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Transcript on deposit at The Southern Historical Collection, The Louis Round Wilson Library
Citation of this interview should be as follows:
“Interview Q-0073, in
the Southern Oral History Program Collection #4007,
Southern Historical
Collection, The Wilson Library,
University of North Carolina at Chapel
Hill”
Serena Henderson Parker was born in the small town of Huntsville, N.C., in 1923, the daughter of a sharecropper who eventually bought his own farm. Never enslaved because of their light skin, Parker's grandparents and great grandparents, though rural farmers and laborers, were educated and literate; Parker herself was educated in segregated schools and began a teaching career in 1946. In this interview, Parker remembers her childhood in rural North Carolina; recalls her education in a one-room schoolhouse; reflects on her family history, which includes brushes with slavery; and describes her rural community. This interview will be particularly useful to researchers interested in the foodways and social lives of African Americans in early- and mid-20th-century rural North Carolina.
Serena Henderson Parker, born in 1923, remembers the rural North Carolina of her childhood.
[START OF TAPE 1, SIDE A]
I'm James Eddie McCoy. The time is ten after two. I'm going to be visiting with Mrs. Serena Parker and we're going to be talking about when she was growing up in the Huntsville area. First of all, I want you to give me your full name and today's date and your address.
Serena Henderson Parker. And who was—?
Your address.
Uh-hum.
And what's your maiden name?
Henderson. H-E-N-D-E-R-S-O-N.
OK. What church did you and your family come up—grow up in?
Huntsville Baptist Church.
Your mother and father?
Uh-hum.
Which one was church workers, the deacon or worked in clubs and organizations?
My mother.
Your mother? What did she work in?
Oh, missionary—everything you could—missionary, the choir—.
She was a supporter of anything that came up in the church? You could count on her?
Yeah, uh-huh. Yeah.
What did your father do? Just supported things that was called upon?
Yeah.
What about your sisters and brothers? How much did y'all have to do in the church?
Just like we do here. They—my sisters, one of them was a Sunday School
teacher and the Junior
OK. What about your brother?
He just—he was in the choir [before he was here].
Was he—what—was he the last, the baby or what?
No, he's next to the oldest child.
OK. And how many sisters?
Three sisters.
How many boys? One?
One, uh-huh. And I make the fourth girl.
OK. Did anybody go to the Huntsville school that was there in Huntsville?
No. Now, you're asking me something that—I don't think so. I know—
They didn't?
No.
Where did they go to school at?
Fairport.
OK. Whereabout in Fairport did y'all live?
Let me see. It was not far from
OK. All of y'all went to—y'all moved from Huntsville to Fairport?
Uh-hum, yeah.
Did you remember it? Were you old enough to remember it?
No, because I wasn't in school when we moved, moved to Fairport school. I was a little baby. Because Huntsville is the old homeplace.
Uh-huh. And so, Fairport is where your parents moved to?
Yeah.
Were your mother and father farmers, or what?
Farmers.
Was he a sharecropper, or what?
For awhile, and then he bought a farm himself.
Whereabout? Down in Fairport?
Uh-hum.
OK. How many rooms was Fairport school? That's where you first went—?
Two.
It was a two-room—?
Uh-hum.
OK. Who were the teachers when you got there?
[Pearl Fitz] and Dottie [Gooch]. [I wish she was here.]
OK. Now—.
You know Miss Dottie?
Uh-huh. All right, now. Did your sisters and brother, all of them went to school at Fairport?
Fairport. Yeah.
How far did Fairport go? To the sixth grade?
Seventh.
Seventh grade. Everybody went to the seventh grade, all of your sisters and brother?
Uh-hum.
OK, where did your older—your sisters go after they finished Fairport? Which ones went on further in school?
The oldest girl, Maggie, she went to Mary Potter. Sister went to Franklinton.
Tell me about Franklinton. Why did she go there? What kind of school was it?
Well, she just liked that better. And it—now, Mary Potter was a boarding
school and if you lived close enough, you could walk. But we lived too
far distance. So she went to Franklinton with—you know Shirley, Papa's
Uh-huh.
