Keisha Roberts: Can you tell me more things that your grandfather told you about— Georgie Johnson: Well, Grandpap said back then most of the slaves, they had to work hard and dig up stumps. When they'd clear cut the trees down, they didn't have bulldozers to push them up then like they do now. They had to take their mattock and an ax and try and cut them roots and dig them roots up and clear the fields. That's the way they cleared fields then. They didn't have all this equipment like they got now. I guess they did work hard. Digging up a stump, one stump. I guess if they didn't dig it up fast enough, the man whooped them, I reckon. The old folks went through something. Keisha Roberts: Did he ever tell you anything about the plantation, about what it was like? Georgie Johnson: Hmm? Keisha Roberts: Did he ever tell you anything about what the plantation was like? Georgie Johnson: Plantation? Keisha Roberts: Mm-hmm. Georgie Johnson: Well, he stayed with the old man he stayed with. He had a big plantation. He stayed there right—I don't know exactly how many slaves he had. He was kind of in the young gang, because his mama wasn't there. He never did tell us what did happen to his mama. Well, they sold him from his mama or not, I never did hear him say that. But, they did such things as that. Man, they sold—come on in. Speaker 3: Hey, hey. Keisha Roberts: Okay, and you were talking about your grandfather? Georgie Johnson: Yeah. After they freed him, he went to Person County and growed up doing what might everybody do, farming and saw milling then. A lot of saw mills because most folks done a lot of build out of just plain planks and saw mills, what they done. They cut the log down one side and the other, get the bark off it. They slice it in little thin planks. A lot of people used the bark and the slabs for wood to cook with. They'd have to saw it up though. For stove wood and all. But, all of that's way gone. Georgie Johnson: And then he say he married. He married Nellie. Grandma Nellie was—let's see, was she a Parker? Yes, I think she was a Parker. Anyhow, they had about 10 children. I know, let me see, some of them died. I know Allie, Cora. We called her Mouse. I can't think of her name right now. Annie, Early, Eulie. No, I can't even think all of them names because some of them died. About five of them that I can remember, because they was living. I had one to go in service—I mean one that died in service. Georgie Johnson: Uncle Eulie, he went to service. Uncle Earlie, he went to serve. They was young boys. They was too young to go in service, but they lied around their age and went into service about 16. Both of them come back, but Uncle Earlie. He died after he left, he got back. I don't know whether he had some disease or what. Uncle Eulie ain't been dead about six, seven years. He was close to 90 when he died, about 89. So, all the Beasley family down here is dead. I got a cousin staying, but I don't know. That's about it, I reckon, on my daddy's side. Georgie Johnson: On my mama's side, come from down towards in Person County. That's a lot of the Basses living. I mean, a lot of her niece and nephews, things like that. Keisha Roberts: What kind of clothes did you wear to school? Did you wear dresses or did you wear pants? Georgie Johnson: Oh, you ain't see no women, no girls in no britches then. You wore dresses. I don't care how—but you wore cotton stockings. You had these old, thick, cotton stockings. Girls didn't wear no britches then. Lord have mercy. It's started, the old folks would have thought it was a disgrace and a shame, seeing a girl out with some britches on. Keisha Roberts: Did girls even have to wear dresses while they were doing chores at home? Georgie Johnson: Huh? No, they didn't wear no britches then. Only time a child, you see the girl with britches on be something like going to pick blackberry in the bushes. They maybe, if she had some brother, she put on some of they clothes, something like that. But she didn't, she wore what she had. They didn't buy no britches for no girls then. I don't even know whether they made them for girls then. But the only time you see the woman or girl in britches then, they was out berry hunting or something like that, in the briar and the bushes. Didn't see no women with no britches on. Georgie Johnson: Now they got nerve enough to wear them to church. That just gets me. They do! They wear them to church. I saw some at that film the other day. Woman had on britches. They weren't overalls, but they was britches right on. It's not like them girls, that girl had around here. I don't care what it is. I think I respect God's house better than that. Keisha Roberts: What kind of clothes did you—tell me a little bit about the outfits you used to wear to church. What was your favorite outfit? Georgie Johnson: They didn't wear them up here like you see them now. They sit down in the church and they're way up here. That's where they is. They wore these gathered skirts, and they were