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| Historical marker in Buena Vista community. |
(The following story was originally published in The
Monroe Journal’s Centennial Edition on Dec. 22, 1966. The story, written by Sue
F. Turner, appeared on Page 22C of that issue under the headline, “Hants,
Superstitions Retold In Stories of Buena Vista.”)
Stories retold through 50 years or more, are added to in the
telling, and become more legend than fact. The following stories from Buena
Vista include a fight with a mad dog, Sam and the ‘hant’ in the hollow, Mr.
Peter Vredenburgh’s underground candy tree and superstitions lived in the old
days.
Negro Mammies are taboo in 1966, but in the early 1900s
every household in Buena Vista had one who wore a white head rag, a starched
apron and ruled the lives of their white families.
Aunt Phronie was one of these. She told stories of ghosts
and buzzards to the village children that were more popular than Red Ridinghood
or The Three Bears. She, like all the others, had her own little cabin at the
rear of the big house where the children gathered, but were never allowed
inside.
When there was an expectant mother in her care, Mammy would
talk about “our baby” and “my baby,” before the birth and after. She watched
the cravings of a special food of the expectant mother and avoided it if
possible. “You oughter tol’ me you was cravin’ ham. I ain’t gwine have no baby
of mine come here with no red mark on his white skin.”
Mammy’s Philosophy
She blamed too-long noses of her babies on the expectant
mother visiting a circus and being too interested in an anteater.
“Look at pretty things, and read smart books and have nice
thoughts,” she advised.
After the birth, the doctor would instruct her in the care
of the baby and the mother.
“Keep her in bed at least 10 days,” he would caution, “so
she’ll be strong.”
Mammy would listen politely and when he was out of sight
say, “I had nine chillun and was up washin’ the diddies when they was three
days old. Trouble is you overlooks the mos’ important things. You has to take
precautions.”
When asked what precautions, she’d say, “I done took care of
it. I burned the afterbirth in a bucket cause I knowed you’d have a fit if I
done it in the fireplace like I oughter. But I saved the ashes and when you do
decide to get outer that bed, then you’ll empty ‘em yourself. That’s the onliest
way you can get strong.”
She kept the room clean, as was her duty, but she’d refuse
to sweep under the bed. “I ain’t gwine be responsible for no such foolishness,”
she insisted. “Likely you’d never get out of it if I did.”
She paid no attention to orders of boiled water for the baby
until she had a chance to slip to the woods to a spring gurgling from the
ground. With the mother’s silver thimble for a cup, the baby had his first
taste of water. “Never would have no good teeth lessen he had spring water
first,” she’d say.
Nobody could rub her baby’s gums to help teething, the teeth
would never come through, she believed. Holding a baby near a mirror where he
could see himself was almost fatal because it was held responsible for every
ill afterward.
Her babies had a taste of everything from the mother’s
table. They got warm tea for colic and a good rubbing, including the top of the
head, for colds, and a bag of asafetida around the neck if she could manage it.
She brushed the baby’s feet with the stiff bristles of a
broom. “Don’t sweep off his feets, no tellin’ how old he’d be ‘fore he walked.”
Later when she saw her robust charge in perfect health,
she’d declare it was due to her care in not once failing to hang their
undershirts by the sleeves when she washed them.
Hant In The Hollow
Sam was a tall, heavy-set, dark-skinned man and one of the
most reliable and responsible workers who lived near the village. His house was
half a mile south of the village, as the path through the hollow went. He could
get there by a dirt road, but that was a mile walk.
One Saturday he had worked late and stopped by the village
store for groceries. He stored his supplies in a croker sack, tied a knot at
the end of the sack and swung it over his shoulder.
It was dusk dark. His children would be hungry for the
fatback and ‘lasses in his sack. Rosie, his pretty light-skinned wife, would be
waiting for him. He’d have to take a chance on the path through the bottom.
The path crossed an open pasture bordered by dense pines in
the distance. The land just beyond the pines dropped off suddenly, down to a
swampy area of bog, ferns and marshy ground. The brush was thick, the ground
mucky. It was twilight there at noontime. Owls roosted there and hooted in the
dark.
Sam went quickly across the open ground and stopped to pick
up a lightwood knot. He stopped and lighted the knot as he passed the line of
dense pines. At the same time, he transferred his load to his left shoulder.
