Day care lewisville tx: Child Day Care in Flower Mound & Lewisville – Valley Parkway

Lovey’s Lil Tots Daycare Home Preschool – Lewisville, TX 75067

Daycare in Lewisville, TX

TX license #1712319, background
checked, curriculum-based, real-time parent updates

• Health & safety certified

• TX license #1712319

• Background checked

• Offers curriculum

• Photo & video updates

Welcome to Lovey’s Lil Tots Daycare! We offer children a caring and warm environment that’s just like home. At our home daycare, our goal is to help children learn important social, emotional, and behavioral skills that ensure they reach their developmental milestones. We focus on a variety of Project-based activities to foster an environment of learning and discovery. We are open from 7:00 am to 6:00 pm, and offer care on M – F. Availability is limited, so contact us today to learn more and schedule a tour!

Curriculum:
Project-based

Schedule:
Part-time, Full-time

Snacks Provided:
Yes

Meals Provided:
Breakfast, Lunch

Potty Training:
Yes

Government Subsidy Accepted:
No

Highlights:
Certified in First Aid, CPR, and Early Childhood Education

I am an experienced care provider with over 30 years of experience, and I am committed to providing the highest quality of childcare.

With my certifications in First Aid, CPR, and Early Childhood Education, I balance safety, education, and fun, to equip children with the tools they need to thrive and achieve a bright and happy future.

0 months to 2 years

5 days/week
7:00am-6:00pm:

$217

2 years to 5 years

5 days/week
7:00am-6:00pm:

$195

Deposit Amount:

$25

Registration Amount:

$67

Lovey’s Lil Tots Daycare is a home daycare created to encourage curiosity and learning in a clean space. For your convenience and safety, our home includes a driveway for parking. We also have dedicated areas for learning and activities that include a backyard, a nap room, an art area, and a reading area.

Our Lewisville daycare is located in a family-oriented neighborhood with a park and an elementary school.

TX license #1712319, background
checked, curriculum-based, real-time parent updates

• Health & safety certified

• TX license #1712319

• Background checked

• Offers curriculum

• Photo & video updates

Lewisville, TX
75067

Location is approximate

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Weekly rates

$195 – $217 / wk

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Read the book “Texas-Louisiana Station” online in full📖 – Helen Slavina – MyBook.

Prologue

1975 Lewisville, Texas

In the pitch darkness there was a soft howl of a woman, the sound of which would freeze the blood in anyone’s veins. Tears ran down her face non-stop. They mixed with mud, and from this the skin burned with fire, and the pain in the heart did not seem so strong.

A woman in an openwork dress was limping along a dark street in a small town. There was only one lamp on the street. Now he was illuminating her path, and she was walking towards him, as sailors who have lost their way in the ocean go to a guiding star. The young woman held a bundle in her hands, which quietly squeaked from the cold and, possibly, from hunger. She pressed this precious burden to her heart, and it was terrible for her to think that in a few minutes the warmth emanating from the bundle would cease to warm her frozen hands, and her heart would break from pain and despair. Lilia did not want to think about it, because everything she did was not for the good of her, but for her children.

“Sooner or later, he will find me and kill me. I need to hide. God, how scary! Is this really happening to me? Well no! It’s kind of a terrible dream. It can’t be that he found me. I will hide, I will leave this place to where no one knows me. But Patrick was killed, which means me, too, perhaps. Need to disappear! But what about children? My poor, innocent kids! They didn’t do anything bad to anyone, what are they for? For what?! So, hush, calm down, I beg you, pull yourself together, if you succumb to panic, we are finished!” – Thoughts did not give Lily rest, and therefore her head was ready to explode from the number of questions and unfound answers.

Could she have thought a few years ago that these terrible events would happen that would turn her life upside down? That she and her husband would move to this town, which would be their last refuge. That her husband will be killed, disguising the murder as an accident. That she would be hunted down like an animal that would sooner or later be cornered and possibly caught. And her children will become another target that will need to be destroyed, because the children grow up and avenge their parents. But she won’t let that happen. Just not with her children! She will do everything so that the kids survive in this war. She will kill anyone who encroaches on their lives. And now the children just need to be saved, and for this they need to be hidden so that not a single soul in the world knows where they are.

