MARTHA REEVES ….. WILL TELL HER STORY!
Martha's story is a familiar one to legions all over the world.
“MARTHA REEVES”
NEW MUSICAL - BIO PIC MOVIE
MY STORY: ……My life begins says Martha….
(Brief story -outline….. Martha tells her story!!! ……. my childhood)
The world I was born into was one filled with music. My mother, Ruby, and my father, Elijah, were two youngsters who fell in love and used music to court with. Together they would sit under the moonlight on the big front porch in Abbeville, Alabama.
When Elijah came courting, he would bring his guitar. He would play and sing, and Ruby would join in. Her parents would leave them alone as long as they could still hear music coming from the porch.
If the music stopped, that instantly signalled the arrival of my grandparents, "Big Daddy" Grover Gilmore and "Big Mama" Jessie, who would appear at the doorway to chaperon.
Ruby's brother Junior, or his sisters, Juanita and Jewel, would make some joke about the music having ceased. Then Elijah or E.J., as everyone called him would commence to pick at his guitar, and Ruby would begin singing along.
I wasn't born yet, but I can vividly picture the scene, since one of my favorite childhood memories is of my mothers sweet voice singing us to sleep nearly every bedtime.
Ruby was just 15 years old and E.J. was 19 when they got married on June 5, 1937. They were just a couple of children themselves. Ambitious newlyweds, they tended a farm just as their parents had.
The white boss and his family lived at one end of his property, and on the other side of the field, somewhere back near the woods, there was a shack where the boarders’ family could live as long as they met their quota. If they didn't harvest a set amount of crops, they lost their space and had to move on.
The house and a few bushels of the produce they managed to draw from the fertile ground they tilled were their pay.
That's where E.J. and Ruby started their family. They hadn't been married long when Benny, my oldest brother, was born on April 2, 1938, at Richards Crossroads, Alabama. That tiny town at the center of Barbour and Henry counties was named after one of a pair of men killed there in a legendary dispute. The fight happened before my mother’s time.
She told the story this way: "My great uncle on my father’s side of the family, Uncle Ben Gilmore, was fighting with a white man named Richard. After Richard cut his throat, Ben asked to be raised up to speak his last words, saying: “Lift me up just one more time." He cut the white man's throat in that instant. They both died, one on top of the other.”
My brother Thomas was born next, on December 10, 1939, in Parker’s Alley, out in the country. The family had moved to Batesville where Elijah was hired to work in a sawmill.
Moving from place to place, wherever they were hiring, E.J. would work temporary jobs slaughtering hogs, cutting wood, and sometimes going on ahead of the family and sending for mother and children later.
I was the third child and the family’s first girl. I was born on July 18, 1941, in Eufaula, Alabama, at 505 Washington St., in a two family building.
Back then we couldn't afford a doctor, so my midwife was granny Russau.
Her sons Buck and Ball were local farmers, and she served as doctor to all of my cousins. Although she usually arrived late, she was known as the best midwife in the county.
I wasn't even a year old and "the great exodus" from the South had already begun. Since cotton gins are cutting into sharecroppers’ jobs, work was becoming scarce in the South. My grandfather's cousins, the Davises, went up North and sent word back that there were many job opportunities awaiting them in Michigan. My father and his three brothers all decided to move their families there. Uncle Adron and my dad's oldest sister, Ella Mae, were the first to move from the South to set up housekeeping in the big "D"– Detroit.
They were later joined by their brothers Ben Thomas, Sylvester, and my dad Elijah Joshua Reeves Junior. Dad sent for my mother and their three children – now four years old, two years old, and 11 months old - in 1942.
After the whole family made it safely to Detroit, we all lived in a three-bedroom house on Illinois Street, even using a closet as a room to make it accommodate three families.
Uncle Sylvester and his wife Ola were the acknowledged heads of the house. Along with their children Eloise, Bertha, or Arvester, Eunice, and Irene, they occupied the first two rooms.
The room shared by aunt Ella Mae and her four year old daughter Juanita was no larger than a walk-in closet itself. The living room had a big bay window, and as you reached the kitchen, our room was just off to the left.
In Detroit my family continued to grow, one new sibling after another, until there were 12 of us in all. Shirley Ann, born August 14, 1942, died from pneumonia at two months old, our first real tragedy. Samuel Elijah was born January 12, 1945, during a very cold winter. Melvin Douglas arrived on February 25, 1947, and then Sandra Dolores (“Lois”), the sister I had prayed so hard for, came next on April 12, 1948.
We had two chests of drawers, lots of trunks, and boxes in that one room where we slept in two double beds. Mom and Dad's bed was near the back window and the rear door.
With so many people living in that tiny house, it took a lot of patients and scheduling to get everybody's kids fed, and with one bathroom, there was always a dispute going on.
If you were lucky enough to get a turn in the bathroom, you could count on someone banging on the door to hurry you along.
Mom I was, and still is, our main source of entertainment. On special notes, she sat with us until we went to sleep, telling us all about the world she's so probably brought all of us into.
She idolized Billie Holiday, who was the most popular blues singer when sweet Ruby was courting and growing into a beauty herself.
My first remembrances of Momma were of a vanilla wafer colored angel with long shoulder length wavy hair, an hourglass figure, bowed legs and slightly pigeon toed. She walked as if she were listening to music, always seeming to step on her own toes.
