The first pair of shoes I remember wearing was made out of wood. They made an awful noise while I was walking and of course they did not bend. This made walking very awkward.

But the worst experience of all was wearing those flax shirts that were given to slaves. They were made of the cheapest and roughest part. I would have preferred to wear nothing at all. It seemed as though there were a dozen or more pinpoints digging into my skin.

My brother John, who was several years older than me, was kind enough to wear my new shirts long enough to break them in. This was one of the most generous acts that one slave relative could perform for another.

Until I grew up, this was all that I wore.