were one of the last ones to go, since Mom insisted on waiting for Pop to return. Finally, though, even she relented. We stepped from our porch into two of the rowboats manned by the Red Cross workers. These boats were traveling down our street, picking up stranded people.
“Bring nothing with you,” one worker shouted, but I managed to slip in an extra clean dress anyway. On that occasion, as on so many others, I was determined—some would say headstrong.
Just as the boat started to push away, I realized that our dog Rex had been left behind. “Let me go back!” I insisted, but no one listened.
The boats took us to Thirtieth and Kentucky Streets where we were loaded onto trucks to take us three further blocks, where we’d be out of the water’s reach. Getting out, we looked around anxiously; we were worried about my father, praying he’d be safe.
“There’s Pop!” someone shouted. And there he was, sitting in his car, the seats piled high with groceries, trying to get back home to us. He swooped us all up, loaded us in, and headed for Bardstown. First, he dropped Mom and three of my brothers at Aunt Celia’s. He took two other brothers to Grandma’s house, left one brother and me at Aunt Emma’s, then, always concerned that others might not be as fortunate as he, headed back to Louisville to help repair boats at the flood headquarters at Eighteenth and Broadway.
To us kids, it was like going on a vacation. We were children and we weren’t worried about the four feet of water in our family’s house or all the ruined furniture and other lost possessions. The only serious concern I had was for our dog, Rex, but he, like his owner, was a survivor. When my parents returned home to begin cleaning out the debris, Rex greeted them at the door. His muddy footprints were all over a mattress on which he’d floated during the flood to survive. It wasn’t until two months after the flood that we were able to return home to live again.
Long after the excitement had faded from our memories, the water marks remained on houses and trees—sober reminders of the ability of the river to leave its banks and wreak havoc, of the power of nature and the helplessness of its victims to stop the destruction.
Despite such fateful events as tornadoes and floods, most of my memories of those childhood days are happy ones. Ours was a house neighbors came to often. Pop was interested in what was going and liked to keep up with world events, especially elections. He was also a big fan of country music; it was no surprise, then, that ours was the first radio on the block. In addition to listening to the serious stuff, like news and elections, friends gathered on our front porch or in our living room to be entertained by the antics of Amos and Andy or to be enthralled by the adventures of “The Shadow.”
We were all huddled around the radio, adult and child alike, when Orson Welles’s “War of the Worlds” aired. All the children grabbed each other and started crying. We ran and hid in the corner until Mom calmed us. “It’s just a program,” she said. “It’s not real,” but I think even she and the other adults were fooled at first.
Not only did Pop keep up with current news, especially elections, but he also kept abreast of modern innovations. We were the first family on Grand Avenue to own a washing machine. Pop bought a Standard, a forerunner of the Maytag washer. It had a huge tub with roller wringers. He built a wash house in the back yard and ran water out there. The neighbors brought their clothes, washed them, and left a quarter to pay for the water. That may have been the first coin laundry in Louisville.
Because we were a large family, there was never enough time to do everything in those days. I had to help my mother, of course, and it seemed to me like I was always on call to do something. Mom put an apron on me and taught me to cook. I cleaned right along with her and helped her wash and iron our clothes. The only jobs I liked at all were the washing and ironing. I hated to cook and clean. But most of all, I didn’t like having to jump up and do something any time Mom assigned me some chore. I knew even then that “A woman’s work is never done” would not be the motto for my life. I wanted to do what was necessary and then be done with it. So I made a deal with Mom. Since she didn’t like to iron, I would do the ironing and she would do the rest. I developed a system that allowed me to finish in one day. The night before ironing day, I would sprinkle the clothes with water, roll them tightly, and put them in a tin tub. The next day, the clothes would be damp all the way through and ready for ironing. I feel similarly compelled to exercise control over what I do and when I do it to this very day.
Though I did what my mother asked as quickly as I could, such tasks still took time—in my opinion, too much time—and gave me a lifelong perception of the hard role women had, staying home, having babies, and cleaning up after other people.
At the same time, I was accumulating other perceptions as well. Many of them came from getting to know all of our neighbors on Grand Avenue. Little did I know how fortunate I was to be growing up among such nice people. They were my extended family.
There was the soft-spoken Miss Brown, whose first name I never knew. I sat on the steps of the sidewalk every day, waiting for her to get off the bus. A school cafeteria worker, she carried a brown bag with sandwiches left over from the day’s lunch and gave them to the waiting children. The tasty sandwiches were either tuna fish or Waldorf salad mix on white bread. To this day, I think they were the best sandwiches I have ever eaten.
Six-foot-two Joseph Ray Sr., usually dressed in a black suit and stylish hat with the brim turned down, was another of my favorite neighbors. He was a gentleman and tipped his hat to me when he passed. It made me feel like a real lady. No wonder Mr. Ray was always one of my role models on the block. He was president of a Black-owned bank, First Standard Bank of Kentucky, until it closed during the Stock Market Crash of 1929. After that, he went into real estate.
Mr. Ray and his wife, Ella, had one son; Joseph Jr. spent more time at our house than he did his own. His mother was sick, but I didn’t know what was wrong with her. The neighbors would just say, “Mrs. Ray is not well.” In those days, people didn’t openly discuss their impairments, especially with children nearby. Many years later, I learned that Ella Ray had undergone a bilateral mastectomy.
One year, Joe Ray got a white bicycle for Christmas. I thought it was beautiful and asked, “Joe, can I ride your new bike?”
“Not till it gets old,” he said, and raced off. Bicycles were just the beginning for Joe. He graduated to motorcycles and later became famous as an accomplished race car driver, one of the first Black drivers for the United States Auto Club. He bought a Henry J. stock car, and my brothers Jay and Phillip were his mechanics. They traveled with Joe to the races, and sometimes I was allowed to go along and watch.
Teachers, doctors, educators, coaches, politicians, and athletes—Grand Avenue had them all. Nearly every field open to middle-class Blacks at that time was represented on Grand Avenue, my childhood community. Many who left Louisville found recognition both regionally and nationally. Herbert Ralston became chief of staff at Chicago Hospital, Wade Houston became head basketball coach at the University of Tennessee, and the inimitable Muhammad Ali became famous as the heavyweight boxing champion of the world. He lived with his parents, Cassius and Odessa Clay, four doors away from us.
I’m sure my desire to “be somebody” came partly from observing the people around me as I grew up. I was blessed to have lived among people who had such high standards and values. They wanted to do something meaningful with their lives. There was only one problem. I was a wise child and quickly figured out that all those I wanted to emulate were men. To me, they were the ones out in the world doing interesting things.
First among the men I idolized was my father, who many people thought resembled the movie star Clark Gable. I saw him as a powerful figure, both in his towering physical stature and in his air of authority; to me, if he said it, it was true.
Once,
