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    McKinley's Ghost & The Little Tin Truck
    McKinley's Ghost & The Little Tin Truck
    McKinley's Ghost & The Little Tin Truck
    Ebook587 pages8 hours

    McKinley's Ghost & The Little Tin Truck

    By Anthony M. Graziano

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    About this ebook

    McKinley's Ghost & the Little Tin Truck tells the story of the Millers, a fictional family struggling among the real events of the early 20th century: the end of the Progressive Era, The Great War and influenza pandemic, prohibition, voting rights for women, the conservative take-over, the Red Scare, xenophobic hatred of immigrants and other "inferiors," lynching and race riots, union-busting, the elevation of "business" in government and the resulting unparalleled corruption, a wild stock market, spiraling income disparity, the Great Depression, national despair and the seeds of the next world war.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherGuernica Editions Inc
    Release dateAug 1, 2016
    ISBN9781771831390
    McKinley's Ghost & The Little Tin Truck

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      McKinley's Ghost & The Little Tin Truck - Anthony M. Graziano

      ESSENTIAL PROSE SERIES 127

      This book is dedicated to my friend and neighbor Larry Ranney,

      former Sergeant, U. S. Army and Viet Nam Veteran;

      and to all of our military veterans who have given

      so much but have too often been forgotten;

      to Miss Helen Powell, Nyack Librarian from 1890 to 1950.

      In the 1940s this genteel lady welcomed a scruffy little boy

      into her library and generously nourished my love of reading;

      and to the late Dr. Adeline Levine for her unflagging encouragement and deep friendship for so many years.

      AUTHOR’S NOTE

      The Millers are a fictional family struggling among the real events of the early 20th century: the end of the Progressive Era, The Great War and influenza pandemic, prohibition, voting rights for women, the conservative take-over, the Red Scare, xenophobic hatred of immigrants and other inferiors, lynching and race riots, union-busting, the elevation of business in government and the resulting unparalleled corruption, a wild stock market, spiraling income disparity, the Great Depression, national despair and the seeds of the next world war.

      This is not an objective account of history. My version of how those events may have affected families has been influenced by my values, biases, understandings and misunderstandings, and I have editorialized freely as I tell this story.

      Nor is this a happy tale. Despite the common view of the Roaring Twenties as an extended party of gin, jazz, emancipated women, new millionaires and high living, they were not happy times for most people.

      Among those who were battered in this complicated era were tens of thousands of the four million U.S. veterans of The Great War. They served honorably, sacrificed, returned home and were dismissed by an ungrateful government that was owned by men who cared little for anyone but themselves and who told the veterans they were of no further use.

      In the 1920s those self-serving leaders led millions of families like the Millers into national disaster. Today our leaders have revived those failed certainties of the Twenties, are making the same mistakes and are again driving us into peril. As a poignant old song asks: When will they ever learn?¹

      And how do McKinley’s ghost and a little tin truck fit into the Millers’ lives? History writes mysterious tales and a ghost and a tin truck do indeed, each in its own way, haunt the people in this story.

      Notes

      The song, Where Have All the Flowers Gone? was composed by Pete Seeger in 1955, based on earlier literature and an Eastern European folk song. Other artists added verses to Seeger’s composition and in the 1970s it became one of the most popular songs of all time.

      ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

      I am grateful to many who have in various ways contributed to this work. Dr. Mark Kristal, Professor of Psychology and Neuroscience, The State University of New York at Buffalo, reviewed early drafts of the material on Darwinian Evolutionary theory and 19th century biology. Miss Helen Powell, Nyack Librarian, long ago helped to guide my youthful exploration of the world of books. I thank Dr. Fred Esposito for his sustaining friendship and encouragement for nearly 60 years. Professors Burton Altman and Kent Koppelman read my earlier work and, generously sharing their own ideas, helped me to define this book. I thank Dr. Michael Raulin, friend, colleague and co-author who, over many years, shared the toils of writing our textbooks, and Michael Mirolla, author, editor and publisher for his support and guidance through this publication process. But, mostly, I thank Sheila for her years of love and patience.

      ABOUT THE AUTHOR

      Anthony M. Graziano, Professor Emeritus, the State University of New York at Buffalo, has authored 19 books and 50 journal articles on child mental health and research methodology and numerous magazine and newspaper articles. In McKinley’s Ghost and the Little Tin Truck, and his recent La Bell’America (America the Beautiful), he has pursued his interest in family and historical themes.

