OL’ BILL

It's hard to recall the first time I was aware of Ol Bull and his place in our lives in the 1930s. He was just
always there, a tall, large-framed man with blue-black skin. My mother called him Bill, but to distinguish him from his young son, also named Bill, my sister and I privately called the father Old Bi | The father always referred to his son by his full name, Bill Jones. No one seemed to know for sure what had become of Ol' Bill's wife. Some said shed run off up North with another man. I never saw either Bill smile when they were together.

Ol' Bill and Bill Jones delivered wood to us beginning in the fall and continuing through the winter. Winter temperatures in Northwest Flonda can go below freezing, but mostly remain in the 40s. Few homes had central heating. Wood burning fireplaces were the main source of heat; therefore, we needed a continuous supply of firewood, pine and oak

At Christmas Bill brought a wonderful tall pine tree, whose fragrance filled our house. In summer the Bills were there with gallon cans filled with wild blackberries and blueberries. I don't think they had too many customers for any of these services.

Bill and Bill Jones were an unusual sight riding through town in their oxen drawn wagon. I don't recall any other such wagons. Long after Bull Jones had moved North--about the time he turned fourteen—Ol' Bill continued his rounds always driving the ox drawn wagon.

Each time they made a delivery, winter or summer, we served Bill and Bill Jones a hot midday meal. Cattie, who originally was our nurse, but in my middle childhood became the family cook, insisted they eat outside on the ack porch, not in the house. When I pressed her once about this, she replied emphatically as if it were some kind of law, "Field hands not supposed to come inside and eat. They know their place." Years later I realized that Afncan-Americans had a fixed class structure which existed years after the end of slavery. Those who worked outside in the fields, or their descendants, were not considered on an equal status with domestic workers, or skilled workers as brick-layers or the more elegant railroad porters. After Cattie left our household to marry a L. & N. Railroad man and moved to another town, we invited Bill, who was now alone, to eat indoors. Bill would sit quietly at a table next to the stove, his hat on one knee.

On Christmas Day Bill would arrive in his best, though mis-matched trousers and coat, and always wearing a clean white shirt. Sometimes he'd not be wearing any socks, but on Christmas that would be remedied with our annual present of warm socks together with other gift-wrapped remembrances. In those Depression days my family too was hard hit, but we shared what we could. And Bill usually had a gift for us. We would be presented with a sack of plump pecans he'd gathered, or beautiful holly or other red berries from the woods.

Since we always had Christmas dinner at Aunt Bern's and therefore no need for a cook at our house, my mother would begin to prepare a meal for Bill following our family's gift exchange. She might cook rice and sweet potatoes, warm up vegetables and rolls, get out ham from the previous day and several slices of holiday cakes, which would've been saved for Bill. This, Bill would eat with great relish at his table near the wood stove in the kitchen. Additional food for Bill to take home was packaged with oranges, apples and candies. On Christmas I think we were Bill's only holiday experience. It seemed to please him. Unlike his usual solemn demeanor, he was almost jovial, and effusive with compliments.

"I believe this is the finest Christmas meal I've ever eaten," he would say, adding enthusiastically, “Your mamma's the best cook of all--better 'n that Catherine.”

However, it cast a sad feeling over me when we'd sometimes have to leave early with Bill left to eat all alone while we went on to a festive family dinner.

O!l' Bill knew he had a friend in my mother, and it was to her this proud man turned when an extreme emergency forced it.

One cold winter afternoon Mamma received a message from Bill apologizing for not delivering the wood because he was sick with the flu.

Mamma, who was in the midst of teaching after-school piano pupils when the news arrived, left the student and began to prepare tomato soup. She quickly strained the tomatoes through a sieve. I was instructed to finish the soup and put together whatever food I could from the pantry shelves. I was to take this immediately to Bill along with cough syrup and Vick's salve.

At fourteen I had not been driving long, but was entrusted to go on this mission. Never having been to Ol' Bill's house, I followed my mother's directions, but since none of the streets was named or houses numbered, I had to stop several times to ask people along the way. Their answers were bnef, apprehensive. Dark, curious, silent faces stared at this young girl driving a black Chevrolet down red clay, washboard roads. I was thankful it hadn't rained recently or I'd have been slipping and sliding all over the road. More than that, I wondered about the suspicious behavior of the people.

I was familiar with the other end of town where black people also  near their school and churches. The houses there were neat looking with clean-swept yards and many with flower and vegetable gardens. This section where Bill lived looked very poor and the people certainly didn't act very helpful to anyone asking directions. I felt very much an intruder.

One last time I stopped when I saw a woman in her yard boiling clothes in a huge black kettle set over a hot fire. She continued to stir the clothes with what looked like an old broom handle as I approached.

