From the WPA Slave
Narratives:
George Washington Ramsay
Foreword: Uncle George Ramsay lives about 15 miles east of Saucier. Take State
55 east from Saucier, proceed about 5 miles, just beyond Airey, then instead
of turning south with 55, keep straight road on east. This is an excellent
gravelled road. Continue about ten miles to State 57, running north and South.
Near the junction of this first road with 57, lives "Bass" O'Neil. At his
house get directions to the George Ramsay homestead, which is about two miles
to the northwest over a rough woods trail, not very safe for cars in wet
weather. Uncle George is a very bright colored negro, with white hair,
moustache, and goatee and blue eyes, which are entirely sightless now. He is 5
ft. 9 in. tall and weighs only about 115 lbs. now, but it is "every bit good
stuff" he explained. His wife, 69 years old, is a tall fleshy woman, also
entirely blind. Neither one spoke the negro plantation dialect. Uncle George
did not speak differently from the illiterate white, while his wife Amy, had
considerable education, and used excellent language. She was also polished in
manners. Uncle George is a very happy person with a prodigious sense of humor.
Almost every phase of life has a funny aspect with him and he laughed
incessantly as he told his story.
My father was named Bat Ramsay, no he wasn't a white man, jes' bright, but I'm
mighty nigh a full blooded Ramsay. My mother was Amy Ramsay owned by Bill
Ramsay. My mother originated with the Fairleys, an' was bought by Bill Ramsay.
My father, belonged to his brother, Andy Ramsay. He lived across the line in
Jackson county. My mother an' father never did belong to the same master, but
my father was 'lowed to come over every Sat'day an' spend Sunday with us.
There were 9 chillun of us in our family, but all is dead but me. My master,
Bill Ramsay, never did have but one family of cullud people. We lived in his
yard. His house was just across the road from where Mr. O'Neal's is now. It
got burned up. It was an ole split log house, not painted, ceiled on the
outside with ceiling boards, an' on the inside with dressed lumber, an'
covered with pine shingles. It was jes' identical like this house, where you
is a settin now, I built mine jes' like it. My master was not rich, but he was
a good liver.
My father an' mother farmed altogether. They never did earn no money in slave
times, but we got everything we needed. We had the same things to eat as our
master and wore the same identical close. No one in them days had any fine
Sunday close, but such as our master had, we had the same, nice, clean, new
jeans.
My master, Bill Ramsay, was a good man. I loves to talk about him. I never did
leave him. I set over him for five days an' nights before he died an' closed
his eyes in death. The mistis had laid down. He opened his eyes an' says,
"George, boy, call your mistis". I tiptoed over to her bed softly so as not to
excite her, an' spoke low, "The master wants you to come there." He looked up
at me an' her an' says, "I can't stay with you no longer. Goodby." Then he was
gone, an' if ever any one went to Heaven, he did.
This was my master's second wife. My ole mistis died when her baby was about
12 months old, an then my mother took possession of that family. They had
another woman to cook, but my mother had gen'ral charge of the house an'
chillun. She spun an' wove an' kept them dressed.
I want to show you a piece of work made entirely by a slave woman. Gal, bring
me that quilt. Now you see the white linin' and the white between the blocks.
My mother wove that white cloth an' the thread it's quilted with. The red an'
green an' blue pieces was bought from the store, but she got the pattern by
goin' out into the woods an' gettin a leaf to cut it by. The two parts of the
pattern is cut from the bull-tongue leaf and the gopher grass. The quilt is
about 90 years old, an' it was made when people was smart, an' went into the
woods to get their patterns.
When I married fust time, I had a little weddin' given me by white folks in
the community, where I was married. It was at Bluff Creek in Jackson county. I
wouldn't let no cullud preacher marry me. I was married by Judge Henry Havens,
Oct. 27, 1877.
My master, Bill Ramsay, had 9 chillun, but everyone is dead. I'm about the
only seed of the Ramsays left.
I never did see no slaves punished. My master didn' low nothin' punished round
him. He wouldn't even let my mother whip us. His cullud folks didn' go cold
an' they didn' go hungry.
None of us was learned to read an' write in slave days. I didn' go to school
atter freedom, we didn' have time then, we had to get out an' scratch for our
bread.
