She
lived on a farm in Garrard County, about two miles from my father. She
used to ride a mare called "Kit." Whenever we would see grandma
coming up the avenue, the whole lot of children, white and black, ran
to meet her. She always carried on the horn of her saddle a handbag,
then called a "reticule," and in that she always brought us some
little treat, most generally a cut off of a loaf of sugar, that used to be
sold in the shape of a long loaf of bread. We would follow her down
to the stile, where she would get off, and delight us all by taking something
good to eat out of the "reticule." We would tie old Kit, and then
take our turn in petting the colt. The first grief I remember to have
had was when I heard of the death of my grandmother. I wanted to
see her so badly and go to the funeral, and for weeks I would go off
by myself and cry about her death. I used to love to lie and sit on
her grave at the back of the garden. Older people often forget the
sorrows of childhood, but I felt keenly the injustice of not being allowed
to see her dead face and do to this day.
We left that home, when I was about five years old, for a place
about two miles from Danville, Kentucky. The house had a flat roof, the
first one built in that county; it had an observatory on top. Our nearest
neighbors were Mr. Banford's family, Mr. Caldwell, and Mr. Spears.
Dr. Jackson and Dr. Smith were both our physicians, and my father
used to hire his physicians by the year.
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