Georgia BIOS:  Brown   
   U.S. Work Projects Administration, Federal Writers' Project (Folklore
   Project, Life Histories, 1936-39); Manuscript Division, Library of
   Congress.Copyright status not determined.
   
   0001
   
   Mrs. Joe P. [(Carrie?)] [Stroh?],
   
   114 Parker Street, [?]
   
   [Atlanta?], Georgia.
   
   The apartment was next to the last in the brick building, one of a
   series of duplex units which extended up the hill like a huge set of
   children's playblocks, aligned closely together but on varying levels.
   I rang the bell and, while waiting, looked back over similar groups of
   buildings spread out in the hollow [?] up the far hill. This was the
   [?] Housing Development, a government slum-clearance project of
   twenty-two buildings constructed on the same number of acres. They are
   severely plain in their square simplicity and are separated by wide
   expanses of lawns and broad streets. There are but few trees and
   little shrubbery, and the buildings rises with bare abruptness from
   the ground, as though they had suddenly mushroomed into growth and had
   not yet been gathered about them those elements of greenery indicating
   a decision to stay.
   
   Yet, viewed with a visionary eye, the potential beauty of the
   development is evident. When the trees become larger, the shrubbery
   more luxurious, the buildings will appear more settled and the area
   will assume an air of more stability and charm.
   
   Mrs. Brown opened the door and I explained the nature of my call,
   apologizing for interfering with her early morning housekeeping. She
   was most gracious. "Oh that's all right. You come on in. I haven't
   done much cleanin' this mornin' anyway.... just doin' my curtains. You
   come on in. The house is a mess."
   
   And indeed the living room was. While getting settled and speaking of
   generalities I looked around. All but the most stable pieces of
   furniture seemed to have rushed away from the walls, collided in the
   middle of the room and bounced halfway back, coming to a [?] at the
   most inconvenient and inartistic angles. This [?] state of things we
   attributed largely to two children she were wrestling on the floor.
   The left side of the room was dominated by a stairway leading up to
   the second floor. The walls were of 00022rough-finished white plaster
   and bore only three pictures, one of a dog [baying dolefully?] over
   the body of another fallen in the snow, and the two other small views
   of an identical scene showing [?] summer and winter landscapes. There
   was a nice studio couch in the far corner, on of its pillows askew,
   the other two on the floor serving as temporary wrestling mats for the
   children. There were two matching chairs and the ensemble was covered
   with a rust-colored [rug?] which appeared to be quite new.
   
   "I just re-covered them myself", said Mrs. Brown, "... that is, me and
   a friend." [A?] floor model radio stood just to the right of the door.
   On top of it was a world globe, with dark blue [oceans?] and dull gray
   continents, mounted on a clock base. "Yes, it is nice, isn't it?
   
   [Bill?] --- that's my husband --- [won?] it on a punchboard. The clock
   part [works?] all right too, but I never wind it 'cause it ticks so
   loud.
   
   Now don't think Bill throws much money away on things like that, 'cuse
   he don't; but ever once in a while he'll take a chance on some fool
   thing.
   
   When I think about [them?] people who [?] all that money on the Sweep
   [Stakes?] like I saw in the news real....."
   
   Her voice trailed off speculatively, giving me a chance to raise my
   eyes from my note-pad and really study her. She was not a pretty woman
   and I was seeing her probably at her worst, but she was very pleasant
   and had a warm smile. I realized that if she but had more time and
   money to devote to personal grooming she could present a pausably fair
   appearance. Now, however, she merely slumped in a chair, somewhat worn
   from her morning activities. Her red-gold hair, really of fine
   texture, was straight except for the ends which held the frizzly
   remains of a [narrow-wave?] permanent, and straggled uncombed about
   her face. Her features were irregular, the face quite broad, yet with
   high cheek bones and [?] contours which tapered to an almost pointed
   chin. [A?] peculiar fullness of the eyelids produced the illusion
   00033of a [slant?] which made her appear just a bit oriental despite
   her [?] blondness. The fullness of her lips suggested a voluptuousness
   which was further implied by the plumpness of her body. [When?] she
   laughed, which she often did through embarrassment rather than humor,
   she instinctively covered her mouth with her hand, a pathetic gesture
   which unfailingly attracted one's attention to the broken tooth she
   was trying to hide.
   