The light of the moon dispelled the darkness, and Lilia saw the church. This God’s abode was located among the trees, as if hidden from prying eyes. The destitute and desperate people have always found shelter in the church, and orphans found themselves here even more often. Where else can you find a place where they will warm the little crumbs with warmth and sincerity? Only where God is at arm’s length and warms with his boundless love.

Lilia came to the door of the old but functioning church. Over the year, these vaults became so close and dear to her that she was not afraid to send her children to the bosom of this monastery. Only one thing scared the woman: she would never look at her children again. It won’t teach you how to walk and talk. He will not see the first steps and the first bruises on the body. He will not regret and will not press him to himself when tears roll from his eyes. It will not console even when the first love turns out to be non-reciprocal. She will not experience or see anything of this. From these thoughts, my heart ached so much that it was ready to burst from pain. Tears again streamed along the beaten paths, falling on the blanket of her babies and leaving streaks on it.

Lilia placed a small package on the threshold of the church, and a hardcover book next to it. The woman opened it to the page where the crumpled note lay, several lines were written in even handwriting on a small sheet with traces of tears. Blurred letters turned into words and sentences. It was difficult to read, but it became clear that the person who wrote the letter could not convey his thought otherwise. The pain of this person was transmitted through words and penetrated right into the heart. After briefly rereading the note once more, Lilia guessed rather than read the words that she wrote in a hurry in the hospital, from which she had just escaped with her newborn children.

Lily kissed the babies for the last time. Their soft cheeks still smelled of milk and her body. She looked at them, so small and defenseless, and hung a gold chain with a cross on them. “May the Lord protect you, my sons!” One child opened his eyes, as if he felt that he was being watched. Then he looked intently at his mother – as if remembering her face, realizing that he would never see those beautiful gray eyes framed by small wrinkles again.

Moving away from the church as quickly as possible, the woman looked back at the threshold once more. There, on the stone step, lay her sons. And there she left her heart forever…

Chapter 1. On the edge

2003 New Orleans, Louisiana

Mark was running through the flowering meadow, enjoying the scent of the morning flowers. They easily touched the face and left yellow pollen on the eyelashes, lips and cheeks. Children’s laughter overflowed with a ringing echo, and he kept running, and there was no limit to happiness. Even when he fell, entangled in the thick grass, he did not cry, but got up, and a smile appeared on his face again. The child ran after his mother, who called him, but moved further and further…

– Mom, Mom, wait! – Mark shouted with all his strength and tried to run even faster.

– I’m here! Run to me, baby, – a woman with gray eyes responded in a pleasant voice.

– Where are you, mother? I can not see you! – Mark turned his curly head to the right and left, trying to understand where his mother was, and tears treacherously welled up in his brown eyes.

– Come to me…

Waking up abruptly, Mark opened his eyes and sat up, then leaned back on the pillow, trying to breathe as evenly as possible. My hands were cold and wet, like my whole body. Taking a breath and catching the even rhythm of the heart, the man turned around and saw next to him a half-naked woman who was sleeping peacefully, unaware of her lover’s fears.

“I should remember her name,” the thought flashed through and just as quickly disappeared from his inflamed consciousness. Sighing heavily, he tried to move away from the obsessive sleep, but the woman who called for her did not want to leave him. Mark looked at the clock hanging on the wall and realized that he could still get a good couple of hours of sleep.

“It’s still too early, but I definitely won’t be able to sleep anymore… This dream is my curse. The woman I see in my dream could be my mother. But if I have never seen or known her, how can I understand that this is her? I don’t have a single photo, not a single memory of my mother. What is she doing in my dreams? Why does he come to me and call for him? Maybe she wants to tell me something or show me? How to know this secret?

Some questions, but no answers, as always. Or maybe these are just dreams without a secret meaning? Just dreams. All people dream of them, and it is not necessary to solve them. I need to talk to my brother about the nature of my dreams. Why do I dream about her, but never Twain?