      CONTENTS

      Author’s Note

      Acknowledgments

      About the Author

      PART ONE: SAMUEL

      Chapter 1: Here There Be Ghosts

      2008: December

      1906: Henry, Benjamin and Samue

      Chapter 2: Grandma’s Visitors

      1906: Science and Philosophy for Everyone

      1907: Grandma Goes to School

      1907: The Beast on the Porch

      Chapter 3: The New World of the Well-Born

      1908: Eugenics and the Poor

      1908: Professor Ruedegger’s Proposal—Intelligent Selection

      1909: Erik DeVroos’ Great Plan

      1909: Dr. Wharton and His Beautiful Green Cadillac

      1910: Eugenics Takes Hold: A Look at the Future

      Chapter 4: Of Maple Trees and Model T’s

      1910: The Model T

      1912: Theodore Roosevelt and Woodrow Wilson

      1912: McKinley’s Ghost

      1914: The Archduke and the Commoner

      1915: Captain Turner’s Lusitania

      Chapter 5: Family Plans

      1915: Grandma’s Chickens

      1915: Who’s Leadin’ Who?

      1915: Sarah

      1916: Leonard’s Fancy Sign

      1916: Samuel—The Rich Folks’ Show-Fer

      1916: Doc Hartwick Takes an Interest

      1916: No Great Risk

      Chapter 6: Looking Back and All’s Well

      1830s: The Twenty-Minute War and the Republic of Texas

      1850s: Great Grandpa Zachary and Jonny Hayes—Sittin’, Spittin’, an’ Whittlin’

      1890–1915: Kaiser Wilhelm’s Mexican Adventures

      1916: All’s Well on the Farm

      1916: The Battle of Jutland and Black Tom

      1917: President Wilson’s Second Term—Race, War and the Zimmerman Telegram

      Chapter 7: The Great War

      1917: The Wedding

      1918: Leonard and the Great War

      1918: Samuel and the Great War

      1918: The Eleventh Hour

      1919–1920: Camp Funston Revisited

      Chapter 8: The Vigil

      PART TWO: LEONARD

      Chapter 9: Coming Home

      1919: Put It All Behind You!

      1919: The Millers’ New Partner

      1920: The Auction

      Chapter 10: The Promise

      1917: The Progressives

      1917: The Bolsheviks Are Coming!

      1919–1920: Decline of the Great Peacemaker

      1920: The Election and A Return to Normalcy

      1920: Sarah’s Warning

      Chapter 11: A Tea Party at the White House

      1920: A Country Transformed

      1921: Taking a Rest

      Chapter 12: Rosie’s Pink Ribbon

      1923: Little Jamie MacKenzie

      1923: Bobby Billies

      1923: The Hotel

      Chapter 13: Leonard Meets the Kleagle

      1920s: A Time for Hate

      1925: Rosie’s Midnight Dash

      PART THREE: RICHIE

      Chapter 14: The Final Triumph over Poverty

      1920–1925: The Veterans’ Bonus Bill

      1925: Micah and the Money Pump

      1926: A Cow Named Richard

      1928: The Paper Mountain

      Chapter 15: The Surprise

      1929: The Unstoppable Stops

      1931: The Mortgage

      February 1932: Ben’s Furniture Shop

      Chapter 16: The Ford Plant Massacre

      March 1932: Four Good Men Lie Dead

      May 1932: The New Bonus Bill

      June 1932: Our Journey Begins

      Chapter 17: Welcome to Anacostia

      June 13, 1932: Collapsing in the Wind, Dissolving in the Rain

      June 17, 1932: A Dark Day Ain’t Never No Good!

      June 25, 1932: Disintegration

      Early July 1932: An Extraordinary Fact

      Chapter 18: Children of the Mud Flats

      June 1932: The June March, the July Disaster

      July 14, 1932: The Vice President Takes Action

      July 14, 1932: The Meeting415

      Chapter 19: A Race against Time and Calamity

      Mid-July 1932: The Evacuation

      Monday, July 25: Lucy

      Chapter 20: The General Takes Command

      Wednesday, July 27: The President’s Orders

      Thursday Morning, July 28: Trouble on Pennsylvania Avenue

      Thursday Afternoon, July 28: The President’s Excuse

      Thursday Afternoon, July 28: Assault on Pennsylvania Avenue

      Thursday Afternoon, July 28: The General’s Insubordination

      Thursday Night, July 28: The Final Phase—Anacostia Burning

      Chapter 21: Epilogue

      Early August 1932: Mopping Up

      December 2008

      References

      PART ONE

      SAMUEL

      CHAPTER 1

      Here There Be Ghosts

      2008: December

      It is a snowy evening, the world is softly white, but the darkness creeps in. I am 85; I feel my time slipping by and I hurry to tell you this story of my family. It begins on our farm not long before the Great War of 1914–1918, then journeys to Washington in 1932 and ends here, tonight, so many decades later.

      In 1922 I was a squawking, red-faced little creature that Ma, with Grandma’s help, pushed into the world. I blended with the farmyard noises, just another bawling springtime newcomer—four new calves, 15 piglets and me—and Grandma said she never could tell which of us squawked the loudest.