They were cousins. And her mama and my mama and Daddy and all of them sent their children to Franklinton because they could room there with Mrs. Riley so much cheaper than they could in Oxford.
What was the name of the Franklinton school?
I think it was—.
Franklinton Academy, or—?
Or Franklinton Institute. I—all I know is Franklinton High School.
OK. So, one went there or two of them went to Franklinton?
Two of them went to—. One went Mary Potter and [Sister and
OK. So, you went to Mary Potter?
No, I didn't ever go to Mary Potter. I went to Greensboro, Dudley High School in Greensboro.
OK. So, after you got to the seventh grade, you went with your aunt or cousin or—?
My sister, Lottie, the one was here yesterday. I went to her. She came and got me because we didn't have no buses that traveled the country roads. And if I stayed there until the buses went, I'd be way behind.
Uh-huh. How far do you go in school in Greensboro?
Went for the four years. I finished high school there.
OK. Who else of your sisters and brothers finished high school?
Maggie and—it was two.
OK. How many of y'all went to college?
Sister and myself.
Name Sister, you know, what's her—?
Lottie.
OK. How far did Lottie go?
I think she went to about the second year in college before she got married. And she went to Virginia State.
No, when she got married, she lived in—I mean, she was going to school at Virginia State. And then after she got married, she went to Greensboro.
OK. Now, we're going to talk about before—we're going back to talking about the church. Was that a community church or everybody grew up together and knew everybody?
Uh-hum.
OK. Did you have aunts and cousins down there?
Oh, yes. What you mean, at Huntsville?
At both places.
At Huntsville because that's the homeplace.
OK. Tell me something about Huntsville. Almost everybody in Huntsville was kin to each other?
Uh-hum.
What did y'all do on Sundays? What did you play or where did you go?
Go to church and whatever was to be done in the community in the afternoon, go to that. Because most times, it was maybe like the young people having something at church or something like that.
Uh-huh. All the children in the church, mostly parents, you know, kind of made sure they was pretty squared away in the community?
Yeah.
And they had to go by rules when they were visiting?
Uh-hum.
How was your brother? Was he—stay in a little trouble sometimes?
Never. Uh-uh.
Huh?
No sir. He wasn't ever in any trouble.
A boy—and he a boy! And he never got—?
In no kind of trouble.
That was good.
Uh-hum.
So, what about Huntsville? How big was it? Was it dirt road or paved when you—?
Oh, it was dirt road, a dirt road. And—you haven't ever been to Huntsville?
Yeah, I've been there, but—.
Well, it was a dirt road. And they would just get out and come on to church sometimes and walk or rode on a buggy or whatever. It was just a country church.
I forgot to ask you. You have to tell me what year you was born and your age.
Oh, 1923.
1923?
Uh-hum.
OK. What did y'all do in Huntsville? Y'all farm there? Or with your cousins or what?
No, he was farming, but it was such a small farm, he—. That's why he went to Fairport where he could get, you know, more land. Because Mr. Amos was his dear friend and Mr. Joe [Brinn], [Doris Davis's] daddy, encouraged him to come down there.
Yeah, uh-hum.
OK. Now, tell me who—.
Oh, Good Lord! I was just an arm baby.
Huh?
Just an arm baby.
You was an arm baby when you left there?
Uh-hum. Because I know when they started Fairport, I wasn't school age until one or two years after that. I went with them to Fairport school. I wasn't going to school [long] as they were going. I think I was about five years old, then.
Did you have any lights in the school?
No! Uh-uh. Used to have—they had lamplights. If they had anything at night, they'd have a lamp where they could see just as bright as day.
They could?
Uh-hum.
What kind of plays did y'all—? Did y'all put a little stage up and—?
Yes, all kind of plays. Had school closing and would have box parties. Have you ever been to a box party?
Uh-uh. Tell me what a box party is.
