There are two versions of the following interview

which are substantially different in content and/or

format. Therefore both versions have been included

in the project.

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\ 6571

In an otherwise identical version the following

handwritten comments appear on the top of page

6573: "might be life history," "Man with the

Badge," and, "E-WTC"

6572

/

Da*tel of f i r s t w i p i n g : Namel of pe r so j^ in t e rv i ewed! Address :

Occupati /m: Name o l r w r i t e r : No. OA words:

NC-}M~A

January 2, 1939 Ann Williamson, 104 Dawson Stree: Wilmington, Mill worker, Frances L / E About

•^mSTPM^r-'UIUSlO^V^

>•*>

ffUwAnn Page lives of the south side of Tenth Street near

the corner of Henry Street,\ in that poptiora of the Castego Cotton

Mill district of Wilmington!known as Factory Hill. Strictly

speaking, there is no hill; 1 what goes by that name is really

the riverbank which rises gradually in a long line slanting back

from the Cape Fear River with\a lift up to Henry Street. The

latter street, follows this ricbe the full length of the city of

Wilmington, and is one of the main arteries of the town. The

mill district covers two city blocks south along the river and

east, in an irregular line, as far in some places as Third Street,

all at the far southern end of the town. The little mill cottages

line the streets in regular rows*\

The mill has been closed since the early part of the

lean years of the depression, 1930. All the workers who cared to

do so have been permitted to occupy their cottages rent-free, but

the company has not kept the houses repaired. Ann, one of the

old t'infers, among the millworkers, has lived in her cottage for

forty-six years. Time has used it severely, almost causing a

complete decay of the doorsteps and front porch.

6573

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1MA« Ann was a t home. She i s a gay old s o u l , wi th no com­

p l a i n t s t o make about the ha rdsh ips of her p a s t and appa ren t l y

no f e a r s of t he f u t u r e . She i s of medium h e i g h t and we igh t ,

a c t i v e , and b r i s k in Vail her movements. Jfao otraigfrU^ e r e c t

f i g u r e -is-g.iven a tou&h of diflnit.y hy a hQ?^ r* KflflW whi t f b ~ i r Ost^2 sA+s*. -to-+4. •aaa-^the QlrecL loo*L—fe & -*-p3rife^-«*-bluy eye's" i'euiai'kabl.y unwctrred

3re-~of. p a r d uSS&a*—~Her"""SKTri" i s we l l kept and

CbLme wi th few -l£nes,- ai^d he r -drouth has a humorous t w i s t as though

jujst^amairting an oppor tun i ty Lo spread ^InTo~a broad smile which'

displays—a fow ^omiHining y t r n n g t,pQ-t3T. ^~ , , -fay** °- e^vJ^u 1*LM» WMJU IAJO^

The l i v i n g roomjp«»* f r u n t Toom as" i t i s c a l l e d , was*

—A t a b l e gtfliafl An the c e n t e r , "mH i^fc-mas.

covered w i th a square of faded b lue v e l v e t upon which r e s t e d

a Bible and art(old^jvorrj) hym\ibook, bo th g r e a t l y t r e a s u r e d by

t h e i r owner. &• l a r g e rocker , \ a sma l l e r one, two s ide c h a i r s

w i th sane of t h e l egs braced i o r s u p p o r t , and s e v e r a l smal l

r ag rugs^madc by **&*$ oca^t^red"iTg'r^"-sro3^ttTgr^^v^^ the

we l l - sc rubbed f l o o r , completed t h e f u r n i s h i n g s . The w a l l s

were whitewashed and covered from end t o end wi th c a l e n d a r s ,

^itf-Hfim^^ftriad da tes from the year 1890 on to the p r e s e n t , flflflb

magazine covers of every hue and fetyle. The f u r n i t u r e $ as wa l l

as the f l o o r , had been scoured with^waghitng-powdo^- u n t i l bo th

Across a l i t t l e h a l l i s

t h e bedroom. 9ha UIMH I: g l.rik tagLX&aMI££ of t h i s room i s ±ib — ' ' v

l i l l l i i j j ' nil 1 J o^MLi'Ud WltirmeHay s quares of b r i l l i a n t l y

