Memories!

Precious memories make me loath to leave that queer little city. But word came at last that the riverboat had returned after taking the first passengers up river. The porto (port) was some distance from the city. How we got there, I can’t remember. But we camped there a day. During the day a sailor man came up to our camp with a large bunch of bananas. (He) said he wanted them cooked three ways: boiled, fried and baked. He said he did not intend to die in debt to his stomach for a bite. f bananas. We had a big laugh, and my mother did as he dir-ected, and that one bunch was enough for a whole group of people. The sailor was stranger to us. The story is told to extol the bananas of Iguape. None such can be found anywhere else in Brazil. Take me back to the land where I first saw bananas, has been my song ever since I left there.

The boat that took us up the river was a kind of makeshift steamboat, accommodating only a few passengers. Consequently we had to go in bunches. Our party was the last. (It was composed of)  only three families. When going at full speed, the boat stopped in midstream. Just as the sun went down, there, we  were unceremoniously dumped into two great dugout canoes. The men in one, women and children in the other. One old lady exclaim-ed, I will not go ashore with no man with us. So a young man got over into our dugout. Of course we were crowd-ed in the bag and baggage. These canoes were manned by two natives, one at each end with poles and oars. The old ladies took it fine, and the girls were gay and flirted with the young man-- but not me! I was scared, for dark-ness soon came on and it began to rain. Imagine us out in the open dugout in the middle of a great river, ignor-ant of when or where we would land. It was no fun-- dark as Egypt except when flashes of lightning showed nothing but water.  The rain became heavy and threatening., And thunder added to the situation.

At last, about midnight, we landed at the port of a big fezenda.. Glad to once more be on land we dragged our dripping selves up a long slippery steep path to the house where some of our people were housed. Among others who met us at the door was a young English man. His good sense helped the mothers. He told us to cover our heads and crawl in among the rough rice that partly filled the great hall. This was done and we soon fell asleep, and awoke the next morning dry as powder to a bright sunny morning, ready for eats and the next adventure.

In the meantime, the men folks in the other canoe had gone ahead. In the dark (they) had missed the landing place and poled on up to a small hut where the, camaradas (companions) landed them. There, they passed the rest of the night round a fire kindled by one loan match my brother, Penny, happened to have in his pocket. Next morning they came back and were glad to find their wives and children all safe and sound.

On continuing the journey next day, nothing of interest transpired except our little incident which came near being serious. A bad boy that had annoyed the colony all the way, god to cutting up as usual and fell overboard into the great, overflowing river. He was only five years old-- Eddie Cook. His dad stood up and yelled:: "Save my child! Save my child!" Though the native men did not understand a word, one of them put the boys dad to shame by jumping out, and after a short swim (he) caught the child and brought him safely back. None but his own family would have cared had he died, but he lived to be a very nice-looking young lad. I saw him years after in Santos and hope his manners improved as much as his looks.

We saw very few houses en-route up river, only now and then a small hut built on the steep banks of the river. These were covered with palm leaves and look more like a corn crib, then a house. We passed one of these with Mr. or. rather Parson Ratcliff had taken shelter with his wife and old Mrs. Weingartner and daughter for com-pany. And there alone was born little Nand Ratcliffe, who lived to be almost a young lady when her dad went back to the States from Villa Americana. After holding the Baptist Church together at the Campo for years, he was left a widower with four children, one a boy, when he took them back to Texas. We next tested place, a small town called Xiririca built on the left bank of the (Ribeira,) just at the point where the river takes a bend to the right. I can’t remember how many days we spent on this trip, but know we camped on the banks in the wild forest. One night’s experience is enough. The rain came down, a steady, general downpour, but by this time we had learned not to mind very much. There was not room to set up the tent, so each took such covering as he had, spread a kind of shelter from one small saplings to another crawled under, and slept with rain dripping all around, too tired and sleepy to fear the oncas (jaguars.)

