5

Alabama "Uncle Bud" Ryland 5

"I remember how you always seemed to be watching out
for something, or somebody," I interrupted.

"Yes," he answered, "I was afear'd in them days; I
was afear'd that I mought do somethin' that'd send me t'
th' chain gang. Hit's an awfully big relief t' know thet
all thet business is done with. Sometimes the Good Lord
do take trouble away fer a soul. He done hit fer me."

I ventured, "What happened--did some enemy die?"

Ha puffed several times at his pipe.

"Sometimes they die," he slurred.

"Uncle Bud" Ryland vows that he has no complaints to
make against life. He can neither read nor write, but he
blames his illiteracy upon himself. Unlike many of the
hundreds who eke out a bare livelihood along the big river,
he does not wish to leave. He has lived here so long that,
in his own words, he "has tuk roots." Many times, he has
little or nothing to eat. He has only one pair of pants and
a couple of blue work shirts, but he does not mind that.
He says, "I earn my own way--I allus have; hain't nobody
ever had me t' feed."

Sitting there in the darkness, I asked him to tell
me about his past life; about the wife and children he
had mentioned vaguely; about his views on present conditions
in the outside world.

He said, "They ain't nothin' wuth tellin'. I got
seven kids, but my wife, she's been dead goin' on twenty
years. Six of my kids live in West Virginny. Two is
boys, both coal miners; an' my four gals married coal
miners. I got one boy thet lives up th' river a piece an'

382

Alabama "Uncle Bud" Ryland 5

"I remember how you always seemed to be watching out
for something, or somebody," I interrupted.

"Yes," he answered, "I was afear'd in them days; I
was afear'd that I mought do somethin' that'd send me t'
th' chain gang. Hit's an awfully big relief t' know thet
all thet business is done with. Sometimes the Good Lord
do take trouble away fer a soul. He done hit fer me."

I ventured, "What happened--did some enemy die?"

Ha puffed several times at his pipe.

"Sometimes they die," he slurred.

"Uncle Bud" Ryland vows that he has no complaints to
make against life. He can neither read nor write, but he
blames his illiteracy upon himself. Unlike many of the
hundreds who eke out a bare livelihood along the big river,
he does not wish to leave. He has lived here so long that,
in his own words, he "has tuk roots." Many times, he has
little or nothing to eat. He has only one pair of pants and
a couple of blue work shirts, but he does not mind that.
He says, "I earn my own way--I allus have; hain't nobody
ever had me t' feed."

Sitting there in the darkness, I asked him to tell
me about his past life; about the wife and children he
had mentioned vaguely; about his views on present conditions
in the outside world.

He said, "They ain't nothin' wuth tellin'. I got
seven kids, but my wife, she's been dead goin' on twenty
years. Six of my kids live in West Virginny. Two is
boys, both coal miners; an' my four gals married coal
minirs. I got one boy thet lives up th' river a piece an'

382