Mark has always been his brother’s shadow. I wanted to be like him in everything. I dreamed of drawing like him, feeling life and admiring it. Do crazy things that would blow your mind. Live every day like it’s your last. Love and hate people, relying on the heart, not on the mind.

Mark didn’t know any of this. He was stingy with emotions, cold with people and despised the whole world for what he had become. But how to change? How to become the same as a brother? How to learn to love people whom he treats with disdain? He did not know. But I really wanted it.

Lazily getting up from the bed and throwing the blanket on the floor, the naked man trudged into the shower with a not very confident gait. His head was spinning, he felt nauseous, as if he had a severe hangover. Holding on to the wall, he moved away from the bed, in which lay a completely strange woman. He hated her already because she occupied his space and spread her feminine vibes around. Now he needed to be alone with his thoughts and dreams. It was necessary to understand all the nonsense that has been happening to him for the past few years.

A cold shower brought relief to a heated body and a brain inflamed by strange dreams. Soap suds washed away the veneer of pretentiousness and indifference to the outside world. A world that he did not take seriously, a world that took his father and mother away from him in childhood, leaving him and his brother complete orphans. They were kids trying to survive in order to end up hating people who smile at everyone and think they are happy in ignorance.

Mark knew nothing about his mother and the reasons that made her leave him and his brother as soon as they were born. Why were they given away to be brought up in a family of such people who hated children and oppressed them in every possible way? Why didn’t anyone tell them where their father was buried and why it was such a secret? And how to figure it all out before it’s too late?

Coming out of the shower a different person, with his brain cleared, like after a shot of thick espresso, he looked around the apartment in search of more or less clean clothes. Finding blue jeans, Mark put them on his still wet legs, put on a white T-shirt and black jacket, took cigarettes and left the house to take a walk and finally wake up. Closing the apartment door, he hoped that when he returned, he would find it empty. Fortunately, there was nothing to take there, and it would not be difficult to find this lady – they all live in one place, usually without changing their location.

During his short sexual life, Mark never had a serious relationship. There was no special affection for anyone, tender feelings or the realization that it was necessary to create a family with all the ensuing consequences. He did not like children and tried to bypass them so as not to accidentally cause harm. He believed that children are the embodiment of underdeveloped evil: if it is not eradicated at the right time, bastards and pedophiles grow up.

He realized this as a child, when he grew up in a foster family. Children saw evil in everything around them. In every movement of the foster father, who beat for any offense, for an accidentally uttered word, said at the wrong time, for every look in which contempt and a thirst for revenge were read. Will hated children and beat some of them half to death just because they didn’t listen and often ran away from home.

1985, Lewisville, Texas

… One day, after another beating by his foster father, he and his brother decided to run away from this orphanage of hell, since they simply would not survive another spanking. The wounds on his back were fresh, some were still bleeding, leaving crimson marks on his shirt.

– I will kill that bastard someday! Mark wept bitterly from pain and powerlessness, his fingers clenched into small fists and broke the air.

“Mark, don’t cry, everything will pass,” the brother reassured. – Sooner or later we will take revenge, but for now we are too small for this. If we come up with something against him, he will crush us like insects.

Brother Twain treated the wounds on his back with a tincture of aloe and yarrow. Washed with a medicinal composition and blew on cuts, Mark shuddered and grimaced in pain. In the whole world they were alone with each other, and there was nowhere to wait for help.

– Shall we go and tell the police everything? They must help us! Mark pleaded, tugging at his shirt.

– The older guys have already gone to the police and complained about their father, but they didn’t even listen to them. We need to come up with something different, something smarter. Invented! We will develop a plan for revenge. But after that, we will need to leave the city, otherwise we will be sent to another family or sent to prison.

– We are still small, and the little ones are not sent to prison, I heard this from the older guys.

– We can’t get away with it. If the plan doesn’t work, father will just kill us and bury us in the garden under that tree over there, and then no one will save us.

– Let’s just run away from this nightmare, get out of here!

– How can you not understand?! He’s got it all right here. When he finds us, he will return us and flog us so that there will be no living place left.

