“These young ones what’s comin’ up now, they calls us ole fogies, an’ handkerchief heads, an’ white folks’ niggers ’cause we don’t get mad an’ rar’ up in arms like they does ’cause things is kinder hard, but, honey, when you gets old, you knows they ain’t no sense in gettin’ mad an’ sourin’ yo’ soul with hatin’ peoples. White folks is white folks, an’ colored folks is colored, an’ neither one of ’em is bad as t’ other make out. For mighty nigh seventy years I been knowin’ both of ’em, an’ I ain’t never had no room in ma heart to hate neither white nor colored. When you starts hatin’ people, you gets uglier than they is—an’ I ain’t never had no time for ugliness, ’cause that’s where de devil comes in—in ugliness!

“They talks ’bout slavery time an’ they makes out now like it were de most awfullest time what ever was, but don’t you believe it, chile, ’cause it weren’t all that bad. Some o’ de white folks was just as nice to their niggers as they could be, nicer than many of ’em is now, what makes ’em work for less than they needs to eat. An’ in those days they had to feed ’em. An’ they ain’t every white man beat his slaves neither! Course I ain’t sayin’ ’twas no paradise, but I ain’t going to say it were no hell either. An’ maybe I’s kinder seein’ it on de bestest side ’cause I worked in de big house an’ ain’t never went to de fields like most o’ de niggers did. Ma mammy were de big-house cook an’ I grewed up right with her in de kitchen an’ played with little Miss Jeanne. An’ Miss Jeanne taught me to read what little I knowed. An’ when she growed up an’ I growed up, she kept me with her like her friend all de time. I loved her an’ she loved me. Miss Jeanne were de mistress’ daughter, but warn’t no difference ’tween us ’ceptin’ she called me Hager an’ I called her Miss Jeanne. But what difference do one word like ‘Miss’ make in yo’ heart? None, chile, none. De words don’t make no difference if de love’s there.

“I disremembers what year it were de war broke out, but white folks was scared, an’ niggers, too. Didn’t know what might happen. An’ we heard talk o’ Abraham Lincoln ’way down yonder in de South. An’ de ole marster, ole man Winfield, took his gun an’ went to war, an’ de young son, too, an’ de superintender and de overseer—all of ’em gone to follow Lee. Ain’t left nothin’ but womens an’ niggers on de plantation. De womens was a-cryin’ an’ de niggers was, too, ’cause they was sorry fo’ de po’ grievin’ white folks.

“Is I ever told you how Miss Jeanne an’ Marster Robert was married in de springtime o’ de war, with de magnolias all a-bloomin’ like candles for they weddin’? Is I ever told you, Sandy? . . . Well, I must some time. An’ then Marster Robert had to go right off with his mens, ’cause he’s a high officer in de army an’ they heard Sherman were comin’. An’ he left her a-standin’ with her weddin’-clothes on, leanin’ ’gainst a pillar o’ de big white porch, with nobody but me to dry her eyes—ole Missis done dead an’ de men-folks all gone to war. An’ nobody in that big whole mansion but black ole deaf Aunt Granny Jones, what kept de house straight, an’ me, what was stayin’ with ma mistress.