Ruby worked from sunup to sunset. After bathing us all, refereeing us as we took turns, and attempting to keep the young ones up long enough to get them suited up in pajamas and gowns, she would tell us these wonderful recollections about our ancestors, and her and Dad's romance.
Dear heart that she is, she would then sing to us until we had all fallen asleep. She was so exhausted that she would take occasional naps just to get through the day.
My father was handsome and quite popular with the ladies in the neighborhood because he was handy. He not only played his guitar, but he was able to repair cars, washing machines, radios, refrigerators - anything electric - without any training whatsoever. He just had the knack and was good with his hands. I inherited some of that talent. I can definitely say that I have my fathers hands.
That was really home. It seemed as if he were always coming from or going back to work. He was a man of few words, but at special rare times, when he felt like it, he would take his guitar down from the wall where it would hang and play us some down-home blues.
My favorite was "Good Evening, Little School Girl," which he would sing just for me. I remember "Oh Lawdy Lord," "One Day Baby," "I Ain't Gonna Worry My Life Anymore," and "John Henry'" to name a few of his classic songs that took us into his world.
He turned his guitar in a style he called "Vassapoo." In our crowded household only he and Mom could play any musical instruments, or "pick the guitar," as they lovingly called it.
When they were tired of playing, we would "look at" the radio and listen to Walter Winchell, Gabriel Heatter, "Lights Out," "Inner Sanctum Mysteries," or "The Shadow.”
On special nights we heard "the Amos and Andy Show," thinking that we were listening to black actors - not knowing that the voices we heard with those of white actors.
In actuality, the only black actor we had to identify with on the radio then was Rochester on "the Jack Benny Show.”
Every summer, the minute school was out, we packed up all of our summer clothes, and with our box lunches in hand, we wrote the "choo-choo train" down south to visit our relatives.
I really do miss the big steam engines. There was nothing like them. You could hear those long passenger trains coming for about an hour. When they would finally make their approach, the engine would chuck down slowly giving off this last big sounding, “Choooooooo!”
The summer after my brother Samuel was born, we left that behind and headed back to Alabama to see our grandparents. Dad continued to work at his new job at Packard, the car factory.
Momma cried a little when we left, but we soon turned our concentration to the other passengers.
It was the end of June 1945, and the train was crowded mostly with passengers in uniform.
These men were all bandaged up, on crutches, some of them with limbs missing, going home from World War II. This was the first time I'd ever seen a sling on someone's arm, and it fascinated me. Momma was quick to tell us not to bump into them or annoy them, just to "sit down and be still.”
Well, that command lasted about 10 minutes, and Thomas, who is always friendly and curious, asked the closest soldier how he was feeling because one could see that they were in pain and depressed. He responded by saying, "I'm all right, just anxious to get home. I have a son who should be about your age right now." With a warm smile, he invited my brother to join him on the empty seat next to him.
Once the train cross the Mason-Dixon line, we "colored folks," as we were referred to then, had to move to the back of the train. This unfair law apply to these war torn heroes as well.
Tom's newfound friend managed to make the move quite easily with his crutch supporting his one good leg. He even offered to help Mom – a pretty lady with her four small kids.
The rear cars were not spacious or as comfortable as the front ones, and we sat even closer to the wounded man. Momma with all her persistence tried to make sure that we did not bug the other passengers. Thomas had his adopted friend, and they sat across from us, talking and making each other laugh. The soldier pulled out a harmonica from his pocket and started to play "Sentimental Journey." We all knew the words for it was one of Mom's favorites, and we started to sing along.
To everyone's surprise and delight, Thomas then stood up and went from person to person getting them to join in the singing.
That trip turned into a pleasant experience, as we sang "Saturday Night Fish Fry," "Mona Lisa," and " Route 66," to name a few of the songs we had learned from listening to Randy's radio broadcast from Nashville, or from Ruby and E.J.
It was just like a regular gathering on that train, and then Thomas brought the evening to a close with his rendition of "Choo-Choo Cha-Boogie.” The men enjoyed his singing so much that they soon began to wipe tears from their eyes.
They beckoned him and dropped coins into the pocket of his miniature navy blue suit. He was so happy with the change he received, because he could now buy a whole bag of penny candy.
Thomas was always big hearted, and he shared the candy she bought with the rest of us kids.
Life was so different in the South. I remember being down on my grandparents farm, watching as sweet potatoes were rolled out of hot coals with a poker, rinsed off, and put on the table.
Our mouth with water as "Big Mama" Jessie flipped a whole cake of cornbread. Her kitchen had a flat wood-burning stove, the kind you used a tool to pry open and fill with wood. On it she would fry chicken, brown bacon, and boil vegetables, and you would know there was a good eating to come when the big stewpot was placed among the readied coals to simmer all day long.
On visits to the farm every year, we hardly ever wore shoes except to town to shop, or in church, I loved those summers we spent in Alabama.
Back in Detroit, before television was invented, we would visit close relatives on Sunday after church services, and in our best clothes, we’d sit on sofas and mind our manners.
Whenever someone would make a request, we’d sing, recite, or dance just as our mother and father had instructed us to do.
I certainly had my moments of glory as a child, too. I always rejoiced to see the smiles of approval and hear my parents shout, "That's my girl!" I felt confident that I had a talent to sing.
At the age of three, Benny, Thomas, and I had won some chocolate covered cherries in a church talent contest, singing "Jesus Met the Woman At the Well.”
