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And there was Sam Taylor. He was 105 years old. He’d been a slave at the r letchers and lived right across from the Flatwood. He was only at the poor farm for about two weeks. He kept complaining about his feet itching. When I’d visit his cabin, he’d have his socks on. I had him take them off and looked at his feet I knew right away something was wrong so I called Dr. Snead. He said they weren t just frost bit but frozen. I)r. Snead sent him to Charlottesville. The word went around the hospital that he was 105 years old and you never seen so many students and doctors in your life that came to see him!’’
Taylors legs were aml,utated and he died in that hospital, according to Mr. Woodward.
Looking back on their eight years overseeing the poor farm, the Woodwards declare they never worked so hard in their life. “I don’t see how I did it,” said Mrs. Woodward. “I was up at 4 or 5 every morning, had dinner ready before dark so they could see to get back to their cabins and didn’t finish cleaning up until 8 or
Neither could remember what Mr. Woodward was paid by the county. He recalled that he got around $100 a month as an operating budget. “And we charged food and clothes for the people. The supervisors paid those bills directly.
“Its been so long ago. We’ve been married 50 years. A lot has happened since those days,” Mrs. Woodward said. She thought her husband’s salary might have been as much as $100 a month, a grand sum during the depression when men worked for 50 cents a day and counted themselves fortunate.
“At that time, I might have liked the job. I wouldn’t want it now.”
“But we were doing good,” added Mrs. Woodward. “We had a roof over our heads and food on the table.”
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