A Notable Journey: A Musician's Memoir of Living, Learning, and Thriving in Music City

By Stanley D. Stewart

From humble beginnings in Nashville, Tennessee, formally known as the Country Music Capital of the World and having a population of ~170,000, to thriving as an Aristocrat of Bands member and influencing generations through music, Stanley D. Stewart shares his unique story of perseverance, grit, and grace in A Notable Journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mynd Matters Publishing
• Release date: Nov 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781957092386

Stanley D. Stewart

Stanley D. Stewart is a retired Master Teacher of Bands in Metro Nashville. In his career, he taught choral music for the State Department of Education, was a counselor for youth at Spencer Youth Center, and was the Director of Activities for House of Friendship, a daycare facility for adults from Middle Tennessee Health Institute. For several years he was a coach of girls' sports, including volleyball, softball, basketball, and track, and was instrumental in starting the sports programs at Gra-Mar Middle School. He was a gospel choir director at Lake Providence Missionary Baptist Church and was one of the organizers responsible for coordinating music for the 1992 NAACP National Convention in Nashville.He has a B.S. and M.A. ED in Music from Tennessee State University and Teacher Certification from Travecca College.

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PREFACE

O

nce a year, many years ago when I was a child, we would go to Lebanon, Tennessee, to Aunt Hester’s and Uncle James’ farm for the Reeves-Stewart family reunion. During those times, we would also go back to see Pappy Andy Reeves and Odell. We would try to have the family picnic on a Saturday at a specified location and then meet to have church on Sunday at Dickerson Chapel Baptist Church where Andy Reeves was one of the founding members.

After my aunt and uncle passed, the annual reunions faded away. I missed gathering with my extended so almost around 1986, I decided to pick up the mantle and start the reunions again. We came together at Cedar Hill Park in the Madison, Tennessee area for several years until we decided to take it back to where it all began in Lebanon. After a few more years, we moved the reunion to Nashville. With every reunion came the presence of a new baby or the sad acknowledgment that a beloved elder had passed away.

The last reunion was held in 2016. Many of the older family members have passed, and for some reason, we began to drift apart again.

This book started out as a dedication to the Stewart-Reeves family for the purpose of sharing names, information, and insight with future generations so they always feel compelled to keep the reunion going. Even though it still serves much of that vision, once I got into writing, I ended up going in a direction that focused more on the Stewart side of the family. I later began to focus more on my life as a Stewart and a member of this great family. It is my hope that this book will be something the young people in my family and the older members can read and enjoy. (There is also a book in Wilson County that gives the history of the Reeves family from the 1800s to the present.)

In America, the Reeves and the Stewart families started like most African-American families—in slavery. We also had indigenous members who were part of the Cherokee tribe, and family members who fought in the Civil War and World Wars. My great-grandfather, J. P. Stewart, left Gallatin, Tennessee, and journeyed to Lebanon, Tennessee, and married my great-grandmother, Mary Nora Reeves—one of the children of Pappy Andy Reeves and Mammy Sallie Reeves. They produced a family of seven children. One child listed in our family Bible as Baby Stewart, died at birth on August 14, 1908. James and Nora gave birth to Andrew, Walter, Ernestine, Georgia, Sarah Jane, and Ollie.

A Notable Journey is written in honor of my mother, Marie Elizabeth Stewart (1927-2015). Mom had to go above and beyond the traditional role of mother for all three of her children since none of our dads were part of our lives. Momma did it all. She was my best friend and someone I talked to almost daily. She impacted my life, and was the most important factor in who I am today. She was the greatest mom on earth probably because when she was only two years old, her mother (Mamie Green) died while giving birth to her baby brother, who only lived for a short while. I have no doubt that life’s experiences influenced her to be the best and raise three Black males—who all lived past the age of sixty. I miss her and I thank God every day and only wish I could have done so much more for her in her lifetime.

When I started this book, my two brothers and mother were still alive and with me. Now, my brother Ronald and I are holding up the Stewart banner. Ronald is a fantastic musician and probably the reason I decided to pursue music as a career. I just wish I had taken piano lessons from mean old Miss Hall, his music teacher. My baby brother, Cromwell B. Stewart, died in May 2013. I was still dealing with his death when my mother passed on March 8, 2015. It’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think of both of them. My mother was my rock and I talked to her about almost everything. I miss her voice and her face. I miss her smile and her always ready and willing ear to hear and advise me.