– But wait, Twain, our mother is waiting for us somewhere. I know it for sure. Today I saw her again in a dream. She was so beautiful, in a white lace dress. I ran after her across the meadow, and she kept calling and calling me to her place.

– Mom is dead, remember that! How many times can you repeat the same thing! Have you completely forgotten, we were told about this by the nuns in the church where we grew up? Mom left us there and left a book with a note. Do you remember?

– Yes, I remember everything the nuns told me. About my mother, that she left us at the door of the church, and about the book, but I still know that my mother is alive. I feel it – it’s not for nothing that she comes to me in my dreams.

They heard heavy footsteps approaching and realized that it was their father walking towards them. He was drunk again and probably angry. It’s better not to catch the eye of such a person, otherwise he will shake his whole soul. The brothers hid behind the stable, trying not to move or breathe. Apparently, something happened again at his work, since he got drunk, and now it was necessary to take out the evil on someone. And best of all, he managed to do it on adoptees: “I don’t feel sorry for these: if one dies, it will be possible to take a couple more in the shelter.”

The man’s connections were so established that he did not even try to think that he was causing pain and suffering to someone. Will had his people everywhere: in the local police – when one of the children ran there to complain about him, the police immediately returned him home to his “loving father”; in a hospital where wounds from his ruthless whip were healed; in a local school, where none of the teachers paid attention to the suffering and pale, sickly appearance of adopted children.

The whole town was on Will’s hook, and therefore no one even dared to utter a word about what was going on in this monster’s house. Everyone feared and respected him as a local mafia. All this happened for one reason: large quantities of illegal weapons passed through this man, which he supplied to the entire state at an affordable price. At a time when America was at war with Iraq, Bosnia and a couple of other countries, weapons were worth their weight in gold, and the warriors were ready to sell their souls for them. What can I say, America has always been at war with someone, showing itself to be a military superpower.

The arms shipments were valuable cargo, so no one paid any attention to the children’s complaints and whims of Will’s offspring. Moreover, children in general tend to exaggerate and compose everything. And Americans needed weapons and ammunition more than ever to protect themselves and their children. And let a handful of these useless beggars suffer better, but America will get a chance to survive in the battle of superpowers!

Being in a secluded corner of the stable, the brothers held hands and tried not to move. Father approached the horses with a swaying gait, muttering curses under his breath.

– Brainless cattle, I’ll show you how not to listen to your own father! I feed them, clothe them, pay for their fucking studies, which no one needs. No matter how they were stupid, they will remain. Now you will wait at my place, spineless youngsters, I will show you who is the boss here!

Victor Rodionov: Provincial America: Along the Roads of the Old South (Issue 11 (214) of June 1, 2012)

Published:
June 1, 2012

Number 11 (214)

headings:

Travel

America

Where does the homeland begin

Pierce in Charleston, South Carolina

Pierce in Charles, South Carolina. Photo by Alex Orlov

Usually the goal of my next trip is determined by two things: either “I haven’t been there”, or some specific topic. For example, last year, Alex Orlov and I traveled to moonshine places in America, and along the way we visited everything that came across – from bison to the birthplace of the atomic bomb. With Alex, we are united by free professions. I am a writing journalist, he is a wonderful photographer, a fan and an expert in his field. Our wives, like all decent people, work “from” and “to”, so it is difficult to negotiate with them. In addition, they value vacations in order to spend precious days on every male whim. With Alex – no problem, as long as there is a worthwhile idea. I am responsible for this and the development of the route, my friend is responsible for the technical support of the trip. “Gasoline is yours – our ideas.” When the interior of a rental car becomes similar to the cockpit of a spaceship in terms of the number of devices and gadgets, Alex is satisfied – we are ready.

