Hattie Williams lived on the Phillips' farm from about 1910 until 1925 when tenant house she lived in caught fire on a cold wintry night and burned to the ground. She lived with her six children in a three room house. The house was situated on the edge of the hill overlooking the marsh. The yard was bare earth for a space of about 30 feet around it. It was kept clean by sweeping with a broom made of brush tops. There was a pitcher pump in the front yard, and a hog pen down the hill. A grove of pear trees was to one side, and the house faced the open field which came right up to the yard.
Hattie was a good, kind hearted women. She worked hard and expected and received little from life. When she lived on the farm with us, each year, she would give us a ham and fresh pork chops at hog killing time. The hogs were fed with waste corn and vegetables she gleaned from the fields. I have made many visits to Hattie's home, humble as it was. There were no screens, and in the summer the windows and doors stood open all the time because of the heat. House flies were abundant, just everywhere. Sanitation in those days in the country was given inadequate attention, what with open privies, hog pens, and barnyards. In the winter, the cold was brutal. Eva, Hattie's daughter, would take old newspapers, spread them with starch, and paste them over the cracks in the walls. This was done repeatedly, year after year, and served as insulation. The only heat was from wood burned in the iron cook stove.
Hattie had four boys named Bonaparte (Boney), Maryland, Toast, (I can't recall the name of the oldest.) Boney was three years older than I, and was my playmate and almost constant companion until I became of school age. And, Oh! what I learned at a very early age. I learned the facts of life by the time I was five. We started playing together when I was about three, and played together until I was seven (when the house burned down. Boney taught me all sorts of things. He taught me how to master the marsh, both in the winter and in the summer. In the winter we would make our way from frozen clumps of bull rushes to marshy rivulets where we would set traps for muskrats. I would frequently miss my step and plunge into the icy water and mud. He would clean my shoes with marsh grass to try to conceal from my mother that I had fallen in the mud. He taught me how to crab in the summer, and we would search the mud flats in the "big river" for soft crabs. And, we were successful, often catching a dozen for our evening meal. When Boney did something bad, Hattie would threaten him with a "dying killing" and fill his heart with fear. He would crawl under the house and scream for mercy, until her temper subsided.
Maryland was seven years older than I, and he became our principal farmhand as the years passed. He plowed the fields with our double team of mules, mowed the hay, cultivated the spinach, loaded the truck with vegetables, and performed all sorts of tasks. He was very strong and could pick up a barrel of potatoes, or the back wheel of a tractor. He treated me like a younger brother. We had to let him go during the great depression, as we had no money to pay him
Toast worked on the farm, but during the depression left for better things. He married while I was yet a toddler. After that I rarely saw him. The life among the young black men who worked on the farms was often violent. They created gambling spots concealed in the woods. I knew where they were and have seen the bottles filled with kerosene and green pine needles that they used as lanterns while the gambled at night. After paydays, and whenever they had money, some would congregate at these spots, drink moonshine, and shoot craps. Often fights would erupt and razors came into play. I have seen the blood dripping from their wounds. This violence did not stop there. Toast hacked his wife to death with and axe. Our man, Johnson, was stabbed to death with a dagger, and I witnessed his murderer running from the scene. Hattie's oldest boy spent time in jail for murder.
Hattie's two girls were very different in appearance and personality. The older girl, Bee, was bright and pleasant. She worked in the fields with us until she found her love, a young man named "Promise." She married Promise and moved to the Bayside area when I was about four years old. The younger daughter, Eva, was mentally handicapped. Eva was a prodigious worker and could pick more strawberries in a day than any other farmhand I knew. She worked so hard, and it was sad because mentally she could not defend herself. Eva bore a child out of wedlock named "Duck." She was a year or so younger than I. I played with Duck a lot before we became of school age. We had good times together and neither of us knew the color of the other. We made a small tent of burlap bags and I built a tiny fire in it. The fire got out of hand and caught the burlap on fire. Duck instinctively, and without hesitation, slapped the fire out with her bare hands while I sat helplessly. I was amazed and remember it some eighty years after the occurrence.
Our association with Hattie and her family all but came to and end when Hattie's house burned down. She was able to move into an abandoned tenant house on Mr. Birchard's farm near Queen City. As far as I know, she lived there until she died. After she left our farm, she found employment with Mr. Calvin Moore who ran a small country store at the junction of Hawthorne Drive and Indian River Road. She worked in the store cleaning up and doing menial work. Among other things she would kill, pick chickens, and dress them for Cal's customers. And, it was her job to keep the refrigerator and chopping block clean. Mr. Moore bought beef by the quarter, and would cut steaks to order on his heavy wooden chopping block.'
I feel that I owe so much to Hattie. As I lay in bed at night and relive the difficult days of my youth, Hattie often comes to mind. I pray for her and thank her for what she has done. She worked so hard and sacrificed along with us so we could exist during Spartan times. Life was not easy for me, and it was even more difficult for Hattie. She labored and felt pain to serve others. Her life was that of an economic slave. She did menial tasks that others preferred not to do. I hope and pray that our Good Lord has a special place in heaven for Hattie and people like her. God bless Hattie.
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