My prayer is for the content of A Notable Journey to serve as both a foundation and a catalyst. To provide information and history so our family knows the depth and power of who we are and the impact we’ve had in our communities. I pray it acts as a catalyst so younger generations feel compelled to meet, connect, and continue the legacy our elders started. 

INTRODUCTION

I

was born on October 1, 1947. My birth certificate summed up my existence:

Name: Stanley Dean Stewart

Weight: 7lbs. 8 oz.

Location: Meharry Hospital (Nashville, TN) Mother: Marie E. Stewart, a single mother

Father: Unknown

My earliest memories came a few years later. I vaguely remember walking Big Momma to the outhouse in the backyard. She told me to sit outside the door and wait until she finished. Every now and then, in my mischievousness, when she would call for me, I wouldn’t answer for a while and on occasion, I would leave my post or make her think I had. I knew not to go far because Big Momma couldn’t see very well, which is why I had to take her to the outhouse in the first place.

One of my greatest influences was my grandfather, Andrew James William Henry Edward Stewart. He was my mentor, my spiritual leader, my inspiration—my everything—which included being a father in the absence of my biological father.

Granddaddy’s father, J. P. Stewart, was from a little town called Gravel Hill in McNairy County. As a young man, he migrated from Gravel Hill to Lebanon, Tennessee where he met Mary Nora Reeves and the two of them started the Stewart family. They eventually moved to 822 North 6th Street in East Nashville. My great-grandfather died in a collapsed building in downtown Nashville that made front page news on March 11, 1911. Eighteen people were killed and many more were hurt. It was reported that they were injured under tons of debris from heavy pressure and powerful winds. After he died, my grandfather, who was in the sixth grade, had to quit school and work to help support his family.

For over eleven years, Andy, as my grandfather was affectionately called, worked to bring home money to care for his mother and siblings. In 1917, Andrew was the first employee hired by Mr. Jim Reed of the famous car dealership on Broad Street in Nashville, Tennessee. According to records, Mr. Jim Reed’s desk was just an apple box and his office chair was a nail keg. Andy started out unloading cars off flatbeds in the train yard before Union Station had been completed. He began in the car business as a mechanic’s helper and he also washed cars. Of course, this was in the days when there were more horses and wagons on the roads than cars, and a brand new five-passenger car sold for $495.

Granddaddy used to always talk about how interesting it was being some type of salesman. He worked his way up from being an office boy at Jim Reed Chevrolet to becoming the first Black car salesman in Nashville. He was honored for his excellent work. Andy used to drive to St. Louis to pick up cars for the Jim Reed Company and come back to unload them. He told me he had to park his personal car several blocks away and walk to work so the white people would not see that he had a nice car. After he retired at age sixty-five, he continued to work for two decades for the Reed family. I used to tell him he needed to stop because he would get up each morning and go get contracts to deliver to the finance companies. That part didn’t bother me but it was the fact that he also picked up money and deposits. He continued doing that until he actually retired at around age eighty-five.

He loved the Reed family and they loved him. He helped raise their children and was often the driver at some of their weddings. He used to talk about the Reeds all the time. He told me they respected him and if he saw something that was good for business, they would always sit down, talk, and listen to what he had to say. Several times when he got sick, which wasn’t often, Mr. Reed would come by to see him. He felt they were not just a great family but a great company to work for. He said he raised them like that. He told me stories about the times he would deliver cars in the South—stories about when he would travel back home on the train, and how the porters would hide him under the floorboard until they went through certain areas like Cookeville, Tennessee to keep him safe and from being seen.

In 1967, granddaddy was in the newspaper receiving a watch from Mr. Jim Reed Jr. for fifty years of service. I remember when he came home. I was a little angry because I felt he deserved more for his dedication to the company. Maybe a brand-new car would have been better, and not just then but every year. It took a lot of soul-searching for me to understand how he worked for the Reeds so long but didn’t receive more. But, I finally realized that he made a living for us, drove decent cars, and was never broke to my knowledge. The Reed family said he was without question, an outstanding, honorable gentleman and it was always a pleasure working with him.