way down there. Long sleeves. You didn't see nothing in the church with the arms all out neither. Not even children. Children, folks bought cloth and made the dresses, most of them then. They wore them to church. They didn't have many, but what they had was dresses. And the menfolk, I remember when time was so tight one time that the folks made the children clothes, most of them out of feed sacks. Georgie Johnson: Now, I've seen a man at the church with one of these—his wife though could sew. Miss Berden. She was a Rogers. She married a Rogers. She made him a shirt. You've seen these sugar sacks with the stripes in 'em? Well, she made him a shirt. The stripe come down like this. She gave it a cuff on. It was so neat. You just had to notice it. She had it washed, bleached and starched. Everything come out except that stripe. That stripe was a red stripe. I never will forget. Georgie Johnson: And they used to make children underclothes out of feed sacks. Used to buy all the feed then, mostly in sacks, except something coarse come in a grinder sack, they didn't want to make clothes out of that. But, the sugar sacks and cotton sacks. These folks would soak them in cold water at night, put them in a pot and boil them in lye, bleach them. Wasn't no Clorox then. We used Red Devil Lye. And you rinsed them, washed them, rinsed them good. And if it don't come out that time, you'd wash them again and bleach them. They'd be right white, and that's what they made the children underwear out of, the drawers and the slips and all. Georgie Johnson: And they'd go to the store. You could get gingham them for about 10 cents a yard. This calico stuff. Stuff's all right. Something like this. You could get that for about 10 cents a yard. And now when it costs you two dollars and something a yard. And they'd make—folks would sit down and make the children clothes. And you could buy these cotton stockings for about 10 cents a pair. And they'd be long. In the wintertime, that's what the children wore. But in the summertime, they wore socks. And they didn't wear nothing when it got hot. They went barefoot. Went barefoot the whole summer until you got ready to go to church or something. That's when you wore your socks and your stockings. Georgie Johnson: We had to walk from Quail Roost to the crossroads down here. Me and that child who was out there. When you come a mama, we had to walk from down there to the crossroad barefooted. Carry a rag and wipe our feet off and put on our shoes. Then go and walk on up to church in our shoes. We didn't wear no shoes when we were walking. Nothing at all, uh-uh. You saved your shoe and used your feet. Now, they don't want a child to go barefoot in the outdoors. They don't. You don't see no children. You see more White folk barefooted than you do Black children, going in summertime. You don't see many of them. Most time stuck up in all these old big—whoo, look like to me, them things hot. These old big, athletic shoes. Keisha Roberts: Earlier we were talking about what kind of clothes people wore to church. Did the women wear hats to church? Georgie Johnson: Yeah, you didn't see a grown woman at church bareheaded. Not now. And most time, the little girls had on some sort of hat, a bonnet or something. No, you didn't see no one bareheaded then. I feel kind of naked going to church service bareheaded now. I wear a hat most times I'm go to church service. If go to something like a meeting or conference meeting, I don't wear no hat. Keisha Roberts: Did you straighten your hair before you went to church? Georgie Johnson: No. I have never done much straightening of my hair. Keisha Roberts: Did other women in your family straighten their hair? Georgie Johnson: Huh? Keisha Roberts: Did other women in your family— Georgie Johnson: Well, way back they didn't because most of them, they just combed or braided. No old folks know how to braid. I never did learn how to braid hair. They braid their hair, and most of old folks braid [indistinct], if they, you know. Most of them wore hats, comb in big plaits or something, and you're gone. Don't know nothing about no—straightening combs just come out, I reckon, in the '50s and '60s, I reckon. I don't know. Keisha Roberts: How did you used to wear your hair to church and school? Georgie Johnson: Hmm? Keisha Roberts: What hairstyle did you wear—? Georgie Johnson: I'll tell you the truth. One time, the lady I stayed with, see, her children had real short hair. I used to have hair down to here when I was young. My daddy, who was kin to the Indian. My granddaddy was a half Indian. So, we didn't get real bad hair. It was twixt in between Mama had bad hair, short stubborn hair. When I was young, Cousin [indistinct] used to wrap Gertrude and Kathleen's hair with strings. You ever heard her tell, wrap it with strings? What's so bad about it, she wrap it with this here string you string sacks with, and that was yellow. She wrapped their hair, Emma, Gertrude and Kat's. Emma had right long