. With some of her good
biscuits, that roast meat, brown gravy, and potetoes, you had food good enough for
anybody. I just wish I could taste some more of it one more time before I die.

"Why, Child, two of the best cake-makers I ever knew used them old ovens for
bakin' the finest kinds of pound cakes and fruit cakes, and evvybody knows them cakes
was the hardest kinds to bake we had in them days. Aunt Betsey Cole was a great cakebaker
then. She belonged to the Hulls, what lived off down below here somewhere but,
when there was to be a big weddin' or some 'specially important dinner in Athens, folks
'most always sent for Aunt Betsey to bake the cakes. Aunt Laura McCrary was a great
cake-maker too; she baked the cake for President Taft when he was entertained at Mrs.
Maggie Welch's home here.

"In them days you didn't have to be runnin' to the store evvy time you wanted to
cook a extra good meal; folks raised evvything they needed right there at home. They had
all the kinds of vegetables they knowed about then in their own gardens, and there was
big fields of corn, rye, and wheat. Evvy big plantation raised its own cows for plenty of
milk and butter, as well as lots of beef cattle, hogs, goats, and sheep. 'Most all of 'em had
droves of chickens, geese, and turkeys, end on our place there were lots of peafowls.
When it was goin' to rain them old peafowls set up a big holler. I never knew rain to fail
after them peafowls started their racket.

"All our clothes and shoes was home-made, and I mean by that they growed the
cotton, wool, and cattle and made the cloth and leather on the plantation. Summer clothes
was made of cotton homespun, and cotton and wool was wove together for winter
clothin'. Marse Jack owned a man what he kept there to do nothin' but make shoes. He
had another slave to do all the carpenterin' and to make all the coffins for the folks that
died on the plantation. That same carpenter made 'most all the beds the white folks and us
slaves slept on. Them old beds - they called 'em teesters - had cords for springs;
nobody never heard of no metal springs them days. They jus' wove them cords
criss-cross, from one side to the other and from head to foot. When they stretched and
sagged they was tightened up with keys what was made for that purpose.

"Jus' look at my room," Nellie laughed. "I saw you lookin' at my bed. It was made
at Wood's Furniture Shop, right here in Athens, and I've had it ever since I got married
the first time. Take a good look at it, for there ain't many lak it left." Nellie's pride in her
attractively furnished room was evident as she told of many offers she has nad for this
furniture, but she added: "I want to keep it all here to use myself jus' as long as I live.
Shucks, I done got plumb off from what I was tellin' you jus' ravin' 'bout my old furniture
and things.

"My Mother died when I was jus' a little girl and she's buried in the old family
graveyard on the Weir place, but there are several other slaves buried there and I don't
know which grave is hers. Grendma raised me, and I was jus' gittin' big enough to handle
that old peafowl-tail fly brush they used to keep the flies off the table when we were set
free.

"It wasn't long after the War when the Yankees come to Athens. Folks had to bury
or hide evvything they could, for them Yankees jus' took anything they could git their
hands on, 'specially good food. They would catch up other folks' chickens and take hams
from the smokehouses, and they jus' laughed in folks' faces if they said anything 'bout it.
They camped in the woods here on Hancock Avenue, but of course it wasn't settled then
lak it is now. I was mighty scared of them Yankees and they didn't lak me neither. One of
'em called me a little white-headed devil.

"One of my aunts worked for a northern lady that they called Mrs. Meeker, who
lived where the old Barrow home is now. Evvy summer when she went back up North
she would leave my aunt and uncle to take care of her place. It was right close to the
Yankees' camp, and the soldiers made my aunt cook for them sometimes. I was livin'
with her then, and I was so scared of 'em that I stayed right by her. She never had to
worry 'bout where I was them days, for I was right by her side as long as the Yankees
was hangin' 'round Athens. My uncle used to say that he had seen them Yankees ride to
places and shoot down turkeys, then make the folks that owned them turkeys cook and
serve 'em. Folks used to talk lots 'bout the Yankees stoppin' a white 'oman on the street
and takin' her earrings right cut of her ears to put 'em on a Negro 'oman; I never saw that,
I jus' heard it.

