"You mean you lookin for a job?"
"Well, no Mam, not exactly. You see I was already told I would be workin in Mr. O'Brien's employ. It was a matter of reportin here today at this hour. I got my papers right here." Obadiah reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sealed brown envelope. He pulled another paper out his pocket. "You see Mam, it says right here."
"I can very well read it myself thank you very much boy." She snatched the envelope and paper out of his hand, opened the sealed envelope, browsed over the papers , and gave it all back to him. "Well, now you just sit right on back down there on that crate. Mr. O'Brien will be along shortly. He had a delivery."
"Thank you Mam." Obadiah put the envelope back in his pocket and sat back down.
Within the next hour, a wagon with a spirited chestnut-colored mare out front, pulled up near where Obadiah was sitting.
"Whoa Nelly." A lanky, gruffy-looking white man stepped down off the wagon and tied the reins to a hitching post by the shop's entrance. The horse, sweating profusely lowered his head to drink from a watering trough nearby. The man, dressed in a long-sleeve, red flannel shirt, with the cuffs turned to the elbow, pulled a bandanna out of his back pocket wiped his brow. He looked up at the sun. "Whew." He beckoned to Obadiah. "You must be Obadiah?" O'Brien glanced and nodded his head up and down.
"Yes sir, I am one and the same." Obadiah rose to his feet and handed the envelope to the white man now in front of him. "I'm ready to start work whenever you ready, sir."
"Good boy," the pale-skin man said, pushing the bandanna back into his pocket. "You can get started by helpin me to unload this wagon here and gettin those chairs you see inside the shop. I can see we gonna get along jest fine. What's your last name boy?"
"Creole is my last name sir." The two of them started unloading the wagon.
"Then what's your first name?"
"Mister! I'm Mister Obadiah." O'Brien jerked his head up in astonishment. "My mama named me just like that. Mister Obadiah Creole."
"Well I'll be damned." O'Brien shook his head vigorously and proceeded to join Obadiah in removing chairs from the wagon.
Wednesday, April 17, 2019
Thursday, January 24, 2019
WEEKSVILLE NEAR THE HUNTERFLY ROAD -CHAPTER 2
The Hunterfly Road was a route to commute back and forth to the ferry landing downtown Brooklyn. Old Simon knew the road like the back of his hand. He had traveled it for years. The road was once an old Indian path that led from the outskirts of Bedford Corners where it curved near
Weeksville Village, down through Crows Hill, another free Black community and ending up at the Wampum Trading Post run by the Canarsie Indians. They sold blankets, fresh fish and other staples used by the villagers.
Old Simon yelled out some command to his mule team and sped them up. From the ferry landing Obadiah would ride the ferry across the East River into lower Manhattan and the Five Points section. This was his first trip across the river. From the ferry he looked out into the swirling murky waters and wondered about what to expect when he reached the shore. He could not be certain how he would be received. Free men of color were probably not an unusual sight on the streets of Five Points, but he could not be sure.
The directions that Old Simon and Catfish, the Black man who ran the ferry boat were clear enough. Once he got off the ferry he was to walk south to Mulberry Street until he could go no further. That would put him in front of the of O'Brien's farm house. Timothy O'Brien was not a bad man. That is not to say he was a good man either, but he treated folks, even Black folks, in a respectable way. O'Brien was the proprietor of a carpentry shop behind the farmhouse. He made furniture to order for anyone who could afford it;cabinets, bookcases, tables and chairs. He also restored furniture. With his one-horse wagon he would pickup and deliver to his customers throughout Manhattan. Old Simon had once been in the employ of O'Brien. He recommended Obadiah to O'Brian as a good replacement for the same position.
Obadiah arrived at the workshop at the appointed hour. He found that O'Brien was not there and took up a seat on a crate just outside the shop door to wait for him.
"Hey boy, what you doin hangin round my daddy's place. You better get outta here now, you hear me?" Obadiah looked up to see a red-faced woman gesturing at him from an arm-distance away. He jumped up from the crate with his hat in his hand. His eyes staring down more at the ground than at the tow-headed woman.
"Begging you pardon mam," he said in a quiet tone, "but I'm lookin for Mr. Timothy O'Brien."
"And who might you be? And why might you be lookin for him?"
"Well, mam, my name is Mister Obadiah, and I have an appointment to see Mr. O'Brien about a position in his establishment."
"You mean you lookin for a job?"