6574

colored wallpaper o f ^ a r i e d designs. G u l l e d by thi-s- o r ig ina l

arrangement, t £e x v i s i to r • - inqu i re^ fhe re and how the pa.per~4iad

been obi

"0 |^ I got .that from a paperhanger tha t was go£n' out

of business ," oho said. " I asked him fer h i s sample books an1 3

he give 'em to me, a l l that p re t ty paper. I wanted to cover

up my c e i l i n ' to keep the wind from comin' in , but when I got

a l l t ha t p r e t t y paper home I couldn ' t hardly make up my mind to

use i t that way. s o , night a t t e r night , I looked a t the flowers

an1 b i rds an' s t a r s on the paper t i l l one n igh t , a l l of a sudden

some of the c e i l i n ' shr ive l led up an ' broke. Then I g i t s busy

an' went out to ask Jim ^ayes , the boy of a friend of mine, to

help me. He come over an' twixt me an' him we mixed some flour

an1 sugar with a l i t t l e water. I bet you never knowed mixin'

sugar with flour made the paste s t i ck b e t t e r . Well, I hands

Jim the paper, an' he planks i t on the c e i l i n ' an' t h a t ' s the

way you sees i t now.

"Why, do you know th i s room's j e s t par t of my own

l i f e . when I g i t s a heaiache, an' I has i t l o t s of times now i/Ye

from my high blood presses* an' not gittin' no younger at all,

I jest lays me down in my bedroom an' looks up at that ceilin'

an' keeps lookin' up at all them colors an' things, an1 the

fust thing I knows I drops off to sleep an' fergits the headache.

That ceilin' is a lotta comfort to me. I figgered it out that

the reason paper is such a comfort to me is 'cause the God above

• G575

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makes all the beautiful things an' He must1a had a hand in that

wallpaper. Mn't no foolin1 'bout that an1 don't you think it

iq "

The bedroom was furnished with two single beds covered

with patchwork quilts of many shapes and colors, two rockers,

one wall chair and a small table. In one corner there was a

large box, smooth and shining with the persistent scrubbing it feu*

gets. This box is used for a washstand when.Ann does not want

to go out on the back porch to use the faucet and basin. Above

this box hung two towels made from salt sacks washed spotTlessly

clean. Ag-ffis interviewer knew LItat Ann was living alone,-rand

ad-iJBe"h tor many ye"aT757-4*gji ye£rwouI& stray toward the two

beds.

Finally the old lady said, "You're curious 'bout

them beds, ain't you? 'Cause any old fool'd know I couldn't

sleep in but one of 'em. But let rre tell you most positive,

there ain't no bed in this house fer any gol-darned man! Don't

make no mistake 'bout that. That extry bed is fer my gal frien's

You see, when a DU*«OIX gits too old to git 'round like they used

to they likes to stay as long as thSy have a mind to when they

goes to see their frien's. ^o we old cronies that has worked

side by side these many years, when we goes to see our frien's

we likes to set with one another an' talk. We might fergit the time an1 set talkin" till it's too dark to walk home, or the

6576

weather gits too rough* So I keeps my nice clean extry bed

ready an' when me an* my frien1 gits goin1 good, havin* a real

joy-killin' time, we jest says we don't have to hurry none; we

kin do jest like we please, an' there's the bed all ready."

Asked if their families did not worry about them when

they stay out all night, she said, "Lord, no. They knows we'll

be all right. The Lord, Ke ain't ready fer us an' nobody else

wants us."

There are three rooms in the house and a narrow hall

running through from the front entrance in the center of the

little porch to the exit on the back porch. The only means of

heating anywhere is the cook stove in the kitchen. It was too

cold to sit down in the other rooms,so we went into the kitchen.

A large porch rocker, painted a brilliant red, was put forward•

With our feet on the well-scoured floor, stretched out

to the fire, we settled ourselves for a comfortable, intimate

•chat. A glance around showed two windows, walls patched with

pictures from magazines and advertising calendars, a cleanly

scrubbed pine table, two straight chairs and the cook stove

polished a shiny black. xhe cooking utensils had been scrubbed

and polished with white sand until they almost sparkled. It is

her pride to keep her kitchen clean so that anybody can go into

it any time of day or night. Above a shelf there was a small

mirror; on the shelf there was a large jar marked with a label

reading 'Cold Cream,1 and a box of face powder.