You get a box and you maybe put some fruit and candy and cigarettes or whatever in those boxes and you tie them up and put a bow on them. And somebody bid them off to, you know, everybody. All the parents would bring boxes and some of the students, too. And they would put those boxes on the table and they would bid those off like two dollars, three dollars and all like that. And they'd know most of the time whose boxes they were buying and they would pay for the boxes and get them. And after that, then they collected the money. I guess they put the money in the treasury over there.
Yeah, that's where they was fund-raising for the school?
Uh-huh, yeah. Yeah, and they made some money, too.
Y'all enjoyed yourself, didn't you?
Yeah, had the best time.
I heard they put the—moved the chairs back and y'all put up a little stage and have y'all's—.
Have school closing every year, the First Christmas plays and Easter plays and—.
That's what they say.
All that kind of stuff and—.
The same as we have here at school.
Uh-huh, and church dinners. And put it on a long table outside and everybody—all the parents would bring dinner. And everybody would serve and they'd have a—just have a good time.
That was during graduation, you'd have—or on Easter, you'd have dinner?
Uh-uh. Just any time of the year they wanted to.
Because everybody was family and close?
Yeah, uh-huh.
That was nice.
It sure was nice. Sure was nice, and they just had a good time.
What about stories? Did anybody—teachers tell you about Rip Van Winkle or anybody?
Oh, yes. All them things, uh-hum.
Huh?
Yeah, we did. We had the same thing you all had. Of course, it was told to us more freely and more understanding.
Uh-huh.
And they just took time.
Uh-huh.
And we had to read all them books like Huckleberry Finn
and all that. We did all that kind of stuff.
When you was in school?
At Fairport, yeah.
Where did you get your books from?
I don't know where they got them. We didn't have no new books like the white folks. Charles [Gregory] told me, said, "Well, they didn't give us no new books until a long time after that." I think we was—I think I was teaching when they was still giving these old books. You know, the white people's used—.
Uh-huh. I had them.
Uh-huh, yeah. And then they'd send them down to the blacks. And Mr. [Gregory] used to go up there and tell them, "I don't want this old dirty, nasty book. I want some clean books." And so, we haven't been so long, you know, [got to where] I could get the clean—get new books.
Yeah, it was about the '70s.
Uh-huh. I reckon so. We still had those old books.
What year you started teaching?
'46.
You started in 1946 teaching?
Uh-hum.
What school?
Creedmoor High School. It was Creedmoor High School then, G. C. Hawley High School.
It was G. C. Hawley High School?
Uh-hum.
Was your school going to the eleventh grade or twelfth grade when you went there?
I went to the twelfth grade. Now, it wasn't named G. C. Hawley when I first went there.
What was it named?
It was named Creedmoor High School.
Creedmoor Colored?
Uh-uh. Creedmoor High School. That's what they named it. Because, see, it wasn't integrated.
Creedmoor High School?
Uh-hum. I think that's what it was named. And then, after that, they put Mr. Hawley's name [on that school].
What grade did you teach?
I taught—see, I'm grammar, and I taught from the fourth to the eighth,
grammar. And then I went back and took primary and I taught from the
second to the—I don't think I went any farther than the fourth then.
OK. Now, what about you with poems and stuff? Did you have time for—did you have poems and stuff like that for your kids?
[For them] to learn from?
Uh-huh.
Yeah, occasionally.
Uh-hum. What about Bible stories or reading the Bible or Bible verses?
Now, I did that. I don't know what the others did, but I had some books in there where you could read them stories at the rest period after lunch. And they just enjoyed them. And sometimes the principal would come in there and sit in, and he would enjoy them, too.
What principal?
Mr. Hawley and Mr. [Letterbury]. Mr. [Letterbury], he used to really enjoy it.
Uh-huh. You had Story Hour?
Yeah, uh-huh. All the elementary, all the primary are supposed to have Story Hour. From the first to the third grades, all of them are supposed to have Story Hour during their rest period. Because, see, they get about thirty minutes, or not that long, about twenty minutes rest period after lunch. And you could let them just rest and sleep if they wanted to or else they were always wanting to read a story. And that's what we would do.