      That was four years after the Great War and the horrors of the influenza epidemic. War an’ pestilence, Grandma called them, and those things happened before my time. As I was growing up, Grandpa Richard taught me that lots of things happened before my time, good an’ bad, an’ middlin’ things, too, an’ they don’t end jus’ ‘cause new ones come along. Grandpa told me about his world before Pa’s, and Pa’s before mine. One world after another, he said. Marchin’ along, jus’ keep on comin’, don’t never stop.

      I pictured all those worlds, people and things, motion and sound, like the Fourth of July parade goin’ by on Main Street down in Nyack. That’s a lot of worlds, Grandpa, I said. Don’t they get all jumbled up all over each other?

      Grandpa Richard smiled, pleased because I seemed to understand his point, but I’m not sure that I did. Maybe I was just lucky.

      They sure do, he said. Them worlds all stumble one into the other ‘cause they’re not so different as we like to think they are. Every new generation’s got its own world an’ thinks it’s newer an’ different an’ better’n the last one. But, it ain’t, really.

      No? I asked.

      No, Grandpa explained. Some bits an’ pieces might be different—like that new radio box your Pa bought—an’ some things might be worse; but mostly the same ol’ things keep on goin’. Spring follows winter, families grow, people come an’ people go, an’ everythin’ else is jus’ frostin’, like on them fancy birthday cakes Grandma makes for you an’ your sister. Nothin’ ends, m’boy, it all keeps on goin’ an’ there ain’t much new under the sun. Mebbe a few interestin’ wrinkles here an’ there, but most of ‘em don’t amount to no more’n a hill o’ beans.

      But Grandpa, I asked, picturing a pile of beans as big as Cedar Hill where we go sledding in the winter. A whole hill o’ beans? Sounds like a lot to me.

      Well, it ain’t, Grandpa chuckled. Look here, he said, poking his palm with a forefinger. A good farmer plants his beans in even rows, right?

      Right, I said, standing straighter, nodding, one farmer to another.

      An’ when you pull that planter along it pokes down an’ makes little holes an’ drops in three seeds, right?

      Yep, I agreed, trying to sound like Grandpa and picturing the planter pulled by our old tractor, stabbing the soil with each turn of the wheels, dropping its seeds like a dragonfly dipping her eggs in the pond. Of course that momma dragonfly goes zigzagging all over the water, but the planter makes neat rows as straight or curved as you want, depending on the lay of the land and how good a tractor driver you are.

      When it pulls up outta the soil, Grandpa continued, it leaves a little hill with them seeds in there, all covered up, nice an’ warm.

      And that’s a hill o’ beans, Grandpa? Jus’ a little hill? With only three beans?

      Yep. That’s all it is. Right then it don’t seem like it amounts to much; don’t even come to the top of your shoe. But one of them little seeds is gonna bust open an’ grow an’ b’fore long we’ll be pickin’ a bushel o’ fat beans off it.

      That was a lot of talking for Grandpa, who often put two meanings in each sentence—a kind of economy, I think—so he wouldn’t have to talk so much. One meaning was usually clear, like talking about how the planter works. But the other was sort of hidden and you had to think about it. It was a game we played. Sometimes I’d catch on pretty quick, but sometimes not. He looked at me, waiting to see if I could do it. This time I did.

      So, I said, deciding that he was talking about more than just beans. Maybe somethin’ looks like it don’t amount to much at first, but it’s gonna grow to be somethin’ important? Right, Grandpa? Maybe like kids do? Like me, maybe, when I’m all grown up? I’ll be important?

      Yep, Grandpa said. That’s it. But jes’ remember, right now little as you are an’ still wet behind the ears, you’re about as important to us as any thin’ can possibly be.

      But, Grandpa, my ears ain’t wet, I protested, rubbing my fingers behind them to check it out. See? I held out my fingers.

      Grandpa chuckled. Yes they are m’boy, only you don’t know it yet.

      While growing up in the 1920s I was Richie, named after Grandpa Richard. I don’t know when time sneaked up but all of a sudden I was Richard, just like Grandpa. I liked that, being grown up and all. Back when I was still Richie we lived on my Pa’s farm. Pa was Leonard Miller. Before that it was Grandpa Richard’s farm and before that, Great Grandpa Zachary’s. I never met Great Grandpa Zachary. He was born in 1838, when Abraham Lincoln was still a young man.

      Great Grandpa joined the Union army in the Civil War, and I always knew that Great Grandpa Zachary and President Lincoln had a lot in common. My family spoke reverently of both of them being tall, strong, wise and honest men. What more could one want in a great president or a great grandpa? When I was little I thought maybe Great Grandpa Zachary and President Lincoln were the same person, not understanding that the president was nearly 30 years older than Great Grandpa Zachary. Later on I figured they must have at least been brothers. Eventually I sorted it out, but even now whenever I think of one the other shows up.