"Yes, I uses them things," she said in explanation of

why they were there. "I don't like to be any older an1 uglier

than I has to, so I washes an1 greases my face keerful an' I

does it ever' night the Lord sends."

"You know, honey, I wish you'd call me Miss Ann

'stead of Mrs. -Ba&e," she continued. "It brings people

closer when they calls me Miss - nn 'cause that's my name

on Factory Hill. I don't know how it's goin' to be when I

move. Jest to think, atter all these happy years here in this

house a man come along wearin' a big nickel badge an' tells

me my house ain't healthy an' I got to move out. What the

devil does he know 'bout my house beinf healthy? He ain't vr~e>

never lived in it. Ifm healthy. I got the high blood press-ea?,

but outside that I'se strong as a mule. But I s'pose things

jest natchally has to change jest like the times. Automobiles

takes the place of the cart an' mule; electric lights takes

the place of the kerosene lightj but I still holds to my

kerosene lamp. Aa1 them automobiles is all right, I guess,

but they goes a sight too fast fer my pore old eyes. My

house suits me. If the rain drir>s in on my bed once in

awhile I jest moves the bed.

"Well, if you want to know 'bout my work in the

mill I kin tell you. I went to work when I was a little

girl, I don't think I was more'n 'bout 'leven or twelve.

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It was the Beyian cotton Mill then, -'he fust pay I got was

fifteen cents a day. I was livin1 with the people who raised

me. '1'hey took me, they said, when my paw an1 maw died when

I was a baby. But atter I worked hard an' learned a lot,

along 'bout 1879 it was, I got raised to forty cents a day.

An' a day was a day in them days, from sunrisin' to sunsettin',

an' what's more, work ain't never hurt nobody yit. Not if it

was good work. 'J-'hey talk 'bout so many hours an' so many days'

work nowadays, an1 is so afraid of workin' a little too long,

an' the rest of the time they jest sets 'round gittin1 into

mischief or talkin' 'bout their ailments, what pore health

they has 'cause they works so hard, - on't you believe it.

You heap apter gittin' pore health in idleness than doin1

good work. When you works you eats good an' sleeps good

an1 you don't have no time to do deviltry. I always did

believe in learnin' the best of everything an' atter awhile

I learned so much 'bout my work that I was makin1 $1.20 a day

an' couldn't nobody git no more'n that.

"An' then there come that man an1 tells me my house

ain't healthy, an' I got to move. xhe city gov'mint says I

got to move! What's the city gov'mint know 'bout it? When

the mill closed down an1 we didn t have no more work, Mr.

J/tfi'iMiio come down here an' tole we-all that he couldn't

spend no more money runnin1 the mill 'cause it'd ruin him,

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but he didn't want none of his people to suffer, an1 they

could keep their homes as long as they wanted, an' what I'm

tellin1 you is true as the leaves fallin1. I tell you, Mr.

Jenkins is a fine, dandy lookin1 gentleman an' he's been good

to us. He!s got a son-in-law named -5§j2ev"-~ I don't s'pose I'se 3<*JLJ

any kin to this here «fc*. -Pago, but maybe when this here country

'way back yonder was full of wild animals an' had few white

folks I might've been some kin, but I don't know nothin* 'bout

my paw an' maw or the records 'way back there. I'se tellin1

you that as long as the mill run nary pusson 'round here ever

went without food as long as the ~ai*igo Mill kep' goin'. I've

loved it all my life an' I love the very ground the mill's on.

•But I'm tellin' you I don't love the ground where some of the

houses is on 'cause the devil shore is a-livin1 in some of 'em.

"Oh, yes, you want to know somethin' 'bout my work.

I was a chile when I went to work. I never went to school

'ceptin' two months; I had to work an' git myself a livin'

'cause my paw an1 maw died when I was jest a baby, leastways

that's what I been tole. I kin read some in the -Bible,

'specially the Psalms, an1 I knows in my mind nearly all the

old hymns. ^he hymn I likes the most is 'Lead Kindly Light.1

I used to sing that hymn to my gals when they had their babies

at my house. I reckon you has heard 'bout my gals. Everybody

who tries to help people has heard 'bout my gals.

