fightin' durin' de war. I'se sho' glad I warn't born in slavery from
what I heared 'em tell 'bout dem patterollers ketchin' and beatin' up
folks." Liza's house, a 2-room hut with a narrow front porch, stands in
a peaceful spot on the edge of the Wilson plantation at Beech Island,
South Carolina. A metal sign on the door which revealed that the
property is protected by a theft insurance service aroused wonder as to
what Liza had that could attract a burglar. The bedroom was in extreme
disorder with clothing, shoes, bric-a-brac, and just plain junk
scattered about. The old Negress had been walking about the sunshiny
yard and apologized for the mess by saying that she lived alone and did
as she pleased. "Folks says I oughtn't to stay here by myself," she
remarked, "but I laks to be independent. I cooked 25 years for de Wilson
fambly and dey is gonna let me have dis house free 'til I die 'cause I
ain't able to do no work."

Liza's close-fitting hat pinned her ears to her head. She wore a dress
that was soiled and copiously patched and her worn out brogans were
several sizes too large. Ill health probably accounts for this
untidiness for, as she expressed it, "when I gits up I hate to set down
and when I sets down, I hates to git up, my knees hurts me so," however,
her face broke into a toothless grin on the slightest provocation.

"I wuz born up on de Reese's place in McDuffie County near Thomson,
Georgia. When I wuz chillun us didn't know nothin' 'bout no wuk," she
volunteered. "My ma wuz a invalis (invalid) so when I wuz 6 years old
she give me to her sister over here at Mr. Ed McElmurray's place to
raise. I ain't never knowed who my pa wuz. Us chaps played all de time
wid white chillun jus' lak dey had all been Niggers. Chillun den didn't
have sense lak dey got now; us wuz satisfied jus' to play all de time. I
'members on Sundays us used to take leaves and pin 'em together wid