Where did you get those story books from?
[Nick] bought them for [Arnetta] when she was a little baby. [Jermaine]
came by here selling something and he had those Bible books. You don't
even see them
And you took your daughter's books and carried them in school for other kids?
Yeah, uh-huh.
That was very nice. You shared them with somebody that needed them.
Uh-hum. And they talk about—they meet me now, they tell me about how they used to enjoy those stories and say, "All those stories we read, Mrs. Parker, it's just like things are happening now." Because the stories are taken from the Bible.
Uh-huh.
Uh-hum. And then it always a, you know, there's a moral end of the story. You know, to tell you about if you do so-and-so, what will happen to you for being disobedient or what-not. But that's just one example.
Uh-huh.
And so, that's what I did.
How many kids was in your school, just estimating, when you was going to Fairport? How many children?
Lord have mercy! Ain't no way in the world I could tell you about that.
Was it about twenty-five or thirty?
Yeah.
And each room—was the room divided down in Fairport, or—?
Just like this room right here and that room right there. And there was a sliding door between the two, separating them.
And so, school was [filled up]? You had enough—not had enough—?
Yes, we had—I'm sure we did. You know, I can't remember. We was [going] but that wasn't so much stamped in my mind. But they had grades from the first through the seventh. I know that.
How far did you have to walk to go to school?
About a mile and a half.
You walked about a mile and a half?
Yeah.
Did you know any children that walked farther than that?
Oh, Lord yes! Elizabeth—what was her name? Anyway, they used to walk—no, I can't tell you where they were because you wouldn't know, but they had a long ways to walk. They didn't care a bit more about a long distance or nothing. And most times, Mama would take us on the buggy.
And you don't know the kids' names that walked that far?
Elizabeth—I can't think—.
Did she have other brothers and sisters that walked?
Yes, she had several brothers and sisters. They were pretty girls. And they would walk—you mean, to walk into Fairport?
Uh-huh.
Uh-huh, they had a long ways to walk. And a lot of other—like, Shirley, Papa's first cousin, and Marvin and all of them, they had a long ways to walk to school.
About three miles?
Uh-hum, or more. Because they lived in back of the old Ilong Church. They would go home that way. And it was a long way.
Where was the old Ilong Church at?
Where the cemetery is.
It was down there?
Uh-hum. See, that burned down.
Did you ever go to William Hill's Church, or William Hill School?
Uh-uh.
You ever heard of it?
Uh-hum.
You've heard of the church, too? Did you ever see the church?
No. Where was this church? Down below Fairport?
Uh-huh.
William Hill, William Hill.
On Mr. [Bennett]'s farm.
[I don't know whether I remember being down there.]
You don't remember going there?
Uh-uh.
All right. Did kids come from Vance Country over into North Carolina to go to school because y'all was on the border?
Not that I know of.
What was the name of the school that was in Vance County close to Fairport School? Or was there one?
I don't know. Because—let me see. No, I sure don't know. I can't answer that.
OK. Tell me something about your teachers that you had when you was in Fairport. Did they have a lesson plan or did they—?
No, they didn't have no lesson plan, just—after they integrated and the
black children
And the principal wanted to know what she was talking about and she told him. And when she showed them and talked to [him about them], she said, "Everybody gets—."
He said, "No, they don't. They haven't never done anything like that." So that's how they got to find out about lesson plans in the school.
You're talking about Janie Ingram?
Yeah.
What—do you remember the schools that Janie Ingram taught at?
Uh-uh. Nowhere but Grissom—I think she was over at Grissom before she integrated with us. She taught in Georgia one year, I believe. Didn't she tell you she taught in Georgia one year before she came to our town?
I heard—just Grissom School. She could have, but that's all I've heard about getting around, was just Grissom School. Where did you finish? Fayetteville State?
Yeah.
And then you came to Hawley?
Uh-huh.
Did you have family left up at Huntsville, going back and forth? Your grandparents or anybody?
Going back and forth where?
To Huntsville, after you got up—.
