Читать книгу I Shared the Dream - Georgia Davis Powers - Страница 12

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STORMY WEATHER

After four years on Oak Street, during which my parents carefully saved every extra penny earned, they bought a house on Grand Avenue. It was May of 1929, and our new block was in transition from White to Black—only four White families remained. These four families were considered to be poor, but the Blacks moving in were thought of as middle-class.

Like most of the things for which my parents silently sacrificed, to them our new house represented a better life for their children. The wood frame house had four rooms, a bath, and porches in both the front and rear. When we moved in, Pop, who, in fact, was colorblind, chose to paint the house his favorite color—canary yellow. He also added on two more bedrooms.

Our family was growing rapidly. My brothers Robert and John Albert, named for the Apostle, had both been born on Oak Street. More children would be born in the new house on Grand Avenue. Each time Mom became pregnant, I fervently hoped it would be a girl. But our next baby was Phillip, then James. I was giving up hope. However, when Mom was about to give birth again, a strange event seemed to foretell that my wishes for a sister were about to become a reality.

In August of that year, a neighborhood boy threw a brick during a fight. Instead of hitting its intended victim, the brick hit me. At that time, Pop’s cousin Laura Frances Anderson, from Bloomfield, was living with us. (She had first come to Louisville to work for Joseph Ray, a neighbor whose wife was seriously ill. After working for the Rays, she moved in with us and helped Mom.) She and Mom had already bathed the cut with alcohol and bandaged it up by the time the boy’s mother came over to apologize. The woman also gave Mom ten dollars to take me to the doctor.

Since I was all right, Mom and Cousin Frances took us all to the State Fair instead of going to the doctor. With that ten dollars we rode the Ferris wheel, ate cotton candy, and looked at the animals. Mom and Frances were having as much fun as we were.

As we walked the midway, a wily fortune teller with a captivating manner lured us to her tent, saying in a deep, throaty voice, “I can predict the baby’s sex.”

“Let’s go in,” Frances urged. “Maybe we can find out if Georgia’s going to get the little sister she wants.” Though Mom laughed, she told me to wait outside while they went in.

The dark tent was lit by glowing candles. The fortune teller, seated at a low table, motioned to Frances and Mom to sit down.

“You have a girl there,” the fortune teller assured Mom.

Though usually skeptical and levelheaded, for some reason, Mom and Frances became so excited they went out and bought a pink bassinet and all pink baby clothes. On September 24, Mom gave birth to my brother Lawrence. I cried and cried for the little sister I was never to have. I refused to go in and see him. Of course, when I finally did, I immediately fell in love with him, as I had all my other baby brothers.

Mom gave birth to most of her children at home. During her next pregnancy, however, because she had gained a lot of weight and developed high blood pressure, her doctor felt she ought to have the baby at City Hospital. Of course, it was another boy. When I visited Mom, she said she was going to name the new baby Walker Montgomery.

“Mom, you can’t do that,” I said. “He’ll have two last names!”

Although we were not allowed to question our parents once a decision had been made, I spoke up and gave my opinion that day—as I had in many other situations. Mom had chosen Walker because it had been her maiden name. I suggested the name of a boy I knew, Randolph. We compromised and named the baby Rudolph Walker Montgomery.

That this name was partially my choice assuaged my disappointment at the baby’s sex, but I missed not having the sister and confidant I wanted so badly. Perhaps that is one important reason why, growing up among so many males and without really close female friends, I kept my intimate questions, thoughts, and dreams to myself.

Not long afterward, in the autumn of 1937, my family and I watched with astonishment as rain pelted Kentucky for days. Our neighbors congregated to stare at the water gushing from manholes and pooling in the streets. No one thought the water would get so high, but one day, as the bad weather continued, our street became covered with water from curb to curb. The Ohio River was flooding Louisville.

Pop began building small bridges by stacking bricks with planks laid across them, enabling people to get from one side to another. As the water continued getting higher, he decided to go to Ross’s Market a few miles away to stock up on groceries. Though he was gone only a short time, the waters rose so quickly that we had to evacuate. The Red Cross people came in boats and used megaphones to blare the news that we were in danger and had to leave.

We were one of the last ones to go, since Mom insisted on waiting for Pop to return. Finally, though, even she relented. We stepped from our porch into two of the rowboats manned by the Red Cross workers. These boats were traveling down our street, picking up stranded people.

