deral Writers' Project
Residencies 6 & 7
Augusta, Georgia

September 23, 1938.

JEFFERSON FRANKLIN HENRY
Ex-Slave--Age 78
Athens, Georgia

The widespread branches of a white mulberry tree formed a canopy for the
entire yard before Jefferson Henry's gray-painted cottage. Luxuriant
hydrangeas in wooden tubs, August lilies in other containers on the
old-fashioned flower steps, and a carefully pruned privet hedge gave the
place an air of distinction in this shabby neighborhood, and it was not
surprising to learn that a preacher, a man highly respected by his race,
lived there.

A rap on the door brought quick response from a rumbling bass voice
inside the house. "George, is you here already?" In another moment a
short, stocky Negro man appeared in the doorway, a collar clutched in
one hand, and a slightly embarrassed look on his face. "Good mornin',"
he said. "Yes, mam, this is Jeff Henry. I thought you was George done
come to take me to Atlanta. One of my good church members is to be
buried thar today, and I'se got to preside over the funeral. I can talk
to you a few minutes if you ain't got too much to ax me about."

Though Jeff used some dialect, it was not so noticeable as in the speech
of most southern Negroes. A scant fringe of kinky gray hair framed his
almost bald head, and he was dressed in his Sunday-best clothes; a gray
suit, white shirt, and black shoes, worn but carefully polished.

"This old Negro has been here many a day," he began. "I 'members when
all this side of town was in farms and woods with just a few houses
scattered about." Just then George drove up and Jeff suggested that the
interview be postponed.

At the appointed hour Jeff was waiting to resume his narrative. "I sho
is done been wukin' this old brain of mine to bring back them old times
'fore freedom come," he announced. "Anyhow, I was born in Paulding
County. Sam and Phyllis Henry was my pa and ma, and they was field
hands. Me and James, William, John, Mittie, and Mary was all the chillun
they had. Us just played 'round the yard mostly, 'cause thar warn't none
of us big enough to do no field wuk wuth talkin' 'bout 'fore the end of
the war.

"Slave quarters was off from the big house a piece, and they was built
in rows lak streets. Most of the log cabins had one room; some had two,
but all of them had plain old stack chimblies made of sticks and red
mud. Our beds was just home-mad