Roots_ The Saga of an American Family - Alex Haley [306]
“Amen! ... Amen!” others echoed up and down the table. Then Matilda, Gran’mammy Kizzy, and Sister Sarah began shuttling back and forth, setting heaped and steaming bowls and platters at intervals along the table, and urging all to help themselves, before they also finally sat back down. For several minutes not a word was spoken as everyone ate as if they were starving, with appreciative grunts and smacking noises. Then, after a while, with either Matilda or Kizzy refilling his glass with fresh buttermilk or putting more hot meat, vegetables, and cornbread on his plate, they began plying Tom with questions.
“Po’ thing, is dey feedin’ you any good over yonder? Who cook fo’ you anyhow?” asked Matilda.
Tom chewed his mouthful enough to reply, “Mr. Isaiah’s wife, Miss Emma.”
“What color she is, what she look like?” asked Kizzy.
“She black, sorta fat.”
“Dat ain’t got nothin’ to do wid ’er cookin’!” guffawed Chicken George. “She cook any good, boy?”
“Pretty fair, Pappy, yassuh,” Tom nodded affirmatively.
“Well, ain’t like yo’ own mammy’s nohow!” snapped Sister Sarah. Tom murmured agreeably, “No’m,” thinking how indignant Miss Emma would have been to hear them, and how indignant they’d be to know that she was a better cook.
“Her an’ dat blacksmith man, is dey good Christian folks?”
“Yes’m, dey is,” he said. “’specially Miss Emma, she read de Bible a whole lots.”
Tom was just finishing his third plateful when his mammy and gran’mammy descended on him with still more, despite his vigorous headshaking. He managed a muffled protest: “Save sump’n for L’il George when he come!”
“Plenty lef for ’im an’ you knows it!” said Matilda. “Have’nother piece dis fried rabbit ... l’il mo’ dese collard greens ... an’ dis stewed winter squash. An’ Malizy done sent down a great big sweet ’tater custard from de dinner she servin’ in de big house. Y’all knows how good dat is—”
Tom had started forking into the custard when Uncle Pompey cleared his throat to speak, and everyone hushed up to hear him. “Boy, is you shoein’ mules an’ hosses yet?”
“Dey lets me pull off de ol’ shoes, but I ain’t put none on yet,” said Tom, thinking how only the previous day it had been necessary to hobble a vicious mule before it could be shod. Loudly Chicken George hooted, “’speck he ain’t got ’nough good hard mule kicks yet to be broke in good! Mighty easy to mess up hosses’ foots less’n somebody know what he doin’! Heared ’bout one blacksmith nigger put de shoes on backwards, an’ dat hoss wouldn’t do nothin’ but back up!” When he quit laughing at his own joke, Chicken George asked, “How much y’all git for shoein’ hosses an’ mules?”
“B’lieves de mens pays Massa Askew fo’teen cents a shoe,” said Tom.
“Sho’ ain’t no money in it like fightin’ chickens!” Chicken George exclaimed.
“Well, it’s sho’ plenty mo’ use o’ blacksmithin’ dan it is dem chickens!” snapped Gran’mammy Kizzy, her tone so cutting that Tom wanted to jump up and hug her. Then she went on, her voice suddenly tender, “Son, what de man have you doin’ in learnin’ you how to blacksmith?”
Tom was glad she asked, for he wanted to share with his family some idea of what he was doing. “Well, Gran’mammy, early every mornin’ I has de forge fire goin’ good by time Mr. Isaiah gits dere. Den I lays out de tools I knows he gwine need for de jobs he gwine be doin’. ’Cause when you shapin’ red-hot iron, can’t let it be coolin’ down while you hunts for de right hammers to hit it wid—”
“Lawd, de chile blacksmithin’ already!” exclaimed Sister Sarah.
“No’m,” said Tom. “I be’s what dey calls a ‘striker.’ If Mr. Isaiah makin’ sump’n heavy, like