Three Sixes
Everybody, anywhere near here, knew about the curse
that Miz Bella spit on the ground, of what now makes up Harper Town.
All the folks say that Old Massa Ben Avery,
back in them days of what they called slavery,
took Miz Bella’s number-six boy and sold him way, way, way
over thattaway.
Anybody can tell you ’bout how after freedom come,
Old Massa Avery tried to make up for the wrong that he had done.
Even the white folks — ’specially them that’s way up in the years —
still love to tell it, you know the one —
’bout Mister Ben, and them six miles of land what runs
under the sun.
The colored folks here can still hold dear
to that story of Miz Bella, and that land, the land
that soaked up her tears.
They say she stood right there, and spit six times all over
this entire place,
and then threw Mister Avery’s land right back in his face.
She told him straight out — least that’s what they say —
that couldn’t no dirt, no rock, or even no stone
make up for a boy already done gone.
But beware, she told ’em, this mama and this boy number six,
gonna stir up some evil in one hell of a fix.
Well, it was soon after, that some coloreds and some crackers, too,
came straight on up here, and they say,
“Mister Ben, we’ll take care of that land that soaked up them tears,”
and Lord they worked it, too, some say from sunup to sundown,
but not a blessing would grow here
’cause of them three sixes that done come down
right down on this town… .
If that white woman that come here from the state relief office had asked what she was supposed to ask, and done what she needed to do, she woulda knowed ’bout them three sixes, and what hell they was raisin’ in this here town. She’d a knowed that Old Brother Mack can’t even raise a hymn in them fields he got there, and I’d a told her that Sudie and Shug ain’t never had no regular work, or steady money to speak of, but they each done raised a household of folks, with nothin’ more than a strong back, and a worn-out washpot. If she’d a just asked Miz Jane, not how many young’uns she’d birthed but how many she needed to feed, she’d a knowed that Miz Jane got her four and them three her sister Bess left at her door.
Yeah, if that Miz R. D. Jones had bothered to walk past them rotted old oaks and strolled a ways behind them trees, she’d a seen that indeed, old Miz Fay do live there, and that tilting old shack is a lot more than a place ready to tumble right where it’s at. If white folks were askin’ folks instead of tellin’ folks, they would find out all they needed to know. But sad to say, it don’t look like it’s gonna ever be so.
Now, Miz R. D. Jones wasn’t the first cracker to grin that too-wide grin and come round here with a know-it-all cap stuck high on her head. No siree, we had another one I remember, not too long back — Miz Stevens. She had on a white lace dress and dainty little white shoes. She wouldn’t even get out of the car good — just peeked out at us and shook her carefully curled head.
She ain’t come alone, though. She brought this high-steppin’ colored woman with her. She was from up north somewhere. I could tell by the way she talked through her nose and tried to purse her lips when she spoke. Well, it don’t matter to me where you come from, colored is colored, even if you tryin’ to pretend that it ain’t. She was a funny one, too. Pretended like she ain’t never seen no hardworkin’ niggers bent over a field, tryin to pick out a livin’, or ever sat on no stump in the front of the house, eatin’ a real sweet watermelon, funnin’, sunnin’, and spittin’ seeds at one another. No, she acted like she ain’t know nothin’ ’bout that there. And then when I offered her some of my best beans with a good helpin’ of fatback, she said she couldn’t, on account of they would upset her stomach. How your belly gonna be upset when it’s good and full? Don’t make no sense to me, no sense at all. No, that woman there didn’t know she wasn’t no more than one of us dusted off and dressed up. She sho’ didn’t do us one bit of good, neither. She gave the church a few dollars on account of that white woman telling her to. Then she left ’fore we could really tell her one thing. Sometimes I think folks just like to ask, but they ain’t really want to know.
I tried to tell that white minister that come through here ’bout them three sixes what come down on this town. He nodded his head up and down like he was understandin’, but I know he still ain’t got it. I can tell you that ’cause all he did was tell us to ignore that nonsense and go on about praisin’ the Lord, but I told him like I tell anybody else who really want to know — pretendin’ that there ain’t no hell don’t put the fire out. That’s what we need, a way to cast that devil on out of here, but I reckon it ain’t never gonna happen after Miz Bella’s done spit that evil all over this place. It would take one of her own to lift it, and the only one we got that’s left of her babies say he ain’t never gonna let us forget.
Some of us say that we gonna leave, gonna go somewhere where the blessings are free, and the livin’ is easy, but so far we ain’t done it. Sometimes I think Miz Bella reaches up from the very bottom of hell and holds us here. Seem like no matter what, we just can’t seem to get going, no matter what we do. But we gonna pay the price now, ’cause things around here sho’ is pretty tough, and some of us just ain’t gonna make it. ’Course if they hadda delivered that promised relief, well, at least we woulda had a fighting chance, but now I just don’t know. Miz R. D. Jones been here once, but she ain’t never come back, and I don’t reckon we’ll ever see her or her kind again. It looks like it’s just us up against them three sixes, and Lord, they sho’ done come down hard, so very hard, on this here town.