At last we reached government house, is such could be called "house" covered with palm leaves, walls of palm slats set up picket fashion, 3 inches apart. The house had no windows, no inside divisions, only a door at each end. When our party arrived on the scene, there were several families ensconced in the building, filling it to its utmost capacity. Besides (there were) several tents pitched in the open square cleared for that purpose. Our tent was soon up-- and then began the weary wait, for Frank laid sick at  Col. Bowen’s and no one cared to move till we knew the outcome.

It was a trying time for all, especially Dad and Ma., for they were devoted to him. Frank, when a boy, was one of dad’s pupils, and it was Frank who, when grown-up, led my dad to Texas. His father, old Hugh McMullan, had been a father to my dad when he first started out in life, and finally gave him a homestead in Texas. So the joke on pa was that he'd follow Frank to the end of the world and die for him if need be. And Frank was truly worthy of the devotion.

We must have remained at this house a month or more. The good church people of New York had given us a gift of two boxes of books, principally religious of course-- and many Sunday school books. And with Parson Quillen on hand we had Sunday school with plenty of singing led by Dad. We woke the echoes with songs never heard in those valleys before.

McMullan’s death broke the cords that bound the colony. Dad and a few others went up the river to spy out the country. When they returned, several families set out together each in his own dugout. But soon we separated and went on alone. We camped every night ?( just as we did before, in route to the shack Bowen built.) Some-times (we camped) in a hut called a porto, (a stopping place for travelers.) Such was an open shed, and one of which was stored the largest dugout we had ever seen. We made our beds down in it, believe it or not! Here it rained, so we were there two days and nights.

The most interesting part of this last trip was passing the three great falls. These falls consisted of gradual des-cent over rocks and boulders for a hundred yard(s) or more, waters foaming along between, leaving the rock bare. But the main stream flowed through a channel at the right, at the end of which the waters fell almost per-pendicularly with terrific force. Passenger and baggage had to be lifted over the rock at one side, while the boat had to be pushed up the roaring current by two men, who by main force, with poles in hand, literally lifted to both perpendicular(ly) forcing it upward, the weight depending on the two poles. One wrong move would have been fatal. The channel is about 10 or 12 feet wide and fell at least 20 feet. Such must be seen to be appreciated. It reminds one of Stanley’s travels in Africa.

After this, we went poling on through the dense forest on each side, finally passing the mouth of the Rio do Peixe, then the Guanhanha, then to the mouth of the Areado, our final destination. These three creeks emptied into the Azeite, which at this point took a right angle bend. At this property formed by this abrupt bend was found a typical house of those days, mud daubed, surrounded with orange trees, mandioca plants and other plants. We landed and found two sailor men living there-- pro tem gold seekers. One was named Bob Smith, the other Mr. Crawley. Both were strangers to us. They had quarreled and Crawley had moved over to the opposite bank, built a little hut where he slept rather than share the shelter of his enemy. But (he) had to cross over every day to eat. One could wait at this place on the Azeite. In the open(ing) Mr. Crawley had made, we pitched our tent.

Mr. Tarver had gone before us and had befriended an old Brazilian by the name (of) Camargo. (He) became our good friend for the whole three years we lived (there). He had a wheel for gritting mandioca roots, a press for extracting the white juice which when settled made the starcht called tapioca, and an oven for drying out the farinha (flour.) So he allowed our boys to use his outfit to make our own farinha. They would clean a lot of roots at home, shoulder the load and spend the day, and bring home a bushel of farinha the bread of Brazil at that time. Mrs. Tarver let her feather bed go to this man Camargo. They did not want the feathers, but the cloth is useful so they emptied the bed out into the river, which floated white goose feathers for days.

The rain kept us in camp for several days (the Crawley camp.) The owner of the house opposite had built a shack on the Areado about two miles up, where his family lived at that time. He had a large roca (crop) of corn, sugar cane and bananas, potatoes and the inevitable mandioca. The squatter claim was on the extreme end of the colony grant. Dad bought out his improvements for $50,00 (i.e. 50 milreis), and the poor old cabodo (man from the country) said it was the first time in his life he had so much cash in his hand. We soon moved up and took possession of our new home which was to be for the next three years. This was on 11 August 1866, nearly a year after we left Texas.