hair, but it was rough hair. She had hair about like that. But, she'd wrap her in too. I begged her to wrap mine. She wrapped mine. I thought it was pretty. I didn't have no sense. Yeah, I thought it was pretty. She wrapped it. She was a good old lady, Beth. Keisha Roberts: Did you ever have corn rows? Georgie Johnson: Huh? Keisha Roberts: Did you ever have corn rows? Georgie Johnson: Have what? Keisha Roberts: Corn rows in your hair? Georgie Johnson: I reckon that's—no, see, this here, the way they plait it now, it just come out. I reckon years ago, a few years ago, folks might have know'd how to plait it like that. I don't know. I didn't weave mine then. I know my daughter's daughter, she had thin long hair like mine, but her hair was about that long. She let her went off and played with a little girl one day. And this little girl had hair in plaits like that. Her mama plaited Rae's like that. Got home. Betty said, "Who told you to put your hair like that?" And Rae call over the little girl. "She had her like that, and her mama asked me if I want my plait." She said her mama plaited her hair. Betty said, she told her, "I don't care who asked you to plait your hair like that no more." It took her hours just about to get that mess loose. Keisha Roberts: What kind of products did you used to use in your hair? Georgie Johnson: Well, I used to use this BBB. I use nothing now. I used anything on it, because there ain't nothing going to help it now. Because it's getting so thin, coming out. Keisha Roberts: Did you ever have an Afro? Georgie Johnson: Hmm? Keisha Roberts: Did you ever have an Afro in the '60s or the '70s? Georgie Johnson: When my hair—this girl down here cut—I mean, gave me a perm, and I had to cut it about this short. That's when that old lady come down like, "You done cut your hair!" Miss Jeanette. And when I cut Margaret, my daughter. When she was about two year old, she had long—a lot longer than that little girl's hair. There, it was about that long. And she'd stayed right puny. The old folks told me if I cut her hair, she'd grow. Her hair was outgrowing her. I cut it. Went to church, and the first thing Miss Jeanette saw was Betty's head. "Who cut that child's hair!" Wanted to know what I cut if for. I said, "Well, folks say maybe she'd grow if I cut her hair." She got on a big head of hair now, a nice head of hair. She can get a perm. Her hair is coarse than Min, her daughter. Her daughter's got hair sort of like me. Thin. Keisha Roberts: Was it okay for people to have coarse hair? Georgie Johnson: Hmm? Keisha Roberts: Was it okay for people to have coarse hair, or did most people want to have good hair? Georgie Johnson: Well, back then, everybody hair looked about on the same coarse, and so nobody paid attention to it. When the Afro come in, everybody wanted a Afro. And then folks with good hair tried to get it. I know Ruth Wade had sort of fine—her hair was better than mine. She had fine hair. Miss Wade said Ruth tried so bad. She cut hers and then she wet it and tried to comb it so it would frizzle up. I laughed at her. Yeah, everybody tried to wear—the Afro put the beauty shop out of business for a while. Keisha Roberts: Did you ever go to the beauty shop? Georgie Johnson: Well, I went with my friend. After her mama die. See, her mama was going to Carolyn Cash, and she was going. So after mama died, I went to ride with her up there, and I get Carol to wash mine, just because I thought the lady would cut fine, and I didn't have to pay but $15. She washed it and sort of rolled it up. It didn't last no longer than if I washed it and rolled it up, so after she quit going, I didn't go no more. I didn't go to this girl down here but about two times. Keisha Roberts: Did the women at the beauty parlor like to talk a lot? Georgie Johnson: Huh? Keisha Roberts: Did the women at the beauty parlor talk a lot? Georgie Johnson: I didn't understand. Keisha Roberts: Oh, I'm sorry. Did the women at the beauty parlor talk to each other a lot? Georgie Johnson: Oh, yeah. Yeah, they gossiped. Just like men who stay in the barbershop. Just like the folks down to the center. That's the biggest thing they do is gossip. Some of them, they don't want to try to make nothing. "No, I can't do this." I say, if I can do it, my hand shakes bad, the right hand. I say, "You don't try to do nothing, you ain't going to know to do nothing." It's true. My daddy always said, "Don't never say, 'I can't.'" Say, "You don't know what you can do until you try." So, I do about anything. I painted this whole house when we first built it. I'd come up here. See from crew, one man looked at it and told my husband he'd paint it for $100 on the inside after he got the sheetrock up and all. I told Oscar, I said, "Shoot, I could—" $100 was something in the '60s. I told Oscar, "Shoot, I can paint it cheaper than that." Georgie Johnson: I went over to Lowe's, bought a bucket of paint. He bring it up here before he went to work. I bring my food and I'd bring it. It