This time our destination is the Old South, colonial America. She is Dixie . The concept of the South in America is a bit confusing. There are Deep South – the Deep South – the states of Florida, Texas, Mississippi, Louisiana and Alabama with a set of several cultures: Hispanic, Negro and cowboy. And there is Old South – the Old South – the states of Delaware, Maryland, Virginia, Georgia and both Carolinas. The stronghold, the foundation of the so-called plantation culture antebellum – good old America – the echoes of which are felt to this day. Say that for us the Old South – terra incognita would be incorrect. For example, ten years ago my wife and I went to Virginia. We visited Virginia Beach, the birthplace of aviation, in historic Williamsburg. Have been to Atlanta several times. Alex and Zoya also grabbed something from the Old South. This time we have a conscious goal. I came to her for two reasons. Since last year, the country has been running a four-year campaign to commemorate the 150th anniversary of the Civil War — which began and ended in the Old South. The second reason is my personal date. Twenty years of life in America. What is not a reason to express gratitude and respect to my new homeland in an accessible way for me?

Looking ahead, our week-long trip went smoothly, without any dramatic incidents, so the main focus of my story will not be about road adventures, but about history. Those who are not interested in this subject may not read further. Who loves history, I will try not to deceive expectations. In the past of the Old South, there are many interesting and educational things.

All roads in Kentucky start from Lexington, Alex. Perhaps this is the geographically most advantageous point of the state. Closer to everything, even if not by much, than from my Louisville. The main points of our weekly rally are overland Augusta (Augusta, Georgia), oceanic Charleston (South Carolina), Savannah (Georgia), millionaire Jekyll Island, near Brunswick (Georgia). For dessert, several small but remote towns on the outskirts of Atlanta.

On American roads, time and space are relative. We do 500 miles a day and cross five states. Behind the white Appalachians, provincial black Georgia begins. From interstate we turn off onto minor roads, however, they are quite good. Feeling of emptiness. Rare oncoming cars, small towns with faceless architecture. At rare stops, only black faces, as if he had landed in Africa. We get to Augusta by some “gardens”. From gas station to gas station 40-50 miles. It seems to me that the navigator led us into the jungle of Susan, but Alex stoically defends the business reputation of his faithful friend. He uses it daily. And it turns out he’s right. By the end of the day, we safely drive into Augusta, the third largest city in Georgia, where both a table and a house are waiting for us. Ninety dollars for two for a night in a very decent hotel – not bad at all.

In the morning we have a sightseeing boat tour along the old city canal, built a century and a half ago to supply textile factories with water. But the tickets are sold out. The boat ride is cancelled. Nothing to be sorry about though. What other channels can surprise people who have been to Leningrad, Amsterdam and Venice? Coincidence, but Alex and I really were there.

Time saved on the channel is spent on downtown. Very nice center, but almost deserted and carless. Which is strange for a city of half a million. Even the tracks laid in the middle of the streets seem to lead nowhere. Augusta was founded in 1736 by the ubiquitous Columbus founder of the Georgia colony, James Oglethorpe. And named after the mother of the English king Augusta of Saxe-Gotha.

All of Augusta’s main attractions are located on the same spot. In good faith we put “ticks” on the tourist map. The only thing that was not possible was to visit the gunpowder factory, where during the Civil War the main part of the ammunition for the army of the southerners was produced. It is far from the center. And they did not find the Monument-Obelisk of the signers of the US Declaration of Independence from the state of Georgia. Beneath this obelisk lie the bodies of Lyman Hall and George Walton. Grateful descendants wanted to bury here the third signatory – Button Gwinnett – but bad luck happened. Gwinnett is gone. It is authentically known that he died in a duel with General Mackintosh and is buried in the old cemetery of Savannah, but neither the grave, nor the slab, nor the body of Gwinnett have yet been found.

Woodrow Wilson and James Brown

So we are not alone in losing signers of the Declaration of Independence. But in the history of Augusta there are many more famous names. I will introduce you to two of them in a little more detail. This is the 18th President of the United States, Woodrow Wilson, and the godfather of soul music, Negro music legend James Brown.