Yes, I am a Christian, we was raised that way. The white folks had preachin'
at 11 o'clock, an' at 3 o'clock the cullud folks had their meetin' in the same
house, with the same identical white preacher. I was christened by this
preacher, Preacher Brenley, I had on the prettiest little white slip, it had
red tattin' around the neck and the tail was scalloped with more red tattin'
on it. Did my mother tell me about it? No, I 'members it myself. I was stood
on the altar in the old Ramsay Methodist church. I was the purtiest dressed
chile in that house that day.
The preacher read the Bible to us, and so did my master, Bill Ramsay. What
songs did we sing? Gal, get me my old mistis' hymbook. (The girl brought a
much worn book of classic hymns) "Why these are just the same hymns the white
folks sang". Of course they is, how would we niggahs know any others?
Here the wife spoke up. "We did have the melodies we made up ourselves, but I
can't remember any of them. My mother used to sing, "I'm going home to die no
more" that was one of her favorites.
There was jes' two families in them parts that had cullud people, Bill an'
Andy Ramsay, an' they came to the same church an' brought their niggahs with
'em.
I 'members too, when we kids used to pick the seeds from the cotton in our
absent times. We had a little handgin we used when we wanted to spin cloth.
When our work was done, we stayed about the yard, played hide-and-hoop, an'
hide the switch. We had all the good times we wanted, we didn't know nothin'
else. We had better times then than folks has now, both white an' black. I
'member seeing the white gals ridin' their horses with them great long skirts
on. We never went to no parties, I never seed a fiddle till I was 20 years
old, that business jes' wasn't here then.
I don't believe in no ghostes or hoodoos --- I've seen people run by a ghost,
but it turned out to be a Billy goat. You said a ghost, but I say a goat.
Yes, I 'members the War. I held Gen'l Stevens horse, "Lone Star" for him once,
an' watered it. It was a beautiful bay with blazed face and stocking legs. He
had his regiment an' was passin' through from one point to another. He gave me
50 cents in Confederate money --- I kep' it till it wore out.
I don't know much about Abraham Lincoln, but I have seed his picture. But I
can tell you about ole man Jeff Davis. He shook hands with me right there
where the Confederate Home now is. I went to tell him about the Ramsays that
was Confederate soldiers an' to recommend them. I guess I'm the only cullud
man around here that ever seen Jeff Davis.
I have heered of Booker T. Washington, but I didn't like his way of doing
things. He sold his students. --At my exclamation of surprise the wife spoke
up, and gave a very intelligible explanation of what her husband meant. It was
in substance as follows:
When Washington first started his school, funds were of course limited. Young
negroes who attended, worked for part of their expenses, and paid part. If
they couldn't pay, they made notes to the school, and upon graduation these
had to be paid out of their first earnings. The school advertised their
services, and hired them out to the most likely bidders, without any volition
on their part. Here they had to work, until their debt to the school was paid.
To many, this seemed like reducing them to bondage again. (This was the
explanation given by the old colored woman, Willie Ramsay, and the writer has
no knowledge as to whether it is true or not.) Old George finally commented on
the negroes lack of foresight by saying, Jes' give the niggah a free ticket
an' he'll get on the train, not knowin where he's goin'.
Interviewer's Note: He owns his own home, home-steaded it in the 1880's, 160
acres of which he still retains 130, taxes paid, he says. "I pinches an does
without to save my tax money" he stated. The large, old fashioned pioneer
house was built with material entirely cut from his place, which was rich in
big yellow pines. It was copied from his master's house, a log house, ceiled
inside with dressed lumber, eight rooms, including a separate kitchen and
dining room, and an ell with two rooms built more recently. It is quite
weather beaten, and some what settled now, but still it is a comfortable and
adequate shelter. There are good beds and a few pieces of the most elemental
furniture. The whole was spotlessly clean. A son and a daughter with their
families live with them, care for the old blind couple and cultivate a part of
the farm. Six other children live in little cabins and farms near by, so that
Uncle George is much like an old patriarch surrounded by his clan. Once in
comfortable circumstances, the old darky had to apply for Relief under the
ERA, and now draws the tiny Old Age Assistance. With his most elemental wants
supplied, respected by all, both colored and white, this old slave is one of
the happiest of persons. The twelve miles of good gravelled road connecting
States Highways 55 and 57 were in excellent condition, but when we turned at
the three mailboxes at the beginning of a trail into the woods, about
one-eighth miles before reaching 57, our trouble began, and there were two and
one half miles of it. Sometimes there were faint tracks, indicating the
existence of a road, but at other places the grass was completely grown over
the old road and there were mudholes and pools of water which we tackled
fearfully. Coming out, however, we hired the stout young grand son of Uncle
George who claimed to be an experienced chauffeur, to go back to the highway
with us. When at last we reached the home of the old blind negro, a large
rambling old log house with frame ell, he settled into his swing at the end of
the porch, with a delighted laugh, "Here I is" he said extending his hand. For
being blind, Uncle George can only know people by touch and their voices, and
everybody, white or black shakes hands with him. Men strange to him of either
color are promptly explored as to their height and girth and other physical
characteristics. Without being presumptive the old slave adresses white men
whom he has known always, familiarly by their first names, and they resent any
inference that he is being too forward. No one feels that he does not keep his
place, yet no inferiority complex mars the exuberant happiness and calm
content in which he has his being.