"Well, no mam, not exactly, you see I was told I would be working in his employ as an apprentice in his carpentry shop."
Weeksville Village, down through Crows Hill, another free Black community and ending up at the Wampum Trading Post run by the Canarsie Indians. They sold blankets, fresh fish and other staples used by the villagers.
Old Simon yelled out some command to his mule team and sped them up. From the ferry landing Obadiah would ride the ferry across the East River into lower Manhattan and the Five Points section. This was his first trip across the river. From the ferry he looked out into the swirling murky waters and wondered about what to expect when he reached the shore. He could not be certain how he would be received. Free men of color were probably not an unusual sight on the streets of Five Points, but he could not be sure.
The directions that Old Simon and Catfish, the Black man who ran the ferry boat were clear enough. Once he got off the ferry he was to walk south to Mulberry Street until he could go no further. That would put him in front of the of O'Brien's farm house. Timothy O'Brien was not a bad man. That is not to say he was a good man either, but he treated folks, even Black folks, in a respectable way. O'Brien was the proprietor of a carpentry shop behind the farmhouse. He made furniture to order for anyone who could afford it;cabinets, bookcases, tables and chairs. He also restored furniture. With his one-horse wagon he would pickup and deliver to his customers throughout Manhattan. Old Simon had once been in the employ of O'Brien. He recommended Obadiah to O'Brian as a good replacement for the same position.
Obadiah arrived at the workshop at the appointed hour. He found that O'Brien was not there and took up a seat on a crate just outside the shop door to wait for him.
"Hey boy, what you doin hangin round my daddy's place. You better get outta here now, you hear me?" Obadiah looked up to see a red-faced woman gesturing at him from an arm-distance away. He jumped up from the crate with his hat in his hand. His eyes staring down more at the ground than at the tow-headed woman.
"Begging you pardon mam," he said in a quiet tone, "but I'm lookin for Mr. Timothy O'Brien."
"And who might you be? And why might you be lookin for him?"
"Well, mam, my name is Mister Obadiah, and I have an appointment to see Mr. O'Brien about a position in his establishment."
"You mean you lookin for a job?"
"Well, no mam, not exactly, you see I was told I would be working in his employ as an apprentice in his carpentry shop."
Thursday, January 17, 2019
ABOUT WEEKSVILLE
WEEKSVILLE was a 19th century Black community located in the ninth ward of Brooklyn, New York. It was named for JAMES WEEKS, a Black man who purchased land there in 1838 from the Lefferts family estate.
There were earlier Black landowners, however they did not live there and the area became known as WEEKSVILLE.
"Mr. Weeks, a stevedore and a respected man of the community owned a handsome dwelling at Schenectady and Atlantic Avenues." (The New York Age - 1906)
There were earlier Black landowners, however they did not live there and the area became known as WEEKSVILLE.
"Mr. Weeks, a stevedore and a respected man of the community owned a handsome dwelling at Schenectady and Atlantic Avenues." (The New York Age - 1906)
Tuesday, January 15, 2019
THE WEEKSVILLE PROJECT
No parts of this publication may be reproduced without permission of the publisher. Published by Key-In Media Productions. Email: keyinmediaproductions@yahoo.com.
(c) 2019 - All Rights Reserved
WEEKSVILLE, NEAR THE HUNTERFLY ROAD
CHAPTER ONE
By the dawn's early light, Obadiah could see from his window the star cluster known as the drinking gourd fading from the sky. He had heard many stories about how slaves in the South followed that star to freedom as it led them North. Having been born free, he could only imagine what that experience must have been like.
It would soon be day, and he was looking forward to starting his first day as Mr. O'Brien's apprentice. He would be learning a skilled trade that would help him to gain his own personal freedom as a man. He would soon be a carpenter.
"Okay, boy, you better get to steppin', Old Simon gon' be here soon, breakfast 'bout ready." Obadiah turned over in his bed as his mother brushed past on her way to the stove. The smell of hot coffee perking in the pot on the stove and salt pork bacon sizzling in the frying pan stirred his senses. He pulled on his overalls and headed out back to the pump to wash up. He hurried his steps. He should have been up and ready. He must have fell back to sleep, dreaming he was already woke..Back in the kitchen at the table he quickly ate the eggs, salt pork and bread his mother served him and washed it down with hot coffee. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, pushed his chair back from the table and stretched his legs. He stood up yawning.
"Git on down the road now boy. Old Simon gon' be here soon."
"Kay Mama, I am."