      Sadly, Great Grandpa Zachary died before I came along. I asked Ma why he hadn’t waited for me; it would have been just one more springtime to wait, that’s all.

      Well, his time had come, Ma said, mysteriously. And we don’t usually get to pick our time.

      Never meeting him left a hollow place in my life, and every once in a while I’d catch myself trying to fill it, turning up a worrisome suspicion that maybe Great Grandpa had skipped out on me. But that never got in the way of my knowing him because, as Grandpa Richard said, nothin’ ends, so Great Grandpa Zachary never really did go away.

      I’ve always had a reverence for history but did no serious studying until many years later. Like most Americans I was ignorant about schoolbook history. But, I was curious about those worlds that I glimpsed in Grandpa’s stories and in the family’s old brown photographs of stiff, serious people in stiff, serious clothes. In some they looked worn-out, wrinkled, dusty—like their baggy work clothes. In others they were dressed up, crisp, starched. The man sat in a fancy chair with a high-crowned hat in his lap and the lady stood behind him, one hand on his shoulder just so you’d know that she had a claim on him. I thought the different pictures showed different people, some worn out like they needed a rest; others dressed up, maybe ready to go to church. But I learned they were the same people, just doing different things—working hard in some pictures, sitting for the camera in others. None ever smiled or looked relaxed, even when sitting down, but seemed always to be thinking something that was too serious to smile about. Those pictures and Grandpa Richard’s stories were my introduction to history and I sort of grew up with that, not knowing that I was getting an appreciation for long-ago things.

      Whenever I kicked up a clod in a field, I thought that Great Grandpa Zachary, back in President Lincoln’s time, had plowed up this very same bit of earth. He was a giant of a man, a head taller than most, could handle a four-mule team with one hand and had dug out and carried every one of those heavy stones across the fields and set them down one by one in long double-rowed boundary lines. When I grew big enough to help Pa fix those boundaries where they had been heaved around by winter’s mischief, I imagined that I could feel the warmth of Great Grandpa Zachary’s strong hands still on those heavy stones.

      But I’m getting ahead of my story, so I better go back and find a good place to start, like 1906, which was 16 years before I came along. I know lots of things from before my time because plenty of people told me about them—like that chilly morning at the labor call where Samuel came from.

      1906: Henry, Benjamin and Samuel

      In 1906 my grandpas hired two Colored farm hands, Henry and Benjamin, brothers from the South. Colored was the word used in those days, a good word that held no disrespect the way some words did.¹ Henry’s eight-year-old son, Samuel, a skinny kid with a big smile, curiosity about everything, shiny black skin like wet coal and a disturbing tendency to speak his mind, came with them—an uncle and a father working to stay together and raise their young boy whose mother had died years ago. They had worked northward from Mississippi, following the harvests. Each season saw them no better off and they could only keep on working and moving, a bit farther north. Mebbe, they thought, that jes’ might be a good thing.

      By September the tomato picking in New Jersey was over and they were moving in search of the next harvest—pears and apples at this time of year. Samuel was shor happy we be movin’ on ‘cuz ahm gettin’ tired of pickin’ tomatoes all the time, Pa. An’ I hopes I don’ pick another tomato all the rest of my life an’ I don’ want to see another o’ them big ugly tomato horn worms pokin’ up outta the leaves ‘n lookin’ at me, neither!

      But son, Henry answered, patiently as usual. Now we gonna pick pears ‘n apples. What you gonna do, stop eatin’ anythin’ you pick off’n a tree or a bush ‘cuz you tired of ‘em? ‘Cuz you scairt of a little ol’ worm? He wiggled his finger like a worm poking up out of the leaves to look at Samuel. Pretty soon, boy, you keep that up an’ you ain’t gonna have nothin’ to eat at all! Mebbe we gonna hafta’ feed you mush ever’ day!

      Grits be good, Pa, the boy said, getting into the joke. They smiled at that.

      Neither Henry nor Benjamin, field hands all their lives, could read, never having gone to school, but they were hardworking, even dignified men. Henry, at 40, was the younger man by four years and did most of the talking for the family. Both men were tall and muscular with heavy shoulders and arms. But they seemed smaller, walking with a subservient, head-down slouch that took inches off their height, leaving them always looking up to most other men. They spoke in a slow southern drawl burdened by hesitancy from years of respectful behavior. But there was much more to Henry and Benjamin—intelligence, humor, gentleness, pride, honor—all of it kept safely hidden behind the Colored man’s mask needed for survival down South.

      On a cool September morning in 1906 they stood with 20 other Colored men at a labor call in Nyack where farmers came to inspect them, select day laborers, load them onto wagons and head for the fields and orchards.