At that young age I was already hooked on pleasing a crowd with my singing.
Beatrice Lockett was my first godmother, and she was the one responsible for introducing me to the wonderful world of show business. I can remember her coming and taking me by the hand as we walked to the Paradise Theater on Woodward to see my first live stage show.
Inside the theater I was just too short to see over the seat in front of me, so Beatrice would pick me up and say, "See, that's Louis Jordan… Watch Pegleg Bates dance, he only has one leg!… Eddie "Lockjaw" Davis picks up everything with his teeth - look baby!… Isn't that Cab Calloway something?”
Then the curtains change colors, and parted to reveal a screen. There, live on stage was a scene just like one out of a movie. Several people entered the stage with umbrella's. Then I saw the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my whole three little years.
Beatrice said, "Now here’s my girl Lena Horne. Isn't she pretty?" As she sang "Stormy Weather," I heard a great voice sing the blues. In the lyrics of the song, she was crying over a man, and I couldn't associate that sad song with such a lovely angel-like grown woman.
She could've had anything she wanted, she was so beautiful. I never forgot my first taste of entertainment and movie stars - that fantasy world!
It was a world I never dreamed that I would one day be a part of.
We had walked from the corner of Riopelle and Leland to Woodward - maybe a half a mile – and the cold walk home was like dreaming. I called Beatrice regularly and pestered her to take me back to the Paradise. We only went one or two more times then she moved out of the state. I was sorry to see her go, and I was without a godmother for a lot of years.
From a very early age I have been aware that "guardian angels" watch over us. My brother Thomas was my first guardian angel, and throughout my life he has walked and talked with me. As we grew up, he would teach me the facts of life as he learned them. My first awareness of my being watched over came when my brother Thomas and I were in the city one cold day before winter. I wasn't even school-age yet. Thomas wanted to go to Woolworth’s to get a jigsaw puzzle.
You see, my Aunt Bernice, Uncle Sylvester's second wife, had taught us to work puzzles, but warned us against touching even one piece of the 500 - and 1,000 piece puzzles she'd leave undone on tables for weeks. So we wanted our own, and Thomas worked real hard hauling the neighbors’ coal into their house to earn enough money. He came and got me, and away we started walking towards where we thought the Woolworths’ five and ten cent store was.
Thomas was only 19 months older than I, but as we walked down the street, he dutifully held my hand. When we reach the Eastern Market, where farmers brought their goods to sell them directly to the public, we were confused, because we were used to people being there.
Every morning we would find the place filled with local farmers selling their wares. Now, however, the market was closed, and since the stalls were deserted, we were confused and didn't recognize where we were.
Thomas was brave all during our adventure, but I began to cry, and very loudly in fact. He tried to wipe my tears with his hands and kept telling me not to cry, but it was getting to be around 5 PM, and it starts to get dark early at the beginning of winter. We walked around for another hour, and I cried all my tears. My face was so streaked with dry salt streams that I gave up on trying to wipe them away.
All of a sudden we walked up to this huge building. Thomas still had my hand, and these real big white men (blacks were not firemen in our neighborhood yet) met us and asked us, "Where are you kids headed?" Then it was Thomas’s turn to break down and cry. He was crying so hard that he couldn't speak, and only nodded his head when the firemen asked, "Are you lost?" They took us inside, warmed us by the biggest potbellied stove I've ever seen, except for the huge one at the entrance to Bell Isle.
We ate the candy canes they gave to each of us, and as Thomas warmed up he began to talk, and told them where we lived. They laughed among themselves, for it seemed that we had been only going in circles around the same 4 to 6 blocks – and not far from home – because we were told never to cross any big streets. We were taught to obey orders, or get whippings.
We didn't get a whipping that night, though. We were too excited and tired when we rode up to our house on Illinois and Leland in that big fire truck, with all the lights on and the sirens going full blast, at our request!
When I was old enough to begin school, I was very excited. Momma couldn't leave the younger children, so my two older brothers were given the task of delivering me to kindergarten.
My first day at school was an event I always remember when I take on a new challenge.
No one explain to me what to expect. Mom had already seen Dad off at the crack of dawn. That September morning of 1946 was a chilly one, and I was told to button my coat. My brothers Benny and Thomas were told to take care of their baby sister, and my two oldest brothers took it to heart – one on each side, holding my hands and taking me to kindergarten.
I was introduced to my teacher, Mrs. Walker. She had also been their teacher, and they felt confident that she would do me swell, so they left me there with all those new little kids.
I knew that they would come to retrieve me when school was out, so I didn't cry or make a fuss.
I did whatever Mrs. Walker instructed us to do, and rather enjoyed it. We sat in rows on the floor, painted, ate milk and cookies, and then we were asked to put our on our coats, line up, and go outside. I didn't know what "recess" was, so as soon as we were led to the playground, I just kept walking and went home.
I was really hurt because my "heroes" were not there to retrieve me like they promised.
My brothers were safety patrol boys, and I had been told how to walk to the corner, look both ways, and when the traffic cleared, walk across the street. So that's what I did. I was so glad when I got home to mama that I ran to her crying, my heart beating like a drum.
However, when I got there, I was startled to find that she was not happy to see me. In fact, she scolded me for crossing the street alone. She called the lady next door to come over and watch the little ones so she could walk me back to Mrs. Walker's class. I couldn't figure out why she was so upset: I wasn't told about recess. What a lesson to learn the hard way! I was teased about this over and over again until I tired of it.
