Question

i need help annotating

Answer 1

ok what are you annotating?

Answer 2

roll of thunder hear my cry. I can send u a pdf of the chapter I need annotated. I need the SETTING time and place, landscape, people, day-to-day life, culture, literary devices
THEME OF FAMILY BONDS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Answer 3

@greendaygxrl14

Answer 4

?

Answer 5

I can help you but I cant do your work for you!

Answer 6

ok!!!!!!!!!!!!

Answer 7

@greendaygxrl14

Answer 8

“Stacey, go bring me your coat,” Mama said a few days later as we gathered around the fire after supper. “I’ve got time to take up the sleeves now.”
“Uh-oh!” exclaimed Christopher-John, then immediately opened his reader as Mama looked down at him.
Little Man cupped his hand and whispered to me, “Boy, now he’s gonna get it!”
“Uh . . . th-that’s all right, Mama,” stuttered Stacey. “The c-coat’s all right like it is.”
Mama opened her sewing box. “It’s not all right. Now go get it for me.”
Stacey stood up and started slowly toward his room. Little Man, Christopher-John, and I watched him closely, wonder- ing what he was going to do. He actually went into the room, but was gone only a moment before he reappeared and nervously clutched the back of his chair. “I ain’t got the coat, Mama,” he said.
“Not got the coat!” cried Big Ma. Uncle Hammer looked up sharply from his paper, but remained silent.
“Stacey,” Mama said irritably, “bring me that coat, boy.” “But, Mama, I really ain’t got it! I gave it to T.J.”
“T.J.!” Mama exclaimed.
“Yes, ma’am, Mama,” Stacey answered, then went on hur-
riedly as Mama’s eyes glittered with rising anger. “The coat was too big for me and . . . and T.J. said it made me look like . . . like a preacher . . . and he said since it fit him just right, he’d . . . he’d take it off my hands till I grow into it, then thataway all the guys would stop laughing at me and calling me preacher.” He paused, waiting for someone to speak; but the only sound was a heavy breathing and the crackle of burning hickory. Then, seeming more afraid of the silence than putting his neck further into the noose, he added, “But I didn’t give it to him for good, Mama—just lent it to him till I get big enough for it and then . . .”
Stacey’s voice faded into an inaudible whisper as Mama slowly put the sewing box on the table behind her. I thought she was headed for the wide leather strap hanging in the kitchen, but she did not rise. In quiet anger she glared at Stacey and admonished, “In this house we do not give away what loved ones give to us. Now go bring me that coat.”
Backing away from her anger, Stacey turned to leave, but Uncle Hammer stopped him. “No,” he said, “leave the coat where it is.”
Why can’t Stacey bring his mother the coat?
Why did Stacey give away the coat?