      In the early dawn fog this dreary yard—its floor of clay so hard-packed that the scuffling feet of weary men could not even raise a respectable bit of dust—was filled with tired Black men waiting to be inspected by White strangers. To Henry, and especially to Benjamin, it was a disturbing place of dark history.

      Here there be ghosts, Henry thought, looking around, glimpsing mournful wraiths sliding silently among the men. He was ashamed to have brought his boy here to this troubling place to shuffle around with the other poor, disheveled Colored men hoping to be granted a day’s work by the White Boss. In his mind the dreary scene shifted to scenes their father—a slave freed by the great Abraham Lincoln—had described of Louisiana and Mississippi where African men—wrists bound with rope, legs in chains—were sold to the highest bidders. Sold! Like terrified livestock. In 1906, Henry and Benjamin were free men and citizens equal by law to anyone else, but they still felt much of the degradation their father had known long ago, before his rescue by President Lincoln.

      Benjamin was closest to that darkness, never far from the shadow of having been born a slave in 1865, just before slavery was abolished. Their father, born in Africa, had been hunted, whipped, chained, shipped to Louisiana and sold. Benjamin started life as a slave. The 13th Amendment set him free but, being an infant, Benjamin could not appreciate that.² Later in Mississippi, the legalities of his life seemed so far removed from its realities, slave or not, free or not, that the law made no difference. Like his father, he had been granted his freedom, citizenship and right to vote by President Lincoln. He knew nothing about the constitutional amendments and years of legal battles. And, although those rights of citizenship and voting were legally theirs, no one in their family had ever been allowed to vote in Mississippi. Nor was it any different as they moved northward—their transient status allowed them no access to Northern voting booths. Neither man had ever voted or been involved in public policy wherever they lived. They were men, but incomplete, voiceless, of no political importance and they always felt the dark necessity of knowing their place among the White men, like those farmers who were now inspecting them.

      Lord, iffn I feels this way now, Benjamin thought, how bad them African men feel years ago? He knew this was no slave market. But, he shook his head, it shor do feel like it.

      Henry said nothing about his feelings or the scene that had shifted back to that distressing time. He looked at his brother and son and at the other Colored men and wondered if they, too, felt that chilling history blowing like a cold wind through the group.

      I be the only one sees them ghosts? he wondered. Benjamin had seen them too, but saying so would stamp the dismal scene as more real than they wanted it to be, so neither brother said anything.

      Three men had been looking at them, talking. Henry recognized Mr. Bogard, the field boss they had just finished working for on the New Jersey tomato farms.

      Whut he doin’ here? Henry wondered. He don’t need no job.

      One of the men, a big man, older, a farmer with huge, callous-hardened hands, said something to Bogard, nodded, and then walked toward them. Henry put his arm around his son’s shoulder and pulled him closer.

      Name’s Miller, the man said. We ain’t lookin’ for jus’ day labor. We need two good farm hands, all year, permanent. That field boss over there, Bogard, he says you both work real good. Said some good things. Said you men know farmin’. That right?

      Yessir, Henry answered, surprised, quickly straightening up, sharply aware that this Mr. Miller had called them men and not boys. Standing tall and looking straight into Great Grandpa Zachary’s eyes, Henry said, That’s what we does, Mist’ Miller, farmin’, ‘en we be real good at it, jes’ like Mist’ Bogard, he say.

      Pay’s the same as any man gets, White or Colored, Great Grandpa Zachary said, and three meals a day, same food my family eats, if you want. Or you can get up your own food if you like. If you got no women you’re welcome to live in the bunkhouse we got on the farm, no rent. It ain’t much, you can fix it up any ways you want. We’ll help you with that. We can try you out for a while. If you work good and stay a whole year you each get a five dollar bonus at the end.³ I don’t know about this young fella’ you got here. Great Grandpa looked at Samuel. We ain’t gonna pay him the same as a man. But we can work somethin’ out. You men interested?

      Henry was surprised. They had never before been offered work as individuals or for a long term, only as seasonal field hands in a gang of anonymous Colored men. Neither had they ever been consulted, given information about work and asked if they wanted to be part of it. Something felt good, here. It was not equality—he knew the social distance was too great for that—but Henry began to feel a touch of respect coming from this White man, and that was so unusual that he almost missed it. White bosses did not approach field hands in this way, and Henry was not sure what it meant to be singled out and invited to work. It seemed an honest offer, but this would be a tough decision. Accepting would mean leaving the men they had been traveling with and living somewhere on a farm, isolated in a White world among White strangers. But the weather would soon turn cold, making travel uncomfortable. This farmer seemed to offer some safety and permanence. That would be nice, Henry thought, still feeling that tingle of respect from this Mr. Miller, and he found himself standing straight, tall, his head up.