Andy worked with the Reed organization for half a century. He also worked for a man named Mr. Peck at Universal Trading Company for over sixty years. He seemed to always have two jobs. How he was able to fit everything in and still spend time at home was a mystery to me. He always said, An idle mind is the devil’s workshop. And you better believe that if he saw you idle, he’d find something for you to do. For example, he had a white rock fence and we had to whitewash that darn thing several times per year. It definitely taught us the value of work.

My grandfather showed me it’s not always about the amount of education, but the amount of common sense, work effort, and moral ethics one possesses. I still have flashbacks when I visit the neighborhood and see that damn white fence I painted darn near every time he saw me sitting down doing nothing.

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Andy was a church-going man. He was in the male chorus and the main choir. He could not carry a tune in a bucket, but I loved to see him sing. And boy, when he got happy and would shout, I became as emotional as he was because I was in tune with his spirit. He was my hero. At Mt. Zion Baptist Church, he was a member of the trustee board that brought in a young Joseph Walker as the church minister. Reverend Walker went on to increase Mt. Zion’s membership to over 20,000 people. Andrew was often recognized for his years of service to the church and one year was named Man of the Year.

I remember when granddaddy got sick the last time and had a stroke. During that time, he and I had lots of talks. One day, mom and I laughed because out of nowhere he said, Nannie Mae was conceived in the barn. Nannie Mae was his oldest daughter. It was hard seeing him sick after watching him drive his car and continue to get up each day to go to Jim Reed Chevrolet and Universal Trading Post.

I dropped by the house one day when he wasn’t feeling well and was refusing to go to the hospital. I told him I loved him and respected him, and then I said, You are going to the hospital. I picked him up, took him to the car, and off we went. He had a mini stroke. Even as I am writing this story, I am brought to tears because this one man, with a sixth-grade education, was the most intelligent and smartest man I have ever known.

As a child, I grew up at 822 North 6th Street in East Nashville. My home was full of love for Big Momma, her son Poppa (Walter Stewart) who was my uncle, his daughter Lasses (Thelma), my cousin, and her husband Jr. Lee. Lasses and Jr. Lee had a daughter, Darcel Dianne, my cousin/play sister, the only sister I have ever known, and my momma, Marie. Sometime later, Big Momma passed away and Momma had another son, Cromwell. I suddenly became a middle child. My oldest brother, Ronald, lived out north with my granddaddy and my step-grandmother, Carrie.

We lived in a safe environment in East Nashville. It was a low-income community where poor Blacks and some poor whites lived as neighbors. Not knowing any different, I never considered myself poor because there was so much love. Everybody seemed to get along well. At times, there were horse-drawn carriages guided by men who brought many items to the neighborhood. The list included the Ice Man, Kindling Man, Milk Man, Egg Man, Coal Man, and the Vegetable Man. Everybody was selling something. It was our way of life. There were cars but most people in our neighborhood could not afford one, so walking or riding the bus was our primary means of getting from place to place.

We grew vegetables in gardens and raised chickens. Frequently, we’d gather with family, including neighbors who were essentially like family. Who would have thought that on North 6th Street, we would actually live as though we were on a small farm in the heart of Nashville?

Writing this book allowed me to remember the tools and contraptions we used when I was younger and how much things have changed in my lifetime. Before I ever knew of a motored lawn mower, there was the push mower. We used an ice box/ice chest in which you put ice in the bottom to attempt to keep food from spoiling. There was the telephone that we called the party line because that’s exactly what it was. Three families shared the same line. You could pick up at any time and someone else might be on the telephone, so it took some patience, understanding, and caring about your neighbor. Of course, there were conflicts and sometimes people got their feelings hurt. But in the end, it just made sense for you to cooperate to keep the peace.

If you were out of your house and needed to call someone, you had to wait or you could use a dial-up phone. If you knew the direct number, you could get through. But mostly you had to ask an operator to connect you.