Mama turned bewildered toward Uncle Hammer. “Hammer, what’re you saying? That’s the best coat Stacey’s ever had and probably ever will have as long as he lives in this house. David and I can’t afford a coat like that.”
Uncle Hammer leaned back in his chair, his eyes cold on Stacey. “Seems to me if Stacey’s not smart enough to hold on to a good coat, he don’t deserve it. As far as I’m concerned, T.J. can just keep that coat permanently. At least he knows a good thing when he sees it.”
“Hammer,” Big Ma said, “let the boy go get the coat. That T.J. probably done told him all sorts—”
“Well, ain’t Stacey got a brain? What the devil should he care what T.J. thinks or T.J. says? Who is this T.J. anyway? Does he put clothes on Stacey’s back or food in front of him?” Uncle Hammer stood and walked over to Stacey as Little Man, Christopher-John, and I followed him fearfully with our eyes. “I suppose if T.J. told you it was summertime out there and you should run buck naked down the road because everybody else was doing it, you’d do that too, huh?”
“N-no sir,” Stacey replied, looking at the floor.
“Now you hear me good on this—look at me when I talk to you, boy!” Immediately Stacey raised his head and looked at Uncle Hammer. “If you ain’t got the brains of a flea to see that this T.J. fellow made a fool of you, then you’ll never get anywhere in this world. It’s tough out there, boy, and as long as there are people, there’s gonna be somebody trying to take what you got and trying to drag you down. It’s up to you whether you let them or not. Now it seems to me you wanted that coat when I gave it to you, ain’t that right?”
Stacey managed a shaky “Yessir.”
“And anybody with any sense would know it’s a good thing, ain’t that right?”
This time Stacey could only nod.
“Then if you want something and it’s a good thing and you got it in the right way, you better hang on to it and don’t let nobody talk you out of it. You care what a lot of useless people say ’bout you you’ll never get anywhere, ’cause there’s a lotta folks don’t want you to make it. You under- stand what I’m telling you?”
“Y-yessir, Uncle Hammer,” Stacey stammered. Uncle Hammer turned then and went back to his paper without having laid a hand on Stacey, but Stacey shook visibly from the encounter.
Christopher-John, Little Man, and I exchanged apprehen- sive glances. I don’t know what they were thinking, but I for one was deciding right then and there not to do anything to rub Uncle Hammer the wrong way; I had no intention of ever facing a tongue-lashing like that. Papa’s bottom-warming whippings were quite enough for me, thank you.
The last days of school before Christmas seemed inter- minable. Each night I fell asleep with the hope that the morning would bring Papa, and each morning when he wasn’t there I trudged to school consoling myself that he would be home when I returned. But the days passed, wingspanly cold and windy, and he did not come.
Added to the misery of the waiting and the cold was Lillian Jean, who managed to flounce past me with a supe- rior smirk twice that week. I had already decided that she had had two flounces too many, but since I hadn’t yet decided how to handle the matter, I postponed doing any- thing until after I had had a chance to talk with Papa about the whole Strawberry business. I knew perfectly well that he would not tear out of the house after Mr. Simms as Uncle Hammer had done, for he always took time to think through any move he made, but he would certainly advise me on how to handle Lillian Jean.
Then too there was T.J., who, although not really my problem, was so obnoxiously flaunting Stacey’s wool coat during these cold days that I had just about decided to deflate him at the same time I took care of Lillian Jean. Ever since the night Mr. Avery had brought him to the house to return the coat and he had been told by Uncle Hammer and a faltering Stacey that the coat was his, T.J. had been more unbearable than usual. He now praised the coat from the wide tips of its lapels to the very edges of its deep hem. No one had ever had a finer coat; no one had ever looked better in such a coat; no one could ever hope to have such a coat again.
Stacey was restrained from plugging T.J.’s mouth by Uncle Hammer’s principle that a man did not blame others for his own stupidity; he learned from his mistake and became stronger for it. I, however, was not so restrained and as far as I was concerned, if T.J. kept up with this coat
business, he could just hit the dirt at the same time as “Miss” Lillian Jean.
The day before Christmas I awoke to the soft murmuring of quiet voices gathered in the midnight blackness of morn- ing. Big Ma was not beside me, and without a moment’s doubt I knew why she was gone. Jumping from the bed, my feet barely hitting the deerskin rug, I rushed into Mama’s room.
“Oh, Papa!” I cried. “I knew it was you!”
“Ah, there’s my Cassie girl!” Papa laughed, standing to catch me as I leapt into his arms.
By the dawn, the house smelled of Sunday: chicken fry- ing, bacon sizzling, and smoke sausages baking. By evening, it reeked of Christmas. In the kitchen sweet-potato pies, egg- custard pies, and rich butter pound cakes cooled; a gigantic coon which Mr. Morrison, Uncle Hammer, and Stacey had secured in a night’s hunt baked in a sea of onions, garlic, and fat orange-yellow yams; and a choice sugar-cured ham brought from the smokehouse awaited its turn in the oven. In the heart of the house, where we had gathered after sup- per, freshly cut branches of long-needled pines lay over the fireplace mantle adorned by winding vines of winter holly and bright red Christmas berries. And in the fireplace itself, in a black pan set on a high wire rack, peanuts roasted over the hickory fire as the waning light of day swiftly deepened into a fine velvet night speckled with white forerunners of a coming snow, and the warm sound of husky voices and ris- ing laughter mingled in tales of sorrow and happiness of days past but not forgotten.
