Mr. Will Palmer was an older black man who lived down off Johnson Road in the old Center Hill community. His home was really nothing more than a broken-down shack with a make-shift barn and an outhouse. His property was adjacent to a creek that crossed under Johnson Road. It was not far down the road from Inman Railroad Yards in Northwest Atlanta.
"Mr. Will" was as sweet, and as kind, and as gentle as any human being could ever be. There was always a smile on his face. His meager earthly possessions would have soured a lesser person. But, not Mr. Will.
In 1966, after living away for several years from this writer's family's home community of Riverside, we moved back. Mama and Daddy bought a house that was five doors down the street from the old Decker home place. The lot for this old farmhouse was just over an acre, and was bordered by a creek. The ground was not the typical Georgia red clay, but was a far richer grade of dirt. Sitting not far from the banks of the Chattahoochee River, the soil was perhaps more like river bottom land. It was great for growing azaleas, flowering shrubs, and thick, turf grass.
Having grown up on a farm, this writer's father often lamented that his vocational life led him away from farming. Like most Southerners, Mama and Daddy loved farm grown vegetables. But, they did not own a tiller of any kind.
Enter Mr. Will Palmer.
Mr. Will drove an old mule and wagon. It was his only form of transportation. You could hear him coming several blocks away as he clunked along the asphalt streets of many a community in Northwest Atlanta. This included Riverside.
His old mule's name was, "Midnight." (Many thanks to a dear, lifelong, friend, Mr. Anthony Sizemore, for his research and assistance in getting Midnight's name correct for this story.)
"Midnight" was a thick-bellied old mule, that stood about fifteen hands tall. "She" looked like she weighed at least 1,000 pounds. Mr. Palmer bought Midnight for $50 from a farmer in Marietta who also raised mules. Her coat was black as coal oil, thus her name. Midnight pulled Mr. Will Palmer and his old clapboard wagon all over Northwest Atlanta for many years.
Mr. Will knew that white folks loved garden vegetables. And, he also knew that most white folks didn't have a good way to turn up a piece of ground for growing a garden. Too, Mr. Will knew that white folks were the only ones with enough money to be able to afford to hire somebody to plow up their gardens for them.
So, every morning during February through April, he hitched up Midnight and off they went. They rode through communities where stay-at-home mothers would most likely be. Mr. Will would sing to Midnight as they rode along. He made up most of the songs as he went. They were either spirituals or from a blues-oriented genre.
One old black spiritual that Mr. Will often sang declared, "The devil wear a hypocrite shoe...If you don't mind, he'll slip it on you...The devil wear a ragged coat...If you don't mind, he'll cut yo' thoat...Git' up, Midnight...Befo' the devil come along here..."
The noise of Midnight pulling that old wagon along the street, and Mr. Will singing to the top of his lungs, was loud enough to wake the dead. Folks would come to their front doors to investigate the source of the racket. And, some just knew that it was about time for Mr. Will to be coming around.
Their coming out on the porch was exactly what Mr. Will wanted. When he saw an open door, he would stop Midnight with a low, soft-spoken, "Whoa, mule," or "Whoa, Midnight." He then stood up in the wagon, taking off the old wide-brimmed hat he always wore, and began his sales pitch.
"Good morning/evening, Miss ma'am," he would say, "dis here is old Will Palmer and Midnight, ma'am. We done come to hep you good folk plow up yo' garden fo' the springtime. Why, in jest a little bit, old Midnight can have yo' fine garden spot ready fo' yo' husband to commence plantin' when he git home dis' evenin'. How 'bout it, ma'am? Does you want old Will and Midnight to git to work right here in a jiffy, ma'am?"
He was so polite, and kind, and humble. Even if the thought of having someone plow a garden was the furthest thing from the housewife's mind, most could not refuse such a sweet and self-effacing sales pitch. The charming way of this savvy, old businessman won many hearts, and made lots of friends among the people who hired him.
Especially the kids.
Mr. Will knew that children loved animals - especially Midnight. If any kids were home when Mr. Will drove by, children came from everywhere - running to the street to get a closer view of that giant old mule. Mr. Will would climb down patiently from the wagon and hold Midnight by the harness so the children could pet her. He spoke softly to her as the little ones came near her muscular legs and hooves. He was not about to allow her to be spooked and harm the children. They would often bring Midnight sugar cubes, carrots, or fruit of some kind. It was no wonder that old mule was so large. She ate better on most days than Mr. Will.
If he was able to secure a plowing job, Mr. Will most always promised any children hovering around Midnight that he would allow them to ride her after the garden was tilled. He faithfully honored his promise, and the children loved it. If the best way to a man's heart is through his stomach, Mr. Will understood that the best way to a mother's heart was through her children.
Many times, the wives and mothers who hired him wound up feeding him a sandwich or a piece of homemade pie from their kitchens. Mr. Will was not an overweight person by any stretch. But, it wasn't because he was underfed. Some women insisted that he take covered plates of their evening meals home with him.
$25. This was Mr. Will's price. He would till as much as a half acre of ground for this amount. Actually, considering that it usually took him less than two hours to finish most of the jobs, Mr. Will was actually well-paid for his day. $12 an hour was more than most skilled laborers made during the 1960's.
Today, with so many households getting their daily meals from either a restaurant or a zip-lock bag, to remember the sweet taste of garden vegetables served from a mother's table is a powerful thing.
Another lingering image is the sound of Midnight clip-clopping along the streets of Northwest Atlanta, and Mr. Will singing in his best voice to his beloved co-worker and best friend.
Thank you, Mr. Will Palmer, for all the work you did, the ground you plowed, the miles you drove old Midnight, and for being the kind-hearted person that you were.
Most of all, thank you for the timeless memories you left behind.
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