All God's Dangers (76 page)

You know, a heap of em do that now. I don't say a word. Treat em with respect and go on my way. They'll call me Mr. Shaw right before their wives, men do, and their wives. But I know how desperate them that won't call me “Mister” have been against their own color that do. I'd rather they call me Nate, just go on and call me Nate: it sounds better in my ear. But I don't worry bout nothin they call me; they doin all the worryin bout that now. I don't think I'm so much. They didn't used to call me nothin but Nate, Nate Shaw. I don't need no honorin; just treat me right and go on, don't bother me. That's what I want.

M
ATTIE
J
ANE
done the housework and the cookin after Hannah died. Rosa Louise stayed a short while after the death of her mother, then she went to Chattanooga to stay with Leah Ann. Leah Ann was married to Justin Ames and Justin wanted somebody to stay there with his wife until he come out of army service. And Hannah had consented for Louise to go up there before she died. And it wound up, Louise had a baby up there and stayed on.

After Hannah died I made three crops and I married again. Had a crop in '50 when she died; '51 I pitched another crop; '52 I made a crop there; '53 I made a crop there; '54 I made a crop—'53
and '54, Josie, my wife now, helped me chop and gather them crops. The government was fixin the price on cotton regular then. Cotton brought somethin like twenty-five cents and any time you get above twenty cents a pound, you can live, at the amount of cotton people make. I was workin on land that produced better than a half a bale to the acre with common fertilize. Generally planted from twelve to fourteen acres, and a big corn crop. I made corn to walk on every year.

Durin my years as a single man, I plowed that gray mare I taken over when I come home. Before my wife died, she claimed that big iron-gray mare was her'n, that was her'n. Them boys didn't dispute her because they knowed they was losin her. I'd a tore em all to pieces, I'd a messed em up if they'd a kicked against what she said. Tell the truth, me and the children didn't agree good bout nothin since I come out of prison. I'd been away from em so long and they had the ropes in their hands and seemed like they wanted to hold on to em after I appeared.

My youngest boy, Garvan, he cut up like the devil one day—I didn't want to hurt him, that was my child. He was just about grown when I got out of prison, runnin around courtin, correspondin gals, and it wasn't long before he married. So, one day, come up a little disagreement and he jumped up and wanted to fight me—I didn't pay him no attention. His mother was quick to worry herself down for no cause. And I knowed, if I'd a knocked him down with my fist, jumped on him, stomped him and kicked him—I aint got a child but what I coulda fought him, and there's some of em I coulda whipped em. Well, he got mad at the breakfast table bout some words I spoke; come up a quick flustration and his mother come into the room. I got up—I didn't hit him a lick, just walked on through the house and started out the front door and he runned up to me and grabbed me and tried to pull me on out. I didn't hit him, only stood there and mouthed a little at him. He tried to pull me on out and I caught the wall beside the door and held myself back without throwin no strains against him. Hannah was just a cryin and a carryin on. Right then I coulda just turned loose the wall and rapped him against the side of his head and knocked him out—but I weren't goin to do that, bring on a whole lot of trouble, hoopin and hollerin. And he was my child, I couldn't hurt my own child. I just caught the wall—that was the crop. He invited me outdoors—I wouldn't go; his mother woulda had a fit if
I butchered him up. Well, I stood on her feelins; she was already complainin and was under the weather. Right then a cancer had her. And I didn't want to aggravate her. So, Garvan couldn't do nothin with me, he couldn't pull me out the house and he give up.

I worked that mare over on the Leeds place three years. Then I moved over on Vernon's place in '48 and made five crops with that mare until I sold her to Cece Rowe, colored fellow; just practically gived her to him for forty dollars. She was a good animal but I didn't want her no more. She'd plow—we snaked logs up yonder on Vernon's place with that mare; she was heavy and she was agreeable. But when you hitched her to the wagon, you had to be the driver; she'd run away from you the minute you let up. She tried, when I hitched her with a mule, she tried like the devil to run away from me. I said to myself, “That aint goin to help you; you goin to work to that wagon when I want you to.”

So I went and sold Cece Rowe that mare for forty dollars just to get her away from me—horses was cheap, I just tried to get a little out of her and be shed of her. And I was lucky to get what I got.

Went on and bought me a mule and I kept that mule until I sold her last winter. Bought her from a white gentleman up the other side of Lavender's bridge, goin toward Beaufort. I'd heard that Mr. John Culpepper had a mule for sale. Went up there and looked at the mule one Sunday—doggone it, I runned into what I wanted then. Vernon took me on his truck and carried me up there. On route we stopped at Miss Mandy Rudd's store at the Pottstown crossroads and there was a little boy runned out of the store. Vernon knowed him, said, “That's Mr. John Culpepper's grandchild. His daddy is Mr. Culpepper's son-in-law.”

