The 125 acre farm my father bought with the help of a
government loan, had been part of a 500 acre plantation. On the west side of
our farm another strip of land belonged to Mr. Womble who also had been
accepted for a government loan. Behind us was a long rectangle of land that
belonged to Lester Branch, a black man. Mr. Debary’s farm bordered ours. Across
Fleming Road Mr. Barbre, with a large
family, worked his farm. Adjoining his
land was the McLemore farm. West of the McLemores was a farm that belonged to
Mr. Toomey. Mr. Toomey was a black man.
My brother, Max, said in the evenings if you were outside
you could hear a trumpet playing. It was Mr. Toomer. He was an accomplished
musician who could read music. He was also one of the best hands anyone could
have when it was time to harvest peanuts because he was magic at repairing machinery.
Daddy admired him and his ability as a worker, not for his knowledge and talent
as a musician.
Years later, Mr. Toomer would sell his farm to my Uncle
Jimmy and Aunt Judy. I never met Mr. Toomer. I did not know Lester Branch
either. He was a good farmer and would have kept his farm but his son, Raymond,
while plowing with a spring tooth harrow, was badly injured. He died and Mr.
Branch lost his will to fight for his farm. He sold out and moved away. My
father and Mr. Branch had a good relationship as neighbors, but the white
supremacy was accepted and practiced even with good people like my Daddy.
On our farm lived Geneva and Johnny and their son, Bay. Bay
and I were close in age. Geneva came down to our house once a week to do the
washing. At that time, electricity had not reached the rural areas of south
Georgia. Geneva worked behind the smoke house where a long bench held two galvanized
wash tubs. One was for scrubbing the sheets, towels, and clothes of our large
family. The other tub was for rinsing all that laundry. But, before the clothes
were scrubbed, they were soaked in a big black wash pot sitting over a hot
fire. Geneva used a long stick which, I remember, looked like an ax handle,
and she batted the clothes around in the pot for a while before dipping them
out and plunging them into the galvanized tub to scrub. This job took Geneva
all day long. It was a back breaking chore and her pay was a tenant house in which to
live. Her husband Johnny helped on the farm.
Bay was about my age, and I was four or five years old. My
baby sister was too small to play with me, so I was happy to see Bay when he
came with his mother. In those days you played with your family members or
close neighbors. We had no planned play, no play dates, no special attention for
the children. I ran outside to see Bay and Geneva when they came. Bay and I
played under the big oak tree that sheltered our house for over fifty years.
That is, we played until one day when Daddy told Mother he didn’t want me
playing with Bay anymore.
I know now that Geneva knew my father’s wishes, although I
didn’t know. I was sad and confused when I was told I could no longer play
under the big oak tree with Bay.
This poem is about my first experience with racism and not
understanding it.
The Big Black Pot
By Glenda Beall
A big black pot sits three legged, over red-hot coals.
Monday means Geneva comes, brings Bay, her boy,
in overalls, no shirt, no shoes, bare shoulders, dusty
feet.
He chases me, I chase him. We tussle, wrestle,
and we hug,
color-blind five-year-olds,
becoming best of friends.
Geneva, scrubbing Daddy’s shirts, looks up, and yells to
Bay.
“Come heah and stir this pot of clothes, and leave that
child alone.”
Her face shriveled like dried apples and her eyes two
burning sparks,
she takes no sass, and we both know it.
Quick as starlings taking flight, Bay’s grin departs.
Left bereft and all alone, I storm inside to Mother.
“Neva’s being mean,” I say. “She’s mad as fire at Bay.
He didn’t hurt me. I didn’t cry. Neva’s mad and I don’t
know why.”
