Milk The Iron Cow

By Adolphus A Ward

It was a time when national labor policies governing race first began to take shape in the industrial sectors of America. It was a time of radical change. The change that was inevitable would not come easily; it would not come without struggle; it would not come without blood; it would not come without death.

Annie Tallman Lindsey had married Robert (Buddy) Lindsey just before moving to Milwaukee in 1935. Soon after their arrival her sister Pearl Tallman and Pearl's young son Calvin joined them. The activities of this family are the ingredients from which this story was brewed.
Annie Mae is the daughter of Jacob and Clara Tallman of "Harvest The Dust." On the staff of the Milwaukee Urban League, she leads the struggle to force the A.O. Smith Corporation to hire black men in full-time jobs. World War II helps to make her efforts successful.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Adolphus A Ward
• Release date: Oct 18, 2011
• ISBN: 9780983947707

Adolphus A Ward

AUTHOR PAGE Adolphus left a management position in the auto industry in 1984. After being passed over the second time for a promotion he decided he'd stop waiting for others to give him opportunities – instead he would create them. Near age 50, he decided to do what he really wanted to do for the rest of his life. His five children were adult and on their own – he was divorced. So he turned a property and some investments into cash, stuck the money in CDs and set out to become a professional fiction writer and actor. Already in community theatre since the early 1970s, he set out first to learn fiction writing. He learned to write fiction while working on his first Family Fiction novel, "Harvest The Dust." Since his Harvest publication, Adolphus has published each of the stories in the trilogy as an independent writer. Adolphus has held staff positions in business, industry, government, and education, and holds a MS Degree in education. He is now retired and living in Reseda, California and devotes his time to writing and acting. His first home is Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Trilogy print-books are available at his website: www.adolphusward.net, and various book-fairs.

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PREFACE

This was a time when union workers in the city of Milwaukee were taking their demands for better pay and working conditions to the picket line and at times to violent protest. The Depression still battered the already weakened structure of product manufacturing. This was a time when black labor was on the move from the South to the North expecting to find work in foundries and factories. It was a time when both unions and companies, with few exceptions, barred black labor from membership and jobs. It was a time when companies paid for the transportation and sometimes lodging for black scab labor to take the jobs of striking white workers. This was a time of conflict when race was a volatile issue. It was a time when national labor policies governing race first began to take shape in the industrial sectors of America. It was a time of radical change. The change that was inevitable would not come easily; it would not come without struggle; it would not come without blood; it would not come without death.

Chapter 1 – Scab-workers 1936

My name is Calvin Tallman. I'm telling this story as I remember hearing and living it.

Three men had used the dark of night to conceal themselves from the probing eyes of union members on strike. The foundry-foreman a white man had whispered words of caution to the black men as they made their way across the narrow freight-car bridge toward the chain-link fence in back of the foundry. Beneath them, the dark water of the Menomonee River was still. With no guardrail to keep them from falling, the men stayed close to the tracks, carefully stepping from one railroad tie to the next. Leaving the bridge, they had made their way along a narrow ledge above the river till they reached a break in the chain-link fence; with two steps they were inside the waiting doorway of the foundry. The foreman listened for any sound of suspicion from the few striking men out front.

It was soon past time for the two black men to leave their bittersweet work and cross the freight-car bridge to safety on the north side of the river. They took the money the foreman handed them, counted it quickly, and moved toward the door and break in the fence. Buddy had resisted the foreman's plea for one more casting but he couldn't leave the money. When there was a job in hand, he had learned to hold onto it till it paid no more or till he had to turn it loose. He smiled to himself remembering a time when he had to wait till a crop came in before he could see what money, if any, he'd made. Since he didn't have the skills or will for growing cotton or anything else, he had borrowed money from the landowner and opened a honky-tonk. It did well and the loan was repaid in no time, and he had made more money than he'd ever made growing cotton.

Life on the river had already started to rouse itself. Smokestacks reached high into the sky and belched their first breath of the day. Barges bobbed about as if gleefully greeting the first iron-cargo carried on board their broad decks. Iron ingots headed further downriver to the forge shops. Castings headed to some factory, carried there by railcars. Men on the ground and those in overhead cranes stretched their limbs and yawned as the day's tasks took hold of their minds and bodies. The waking sounds of this city's industry had begun to whisper their arrival to ears way north and south of the river. Yesterday those sounds meant washing machines, silos and bathtubs — this day it was airplanes, tanks and bombs.

While crossing the river they heard the first shouts of vengeance from striking workers.

Scabs – nigger scabs. Get them niggers.

Strike-breakin' niggers. Get 'em.