      But, then, maybe he was wrong, maybe he had misread the man. Maybe it sounded too good to be true. What should he do? He looked at his son, then at his brother, silently asking for their opinion. Benjamin, always quiet, had seen and felt the same thing from this farmer. He nodded and Henry understood from their years of silent communication that it was a clear yes!

      Henry made his decision and said what would, for good or ill, change their lives. Yessir, Mist’ Miller, we be int’r’sted. I’se Henry, this be m’brother, Benjamin, an’ this here’s m’boy, Samuel. He work near as good as most growed men. En iffn you likes the way we works your farm ‘en we likes the way you runs your farm, then we shor kin work it out, jes’ like you says.

      And they did.

      Henry’s family was part of an 80-year migration of Southern Blacks to the North, 1.5 million by 1930, escaping from Jim Crow.⁴ Byrne Hendricks, a neighboring farmer, tried to stir up trouble when he saw our new hands. I got nothin’ against usin’ Nigra field hands, Hendricks said. Plenty o’ farmers got ‘em workin’ a few weeks an’ then movin’ on. But what I can’t abide is you payin’ them Nigras same as a White man an’ lettin’ them live on your farm, in their own house like they was neighbors, thinkin’ they’re jes’ as good as us. That ain’t right, Zachary, he said, getting angrier. And you hadn’t otta be doin’ that ‘roun here!

      I guess our neighbor figured we were breaking some kind of rule that decent folk understood. I don’t want to suggest that my family back in 1906 was so virtuous and ahead of everybody else that they welcomed Coloreds as social equals. They were not blind to social realities and they knew that racial equality was not an American tradition. But they were decent people and it was Great Grandpa Zachary who set the family’s tone. He was neither religious nor educated and I don’t know how he came to his powerful opposition to slavery, having been born a quarter century before the Civil War and raised in a country where half of the states thrived on slave labor. Great Grandpa believed that slavery was the most damnable of human depravities, and in 1861 he joined President Lincoln’s crusade, as Zachary called it, to fight this abomination.

      For Zachary the war was not about loyalty to the Union or preventing the South from seceding. It was all about the inhumanity of slavery, about freeing a whole race o’ people from the most degraded human condition he could imagine—being owned by someone else. When the war was over his convictions remained. People, all people, he said, gotta be free to live their own lives.

      In 1906 my two grandpas stood at this labor call where men who had never had much of a chance shuffled around, waiting for a nod from the White man. They were not his equals, Zachary knew. They would be farm hands and he their boss. But he knew that if you want good, honest work from men, then you gotta treat ‘em like good, honest men. It was as simple as that for Zachary and he taught that to his son, Richard, his grandson, Leonard (my Pa) and it passed on down, right to me and my sister.

      Ol’ man Hendricks’ comments made my Grandpa Richard mad. He wasn’t a big man like Great Grandpa Zachary, but when riled up he sort of expanded and you’d better step back. He never raised his voice but became eye-narrowing quiet, and that made him pretty scary if you were on the wrong side of him.

      They’re good men, Grandpa Richard told Hendricks, poking him hard in the chest. Even the young lad, Samuel. They work good an’ they work hard an’ we can trust ‘em aroun’ our place an’ that’s good enough for me. You don’t like it, Hendricks, that’s your problem. Ain’t none of your business who we hire. So go stick your nose up someplace else, if you get my meanin’.

      Hendricks was insulted by Grandpa Richard’s hard, narrow-eyed answer and he didn’t like being poked in the chest and told where to go stick his nose. Being a big man, bigger than Grandpa Richard, he was not alarmed at the physical display. But his dignity had been scorched, and to save some of that he turned to Great Grandpa Zachary and appealed to him for support. Zachary, he said. You oughtta have a talk with your boy, here. Set him straight ‘bout these here Nigras.

      But Great Grandpa, who had known how his son would respond said, Well, I’ll tell ya’, Byrne, Richard’s right by me. They’re people, same’s me an’ you—mebbe better in some ways. An’ it ain’t none of nobody’s business what we do on our farm. Jus’ like it ain’t none o’ our business what you do on yours. That sounds about right, don’t it?

      The mule wagon with my two Grandpas riding up front and the new farm hands and their youngster in back pulled into the farm with its usual clatter and bang and kicked-up dust. Grandma looked out her window, wiped her hands on her apron, marched onto the porch and took over. She collared both Grandpas and they told her about hiring the new hands and letting them live in the bunkhouse. Grandma looked at the tired men and skinny youngster who stared around at his new home. If she was surprised that they were Colored she didn’t show it. But Grandma did not like their clothes, so ragged she’d be ashamed even to throw them in the trash lest some neighbor see them and think maybe they had belonged to her family. And the shoes that child wore—so flapping and broken he was sure to kill himself trying to walk!

