Now he makes sense. Finally.

Letters Of Note

(In August of 1865, a Colonel P.H. Anderson of Big Spring, Tennessee, wrote to his former slave, Jourdan Anderson, and requested that he come back to work on his farm. Jourdan — who, since being emancipated, had moved to Ohio, found paid work, and was now supporting his family — responded spectacularly by way of the letter seen below (a letter which, according to newspapers at the time, he dictated).

Rather than quote the numerous highlights in this letter, I’ll simply leave you to enjoy it. Do make sure you read to the end.

Source: The Freedmen’s Book; Image: A group of escaped slaves in Virginia in 1862, courtesy of the Library of Congress.)

Dayton, Ohio,

August 7, 1865

To My Old Master, Colonel P.H. Anderson, Big Spring, Tennessee

Sir: I got your letter, and was glad to find that you had not forgotten Jourdon, and that you wanted me to come back and live with you again, promising to do better for me than anybody else can. I have often felt uneasy about you. I thought the Yankees would have hung you long before this, for harboring Rebs they found at your house. I suppose they never heard about your going to Colonel Martin’s to kill the Union soldier that was left by his company in their stable. Although you shot at me twice before I left you, I did not want to hear of your being hurt, and am glad you are still living. It would do me good to go back to the dear old home again, and see Miss Mary and Miss Martha and Allen, Esther, Green, and Lee. Give my love to them all, and tell them I hope we will meet in the better world, if not in this. I would have gone back to see you all when I was working in the Nashville Hospital, but one of the neighbors told me that Henry intended to shoot me if he ever got a chance.

I want to know particularly what the good chance is you propose to give me. I am doing tolerably well here. I get twenty-five dollars a month, with victuals and clothing; have a comfortable home for Mandy,—the folks call her Mrs. Anderson,—and the children—Milly, Jane, and Grundy—go to school and are learning well. The teacher says Grundy has a head for a preacher. They go to Sunday school, and Mandy and me attend church regularly. We are kindly treated. Sometimes we overhear others saying, “Them colored people were slaves” down in Tennessee. The children feel hurt when they hear such remarks; but I tell them it was no disgrace in Tennessee to belong to Colonel Anderson. Many darkeys would have been proud, as I used to be, to call you master. Now if you will write and say what wages you will give me, I will be better able to decide whether it would be to my advantage to move back again.

As to my freedom, which you say I can have, there is nothing to be gained on that score, as I got my free papers in 1864 from the Provost-Marshal-General of the Department of Nashville. Mandy says she would be afraid to go back without some proof that you were disposed to treat us justly and kindly; and we have concluded to test your sincerity by asking you to send us our wages for the time we served you. This will make us forget and forgive old scores, and rely on your justice and friendship in the future. I served you faithfully for thirty-two years, and Mandy twenty years. At twenty-five dollars a month for me, and two dollars a week for Mandy, our earnings would amount to eleven thousand six hundred and eighty dollars. Add to this the interest for the time our wages have been kept back, and deduct what you paid for our clothing, and three doctor’s visits to me, and pulling a tooth for Mandy, and the balance will show what we are in justice entitled to. Please send the money by Adams’s Express, in care of V. Winters, Esq., Dayton, Ohio. If you fail to pay us for faithful labors in the past, we can have little faith in your promises in the future. We trust the good Maker has opened your eyes to the wrongs which you and your fathers have done to me and my fathers, in making us toil for you for generations without recompense. Here I draw my wages every Saturday night; but in Tennessee there was never any pay-day for the negroes any more than for the horses and cows. Surely there will be a day of reckoning for those who defraud the laborer of his hire.

In answering this letter, please state if there would be any safety for my Milly and Jane, who are now grown up, and both good-looking girls. You know how it was with poor Matilda and Catherine. I would rather stay here and starve—and die, if it come to that—than have my girls brought to shame by the violence and wickedness of their young masters. You will also please state if there has been any schools opened for the colored children in your neighborhood. The great desire of my life now is to give my children an education, and have them form virtuous habits.

Say howdy to George Carter, and thank him for taking the pistol from you when you were shooting at me.

From your old servant,

Jourdon Anderson.

That, my friends, is an American. I love his voice, and the delicacy of his thought.

Many Republicans (claim? C.E.) that slavery is all behind us now, and black people should be grateful for their freedom in the Land Of Opportunity, and that they should shut up and get a job and stop taking food stamps from the food stamp President, who’s not even a real American like the mean-mouthed and cruel bigots saying these things, who daily strive to shift the playing field to hoard their ill-gotten gains whilst claiming that they are somehow the noblest of capitalists; but I think that slavery is right behind us, grinning with its ugly mouth through the eyes of the ill-educated and still-angry-about-the-Civil-War successors to the old whipmasters.

Right behind us.

Someone once said “Shame and guilt have no redeeming value, unless you’re a conservative; then, it’s all that keeps you from serial murder and mayhem.”

Oh, it was me.

“Hilfstadt! See if they can hear us,” he nearly shouted. “And get some men over there!” All eyes were on the black lake, while Hilfstadt depressed the lever and spoke into the microphone. Falkenhayn looked to the radio, waiting for an answer — but nothing came from the speakers. Hilfstadt tried a few more times, and then nodded at Lieutenant Pedersen. “Get a platoon out there. Tell the men to be very careful as they step, there’s a lot of buried ordnance and bogholes to get sucked down into. But get a move on. And call for trucks, and cable. Get cables and a lot of rope.” The major returned his attention to the radio as Lieutenant Pedersen scrambled to carry out his instructions. Within minutes, twenty grey-helmeted men were edging their way down toward the battlefield while another twenty scavenged the staff cars and trucks for rope.

I heard Raisin was hanging around, so this seems like it might be appreciated.

even if you don’t understand what’s being said, you’ll understand what’s being said… n’est pas vrai? ouais….

I think they’re scary. Especially with a trace of Shoshone to amp up the dance-dance madness.

I prefer to watch German/Viking/Assyrians dance:

New hi-def pic from NASA

I’m not one of the people that have a long list of grievances with this particular fellow. A short list, perhaps, and mostly minor.

I tend to think we don’t deserve him. I think we’re extraordinarily lucky he came along. And once he’s gone, I think we’ll miss him. Terribly.

45 to 48 percent of registered voters would vote for either Newt Gingrich or Mitt Romney over Barack Obama. This fact bodes quite ill for our fate as a nation, I think. Clearly.

Lucky.

Colyn Fischer takes a solemn moment to address the haggis at the Second Friends of Burns gathering on the occasion of Robert Burns’ 253rd birthday.

Yes, I had my first haggis today. Have no fear, ’twas a vegan haggis to be sure. So, perhaps it wasn’t a real haggis then. The beast that Colyn addressed in the picture above was the genuine article stuffed in a cow’s stomach and all.

The occasion was magnificent. The location was the same as that where Planet My Love was recently performed, at the home of Shauna Pickett-Gordon, aka my music teacher. The picture below features Shauna on keyboard along with several fiddlers including Colyn (an absolutely amazing musician) and Jim Tillotson beside him (the guy who played violin on the recent PML).

The 12 yr-old laddie over Shauna’s shoulder had been playing for all of two months but looks to have a fine future. That’s his mom playing beside him. There were many toasts to Robert Burns’ memory, to the haggis, to all the lads and lasses, and much premium scotch woggled. Twas a fine time!

Sofi and I even got in the act briefly by reciting a Burns love poem in English and Russian. Turns out Burns is much beloved in Russia and she had known of him since she was a wee lass. Best of all, there was some incredible music performed in a most intimate setting - all about two blocks from our home.

Robbie would have been proud I’m sure.