Excerpt from The Cricket Cries, the Year Changes

PROLOGUE

I am forty-eight inches wide, five and a half feet long,

colorful, and three-dimensional. I’ve been told that I was

a comforter to many people. My ancestors were the cotton

plant on my mother’s side and sometimes, a non-

committing silkworm on my father’s. I was plied through

cards and spun into thread. My fluffy soft beginnings

changed to off-white hanks of strong durable fabric.

Many melodies were sung over me—from my

seedling start to my rows of snow-like harvest. Verses

became lullabies born by the rhythms of the spinning

wheels. They calmed my weavers while they moved me

between bent fingers toward new beginnings. My family’s

1
merger with the palettes of indigo, madder, brown walnut

and cochineal orchestrated my first communion. They

showered me with rainbows of color that competed with

intensity for attention.

In some instances, my basic body was block-

stamped with symbols, imprinted with intricate designs or

submerged in wax resists. I was boiled in huge cauldrons.

The vigilant eyes of the dye makers anxiously awaited my

lustrous hued debut. At times, I was vibrant and

appealing; other times found me as a pale, melancholy,

worn out piece. I could become a color-filled weave whose

hidden symbols purposed the survival of many people. In

all examples, I had the strength to cover and the genius to

adorn.

I was known to appear rough and nubby. Many

people luxuriated in my silky smoothness. I offered

flannelled warmth as well as summer cool.

2
 I am cotton, the Queen of the antebellum South.

Cotton was the conscience of my many masters. I owned

them. I am a cotton quilt. More pointedly, I am the African

slave named Kaffie’s, creation. Throughout her lifetime,

Kaffie’s tireless fingers pierced and placed my cotton

remnants from the lives of certain slaves against a sorrow-

filled background of soft needs and harsh realities. She

chronicled their storied incidents through tear by salty

tear as their intertwined testimonies formed the mosaic

that is I.

I can tell you each tale with circumstance and

certainty as I clothed every member or visitor to, the

Harris-Jones plantation as well as the outlying characters.

They lay on top of me as they slept or made love. I would

cover them when they sought warmth or rest. They shed

their thoughts, motives, and dreams into me. I am both a

witness for the prosecution and the defense.

3
 As I hang from the exhibitors’ clotheslines on this

hot July day of yet another quilt fair, my competitors are

swinging lively in the near-tropical breeze.

I, however, wish to remain motionless.

I have memories to share.

4
 KAFFIE

Chapter 1

Snow flurries fell in Monroe Georgia? What a sight! It wisped through

the air like tiny stray puffs of cotton as it circled silently toward the grounds

of the Harris-Jones plantation. Sudden gusts of semi-frosty winds darted

flakes in different danced directions before it settled onto the warm, red clay

and onto the fields.

The wearied slaves up since dawn held their tattered and worn clothing

closer to their bodies as they stood in the unseasonably cold weather. The din

of the hoes, picks, and trowels gradually stopped while the workers witnessed

this early morning miracle. Most had never seen snow before. They tried to

catch the melting snow but soon lost it as it lessened in their calloused hands.

Some of the black children opened their mouths with tongues extended to

5
taste the snow. They squealed with wonder while this freak of nature

entertained them.

Other slaves held their bare feet out from under thinning frocks and

frayed pants to feel the white shavings fall upon them. It sharply contrasted

with their coffee bean brown skins. Some showed fear not knowing or

trusting this intrusion. They began to moan a unified song of uncertainty and

doom.

The overseers, plus a handful of white indentured servants, stood

transfixed among the Negroes. They marveled and reveled in the spectacle.

This was a first experience for many of them as well. The owner of the

plantation, Mr. Harris was awakened by the clamor that came from the

central part of his large homestead. He realized the source of the uproar

when he gazed out the window. The wintry mix greeted him.

He recalled a sudden snowfall as a child some fifty years ago growing

up on his father’s small farm in South Carolina. He sensed his own first

delight. Harris dressed quickly and headed toward the fields upon his horse.

The large assembly of huddled reapers had paused to witness the flurried

light squall. It really did not feel that cold to Harris.

6
 Master Harris lifted his disheveled balding head to the sky; his

squinting grey eyes followed the trail of a singular snowflake. It landed on

the horse’s mane. His freckled weathered face gave permission for a rare

slight grin to form from his thin dry lips. He relinquished the nostalgic

weakness and motioned to the overseers to order the slaves back to work. He

feared it might get colder as the day progressed. The wrought-ironed rooster

weather vane atop the barn showed no hard wind direction.