They lived in Huntsville. All of them lived in Huntsville. All of Mama's
sisters and her brothers and her daddy and mama and all them. My daddy's
folks, too, and all. They all lived up there. And
OK. Let's start with your father's side. Could your father read and write?
Yes, he could.
Did you ever see your grandparents on your father's side?
Uh-huh. His daddy.
OK. Could his daddy read and write?
Yes, he could.
Well, how did that come about?
They went to school. Their parents made them go to school, on my daddy's side. And on my mother's side, they were more strict with sending their children to school than on my daddy's side.
OK. Your father's—about how old was your father when he died?
I think he was seventy-nine, seventy-nine or eighty-one.
OK. Do you know what year? Just guessing?
1951.
OK, '51. And what about your grandmother?
On his side?
Uh-huh.
I didn't ever see her.
You didn't ever see her?
[She was dead.] Uh-huh.
Did they tell you how old she—you didn't ever see her before she was dead?
Uh-uh.
OK. Was your grandparents free blacks, or—?
Uh-huh.
They was never slavery.
Never slavery. Not even their parents because on my daddy's side, it wasn't no slaves on his side. And on my mother's side, they weren't ever put in slavery because they were real fair blacks, you know.
Mulattos, or had white mother or father?
Yeah, uh-huh. They were real—they were white. And they didn't ever have to go through that. Just like [Nick]'s parents. They didn't ever have to go through that, either. As long as the parents was white, like the Robersons and all, they didn't bother them.
I know.
Uh-hum.
Well, getting back to your father? What kind of father or granddaddy did—did he work all the time like a lot of people? Just piddled and stayed busy all the time?
What? My granddaddy or my daddy?
Your granddaddy on your daddy's side?
No, he didn't do no work and all because he'd always be visiting one of the sons or visiting the next son and all that. But he didn't—he wasn't farming or nothing of that sort. Because after his wife died, he just stopped farming.
And this was when you was going back and forth to visit them?
Yeah, uh-huh. He was visiting to us.
How many days would it take to go from Huntsville?
To where? Huntsville?
Uh-huh, and back. From Huntsville to Fairport and from Fairport back to Huntsville.
Oh, it wouldn't take long because Mama used to drive up there. Well, you
know, people had—didn't have anything in the buggies. And she would
drive up there and she would leave like on a—she'd always want to spend
the weekend up there so she'd be there for Saturday—they had conference
on Saturday—and then be there for
It didn't.
No, it didn't take no longer than a long trip to get there, but if you hitch your horse up or your surrey or whatever you were driving or anything, [there was] time for them to get there.
OK. How many sisters and brothers did your grandmother, your mother's mother, have? Did she ever tell you?
Yes. Mama's mama had sixteen children.
Your mother?
My mama's mother.
Had sixteen?
Uh-hum.
How many girls and how many boys?
Wait, let me see. Wait a minute. One, two, three, four, five, six
There were nine girls and six boys? I just wanted to roughly know.
Uh-hum.
Oooo. Did they have children, all of them
Yes, Lordy! [Just] plenty of them. A whole lot of children.
Nine boys and six girls. OK, what was their name, their maiden—what was your mother's—?
Maiden name?
Uh-huh.
Orbey.
How do you spell it?
O-R-B-E-Y.
Where did they come from? What plantation or what farm do you think they came from?
I don't know because when [I learned things], it was—all of them up there
had bought all that land up there at Huntsville. And Mama's daddy, he
bought land from where [Ray Smith]'s shop is, where [below Ray Smith]'s
shop way on down to that man had those
Your mother's—?
My mama's daddy.
Was a carpenter?
Uh-huh, carpenter. Carpenter. He'd build houses and barns and things.
Was he good?
Was he good? He built Huntsville Church and Cornelia's mama's house.
You're kidding? Your father—?
My mama's daddy.
Your mother's father did?
Your mama's daddy.
Yeah, your mother's father.
My granddaddy.
Your granddaddy built Mrs. Broadus's house?