      Grandma shook a finger at the three of them and said, "If you’re gonna live here you’re gonna live decent and those ol’ clothes aren’t fit to wear and that ol’ shack’s not a decent place to live. So, the first thing you’re gonna do is fix it up. That roof leaks. The cold weather’s comin’, and it has neither stove nor fireplace and the front window is nothin’ but an empty hole in the wall, so get some glass in there! And the walls need chinkin’⁵ or the night winds will blow you right outta your beds. And the whole place needs a good cleanin’.

      Now I’m gonna get up some biscuits for your breakfast, Grandma continued, looking at Henry. Lord knows you all look like you’ve not had any food today, and when I holler you send that child to fetch them and then you can set out on your step to eat. Now go on, all of you. Start getting that place cleaned out and then we’ll see about gettin’ you decent clothes. You boys, too, she pointed at her son, Leonard, and at Samuel, who had been silently staring at each other. Go on, get working!" Grandma flapped her hands at them—she was through talking and now it was time to get to work.

      While Henry, Benjamin and Samuel went to inspect the bunk house, Leonard escaped up the apple tree and perched there, watching what was going on.

      Samuel had been insulted being called a child. Ahm eight years ol’, he grumbled to himself, his brow furrowed and lips pursed in irritation. Ain’t no chile. Ain’t no baby!

      Ordinarily Samuel would have spoken up to defend himself, a trait that his father worried would get him into a lot of trouble with the White folks down in Mississippi. How his young son had become so doggoned independent was a mystery. White folks called it uppity and did not take kindly to it. Henry and Benjamin had explained it a million times, warning him, coaching him how to behave with White folks, but the boy was stubborn. And Samuel got away with it, maybe because he was young or never aggressive or sullen when he stood up for himself. Maybe it was his big smile that made even the White folk smile back. Samuel could get along with anybody. But one thing he never did was show the deadly subservience of the older generation. It was not that he had thought it all out—it was just the way he was.

      But listening to this formidable White lady standing up on that porch and giving everybody orders, he had hesitated about speaking up and correcting her. Mebbe I ain’t gonna say nothin’ right now, he decided. But first chance I gets I gonna tell her I ain’t no chile. An’ that’s fer sure!

      Later, Grandma called Samuel to come get the biscuits. Now I gonna ‘splain to her, Samuel thought, as he walked over, shoulders squared and chest out, determined to set this lady straight. But when he saw her up there on the porch, looking down at him with her arms crossed and a long, wicked-looking wooden spoon in her fist, Samuel faltered and stopped at the bottom step. Grandma stood up there and looked him over for the longest time, head-to-toe and side-to-side, saying nothing, and that made him pretty nervous.

      She a real tough lady, he decided. Ain’t nobody to fool wif. Must be the boss o’ this here farm.

      Samuel realized that he was a bit afraid of her, a new sensation for him. His tongue felt all knotted up between his teeth like swamp boats tied to poles and he couldn’t talk, couldn’t tell her I ain’t no chile! So he just looked down at the ground and kept quiet. Seemed safer that way.

      Here, she said, finally, handing him a pair of shoes that Leonard had outgrown. Leonard, still hiding in the apple tree, was not pleased to see his Ma giving away his old shoes to this amazingly black-skinned kid who had without warning invaded his farm.

      Put them on so’s we can see if they fit, Grandma ordered Samuel.

      They were not the finest shoes, having been worn and scuffed up by Leonard. But he had outgrown them before they wore out, so they were in pretty good shape and a great improvement over the disreputable pair that had been flapping around Samuel’s feet. They look a tad big, Grandma said. You’ll soon grow into ‘em. How they feel?

      Samuel had kept his eyes down, not sure how to act in the presence of this intimidating White lady. But he was so surprised and pleased by her unexpected gift that he looked up at her with wide eyes and caught a glimmer of kindness in that tough lady’s face. And Grandma saw in the youngster a bit of the sparkle that would define Samuel all the years he would live on our farm.

      Grandma instantly liked this youngster but, being Grandma, didn’t alter her stern expression. Her approach to children was straightforward and firm; she made sure you knew right off that she was the boss and you were just a little squirt who did what you were told. When you understood that, then she’d let you see a gentler Grandma. But right now she was still in her settin’ it straight phase with Samuel, so the scary, stern look stayed in place.

      Go on now, take these biscuits and have them while they’re hot, she ordered.

      She watched Samuel run to his father, carrying the basket, proudly wearing his new shoes and no longer limping and tripping. The old shoes lay discarded in the dust near the porch steps. Halfway there he stopped and looked back at Grandma. She was still on the porch, watching him, stern-faced, arms crossed, holding that doggoned giant wooden spoon. Puzzled, Samuel looked down at his new shoes and up at Grandma. Then, finally understanding something he grinned—a big, warm, thank you grin that said: I think I knows you now, Miz Miller, even with that big ol’ spoon you got.