The slaves slowly returned to their field positions in the row after row

of ripened crops. The grunts of hard labor normalized the farming routines

on the Harris-Jones plantation.

Tillie Harris, the master’s wife, walked toward the fields as she held the

hand of their six-year-old daughter. She had hurriedly placed a coat over

Luvinia’s clothing as they came outdoors to view the snowflakes. With their

hands held glove-to glove, Mrs. Harris walked toward her husband while he

spoke to the overseers.

Luvinia’s snagged-tooth grin marveled at the white dots and soon

loosened her mother’s grip to chase them. Her mother warned her to stay

close. Luvinia, with her hands high in the air, revealed crinoline petticoats,

and knitted leggings underneath a calico dress. She twirled in a semi-circle

as she playfully hummed a skittish tune. She crouched to the ground to peer
7
as close as she could into the disappearing snowflakes seemingly to dare

them to melt before she could finish gushing over their soft beauty.

Her mother turned her head away from her husband to gauge Luvinia’s

whereabouts and could not locate her. Slightly panicked, Tillie called out to

her. Luvinia answered right away from her location. Her mother walked

swiftly toward the voice and found Luvinia and a slave girl squatted together

on the ground. They laughed as they studied the falling snow.

Tillie grabbed her daughter’s hand and yanked her to a standing

position. She scolded her for straying too far away from her. The startled little

slave girl began to cry. Luvinia darted a peeved look toward her mother as

she dragged her back towards the mansion. All the while, Luvinia ranted her

need to continue to play with her new friend. Her reddened face blurred by

the tears in her eyes gave several backward glances to the slave girl.

Two weeks later, on a more normal October sultry Georgia day, Luvinia

and Tillie Harris strolled towards the fields accompanied by an overseer who

rode on horseback not far behind them. Luvinia’s ceaseless begging to let her

play with her new friend, named “Kaffie”, had brought them to the fields.

Master Harris did not have a young slave girl with that name in his slave rolls.

8
Luvinia had often pressed her parents for someone to play with. Now, she

wanted this particular black girl.

This spoiled child cared for by a mammy, spent a lot of time alone with

her dolls and her imagination. Her parents thought it was wild at work again

as she had conjured up this “new friend”. Just as her mother was about to

give up the search among the slaves for a little girl named “Kaffie”, Luvinia

ran to a slightly built slave girl, pulled her from between the rows of corn,

and hugged her as she claimed her prize. The girl responded by letting her

arms fall limply at her sides. She dropped her gunnysack and stood still not

knowing what to do next. Luvinia asked her mother if she could take her

home with her. Tillie asked the scared mulatto her name. She softly

responded “Kathy”.

Tillie Harris agreed to let Kaffie come to play with Luvinia in the

mansion yard just for that afternoon. She winced at the body odor of this girl.

She shuddered when Luvinia grabbed both of Kathy’s dirty hands with her

own bare white hands.

Luvinia faced Kathy and walked backwards all the way back to the

mansion path. She pulled the barefoot, reticent, tripping Kathy along.

Luvinia talked incessantly about her dolls, her toys, her room, and her pony.

She was glad to have them, but she was ecstatic to have her Kaffie even for
9
one day. The slaves’ roll revealed Kathy as an orphan who lived with a

surrogate family in one of the row cabins. She was eight years old and had

lived on the plantation since birth. Her birth date was the same as Luvinia’s

though Kathy was two years older than she.

Eventually within days, Mrs. Harris acceded to her daughter’s

unceasing appeals and brought the mulatto slave into the big house to live.

Tillie had her inspected for sickness or disease by the mammy. The cook

dunked Kathy into a worn wooden tub on the mansion back porch. Luvinia

leaned on the large bucket the entire time teasing Kathy about the freckles

all over her face. Luvinia’s unbroken chatter did not stop until a coarse towel

was used to dry Kathy off sealing her initiation.

The mammy had parted her soft, nutmeg brown hair and plaited two

medium length braids. She told Luvinia to wait until she dressed Kaffie and

then they could play outdoors. In the huge kitchen, the black cook, Mary,

gazed upon Kathy cleaned and clothed. She offered her a piece of pound cake

and some peach tea as she sat her at the small table. The cook understood

how overwhelmed Kathy must have felt and extended her assuring and

inviting arms to hug her. Kathy rushed into the smells of her apron as she

released tears of questionable joy.

