Anyone else who grew up knowing a (former) slave?

Stacy E. Apelt - Bladesmith

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The recent discussions on slavery and old traditions came up in a group meeting yesterday. The group was of mixed races. One person commented that the subject of past memories of slavery was long gone, and the country was finally moving forward from those old memories. I commented that the memory of slavery was more recent than one might think, and said that I grew up knowing a slave. One of the black members of the group looked at me like I had lost my mind. So I told them about my friend. I thought I would write a short piece about her here.

When I was a lad in the 1950's, There was a 40-50 acre woods behind my house. It and the development I lived in had been part of a large farm until it was developed into housing for the returning vets in 1946-48. The last field was left fallow and had grown into a woods that was a kid's wonderland to play in. In the middle of the woods was a small clearing with tiny black (tar papered) hut/shack that everyone called, "Old Mary's shack." If was inhabited by an old black lady who no one ever saw. The story was she had been granted life estate on the land after being freed from slavery after the Civil war. All the kids told stories about her being a witch and how she would grab you and eat you if you got too close to her place. Others said she had a shotgun and shot at any kids that trespassed on her land. I didn't believe in witches, and had never heard a gun go off in the woods, but kept clear of the shack,...just in case. In the early summer, there was a 10 foot wide border of beautiful lilies all around the margins of the clearing. I would sneak over to look at them, because I had never seen so many lovely flowers all packed together. One day I was in the woods edge looking at the flowers and heard a voice behind me. I have to admit that it scared me really bad. It was a very deep, but kind voice that said, "They are beautiful, aren't they." I turned to see a small old lady whose face was all wrinkles with a big smile stuck in the middle of them. She was the blackest person I ever saw, and only about 4' tall ( barely taller than me at age 6). She had a basket of wild blackberries she had picked. She just held it out and asked if I wanted some. I said, "No thank you", and was about to run when she said, "I guess you heard all those stories about me", and laughed. She sounded so genuinely amused that I stopped being afraid. She said to follow her and she would put some in a container for me. I went up to her shack and saw how small it was. I asked, "Do you live here?" and she looked at it and said with a chuckle, I was born here in 1858, lived here my whole life, and will die here soon enough. She gave me a tin can filled with berries, and I left. I told my mother about her, and she said she had known about Old Mary since we moved in the house in 1952. She had seen her walk out of the woods occasionally to walk to Ward's Corner and get groceries,...and walk back ( about a mile walk). Other than those few times she was basically a hermit that no one knew. Mom said that she was sure she was not a witch and wouldn't harm me, but to keep off her property. I said, OK and felt really special that I had met the "witch".
A few days later I was back in the woods and saw her walking toward the blackberry patch. I spoke and asked if she wanted help picking berries. We went back to the berry vines along the rail road track. She knew I was curious, so she told me about herself. She said she was named Mary, and had no other name. She was born in 1858 on the farm that stood where we lived, and was a slave. She never went to school, but taught herself to read and write. She had a husband and three children, all dead before 1900. She lived in the shack she had been deeded as freedom property. When she died, it would return to the old owners....who were also long dead. She had no electricity, and only one kerosene lamp...which she never lit. She got up when it was light and went to bed when it got dark. She had seen amazing new things like cars, airplanes, wars, and times when it was not good to be a darkie ( her words). She said that she liked being alone, and was just waiting for her time to come some day. I told her my name and that I was in the second grade. She asked about my family, and we made some small talk about things like my mom's garden. After picking, I carried the bucket for her ( it was heavy for me, but she let me do it). I only saw her occasionally for the next few years, but on one occasion a couple years later she saw me and called out. I came and she bluntly said she thought she would be passing on soon, and wanted to tell me that when she was gone, I could dig up some of her lilies for my mom's garden. She said they were there when she was a child, and had no idea who originally planted them. She said she wanted someone to keep them going after she was gone. I was a kid and didn't really think about people dying, so I just said, "OK". I felt funny and decided to stay a while. We talked about stuff, and I took some trash out to the woods for her ( she had been cleaning her place out a bit). A few days later I saw some firemen going back into the woods and then come out with a covered stretcher. It was Old Mary, and she had died at 101. The papers made no mention of it as far as I know, and no one in the neighborhood probably even knew. A month or so later, a crew came and tore down the shack. They also started clearing our woods. I found out later on that the woods were in the path of Eisenhower's new interstate system, and a big road would be built there. The land had been left alone waiting for Old Mary to die and allow the progress to proceed. They did not know how to break a freedom deed, and decided to let nature take its course in its own time.

I think knowing Old Mary was a good thing, and somehow shaped me. I learned that everything you hear about people isn't always the truth, and that skin color and age doesn't change who is inside. I'll bet I never spoke more than 1000 words to her, but felt she was my friend. It occurred to me this morning that I may have been the only person she talked to for her last three or four years.

Before they bulldozed the woods, I took a shovel and went and dug up a couple dozen lilies. I took the old bucket that she used as a seat to sit by her door and put lilies in it. I took them home and put them on my end of the garden ( where mom let me grow some things). Over the years the bucket has disappeared, but the lilies grew. They multiplied over the years, and became a big bed. When I bought my first house, I planted some around the front foundation. They are a big bed today ( my daughter lives there now). After my dad passed away, I dug some up from the old bed and planted them in Judy's and my front and back yard. They are in full bloom right now. My daughter went to brunch with us this morning, and mentioned that the lilies are amazing this year. I told her that they had been first planted before 1858, and were a legacy from an old black woman to her.

In memory of Old Mary 1858-1959.
 
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Thank you for sharing Stacy. Such a rich connection to the past and you're keeping it alive. I think the world would be a better place if our past histories could be so well kept and passed down. In memory of Old Mary. Mike
 
Thanks for sharing that, It is touching and good to know the lillies are well.
 
That is a fantastic story. To think that you ran across someone who had been born into slavery long enough before aboltion to actually have some memory of the bad old days, yet lived long enough to meet you when you were old enough to actually remember. and tell you about it. And here you are well into the second decade of the 21st Century telling the story to us. :thumbup:
 
That is a fantastic story. To think that you ran across someone who had been born into slavery long enough before aboltion to actually have some memory of the bad old days, yet lived long enough to meet you when you were old enough to actually remember. and tell you about it. And here you are well into the second decade of the 21st Century telling the story to us. :thumbup:

As a history major, the historical chain here is quite neat to see. :thumbup:
 
Absolutely. My "original source "stories that still may be somewhat unique for my generation only go back to 1893 for sure(grandfather) or maybe around 1880 (great grandmother who died when I was maybe 9 or 10), not 1858!!!! Time marches on. My youngest brother who just tuned 40 this week, have met a goodly number of folks who fought in WW2 and got to spend time with his late uncle who flew B29's and couple of great uncles who served. On the other hand, my oldest son, who is only 18 years younger, has met a scant handful of those folks, and will not have that opportunity to meet many more if any.
As a history major, the historical chain here is quite neat to see. :thumbup:
 
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Very good story. I never have met a former slave but have been around the older black generations for years. Befriended several. Worked for one. They are a different kind than what is growing now. Polite, kind hearted and with good ethics, generally. Good people who have some amazing stories to be heard.
 
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