   She was wearing a cheap yellow cotton print, much too tight and badly
   torn. The neck and sleeves were trimmed with narrow lace, so frayed as
   to appear cobwebby. A white cotton slip hung several inches below her
   dress and she was continually pulling both garments down in an effort
   to cover as much as possible of her bare legs. Her feet were thrust
   into shapeless blue slippers, the upper part of which had torn away
   form the soles, revealing her stubby toes.
   
   The children had kept up a constant [din?]. For some time they had
   been trying violently to beat one another's brains out with folded
   magazines. [These?] had been sent slithering across the floor and they
   were [now?] engaged in a desperate tug of war with a remnant of an old
   sheet serving as a rope. Their mother had made several ineffectual
   attempts to quiet them, but they ignored her completely and their
   continued yells and squalls made any serious attempt toward
   interviewing extremely difficult. This being so, I decided to discuss
   the children, [as?] they were the only possible subject under the
   circumstances. The result was magical. As soon as their names were
   mentioned they declared a truce. They set there gasping and sniffling
   and regarding me with great [?] eyes. The little boy achieved an added
   not of preoccupied [solemnity?] by the simple process of picking his
   nose, just as an old scholar seems [?] profoundly involved in his
   studies when unconsciously scratching his head. "They both been sick,
   Mrs. Brown was saying. "They vomited all 00044all over the house this
   morning. I don't know what was the matter with 'em." Then she added
   naively, "Unless it was them rotten apples I gave 'em.
   
   "That's Cecilia", said Mrs. Brown, indicating the little girl. She's
   two years old." Cecilia took this as her [cue?] t climb upon her
   mother's lap whereupon Mrs. Brown redoubled her efforts to keep her
   skirts down. "And that's John. He's four." John was no less prompt to
   act, climbing up with all the assurance of masculine superiority and
   sitting squarely upon his sister, from which perch he evidenced every
   intention of continuing his calm study of me. But it was not to be.
   Cecilia emitted an immediate shrill and piercing shriek of
   displeasure, and the two engaged in a violent struggle for supremacy.
   Mrs. Brown was seemingly unconcerned at the struggle taking place in
   her lap. True, she attempted to calm the children, but her commands
   were almost apologetic, as though she feared to offend them. Her only
   action was to free herself of John's legs, which he had locked about
   her neck. Thus anchored he had swung in [lavalier-fashion?] down his
   mother's bosom and, with wildly flailing arms, was pummeling his
   sister who had managed to sit upon his face. Ducking a flying fist or
   foot, Mrs. Brown went on talking, easily enough.
   
   "They fight all the time. Just all the time." Her voice rose to a
   sustained falsetto on the last word and she held it, not in [?], but
   as though she had made a singularly amazing discovery. "I don't
   believe all children do this way but they do. Now Theresa's just as
   different. She's as quiet. Sometimes I tel Bill she's like an old
   lady. She's six years old and goes to [parcenial?] school. I wish you
   could see her.
   
   "No, I'm not Catholic, but Bill is. I'm a Baptist, but we don't have
   no trouble about that. [We?] was married by a priest, you know.
   
   A Catholic won't marry unless a priest does it. Bill's very devout. We
   been married seven years and he's never missed church yet. He gives
   somethin' ever Sunday;00055maybe jest twenty-five or fifty cents ...
   but he always puts somethin' in. It don't sound like a lot, but
   twenty-five cents it to us what a hundred dollars would be to some
   rich people. [Theresa?] never missed church neither. She goes ever
   Sunday. You know, she puts a penny in the box ever day at school and
   they give her a gold star. She's that proud of 'em too. I try to get
   the others to Sunday School as often as I can, but I can't always make
   it. I had to sign a paper when I married Bill saying if there was any
   children they'd be raised Catholic.
   
   "Absolutely not. I don't want no more children. I love 'em all right,
   but we jest can't afford no more of 'em. I been married seven years
   and had three children and never had a maid. Done all my [washin'?]
   and everything. I think I done my share. And we had a hard enough time
   as it is.
   