I enjoyed school, and the teachers always made me feel special. As early as the third grade, I was chosen from among the 30 or 35 students in my class to sing solos by our music teacher,
Mrs. Wagstaff, a lady not very much taller than we students. I cherish the smile that she would have on her face as I remembered the lyrics to songs like "This is My Country," "America the Beautiful," and "Only a Rose," and I can still call them to mind.
Mrs. Wagstaff recognized that I could not only remember song lyrics, but I could also hold melodies in my memory. The other kids didn't like the extra attention she gave me, but I enjoyed pleasing our teacher, and their opinion didn't sway me.
I consider myself blessed having older brothers. I adored them, and they would come to my rescue whenever the school bullies would get out of control. Ernest, a little boy who sat behind me in the fourth grade, tried to get my attention in class a number of times by tugging at the back of my hair, taking my braids loose, and kicking me any opportunity that the teacher didn't observe.
He really was getting on my nerves and disturbing me, causing me to lose my concentration.
One afternoon he chose to dip his pen into the inkwell and squirt me with indelible ink. When I got home I got a whipping for ruining my white ruffled blouse, and wasn't given a chance to explain myself until afterwards, as Thomas consoled me. He told me, "Don't cry, sis. I'll meet you after class tomorrow, don't you worry.”
As we got out of school the next day, there they were: my big brothers asking me, "Point him out. Which one is he?" When Ernest appeared, I showed them this frightened looking guy, and when he saw what was happening he started to run. He was Tom's size, so it was Tom who pursued him, catching him just as Ernest reached the 6 foot high fence that surrounded the public school.
Whenever anyone of us had to fight in our neighborhood, we would do so bravely – unless we were out numbered or mismatched. The unwritten law was to run to the front of our house, and the one who best matched the size of the adversary would accept responsibility to "kick butt."
This time there were no fight. My brother just grabbed Ernest by the collar, and I never knew what was said, so I stayed with Benny and observed from a distance.
All I know is that from that day on, Ernest was a sweet as he could be to me, and tried to be my boyfriend. He had a complete change of attitude, thanks to my heroes coming to my rescue again.
Education was always emphasized in our house. Momma, during a quiet time, explained to us children how lucky we were to be able to attend school. After all, it hadn't been so long ago that black children in the South were not even allowed to receive an education.
Momma said that as a girl she used to cry to go to school.
No mere cough or cold ever brought any of the Reeves children a free day off from school. I can remember being sick one morning with a fever and chills. When I announced that I was too sick to go to class, my daddy poured a glass of cold water on my face, just wetting me enough to make lying there impossible. Believe me, I got up and went to school. I felt better than I thought I would.
After some time the communal living in a house on Illinois Street was becoming impossible because of the subsequent births of Victor Tyrone [June 14, 1949] and Jesse Pecola [July 11, 1950], so we gathered our meager belongings to make our big move. It was just around the corner to a single-family flat on Riopelle Street – still a small dwelling, but this time it was ours alone. We rented it from a man named Joe Burmas, who, after deciding to paint the whole house blood red – trimming and all – made us the spectacle of the neighborhood.
We were referred to as "the bunch of kids who lived in the red house.”
When Delphine [November 22, 1951], Eudora [February 22, 1954], and William [June 1, 1955] were born, there were further adjustments to be made. Benny and Thomas now slept on a pull out couch, while the four little boys – Samuel, Melvin, Victor, and William – slept in a double bed in the first bedroom.
All the girls including me slept in a double bed in the second bedroom. Mom and Dad's bed was in the dining room that had no door and the only rooms in the house that weren't occupied were the kitchen and the bathroom. That was a tight household baby!
Laundry day would consist of me on my knees in front of the bathtub with a rubbing board.
Mom would operate the faucets. She would fill the tub, and on one rubbing board, scrub each piece diligently and pass it to me. I would in turn rub it on my rubbing board, squeeze it and toss it into a number five wash tub. Then, after washing, we used the same procedure to rinse the clothes, then carry them to the backyard to hang them on clothes lines with clothes pins. We worked our way up from tub washing to our first washing machine with an agitator.
Our first machine was a bucket on four wheels, rolling with a clothes wringer that could catch your fingers and sometimes your arms.
Because of the horse stable directly in back of the house, we would constantly have to fight the flies. All my friends – Elaine, Shirley, Kaline, Della, Geraldine, Pluckey, Ray, Sweet, Little Junior, Marcus, and Bert Junior – teased us about living in front of a horse stable. We had the last laugh, though, for when the junkers would empty the wagons, we'd get the best of the treasures that they had found.
With so many of us in the house, we kids sure did have a great time – especially when Momma and Daddy left us on our own. We had this little game we called “10-X "where the guys and the girls were on opposing sides. We would collect throwable things, stack them up in a pile, and whichever team got really fed up with the other’s jazz, would initiate "the attack.”
With all those children, imagine how many shoes were available for warfare. It was usually the girls, unable to retort to some of the boys’ teasing, who would pass the first lick and yell: “10-X!!!" This was our battle cry! We would completely wreck the house, but we had common sense enough to have everything straight and in its proper place by the time Mom and Dad were scheduled to arrive home.
Sometimes we’d even turn the lights off at night during one of our “10-X” brawls. We’d scream at the top of our voices with delight and throw things into the darkness, and get hit repeatedly.