Well, now I knows you has had a hard time gettin' out here. I has paid taxes
for nigh about 70 years, an' endurin' all dat time de Supervisors has been
promisin' me a road, an' dey ain' made me one yet. Now I hears it has been
turned over to the CCman's, so maybe dey will fix me one.
Speakin' of the ole Ramsays, Cal Dees' (State Senator C. E. Dees, Sr) mother,
Miss Jane Ramsay, was either 5 hrs older, or 5 hrs younger than I is, I
forgets which.
No, it was not my father's marster, ole Andrew Ramsay dat was operator on de
Ole Wire Road. It was de young marster Andrew Ramsay, Jr., his son. I
remembers when de Ole Wire Road was put up an' my father, Bat Ramsay, rode it
as substitute from Holden Ferry on the Pascagoula to Wolf River. He was
substitute for Phil Delgado, a furriner, who had a telegraph office at ole
Ramsay, (now Dantzler) an' had married my father's young mistis. You see the
fac's of the business is, Mr. 'Gado used the bottle a little too much, an' my
pa had to keep the ball a rollin' for him. You sees dey didn' have no postes
den, de telegraph wires was strung along on trees, an' dey was allus somepin'
gettin' wrong with 'em. My pa' drove an' ole blin' mule to a jersey wagon, dat
was a kin' of little spring wagon.
My father was a big 7 ft. Scotchman, well maybe it was only 6-1/2 foots, an'
his foots were so big, he wore a 'leven shoe, but twelves fitted him bes'. You
see he was a shoemaker an' could make de shoes to fit hisself. He run a
tanyard an' gristmill for his mistis. He was really her business manager, for
Del bought likker by de 5 gallon can, an' stayed drunk a whole lot. He used to
try to get pa to drink with him. One time he tole pa he had to stay all night
an' drink with him, an' when pa tried to go home, he locked him up in a room.
The floor was made of big ole planks, an' pa pried one up an' crawled out
under de house. When Del opened de door, dere was no Bat dere, for pa was done
half way home by dat time. I tole it an' nealy got a whuppin for it - I was
allus a tellin' things to the white folks, only I picked the wrong ones to
tell everytime, an' was allus gettin' into some kin' of trouble for it.
One time Delgado an' me, we 'cluded to make whiskey. I was a good work han'
den about 16 years ole. He took me down the branch, an' we foun' a good hidden
place. I was de watch man, an' he made de still. He made it out'n tin an' a
lot o' things, it looked sorta like one of dese here little ranges dey has
now. I ain' never seen nothing like it before or sence, an' I is shore nobody
else has.
He would set a cup under, an' it would go drip, drip, crip, an' every little
while he would tas' it. "Now, George, you watch", he says an' laid down to
sleep. No, no, he wasn' afraid of no officers findin' him, it was his wife an'
her folks he was skeered of. I set by a watchin' but purty soon dat thing
began to go, fizz- fizz, fiz, - sputter, sputter, sputter, an' the firs' thing
I knowed, it blowed up. I tells you, George run. Delgado woke up an' says,
"Lord, George", an' he run too. Nobody knowed it twel I tole his
brother-in-law, an' again I tole the wrong pusson, for the Ramsays tried to
keep him from drinkin'. He would tell his wife's folks, "I don' drink," an' he
was drunk all de time.
Yes, dey rid along de ole Wire Road with de mail an' along de ole City Road.
"Crab", you knows him, Mr. B. H. Breland, carried it from a place called
Wisdom to Mississippi City. He rid an ole mule called ole Beck. I have knowed
Crab all my life an' he sure is de bes' one for writin' in Stone County. When
my wife here could see - she is blind too, we took de Herald for about 17
years, jes' to read Crab's pieces.