AFTERTHOUGHTS
African American folk history came to be when folks looked at the world around them and then wove together story, myth, religious beliefs, and personal experiences. This was an attempt to make sense of some things we can all see but somehow or another still can’t seem to explain. In folk history, the historian is one of the folks themselves — some old, some wise, but all talking over the incidents of their lives. If we listen carefully, we can truly begin to understand people and their place within the world as they envision it. They will tell us all we need to know about the cultural, social, and political dynamics moving within their reality. From them, we can also learn the truth about relationships, which is absolutely crucial to understanding anyone: the relationship between the individual and the community, the individual and the family, and one individual and another. Unlike so much of traditional historical scholarship, truth here comes not from artifacts and documents but instead directly from the people who lived it and had the good sense to tell it. The people are the history makers as well as the history tellers.
This story begins with people talking and telling tales the way all history and literature was passed on before there was formal writing. The talk is folk talk, full of half truths, shrewd meanings, and sly humor. The story has the sincerity of honest folks who believe all they are telling but aren’t naive enough to tell all they know. These are folks whose survival has depended on their ability to lower their eyes, but who can still manage to see it all. They have been taught by the elders the art of evasion and irony, as the safe meeting place that lies somewhere between complete, humiliating submission and foolish confrontation. These elders teach an age-old game that is essential to peaceful coexistence.
For me, the greatest part of my work as a cultural historian comes when I am seated at the feet of the elders. It is then that I can hear our story in our own voices. These stories are not filtered through a European interpretation that has somehow managed to remove the heart and soul of who we are and where we’ve been in its woefully inadequate translation of our past. I am no
t only looking for facts, but also searching for that little bit of mother’s wit, the inspired eloquence and wisdom that make the past lively, significant, and personal. As one woman I interviewed so beautifully stated, “Baby, I’m telling you about what I done seen for myself, not something I done heard about or something somebody else done lied about. I’m saying just them things that I personally knows.” Well, ya’ll, that’s good enough for me. Enough said.
Every Other Tuesday Off
Although she was poor, country, colored, and certainly not married to Mister Lonnie Smith, who was Southern, white, and rich, she was still expected to tend to him, cook for him, and lie with him whenever he wished — just ’cause he paid her four dollars a week and called her his live-in. The actual Missus Smith, a snooty white witch, told anyone and everyone who would listen that she couldn’t be bothered with no man, least of all the man that was her husband. Still, it was Missus Smith and Missus Smith alone that benefited from a liaison with the bothersome Mister Smith. Missus Smith got the jewels, the house, and easy livin’, while all that the long-suffering domestic ever received was abuse, hard work, and lots and lots of heartache.
She looked at the clock — it was near ’bout five. She’d been workin’ this kitchen all day long, and her tiredness was comin’ down mighty hard on her. There were sure to be at least several more difficult hours added to an already too-long afternoon. Mister Smith was due to be walkin’ into the kitchen any minute now, feelin’ quite entitled to grabbin’ him a handful of anything he wanted (unfortunately, that something or another more often than not turned out to be a handful of her) before he sat down and waited to be served by the ever-toiling and better-be-available pretty li’l colored woman. She dreaded the evenin’ to come. Soon as that fool was full, he would be ready — ready for her. He would grin a real big grin (like the Lord done poured ridicule all over his face) and then he would wait for her to grin one, too. She never did, though — the best she could ever manage was grittin’ together her teeth ’bout hard as she could muster, and then reluctantly swallowing back the hateful words that threatened at any moment to spill ’cross her lips. Their coupling was way too wretched, and far too regular, to suit her, but it seemed to be big fun for the old man, Mister Smith. At least three times a week he would make his way to the drafty li’l back room ’cross from the kitchen to graciously gift her with the use of his body (thank God his generosity never lasted for more than ten minutes) ’fore he stumbled his way back up the stairs to lie with his back to the totally unconcerned and completely uninterested Missus Smith.
Ten years ago she’d had to suffer the attentions of this same fool, and she’d left when she thought she wouldn’t be able to stand it for a moment longer. But then she’d come back, and here she was, despite all the promises she’d made to herself that she would never see this place again — she was right back where she’d started from because, sadly, she’d had nowhere else to go. She could suffer the tiresome Mister Smith a li’l longer if necessary, ’cause she’d be putting out his annoying li’l fire any time now. Yes indeed, any time now.
• • •
That same poor, country, and colored woman now walked slowly through the field that she proudly called her own. Like a death bell, it called her back to this brilliant piece of place, demanding once again that she connect herself to its deadly potential. The burial ground that lay not more than fifty feet away, with its somber markings and bleak li’l squares, honorably held its near and dear, its dead and gone, in grimness and desolation. Here, however, in her own li’l meadow, murder mockingly camouflaged itself in a bed of colorful splendor. Bitter, boastful beauty cleverly charmed the unsuspecting and unknowing into its delicate and despicable clutches.