   "Yes, we married here. I was born in Cobb County, but Bill comes from
   Dakota ... South Dakota. He's been in Atlanta --- Oh, I don't know
   exactly how many years ... eight or nine I guess. He went through high
   school in Dakota and then took one correspondence course in law. And
   then a friend taught him law too ... jest taught him free. And then he
   and this man went into practicing. That was here in Atlanta jest
   before I married him. He come to Atlanta because Georgia is the
   easiest state in the Union to pass the bar. Well they practiced about
   eighteen months.
   
   Didn't make much money. Worked mostly for niggers. Sometimes they paid
   him in chickens; that was all they had. Then he went to work on [?]
   Lane ... you know, down there at the produce houses. His job was
   truckin'. He'd go all over Georgia. He, never out of the State. It was
   hard on him. He'd have to go out in the winter time and he'd have to
   sleep in the woods along 'side the road sometimes. It's be so cold
   he'd have to hand blankets around to keep off the wind, y'know. After
   that... oh no, I forgot to tell you. It didn't exactly fall through.
   
   00066
   
   You see, Bill had [??] the money, and him and a partner was runnin'
   the business. [Well?] one night when he was at home here -- I don't
   mean here in this place, but here in Atlanta --- the man stole the
   truck and all the money and ran off. It was the meanest trick I ever
   heard of.
   
   ["Well after?] that he got himself jest a wholesale stand down there,
   no truckin' or nothin'. [We?] bottled [morgham?] syrup; I helped him.
   And one funny thing -- would you believe it? -- in the winter time
   that old house we lived in got so cold the syrup wouldn't run. Jest
   wouldn't run at all -- froze stiff -- and [I had?] to heat it over the
   stove to make it pour. [?] it did. Naw, he didn't make any money. Jest
   made a livin', if you could call it that. Well then he got a job
   sellin' correspondence courses, y'know. Oh I forgot what the company
   was, ['I.C.'?] or somethin' like that. But that [was?] in 1930, you
   know, and nobody had any money for that kind of thing then. When the
   company closed the office he tried to get on the [?]. Well he got some
   kind of a job on it, I don't know jest what now, but it only paid
   eight dollars a week. But we saved two dollars of it ever week. I
   don't know how we did it, but we did. John was on the way then and we
   had to save somethin'. After a little while he was raised to fifteen
   dollars a wee. [?] then he [got?] on the [Writers'?] Project. I think
   he mad seventy-five dollars a month there -- somethin' like that. And
   then after workin' there all day he'd go back to the library at night
   and work for three more hours. [They?] paid him nineteen dollars a
   month for that. Lord, we thought we as settin' pretty then, after all
   we'd been through. Well the people at the library took a interest in
   him and they got him a full time job makin' ninety dollars a month.
   That's the [way?] people are with Bill. They [always?] want to help
   him. He's got a nice personality, lots more so than I have. [Well?],
   as I say, he went to work full time for them, but pretty soon the
   00077the city started cuttin' salaries. They kept cuttin' and cuttin'
   and finally he wasn't gettin' but sixty-five dollars. Then he went to
   work for the oil company. Yes, that's where he's workin' now -- the
   Paramount Oil Company. One of the librarians got him that job too.
   
   "Well, I can't say exactly how much he makes 'cause he works on a
   commission, y'know. You might say he's a travellin' salesman. And he
   has to pay his own expenses -- hotels, meals, gas and oil, and the
   upkeep on the car. No, he has to furnish his own car. He's got a brand
   new [38'?] Ford. We did have a brand new '37 Ford, but he wrecked it.
   It wasn't his fault. We finished payin' for it out of the insurance
   money, y'know, and what was left over we put on the new car. No, it
   ain't ours yet, we're still payin' for it. It was sure bad. He'd
   almost paid up for the '37 one and would of been free now. It was so
   hopeful. We don't like to be in debt, and then somethin' like that has
   to go and happen. He could tell you more about all this than I could,
   but he only gets in town for the weekends. He sells to the farmers and
   those little fillin' stations along the road. Yes, and he also sell
   grease and oil to the furniture companies for their machinery and
   stuff. The county buys grease from him too, for their tractors.
   
   "But let me see -- you ast me about how much he made, didn't you?
   Well, as I say, it's different ever week. He never knows what it's
   gonna be till he goet his pay. But he gives me nineteen dollars
   regular ever week and then he gives me fifteen dollars extra ever
   month. I shore do have to stretch that nineteen dollars, I tell you I
   do. The children always need new shoes, jest one pair after another.
   Yes sir, it takes it all. Our rent's thirty-four fifty-five a month.
   Well, it includes lights and water and heat. That is, it's supposed
   to; but I have to pay a dollar-and-a-half extra on the lights ever
   month. They say it's somethin' about us using' more kilowatts then
   we're allowed to, I don't know exactly what.
   