The shack was just one long room, walls of palm slats set 3 inches apart and covered with palm leaves, with only one door, and dirt floor. The cooking place was on the ground in a corner, the pots being supported on trivets. And such pots! They were made of mud, burnt like tile and shaped like a flat bowl. Food cooked in these pots is most excellent. Especially canja ( chicken soup) made of new rice and chicken. You should eat tatu (armadillo) cooked in its own shell set on a trivets. Dad and the boys soon made two partitions, forming a hall between two rooms. A lean-to was also made for the kitchen. We had brought a small stove from New York. They knocked up some rude slabs for door shutters, drove short post in the floor for beds. The springs were made of palm slats.

Here he lived for two years on the left bank. The fields lay over on the other side, where they built a nice house and a hog pen.. And by the end of the second year, a good house was erected-- or rather I should say begun. In the meantime, more land was opened up for rice, corn, black beans, and sugar cane. The first year, we suffered for fresh meat, but the boys trapped tatus and other small animals. We also learned to make fish baskets from the natives. So we got along fine. It was tough at first, for the wild birds made such queer noises. We thought it was oncas or other wild beasts. Our days were too busy to feel lonesome until Sunday came. But we had our books for Sunday, until the afternoon, when we small ones would paddle up and down the creek or cross over to the cane patch and chew came.

We had our lessons every night around the rude table dad had made out of a solid slab sawn out of the root of the great figueira tree. This tree had been felled by the cabodo  who said it took three days hard chopping by two men to bring it down. The wide-spreading roots peculiar to the wild figueirae made it so that they had to build a scaffold to stand on at least 12 feet from the ground. I could write a whole page trying to describe this tree, and then miss it. One has to see to understand.

In the time we were getting settled, but Tarver’s had chosen their place-- land where we landed on the bank of the Azeite. And Col. Bowen’s family had moved further up beyond us on the Areado. A wide public road was being opened from the mouth of the Areado to lead over the mountains to the seacoast, where it would reach a town called Peruibe.. Lou Bowen was superintendent of the work, and they built their new house up a ways on this road. But we never went up or down the road without being scared half to death, for fear of the oncas, which were plentiful. Often, troops of monkeys passed overhead, for, wide as the road was, the branches of the great trees met above and easily gave the monkeys a chance to cross. So we had two neighbors. Most of the others settled on the Peixe and Guanhanha. We were able to visit each other quite often. (We three neighbors I mean.)

About this time our oldest brother Eugene decided to make a break for himself, though only 20 years of age. He first went over the mountain, opened a clearing near Peruibe,  built a hut and  planted a crop. He then married Miss Sue Bowen. Parson performed thea marriage at the home of the bride. The following day we had a big dinner at our house, both families being the only guests. About the middle of the day, Mr. Crawley passed by on his way to Peruibe, this being the only way to get salt and other needs, and Mr. Quillen, not been satisfied with-out some outside witness, called the couple in and married him over in Crawley’s presence who signed the paper. Crawley had married the widow Flint and had moved to Peruibe and became Eugene’s neighbor. But he soon left there and went on to Santos, and finally on to Santa Barbara.

The first year was tough, as we had to get used to so many strange sounds, queer birds and animals. The food also was different. Our clean rise gave out. Then we had to clean the rough rice by means of a hand mortar with a pestle. The task fell to us three little ones, me and my two younger brothers, Virgil and Tully. In the afternoon we would beat out enough for breakfast and next morning sufficient for dinner and supper.

For sugar we made molasses of the cane planted by the man who sold us the place. He had left the mill, which consisted of two palm logs about 5 feet long placed horizontally on posts. (The mil)l was turned by hand. Each roller at opposite ends had to cross siticks It took a boy or man at each end to turn the rollers. The cane knots had to be mashed first by an ax or club. One held the cane while the others turned the rollers. It was my task to boil down the juice to molasses-- one bucia (kettle) in the morning, one in the afternoon. The juice fell from the rollers into a wide wooden tray.

