OLD MAN
MITCHELL
In the
Southern states during slavery days there were two distinct classes of slaves, the
field hands and the family servants.
The field hands were, as a rule, more uncouth in manner, less reliable and
lacked the loyalty and devotion to the owner's family found in the highest
tradition of house servants in the best homes on plantation or in city mansion.
The
training of the family servant started, often, when the boy or girl were chosen
as playmate attendant for the young children of
Those
who won favor started as cook's helper, stable boy or nurse's assistant. Finally, if worthy, to become a cook,
coachman, valet, gardener, or mammy--as much a part of the family as any of
their white folks.
There
stands out in my earliest memories the personality of "Old Man"
Theodore Mitchell. Mitchell
was born a slave--was raised and trained as a house servant until, when about
18 years old, he became a soldier in the Union Army under Colonel
Shaw. When my
mother showed him a picture of the monument
erected to the honor of Colonel Shaw and his colored troops,
Mitchell said: "My Lawd, dats
Colonel Shaw hisself---only his hoss was black, not white. I was by his side when he was shot. His foot hit me when I tried to catch him
when he fell."
After
the war Mitchell worked in some of the leading Southern families. He told many tales of hunting and fishing
parties and trips when his responsibility was rowing or driving, safely home,
the whiskey-weary scions of the aristocracy.
To
Mitchell, the ritual of gracious living was as important and sacred as the
liturgy of the Church is to acolyte or priest.
His waiting on table in white apron, over fresh clothes, was something
to see and to admire. The dinners which
he cooked were in the best Southern style.
The chores he performed were done faithfully and correctly, according to
his understanding. But as coachman, he
was most impressive.
When we
were children, the orange grove was the main producing unit. Little horse power was needed because the
groves were hoed between the trees. Our
means of land transportation was a pair of graceful marsh ponies, Zaida and
Hassan, product of the wild herds that roamed the Coastal marshes, and Donna,
our donkey. A light weight, natural
wood surrey, the first carriage on the Point, was the family coach. Our friends lived in the orange groves along
the river shore between the Point and Palatka. When your
grandmother wished to make calls, Mitchell would curry
and polish the ponies, hitch them to the surrey, dress in his black, long
tailed coat, put on his white gloves and high hat and drive to the fountain on
the front walk to receive his passenger.
From then until we reached home Mitchell was moving in a different
world--a world of aristocratic glamour and pageantry. With stiff, straight back, whip and reins held just so in white
gloved hands, eyes front, completely ignoring every one, no matter what
greetings his colored friends might call or mischievous pickaninnies taunt him
with, he was in his realm, aloof from everything but his proud profession. When spoken to about scenery or people he
replied most graciously, with dignity.
One had to appear "high hat" when driven by Mitchell, if only
to live up to his ideals in the social drama.
Steady
of habits, with regular work and good wages, with a comfortable cottage on the
south side of "Three Oaks", Mitchell was the cynosure of feminine
eyes. For many years his romances were
a source of interest, amusement and concern, especially to your grandmother.
At one
time it was known that two widows were courting him. One day when Mitchell was
driving the family to "Moonstone" and "Esperanza", to call on the Johnsons and the
Warners, the ponies
trotted through a cross roads settlement in the pine woods. My mother asked Mitchell, "Does one of
the widows live in that corner house?"
He replied, "Yes, ma'am".
"Are those her children?"
"Yes Ma'am". "How
many are there?" "Eight,
Ma'am". "Now Mitchell, what
would we do with all those children on the place?" Little was heard of the widows after that.
‘Shepherd’
was the affectionate name many of the church members called Mitchell. He was a faithful church member and
supporter. One Saturday he asked your
grandmother to sell him a rooster. The
visiting preacher and several church brothers were to dine with him on
Sunday. Come Monday, my mother asked
him how the dinner party went off.
Mitchell looked sadly thoughtful until the joy of telling a good story
brightened his eyes. "Mrs. Hubbard, I spent all morning roasting dat chicken. I had boiled onions and sweet taters wid
gravy. De preacher an de elders sat
down at de table. I brung in de chicken,
de onions, de taters and de gravy, an' whiles I was in de kitchen getting de
biscuits brown, Mrs. Hubbard, dem folks picked dat chicken so clean dere was only
de frame lef for me."
At
seventy, Mitchell was still
straight of back and erect in posture - heritage of African porters who carry
all burdens along foot paths on their heads.
One day my father told Mitchell to go down to the Point and fetch a 60
pound tub of butter for the store, supposing that he would use the
wheelbarrow. Presently, we saw Mitchell
coming up the walk, straight as a statue, hands at his sides, the tub of butter
balanced securely on his head. He found
it easier to carry 65 pounds on his head, the quarter mile, than to bother with
the wheelbarrow.
Old Man
Mitchell, in spite of the will and urge to serve, gradually developed
infirmities. As the dream of being
cherished and cared for by a younger wife faded, he demonstrated the wisdom
that should come as the reward of a long life of faithful, devout service to
ideals and one's fellow man. ‘Shepherd’
owned a cabin and garden close by his church.
He chose, of his godchildren, a young daughter of Ward
Johnson, of one of the outstanding colored families, to be
his heiress. He arranged that she
should inherit his home, if she would take care of him till he died. This she did, most lovingly and faithfully.
And so
passed, to his reward, a real Christian gentleman.
*
Ballard * [sic]
Treat ma daughter kindly
an see you do no harm.
An When I dies I'll leave to you
ma house an little farm;
Ma hoss, my plow, ma sheep
ma cow, ma hog an little barn,
An all de little chicken in
de garden.
From an unpublished
manuscript, Memories of Florida by E. Stuart Hubbard. Distributed to family and friends for
Christmas 1951--1958. Verbal permission
given to Lynn Hoffmann and Mary E. Murphy-Hoffmann to reprint and/or publish by
E. Stuart Hubbard, a descendant of the author, some years ago by telephone.
Illustration by Mr. Bill
Waller
Not part of the original
manuscript.