   00088
   
   "My mother lives here with us too. She works in a laundry. She's a
   sorter -- sorts the clothes, y'know. She boards -- pays four dollars a
   week. It sounds like a lot when I name it all separate that-away, but
   it ain't much when I come to spend it. We jest make out, I'd say.
   
   We don't have nothin' nice, but we have what things we have to have. I
   jest do the best I can. I tell you, I've learned to stretch a penny if
   anybody has. Grocery bill? Well I try to hold it down to a dollar a
   day, but I can't always. You're always runnin' out of lard or sugar or
   somethin' that ain't separate eatin' food. We may not have good food,
   but we have lots of it as they say. I do try to give the children a
   well-balanced diet ... lots of vegetables. I can't get 'em all the
   milk they need though."
   
   All during the interview the children, back on the floor, had
   constantly interrupted with cried of ["Mama?], I want a egg." It had
   begun as a plea from the little girl, but it was quickly taken up by
   the boy and converted into a command. At first they had mad their
   demands in alternate turn, but they had now evolved a sort of gave out
   of it whereby they chanted in unison, each trying to outshout the
   other. The boy in particular was achieving some spectacular vocal
   effects, not unlike variations on the theme. First he would start high
   on the "Mama" and slide his voice down skillfully, but in
   undiminishing volume, to a low not on the "egg". Then he would reverse
   the process, starting with a low "Mama" and rising with the shrill
   shriek of a siren to a high "egg". His sister, never lessening her own
   efforts, regarded him with frank admiration. "Mama" dismissed the
   situation with an occasional and indulgent "Now, now, John" or "Be
   nice, Cecilia." Not until John, finally spurred to desperate action,
   socked her on the legs several times with a determined fist did she
   bestir herself.
   
   I asked if we might go along to the kitchen with her and thereby see
   more of the apartment. We went into the dining room. The furniture was
   inexpensive,00099but fairly nice. [?] one corner was a large white
   kitchen cabinet which reflected the sunlight streaming in the two
   windows and brightened the entire room with its glare. In the opposite
   corner was a sewing machine. "Nobody uses it", said Mrs. Brown. "Bill
   bought it and wanted me to learn to sew, but I'm too nervous. I jest
   [nearly?] go to pieces when I sit down and try to sew somethin' I
   don't even sew up holes in my dresses; jest let 'em rip until ..." She
   dismissed the subject with a shrug of her shoulders, leaving us to
   carry the inference as far as we liked. We thought to remind her of
   the [couch and ?] covers she'd made. "Oh well", she said, "that was
   big stuff and it didn't make me nervous.
   
   I can do big things like that."
   
   The children had proceeded us into the kitchen and, perhaps feeling
   that the desired eggs were in the offing, had ceased to plague us.
   
   Through the doorway I could see John amusing himself by attempting to
   squirt water, thumb-step fashion from the sink faucet, over his
   sister.
   
   From her almost hysterical laughter I judged that because of some
   perverseness this displeased her not at all. Mrs. Brown sat on one
   corner of the drop-leaf breakfast table and went on talking. "I tell
   everbody I made one thing, though, but I really didn't. That's a
   tailored suit I got. I got a man's suit from a friend of Bill's - he
   jest gave it to me - and me and a friend of mind made me a suit out of
   it. She really did most of the work, but I'm so proud of it. I jest
   feel like 'Mrs. Astorbilt' when I wear it."
   
   Her face brightened almost pathetically and I realized how big an
   event this new made-over garment was in her life. For a moment she
   became the personification of all the lower economic classes, leading
   obscure [?] and being pitifully grateful for small things. She had
   seen object poverty and would probably see other equally troublous
   times, but I felt that she would never admit defeat, would always
   manage to fight her way back up to a 001010measure of security. She
   gave me, however, little time for such heroic visualizings. Now on a
   subject dear to every woman's heart, she [??] on rapidly, her voice
   alternately maddening with just a trace of understandable self-pity
   and rising enthusiastically on more hopeful theme.
   