"After the war was over Grandpa bought one of the old slave cabins from Marse
Jack and we lived there for a long time; then we moved out to Rock Spring. I was about
eight or nine years old then, and they found out I was a regular tomboy. The woods was
all 'round Rock Spring then, and I did have a big time climbin' them trees. I jus' fairly
lived in 'em durin' the daytime, but when dark come I wanted to be as close to Grandpa as
I could git.

"One time, durin' those days at Rock Spring, I wanted to go to a Fourth of July
celebration. Those celebrations was mighty rough them days and Grandpa didn't think
that would be a good place for a decent little girl, so he didn't want me to go. I cried and
hollered and cut up something awful. Grandma told him to give me a good thrashin' but
Grandpa didn't lak to do that, so he promised me I could go to ride if I wouldn't go to that
celebration. That jus' tickled me to death, for I did lak to ride. Grandpa had two young
mules what was still wild, and when he said I could ride one of 'em Grandma tried hard to
keep me off of it, for she said that critter would be sure to kill me, but I was so crazy to
go that nobody couldn't tell me nothin'. Auntie lent me her domino cost to wear for a
ridin' habit and I sneaked and slipped a pair of spurs, then Grandpa put a saddle on the
critter and helped me to git up on him. I used them spurs, and then I really went to ride.
That mule showed his heels straight through them woods and way on out in the country. I
couldn't stop him, so I jus' kept on kickin' him with them spurs and didn't have sense to
know that was what was makin' him run. I thought them spurs was to make him mind me,
and all the time I was lammin' him with the spurs I was hollerin': 'Stop! Oh, Stop!' When
I got to where I was too scared to kick him with the spurs or do nothin' 'cept hang on to
that saddle, that young mule quit his runnin' and trotted home as nice and peaceable as
you please. I never did have no more use for spurs.

"Grandpa used to send me to Phinizy's mill to have corn and wheat ground. It
would take all day long, so they let me take a lunch with me, and I always had the best
sort of time when I went to mill. Uncle Isham run the mill then and he would let me think
I was helpin' him. Then, while he helped me eat my lunch, he would call me his little
'tomboy gal' and would tell me about the things he used to do when he was 'bout my age.

"My first schoolin' was in old Pierce's Chapel that set right spang in the middle of
Hancock Avenue at Foundry Street. Our teacher was a Yankee man, and we were mighty
surprised to find out that he wasn't very hard on us. We had to do something real bad to
git a whippin', but when we talked or was late gittin' to school we had to stand up in the
back of the schoolroom and hold up one hand. Pierce's chapel was where the colored
folks had preachin' then - preachin' on Sunday and teachin' on week days, all in the same
buildin'. A long time before then it had been the white folks' church, and Preacher Pierce
was the first one to preach there after it was built, so they named it for him. When the
white folks built them a new church they gave the old chapel to the colored folks, and,
Heney, there was some real preachin' done in that old place. Me, I was a Methodist, but I
was baptized just lak the Baptists was down there in the Oconsee River.

"Me and my first husband was too young to know what we was doin' when we got
married, but our folks give us a grand big weddin'. I think my weddin' cake was 'bout the
biggest one I ever saw baked in one of them old ovens in the open fireplace. They iced it
in white and decorated it with grapes. A shoat was cooked whole and brought to the table
with a big red apple in his mouth. You know a shoat ain't nothin' but a young hog that's
done got bigger than a little pig. We had chicken and pies and jus' evvything good that
went to make up a fine weddin' supper.

"Our weddin' took place at night, and I wore a white dress made with a tight-fittin'
waist and a long, full skirt that was jus' covered with ruffles. My sleeves was tight at the
wrists but puffed at the shculders, and my long veil of white net was fastened to my head
with pretty flowers. I was a mighty dressed up bride. The bridegroom wore a real darkcolored
cutaway coat with a white vest. We did have a swell weddin' and supper, but
there wasn't no dancin' 'cause we was all good church folks.

"We was so young we jus' started out havin' a good time and didn't miss nothin'
that meant fun and frolic. We was mighty much in love with each other too. It didn't seem
long before we had three children, and then one night he was taken sick all of a sudden
and didn't live but a little while. Soon as he was taken sick I sent for the doctor, but my
husband told me then he was dyin' fast and that he wasn't ready to die. He said: 'Nellie,
here we is with these three little children and neither one of us had been fit to raise 'em.
Now I've got to leave you and you will have to raise one of 'em, but the other two will
come right on after me.'"