At Woodrow Wilson’s house in Augusta

Viktor Rodionov at the dinner table at Woodrow Wilson’s house in Augusta. Photo by Alex Orlov

First, about the President of the United States. Wilson’s childhood passed in Augusta. His father was a doctor of divinity, an advocate for slavery, and even served as a chaplain in the southern army. Downtown Augusta is rich in chic mansions of former planters. But, judging by the Wilson house-museum, the theologians then lived no worse than landowners and owners of textile factories – a solid three-story house with a wide front staircase, luxurious furniture, paintings, carpets, expensive dishes inside. I sit down at the dining table of the future president. Alex takes a “historical” picture.

By the will of fate, Woodrow Wilson found himself in the maelstrom of world events at the beginning of the 20th century. Under him, America entered the First World War. He is one of the authors of the Treaty of Versailles and the Charter of the League of Nations, the organizer of the Entente, the ideologist of the doctrine “America for the Americans”, the only US President with a doctoral degree, Nobel Peace Prize winner. He is a passionate car enthusiast. Wilson is featured on the largest $100,000 bill in US history. It turns out there was one.

Just in case, we ask the local black bum: where is the monument to James Brown? He’s ready to show… for just five dollars. We do not sign up for a deal, since the statue on the map is within easy reach. The homeless remains without legal income.

Strictly speaking, Brown was not born (in 1933) in Augusta and spent most of his life in Atlanta, but Augustans consider him their countryman. Since they want it so much, they have to agree. The beginning of the life of the future king of soul did not bode well and was typical of a black teenager from the slums of downtown. Fatherlessness, poverty, crime. At 16, he receives eight years in prison for robbery. But there is no evil without good. While in prison, Brown begins his musical career playing pots and pans and washboard. A talented young man becomes the idol of the criminal world. After being released, a rapid artistic take-off follows.

In his work, Brown focused on the African American audience. Say it loud – I’m Black and I’m proud (“Say it loud – I’m black and proud of it”) – the artist sang, and the audience answered him with adoration. But Brown was also loved by white America, and then world recognition came. Brown sang in a variety of genres, but soul and rock and roll brought him fame. Rolling Stone magazine ranked him as the seventh greatest rock musician.

Along the way, Brown is making a film career. I especially remember his small but bright role as a singing and dancing pastor in the wonderful film The Blues Brothers. Surely many of our readers watched this beautiful musical picture.

Brown was nicknamed “Mr. Dynamite”. And he justified it. On stage, James gave all the best to fainting. Lived in everyday life without brakes. In 1988, the world star is behind bars for three years for beating a policeman. On account of his numerous arrests for beating his wives, family members and even an electrician. ..

Four wives left Brown with five sons and four daughters. The last marriage was legally vague, and even the children accused their father of bigamy. The singer’s turbulent personal life backfired after his death. He died on Christmas Eve 2006, but was not buried until more than two months later. In a secret place and temporarily. Children and wives still cannot agree on the division of the inheritance, the place and method of Brown’s burial.

The paradox is that Brown has two monuments – in Augusta and Atlanta, and not a single “own” grave. In this regard, he shared the fate of Baton Gwinnett, the third “extra” signer of the Declaration of Independence from Georgia.

Antebellum is good old America. The paradoxes of slavery

As a rule, the epithets “old” and “good” are associated with some time, an era in the history of a particular country. Usually with a touch of nostalgia. Good old France, good old Germany, good old England. The historical memory of the nation weeds out the bad, the positive remains.

In time, good old America is an era with a special name antebellum (1607-1775). In other words, this is the period of British colonization of North America – from the Pilgrims to the American Revolution. Geographically, this is the Old South, the region from the Atlantic to the Appalachians. To be precise, Alex and I are going “from Siberia to Siberia”. Until 1792, Kentucky was part of Virginia, the mother of the Old South. The map also testifies to the “kinship of souls”. To starboard remains the former capital of Georgia, Louisville. It’s a pity there is no time to drop by the namesake of my city.

The Old South is primarily associated with the colonial development of the east coast of the continent, plantations, cotton, slavery and the Civil War.

Slavery occupies a special place in the history of the region. It arose not for someone’s whim, but due to a number of political and economic reasons. As a result of local wars, the colonies expanded rapidly. On behalf of the crown, the colonists received huge allotments. For development, a labor force was needed, which was sorely lacking in the South. The forerunners of the slaves were the so-called indentured servants – hired agricultural workers, in fact, farm laborers. New landless settlers from Europe or migrants from the North, where there was high unemployment.