One day one of the stronger boys hit me squarely on target with a cushion from the chair. He knocked me into the molding of a door frame and the center of my forehead made direct contact. No blood, just a great big welt that looked like a "hickey."
I was Daddy's first born girl, and being the authority figure among us kids, this also meant getting the blame when pandemonium hit.
Panic struck. Suddenly we all bound together, fearing the whipping that hurting me would surely bring. Quickly we went into action: upon my swelling forehead they put shoe polish, alcohol, witch hazel, ice, flour, and everything else in the house that they thought would make the swelling go down. They were so concerned that as a last resort, they went into one of the bedrooms and prayed to God that He would let that hickey go away.
The moment I heard Mom and Dad's footsteps on the porch, I got prepared for what was to come.
I began to cry all over again, and was the first to the door. As they entered, Mom asked, "What's wrong with you, girl? What are you crying for?”
I mumbled something through my tears and pointed to my head, only to hear her say, "What a hickey?" Boy, was that a close call!
When I went outside to play, I always carried along four brothers and four sisters: one on the hip, one on my hand, and the rest walking ahead of me. At that time "skate boxes" were the latest craze. A precursor to skateboards, skate boxes were old vegetable crates with broken roller skates attached – homemade in construction and design. It was an honor to have the best of the skate boxes.
Also, we were lucky enough to have a perfectly smooth street just around the corner – the rest of a couple stone.
When the weather permitted, we got to see a colorful parade. The self-taught inventors would use bottle tops, the rubber from inner tubes, and a bunch of 10-for-a-penny nails to create their masterpieces.
Some skate boxes even had windshields, fenders, and ornaments.
I loved to watch the big boys and their customized skate boxes, so we would make a trip around the block once a day, stopping on Leland to watch all the action. There were about 10 racing on this particular hot summer day. I was there with seven of my usual eight siblings. Mom and I had just tidied them up, a regular operation on hot days.
We were walking around the corner when suddenly there was a loud screeching of tires and someone yelled, "There's been an accident!”
I immediately began grabbing up everybody to return home. I could account for everybody but Jessie. "Where is Jesse?!" I screamed. I soon found out that she had wandered into the street and had been hit by a car! The second the discovery was made, there was Mom yelling from the porch to me: "You let my baby get killed! I told you to watch these children! It's all your fault!! You were supposed to be watching them!!!" Dad was there, so they got Jessie into the car and drove off to the hospital. "You better watch all of them this time!" they warned me as they drove away. My first thought to myself was, "None of these are my children!”
Luckily, it wasn't serious. Jessie had only been knocked against the curb. The black mark on her yellow dress was just dirt and not a tire mark.
Back then, in the Detroit of the 1950s, there was a strong sense of neighborhood, where everybody knew everybody else and looked out for each other.
As it was, my family – including aunts, uncles, and cousins – and the other families were full of self appointed "mothers." If you were sassy, disobedient, or just demonically inspired, somebody would whip you. Then they would take you home, knock on your front door, and inform your parents of your wrongdoing. They’d leave you at your doorstep, only to have your own parents get just as angry and whip the living daylights out of you, too! This was your worst nightmare.
One day while it play in watching my younger sisters and brothers, I heard a voice call out, "Hey, little girl!” At first I thought I was hearing things. So I twirled around and round, and then I looked up into the direction the voice came from.
Through a screened window that was slightly ajar, I could see the eyes and cheekbones of a person peering down at me.
At 11 years old I was imaginative. Although my first instinct was to run, I walked closer to the house and heard a voice say, "Come up the stairs for a moment. I want to ask you a favor.” I knew to ask my Mom first, and I informed the woman of this. After Momma said that she didn't mind as long as she knew where I was, I came back as fast as I could and climbed that tall flight of stairs.
The door to this house was open, and I stepped inside. There, sitting on the edge of the bed was an oversized woman with two long braids hanging to her waist like an Indian. She pleasantly greeted me, saying, "My name is Mrs. Williams, and I was wondering, could you do something for me?”
I said, "I guess so.”
She asked, "what's your name?" And started up a friendly conversation. As we got acquainted, I saw that she really needed someone there to help her from time to time. She was a very nice woman, and I was glad I was there to lend a hand. I soon discovered that Mrs. Williams was a paraplegic and that she was divorced from the man who lived in an apartment that was upstairs in the back of the same house. Although they were no longer married to each other, they owned the house together and rented out most of the rooms.
Mrs. Evelyn Williams had a daughter and three grandchildren, and when they were not available to assist her, she would call me from the upstairs window and asked me to do chores for her. She weighed at least 300 pounds, was either half white or half Indian, and had a temper to match the length of her hair, which was long and thick and needed combing every day. I soon began stopping by every day after school. She told me fascinating stories of her life, and I would earn money from her to buy much needed school supplies and unmentionables.
I washed her hair at least once a week, changed her bed, and washed her bedsheets. I guess I was a nurse of sorts. She earned money as an illegal numbers runner. She would write down the neighbors’ bets or "numbers," and take a cut of the winnings.
Some people phoned in their bets and others dropped by. While it was illegal, it was still considered an "honest" way for some of the poor to make enough money to survive on.
Years before I met her, Mrs. Williams had been in a car accident in which she was thrown from the vehicle. In the process she had injured her spleen, legs, and spine. Because of her size and her lack of exercise, she was plague by rheumatism and arthritis. Yet she still had the spunk to get up every morning and run her numbers operation.