6!>80

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"You'd like to hear it from me? well, I don't know

as it's so much to hear. I've jest took in many a pore gal

whose feelin's got a leap ahead of 'em 'cause the hoy lied

'bout his'n, then he'd git scared plum to death anr run

away; then the gal's paw an' maw was too good to know

anything 'bout pore human nature an' got madder an' madder-

till they run her away frorr their home an' I'd take her in

an' take keer of her till she had her baby. '-i-lBt's all

there is to it.

"O-o-o-, you heard tell 'bout my ax, have you?

Well, you say you have children, two of 'em. "'ell, you ought

to know 'bout afterpains. y*hat I done with the ax is this:

You see, all my life I loved to chop wood, 'cause the usin'

of a ax helps give me strength of ruscle an' bone an' it

makes the ax sharp. I thinks a lot of my ax. -'ell, some

of my gals won't satisfied with one trouble; they got ketched

a second time an' come runnin' to me to help 'em. 1'he after-

pains comes with the second chile, sometimes a day atter it's

bor?n; then's when I fetches my ax an' slips it under the gal's

bed, an' 'tain't long 'fore it cuts the pain right in two.

Soon the pore chile, she blinks her eyes an' she says, 'I'm so

sleepy,' an' in less time than a jumoin' lizzard takes to git

over that back fence out there the pain is clean gone. I keeps

the ax under the bed till I see by the gal's face that she

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ainft got no more pain, then I takes it out, hidin1 it

under my apron an1 puts it back in the woodshed. % t that

don't say how soon it may have to come out an1 make another

trip.

"Is I a midwife? Well, I s'pose that's what I been

actin', but I ain't never called myself that. The pore gals

jest called me !Miss Ann1 an' asked me to help 'em. An1 I

tells you, honey, there ain't never a night that passes that

I don't pray fer the likes of 'em, 'cause I feels they still

needs my guidance.

"Myi ' my! I shorely has helped many a gal over the

rough places, but, Lawsy me, it don't learn 'em no sense.

They comes right back an' I has to git out the old ax.

"Oh, yes, of course, my rrillwork you wants to know

'bout. vVell, as l tole you, I was 'bout 'leven year old

when I started work at the mill an' fust I made fifteen cents

a day. As time got along an' I ketched on how to do t'other

work I kepf goin' up till I got sixty cents a day. I always

was a pusson that wanted to go ahead, an' so I kep' right

on gittin' smarter an' smarter till I got as smart as a

pusson kin git in the mill an' got me $1.20 a day an1 held

it till the mill closed. Them was my happy days.

"I got married when I weren't but sixteen year old,

but -1 didn't put up long with the man I married. This here

61582

man, he had a good-fer-nothin' streak in him clean to the

bone an' I couldn't do nothin1 'bout it. 'Twon't long 'fore

I had my eyes lookin' at the naked truth an' that were that

t' is man jest had a natchal-born lazy streak an' that's somethin

nobody can do nothin1 'tall 'bout. °o one mornin1 I gits up

late myself an' didn't pay no mind to nothin1. I wanted him

to see that it took work to keep comfortable. Somebody had

to do it. ^ut it shore makes me jumpy to lay in bed an' let

things go. An' the longer I laid the madder I got till finally

I jest natchally couldn't stand no more, an1 I jest kicked him

up an' said, 'Now you listen to me, 'cause I've reckoned every­

thing out. I ain't goin' to be shamed 'fore my frien's no

longer with a good-fer-nothin' lazybones like you to take

keer of.' An' I called him ever' name that was decent I could

think of. An' he took it, 'cause he was too lazy to talk back.

Well, it weren't long'fore I got rid of him, an1 I ain't fooled

with marryin' nobody else till yit."

Ann rocked vigorously a moment, the old indignation q

still rankling, ^lowly she calmed down, a roguish twinkle

in her eyes, and she chuckled.