Laborers entered into a standard contract with plantation owners from three to seven years. Families worked without compensation in exchange for payment for moving, accommodation, shelter, food, clothing. After the expiration of the contract, the farm laborers received allotments of land from the authorities and became farmers themselves. Many female laborers married their employers and automatically passed into the category of housewives. In turn, the new farmers needed new workers.

Dutch merchants suggested the way out. The first ship carrying African prisoners arrived in America in 1619. year. At first they were perceived as laborers, only with black skin. Moreover, they were given for rent allotments of up to 20 hectares with the payment of quitrent. But from the children of nature unadapted to work, poor workers were obtained. The planters were faced with a dilemma, what to do with parasites who do not want to work? You can drive out on four sides, but who will return the money spent on them? This is how the idea of ​​temporary, and then lifelong slavery arose. The precedent was set in 1654 by a certain John Casor ( Casor ), who was recognized by the court as a lifelong slave. Down and Out trouble started.

As such, slavery was not the know-how of the “new Americans”. The Spaniards, the Portuguese, the Dutch “dabbled” with this for a long time. The small countries of Europe with access to the sea did not disdain the slave trade either. Particularly Sweden. During the years 1519-1867, 20 million slaves were taken out of Africa. Of these, the British colonies and the United States accounted for only 5 percent (!). Just over half a million people. The remaining 95 percent were taken to the Caribbean and South America. The Americans joined this process from an unexpected side. They sold to the Caribbean … captive Indians.

Moreover, over time, the “pacified” Indian leaders themselves often became slave owners, and when the Civil War began, a number of Indian tribes, not wanting to lose slaves, took the side of the Confederation. Specifically the Cherokee, Choctaw, Chickasaw, Creek, and Seminole. And that’s not it. In 1830, there were 3,775 black slave owners in the Old South. The canonical black and white picture of slavery in America, in fact, has many shades and colors.

Forced labor in the conditions of its time showed its economic efficiency, although it, in the full sense of the word, was slave labor. The position of the slave was not much different from that of the cattle. A hut with a mat, instead of a door – a canopy, a hearth – on the ground, instead of a window – a smoke hole in the roof and work on a plantation in a subtropical climate from dawn to dusk. For the slightest offense – whips. Due to the lack of immunity to local diseases, one out of four babies survived. Mortality was covered only by a high birth rate.

The number of slaves in private ownership served as a measure of wealth. A class of planters emerged, the financial and political elite of the Old South. 200 or more slaves were owned by just 1 percent of the planters (4,000 people) of the Old South. 19 planters had over 500 slaves. The largest slave owner in the history of the country was the “rice king” from South Carolina, Joshua Ward – 1092 slaves.

Initially, the economy of the Old South was dominated by the cultivation of tobacco, rice and sugar. Then, thanks to the invention of the cotton gin called Cotton Jack, these crops were replaced by cotton. The history of this invention is interesting. The idea belonged to the owner of the plantation Katherine Littlefield Green. But since patents were not issued to women at the time, she asked for the favor of her manager, Eli Whitney. So he became the author of Cotton Jack.

Historians believe that a simple wooden box caused a technological revolution in the South and delayed the abolition of slavery by several decades.

I will return to the topic of slavery. In the meantime, Alex and I are diving from Georgia to South Carolina. On the way to Charleston, we stop at Magnolia, a former plantation and now the oldest garden complex in the United States. “Magnolia” is constantly advertised by travel companies as almost a wonder of the world, but Alex and I are disappointed. With the exception of the manor house, this is an ordinary botanical garden. In addition to peacocks, turkeys and goats, which are abundant on any farm …

Crossing Charleston, the city of water and huge bridges. One stretches for a mile or two, immediately turns into another, then a third. How many are there in the city? Probably dozens. Finally, we run into the ocean. Here, on Palm Island, we have to spend two nights. From the hotel to the water we splash along the bridge over the dull gray dunes.