It was 1887 when I bought the land clear, but I mortgaged it some years later so that I could build Caroline a proper house and buy some livestock. I also bought Caroline a buggy of her own with that money, and I bought myself a couple of fine horses. I paid that money back in time and I had no more debt. I'd already repaid my sister. Now I've mortgaged the land again to buy that second two hundred acres I always wanted. Wade Jamison sold them to me.
Caroline through the years has been always telling me to write things down about myself, about the land, about my family and my history to pass on to the boys. Until now I've written down only one thing concerning those early days. I put down bold in a journal the date Digger Wallace was found floating facedown in the Creek Rosa Lee with a near-empty jug of moonshine floating along beside him. I put down that his meanness and the liquor had drowned him. But Caroline says she wasn't just talking about writing about Digger Wallace. She says she's talking about my life before the boys were born, about my struggle to get the land and about my family. She says it's important to pass these things on. I've told her that she passes enough stories on for the both of us, but she just laughs at that and says she'll keep doing it too. And she does. Whenever there's a quiet moment at the end of the day and we've gathered on the porch or around the fire with the boys, she'll ask me to tell again about my lumbering days or about the train ride when Mitchell and I left East Texas or about my life growing up on my daddy's land. I figured the boys would get tired of hearing about my life over and over, but they never have.
Fact, because of my stories, there came a time when the boys began to ask me about going to see our family in Georgia. They had already met Cassie, for in the years since we'd been on the land, Cassie had come twice to visit. The first time Howard had come too, along with their children. The second visit Cassie had come alone and I'd relished every moment with her. I wanted to see my sister again and I wanted my boys to know her as I did, but I put off the journey until Cassie wrote that our daddy was low sick. Cassie said it was time I came home. So when Hammer and David were still under ten and Mitchell and Kevin were in their teens, I took my boys on a segregated train back to Georgia. I wanted Caroline to go with me, but her own daddy was ailing at the time and she sent me on without her.
That first night in Georgia the boys and I stayed with Cassie and Howard and their family in Atlanta. The next morning I took my boys to my daddy's land. Cassie went with us. When we arrived, we found Robert and Hammond there with their families. Robert was running the place now. Hammond lived in Atlanta. No one had heard from George in years.
It was good to see my brothers again.
Hammond and Robert told me that our daddy had being lying without waking for three days now. They said they had kept talking to him through all that time and they had told him that I was coming home. That very morning of my arrival he had opened his eyes. He couldn't speak, but they knew he understood what they said. They figured he was waiting for me.
When I saw my daddy, he was sleeping and I didn't awaken him. I just sat beside his bed and thought of all the years that had slipped away. When he opened his eyes, he looked directly at me and he knew who I was. His eyes teared and he smiled. I had to cry too. That was my daddy lying there.
Throughout that afternoon I talked to my daddy and he listened. I held his hand and I told him all the things I figured he'd want to know about my life. I told him things I figured he already knew. I told him I loved him and the tears came again from both of us. I brought my boys to meet my daddy, and he smiled as I introduced them to him. Cassie then took the boys to stay with Miz Edna and Willie Thomas. I figured it was time Miz Edna and Willie Thomas met their grandson, but I stayed with my daddy. I didn't want to leave his side. Later Cassie, Hammond, and Robert joined my daddy and me, and my brothers, my sister, and I filled the room with stories. We filled the room with talk and laughter, and our daddy heard every word. He smiled often and I knew he was happy. Our daddy lay there smiling until he drifted off to sleep once again.
This time he didn't wake up.