Yeah. That's what they tell me. They built that house and built the Huntsville Church, too. Of course, they added on a little more to Huntsville Church.
Uh-huh. And he was a—what was his last name?
Mark Orbey.
M-A-R-K?
Uh-huh.
How do you spell that Orbey?
O-R-B-E-Y.
And so he was a carpenter for up there—he did most of the construction and—?
He just carpentered anywhere he could get a job, just like these contractors here, you know. Where he could get a job.
And he would—every time he'd get paid, he would buy a acre—?
Buy a little acre of land. And I think she said that they were selling an acre then for a dollar and a quarter.
Uh-hum, yeah.
And he would buy an acre and he'd say, "I want to get some so when I die, my children will have somewhere to live." And they did. All of them built a house on the land he gave them, and they got enough in the back for a little farm, you know.
About how many acres did he buy? About a hundred and fifty acres in [that tract]?
I don't know. You couldn't—you don't know the distance I said from Ray Smith's down below here, because down below Ray's house was Mama's sister, Ida, and there was another child below her house. And, of course, Ray bought the place right next to Mama.
I know where you're talking about.
Uh-huh.
Y'all went all the way down that road going to—?
All the way down that road and then on by—.
Going to the church.
And on by Huntsville Church on up there to—the man used to sell cows on that highway. That's how much he bought.
Oooee. You had over a hundred—y'all had about two or three hundred acres of land.
Oh, Lord. What he had when he [died]. All sixteen of those children got a home.
Sixteen of them! Your grandfather was a good provider for your mother, wasn't he?
Yes, Lord. Uh-hum. For his wife, which is my mama's mama. And he just knew how to do things like that. And he'd have a fit if he'd come home and find those children hadn't been to school. You know, maybe one child. "What this child doing here?" He didn't—.
He didn't play that, did he?
No, they had to get out of there and go to school. I told Mama, I said,
"Well, that was just the blood in him that he had, the
Yeah.
[You were not going to] stay there. They had to get out of there and go to school.
Did he have any Indian in him, or was he
No, her mother had Indian in her. Did you ever see my mama?
Uh-uh.
She had features—she had those high cheekbones and that long nose. She was Indian. She had Indian blood in her because her mother had Indian in her. But her daddy was a white—he was just white. He used to serve on the board of something—whatever it is—uptown, you know, when they have court and all that. But he couldn't help it. During that time, children were just born the way [the way they catch you].
You don't know his name?
My granddaddy?
Uh-huh.
Mark. Mark Orpey. That's what my—.
I'm talking about on your mother's side, your mother's—.
My mama's daddy?
Uh-huh.
That's who I'm talking about, Mark Orpey.
Well, who was her father? Your grandmother's—?
Who was my mama's granddaddy?
Uh-huh. What was his name?
Lord, have mercy. What did she tell—I don't know, but let me see, now.
Who did she tell me her grandmother? I believe her grandmama was named
Fanny. I just don't know
They were going to sell her where?
You know where they sell slaveries during that time. And see, they would
sell the
And so she told the little white girl what she was waiting on. Said,
"
She said, "They ain't going to sell my nigger because I love you. You ain't going to sell my nigger." And that's how she escaped from not being a slave.
[Your] mother?
Her mother, my mother's grandmother. Uh-hum. That's how she escaped from not being a slave.
Because she was the man's daughter? That was her father?
The little girl what said she didn't want them to sell her. That was my mama's grandmother.
OK.
Uh-huh. And they were going to sell her because she hadn't had a child.
Uh-huh.
See, they would make little children marry at ten years old.
[Guess they were] getting as many children as they can.
Yeah, and just let them have babies like I don't know what. And [the little things] didn't know nothing about it. And they went through something. And see they were going—they made her marry. But I reckon she was too old to conceive then. And then after that, she started having children.
Them old devils! I reckon they're burning in [Corinth] today for being so mean to black folks.
Did Mr. Orbey work in the church at Huntsville?
Oh, yes. Uh-hum.