If I think about it, and inhale, I can still smell the liniment that she rubbed on her swollen joints. Since she wasn't able to do it properly, I often rubbed the liniment on her. I could always be of help, which made me feel good about doing something for someone less fortunate than I.
I would cook for her, and from time to time she sent me to buy things for her at either Mr. Edward’s or Mr. Mack’s stores.
After I was finished doing chores for her, I would leave as fast as she would count out 40 or 50 cents as my pay. She never gave me more than a whole dollar for hours of sweating, turning her, changing her bed, and doing her laundry. She was demanding and always wanted things done for her exactly her way. But my real pay was in learning to do a lot of things for myself in addition to what I learned at home from Momma.
Mrs. Williams would sit on the side of a double bed, day in and day out, looking out her window at the neighborhood below. She made note of everyone's comings and goings, and she would always have reports and gossip for anyone who gave her an audience.
I learned about nearly everybody's business in the neighborhood. She was quite a character, and I grew very fond of her.
Unfortunately, she was one of the first people I ever knew who died. One day she had heart failure and died alone in her room. I was 13, and I never knew how much I really cared about her until I saw her laying very still, waxen and pale. I had gone to the funeral parlor to pay my last respects and promptly fainted when I saw Mrs. Williams laid out and looking decidedly dead.
That was the last funeral I attended for a long time.
When I arrived at Mrs. Williams's house just after she had died, I saw three men skillfully carrying this 300 pound woman down the stairs as if she were a delicate glass figurine. That helped ease the pain of losing someone whom I still considered to be one of my "godmothers."
Being with her those two years kept me out of a lot of teenage trouble that I could've gotten into, and I am thankful for her having her in my life.
I know that my education was a little greater than the average child ’s because of Mrs. Williams and her attention.
In my last four years at Russell Elementary school, I was taken from the regular classes and put with several of the students who had been selected by the teachers to become part of what they called an "Open" program.
The children were there because certain handicaps or afflictions made it difficult for them to attend regular classes. Some of the students in the program were hard of hearing, blind, malnourished, or neglected. A few had Down's syndrome.
Although it was never made clear just why I was placed there, I have always suspected that it was because I wasn't properly nourished.
Back then I had very poor eating habits. I was always skinny and never seem to have much of an appetite. Mom made me sit at the table sometimes when everyone else is finished, instructing me to clean my plate.
After I was treated for a case of bronchitis, I overheard a doctor tell my mother that I was “anaemic.” Regardless of the reason, I was happy to have been chosen for this program, as it provided us with a light breakfast, a hearty lunch, recess on the open air roof, and an afternoon rest period. It was almost like attending a private school with in the public school system.
Our teacher was Mrs. Keys, a beautiful silver haired lady who had a face that looked as if it belonged on the front of a cameo.
In one room she taught the fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth grades in separate rows. She would go from one grade to the next, controlling every situation with a star rule and zealous determination.
I found myself among some very intelligent people and I was encouraged to learn even more.
I even won the district spelling contest. The price was a collegiate dictionary, which I dearly cherished.
Mrs. Keys was a gem of a teacher who never stepped out of the guise of educator. She had no sense of humor or any patience for fooling around or not paying attention. I can still remember her smiling when we gave the correct responses to her questions.
She usually wore a navy blue two-piece suit and a white blouse. The blouse style would vary – sometimes nylon or ruffled – but it was always white.
In my four years with Mrs. Keys, we only had a handful of substitute teachers. One of the substitutes was the sister of Detroit's world famous boxer, Joe Lewis. I remember how impressed we all were to have Miss Lewis instruct us for a couple of days. Detroit was filled with celebrities, and it was always inspiring to encounter them – or anyone closely related to them. This reinforced my realization that people of working class beginnings could rise up and attain stardom – right in my hometown of Detroit.
When the weather permitted we would go onto the roof to play during our recess. There was a tall chain-link fence that kept us from any changes, but it was merely a screen and didn't stop the voices of the regular students from below. They taunted us and called us rude names, as if we had a choice about being in the special classroom.
Sometimes it felt like prison, and other times I was glad to be there because we had fewer students and the attention of our fine Mrs. Keys.
For school one warm spring day, I had worn a sundress selected from a bundle of discarded clothes that's my mother's cousin, Veola Culver, had brought over. They had been given to Veola by her rich employers.
At least we thought they were rich. God rest her soul, Veola considered us poor, and she would give us a lecture every time she came to our house with her secondhand gifts. She would throw it up in Mom's face in conversation whenever she and Mom didn't agree. I remember hearing her tell my Mom, "You should not have laid down and had all those children.”
Mom always had a lot of pride, and she passed it on to me. She never asked Veola for anything, and she was probably taking these discarded rags off of Veola’s hands. We could wash some of them and wear them once or twice.
In a large family, we often wore "seconds," and it was alright as long as we knew they were clean.
I had washed, starched, and ironed this lovely looking little dress, placing the pleats in the skirt just so and you're making it look as new as possible.
However, I didn't notice how thin the cotton fabric was. The day I wore it, I had on my first garter belt and my first silk stockings, but no slip. I didn't know anything about slips yet.
It was a hot day and I thought I looked cute in that dress until I stood in that slow moving line. When the boys caught the sight of my body through it, they started teasing me.
Little did I know that the sun shone through the thin material turning it transparent and undressing me from the waist down. When the boy started laughing, making snide remarks, and pointing at me, I became miserably sick to my stomach.