In answer to my inquiry, and barely looking at me, she asked abruptly, with some hostility, “What you want with him?"

“He's sick, and my mother sent me to see about him."

“Oh,” she said and after a couple of minutes added, "The po-lice come down here a little while ago.”

“Did they stop at Bills?” 

*No.”

That was all the information I got as she continued to poke and stir the clothes,

I waited a minute before asking again, “Could you please tell me which house is Bills?” 

Raising the stick she pointed down the road. "It's that old shack down there a: the end.” 

When I came to the house designated as Bills, I saw an unpainted, windowless place with the remnants of a vegetable garden on the side There were wooden openings, but no screens or glass, and since it was winter the
house was closed as tightly as possible. As I walked in, there was some light coming through the cracks in the floor and sides of the house. Ol' Bill, who was lying in his pathetic bed unde, a pile of ancient quilts, weakly tried to get up to greet me. I urged him not to move and he fell back gratefully. The dying coals of a fire in the fireplace gave off little warmth. A more desolate sight I had not previously witnessed. I was stricken, but held on. 

Here was strong, reliable Bill barely able to move, living in a miserable room with nobody to care for him, no food or medicine and yet trying to follow his customary courtesy of greeting. 

I put the soup in a bowl I'd brought with me, and at Bill's request placed it on a makeshift table by his bed. "Shall I feed you the soup, Bill?" I asked rather tentatively. “No, Miss I can manage. You'd best be leaving anyway,” he urged.

 "Bill, Mamma said to tell you she's sending the doctor to see you. Hell let her know how you are. If he wants someone to stay with you, Mamma will attend to that. She'll be here to see you tomorrow." 

With tears beginning to come into his half-closed eyes, Bill murmured,"Your mamma is the best person in the whole world. I ‘spect she’s a saint." _ Then, in a brighter tone, he added, "Looks like that ol’ chariot ain't coming for me after all.“ 

"You'll be fine, Bill. I know you'll be fine.” 

This was not the first or the last act of caring in which my mother enlisted my assistance, but it made the strongest impression. It was direct, —

That was all the information I got as she continued to poke and stir the clothes,

I waited a minute before asking again, "Could you please tell me which house is Bill's?"

Raising the stick she pointed down the road. “It's that old shack down there at the end."

When I came to the house designated as Bill's, I saw an unpainted, windowless place with the remnants of a vegetable garden on the side. There were wooden openings, but no screens or glass and since it was winter the house was closed as tightly as possible.

As I walked in, there was some light coming through the cracks in the floor and sides of the house. O!' Bill, who was lying in his pathetic bed under a pile of ancient quilts, weakly tried to get up to greet me. I urged him not to move and he fell back gratefully. The dying coals of a fire in the fireplace gave off little warmth. A more desolate sight I had not previously witnessed. I was stricken, but held on.

Here was strong, reliable Bill barely able to move, living in a miserable room with nobody to care for him, no food or medicine and yet trying to follow his customary courtesy of greeting.

I put the soup in a bowl I'd brought with me, and at Bill's request placed it on a makeshift table by his bed.

person-to-person contact with poverty. It was also my first glimpse of what lay behind the masks black people wore to hide their hurts and fears--the effects of generations of racial discrimination.

I cried all the way home, barely seeing the road. My mind's eye recorded forever the scene of Bill lying there, not wanting to reveal the depths of his despair and with great effort and dignity rising up on one elbow to bid me a reassuring "Good-bye, Miss, and thank you."

"Shall I feed you the soup, Bill?" I asked rather tentatively. “No, Miss, I can manage. You'd best be leaving anyway," he urged.

"Bill, Mamma said to tell you she's sending the doctor to see you. Hell let her know how you are. If he wants someone to stay with you, Mamma will attend to that. She'll be here to see you tomorrow."

With tears beginning to come into his half-closed eyes, Bill murmured, “Your mamma is the best person in the whole world. I ‘spect she's a saint." Then, in a brighter tone, he added, "Looks like that ol' chariot ain't coming for me after all.”

"You'll be fine, Bill. I know you'll be fine.”

This was not the first or the last act of caring in which my mother enhanced my assistance, but it made the strongest impression. It was direct, person-to-person contact with poverty. It was also my first glimpse of what lay behind the masks black people wore to hide their hurts and fears--the effects of generations of racial discrimination.

I cried all the way home, barely seeing the road. My mind's eye recorded forever the scene of Bill lying there, not wanting to reveal the depths of his despair and with great effort and dignity rising up on one elbow to bid me a reassuring "Good-bye, Miss, and thank you."