Vernon got out and asked the little boy, “Is your papa in the store?”

He said, “No, Daddy's gone over yonder to the racetrack.”

“Well, is your mother in there?”

Said, “Yeah, Mama's in the store.”

Vernon went in there and talked to her—that was Mr. John Culpepper's daughter. He told her, “My daddy wants to buy a mule and he heard that your father had a mule for sale. I decided I'd
stop—I seed your little boy out there in front of the store and I just come in here to ask you about it. Does your father have a mule for sale for sure? We heard that he do.”

She said, “Yes, Papa got a mule to sell, she's a nice mule too. Papa got a mule, surely.”

Vernon got back on the car and we didn't quit drivin till we got to Mr. Culpepper's house, just off the main line several miles on the Beaufort side of Lavender's bridge. We got there and Mr. Culpepper's wife come out and told us, “He must be down in the pasture, but he'll be here in a few minutes.”

And after awhile he come up. And he had a grown-sized son, I don't know whether he was of age or not; and me and Vernon and him and his son went on back down to the pasture; the mule was in the pasture. Weren't no grass comin up then; she was just put out in a dry pasture where she had nothin but dead grass to eat. But the mule was fat as a pig. Walked on down there—she seemed to be kind and gentle. You start foolin with mules, I aint nobody's fool. I bought three mules out of the drove myself, my own self, and I bought as many as two out in the country and I hadn't got a sorry mule this mornin. And I worked a heap of different mules, breakin em for people. Mr. Hap Grimes, I broke two or three for him, way out there close to Apafalya. He put em on me, knowed they'd be took care of—

So, we walked up to that mule, all of us, and got behind her to drive her to the lot, one Sunday mornin. I wanted to look her over good and close. Vernon and Mr. Culpepper and the Culpepper boy was walkin behind me. And I was between them and the mule, just watchin her movements every way. She didn't break to run at all. That mule woulda weighed about eleven hundred pounds, heavy mule, round as a butterball. She went right straight on to the house ahead of us, me chasin her like a dog after a rabbit.

Got to the house and Mr. Culpepper told me and Vernon both how old she was—said she was seven years old and he bought her from the fellow that bought her out the drove.

I asked him what he wanted for her. He said, “One hundred and twenty-five dollars.”

I thought to myself, ‘That's cheap for a mule that look like that. Cheap.' I wanted to get my hands on her. When I chased her to the lot that day, I was just hoppin with the rheumatism,
couldn't walk straight, hoppin. But I'd sold my mare and I wanted to get me a mule so whenever I did get able to plow I'd have a mule already there. That was my full aim and intention and the Lord abled me to do it. That rheumatism passed off me like a sudden spell of weather.

Mr. Culpepper had a horse there and he was workin at Calusa and nobody there but his son. And he had a brand new tractor there and that mule and a horse. And he didn't need that mule and that horse neither; his son was usin that tractor. I said, “Well, Mr. Culpepper, today is Sunday. I didn't come up here to buy no mule today, but I wanted to find where I could get one and I'd come back later, time enough to buy her. Will you give me till this comin Wednesday to take her off your hands?”

He said, “Yes, I'll keep her.”

I said, “Consider, Mr. Culpepper, she's sold.”

That Wednesday, Garvan come off his job—he was still livin with me in that big house on Vernon's place. And he come off his job with TJ—TJ was workin at the Calusa mill, too. And TJ brought Garvan right on to me. I was up there at that sawmill where Cece Rowe used to work when he bought that mare from me. And I was pilin me out some more lumber there that I was buyin from the sawmill man and layin it aside to pick it up at a certain time. I got my lumber straightened out there and jumped on the car with TJ and Garvan and went on up there to Mr. Culpepper's. Got up there and he had just come in off of his job at Calusa. Found out I was there for that mule, went out and caught her. Gived me her gear—but her gear weren't much account. I pulled out my pocketbook and gived him his hundred and twenty-five dollars. And he bridled her and led her out the lot. I gived Garvan the bridle reins and he took her away from there, walkin; left me and TJ there on TJ's car. I thanked Mr. Culpepper and we pulled out. Caught up with Garvan and that mule was just trottin along like a dog. Garvan was walkin his can off. Every once in a while she'd start a little jig trot right behind him. Pretty a mule as there was in the whole country. I felt good, I felt good.

And when we got over here near the crossroads, just about a mile this side of the crossroads, we met Vernon on his truck, comin to meet us. And just had passed Garvan with the mule. Vernon asked us how far was Garvan behind us? We told him,
“He's right up the road apiece. He aint far and he'll soon be here.”

