"Yes I votes sometimes now, when dey come gits me. An befo I got sick, I would ride the street car to town. An I goes down to de Court House, and when I see dem cannons in deyard I cain keep from cryin'. My wife arsk me what make me go look at dem cannon ef'n dey makes me cry. An I tells her I cry 'bout de good and de bad times dem cannon bringed us. But no cannons or nothin' else, seems like going to bring back de good old times. But I dont worry 'bout all dese things much. Accordin' to de Good Book's promise, weepin' may endure for a night, den come joy in de mornin. An I knows dat de day's soon come when I goes to meet my folks and my Lord an Marster in his Heaven, whar dey ain no more weepin.'"
SUBJECT—EX-SLAVE STORIES
Aunt Mollie Moss
# 88- Auburn Street,
Knoxville, Tennessee
There is no street sign or a number on any of the ramshackled frame cottages that seemingly lean with the breezes, first one direction, then another, along the alley that wind's through the city's northernmost boundary and stops its meanderings at the doorstep of "Uncle Andrew Moss" and his wife, "Aunt Mollie."
The City Directory of Knoxville, Tennessee officially lists the Moss residence as # 88 Auburn Street. It rests upon its foundations more substantially, and is in better kept condition than its neighbors. In lieu of a "reg'lar" house number, the aged negro couple have placed a rusty automobile lisence tag of ancient vintage conspicuously over their door. It is their jesture of contempt for their nearest white neighbors who "dont seem to care whedder folkses know whar dey lib an maybe don wants em to."
As for Aunt Mollie, she holds herself superior to all of her neighbors. She "Ain got no time for po white trash noway." She shoo'ed two little tow-headed white girls from her doorstep with her broom as she stood in her door and watched a visitor approach. "G'wan way frum here now, can be bodder wid you chillun messin ups my front yard. Take yo tings an go on back to yo own place!"
"Dats way dey do," she mummled as she lead the visitor inside the cottage, through the dining-room and kitchen into the living-room and bedroom. "Don know what I gwine do when come summer time. Keeps me all time lookin out for dem chilluns. Dey's dat troublesome. Brings trash in on my flo what I jes scoured, an musses 'roun, maybe tryin to steal sumpin an me watchin em too. Dey wasnt teached manners and 'havior in odder folkses houses like what I war."
When Aunt Mollie learned that it was to hear her story of how she was trained in manners end behaviorism, that the visitor had come, and to hear something of her recollections of slave days, her belligerent mood vanished. The satisfied manner in which she drew up chairs before the fire, took a pinch of snuff and settled her skirts, indicated that was going to be quite a session. She leaned her elbows on her knees, held her head between the palms of her hands and fumbled in her cloudy memory to gather a few facts to relate.
Uncle Andrew, the more intelligent of the two, and quick to seize upon his opportunity, began his reminiscences immediately, saying "Honey, wait now," when his wife thought herself well organized to talk, and frequently broke into his narrative. "Wait untell I gits through. Den you can talk." Aunt Mollie would frown and grunt, mumble to herself as she rocked back and forth in her chair. She pulled the two long braids of brown silky hair, streaked with white, and tied at the ends with cotton strings. She spat vigorously into the fire, kept muttering and shuffling her feet, which were encased in men's shoes.