had a wood stove in there then. I'd cook pinto beans, paint and get one room painted about every time I'd come up here. He'd come pick me up when he got of work, and I'd have my beans done. All I'd have to do is to cook my bread, cook most stuff here on top of the wood stove, except the bread. I got the whole house painted myself. The sides, see, we didn't have paneling in there then. All of it was sheetrock like that. I paint the whole house. I didn't paint it all at once. I'd paint some maybe this week. The days that I didn't go to work, I'd come up here and paint, paint this whole house. I told him, I said, "It didn't cost me no $100 neither." Paint weren't about $4 a gallon or $3 a gallon then. Georgie Johnson: I'd go to Lowe's and pick out my paint. I'd ride with Ed then. He was a boy who would come in here. He was working with the city. I would ride to work with him. I got off from work, I'd get a cab and go to Lowe's and buy me some paint. Then I'd walk back down there where he had the car parked and wait until he got off from work. Walking wasn't nothing then. I used to walk about four or five blocks to catch the bus, street bus, from where I worked. Now folks don't want to walk. They done rose so much, they don't want to walk across the road. That's the truth. They can't walk nowhere. I takes my stick now. I'm 84. Me and the dog walks all down at the park, all up there. I try to get a little exercise that way. Keisha Roberts: When did you get your first car? Georgie Johnson: Car? Keisha Roberts: Mm-hmm. Georgie Johnson: Let's see. My husband. I got my first car way before my husband died. He been dead 15—well, it's been at least 20 years ago, because he died in '81. I owned—let's see, first car I owned was when my—it was a '72. The next one was a six cylinder Buick. The next one was a eight cylinder Buick and that one. I've had four or five cars. But the people I work for helped me pay for all of mine, all I bought. Now, the first car I bought I didn't give but $200 for it. It was a Chevy II, Chevrolet. Oh, that was a good little car, but it was too, I mean, it was sort of getting raggedy. I sold it to a Jehovah Witness. He wanted it so bad. He said he was going to have it re-upholstered and fixed up and all. So I sold it to him and I got less. Georgie Johnson: So, I don't reckon I'm getting nothing. My boy wanted me to get one about six or eight years ago. He wanted me to get a brand new one. I said I ain't going to do it. I could have got a new one, but I wouldn't do it. I said because, the reason why I didn't get one, because I know they drive it more than I did, and they'd tear it to pieces. That boy up there been driving that one more than me. He done got his one running now. He come down here, "Grandma, I want to borrow your car." Well, I couldn't say no because I don't know what he might have to do for me. So, I let him have it. "I'll be back in about two hours." Sometimes it's 12, one o'clock at night when he get back. Georgie Johnson: One night I looked out there. Car weren't there. Next morning, I got up and looked out. I don't know what time he come in. His old car was down, so he got it running now. I'm glad he did. Of course, I told him I don't plan on getting another car. At my age, hm the last minute until I quit driving. I don't go nowhere now in the car but maybe to the store, I mean, down the road to the supermarket. Of course, last Tuesday, I went to Walmart and went to Rose's. Most of the time I go with my son-in-law or my daughter if we go a long distance. They got a new car. He retired from the Lincoln Mine, and she worked there selling [indistinct]. She had two jobs after she got cut off, so she said she's going to retire this year. So I reckon, she going to retire. Keisha Roberts: Did you ever go to Hayti? Georgie Johnson: Hayti? Keisha Roberts: Mm-hmm. Georgie Johnson: Oh Lord, yeah, back when the Hayti was there. There ain't no Hayti now. Ha! I went down there one time. See, I was working then. That was before I married. I was working over in Walltown and all them places had different names then, they done change. Old Walltown, this girl told me, "Come on, go with me. I'll be right back." So, I was working with a White lady up there on Buckingham. So, I was down there visiting her. You have to stay in the cab with her and go home with her over there, and she went in the house. We went in. It was a nice house, nice furniture and all. Big old lady come and open the door. She locked the door behind her, put the key in her pocket. I said, "Uh-oh. I can't leave." Georgie Johnson: And the gal kept on to the back. I don't know whether it was drinking or what. I didn't go. I sat down in the living room. That was the last time I went over there. I know who she was, but I didn't think she was that kind of girl. I said, won't catch me out with her over there no more. Keisha Roberts: What kinds of of things were around Hayti that you—? Georgie Johnson: I imagine there was—huh? There were all kind of these liquor houses. Now, they going into crack houses and dope houses. See, they used to be where they sold liquor and prostitutes and things like that. But they might be doing the same thing now, but mostly they's drugs now instead of liquor. It used to be liquor. Nobody even know nothing much about drugs back in '50s and '60s. The biggest drug they know was liquor. And the folks that sold it from these houses and things, they bought it from the bootleggers what made it up and down the branches out here. They'd buy maybe two or three half gallon jars and then sell it, shots, like that. 50 cents or something like that a shot or little glass. 