For several moments Nellie was still and quiet; then she raised her head and said:
"Honey, it was jus' lak he said it would be. He was gone in jus' a little while and it wasn't
two weeks 'fore the two youngest children was gone lak their daddy. I worried lots after
my husband and babies was taken. I wanted to be saved to raise my little girl right, and I
was too proud to let anybody now how troubled I was or what it was all about, so I kept it
to myself. I lost weight, I couldn't sleep, and was jus' dyin' away with sin. I would go to
church but that didn't git me no relief.

"One day a deer, good white lady sent for me to come to the hotel where she was
stayin'. She had been a mighty good friend to me for a long, long time, and I had all the
faith in the world in her. She told me that she had a good job for me and wanted me to
take it because it would let me keep my little girl with me. She said her best friend's maid
had died and this friend of hers needed someone to work for her. 'I want you to go there
and work for her,' said the white lady, 'for she will be good to you and your child. I've
already talked with her about it.'

"I took her advice and went to work for Mrs. R. L. Bloomfield whose husband
operated the old check mill. Honey, Mrs. Bloomfield was one of God's children and one
of the best folks I have ever known. Right away she told her cook: 'Amanda, look after
Nellie good 'cause she's too thin.' It wasn't long before Mrs. Bloomfield handed me a note
and told me to take it to Dr. Carlton. When he read it he laughed and said: 'Come on
Nellie, I've got to see what's wrong with you.' I tried to tell him I wasn't sick, but he
examined me all over, then called to see Mrs. Bloomfield and told her that I didn't need
nothin' but plenty of rest and to eat enough good food. Bless her dear old heart, she done
evvything she could for me, but there wasn't no medicine, rest, or food that could help the
trouble that was wearin' me down then.

"Soon they started a revival at our church. One night I wanted to go, but Aunt
Amanda begged me not to, for she said I needed to go to bed and rest; later she said she
would go along with me to hear that preachin'. Honey, I never will forgit that night.
The text of the sermon was: 'Come unto me, all you weary and heavy laden, and I
will give you rest.' When they began callin' the mourners to come up to the mourners'
bench something seemed to be jus' a-pullin' me in that direction, but I was too proud to
go. I didn't think then I ever could go to no mourners' bench or shout. After a while they
started singin' Almost Persuaded, and I couldn't wait; I jus' got up and run to that blessed
mourners' bench and I prayed there. Honey, I shouted too, for I found the blessed Lord
that very night and I've kept Him right with me ever since. I don't aim to lose Him no
more. Aunt Amanda was most nigh happy as I was and, from that night when the burden
was lifted from my heart, I begun gittin' better.

"I worked on for Mrs. Bloomfield 'til I got married again, and then I quit work
'cept for nursin' sick folks now and then. I made good money nursin' and kept that up 'til I
got too old to work outside my own family.

"My second husband was Scott Smith. We didn't have no big, fancy weddin' for I
had done been married and had all the trimmin's one time. We jus' had a nice quiet
weddin' with a few close friends and kinfolks invited. I had on a very pretty, plain, white
dress. Again I was blessed with a good husband. Scott fixed up that nice mantelpiece you
see in this room for me, and he was mighty handy about the house; he loved to keep
things repaired and in order. Best of all, he was jus' as good to my little girl as he was to
the girl and boy that were born to us later. All three of my children are grown and
married now, and they are mighty good to their old mother. One of my daughters lives in
New York.

"Soon after we married, we moved in a big old house called the old White place
that was jus' around the corner from here on Pope Street. People said it was haunted, and
we could hear something walkin' up and down the stairs that sounded lak folks. To keep
'em from bein' so scared, I used to try to make the others believe it was jus' our big
Newfoundland dog, but one night my sister heard it. She got up and found the dog lyin'
sound asleep on the front porch, so it was up to me to find out what it was. I walked up
the stairs without seein' a thing, but, Honey, when I put my foot on that top step such a
feelin' come over me as I had never had before in all my life. My body trembled 'til I had
to hold tight to the stair-rail to keep from fallin', and I felt the hair risin' up all over my
head. While it seemed like hours before I was able to move, it was really only a very few
seconds. I went down those stairs in a hurry and, from that night to this day, I have never
hunted ghosts no more and I don't aim to do it again, never.