Did—I want you to tell me about two people that came up in your neighborhood, probably your relatives. First, Mr. Kittrell. Tell me—.
Yes, that's my mama's sister's husband.
OK, tell me something about him. I've heard a lot about Mr. Kittrell up there.
He just was a big old farmer and had a house. He had—Aunt
Fourteen children?
Uh-hum.
Oooee. Fourteen.
They had up some children. Mama had ten, but there's not but five living now.
Tell me, what kind of work did he do other than farm? Did he help build barns or did he—?
Uh-uh. He just farmed. Now, Uncle Matt worked on the power lines. He farmed and did that, too.
Mr. Matt?
Uh-hum.
He used to cut a lot of wood for people, didn't he?
I don't know.
Mr. Matt got around, though.
Uh-hum.
I mean, he did a lot of work in the area.
Yeah. He was a—he farmed and then he also worked on that power line thing—.
Yeah, he told me. And he cleared land for power lines.
Yeah.
And he did carpenter work, too. He was a jack of all trades. He did a lot of work. Now, Huntsville. You don't remember nothing about that school up there? No more than going back and forth as you visited your family?
I don't know nothing about that school up here.
Did your mother ever—who moved their membership to Fairport to Ilong? Because your mother went back and forth. She never moved her membership?
Yes, she—no, she didn't ever move her membership. But the rest of us moved our membership. My brother didn't move his membership—didn't nobody move their membership but my sister and myself. That's all.
Your father didn't move his?
Uh-uh. The rest of them stayed on up there.
OK. And so, how was—how did you enjoy Ilong? Was everything—you fitted right in?
Uh-hum. Just a good old country church. And everybody was just as [welcoming] as they could be.
What about when you went to school? What kind of bathroom facilities did y'all have? Outdoors or none or what?
Outdoors. I reckon—I think Mr. Amos built the outdoor toilets. He'd build them and, you know, put the boys in one, put the girls—in the outdoors.
Where did y'all get your water from?
Up across the road there at that church, Peace's Chapel—what's the name of that church?
That white church?
Yeah.
How did you get the water? They had a well over there they let y'all—?
A well over there and the children would go over there and bring the water across the street to school.
And they would let you do it?
Uh-hum.
So, what else did the community—did they have farmers and people that was carpenters down in the Fairport area that did the same thing as your family did up at Huntsville?
Yeah, that's all they could do.
Huh?
That's all they could do is farm.
What about—did most people down in that—most people down in Fairport owned their own land, the blacks down there, didn't they?
Uh-hum.
You didn't have no white slavery or nothing down that way?
It was slavery when someone lived down there, like Nick's granddaddy and the Robersons and the Brandons and the Peaces. All of them were in the [slavetime], but they weren't no slaves because they didn't use them as that because of their color.
Mr. Nick's—your husband's family, grew up down there? [Near Robert Amos] down in [Fairport]?
Yeah, they grew up down there somewhere, yeah.
But they never was slaves? They always were free?
Yeah, and all the Robersons were free and all the Brandons were free and all the Peaces and all those down there.
OK. So, if you're looking for slavery down there, you'd probably go back to the 1700s?
I reckon you would.
Yeah, uh-huh. What was some of the things that the teachers—did you hear about teachers before you got there? Some new teachers when you went to school that was there when got there and then they left and some more came in?
I reckon so, but I—I know [Pearl Fitz and Louise Bibby], she was my first
teacher and then after that, I went on the Mrs. [Ragland]
Stella Hawley
What'd she come on, buggy or wagon or what?
No, Old Mr.—Old Man Peace had an old T-model Ford. And he'd bring her and his wife, Miss Mollie.
Mrs. Mollie Peace?
Yeah.
She taught down there, too?
Yeah, uh-huh. And Stella would ride with them.
Do you have an idea how long that school was there after—what year they stopped using it? Was it somewhere around '52?
No, I don't think it was there in '52.
Huh?
It wasn't there is '52. It's standing there now but it wasn't in any use.
Uh-huh. Why—I can't find anything on Reverend Hawley like a thesis or a book or somethin