25 cents a shot. I don't know what they was selling it for. I didn't drink it. Georgie Johnson: I reckon one reason I never did like the whiskey because I was around it all my life, mostly. Everywhere I went, most of out here, folks were making liquor. Somebody in the family was making it or something, down these branches. My daddy made liquor. My brother made liquor. They worked for folks, big shots like John Poole and all. They had plenty of liquor, and they have liquor there now. Nobody didn't think nothing about it. They didn't. You didn't think nothing about it. Have a jar of liquor sitting behind something. Somebody come in to drink, they'd go get it. Have a drink. Give them a drink and all, sit there. They won't sell it. They would give folks a drink. Georgie Johnson: I know we went to— Ghana one time, this is tobacco stripping time. Folks stripped tobacco then. Now they just pull it up and tie it up. They don't even grade it. We went to a Robeson man's house, my stepmother's half brother. He had tobacco packed up higher than your head. He reached over behind there—this is who Lonza [indistinct] was driving for. He had a car then. He had bought him a 1927 Ford, brand new. This man reached over behind one of them piles to tobacco and got a whole fruit jar full of peach brandy. Lonza was a drinker. He got so drunk somebody else had to drive him back around. He was from Ghana. Georgie Johnson: But now, Lonza didn't, he shouldn't have. Oh, I think Patty Brill was with us. I believe he the one drove back. Had to have somebody else drive back. Lonza was just drunk. By and long, as much liquor as my daddy made, and how, I never did see him drunk. Never did see him staggering drunk. My husband, he drank when we first married. I never did see him drank enough to stagger. Now, he drank. He had something else to go in his liquor. Now, he kept it at the house most time we stayed up there at Quail Roost too until he quit drinking. He had always had some at the house. Keisha Roberts: Did women drink too? Georgie Johnson: Some did. Most of them, their husbands done it mostly, because most time the woman had to look after the children. They didn't fool with getting drunk. I know they used to have parties around every Saturday night. They had one down the road here. We was invited. I wasn't going to the party. I didn't have but one child. She was two year old. That was before that boy was born. I said, "No, ain't going down there, having these drunks falling all over my youngin." He went. I said, "I ain't going down there, having no drunk falling all over my youngin." So, he went. He come back. He wasn't drunk though. He drank some, but he wasn't drunk. But I never seen him staggering drunk. Keisha Roberts: Did most of the women help each other take care of the children? Georgie Johnson: Well, back then, them days, people help each other in everything. Like farming. If somebody got sick, like that boy down there is sick and his wife too, but folks got so now they don't do nothing. The neighborhood go there, clean up, cook and wash and clean the beds and all and leave. Now, Miss Cora said when her mama was sick, the women come there. Of course, see, Miss Cora sat up night and day when her mama was sick. Said people would come in and just take over the house. "Now, you go lay down and rest. We're going to do." She said they washed. They cooked and they cleaned the house. Everything. When her mama was sick. Georgie Johnson: Well, when my auntie was sick, my grandmama used to walk, it's about four miles from over there where Uncle Sherman stay. Over here, down at her house. Most of the times, she'd bring stuff over with her to cook in her basket with a towel on it to hook on your arm. Then she'd be done cooked up stuff. And once she get there, she'd clean the beds and clean the house and all. See, Uncle Willard had lost—that was his second wife, and he had small children. He had three children. And that's the way folks did back then. Georgie Johnson: Now, I know man got sick, and this man took his children after he worked out his crop, his folks went over there and worked that man's crop out. Got the grass out, and they plowed it. After I married, Arthur Parker got sick down here, where Black Horse Run is, he was farming back in there. It wasn't no Black Horse Run then, because we stayed there at the