HThem was the days when I was a blue-eyed vixen,"

she said, "an1 had the rosiest cheeks a pusson ever saw on

a gal's face. I tell you, honey, I was what they calls a

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'heartbreaker.' All the fellers said that. An' believe ne

when I tells you I could equal any boy on Factory Hill when

it come to totin1 logs ur from the riverbank fer the fire.

In them days the fireplaces could take on a log four an' five

feet long. Lawsy, an' could I dance. I shore could shake a

wicked foot an' I had the boys by the dozens 'round me at the

quiltin's an' the corn poppin's. All them things is my

remembrances an' they all wound up with this house an' Factory

Hill. Don't you know it was bound to hurt when that big man

with a badge on come here to tell me my house ain't fitten

fer a dog to live in an' I got to move off? An' what's more

I has got to.

"I cain't git no more washin' to do, an' when I goes

to the Associated Charities they tells me I got to go to my

daughter, an1 when mydau^iter heard I'd bin to the Charities

she gits terribly hurt an' says that with my old age pension

I could live decent with her. I shore blesses the ov'mint

fer my pension; I asks God's blessin' on it ever' time I

goes to the post office to git it, but you Jest don't know

how I hates to leave Factory Hill an' all my old gal frien's.

But they's condemned my home. An» I couldn't even cuss the

man out that tole me so 'cause he was Jest as perlite as a

pair of dancin' monkeys.

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6581

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"iou may be surprised when I tells you I've toted

but I shore has—'way back a few years ago, an' then a short

time ago, I'se a through-an'-through Democrat. I remembers

the days atler the Confederate War an1 the devilish Yankees

a takin' charge, ^es-sir-ree, I voted fer Mr. Roosevelt,

tooth an' toenail. I voted right there at the fire house

at Seventh an' South Streets; it ain't so far from here.

The pole, (telephone pole) it stands right out in front

of the fire houBe. ^ome of these uu-to-the-minute white

ladies says to me, 'Mrs. Page, has you voted?' An1 then I

holds up my head an' I says, 'Shore I did. I voted fer Mr.

Roosevelt 'cause he's the right man.' An' Lawsy, how they

do smile when you tells 'em you's a good Democrat.

"But honey, I'se goin1 to tell you somethin1 you

must keep to yo'self. I don't believe in women votin'. It

makes 'em biggity-like, 'specially these here young upstarts.

You know, I sees 'em walkin' all 'round here all hours of the

night, dressed up in pants, " hey must think they're men,

'cause you know there's a law 'bout women wearin' pants an'

dressin1 up in men's clo'es. I argued this with some of 'em,

an' one of these upstarts tells me she can wear 'em jest as

long as she likes to jest so they don't button up in front.

I'se noticed time an' ag'in that these gals wear 'em with

8585

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buttons on the side, or else they gather 'round the waistline.

I often thinks the law, is sorta foolish 'bout a lot of things.

It don't seem to be positive enough; they's too many ways of

gittin' 'round it, but ^awsy me, ain't nothin' positive enough

to hold the women these days. They wants to be men an1 women

both.

"Now, as I tole you, I was pretty vixenfeh, an' I

could swear, but I didn t drink. I don't smoke, not that 1

minds a pipe, but I jest don't like it. I'm not goin' to

pertend I didn't sin once, an' I wouldn't a-missed my

experience. I believes in experience, an' I believes I'se

a better Christian 'cause I knows I'se weak as anybody.

But I'se a Baptist an' goes to church regular, ^ut I never

could've helped my pore gals like I did if I didn't know jest

how it were. You know, it takes a mistake or two to learn

people that the best thing to do is to do right.

"Well, I learned my lesson. But you know, honey,

spite of ever'thing, lovin' is the finest thing can happen

to us. You gits up in the n ornin' an' you don't know an'

don't keer whether you had any breakfus' or no. You starts

to work, an' when you gits outdoors the sun shines brighter

an' the air smells sweeter. Then you gits on to the mill an'

starts work, an' 'stead of the spindles crackin' an1 bangin'

down they soun's diffrunt to you, an' seems to fair play a tune."

6586

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'±"he still and beautiful old eyes lost their quick,

humorous twinkle and grew soft, with a warm glow kindled

by old memories, ^oon the twinkling smile returned to the

winsome old face, and she continued her story with brisk

cheerfulness.