“Bring nothing with you,” one worker shouted, but I managed to slip in an extra clean dress anyway. On that occasion, as on so many others, I was determined—some would say headstrong.

Just as the boat started to push away, I realized that our dog Rex had been left behind. “Let me go back!” I insisted, but no one listened.

The boats took us to Thirtieth and Kentucky Streets where we were loaded onto trucks to take us three further blocks, where we’d be out of the water’s reach. Getting out, we looked around anxiously; we were worried about my father, praying he’d be safe.

“There’s Pop!” someone shouted. And there he was, sitting in his car, the seats piled high with groceries, trying to get back home to us. He swooped us all up, loaded us in, and headed for Bardstown. First, he dropped Mom and three of my brothers at Aunt Celia’s. He took two other brothers to Grandma’s house, left one brother and me at Aunt Emma’s, then, always concerned that others might not be as fortunate as he, headed back to Louisville to help repair boats at the flood headquarters at Eighteenth and Broadway.

To us kids, it was like going on a vacation. We were children and we weren’t worried about the four feet of water in our family’s house or all the ruined furniture and other lost possessions. The only serious concern I had was for our dog, Rex, but he, like his owner, was a survivor. When my parents returned home to begin cleaning out the debris, Rex greeted them at the door. His muddy footprints were all over a mattress on which he’d floated during the flood to survive. It wasn’t until two months after the flood that we were able to return home to live again.

Long after the excitement had faded from our memories, the water marks remained on houses and trees—sober reminders of the ability of the river to leave its banks and wreak havoc, of the power of nature and the helplessness of its victims to stop the destruction.

Despite such fateful events as tornadoes and floods, most of my memories of those childhood days are happy ones. Ours was a house neighbors came to often. Pop was interested in what was going and liked to keep up with world events, especially elections. He was also a big fan of country music; it was no surprise, then, that ours was the first radio on the block. In addition to listening to the serious stuff, like news and elections, friends gathered on our front porch or in our living room to be entertained by the antics of Amos and Andy or to be enthralled by the adventures of “The Shadow.”

We were all huddled around the radio, adult and child alike, when Orson Welles’s “War of the Worlds” aired. All the children grabbed each other and started crying. We ran and hid in the corner until Mom calmed us. “It’s just a program,” she said. “It’s not real,” but I think even she and the other adults were fooled at first.

Not only did Pop keep up with current news, especially elections, but he also kept abreast of modern innovations. We were the first family on Grand Avenue to own a washing machine. Pop bought a Standard, a forerunner of the Maytag washer. It had a huge tub with roller wringers. He built a wash house in the back yard and ran water out there. The neighbors brought their clothes, washed them, and left a quarter to pay for the water. That may have been the first coin laundry in Louisville.

Because we were a large family, there was never enough time to do everything in those days. I had to help my mother, of course, and it seemed to me like I was always on call to do something. Mom put an apron on me and taught me to cook. I cleaned right along with her and helped her wash and iron our clothes. The only jobs I liked at all were the washing and ironing. I hated to cook and clean. But most of all, I didn’t like having to jump up and do something any time Mom assigned me some chore. I knew even then that “A woman’s work is never done” would not be the motto for my life. I wanted to do what was necessary and then be done with it. So I made a deal with Mom. Since she didn’t like to iron, I would do the ironing and she would do the rest. I developed a system that allowed me to finish in one day. The night before ironing day, I would sprinkle the clothes with water, roll them tightly, and put them in a tin tub. The next day, the clothes would be damp all the way through and ready for ironing. I feel similarly compelled to exercise control over what I do and when I do it to this very day.

Though I did what my mother asked as quickly as I could, such tasks still took time—in my opinion, too much time—and gave me a lifelong perception of the hard role women had, staying home, having babies, and cleaning up after other people.

At the same time, I was accumulating other perceptions as well. Many of them came from getting to know all of our neighbors on Grand Avenue. Little did I know how fortunate I was to be growing up among such nice people. They were my extended family.

There was the soft-spoken Miss Brown, whose first name I never knew. I sat on the steps of the sidewalk every day, waiting for her to get off the bus. A school cafeteria worker, she carried a brown bag with sandwiches left over from the day’s lunch and gave them to the waiting children. The tasty sandwiches were either tuna fish or Waldorf salad mix on white bread. To this day, I think they were the best sandwiches I have ever eaten.

