The farm my father purchased in 1920 was referred to as the “Hicklin place” because it was a hundred and sixty acres carved from the Hicklin plantation. The designation “plantation” was given to land owned by a farmer if he had at least twenty slaves. The graveyard for the Hicklin slaves was on our farm. My father plowed around it, so it survived as a weed patch with tumble-down tombstones. As a kid, I sometimes walked there to have a look. It always gave me the creeps, especially when I noticed how many of the stones marked the resting place for children. I wondered what they had looked like and why they had died so young.
|By: Robert W Fuller Sunday December 15, 2013 8:37 am|
During my first week in office at Oberlin, a professor, twenty years my senior, had dropped by my office to wish me well. As he left he said, “Good-bye, Dad”—those very words! I thought it was a joke until I saw the expression on his face: it was that of a little boy. The words that had escaped his lips had nothing to do with me as an individual, everything to do with my office and title.
|By: emptywheel Monday November 8, 2010 12:30 pm|
Today’s news will be dominated with Bush’s admission that Cheney was mad at him for not pardoning Libby. As the press is distracted with a rehashing of the successful cover-up of one of Bush’s crimes, we ought to remember that today marks the successful cover-up of a more horrible crime.