She stopped suddenly and reached for one of the more ghastly li’l wildflowers. That familiar and sinister bit of glee began to creep through her senses, kinda like one of them real good drunks from Miss Clara’s homebrew. She stroked the long, lethal stem and caressed the creepy long leaves. What joy! The fall poisons were back in bloom once again. She plucked one of the pretty li’l flowers and rubbed it against her black cheek. So beautiful. So useful. So deadly. Of course, they had died their necessary annual death; Mother Nature demanded that much of them, but like a ghost who returns to her past, so, too, these li’l blossoms returned year after year to the world of the living, ever flaunting their gruesome glory. Dried, crumbled, and consumed, just a tad could render a fully grown man sluggish and eventually unconscious. Add a bit more and that same man would fall to his knees trembling and salivating like a wild dog. Then, after suffering incredible pain and nausea, he was sure to die an agonizing death.
The tansy plants were right next to the fall poisons. They were tall, strong, and wonderfully scented. Most people saw the clusters of yellow flowers and deep dark-green leaves only as delightful decoration, but when crushed, they exuded the most aromatic of fragrances, and used correctly, they could rid a woman of an unwanted and soon-to-be-born li’l baby, or swell a man’s stomach to the point where he would sure ’nough beg to die.
She couldn’t leave without a walk to the chinaberry tree. This one was smaller than most but potent all the same. Its large leaves and purple li’l flowers made it absolutely breathtaking to behold. This one yielded the beautiful li’l fruits that begged to be tasted, but just a mere few ingested would leave you stumbling, confused, and paralyzed right before killing you slowly. She picked a handful of leaves and put them in her pocket along with the fall poisons and the tansy pieces. The poppy was looking particularly strong and plentiful, she noticed. She would need just a bit to make sure the dyin’ wasn’t too painful; she was not without mercy, after all. She would allow him those first few moments of pleasure that this plant could provide — right before she finished him off completely. She had been giving him just enough to get him addicted for quite some time now. He was hooked and didn’t even know it. Whenever she wanted to have a li’l fun, she would hold back his much-needed dose and watch him squirm. This evening she would be kind — no more squirming, just instant and glorious death.
• • •
The funeral for Mister Lonnie Smith was short, sweet, and to the point. Since he would be joining his illustrious relatives (more Southern and too-rich-for-their-own-good white folks) who had been previously laid to rest in the eternal gardens — the ones that faced the back of the house — the service was held in the main parlor. Missus Smith made an admirable display of grief, weeping just enough tears, and managing just enough moans, to convince a few, if not most, that she was truly sorry that Mister Smith was indeed gone. Maybe, just maybe, she really would miss him a bit. You got to figure that if anything’s been next to you for thirty years or more, even if it’s been no more than a pain in the neck, surely there will be some emptiness once it’s no longer there.
She was the only colored woman in the room, yet she felt completely at ease. She was impeccably dressed in a starched black uniform with a pretty white apron and an elegant li’l hat perched just so on her carefully combed head. The contrast of the white hat against her dark and shiny face made her skin seem even more deeply ebony. She knew her place, and she was good at her job, so this day was supposed to be ’bout easy as easy could be.
She balanced a large silver tray in each hand, both filled to capacity with the fancy li’l foodstuffs that for some odd reason white folks seemed to love to eat. Now, if this had been a sendoff done by her own people, there would be long tables filled with fried chicken, potato salad, collard greens, cornbread, and gallons of iced tea. People would be hugging and laughing, really enjoying the chance to catch up on each others’ lives. There would be memories, smiles, and promises to keep in touch. Sorrows from the thoughts of a loved one’s leaving this world would be quickly replaced by the realization that for Southern colored folks, anywhere had to be better than here.
As she made her way to the front of the parlor, she stole a glance at the dear departed. He didn’t look to be settin’ on hi
s high horse now, that was for sure. He looked more like what he had proved himself to be — a pitiful li’l man who deserved to pay dearly for the ruination of one perfectly good colored woman. She had growed up in the white folks’ yard, so she knew ’em better than most. You just couldn’t keep wrestlin’ with them suckers ’cause they would sho’ ’nough wear you out. Best way to stop ’em was to put ’em away. She looked at him again — an evil li’l soul cloaked in greedy, sagging flesh. Pitiful. Just pitiful. Maybe she should offer up a prayer for his wicked, wicked heart, and maybe one for hers as well. Nope, on second thought, there really wasn’t any point to that. He hadn’t been worth talkin’ to when he was here, and he certainly wasn’t worth talkin’ after now that he was gone. Her mama always said there wasn’t no sense in singin’ spirituals to an already dead mule, and her mama had never lied.
It was raining today, a sure sign that the Lord intended to wash all the traces of the deceased from the face of the Earth. Just to be sure, she would salt down the house to be certain that his tortured spirit never, ever returned to bother her. She was smart enough to know that many a maligned soul would return to the place of its untimely demise. She had taken all the necessary precautions, though, so that neither he nor anybody else for that matter would suspect her role in the passing on and finally the immobilization of one Mister Lonnie Smith. She had removed the tainted evening salad laced with the poisonous stems, seeds, and petals. She had waited until he suffered on through to his last breath, and then once she was sure he was really gone, she had called down Missus Smith, who had in turn summoned old Doc Burke. Doc Burke had done just what she’d figured he’d do. He concluded that Mister Smith’s stomach had given out, and it looked as if that “matter of time” had finally come.
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