Aunt Cynthia Granville 1933, Henderson Co. TX

Athens Reveiw

June 29, 1933

Negro Mammy Gets Last Wish; Makes Front Page After Dropping Dead
This is a front page story by request.
Standing Thursday morning talking to Happy McCormick at his new filling station at Trinidad "Aunt Cynthia" Granville
colored expressed the wish that at her death the Review would give her as good as a write-up as it did her late brother,
John Hornbuckle, when he died a few years ago. "I hopes my life wid the white folks as been such dat dey will write me
up like de did him," said the aged ex-slave. Within a few minutes she had dropped dead. Heart failure was the verdict
of the doctor.
"Aunty" had just finished inspecting the new station of Mr. McCormick's and had gone back to her shack near the station.
Her son said something to her and quick as a flash she passed to the great beyond.
Beneath the dark skin of this aged ex-slave beat a heart of gold. Juneteenth meant little to her for the old Massa gave her
a far better home and more freedom than any president's proclamation could bestow upon her. Her allegiance was to the
white folks and it was to them that she went for help in times of trouble. For forty-three years she had been a resident of the
little Trinidad city and her life had become a part of the community. It was "Aunt Cynthia" to all who knew her.
Man had transformed the swampy section about her abode to mighty power houses with giant turbines that furnish light to
the world. But these meant little to Aunt Cynthia. The small cotton patch near her house where the fleecy staple grew from
seed to snowy white locks held far more for her than the puffing of giant somestacks nearby.
The tribe of Aunt Cynthia is fast diminishing. One by one they step across the great divide to a well earned rest. The sun
has gone down on her life, but who can gain say that it was not a life that made the world brighter. Rest in peace, Auntie,
and may the Golden gate News herald your arrival in a better home. Methinks we can hear the Angelie choir chanting:
Swing low, sweet Chariot, Coming for to carry me home; I looked over Jordan and what did I see, A band of Angels
coming after me. Coming for to carry me home.
Typed as printed in Athens Review June 29, 1933
Transcribed by Laura Gregory Calvin

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