10
 As she looked into her grey eyes the cook told her she could call her

“Mary”. Luvinia fidgeted by the door.

The arrangements made were that the two would play together under

the watchful eye of the mammy during the day, but Kathy had to sleep in the

attic in Mary’s room. That suited Luvinia fine. She climbed the planked steps

to the attic during the night and joined Kathy and Mammy in bed on several

occasions.

The master officially changed the name of Kathy Harris-Jones to Kaffie

Harris-Jones on the slave rolls. Wheaton Jones had been his partner for over

twenty years and had died, leaving a huge debt due to his gambling. Harris

assumed his obligations but had continued for business purposes to include

the Jones name in the plantation slave rolls.

11
 Chapter 2

Kaffie was educated while she grew up with Luvinia. It was against the

law to do so, but she learned indirectly. Years later, her speech and reasoning

measured equally or better, than most whites. Soon her skills as a seamstress

became evident. She had an eye for detail as well as color. The mistress began

outsourcing Kaffie’s talents to other homesteads. Wagonloads of orders for

southern ball gowns and northern heavy clothing came pouring in.

Sometimes, Kaffie was driven to neighboring plantations to alter dresses or

pants. The mistress was paid handsomely.

Kaffie decided to make quilts with the remnants of fabric left over from

her work. One day, she presented Tillie Harris with a quilt that she had made

for one of the guest rooms. It was hard for her to believe this slave, only

eighteen years old could create such a piece without formal training. She

praised her economy in using the waste fabric and the fact that she spent her

own leisure time to construct the quilt.

Its workmanship was impeccable. The seams were straight, and the

stitches were even. The patterned and solid colors were coordinated and

12
complemented one another. Each piece in the quilt met the other in perfectly

formed rows and angles in every direction. Mistress Harris decided to bring

in slave girls and two indentured servant women who would learn the art of

quilting at Kaffie’s feet. This new enterprise could add to her burgeoning

reputation and prestige.

Luvinia, at sixteen, was introduced to southern society at a grand

cotillion. She found little time now to be with Kaffie. She entertained

prospective beaus and had grown-up tea parties with her girlfriends. She

now considered Kaffie as part of the help and treated her with indifference.

After all, one day she would be mistress of this plantation and their prior

relationship would have to be severed.

Kaffie had the opportunity to commune with the slaves when she

delivered their semi-annual allotment of two to three outfits each of clothing.

The apparel was mass-produced throughout the seasons by Kaffie and the

apprenticed help. The slaves greeted Kaffie warmly when she worked under

a tent in the yards. She repaired and patched clothing that was not yet ready

for the rag pile. She did not have daily access to them but welcomed their

attention.

13
 Under the tent she was informed of the events that occurred in the

slave society. Other news came from the younger slave girls who sewed alone

with her in the Big House. Additionally, other details were exchanged by the

house slaves as they whispered in the shadows. Kaffie joined her people with

a standing invitation on many Sundays for cookouts and celebrations. She

remembered from her childhood how to interpret the drum codes and

whistled alarms used by the slaves. She would lift her head from her work to

heed the messages.

Oftentimes Ngango, the witch doctor, sent her roots and herbs when

he heard that she was ailing and desired slave healing.

Kaffie was sensitive about her place as a member in the Big House and

regretted that her labor was not as arduous as the majority of the slaves. She

was never whipped, punished or starved. Nevertheless, a slave did not have

any privacy living in the Big House. One could be summoned at midnight or

at dawn. Many days found Kaffie sleep deprived particularly during the

height of the southern society party season.

She wept when slaves, especially the babies and children, died en

masse from pneumonia, dysentery or hookworm. She sewed draw-stringed

shrouds from the muslin she used for pattern pieces and slipped it to the

grieving mothers.
14
 Kaffie channeled the pain and shame when many slaves suffered at the

whip as the passageway into her work. Respect for her genteel spirit, her

willingness to keep them clothed and covered beyond what was expected

enfolded Kaffie into their hearts. She was not emotionally equipped to

process the protracted, layered atrocities that occurred on the Harris-Jones

plantation. She found comfort in preserving the memories of some of the

victims. The best way she knew how was through her quilting. My cotton

remnants sedated her grief.

My quilt became their vagabond eulogy.

That is how I came to hang from this clothesline.

15