video rentals, gas station, furniture, convenience store.
He was a good man, Hetty said again, after we had left Mr. Bowen and the furniture factory. She had gone to him when she wanted $5,000 for her house. He had spoken that same day to the bank, and a loan had been arranged, and all that the bank had required as security was Hetty’s car and some other small thing. And Mr. Bowen was a religious man, Hetty said. He had given land for the black cemetery. She had a family plot there, with carved headstones.
We drove through suburban woodland to the cemetery. We drove up almost to the headstones. Hetty wanted us to see them, but she didn’t encourage us to get out of the car. We stayed in the car and looked for a while. It was a small cemetery, not set apart by a fence or any kind of planting. Now, with all the spring growth, it was like part of the woodland.
One of the headstones was of Hetty’s father. When we were back in the house she told us something about him. He was a smart man; there had always been a lot of food in the house because of him. He worked on a farm for a white man—and I was beginning to understand how necessary it was for Hetty to define people in the way she did. The white man took no interest in his farm. Hetty’s father did it all for him, the selling of the produce and everything. Now the farmhouse—where Hetty’s father had lived and died—had deteriorated. It was still owned by the white family, but they didn’t want to sell; they wanted to keep it for the memory.
Where did this father of Hetty’s come from? He had died in 1961. Had he perhaps been born around 1900? In 1894, Howard said. That was the year on the headstone in the black cemetery, on the land given by Mr. Bowen. And the story of the father was vague. He had been orphaned; he had run away from a difficult uncle and had found a job on the railroad and had then fetched up here, sharecropping for Mr. Smith, the white man, and ending successfully, being one of the first black men in the area to own a car. It was not possible to get moreabout this father, to push back further into time. Beyond that was vagueness, and the gloom Hetty’s sister and the sister’s son, and perhaps all black people, had had too much of.
Later, after a nap—Jimmy in one of the bedrooms of Hetty’s house, I in another—and after tea, we went out for a drive. Hetty knew the land well; she knew who owned what. It was like a chant from her, as we drove.
“Black people there, black people there, white people there. Black people, black people, white people, black people. All this side black people, all this side white people. White people, white people, black people, white people.”
Sometimes she said, “Black people used to own this land.” She didn’t like that—that black people had lost land because they had been slack or because of family disputes. But blacks and whites appeared here to live quite close to one another, and Hetty herself had no racial complaints. White people had been good to her, she said. But then she said that that might have been only because she liked people.
It was a landscape of small ruins. Houses and farmhouses and tobacco barns had simply been abandoned. The decay of each was individual, and they were all beautiful in the afternoon light. Some farmhouses had very wide eaves, going down low, the corrugated iron that once provided shelter now like a too-heavy weight, the corrugated-iron sheets sagging, fanning out in places.
We went to see the house, now abandoned, where Hetty’s father had lived when he had sharecropped for Mr. Smith. Bush grew right up against the open house. The pecan trees, still almost bare, just a few leaves now, were tall above the house and the tobacco barns. The colors were gray (tree trunks and weathered timber) and red (rusted corrugated iron) and green and the straw-gold of reeds. As we stood there Hetty told us of the death of her father in that house; the event was still vivid to
He was a good man, Hetty said again, after we had left Mr. Bowen and the furniture factory. She had gone to him when she wanted $5,000 for her house. He had spoken that same day to the bank, and a loan had been arranged, and all that the bank had required as security was Hetty’s car and some other small thing. And Mr. Bowen was a religious man, Hetty said. He had given land for the black cemetery. She had a family plot there, with carved headstones.
We drove through suburban woodland to the cemetery. We drove up almost to the headstones. Hetty wanted us to see them, but she didn’t encourage us to get out of the car. We stayed in the car and looked for a while. It was a small cemetery, not set apart by a fence or any kind of planting. Now, with all the spring growth, it was like part of the woodland.
One of the headstones was of Hetty’s father. When we were back in the house she told us something about him. He was a smart man; there had always been a lot of food in the house because of him. He worked on a farm for a white man—and I was beginning to understand how necessary it was for Hetty to define people in the way she did. The white man took no interest in his farm. Hetty’s father did it all for him, the selling of the produce and everything. Now the farmhouse—where Hetty’s father had lived and died—had deteriorated. It was still owned by the white family, but they didn’t want to sell; they wanted to keep it for the memory.
Where did this father of Hetty’s come from? He had died in 1961. Had he perhaps been born around 1900? In 1894, Howard said. That was the year on the headstone in the black cemetery, on the land given by Mr. Bowen. And the story of the father was vague. He had been orphaned; he had run away from a difficult uncle and had found a job on the railroad and had then fetched up here, sharecropping for Mr. Smith, the white man, and ending successfully, being one of the first black men in the area to own a car. It was not possible to get moreabout this father, to push back further into time. Beyond that was vagueness, and the gloom Hetty’s sister and the sister’s son, and perhaps all black people, had had too much of.
Later, after a nap—Jimmy in one of the bedrooms of Hetty’s house, I in another—and after tea, we went out for a drive. Hetty knew the land well; she knew who owned what. It was like a chant from her, as we drove.
“Black people there, black people there, white people there. Black people, black people, white people, black people. All this side black people, all this side white people. White people, white people, black people, white people.”
Sometimes she said, “Black people used to own this land.” She didn’t like that—that black people had lost land because they had been slack or because of family disputes. But blacks and whites appeared here to live quite close to one another, and Hetty herself had no racial complaints. White people had been good to her, she said. But then she said that that might have been only because she liked people.
It was a landscape of small ruins. Houses and farmhouses and tobacco barns had simply been abandoned. The decay of each was individual, and they were all beautiful in the afternoon light. Some farmhouses had very wide eaves, going down low, the corrugated iron that once provided shelter now like a too-heavy weight, the corrugated-iron sheets sagging, fanning out in places.
We went to see the house, now abandoned, where Hetty’s father had lived when he had sharecropped for Mr. Smith. Bush grew right up against the open house. The pecan trees, still almost bare, just a few leaves now, were tall above the house and the tobacco barns. The colors were gray (tree trunks and weathered timber) and red (rusted corrugated iron) and green and the straw-gold of reeds. As we stood there Hetty told us of the death of her father in that house; the event was still vivid to
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