Cassie, my boys, and I spent the night in my mama's house. The land was tilled, but no one stayed in the house now. It was just as it was when I had left. Our daddy, Cassie said, had kept the house for himself and only he had come there. Robert said he had come to the house to be alone. Cassie and I sat talking the night through, and the next morning at dawn we went back up to our daddy's house and ate breakfast. The wake began soon after, and people began to arrive. The wake went on all day and through the night. The following morning we buried our daddy next to Hammond, George, and Robert's mother. After the burial I walked the land with my boys, then went with them to my mama's grave. I had thought often of my daddy and my mama and what was between them. I can't speculate on what all their feelings were for each other outside of creating Cassie and me. What I know is that my daddy took care of my sister and me, and my mama stayed with him after her freedom came because she chose to stay with him. Now, some folks had looked down on them for being together, but I didn't live my daddy's and my mama's lives, and I've got no right to judge. I've reconciled myself to that.
Later that day I said good-bye to Robert and I haven't seen him since. I have seen Hammond. He opened up a considerable-size store in Jackson and he wrote asking me to come see him. I did visit Hammond, not at his home, but at his store, and I took Hammer and David with me. He told the boys to take a look around the store and to choose whatever they wanted. I protested, but Hammond said he wanted, he
needed
to give them something. I conceded to him, but limited my boys to one gift apiece from their uncle. It was past store hours and I sat long with my brother that evening talking and remembering. After that Hammond came several times to visit on the land, and I went several times to visit him at his store, each of us without our families. But the visits haven't been regular. It's been difficult for both of us, living in separate worlds as we do.
I won't deny that I miss the family of my youth. I loved my mama, and Cassie, of course. I loved my daddy, and I loved my brothers too. And I loved Mitchell. There are many times I miss them all. There are times I think of my daddy's land and my childhood there. I think on it, but I don't dwell on it, for I know that I have been blessed to have a family now of my own, and I have been blessed to have the land. I am, in fact, rich with “something of my own.” My mama would have liked that. I believe my daddy would have liked that too.
Author's Note
In writing
The Land,
I have followed closely the stories told by my father and others about my great-grandparents. From as far back as I can remember, I had heard stories about my great-grandfather, who bought the family land in Mississippi. Born the children of an African-Indian woman and a white plantation owner during slavery, my great-grandfather and his sister were brought up by both their parents. Their father had three sons by a white wife, and he acknowledged all of his children. He taught his children of color to read and write and he ordered his white sons to share their school learning with them. All the children sat at their father's table for meals, and my great-grandfather often went with his father and his brothers on their trips around the community.
When my great-grandfather was fourteen, another phase of his life began. Having gone with his father to a horse fair, he was asked to ride another man's horse in a race. His father forbade him to ride because he thought the horse was too dangerous. He promised my great-grandfather that he would whip him severely if he disobeyed. My great-grandfather rode the horse anyway, and one of his brothers told their father. Fearing the whipping, my great-grandfather and his best friend ran away. They escaped onto a train and were hidden by several white women who allowed their skirts to act as curtains while the boys hid under the seats of the train.
Later, as a young man, my great-grandfather contracted for land. In return for clearing the land of trees for its white owner, he was to receive title to it. Instead, after he had cleared the land, the owner reneged on the contract. During this time, my great-grandfather's best friend married. The friend died soon afterward, but on his deathbed, he asked my great-grandfather to watch over his wife and take care of her and his unborn child. My great-grandfather promised his friend he would, and the woman he later married became my great-grandmother.
Just as I have included much of my great-grandfather's history in
The Land,
I have also woven much of my great-grandmother's history into it. Part of that history includes my great-great-grandmother's name being taken away during slavery because the slave master's wife wanted the name for her child, and that my great-grandmother was injured when her skirts caught fire while she was burning the brush. In addition, I have included my great-grandmother's dedication to family history, for it was my great-grandmother who passed on many of the family stories to her grandchildren after my great-grandfather's death. She did not want their grandfather to be forgotten.
During the years that followed my great-grandparents' marriage, my great-grandfather returned to his father's house, taking his children with him. Two of his brothers eventually settled in Mississippi, one in Canton and one, who owned a store, in Jackson. The three brothers saw one another occasionally, but it was difficult because of the racist views and laws of the time. Those views, however, did not preclude my great-grandfather from passing on the names of his father and brothers in his children's names, names that remain in the family today.
