House Slave on Hopkins Plantation

This is my story, please give credit where credit is due.
Thank you and enjoy…I am thinking about writing more. Johncrinshaw1

October 19, 1861
Wilmington, North Carolina
Planter James Hopkins Plantation

When the air turns cool and crisp, it seems the energy it takes to get out of a warm bed becomes insurmountable. Looking out the bedroom window at the sun, as it begins its daily peak over the eastern most hill of the plantation, I gather my will and toss the covers off and heavily flop my feet to the cold floor. My robe is unfortunately right where I piled it the night before. For a brief moment, my thoughts travel back to three days prior. One of our house slaves had unfortunately drawn the ire of the home matriarch (Mrs. Chandler) and after a plantation display of disapproval by one of our best drivers; she was sold to the Lee plantation over in the next county. I have never been one to be attached to property but I genuinely liked her, she was always right there with whatever was needed…this may have been what brought about her demise with Mrs. Chandler. My robe has not been warmed by the fire and laid out for me since she was forced out. Putting on my cold cotton robe, I walk to the window and slide it open. Breathing in the fall Carolina air, the smell of drying tobacco enters my nostrils and upon exhale, I can see my breath. My mind checks off the daily tasks that are to be completed today. It is auction day in town.

Finishing my shave, and putting on my best Sunday attire, (complete with Grandfathers pocket watch from Sweden), I open my chamber door. The smell of warm bread and breakfast floats down the great hall as I head for the dining room. I smile, knowing that earlier, seven year old, Peter (my waiting boy) must have heard me waking up behind the door to my room and he must have hurried to report to the kitchen staff that I had awakened and would soon be wanting my first meal of the day. He must have been waiting behind my door for at least an hour, as he has been trained to do since the beginning of his transfer to house help status. This thought always brightens my mood, he has great potential showing for when he gets older, even if his skin is dark as night.

Breakfast is indeed fulfilling, grits laden with butter, eggs with fatback, and a good strong coffee blend to wash it down. Once again the kitchen staff have proven their worth, a great investment two years ago. Even my dinner parties and evening company have discussed amongst their circles about the food from the dinner table on the Hopkins Plantation. A good investment indeed, for I love the fact that my social status is growing within the community. Grandfather, God rest his soul, would be proud. And now to start the days tasks. Peter is waiting at the entry door with my hat, cloak, and walking cane. Beaming, his white teeth create such a stark contrast against his dark skin, he tells me, “Morn’in Masser Hopkins” and as usual is secretly hoping for one of my treats that I keep in the left pocket of my vest. Satisfied with his work so far, I reach in and hand him a piece of peppermint. He closes the door behind me and as I look in the distance, I see Charlie herding the cows out to the pasture for the day. Looking to the north, the long line of field slaves can be seen heading out to work in the cane fields.