Garvan come in sight, right on with the mule. Vernon said, “All right, Papa, you get on my truck now and let Garvan—” TJ done gone on; Vernon wanted me to get on his truck and let Garvan come on with the mule.

I said, “No, Garvan done walked enough—” It was about eight miles from where we got that mule, way up in there the other side of Lavender's bridge.

Vernon allowed, “Papa, just let Garvan bring the mule on. You crippled with rheumatism, let him bring it.”

I said, “No, I want to lead her home myself, I'll make it. My body wants to drive on home on your truck, but my mind tells me to walk that mule on home.”

We weren't a bit over a mile at that time from Vernon's house. Garvan come walkin up and I said, “Go ahead, son, get in the truck with Vernon. I'll bring the mule on home.”

I come on with the mule then and there's a old white gentleman lived just up the road apiece from Vernon—RC Greenwood. And after I passed Mr. Greenwood I hit a little bridge goin through a swamp. I was alone with the mule, hoppin, leadin the mule, hoppin, leadin the mule. We got to that bridge and she swung back, wouldn't come on across to this side. Wouldn't even step on it; looked at it and pulled back. I seed I couldn't move her so I just walked that mule up to Mr. Greenwood's house, told him, “Mr. Greenwood, I got a mule here and I'm on my way home with her and I can't get her to cross that bridge down there. I'll give you a quarter if you'll just walk on down the road with me and the mule and help me get her across.”

He looked at me and looked at the mule, said, “All right, Nate, I'm comin with you.”

When we got back to the bridge I stepped on to go across and that mule pulled back again. Mr. Greenwood got behind her and just patted his hands on her and hollered: “Eeeeeeeyaaaaaahh, eeeeeeeyaaaaahh.” She lit on that bridge and come across. Had no more trouble with her then. Went right on in home, put her in the lot and she stood there several days and it was next Monday come—I brought her home on a Wednesday—I took that mule out and hitched her up. She was the dandiest mule to plow, good a mule as ever I walked behind. She'd give you almost any kind of gait you
wanted, too. I called her Kizzie. Changed her name; they'd called her Claude. I kept that mule eighteen years. She held up good and I held up good.

M
ADE
my last good crop on Vernon's place with that mule in '53—made eight heavy bales of cotton, and didn't have nobody helpin me but a little to chop. Worked about ten acres that year and fertilized heavy, so I come out with nearly a bale to the acre. That was my limit; I couldn't plant any more acres and take care of it myself. I aint goin to plant no great territory and let the grass eat up my crop.

Went on after that and made two more crops there, cotton crops, and I made nearly four bales to the crop each year; didn't put but four acres in cotton and I fertilized it heavy. And planted corn on the rest, enough to feed my mule all year round and have some to sell.

The year I made them eight bales of cotton, Vernon hired a hand to work his crop. Vernon didn't have no tractor yet but he had a stompin good pair of mules. And he hired Bob Leech, colored fellow, and gived him forty dollars a month. One day I was plantin—and old man Warren Jenks' place joined Vernon's and there was a young colored fellow workin there on halves. I had one of Warren Jenks' old mules—poor mule, weren't able to do much, I rented him from Warren Jenks and put him with that big gray mare I had and plowed with my two-horse plow, breakin my land. I hadn't got shed of that mare yet, but was just about to and get me a mule before plantin. I kept her just to break that land with. So, one day I was down in the field and had that pair of stock hitched to my two-horse plow and I was breakin land, weren't no foolin around goin on—well, this young fellow workin right below me on Warren Jenks' land—he was a MacDougal—he was plowin right close to the line between the two plantations. And this fellow Vernon had hired was plowin right up above me, had Vernon's mules and supposed to be breakin land with a two-horse plow. I could see him up there but I weren't noticin him much, had no reason to. And this fellow MacDougal come around on a long row next to the wire fence between Jenks' and Vernon's and I heard him hollerin, “Let em go, let em go.” And he hollered that two or three times, strong, loud. I looked around and seed it was him hollerin and it excited me to see who
he was talkin to. And I looked up there in the field above me where Bob Leech was plowin and one of them mules had done hipshodded, dropped his legs back and stopped to rest. Call that way of standin “hipshoddin.” And the other mule just standin there plain. Bob Leech settin up there between the plow handles, no tellin how long he been settin there, and Vernon payin him forty dollars a month. Settin down on that cross piece between them handles, smokin a cigarette. Mules, one of em, looked like he just gone to sleep. MacDougal seed that, no tellin how long MacDougal had been lookin at him, and he hollered, “Let em go, let em go.” Bob Leech settin right up there in my sight, doin nothin. He hollered back to MacDougal just this way: “There aint no way in the world, there aint no way in the world.”