"Don't see why I gotta keep tellin you the same thing over and over."
"Mama, I'm leavin."
"Don't forget your lunch bag now."
"Kay Mama. See you at suppertime." Walking over to the stove where she busied herself stirring in a huge pot, Obadiah hugged his mother and kissed her on the side of the face.
"Boy get on outta here with that nonsense," she cackled, "Old Simon gon be here directly." Obadiah headed out the door and down the porch steps. He looked back to see his mother watching him, wiping her hands in her apron and smiling from ear to ear.
"Bye Mama." He waved and ran down the road. From a distance he could see Old Simon's grey mule team and wagon, with a few passengers pulling up to the sign post at the corner of Hunterfly Road. He hurried along to get on the wagon. (to be continued)
(c) 2019 - All Rights Reserved
WEEKSVILLE, NEAR THE HUNTERFLY ROAD
CHAPTER ONE
By the dawn's early light, Obadiah could see from his window the star cluster known as the drinking gourd fading from the sky. He had heard many stories about how slaves in the South followed that star to freedom as it led them North. Having been born free, he could only imagine what that experience must have been like.
It would soon be day, and he was looking forward to starting his first day as Mr. O'Brien's apprentice. He would be learning a skilled trade that would help him to gain his own personal freedom as a man. He would soon be a carpenter.
"Okay, boy, you better get to steppin', Old Simon gon' be here soon, breakfast 'bout ready." Obadiah turned over in his bed as his mother brushed past on her way to the stove. The smell of hot coffee perking in the pot on the stove and salt pork bacon sizzling in the frying pan stirred his senses. He pulled on his overalls and headed out back to the pump to wash up. He hurried his steps. He should have been up and ready. He must have fell back to sleep, dreaming he was already woke..Back in the kitchen at the table he quickly ate the eggs, salt pork and bread his mother served him and washed it down with hot coffee. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, pushed his chair back from the table and stretched his legs. He stood up yawning.
"Git on down the road now boy. Old Simon gon' be here soon."
"Kay Mama, I am."
"Don't see why I gotta keep tellin you the same thing over and over."
"Mama, I'm leavin."
"Don't forget your lunch bag now."
"Kay Mama. See you at suppertime." Walking over to the stove where she busied herself stirring in a huge pot, Obadiah hugged his mother and kissed her on the side of the face.
"Boy get on outta here with that nonsense," she cackled, "Old Simon gon be here directly." Obadiah headed out the door and down the porch steps. He looked back to see his mother watching him, wiping her hands in her apron and smiling from ear to ear.
"Bye Mama." He waved and ran down the road. From a distance he could see Old Simon's grey mule team and wagon, with a few passengers pulling up to the sign post at the corner of Hunterfly Road. He hurried along to get on the wagon. (to be continued)
Friday, February 24, 2017
ALONG THE MEADOW
I took a portion
Of that swampy road
Today to stalk my past
South east down the
Old Indian path to the
Wampun beds of
Jamaica Bay where Native
Americans traveled with their
Fish and corn harvests
Where ghost of years gone by
Their spirits lingering
In the salty air
Push me onward
LEADING LADY
Brooklyn, N.Y. 1861
Madame Phoebe
Weeksville's leading lady
Strolls near the Hunterfly Road
Elegant in custom-made attire
All eyes on her.
An aura of importance
Surrounding this respectable
Shop owner:
Dubois' Millenary
A quarter mile over on Utica Avenue
Where patterns are sewn
For a reasonable cost.
ABOUT THE WEEKSVILLE PROJECT
The "Weeksville Project" is a novel, "Weeksville, Near the Hunterfly Road" (2012), and a series of poems that depict life in the 1830-90 community of Weeksville. in Brooklyn, New York.
I discovered knowledge about Weeksville, it's culture and history, in 1984 as an undergraduate at the College of New Rochelle, DC 37 Campus. Ms Joan Maynard, Director of the Society for the Preservation Weeksville was a guest speaker in one of my classes.
The story of Weeksville has always intrigued the hell out of me.
This project attempts to recreate the experiences of these Black people from all walks of life through poetry. It will be in the vein of Gwendolyn Brook’s, "A Street in Bronzeville," and Marilyn Nelson's "My Seneca Village." It specifically draws influence from these two books, but is inspired by the experiences of countless other poets who were moved in the same way.
For this project I will deal with Weeksville from it's earliest beginnings until the turn of the 19th century.
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