"I've been here a long time, Honey. When them first street lights was put up and
lit, Athens was still mostly woods. Them old street lights would be funny to you now, but
they was great things to us then, even if they wasn't nothin' but little lanterns what burned
plain'old lamp-oil hung out on posts. The Old Town Hall was standin' then right in the
middle of Market (Washington) Street, between Lumpkin and Pulaski Streets. The lowest
floor was the jail, and part of the ground floor was the old market place. Upstairs was the
big hall where they held court, and that was where they had so many fine shows.
Whenever any white folks had a big speech to make they went to that big old room
upstairs in Town Hall and spoke it to the crowd.

"You is too young to remember them first streetcars what was pulled by little
bitsy Texas mules with bells around their necks. Hearing them bells was sweet music to
us when they meant we was goin' to git a ride on them streetcars. Some folks was too
precise to say 'streetcars'; they said 'horsecars', but them horsecars was pulled through the
streets by mules, so what's the diffunce? Sometimes them little mules would mire up so
deep in the mud they would have to be pulled out, and sometimes, when they was feelin'
sassy and good, they would jus' up and run away with them streetcars. Them little critters
could git the worst tangled up in them lines." Here Nellie laughed heartily. "Sometimes
they would even try to climb inside the cars. It was lots of fun ridin' them cars, for you
never did know what was goin' to happen before you got back home, but I never heard of
no real bad streetcar accidents here."

Nellie now began jumping erratically from one subject to another. "Did you
notice my pretty flowers and ferns on the front porch?" she asked. "I jus' know you didn't
guess what I made them two hangin' baskets out of. Them's the helmets that my son and
my son-in-law wore when they was fightin' in the world War. I puts my nicest flowers in
'em evvy year as a sort of memorial to the ones that didn't git to fetch their helmets back
home. Yes Mam, I had two stars on my service flag and, while I hated mighty bad that
there had to be war, I wanted my family to do their part.

"Honey, old Nellie is gittin' a little tired, but jus' you listen to this: I went to
meetin' one night to hear the first 'oman preacher that ever had held a meetin' in this
town. She was meanin' to preach at a place out on Rock Spring Street, and there was
more folks there than could git inside that little old weather bearded house. The place was
packed and jammed, but me and Scott managed to git in. When I saw an old Hardshell
Baptist friend of mine in there, I asked her how come she was at this kind of meetin'.
'Curiosity, my child,' she said, 'jus' plain old curiosity.' The 'oman got up to preach and,
out of pure devilment, somebody on the outside hollered: 'The house is fallin' down.'
Now child, I know it ain't right to laugh at preachin's of any sort, but that was one funny
scene. Evvybody was tryin' to git out at one time; such cryin', prayin', and testifyin' to the
Lord I ain't never heard before. The crowd jus' went plumb crazy with fright, I was
pushed down and trampled over in the rush before Scott could git me out; they mighty
near killed me." The old women stopped and laughed until the tears streamed down her
face. "You know, Koney," she said, when she could control her voice sufficiently to
resume her story, "Niggers ain't got no sense at all when they gits scared. When they
throwed one gal out of a window, she called out: 'Thank you, Lord,' for the poor thing
thought the Lord was savin' her from a fallin' buildin'. Poor old Martha Holbrook," ---
The sentence was not finished until Nellie's almost hysterical giggles had attracted her
daughter who came to see if something was wrong - "Martha Holbrook," Nellie repeated,
"was climbin' backwards out of a window and her clothes got fastened on a nail. She
slipped on down and there she was with her legs kickin' around on the outside and the
rest of her muffled up in her clothes.

It looked lak her clothes was jus' goin' to peel off over her head. It took the
menfolks a long time to git her uncaught and out of that predicament in the window.
Pretty soon the folks began to come to their senses and they found there wasn't nothin'
wrong with the house 'cept that some doors and windows had been torn out by the crowd.
They she did git med, but nobody seemed to know who started that ruction. My old
Hardshell Baptist friend came up then and said: 'Curiosity brought us here, and curiosity
like to have killed the cat.'"

Seeing that Nellie was tired, the visitor prepared to leave. "Goodbye and God
bless you," were the old woman's farewell words. At the front door Amanda said: "I
haven't heard my Mother laugh that way in a long, long time, and I jus' know she is goin'
to feel more cheerful after this. Thank you for givin' her this pleasure, and I hope you can
come back again."

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