“. . . Them watermelons of old man Ellis’ seemed like they just naturally tasted better than anybody else’s,” said Papa, “and ole Hammer and me, we used to sneak up there when- ever it’d get so hot you couldn’t hardly move and take a cou- ple of them melons on down to the pond and let them get real chilled. Then, talking ’bout eating! We did some kind of good eating.”
“Papa, you was stealing?” asked an astonished Little Man. Although he usually strongly disapproved of being held, he was now reclining comfortably in Papa’s lap.
“Well . . .” Papa said, “not exactly. What we’d do was exchange one of the melons from our patch for his. Course it was still wrong for us to do it, but at the time it seemed all right—”
“Problem was, though,” laughed Uncle Hammer, “old man Ellis grew them ole fat green round watermelons and ours was long and striped—”
“And Mr. Ellis was always right particular ’bout his mel- ons,” interjected Papa. “He took the longest time to figure out what we was up to, but, Lord, Lord, when he did—”
“—You should’ve seen us run,” Uncle Hammer said, standing. He shot one hand against and past the other. “Ma-an! We was gone! And that ole man was right behind us with a hickory stick hitting us up side the head—”
“Ow—weee! That ole man could run!” cried Papa. “I didn’t know nobody’s legs could move that fast.”
Big Ma chuckled. “And as I recalls, your Papa ’bout wore y’all out when Mr. Ellis told him what y’all’d been up to. Course, you know all them Ellises was natural-born runners. Y’all remember Mr. Ellis’ brother, Tom Lee? Well, one time he . . .”
Through the evening Papa and Uncle Hammer and Big Ma and Mr. Morrison and Mama lent us their memories, act- ing out their tales with stageworthy skills, imitating the char- acters in voice, manner, and action so well that the listeners held their sides with laughter. It was a good warm time. But as the night deepened and the peanuts in the pan grew shal- low, the voices grew hushed, and Mr. Morrison said:
“. . . They come down like ghosts that Christmas of sev- enty-six. Them was hard times like now and my family was living in a shantytown1 right outside Shreveport. Recon- struction was just ’bout over then, and them Northern sol- diers was tired of being in the South and they didn’t hardly care ’bout no black folks in shantytown. And them Southern whites, they was tired of the Northern soldiers and free Negroes, and they was trying to turn things back ’round to how they used to be. And the colored folks . . . well, we was just tired. Warn’t hardly no work, and during them years I s’pose it was jus’ ’bout as hard being free as it was being a slave. . . .
“That night they come—I can remember just as good—it was cold, so cold we had to huddle all ’gainst each other just trying to keep warm, and two boys—’bout eighteen or nine- teen, I reckon—come knocking on my daddy’s door. They was scairt, clean out of their heads with fright. They’d just come back from Shreveport. Some white woman done exchange one of the melons from our patch for his. Course it was still wrong for us to do it, but at the time it seemed all right—”
“Problem was, though,” laughed Uncle Hammer, “old man Ellis grew them ole fat green round watermelons and ours was long and striped—”
“And Mr. Ellis was always right particular ’bout his mel- ons,” interjected Papa. “He took the longest time to figure out what we was up to, but, Lord, Lord, when he did—”
“—You should’ve seen us run,” Uncle Hammer said, standing. He shot one hand against and past the other. “Ma-an! We was gone! And that ole man was right behind us with a hickory stick hitting us up side the head—”
“Ow—weee! That ole man could run!” cried Papa. “I didn’t know nobody’s legs could move that fast.”
Big Ma chuckled. “And as I recalls, your Papa ’bout wore y’all out when Mr. Ellis told him what y’all’d been up to. Course, you know all them Ellises was natural-born runners. Y’all remember Mr. Ellis’ brother, Tom Lee? Well, one time he . . .”
Through the evening Papa and Uncle Hammer and Big Ma and Mr. Morrison and Mama lent us their memories, act- ing out their tales with stageworthy skills, imitating the char- acters in voice, manner, and action so well that the listeners held their sides with laughter. It was a good warm time. But as the night deepened and the peanuts in the pan grew shal- low, the voices grew hushed, and Mr. Morrison said:
“. . . They come down like ghosts that Christmas of sev- enty-six. Them was hard times like now and my family was living in a shantytown1 right outside Shreveport. Recon- struction was just ’bout over then, and them Northern sol- diers was tired of being in the South and they didn’t hardly care ’bout no black folks in shantytown. And them Southern whites, they was tired of the Northern soldiers and free Negroes, and they was trying to turn things back ’round to how they used to be. And the colored folks . . . well, we was just tired. Warn’t hardly no work, and during them years I s’pose it was jus’ ’bout as hard being free as it was being a slave. . . .
“That night they come—I can remember just as good—it was cold, so cold we had to huddle all ’gainst each other just trying to keep warm, and two boys—’bout eighteen or nine- teen, I reckon—come knocking on my daddy’s door. They was scairt, clean out of their heads with fright. They’d just come back from Shreveport. Some white woman done

