American Folklife Center, Library of Congress
Alan Lomax Collection (AFC 2004/004)
folder 12.02.62
field work
Georgia, Florida and Bahamas, 1935
correspondence

Eatonville,
Monday, June 22, 1935.

Dear Family,
     The party plans to leave here this morning for Lake Okeechobee.,
There Zora will organize some primitive Negro dancing for our camera
and recording machine, while Miss Barnicle and I call on Mr. Henson,
commissioner for Seminole Indians.   I feel sure that he will be able
to get me some Seminole Indian singers; for he is supposed to be closer 
to strange, proud Seminoles than any white man alive.  In return for 
his favors I may make some dialect records that he can use in his own work.
     Our four days here have been profitable, although in no such degree
as the week at St. Simons.  This village is the first incorporated 
Negro town in the United States.  Along about eighteen eighty, the Negroes
won the election in Maitland, Florida, and elected a Negro mayor.  The
white folks gently suggested that they better get their own town so they 
could run everything to suit themselves.  Two or three white men got
together and gave the land, the Negroes largely moved out of Maitland 
(which is only a mile away) and settled down in their own little place with
two Negro police and a Negro mayor to govern them.  The white people of 
this part of the country have left them to themselves pretty much for the
past fifty years.  Most of its inhabitants (pop. 350) either work in the 
orange groves or in the kitchens of the rich white folks who vacation 
in Winter park.  Most of them have been North.  Most of them have at least
a sixth grade education.  In view of their closeness to white communities 
and white people and in spite of their sophistication, there are still
lots of folk-songs and folk-tales in the air.  And it is a friendly place
where croquet, coon-can, murder, orange picking, and love affairs are 
part of the routine and are so accepted.  It is the most irreligious 
Negro community that I know of.  Hardly anyone goes to church on Sunday.  Not
that I, having gone, can blame them much-- the preaching is so bad.  Which
is largely the reason the church members themselves don't go.
     Yesterday which established the low in recordings so far, I went down
to the Methodist Church, struggling along with the machine myself in the broiling 
midafternoon sun.  The minister had a great bellied frock coat on
that reached almost to his knees and a black Stetson hat sat on the back of
his head.  He had a deep base voice, like the roar of the sea-elephant.  I
expected great things.  When the sermon began, I turned on my machine.
And what did the old fool preacher do?   He read a philosophical, theological
discussion of the relation between general providence and special providence.
The groaned and howled and moaned and mumbled his way through this heavy
seadof words for a half hour and then abruptly stoped.  Even though his congregation 
had not sung one song or said one amen in the course of his talk, 
the old fool rocked back and forth from heel to toe, thumbs in the armholes
of his vest, and cackled with peasure at his own performance.  When I played
the records back, the congregation stood around and screamed with laughter,
as was only proper and right.  The poor old man, who had told us that he
wanted to be eddicated in his first appearance before the world, paced in
and out the church door nervously and ashamed, and then fled to his own house.

      Otherwise this has been an interesting four days.  Zora had found 
about here a young giant of a Negro, named Gabriel Brown, whom I judge
to be the most accomplished guitar player I have so far heard, especially
with a knife.  He doesn't have the fire or the passion of Lead Belly, but
his tricks and turns and titillations on the guitar are something marvelous.
He is a sweet persona and quite young.  I have written to Mr. Satherley
about him.  We have recorded a few worksongs, a few spirituals and some 
game songs.  One version of Casey Jones and of Frankie, but otherwise no
ballads.  These two make three ballads for the trip when the version of 
Railroad Bill we recorded in Frederica is counted.  Lots of John Henry
all over the place.
     The machine does beautiful work, now that I have learned how to handle
and cater to its few idiosyncrasies.  Miss Barnicle, Zora, and I make a 
reasonable happy combination although at times I have to act as a buffer
between the two ladies.  But Zora is worth a lot to both of us, since
she can really tell us and really does tell us about the people we come
in contact with.
     Miss Barnicle is spending her July, August and September salaries on
this trip.  For the past ten days I have been living off her bounty, I
along with the car, the recording machine, and our guide, Miss Hurston.
Since we are doing such good work, since we are working so hard and successfully,
since you and I and the Library are going to get the credit and the 
results of the expedition, I think I ought to pay at least my share of the
expenses.  We are living very cheaply.  Zora arranges it so that we have 
no outlay for liquor or tips in this country.  But I do need money.  I don't
know how you expected me to be able to cash a check, or why you wanted us
to spend our time trying to case a check when we need all our nervous energy
for the job we have to do.  Please in the future send me money orders or 
cash in a registered letter.  I haven't been able to go to the post office or
the telegraph office as yet to see whether you have sent the money as I
wired, but I hope you have; because Miss Barnicle is fast running out of
cash what with bearing all the expenses...  Before I forget it.  I have 
advised Miss Barnicle to ask Mr. Thompson to bill you for the hundred records
she had sent to Brunswick and to save her money to have whatever copies 
she needs made for her work.  I trust you will see the reasonableness of 
this and write from your end.
     Mabe you and Miss Terrill can meet the three of us at Tallehassee at
the end of July and we can work the penitentiary together. I do not 
believe we'll be through our work in the lower part of this state much before 
that time.  The charming six year old Negro girl is watching me write
this says "They call me Cooter, 'cause I go round and find a big ol' 
gopher name cooter."  My love to all my dear family,

                                                                      Alan
Next address:  West Palm Beach, Fla.

Transcribed and reviewed by volunteers participating in the By The People project at crowd.loc.gov.