   "I don't hardly never go nowhere. Its not because I don't want to, but
   I jest never have anything to wear. You may not believe it, but I
   don't go out but two times a week. On Sunday afternoon I go the show
   with Bill and on Monday night me and a friend go to the bowling alley.
   
   We don't play none, me and her, we jest sit and watch 'em. It don't
   cost nothin'. I like to [?], but Bill don't. That's always been a bone
   of contention between us. But even if he did I couldn't [?], because
   like I said I never had nothin' to wear. And then I can't get a way
   from the children. No, my mother jest won't keep 'em she gets awful
   nervous. No matter if I jest go across the street she starts
   [swellin'?] up and I have to come back. She's with the children like I
   am about sewin' -- jest goes all to pieces.
   
   "If we could save some money I could get to goin' out more. But we
   ain't savin' a thing now. But we don't owe nothin' neither, except on
   the car like I told you. Our furniture's all paid for. I get a perfect
   horror about owing money. I jest can't stand to owe somebody
   somethin'. That's the way it was about the doctor. I'd been goin' to
   the doctor but I stopped. We didn't have the money to spare and I told
   Bill I'd jest as well be dead as to be starvin' to death, and like I
   said I wasn't gonna owe him nothin'. If I need any treatin' now I go
   to the [??]. Yes, all three of the children were born at Hardy. That's
   one thing I certainly do believe in."
   
   [She?] sat for a few minutes with a far away meditative look in her
   eyes and then abruptly changed the subject. "Look here at my new
   curtain-[?].
   
   001111
   
   I'm so thrilled over 'em." It had indeed been impossible not to look
   at the contraption, for, leaning against the door jamb between the
   living and dining room, it projected about five feet of its length
   into each. Two pairs of dotted marqinette curtains were stretched [?]
   over the frame. "My curtains would get all out of shape ever time I
   washed 'em and ironed 'em, but they come out jest perfect now."
   
   We went on into the kitchen. It was small, but bright and clean. Even
   the water which John had sprayed over the floor seemed but to have
   lest added freshness. All the fixture and furnishings were a
   glistening white: the four-doored groceries cabinets above the sink,
   the floor cabinets for pots and pans, and the smart electric stove,.
   The walls were a smooth [?] white, making the room seem larger than it
   actually was.
   
   "I wash 'em myself", said Mrs. Brown. "They say you can do the other
   walls that way, but you can't."
   
   There was only one touch of [?] in the kitchen, but it was a brilliant
   one: the gay red-checkered curtains at the small windows. Mrs.
   
   Brown grabbed my arm enthusiastically. "Oh! I did make these. That's
   one thing I made by myself." She drew back suddenly as if embarrassed
   at the unintentional familiarity, but went on talking. "I sat up one
   night till one o'clock finishin' 'em. I jest couldn't wait, I wanted
   to see so bad what they'd look like."
   
   While she shelled the children's eggs which had been boiled earlier in
   the morning I stepped out the back door into the tiny yard. It was an
   attractive little fenced-in plot, still thickly carpeted in grass
   although it was late November. A gravel walk-way led to the gate
   opening on an alley from which, along the left edge of the yard, a row
   of late-blooming [?] and pinks run back to the building. On each side
   and across the alley were other yards, equally attractive and varying
   only slightly in size.
   
   Back in the apartment, Mrs. Brown took me upstairs. Three doors opened
   here off the tiny hallway. At the back was a compact little bathroom.
   The 001212tub looked ridiculously small. "But you can spread out in
   it", said Mrs. Brown. The walls were of a tile [?], the upper part
   being smooth white plaster similar to that in the kitchen. At a right
   angle to, and immediately adjoining, the bathroom was the mother's
   room which was also shared by Theresa. It, too, was small, and the few
   furnishings, bed, wardrobe, bureau and chair, left but little room for
   movement. "I have to pull the bed away from the wall to make it up",
   Mrs. Brown explained. The sun shone brightly in the two windows and
   everything was scrupulously alone. There were no pictures or other
   ornaments on the white walls, a happy circumstances which gave the
   room an illusion of spaciousness where space was lacking.
   