From the beginning, we had plenty of bananas-- bananas.da terra (plantains)-- which we baked and called "our sweet cakes". For meal we had a steel hand mill. It was so hard to grind sufficient for bread (that) we soon drop-ped off to bread once a day and substituted farinha. After the first six months we had chicken and made our own bacon.  Of flour we had none, and when hungry for chicken fried, we made canja. we had sweet potatoes, cara (roots of Dioscoria vines), vegetables and onions, also mandioca-mansa (cultivated manioc) and learned to make porviliho (manioc flour cakess and on the whole lived fine.

I am loath to leave the first year of our life on the Iguape rivers and our simple amusements. Fond memories picture us wanderings through the woods, making swings of the hanging vines, following the trail to the boys trap, or poling up and down the creeks in a dugout watching for Kingfisher, hearing his call, and the sapsucker tap-tap. Then (we would hear) the great tucanos (toucans) queer honk-honk away up in the trees robbing the little bird nests; then, the lone sad notes of the perdiz (Partridge) while the white anvil birds' changing bell rang out now and then. The cooing wood doves plaintiff note and, at twilight, the whippoorwill sent thrills along the spine. Our first acquaintance with the black army ants was a surprised. These ants march in droves, a black mass covering the ground 10 or 15 feet wide. And everything alive that falls in their path must hurry itself or fall a victim to their hungry jaws. In the case of young birds in nests, tiny bones is soon all that is left to tell the story. A cricket, grasshopper, or barala (cockroach) has no chance with them. If they strike the house at night, there is no more sleep. We must get up, make a fire in the yard and wait patiently until they passed on. Afterwards we learned that if we lay still they would not bite, and they certainly were a blessing to clean the house of bugs.

My dearest recollections of these times is of father, then, with only a sprinkle of gray. He was a very well read man, and in the lonely forests life, he tried to make up to us all we missed by our isolated circumstances. We had quite a good assortment of books of our own, besides many from the boxes belonging to the colony, and we were stimulated by a natural bent (that we had) inherited (and by) dads influence. So we had our daily lessons and at night studied till bedtime. And never was the singing omitted. As (we) gathered around the table by candlelight with song book in hand even the monkeys must have stopped to listen. Dad was an old-fashioned vocal singing school teacher, so he taught us the music notes as well as songs. Every few days a new hymn was learned from the new books-- besides glee and comic songs.

Our mother’s part must not be forgotten. She kept house and kept us youngsters well clothed as far as she was able. She was a good cook, a very neat housekeeper, strange to say, she never complained of all our hardships. Her motto was "the Lord will provide." (t)here she gave me my first lesson in sewing, by hand of course, and taught me to make embroidery and draw thread work. Sitting with her candle at the end of the table with work in hand, she would join us in songs as she felt like it. She taught every child to read by the time we were six years old. My older brother read at four years. And she told us Bible stories till we knew them by heart and made us toe mark or we caught the switch we needed.

It  must have been in the latter part of the first year (that) we found out Parson Quillen was preaching to those on the Guanhanha. Our first visit over there was by water or by an old trail over three mountains. But now we learned a new way to go by cutting a new trail with only one mountain. Even this trail was a tough proposition, for unless we started early, we could not get there in time. But it was play for us. As we climbed, we had special spots named from Pilgrim's Progress. One was "hill difficulty," then beyond, the "valley of humiliation," and so was born in our early minds the inspiration to follow Christian to the celestial city of God. Of course we were afraid of meeting oncas. And (one) day, brotherPpenny ran ahead and hid until we came by. Then he began to growl. Sakes alive! Were we frightened? You should have seen us run, down the mountainside until we found out it was a joke.

Quillen was much above the average preacher. He was a very learned man and brought his very superior col-lection of books. Such a library was unusual in those days. And we sat spellbound under his preaching. Our meeting house was in the shade of a tree, with rude seats arranged just any old way. Lessons were just as inter-esting and hymns just as sweet as they are today. And we made the wood ring with "There is a Happy Land" and all the rest of those old Sunday school songs, which have never been beaten by modern hymns. It was while Quillen was preaching on Ezekiel’s Valley of dry bones, that I made up my mind to join the church at the first opportunity. This came years afterwards, at the Campo, while Parson Newman was preaching in an old abandoned venda( little store) on the road from the Campo to Santa Barbara.

