03709_0165: Life of a Retired Mill Worker

January 10, 1929 James Herring (white) 919 Chase Street Athens, Georgia Retired Textile Operative S.B.H.

LIFE OF A RETIRED MILL WORKER

Mr. Henry Hunt's house was my objective when my walk was halted by a greeting from the Mrs. Bentley whose home I had visited a few days before. She introduced me to a group of women assembled on the lawn before the neighborhood clubhouse, and I soon learned that they were waiting for others to join them before proceeding to surprise a neighbor with a stork shower.

One of the more voluble of the older women in the party was of vivid personality and seemed to offer possibilities for a good story. I asked if I might see her in her home. "I don't know," was the hesitant response, "and anyway, what I know is too bad to tell you." Assured that her story could be of interest, if it referred to good or bad things, or both, she agreed. "Come on," she invited me, "I'll be ready to talk to you any time after this stork party is over."

A younger woman had joined the group and addressing Mrs. Bentley, wanted to know, "What are you old women doing with them packages? . . . Another stork shower? My God, they have one every week around here. I never heard of so many babies in my life." One of the women answered her, "It's the truth. We are going to another one next Friday."

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2. The little woman who emerged from the clubhouse and stood watching us from its veranda can best be described as "ficety," for her manner radiated the type of aggressive independnece which characterizes the small canines known as "fice." "Gimme that rag on your head," she yelled to one of the women. "You go to the devil," was the swift retort, followed by the jovial challenge, "Come out here and I'll rub your face in the grass. She could not resist this invitation and in another moment approached me with the question, What are you doing with that book and pencil?" I jokingly announced that I would use them to record the life history of the young person who had deplored the frewuency of stork showers in that neighborhood. "I wouldn't let you do nothing of the sort if I was her," she snapped, ";cause it's nobody's durned business what her life history is." One of hte group could not resist the opportunity to say, "That's all right, but it's one thing sure, I just bet you wouldn't tell her yours, for you wouldn't want anybody to know all the mean things you've done. The "ficety" little person replied, "I've answered all the questions I'm going to answer. One day last year, a woman came by and asked me all about my family: their age, and how many we had in school, what my husband did, and all sorts of things like that. Let old lady Brantley here tell hers. She's been here a long time. See how wrinkled she is. The wrinkles around her mouth are so deep that she can't even get the snuff out of 'em, and here she is on her way to a party. I'll give this woman with the book and pencil a dime to scrub my kitchen, but I haven't got time for anything else. Well, I've gotta go. You old women, go on to your party."

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3. They were still talking when I left them to continue my walk in sarch of Mr. Hunt's residence. The street number that had been given me as his address was above the door of a structure that had been erected to house a store. On the sidewalk an ordinary cane-bottomed chair leaning against a telephone post was occupied by an elderly man who was apparently dozing in the warm sunshine. "Where will I find Mr. Henry Hunt?" I enquired. The sound of my voice aroused him. He stretched his arms, yawned and as he arose to his feet, he finally said, That's him, that's Henry Hunt," and at the same time he pointed toward a man who occupied a char in the paved area-way before the door of the house. THere was no porch. Mr. Hunt put down his paper, stood up, and greeted me. He insisted that I sit down, and then went inside the hosue to get another chair for himself. A small white dog followed and sat down at his master's feet. Mr. Hunt is of medium height and his plump figure was attired in gray tweed trousers, a brown woolen shirt, and an overall jacket. Heavy black shoes and a black leaver cap completed his costume. White hair framed his florid face. His frequent smiles revealed the fact that several teeth were missing, and the nicotine stains on the fingers of his right hand indicated that he had done much smoking. He was silent for a few moments following my request for an interview. The movement seemed instinctive when he took a folder of cigarette papers and a sack of tobacco from a pocket and began making a cigarette, "Well now, I don't know where to begin," he started. "If

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4. I'd known you were coming I could have thought it over and had some interesting things ready to tell you. The modern cotton mills of today and those that were operated in the days of my youth are quite different. "You take this place, for instance. I came over here when this mill was first started. Now it's 'most rotted down. In my time they worked seven hundred and fifty hands. Now I expect one hunded and fifty names would cover the entire payroll. The old mill hands have bee nreplaced by modern machinery. Now, for instance, let me give you an illustration. AT the time when they were working so many hands, there were four and one-half looms to each weaver. "My grandfather - I was named for him - spent his life in the Athens Manufacturing Company's plant. That was way back before the Civil War. He made 75c a day working in the finishing room, where it was his job to get the cloth ready to be put in bales for shipping. Tell you why I remember that so well. It's because that was the standard wage for that particular kind of work. Some made 50c, others made $1 a day, according to the type of work they did. That was in my schoolboy days. "My grandmother kept house while my grandfather, my mother, two uncles, and three aunts worked in the mill, and at that time they did real well. Our family lived in a two-room house of an old style that was customary in southern mill villages at that time. While it had only two main rooms they were both large. They had a real large kitchen that was built off separate from the house, and it served as

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5.

a dining room too. There was no roof over the plank walkway that went from the house to the kitchen and if it was raining you had to come and go just the same – if you didn't want to miss a meal.

"To make a good textile worker you had to start young, say around the age of eight. In those days you didn't see so many idle people walking around as now.

"Mr. Bloomfield was president of the Athens Manufacturing Company. In fact, he was the whole cheese when I was growing up. He was a devoutly religious man, and was good to the people that worked for him, but at the same time he was a strict and careful man; there was no foolishness about him.

"This is facts. Well now, we all went to school. Mr. Bloomfield provided a school for us three months in the year, but if he caught a child under twelve years old idle he picked it up and put it to work. It was go to school or go to work when you lived in his mill village. That was all right with his mill families. Every man, woman, and child among them simply worshipped him.

"We were paid off once every four weeks, and once a week the heavy groceries were sent to our doors. They were meat, meal, and flour. Mr. Bloomfield had these groceries sent around in a twohorse wagon, but to tell the truth those wagons were pulled by mules. Anyway, the wagons were sent to your door for you to select what you needed and the amount was deducted from your pay envelope. There was everything in that company store but matches and kerosene.

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