"Well, I got my daughter I done spoke to you 'bout,

an1 she's well married; husband's a master carpenter an'

cabinetmaker, ^he lives well, an' since that man with the

badge come to tell me my house ain't healthy she jest has

fits to take keer of me in her In. ^ut, you know, she lives

out near Kingham Place. Mrs. Jekn Anderson is her name,

on Esmeralda Avenue. Now, you know, honey, them big car­

penters an1 plumbers livin' out there is too highfalutin'

fer Ann *Sg£~. I likes my own people in my own place. I

knows every foot of my Factory Hill in the darkest of the

night. My frien's kin come in and set with me when they

likes, and they kin stay all night if they got a mind to.

"*ou see that mirror up there? It don't lie. That

fack was told me when I was a youngun by the good folks

who took me in to raise me. Well, mirrors don't lie, they

tells you the God's truth, an' mine tells me I'm a-gittin'

old. I takes pride in keepin' my hair straight an' my

face clean an' powdered, but that mirror tells me 'bout

6587

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the wrinkles jest the same. Now when you gits them wrinkles

you don't feel like startin' out in a new place to make new

frien's. Another thing, you kin look right out this winder

an' see my vegetable garden. It ain't much, but it's mine.

I has my patch of collards, mustard, turnips, an* spring

onions. I works it myself an' I eats what I grows when I

wants it. Now,if I go to my daughter I has to eat what

they wants when they wants it, an1 I'se done what I pleased

all my life.

"Then there's my wood choppin'. I always has chopped

my own wood an' I'se choppin' it yit, spite of what the doctor

tells me. I has a swimmin' in the head, an' the doctor tole

me a year ago that I had to stop takin' in washin' like I

was a-doin' for some of my 'ristocratic frien's, but them

frien's supplies me with wood. I got half a cord out there

in my back yard.

T,^ow, what I wants is to git a room nearby an' come

over here an' work my garden an' chop my wood. ^r. *^#ferrE—

ain't goin' to let nobody upset my garden an' my wood. Mr.

-Page will see to that. My daughter gits upset 'bout my

clo'es. ftow I wants you to see my clo'es. Looka here."

Ann brought out of her chest a black alpaca skirt

with seven gores and a brush braid around the bottom to

£588

•

protect its voluminous folds from wear when it brushed the

ground. It appeared to be in perfect condition and its color

as good a black as could be found. With this went a white

broadcloth waist with a high, mannish collar trimmed with a

black bow. Sfofi has a large straw hat—a black chip straw of

excellent quality—trimmed with black flowers, ^he put it on

and was immensely pleased at being told she looked quite pretty

in it, which was absolutely true. She is a very neat little

person and through the week wears ankle-length dresses made

of percale and calico.

"You know, I'd never feel right wearin' wool dresses

ever1 day, 'cause I was born durin' the time when cotton was

a-comin1 into its own. ^otton is what give me my fust an1

best livin1, an' I ain't got no notion of goin1 back on it,

you can jest bet on that."

As it was growing late and time to leave, nn spoke

of how much she enjoyed the afternoon talk.

"I reckon I'll be movin1 on 'fore you ever comes to

see me ag'in," she said. *I ain't got the strength to fight

like I used to have; jest gittin1 old, I reckon, but I won't

let it worry me down. I've lived all these years tryin' to

do my best to keep body an1 soul together, an1 I knows .

that the mind kin control itself if a pusson jest keeps

cheerful an' doin1 the best they kin. It don't take much

to make a pusson happy if he has a mind to. An1 while it

hurts to be tole your home ain't fitten to live in an' you

got to move out of it, I'll be satisfied if they let me

have my garden an' my wood chopoin'. I'm ready fer the

restin' place when old Saint feter knocks anyway, an' I

reckon we fusses an' hangs on to a lot that don't make no

matter anyhow.

"I'll shore think a lot 'bout this happy afternoon

we had together. I ain't had as much fun in a long time.

Good-bye an1 good luck to you."

Ann was left standing on the edge of the porch. She

waved in return and then smiling broadly, went back into the

room. She believed it was bad luck to see the complete

departure of a friend or to watch one out of sight.