Enough of this.

Now I turn to our work, for work we did in those never to be forgotten three years in the sertao (hinterland) of Iguape. One of the first things after felling the big trees and planting a hill of coffee was building a rice house and then a rice mill to prepare the Rice for market. Dad and the boys first made a dam on a small stream about a  half mile above us. This was on that same big road mentioned before. (They) bought and old six mortar mill with a large waterwheel. This was set up with tumblers sawn by hand and covered with palm leaves. When this mill got to work, we children did not have to beat rice anymore.. On an old abandoned roca (cleared land) on our side of the creek, they planted grass for pasture. How that Bermuda grass did grow. In six months it was knee-deep and ready for the two horses bought from Bowen. His horses had all died from fava (lima beans) except these two.

Next was when dad determined to build a real American house, weather boarded, and covered with shingles. To find timbers to split was no easy job, but at last he found a tree. And while he and Penny and Marcene rived the boards, Eugene and Preston, with one, camarada sawed the lumber for posts, doors,  joists, rafters, and planks for the floors. To get these boards hauled to the house was the next question.  This was done on the backs of those two horses, and Marcene and I were the drivers. We would ride bareback to the place, tie a dozen boards together a dozen for each side, pack mule fashion. Then we would scramble on top of the boards and ride away down the narrow trail singing as loud as you please, happy as kings!

Another thing we had to have shoes. But how to get these? Brazilians did not use shoes in those days. Dad was called 'jack of all trades and good at none." He made cobbled shoes. But where (to) get the leather? All he had was deer skins, but these were no good unless tanned. Knowing something of oak tan bark, he set out in the mata (woods) testing the bark, and happened upon the very famous tan bark of Brazil, simply by taste. Soon he dug a trough, and the tanning was so good, the leather was ready in a week. He made our lasts or forms, for each of us. Then the shoes, the wooden Pisadas (footwear).. Thus we were shod. Natives of bare feet and shirt tails out, we could not get used in.

Again, Pa and (the) boys raised their own tobacco. (They) actually made a wooden screw pin and press, and one brother made tan rope tobacco to sell-- we called it tan rope. One can hardly realize the hardships of our people.

The time was fast coming for us to leave and seek a more civilized country. Both Bowen and Tarver had left, as had all those on the Guanhanha and Peixe, except Quillen, who had moved down to the big River. Brother Eu-gene had moved over near us and built a nice house, not far from Tarver’s. Here was where the first grandchild was born, Mrs.  Eugenia Smith Butler, known now as a retired missionary. We children were surprised one morning to hear dad say, Sarah (as he always called Ma):, this won’t do. We got to get out of here somehow. To go back down the river was out of the question, owing to (the) lack of cash to pay ship passage to Santos. To foot it over the mountains was the only way to for us to leave. Next morning he and brother Penny set out and traveled on foot, first to Peruibe, then on to the coast, to Santos. There, by train to Jundiai, the terminus at that time. They walked on and on to Campinas and finally reached the Americans.

The first house (of the Americans) was not far from the present station of Reboucas.. On inquiry-- "who lives here?"-- the man said, "Smith" Dad took off his hat and said, "I've a great mind to shoot. I have traveled thou-sands of miles to get rid of the Smiths, and the first man I meet is Smith.". Smith laughed and took the stranger in and helped him find the other Americans. And he also put him on track of a fezenda, which dad rented. And (Dad) left penny with old man Perkins, while he went back to get the rest of us.

At this time we had a nice well-built house, not quite finished. Our coffee was white with flowers. (There was) a great field of rice, ready to harvest, and plenty of everything but neighbors, and a close market. His description of the wonderful sarracima (mountain view) set our hearts on to be off, and immediate preparation began. Our movables were to be packed over the mountains on the shoulders of our boys and two camaradas. It took three days to make one trip there and back. After some days, we all picked up a small load and started out.  Mine was part of our lunch and Dads carpenters square. Brother soon relieved me of that, I even soon dropped my package of onions. The smallest boy, Tully had a bag of peanuts, but left them in our mill house as we passed by. We lift Eugene and family to gather the rice and sell what he could for cash. He was to come away next year which he did first settling on a coffee place near Campinas where his eldest son Ira William Smith was born. This was Willie Smith, known as cousin Buddie, the father of Henry and Archie Smith and their five sisters.