My marster an' my father's marster didn' go to de War. Dey was too ole an' dey
wouldn' agone nohow. Dey stayed home an' tended to de farms an' de slaves,
somebody had to keep de home fires burnin' didn' dey? But deir sons went, all
three of my young marsters, John an' Jeff an' Jim, an' dey all come back.
Marse Jeff Ramsay what went to de War, was de father of Circuit Clerk, Jeff
Ramsay.
De second Andrew Ramsay, my father's young marster, is de one dat firs' built
Ramsay Springs, an' I is de one dat built it under him. Andrew Ramsay an' a
man named A. Baldwin is the ones dat bought de lan' an' I'm de one dat built
de spring an de houses, an' I didn' know anymore how to do it at fust dan a
Billy goat knows about a Bible. But we had de plans all drawed out an' we
studied 'em, till we seen how to go ahead. Dey was five other niggahs workin'
on de job too, but I was de boss man to show 'em how. He paid me a dollar a
day an' my board, I tole him I wouldn' board mysel' case I tole him I would be
too tired to cook atter I worked all day.
We put up all de buildin's at de firs' Ramsay Springs an' dey stayed dere till
Mr. Miller done built it over 'bout fifteen years ago.
I wasn' ole enough to vote when first de cullud folks was 'lowed to, but I did
vote for two or three years at de las'. I remember when several cullud mens
was elected here, but dey wasn' capable or qualified, an' dey sold deir
offices to white men. De cullud folks was 'sposed to be 'publicans, but my pa
was a Democrat, like the res' of de Ramsays, an' I did the same as he done, I
never voted a 'publican ticket in my life. When I was 22 or 23 years old, I
set on a petit jury in Mississippi City. Dey was half an' half, cullud an'
white.
When de white primaries come in, dat cut de cullud man out a votin', and den
too he was a coward, an' ef a white man say, "you can't vote", he done quit,
right den. Den we couldn' set on juries 'cause you had to be a tax-payer, an'
pay all your taxes at de proper time, an' be able to read an' write. An' back
in dem days de cullud folks had no learnin'. I is too ole to pay poll tax - my
boys pays deirs, but dey don' try to vote.
I jes' hates to tell you what I thinks of de young cullud folks now, dey is so
sorry. I wouldn' live de life like dey leads for anything in de worl'. I don'
see any of dese young niggahs, trying to buy 'em a farm or a home, an' trying
to fix up to live right in dis worl' an' I am sure dey is makin' no
preparations for any future worl'. No, I don' think de learnin' dey gets now,
is doin' em a bit of good. Dey don' profit by it an' cultivate it to make
deirselves better. All dey cares for is to be runnin' to town, payin' rent an'
havin' a big time.
Now here I is with my good house an' farm, what I homesteaded when I was
young. I scrimps an' starves to pay my taxes, an' no one can' put me out of
it. I am blind now, an' can't work no more, but de good white folks an' de
good Lord dey don' forget me. Sence you was here before' dey has sent me some
close, see dis shirt an' pants which I is got on, you see I allus tries to go
clean.
Then as storm clouds began to gather and remembering that two and a half mile
stretch of woods road, we said, "Well, Uncle George, we would like to talk to
you all day, but we will have to get back to the highway before the storm
breaks."
"Me too, me too, I wishes you could talk to me all day. Be sure you come back
again, I loves to have you come, an' I tole the Good Marster about you coming
to see me dat other time."
Interviewer: Unknown
Transcribed by Ann Allen Geoghegan
Mississippi Narratives
Prepared by
The Federal Writer’s Project of
The Works Progress Administration
For the State of Mississippi
|
"If you teach them where they come from, they won't need as much help finding where they are going!" Cordelia Carothers " Aunt Dee" Geoghegan (1894-1987)
Project Manager: Ann
Allen Geoghegan State Coordinator Assistant State Coordinators and
Transcriptionists: Ann Allen Geoghegan, Debbie Leftwich, and Rose Diamond and Linda Durr Rudd Banner designed by: Melissa McCoy-Bell Unknown worker photograph provided by L. Stephen Bell Photography, and family photo albums of Karen Schweikle, Lucy Gray and Jens Burkhart. Copyright © 2005-2008 by MSGenWeb Project. All rights reserved. |
 |