Six-foot-two Joseph Ray Sr., usually dressed in a black suit and stylish hat with the brim turned down, was another of my favorite neighbors. He was a gentleman and tipped his hat to me when he passed. It made me feel like a real lady. No wonder Mr. Ray was always one of my role models on the block. He was president of a Black-owned bank, First Standard Bank of Kentucky, until it closed during the Stock Market Crash of 1929. After that, he went into real estate.

Mr. Ray and his wife, Ella, had one son; Joseph Jr. spent more time at our house than he did his own. His mother was sick, but I didn’t know what was wrong with her. The neighbors would just say, “Mrs. Ray is not well.” In those days, people didn’t openly discuss their impairments, especially with children nearby. Many years later, I learned that Ella Ray had undergone a bilateral mastectomy.

One year, Joe Ray got a white bicycle for Christmas. I thought it was beautiful and asked, “Joe, can I ride your new bike?”

“Not till it gets old,” he said, and raced off. Bicycles were just the beginning for Joe. He graduated to motorcycles and later became famous as an accomplished race car driver, one of the first Black drivers for the United States Auto Club. He bought a Henry J. stock car, and my brothers Jay and Phillip were his mechanics. They traveled with Joe to the races, and sometimes I was allowed to go along and watch.

Teachers, doctors, educators, coaches, politicians, and athletes—Grand Avenue had them all. Nearly every field open to middle-class Blacks at that time was represented on Grand Avenue, my childhood community. Many who left Louisville found recognition both regionally and nationally. Herbert Ralston became chief of staff at Chicago Hospital, Wade Houston became head basketball coach at the University of Tennessee, and the inimitable Muhammad Ali became famous as the heavyweight boxing champion of the world. He lived with his parents, Cassius and Odessa Clay, four doors away from us.

I’m sure my desire to “be somebody” came partly from observing the people around me as I grew up. I was blessed to have lived among people who had such high standards and values. They wanted to do something meaningful with their lives. There was only one problem. I was a wise child and quickly figured out that all those I wanted to emulate were men. To me, they were the ones out in the world doing interesting things.

First among the men I idolized was my father, who many people thought resembled the movie star Clark Gable. I saw him as a powerful figure, both in his towering physical stature and in his air of authority; to me, if he said it, it was true.

Once, two police officers came to our house to question my brother Robert about some tire slashing in the neighborhood. At that time, White policemen routinely entered the homes of Black people without knocking. That day, one went to the back door and another to the front. Without knocking, they strode into our house, grabbed Robert, and took him to the Jefferson County Children’s Center.

My father wasn’t home, but when he heard what had happened, he was furious, insulted that they had crashed in and frightened my mother that way. He hired attorney Leon Shaikun to get Robert released from the Children’s Center and to challenge the officers’ behavior. Within a short time, Robert was released into my father’s custody, and later the two policemen were fired. I felt so proud of Pop. After that, I thought he could right any wrong.

Money was not my biggest worry as a child. I always thought my father had lots of it. Of course he didn’t, but he made good money for the time, more than some of the professional people on our street. He bought new cars, Fords, while many people owned second-hand cars or none at all. If my father didn’t have it, he could always get money for whatever I needed.

I felt close to my father. As long as he was there, I felt I was safe. He was not demonstrative with Mom or us children, but he was a good and loving man. During the Depression, Pop was not only good to us, he was good to everyone. He was literally his brother’s keeper—a true, practicing Christian. Through the Depression, he worked three days a week making fourteen dollars a day. When neighbors with children had their water or electricity turned off, Pop paid to have it turned back on. Once a month we went to Nelson County to Aunt Celia’s farm to get food for the neighbors and us. We would bring back smoked meats—ribs, backbones, sausages, and hams. Pop would load the car with a hundred pounds of potatoes, canned fruits and vegetables, jellies and jams, bags of pears from the orchard, and other foodstuff. Back in Louisville, he’d divide the food and send it around to the families with children.

I’m sure other members of my family would say he was partial to me. He was quick to stand up for me whenever I needed his support, and he made sure that my brothers never hit me. He whipped them with peach tree switches for their frequent misdeeds, but he gave me only one small spanking, though I probably deserved more, during my entire childhood.