I shall never forget that trip over the mountains, crossing the many streams, sometimes waist deep. The boys would pick Ma up and carry her over the worst places, but I waded with the boys, and soon lost one shoe in the mud then I kicked off both stockings and the other shoe. Tired and completely worn out, just at nightfall, we came to the river and crossed over to Peruibe, where we rested a day. Then (we traveled) in boats down the river and through a long canal (channel) where we could almost touch the mossy banks with our hands. It was amu-sing to watch for crawfish-- lots of them on the black mud, between low bushes-- for miles. Next came the town of Conceicao. Here we passed one night. Next day, having arranged two Bullock carts we loaded up and traveled 40 miles along the coast to the Bayou which we had to cross over to get to Santos.

When we got to Santos, we were glad to run upon the Cook and Hanney families. This was in February 1871, and happened to be Carnival time-- the first time we ever saw that Festa. On the way over the mountains, we passed an open place where the Cooks had buried their baby boy and left him alone in a vast forest. Ma soon bought me shoes and a hat and I had a good time visiting Brooks Hanney. I watched her make wax lemons, filled with water, to pelt the young men on the street. Then we saw the grotesque figures that rolled along, followed by the happy crowds wild with excitement. Such things were new to us. And serpentines and lanca-perfume (carnival spray had not been invented then. But the effigies in those days were funny:  devils with horns, and four footed beasts, and what not.

While we were on the beach we saw some queer looking object, which on investigation proved to be some huge sea monster. Someone had set the back bone joints on end, and they were each at least two feet high and more than a foot wide. I don’t know if they were whale or not, and whatever flesh covered those back bones could have swallowed several Jonahs.

After a few days in Santos to make some purchases the journey was continued on the train, which first climbed the great mountain or rather, was pulled by the cables hitched to engines stationary at the top, a bit of English railroading skill considered a wonderful feat. It was a thrilling ride, beautiful view all the way. An old bare-footed slave remarked to my brother, thinking to enlighten an ignorant foreigner, "Nao precisaviazar. Ja estamos ahi" (Don’t worry we’re almost there.) Brother smiled and let the old man think we had never written on a car before.

Passing São Paulo, the town was seen from the windows, a small town with low scattered houses on a hill quite a distance from the station of the same name. How little we know that that little insignificant looking town would grow to be the second greatest city in Brazil and the most prosperous city in all of South America as it is today in 1936

At that time the railroad had only got to Jundiai, beyond which  lay our destination near Campinas. In those days too, all country traffic and merchandise was carried over rough roads on pack mules and oxcart. We were several days were several days delayed at Jundiai before we found a way to reach our destined stopping place. We happened upon an old cart man who had to empty carts returning to Camp(inas), in one of which he agreed to take us not only to Campinas, but on to the "Fazenda do Bocudo" that now belongs to Charlie Vaught. (I) can’t remember how long we were on this trip-- two weeks maybe. It was enjoyable at first, seeing open country (and) after three years in the woods, to watch cattle grazing in pastures, as we passed the coffee fazendas  with neat houses all in a row. But it became tiresome, with so much red dust and the squeaking carts and pack mules, camping each night at the mule shelters on the road’s side. The cart man had his wife along to do the cooking, but we cooked for ourselves and afterward sat around the campfire trying to talk to each other and learning new words of Portuguese.

These cart man and muleteers deserve a better pen than mine. They should be told by songs and stories, having now passed forever from the old days of seventy years ago. Now, trains pass along the same route and unseen whistles may the echoes. The horns of the whizzing automobiles sounds along the road, while airships drone above. And not an echo is left to commemorate the existence of those hot, dusty toiling workers whose footsteps are here no more. And who cares? Or gives them a thought? Now they are gone from the scenes of life where they toiled, lived, laughed, dance, and suffered, as their fathers had done for ages before them with the same heartbeats and longing for better things, no doubt! Who knows?