Teely place. It was a farm, big farm, back in there. And Arthur Parker got sick. His wheat was ripe, and he was a Mason. The Masons got together, about eight or 10 men went down there with their cradles, and they cut that man's wheat and shucked it. Uncle Ike took his threshing machine and went down there and threshed the next day. And they didn't charge him nothing. Georgie Johnson: Folks done things, volunteered. I said that folks don't know how to help people now. They don't help nobody. They got the government right there, though. Keisha Roberts: So, you think that the community was stronger then? Georgie Johnson: Yeah, it was. In love and showing love towards one another. But see, when the government took over and went to call theyselves—helping these folks with welfare checks and things like that, that cut all that help out. Folks just quit. "Well, they got that welfare check. Let them get somebody to do their—let them pay for it. Get 'em walk 'em to the launder." They don't volunteer to do nothing like that now. Somebody gets sick, somebody in the family gets sick, they take their laundry, their stuff to the laundry somewhere and wash and bring it back. Uh-uh. Folks don't do nothing like that now. I said the government caused a lot of that. Georgie Johnson: Now, a lot of these folks setting up getting welfare checks is in better shape now, a lot of them. They get their money, and they don't do what they ought to do with it. Some of it use it for the wrong. Their children go hungry. Some of them go without the right clothes and all [indistinct]. Government causing a lot of these children being bad too, I'll say that. Because one or two people here and yonder, they can hit the child or bruise them or kill them or something like that, they went to giving the children permission to dial 9-1, call the police now. You can't even spank your own children now. If I had some, I'd spank them if they done wrong. Georgie Johnson: See, when you take discipline from a child, and then you send them to school. You ain't done nothing but fed them. You went on to work, and he run up and down the streets somewhere. You feed him, send him to school, and that teacher can't handle him. Then you want to look at the teacher. If you ain't done nothing for him in the six years you had him before he got in that school, you don't expect that teacher to raise him. You send that child to school to learn, not for the teacher to raise him. They got so even kindergarten, they can't punish them or spank them in there. The people I used to work with, if it wasn't done wrong, they'll spank you. I don't want nothing said about it. Georgie Johnson: I never will forget the little boy. One time I was working over there in Walltown. His mama worked at the factory. I forget where his daddy worked at. It was two of them. Denise and I forget the little boy's name now. Some little Colored children were playing, flying a kite across the street over there. I told him, I was then bathing the little girl. I said, "Don't you go out of this house." When I got through taking them, see I always gave them a good bath on Saturday because she done her running around to a beauty shop and all on Saturday, whatever she had to do because she worked five days. I stayed there night. Georgie Johnson: So, I got her out of the tub and looked for him. He was standing over there with them youngin's. I got him by the hair, drug him down—I spanked him good. Grandmama didn't like it though. But, I didn't like whether grandma liked it or not. But he mind me after then. I told her what he done. I say, "He went across the street over there, and I told him not to go." And I said, "When I got Denise out of the tub, looked for him," I said, "He done run out of the house." See, he was older, and she wasn't even about four or five. But now they put them in a nursery, places like that. Yeah, I told him not to go out of the house. I said, "You could have got run over." I said, "The boys could have beat you or something." They could have, and it would have been my fault. Georgie Johnson: Yes, I spanked him. I spanked him good, and I told Miss Betty when she come, I said, "I gave him a good spanking," and I told her what he'd done. She didn't say nothing, but when old grandma found out, she was hot about it, but nothing she could do about it. I reckon she wanted Miss Betty to fire me, but she didn't. Keisha Roberts: How were you disciplined when you were a child—? Georgie Johnson: Huh? Keisha Roberts: How were you disciplined when you were a child? Georgie Johnson: Oh shucks, everybody whooped us if we'd done something wrong. You go over yonder, visit that man's children. If you done anything or even said anything out of line, they heard it, they whooped you. And there wasn't nothing said about it when you got back home. The parents were glad they did. You had other folks discipline other children. You went somewhere to play with somebody else children, you know better than to get out of line, because