It was clear from all the stories told that my great-grandfather loved his family, both the family of his youth and the family of his marriage. It was also clear that he loved his land. In his quest for land, my great-grandfather, it is said, accumulated some thousand acres. After his death, it is said that my great-grandmother, known for her generosity, gave away much of the land to people living on it. I do not know exactly how much land my great-grandfather owned or exactly how much land my great-grandmother gave away. I do know that both my great-grandparents have been an inspiration to me, not only in my writing, but also in my struggle for land.
Like my great-grandfather, for many years I attempted to obtain land that many said was unattainable, and I have woven many aspects of my struggle into Paul-Edward's story. Like Paul-Edward, who immediately fell in love with land in Mississippi, I immediately fell in love with a flowered meadow nestled in the Rocky Mountains. From the first time I saw that land, I firmly believed that God had led me to it, and it became my dream to own it. Although I later learned that the land was for sale, there seemed to be no way I could buy it. Banks refused to finance raw, undeveloped land, and the owner wanted cash. I didn't have the money. I had to let the dream go, but I didn't forget about the land.
A year later while driving in the mountains, I passed the land for the first time since I had given up the dream of having it. A FOR SALE sign was on the land. I tried once more to buy it, but I ran up against one of the same obstacles as before: Banks refused to finance undeveloped land. One major change from the previous year, however, was that the owner was willing to finance the land for a short period, after which all the money owed would become due. I was able to contract for one section of the land, though not the meadow, which I longed to have. Several years later the owner put the meadow section up for sale and I was able to contract for that as well. But in order to make both these deals I had to pay money on signing, which I agreed would be forfeited if I defaulted on the monthly notes or on the final balloon payment. They were harsh terms, but it was my only chance to have the land, and I refused to believe that my dream was impossible.
Over the years, to obtain and keep the land, I sacrificed and sold many treasured things, including my house, some of my furniture, and my few bits of jewelry. But more precious to me than any of those things was my typewriter, which I sold for two hundred and fifty dollars. I cried when I sold it, for it was the typewriter upon which I wrote
Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry.
I used the money to help pay the monthly note on the land.
During those years of struggle I often had no money in my pocket, no money in the bank, no money expected, and bills past due. Still, I refused to give up. My friends thought I had been foolish to buy the land in the first place, and especially foolish to sacrifice to keep it. They advised me to give it up. My family never did. They understood about land. They had faith in me, and I had faith in my dream. Even when I was served with a foreclosure notice on the first section of land, I had faith.
I walked the land and went to what I called my praying rock. Then once again I went to the banks, and once again I was told that the banks did not finance raw, undeveloped land. Late on a Friday afternoon, when foreclosure would take place the following Monday, all hope seemed lost. I got down on my knees and I prayed long and hard. When I rose, the phone rang. It was a banker. He told me the bank committee had reconsidered; the bank would lend me the money. As far as I was concerned a miracle had just happened. Later, when the same bank refused to finance the second section of the land, my family saved it by lending a portion of the money that was needed, so once again the bank reconsidered, and granted a loan on the balance. A second miracle had occurred. The land was finally secured.
Today my family still owns part of the land bought by my great-grandfather more than a hundred years ago. My family also owns the mountain land, and we cherish both. Neither the preservation of the family land in Mississippi nor gaining the land in the Rocky Mountains would have been possible without the family values and teachings passed on from generation to generation. It was my great-grandparents who left my family this legacy, and my grandparents, my father, aunts and uncles, and other family members who passed it on to my generation. Now my generation is passing it on to the next, and they in turn will do the same. I am grateful to my great-grandparents for leaving such a legacy. I am grateful as well to all those who passed it on. I am especially grateful to my mother, who has always had faith in me and my dreams, and who gave so much to save the mountain land, thus furthering the legacy, and to my father, who more than anyone made me so aware of my heritage. As I have said many times before, without my father's words, my words would not have been. I consider myself blessed to be able to share my family's legacy with all who read my books.