ccused them of molestin’ her and they didn’t know nowhere to run so they come up to my daddy’s ’cause he had a good head and he was big, bigger than me. He was strong too. So strong he could break a man’s leg easy as if he was snapping a twig—I seen him do it that night. And the white folks was scairt of him. But my daddy didn’t hardly have time to finish hearing them boys’ story when them devilish night men swept down—”
“Night men!” I echoed in a shrill, dry whisper. Stacey sit- ting beside me on the floor stiffened; Christopher-John nudged me knowingly; Little Man leaned forward on Papa’s lap.
“David . . .” Mama started, but Papa enfolded her slender hand in his and said quietly, “These are things they need to hear, baby. It’s their history.”
Mama sat back, her hand still in Papa’s, her eyes wary. But Mr. Morrison seemed not to notice. “. . . swept down like locusts,” he continued in a faraway voice. “Burst in on us with their Rebel sabers, hacking and killing, burning us out. Didn’t care who they kilt. We warn’t nothing to them. No better than dogs. Kilt babies and old women. Didn’t matter.”
He gazed into the fire.
“My sisters got kilt in they fire, but my Mama got me out . . . .” His voice faded and he touched the scars on his neck. “She tried to get back into the house to save the girls, but she couldn’t. Them night men was all over her and she threw me—just threw me like I was a ball—hard as she could, trying to get me away from them. Then she fought. Fought like a wild thing right ’side my daddy. They was both of them from breeded stock and they was strong like bulls—”
“Breeded stock?” I said. “What’s that?”
“Cassie, don’t interrupt Mr. Morrison,” said Mama, but Mr. Morrison turned from the fire and explained. “Well, Cassie, during slavery there was some farms that mated folks like animals to produce more slaves. Breeding slaves brought a lot of money for them slave owners, ’specially after the gov- ernment said they couldn’t bring no more slaves from Africa, and they produced all kinds of slaves to sell on the block. And folks with enough money, white men and even free black men, could buy ’zactly what they wanted. My folks was bred for strength like they folks and they grandfolks ’fore ’em. Didn’t matter none what they thought ’bout the idea. Didn’t nobody care.
“But my mama and daddy they loved each other and they loved us children, and that Christmas they fought them

demons out of hell like avenging angels of the Lord.” He turned back toward the fire and grew very quiet; then he raised his head and looked at us. “They died that night. Them night men kilt ’em. Some folks tell me I can’t remem- ber what happened that Christmas—I warn’t hardly six years old—but I remembers all right. I makes myself remember.”
He grew silent again and no one spoke. Big Ma poked absently at the red-eyed logs with the poker, but no one else stirred. Finally Mr. Morrison stood, wished us a good night, and left.
Uncle Hammer stood also. “Guess I’ll turn in too. It’s near one o’clock.”
“Wait awhile, Hammer,” said Big Ma. “Now you and David both home, I gotta talk to y’all—’bout the land. . . .”

Answer 9

ok and here's the pdf. chapter 7 until the little page break

Answer 10

@greendaygxrl14

Answer 11

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Answer 12

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Answer 13

@greendaygxrl14 please?