Yes, Lord!
This mornin’, touch every human heart.
Transform tears into Heavenly showers
for the salvation of sinful souls.
Yassir.
Remember the sick, the afflicted,
the heavy laden.
Open the windows of Thy Heavenly home.
Let perpetual light shine on them in the
midnight hour.
Yes, Lord.
When we have done all that we can do down here,
take us into Thy Kingdom, where the sun never sets,
where there’s no more bigotry, hypocrisy, backbiting;
no more weeping and wailing, before Thy throne, where
You will wipe away our tears, where we can see our
mothers;
Ma ma!
where, in that city, where the streets are paved with gold
and adorned with every jewel,
where we can see Jesus, sitting on the throne
of glory.
Ummmm mmmmmm a, hummmmmmm
When we get home, when we get home,
when we get home,
We’ll rest in Thy bosom
and praise You forever.
Amen.
Though the complex meaning religion held for my parents and other Blacks in the South couldn’t be fathomed by a child, going to church became as natural to me as getting up in the morning and going to school. The emotion and feeling reflected in the singing, shouting, and praying became a part of me. Though there have been periods of my life when I didn’t go to church, those early experiences of going to services, hearing my parents read the Bible and pray for and with us, instilled in me a strong belief in God and the values expressed in the Bible—a belief that has had a strong influence on the rest of my life.
After four years on Oak Street, during which my parents carefully saved every extra penny earned, they bought a house on Grand Avenue. It was May of 1929, and our new block was in transition from White to Black—only four White families remained. These four families were considered to be poor, but the Blacks moving in were thought of as middle-class.
Like most of the things for which my parents silently sacrificed, to them our new house represented a better life for their children. The wood frame house had four rooms, a bath, and porches in both the front and rear. When we moved in, Pop, who, in fact, was colorblind, chose to paint the house his favorite color—canary yellow. He also added on two more bedrooms.
Our family was growing rapidly. My brothers Robert and John Albert, named for the Apostle, had both been born on Oak Street. More children would be born in the new house on Grand Avenue. Each time Mom became pregnant, I fervently hoped it would be a girl. But our next baby was Phillip, then James. I was giving up hope. However, when Mom was about to give birth again, a strange event seemed to foretell that my wishes for a sister were about to become a reality.
In August of that year, a neighborhood boy threw a brick during a fight. Instead of hitting its intended victim, the brick hit me. At that time, Pop’s cousin Laura Frances Anderson, from Bloomfield, was living with us. (She had first come to Louisville to work for Joseph Ray, a neighbor whose wife was seriously ill. After working for the Rays, she moved in with us and helped Mom.) She and Mom had already bathed the cut with alcohol and bandaged it up by the time the boy’s mother came over to apologize. The woman also gave Mom ten dollars to take me to the doctor.
Since I was all right, Mom and Cousin Frances took us all to the State Fair instead of going to the doctor. With that ten dollars we rode the Ferris wheel, ate cotton candy, and looked at the animals. Mom and Frances were having as much fun as we were.
As we walked the midway, a wily fortune teller with a captivating manner lured us to her tent, saying in a deep, throaty voice, “I can predict the baby’s sex.”
“Let’s go in,” Frances urged. “Maybe we can find out if Georgia’s going to get the little sister she wants.” Though Mom laughed, she told me to wait outside while they went in.
The dark tent was lit by glowing candles. The fortune teller, seated at a low table, motioned to Frances and Mom to sit down.
“You have a girl there,” the fortune teller assured Mom.
Though usually skeptical and levelheaded, for some reason, Mom and Frances became so excited they went out and bought a pink bassinet and all pink baby clothes. On September 24, Mom gave birth to my brother Lawrence. I cried and cried for the little sister I was never to have. I refused to go in and see him. Of course, when I finally did, I immediately fell in love with him, as I had all my other baby brothers.
Mom gave birth to most of her children at home. During her next pregnancy, however, because she had gained a lot of weight and developed high blood pressure, her doctor felt she ought to have the baby at City Hospital. Of course, it was another boy. When I visited Mom, she said she was going to name the new baby Walker Montgomery.
“Mom, you can’t do that,” I said. “He’ll have two last names!”
Although we were not allowed to question our parents once a decision had been made, I spoke up and gave my opinion that day—as I had in many other situations. Mom had chosen Walker because it had been her maiden name. I suggested the name of a boy I knew, Randolph. We compromised and named the baby Rudolph Walker Montgomery.
That this name was partially my choice assuaged my disappointment at the baby’s sex, but I missed not having the sister and confidant I wanted so badly. Perhaps that is one important reason why, growing up among so many males and without really close female friends, I kept my intimate questions, thoughts, and dreams to myself.
Not long afterward, in the autumn of 1937, my family and I watched with astonishment as rain pelted Kentucky for days. Our neighbors congregated to stare at the water gushing from manholes and pooling in the streets. No one thought the water would get so high, but one day, as the bad weather continued, our street became covered with water from curb to curb. The Ohio River was flooding Louisville.
Pop began building small bridges by stacking bricks with planks laid across them, enabling people to get from one side to another. As the water continued getting higher, he decided to go to Ross’s Market a few miles away to stock up on groceries. Though he was gone only a short time, the waters rose so quickly that we had to evacuate. The Red Cross people came in boats and used megaphones