      Grandma smiled, couldn’t help it, liking what she was seeing in this youngster and feeling sad for him because, as Grandpa Richard had told her, the boy’s Ma had died long ago. Grandma knew that he surely needed some good mothering but also knew she could not take a Colored boy to live in the house with her family. She was a good, kindly woman, had a genuine concern for Samuel and felt responsibility to fill in some of the good mothering that he had missed. But even though she was above many of the common prejudices of her day she was not completely immune to them. He’s better off livin’ with his own kind, she thought. His Pa and Uncle, they seem like good folk. I guess we’ll soon find out. But she would keep a maternal eye on Samuel and help guide him through whatever time he would have with us on our farm.

      After Samuel had taken the food basket, Grandma hollered, Leonard, you come down outta’ that tree and get ready to start cleanin’ out the bunkhouse. And here’s a hot biscuit for you, too, jus’ sos you don’t feel left out.

      Leonard, not surprised that his Ma had known all along he was hiding in the tree, climbed down, happy to eat the hot biscuit. And anyway, he thought, licking butter off his fingers, how come Ma always knows what I’m feelin’?

      He hung around his front steps, looking over at the bunkhouse where the new hands were eating their breakfast on the porch. Samuel stared back at him, the two boys silently sized up each other with openly interested stares. In his 11 years, Leonard had never seen a Colored boy up close, only at a distance working in gangs of Colored folks in neighbors’ fields or rattling by in farm wagons. There were no Coloreds in his school or church so he was pretty sure that Colored people never went to school or church. He had heard a lot about the Colored from school friends. Georgie Patterson, for example, knew a lot of scientific facts like, the Coloreds, they do a lot of witchin’ stuff so if you rub their heads you get good luck. But if you rub ‘em the wrong way, you get bad luck. And, don’t never shake no Colored’s hand if it’s wet ‘cause the brown can sometimes come off an’ once it gets on a White kid it don’t never go away an’ folks’ll think you’re part Colored.

      Leonard was not sure he believed those things, but they were mildly alarming anyway. He was surprised because up close this Colored boy seemed no threat at all. Except for the shiny black skin and tight hair, he looked pretty much like anybody else.

      He’s jus’ a skinny Colored kid, Leonard thought. I can thrash him, easy, if he ever gives me reason to. An’ he better not! An’ he’s real black, like ol’ Coal Mine (one of the barn cats). Wonder if it could rub off, like Georgie says?

      While the men started cleaning out the bunk house the boys continued watching each other, shuffling their feet, keeping their distance, each waiting for the other to make a move.

      Maybe he can’t talk, Leonard thought, suspiciously. Maybe he’s not right in the head.

      Leonard was wary. This Colored kid, so doggoned black, was going to live in the bunkhouse with his father and uncle. At least they’re not so black, he thought. More like brown. Leonard was pretty sure he did not want strangers living on his farm, taking over his bunkhouse, especially being all black and brown like that. What other parts of his farm might they try to take over? What else will he have to give up to this kid, this black stranger? Leonard did not like this at all. He felt uncomfortable, vulnerable, put upon.

      Samuel was equally wary. He had known plenty of White boys back in Mississippi so this was not a new situation. Some boys had been friendly, some not. Some were plain mean, like their folks. All had more of everything than he did—clothes, shoes, pocket money, a nice knife with a folding blade, even schooling. He was suspicious of this White boy who lived on this nice farm. Samuel could not tell if he was one of the friendly ones or not. Looking at him, he did not seem like a mean cuss. But sometimes you couldn’t tell right off.

      He bigger’n me, Samuel thought. An’ a lot older. Don’t like the way he lookin’ at me, neither. I gotta step careful ‘roun him. Don’t know if I gonna like him. Don’t know if I gonna like livin’ here. Don’t know if I gonna like any o’ this.

      There were a few things Samuel did know: This White boy lived here, this was his farm, his home, his family, his territory and Samuel was an invader of sorts, did not belong here or, for that matter, anywhere, except maybe back in Mississippi. But right now he was here, up North and rootless.

      Samuel felt exposed and vulnerable and Leonard felt assaulted. Neither boy knew how the other felt and each wondered how the other would take to him. No way to tell right off. Jus’ gotta wait an’ see, each thought.

      The boys stayed silent, watching each other until Grandma ordered them to get to work, stop standing around like a couple o’ hitching posts. After Grandma had gone into the house, Leonard finally broke the impasse. Keeping his distance and his eye on Samuel, he bent down, picked up a hard, dry clod of soil with a good-sized rock in it and hefted it to see if it was heavy and solid enough. Satisfied, he made sure where Samuel was standing, took aim, reared back and heaved that solid missile as hard as he could at the side of

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