you get a whooping from them just like you would your parents. Folks. Georgie Johnson: And the children respect old folks then. But now, you scared to say anything to any. I see a little boy that comes out of church. He just runs in. Runs in, and he's about eight year old, I believe. I said, "Lord, my, I never did do that." I just sit there and look at him. Diane's up there in the choir most of the time. I said, but if she give him one thrashing, he'd stop that mess. I think he's seven or eight. Have to go to the bathroom about a dozen times in a hour and a half service. I said, "If it was one of mine, he'd set down there, and I mean he sit there. It can't be long before I went up in that choir stand and I said, 'Now I don't want to see you get up, neither. If you get up and go out of here, you going to get it when you get home.'" And he wouldn't. I bet you when I got through him, he wouldn't do that, try that trick no more. Georgie Johnson: I read a poem in a book where a man—I don't know, I got to get that and carry it to the things too sometimes. That says when a man carries his son to church and stands about in the heat of the sermon. A man preaching, preaching. And it said little boy had his cap gun in his pocket, and the daddy didn't know it because little boy kept it from him. Finally, he shot it. It's like "a-Pow!" And it said the man chucked him up and tried to started out of the church with him. An old woman looked at him and said, "Let him alone. He scared more hell out of the folks than that preacher have in 10 years." It's in one of my books. Yeah, she said, "Let the boy alone." Georgie Johnson: I say, I got to carry then down there for grand to read. "Scare more hell out of the folks here than preacher had in 10 years." So, the preacher must have been there 10 years. Keisha Roberts: What church do you go to? Georgie Johnson: Red Mountain. The New Red Mountain. Ours is on the left, and Whites is on the right. Keisha Roberts: Have they always been separate? Georgie Johnson: Oh Lord, yeah. I tell you what, now. If you want to know the history about this, I know the history about this because I've heard it every history day, they read you. See, we first was on this side where they is. But, they claim that the Black folks didn't have no deed to it. No deed to the land. They done build a little log church. And so, they took that land. Then the Black folks had to find somewhere else. Well, they finally bought that little track over there across the road from them. And they got the deed to that, and the bill. I think this is about the fourth church that's been in this site. Georgie Johnson: We settled on this side, on Mitchell, who was the first man to establish Red Mountain. Mitchell. We got his picture there. We've had about a dozen preachers or more since then. We had none stay there a long time like Reverend Croon. Reverend Croon stayed there 22 years. A Red Mountain preacher, 22 years. And he longest we have had to stay there since he left was Reverend Stewart, and I think he stayed there about 12 years. Then the next one, about six. Keisha Roberts: Did the preachers' wives, are they different from the other women or were they expected to do different kinds of things? Georgie Johnson: Well, the wives got to the place now, most—I tell you what's ruined most of the preachers. Too much education. They go to these divinity schools and get that all education. They come out, and they think they own the church. They wants everybody to do what he said. And a preacher, if you go according to that Bible, it's not supposed to be that way. He's come now to preach the Gospel and teach the spiritual. And the deacon is his right hand man. The trustee is supposed to take care of all the money problems and whatever needs to be done to the dwelling or the grounds or all like that. But, they done got away from that. That's the way it used to be. Their trustees took care of all the business part. The deacon's supposed to be out there visiting the sick and ministering to the sick and doing things like that. They ain't supposed to be all this mess going on. Georgie Johnson: Ain't no spirit in church now. Too much business. They got so they call a meeting right after the service and all such as that. We used to never did do that way. We had conference on third Saturday. Folks walked. We had more folks walk to conference on third Saturday than we have ride to conference now, which is three time a month, I mean every three months. We have them March, June. We had it about two weeks ago. I think the next one is in November, I reckon. Yeah, we had one in this month. Just about every two months, every three months. It's just so off based, old folks like me will come up and all of this. We ain't more used to that. Keisha Roberts: What kinds of things did you do in church? Georgie Johnson: Who, me? Keisha Roberts: Mm-hmm. Georgie Johnson: Well, I don't do nothing much now. I used to be president of the mission. I'd go to mission all right.