Too embarrassed to tell Mrs. Keys what happened, I asked her if I could be excused, and she let me go into the restroom where we took her daily naps on cots.
After thanking her for her kindness, I was laying there feeling much better when I spotted a roll of paper towels. There was no one around, so I tore four long sheets off the rolls and placed them just right under my dress and returned to class. The roll of paper saved the day.
Sure, the paper towels rustled when I walked, and that prompted more amusement for my peers, but they couldn't see through my dress anymore.
Although the whole thing fell apart as I neared home, that day I had learned a valuable lesson about the necessity of linings and slips!
The one thing I missed while being in the Open Air program was the music teacher who taught the regular classes.
However, I loved to hear Mrs. Keys read us poetry. Sometimes I would sing melodies as I read the works of James Weldon Johnson, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Edgar Allan Poe, or any classic conversations that she enlightened us with.
The only opportunity to hear music was in church and around the house. My whole family would sing when the radio was on.
We would all sing whenever Mom and Dad would play the guitar. I had stopped going to church four times a week as I once did, mainly because I was now needed more and more to help Momma at home in the kitchen.
Sunday always meant a big meal day, with five or six course meals and all kinds of fancy desserts. The preacher would always come to eat, and he usually claimed the drumsticks for himself.
I was now in my teens, the rebellious age when you get to have your way sometimes – with a little extra whining. Mom would wear me out trying to work with her.
She spent all of her time cooking, cleaning, and making sure we were neat and cared for.
Daddy has recently been struck by an out of control automobile while working a jackhammer with his back toward oncoming traffic. Using the money that the insurance paid for his accident suit, we moved into a house on Townsend Street in 1956.
Meanwhile, Dad worked every day for the city and brought the money home. He left work around 6 AM as we were awakened to rise and get ready for school.
Every morning the older boys were expected to start the fire and warm the house for all of the younger kids. I would get dressed and then I'd have to help the other four girls, who were all in need of a "do."
We were glad to be in our new house, although Daddy still had terrible pain from the accident and had to wear a back brace for most of the rest of his life.
We even had a coal burning furnace in the basement, some thing our other house didn't have, and we could sit in the living room and not have to face that big pot belly stove that everyone got burned on trying to get warm. We eventually converted the furnace to gas. Hallelujah, no more piles of the city coal to shovel into the bin. We had really moved up in the world!
There were three bedrooms on the top floor of our new house and a half finished storage room that was just the supplement we needed. (We referred to it as the "the outer room.”) All five of us girls shared the long front bedroom. With two double beds we did swell. Jessie and Lois slept in one bed, and I and the two youngest ones, Delphine and Eudora, slept in the other. Sometimes morning would find us all in one bed because my sisters liked for me to tell them stories that I would make up. I would use different voices, sometimes scaring them, mostly making them laugh, until we all fell asleep.
The high school that I attended, Miller, was a predominantly black school and is noted for all the great people who attended there, like former Detroit mayor Coleman Young, Little Willie John, Clifford Fears, and Motown singer Kim Weston.
Thomas and I had some classes together in high school. We both eventually transferred from Miller to Northeastern High when Miller because a middle school, and he graduated just before I did. He was just a year older than I and fell behind trying to work and go to school too at the same time. Benny had gone to join the Navy upon graduation, so Tom occupied the smallest of the three bedrooms, and the one designated to the next child to leave. Victor, Melvin, Samuel and William (in the baby’s bed) held down the other room. We could finally spread out and no one had to sleep on the couch anymore.
I was very active in extracurricular activities, even making the varsity cheerleading team.
Not only were we the best sports team in the city competitions, our cheering team was great.
I remember slip-jointed Elsie Williams and her double flips and handstands. She taught me how to do the splits, but I couldn't quite get down like she could. She always got applause from both sides of the field. I joined the Y-Teens and Junior Achievement, and becoming a member of the choir was a must.
I spent many wonderful moments dreaming of being famous one day. I learned all I could about music, hoping one day to be as great as local singing star Little Willie John (“fever”, 1956). I would sometimes see him after school, singing in front of the candy store just across the street.
My cousin Marie Reeves attended Northeastern also, graduating the year I arrived, and she was a lifesaver. Marie was special because she had been ill most of her life with attacks of asthma. While other children were outside playing, she was in the house reading or sewing. She always had labored breathing, so she excelled at indoor activities.
She was a good student for most of her teachers. Some of them asked me if we were related. When I said yes, they spoke very highly of her, and expected great things from me. Marie could really sew, and made a lot of her own clothes, which she would graciously hand down. I wore her creations gladly. When I was in high school, she really save the day by loaning me one of her winter coats.
My Mom and Marie's mother often talked on the telephone. Speaking about my upcoming graduation ceremony, Mom said, "I was barely able to get her a dress, but she sure needs a coat, and there isn't enough money for one.” My Aunt Eunice replied, "Marie has lots of coats. We’ll drop one of them by for Martha." I don't think Marie really like the idea too much, but she complied anyway and loaned it to me.
My high school graduation ceremony was very important for me. Not only was I going to get my diploma, but my choir would be singing, and today marked one of my first public solo singing performances.
Momma and I were late arriving because the full length black wool coat came late.