   But what the room lacked generally in color and ornament of small
   detail was more than offset by an amazing floor-lamp standing by the
   back window. It was of the [?] possible taste and appeared to have
   been won -- in parts -- from several county fairs. The shade was quite
   startling, a huge canopy of pale green silk stretched tightly in three
   tiers over a wire frame, and ornamented with several large roses and
   as inexplicable cottage [?] in thick slabs of a peculiar opaque paint.
   Added horror was applied in the form of a five-inch fringe of red,
   yellow, and green beads which rose and dipped in conformity with the
   scalloped edges of the shade. All this burst like an appalling [?]
   from a disporportionately thin nickel-plated stand which, about a foot
   from the top, developed ambitions of its own and bulged to accommodate
   a whirring electric clock inset in the stand. For another foot or so
   it shrunk to its normal size, but here a final splurge was made in an
   effort to balance the ever-bearing top by the attachment of an 18-inch
   metal shelf, completely outfitted to accommodate the contented smoker
   with two depressed ashtrays, a pipe-holder, a cigarette box, and a
   chunky black-enameled lighter. After this the flare of the base [?]
   but an anticlimax. The effect 001314of the whole was a monstrous
   combination of the worst in oriental and surrealistic art. "That's
   Mama's prize [?]", said Mrs. Brown in [?] which implied she shared the
   sentiment. "...she wouldn't part with it for anything."
   
   We went to the front bedroom. "This is Bill's and mine's room ... when
   he's in town. The suite of furniture was quite nice, consisting of a
   large double bed, a highboy, and a bureau with small drawers [?] in
   its top. It was all finished in a rich burnished walnut. There was a
   cedar chest flush against the foot of the bed and to the right of its
   head stood a [?] floor-model radio. "It looks like we got all sorts of
   money to spend", said Mrs. Brown, "but that radio was a payment for a
   boy who owed Bill some money. He couldn't pay it and so he asked Bill
   if he'd take the radio, and he said he would. It's like when the
   niggers would pay him in chickens." In two corners of the room were
   white-enameled baby beds. Obviously the four of them slept in the one
   room, and yet there was no element of squaler, for it was a large room
   and bright, and its neatness attested to the thoroughness of Mrs.
   Brown's housekeeping. "This furniture's mine", she was saying. "My
   father bought it for me before I was married. Daddy used to have
   plenty of money before natural gas came in. He was a foreman, you
   know, down at the gas plant and he made good money until they started
   piping in the natural gas from somewhere. He was my real father I'm
   talkin' about. Yes see, my mother's been married again. Her name ain't
   the same as mine was before I married. She's divorced now, though. But
   I want twin beds', she went on, with no [?] lapse between unrelated
   subjects. "I tell Bill I hope we [?] get 'em sometime soon. It's all
   right sleepin' together in the winter time, but in the summer --- oof!
   --- it's too hot!"
   
   I felt I had taken enough of Mrs. Browns' time, so, back in the living
   room, I piled her hurriedly with a few last-minute questions.
   
   001415
   
   "I'm jest twenty-five. Bill's only thirty. We've had a whole life time
   of trouble though. Mama's forty-one, but she looks almost as young as
   I do. No, I didn't got as far though school as Bill did, I only went
   as far as junior high. Bill [?] to take some sort of college training
   some day; he's got a keen mind. [Ye-e-s?], sir --- I want the children
   to have all the education they can get; jest as far as they can go,
   'cause I didn't. No, I don't know anything about my people, except my
   grandfather, and he was the meanest old man that ever lived. After
   all, I'm daddy's child, I always say, and [??] left him and everthing
   we jest don't talk about 'em any. And I can't tell you a thing about
   Bill's people. Nothin' that would matter anyhow.
   
   "Naw, I don't care nothin' about politics, not a thing. "Course I
   think Mr. Roosevelt is a good president and all that, but I don't care
   none about it. Bill jest agrees with whoever he's with. You know he
   sells to the farmers, and if a farmer says he's a Republican, why Bill
   says he's a Republican too. But Bill'll jest have to tell you about
   himself. You come back some Saturday or Sunday when he's here. You'll
   like him and he'll talk.
   
   "Well, goodbye. But you back, hear? You come back when I can dress up
   and have the house all clean and everthing. Goodbye, goodbye."
   
   She was most gracious. Even I looked back from the sidewalk she was
   standing in the doorway and still saying, "Goodbye. You come back."

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