The hant always rode his right shoulder, rode it heavy, bearing down, crushing
his strength.
He could hear his heart pounding as he listened from side to
side. Maybe he’d slip by tonight. But a creeping vine caught his foot and he
tripped.
“Lawd, have mercy,” he moaned. Then he felt it. The rush of
cold air. Air that didn’t rush on but circled around him, chilling his sweaty
body. His torch went out.
Then he felt the weight settle on his shoulder, heavier than
the sack of provisions on his left shoulder.
“Lawd, save me,” he begged. He wanted to run but the weight
slowed him and resigned, he stooped to the burden, trudging step by step,
panting for breath.
A hound dog bayed in the distance. “Thank you Lawd,” Sam
murmured. It was his own hound dog. He’d been delivered. A glimmer of light
showed through the pines. Rosie was calling, “Shake him off, Sam, we’s
waitin’.”
Fight With A Mad Dog
It must have been 1915 that Lillie fought the mad dog. It
was a Sunday morning. Ollie said, “Let’s drive down to the field before
breakfast, I want to see that corn patch down there.” The fact was he couldn’t
stay still at any time. He had to be on the go.
She unrolled her kid curlers and bunched up her long hair,
dressed hurriedly and left the sleeping children with the cook.
Ollie tapped Rubin, the bay mare, with a brand new buggy
whip and set him off at a fast clip. The whip was black with white stripes. The
upper half was pliable and strong with a leather tassel on the end. “Best whip
I ever had. Cost a dollar, but it’s a dandy,” he said.
Two miles from the village he drew to the side of the narrow
dirt road. “I’ll be right back. The field’s just over that rise.” He left
Lillie in the buggy.
She saw some crabapple blooms over in the woods and thought
they would be nice for church decoration for the morning service. She was the
church organist.
She knew Rubin would stand. She picked her way to the
crabapple tree and broke off great branches of blooms before she saw the dog.
He was like a bird dog on point. But he growled when she spoke to him.
He moved toward her cautiously at first as she backed away
toward the buggy. She reached it, made an effort to gain the high step by
holding to the buggy whip in its stand. The startled horse stepped forward. She
slipped but when she got her footing she had the whip in her hand. Then she
screamed.
The dog lunged and she brought the whip down across his
neck. She screamed again and Ollie answered with a loud “Whoopee.” The dog
backed off but lunged again and again as she fought him off, shaping the whip
into an arc across his body.
Ollie reached her and the dog ran off into the woods.
Lillie didn’t faint until she was at church and on the organ
stool. Days later the dog was found and killed and declared rabid. The buggy
whip was kept in the umbrella stand at Ollie’s house for years afterward.
Mr. Vredenburgh
Peter Vredenburgh Jr. was a native of Illinois. He bought a
large tract of land in Monroe and Wilcox counties and chose as a site for his
saw mill and mill village a location five miles west of Buena Vista. When he
came to supervise the layout of this site, there was no place for him to stay.
He asked to stay at our house, (the home of Lillie and Ollie
Finklea). This house had gas lights but no running water, no bathroom. There
was no refrigeration for the food except the cool depths of the well. Wood was
burned in the fireplaces. But nobody seemed conscious that this city-bred
wealthy man missed the things he was accustomed to.
He was given the guestroom, the best in the house. I
remember him as large around the middle with a smooth vest and a watch chain.
The look of the city man’s clothes and haircut were strange to us as the tone
of his voice and the things he talked about. We had never heard anything but an
Alabama accent and his words were soft and pleasant and foreign.
The three children in the family at that time sat near him
as he told his adventures and fabulous stories of the world. But we were
spellbound when he talked about the great tree that he owned.
It was a tree with a trunk so large that there was a
full-sized door cut in it. This door led to steps that led down into a great
cave. This was a brilliantly lighted cave lined with colored jewels and
diamonds. There was candy in every niche and corner.
When our suspense and appetites were sufficiently whetted
Mr. Vredenburgh would say, “I have brought candy from my tree. The one who can
tell me what kind it is will receive it as a gift.”
Oh! To be able to guess what it was. The only candy we knew
was in the showcase at the village store: Peppermint, lemon drops, orange chewy
lady-fingers and other goodies like that. “Lemon drops,” I said. “Peppermint,”
said Charles.
“Chocolate,” Marion said shyly. She won the prize. A great
box of chocolate candy.
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