Of my father, I know next to nothing. I do not even know his name. I heard that he was a white man from a nearby plantation. Whoever he was, he took no interest in me at all. I do not blame him though. He was just another victim of the institution of slavery that existed in this country.

My mother was the plantation cook. And she did all of the cooking in our cabin, which was about fourteen by sixteen feet square. There was no cooking-stove on the plantation. My mother had to do all of the cooking, for both whites and slaves, over an open fireplace in mostly pots and skillets.

My mother's husband was the stepfather of my brother John and me. He lived on another plantation and he seldom came to the one we lived on. I remember him visiting about once a year, mostly around Christmas.