One thing is sure: those things-- conditions-- would have been the same yet if England and other nations had not come and built railroads and developed the country. A glimpse of the people and customs of the people of those times would be almost unbelievable. The cart man for instance when barefooted, shirttails out, and the wife dressed in a chemise-- bare arms, a wide skirt tied round the waist, barefooted as well, bare headed except sometimes she wore a shawl or a handkerchief tied on her head.

 Now behold our cart men with his old tattered straw hat as he footed the dusty road, his long pole to guide and drive the slow going oxen. (There were) two men for each cart, drawn by 10 or 12 yoke. These great heavy carts, clumsy, with wheels made of solid slabs of cabriuva (hardwood)  fastened to the axle, which turned with the wheel. The floor extended to a sharp point out on the tongue, like the bow the ship. The only light thing about it was the body made of plaited taquara (bamboo strips) about three feet wide, and long enough to reach around the front and back to the hind end, leaving an opening for entry or loading up. The heavier payloads, the louder the squeak. and the louder the squeak, the prouder the driver, as he urged the oxen, calling each by name, while his companion slowly walks on in front with his pole touching them up or turning them as needed around, over the rough places, and up and down hill(s). The two wheel- oxen always held the whole weight back going downhill, and pulled the most going up. One has to hear the driver's strange words to appreciate them. (They had) different (calls) to go, stop or turn, or back up. The first word to go was "vamos" (let’s go), in a long sing-song way. In a crisis "puxa diabo" (pull devil"'. To stop, it was "o-e-ou!" To pull back was" fasta-fasta (back-up back-up) laranja" or "alegria," as the name might be.

In those days the natives rode horseback, and it was a sight to see a rich fazendeiro  mounted with his two toes in a small stirrup, with his pozem (gang) trotting along behind. If in a gang with ladies along, they all strung out in a row, Indian file. The first trolleys in Brazil were made by a Yankee, Mr. Simpson. The trolley was a kind of buckboard, wheels wide apart, with no floor, only two, wide steel Springs connecting the hind wheels with the front. And you might be sure, it was not safe traveling. One had to hold tightly to the seat, or fall through over the rough places.

There were no brick houses when we came to Brazil. Even the great churches were either stone, or dirt and sticks. The better houses were plastered and whitewashed. The plaster was made of cattle droppings mixed with water and sand. Most houses were dirt floored, but some had the bedroom floored with large, wide, heavy, hand sawed planks. The first grapes in Sao Paulo were planted by an American, Dr. Reinhardt, who had a fazenda near Campinas. We camped there one night near his house he was a fine gentleman, and my brother Penny worked for him after he grew up-- worked with the plow. And while he was there, the old man died, and Penny helped to bury him. The old gentleman’s sons are known to this day, both in São Paulo and Campinas.

Ploughs were not in use until the Americans introduced them. Coffee was cultivated with hoes, some of them a foot wide. (They) were used by negro slaves. Coffee grains were cleared of trash and pebbles by hand, coffee spread on long tables, and extended rows of negroes on the side, busy picking trash, etc. The pulpadorr was invented by an Englishman named Beven in 1889 or 90. Parched coffee was beaten by hand in a wooden mortar and pestle, while now even the country people buy their coffee in po ( powder), or have their own parcher and grinder. The kitchen utensils in those days were in neither pans nor buckets, but wooden trays and earthen jars. The stoves were fugoes (stoves) with a cast iron top, with from 3 to 6 holes, such as are still seen in country places. As for sleeping, most of them slept on a rush mat with a few thin blankets and a smoothed off block of wood for a pillow.. Or else, the pillows were stuffed with the macela , a wildflower of the Campo. One could smell them in passing. Now, even the poor have nice beds, white counterpanes and large pillows. No one wore shoes or socks when we came here. Now every caippira (hick) goes shod. There are other differences, but these will show what foreigners have done for Brazil. So here is my story.

SWD got Ferguson,

by aunt Bellona, spring 1943