Nevertheless, I hurried and made it to the choir stand just as the introduction to my song was beginning. The choir instructor, Mr. Abraham Silver, gave me big eyes as though he was thinking, "Thank God, you finally made it!" I adored him and his choir class, and music was my favorite subject.
We were also the first choir ever to be featured in a live broadcast at Northeastern, and we performed at the Ford Auditorium before 4000 people.
We had just given a great spring concert in the school auditorium.
That day I was the featured soloist after being chosen from a group of 11 sopranos to sing "Allelujah." All of the schools choirs were combined, and I was so proud to see my name in the program. I put all my heart into my singing. This was only my fourth performance in front of people, so my knees knocked together as I nervously shook those beautiful notes and box "Allelujahs" out.
Mom was the only immediate family member there, and Aunt Eunice obliged with me her presence. Momma stayed up with me real late that night, curling my hair and helping me lay out my clothes for the big day. From where I stood on the stage, I looked for her approval.
She had stayed awake pretty well through all the speeches, but the moment I began my aria, I could see her head was tilted back and she had fallen asleep. The applause for our efforts woke her, but she had missed my song. I couldn't be concerned about that, for she had tolerated me rehearsing all of these weeks, and I was just glad that she was there. She saw me get my diploma, and that was all that really mattered.
I didn't go to my prom because I didn't have a date, so Mom and Dad gave me permission to give a graduation party in the basement if I agreed to clean it up. Some of my fellow students showed up on short notice, but didn't stay very long because I ran out of Kool-Aid and bologna salad sandwiches too quickly. This was the best that we could afford, as my elite guests were leaving I heard comments about the condition of our well lived in house, and references about other parties that they had on the list. I stood in the doorway saying goodbye to some of them forever. Charlesetta Solomon, Marstella Hicks, Francis Thomas, Modestine Simmons, and Marzene Kendricks must have given parties themselves, because none of my cheerleading partners showed up.
The morning after my high school graduation found me up early job hunting. I ran to the County Building to apply for a Social Security card, and with my new credentials, filled out as many applications as I could for open positions there. I even took a test at Wayne State University for a job where I could work and attend school at the same time.
This is what my counselor at Democracy House, Mr. Graves, had suggested. I didn't pass the exam, and at that time there were no tuition grants available to me, so I put the dream of college on the back burner.
Next I tried the want ads and found a house cleaning job on the East Side. It was for a family with two small children. Both parents worked, and I was to clean the house and take care of two little boys for eight dollars a day. That was not enough for carfare, lunch, and other expenses like a winter coat that I direly needed. This job didn't last long, however. I had a high school diploma and I wanted to do something more challenging than housework.
I went back to the ads and read one that made selling Stanley home products seem like the opportunity of a lifetime. I tried selling door to door and since it was a good line of products,
I sold them easily after a good demonstration.
Although many housewives felt that they deserved the very best household aids, they just didn't seem to have the money ready when it was time for delivery. We sales reps worked on a commission basis, and I never got to the "getting paid" stage because I was to be paid out of my nonexistent sales profits.
For a while I worked in my Uncle Adron's restaurant on Canfield Street. I tried to do my best at being a waitress. The restaurant was near the railroad tracks, and Uncle Adron regularly gave credit to senior citizens on welfare and would keep their accounts in a spiral notebook.
For these people, it was always a long time before the first of the month when they would get their Social Security checks.
For me, it meant no tips. As anyone who has ever waited tables can tell you, tips are at least half of one’s salary. I knew from the start that I was wasting my time, especially since I never received a salary from my Uncle. Oh well, I owed his daughter Marie so much for loaning me all those clothes, and for being such a good friend as well as my cousin. I added waitressing to my growing résumé, and moved on.
My next job came from the want ads. There was an opening for a "telephone solicitor." After a brief inquiry on the phone, I was given an address and showed up bright and early for a desk job.
I was shown to a cubicle and given the same white paged telephone directories that I had at home.
I was assigned to specific pages and given a pitch to read.
Reluctantly I started dialing, after being informed that this too was on commission. My instinctive first thought was: Oh no, not again.
"Good morning, I'm calling you from the All Right Construction Company –"… click. Or, "Don't you call my house no more, my child is crying. I don't want to talk to you"… click. After a week of this and not one single sale – I didn't receive a cent for my labor. With that, it was back to the want ads again.
In the meantime, I had met a girl named Shirley Walker, who was forming a "girl group" called the Fascinations, and we became best friends, "running buddies," almost sisters-in -law.
Singing was my first love, and when she asked if I was interested, I jumped at the opportunity.
I never thought that Shirley could sing, but she was the organizer and kept everybody rehearsing, even booking us gigs at small local clubs.
We met some real gentlemen in the band at the Sportsman Lounge, and they helped us tremendously with their suggestions and advice. T.J. and his friends helped us a great deal, and Shirley continued to work hard to get new engagements and keep us going.
Two girls in the group, Bernadine and JoAnne Bradley, were sisters, and we sounded pretty good together.
After I left the Fascinations, they went on to record with Curtis Mayfield of the Impressions.
This is what I did to survive the years 1959 to 1960, being led by some powerful force.
Somehow good would always emerge from every situation.
Although I still hadn't successfully landed a steady paying job, I learned something new from everything I tried. I had already had so many revelations over the years as my dreams had come true, and I knew that I was meant for bigger and better things.
I just had to find out what they were.. . . . . . AND I DID FIND MY PLACE IN MUSIC HISTORY FOR THE WORLD OF MUSIC……