They turned to see strikers pouring through the hole in the fence and running along the ledge toward them. Instinct pushed him and his partner as they ran awkwardly along the bridge. They were almost on the other side when the first striker lunged and struck Buddy's partner with a club. Falling, his partner grabbed at Buddy's heel. He stumbled and went to his knees. He was up in time to stop another blow meant for his partner. Struggling to wrestle the club from Buddy's grip the striker lost his footing and fell backward onto the ties, causing a pileup of angry bodies. Lifting his dazed partner Buddy was about to make it to the other side of the river when he felt the first blows. He tried to find a way to block the clubs and kicks to his groin and ribs. Through the flurry of fists and feet he could see his partner coiled against the attacks — on his side, knees pulled up against his chest, head tucked and covered with one arm while the other stayed tucked close to his middle to protect his ribs. There were more screams of Nigger, scab! but Buddy didn't hear them. He tried to reach something solid to stand on, he clawed at the water for something to cling to and climb; but there was only the heavy weight of the river pushing and dragging him down into blackness.

He was still struggling to free himself when a voice cut through his panic.

Breathe, brother, breathe.

Buddy's gasping lungs finally expelled enough water for him to fill them with air — liberating him from the prison of the river, freeing him to see the light of a morning sun. He flinched from the shadow of a gull flying overhead but the arms encircling him held fast, keeping him calm.

You all right now brother. We on the other side of the river. Get your breath and we can get on home.

What's your name?

Name's Elijah, brother; I'm Elijah Patterson. That's with two t's. I know who you are, Buddy. Honey told me you'd be coming to town; didn't know I'd meet you thisa way. Folks who know me call me Eli for short. You can call me that if you want to. The striking workers were gone so the two men took time to dump water from their shoes and wring the excess from their clothing.

I want to thank you, Eli, for gettin' me outa that river.

You lucky the water was there to catch you. A few weeks ago the ice was thick enough to walk on. Eli's eyes searched Buddy's visible parts to assess the damage then said, You took the worst of it. Thought for awhile you was dead.

I won't forget this, said Buddy. I won't ever forget.

Chapter 2 – Coming to Milwaukee

My mama, Pearl, had told me about Aunt Honey before we got to Milwaukee. Mama never gave me details about what adults did or didn't do. She'd only tell me so much and the rest was left to my imagination. What I was able to piece together at the time is that my Aunt Honey had a bad temper and a foul mouth. Aunt Annie Mae, Buddy's wife, had tolerated her for as long as she could. One day she left the flat vowing never to return until she and Buddy were in a more suitable place, as she put it. That turned out to be a damp and dismal basement apartment. It was that or stay with Aunt Honey. Fortunately, it was only a temporary move to keep the loathing between Honey and Annie Mae from exploding into something physical. Mama and I waited in St. Louis till Buddy and Annie Mae moved from their basement apartment to a lower flat where there would be room for Mama and me. I was told that Aunt Honey didn't care for children and was soon to learn she didn't care much for anyone else. For some strange reason unknown to me even now, Aunt Honey always treated me with kindness. She could be in the middle of one of her cussing fits and she'd suddenly become sober the minute I walked into the room. Mama had told me to stay quiet around her and out of the way. I soon learned that rule didn't apply to me. She would give me hugs right from the start. I even got pats on the head and cheek. Sometimes she would pull me close and leave a hand on my shoulder. Whenever Uncle Buddy went by to see his sister, more often than not he would take me; that was true no matter where he went.

To me the name Honey was appropriate for my aunt, but to most people, and one animal that I know of, the name contradicted her true nature. Except for Buddy or me, there was seldom a smile, or hug, or a kind word to anyone. I mean seldom. Her husband and their dog, Shep, cowered in quiet desperation while she was in the house; when in the same room, it was an even deeper pit of torment for them. Uncle Tommy skin was really black and Aunt Honey never let him forget it, not even for a moment. She would spit the word black from her mouth as though it was meant to kill him. She would taunt him with his blackness till he slunk away in an imposed silence. She would often follow him there to spit more venom till he quivered in the spasm of an inner torment. Although Shep was a big dog, he had learned to hide deep in the corner behind the coal stove – out of Honey's sight or easy reach.

I was ten years old when we arrived in Milwaukee from St. Louis. Mama and I first went to stay with Aunt Honey, a temporary move till Buddy and Annie finished painting their new flat and making room for us. My freedom and exposure to all kinds of grown folk had not prepared me for Aunt Honey. I had heard all kinds of curse words, some in different languages, but I'd never heard a mouth that could spew them out with such bitterness, never heard a mouth that didn't seem to pause for a breath. Whatever the cause of her rage, her husband, Uncle Tommy, a railroad worker, and Shep always caught its full impact. Buddy would come every day to see how we were doing and talk with his sister. It became apparent to me that Buddy was a damper to his sister's rage. When he was there Honey almost acted normal.

During one of Honey's storms Mama told me to get my coat, cap, and gloves. We walked and we walked. Along the way we'd stop just inside the doorway of a downtown store long enough to warm ourselves before continuing; then we'd walk some more. We finally turned the corner and entered the block we lived in. I could see a cluster of people who seemed to be standing in front of where we lived. Mama gripped my hand and quickened her pace. Buddy saw us and came running. He met us with a shower of questions: were we all right, where had we been? A police officer joined us and wanted Mama's word that nothing bad had happened. Mama gave him the assurance as he wrote in his notebook. The next day Buddy and Eli came to move us.

My Aunt Annie Mae