We washed clothes by hand using a washboard. Later we got a washing machine that washed the clothes in the tub, but you had to run the clothes through a wringer by hand to get most of the water out before you hung the clothes on the lines to dry.

Since there were no indoor bathrooms in our house, we all had to relieve ourselves in a thing called the slop jar during the night and in early morning, take it outside and dump the human waste in the outhouse. Typically, you would only do number one inside and hold number two for the outhouse. However, on occasions, it just didn’t work out that way. My biggest worry was inadvertently moving the wrong way and flipping over the slop jar. I used to wonder how large-sized people were able to even sit on it.

This was also the time of the two-seat outhouse. I always considered this to be our little bit of luxury. Our outhouse sat at the back of our yard on the alley between North 5th and North 6th Streets off Cleveland Street. I never shared the other seat with anyone and often wondered if anyone else did. But I knew one thing. I had seen a lot of single outhouses but no luxury doubles like ours. Later in life, I was told the other seat was smaller and mostly for children. I just remember leaning my body forward to make sure I didn’t fall in.

Chapter 1

East Nashville

G

rowing up, we shared everything. My family had chickens and tomatoes. Next door, Uncle Bill, Aunt Nody, and Miss Teary had a garden, and one of the only televisions in the neighborhood. Mrs. W.C. had grapes that we could pick off the vine. Everybody had something they did or grew and could share. We didn’t have much but we didn’t know it.

On some Saturdays, we would kill a few chickens by catching them and wringing their necks. We’d put them in hot water and pluck off the feathers after hanging them up to let the blood drain from their bodies. While Lasses and Mamma cooked chicken, Aunt Nody and Miss Teary made homemade rolls. As soon as all the cooking was done, we met at Uncle Bill’s to enjoy the food and watch wrestling with characters like Toe-Joe Yamamoto, Frank Tarzan Hewett, and the famous Fargo Brothers. Probably our all-time favorite was Matt Dillon in Gunsmoke. These were some of the best times of my life, and it was truly just the beginning.

We had a big stove that sat in granddaddy’s and Big Momma’s room. It was called a warm morning and we used it to heat up the whole house. When it was cold, I had to help get coal. It was okay most days, but man, those cold mornings were rough. If you weren’t warm, you had to put on more clothes and socks. It was a job keeping coal in it throughout the winter months.

On the radio, we listened to soap operas like Guiding Light and Erica Cane in All My Children. But, we mainly listened to James Brown, the Isley Brothers, and many blues, soul, and R&B stars of the times.

When it rained and I was unable to go outside, I listened to the melodies created by each raindrop on top of our tin roof. I think those sounds were just the beginning of the music I later heard in my head.

Toys were limited so we often had to create our own. Popsicle sticks became little boats that we placed in rain water running down the side of the road. A car tire became a swing. The top of a barn meant cowboy games and a tree became a jungle for Tarzan. A scooter was made from part of the adjustable roller skates of that time. There was a vertical piece of three by four wood nailed or screwed to a bottom horizontal three by four. The front part of the skate was attached to the bottom front and the back part of the skate was nailed or screwed to the back of the scooter. Another piece of wood was placed on top to represent handlebars. Once secured, we added bottle tops on the sides and streamers on the handlebars.

Bottle tops were soldiers, sticks were horses. and taking a hot bath on Saturday in a number ten tub in the backyard was your introduction to cleanliness, which was truly next to godliness. Speaking of the number ten tub, one day I had been in one of my patented, mischievous moods. I heard my mother call and I assumed I was in for a butt whipping. I quickly decided to take action and run. Uncle June ran after me so the chase began. We went up the alley toward Cleveland Street. I cut on Cleveland thinking that old dud would not catch me, and no whipping was coming my way. Instead I got caught and was taken back home. I had decided to prepare for the whipping only to find out she wanted me for a bath.

Mary Nora, aka Big Momma, was an icon and the matriarch of our family. She was an early entrepreneur and started a business at 605 Cleveland Street called Stewart’s Grocery Store. The fact that a Black woman owned her own grocery store in the 50s was awesome. As a child, I remember going to the store but I never really paid attention to the fact that it was owned by my great-grandmother. I am still in awe when I think of the contribution my family made during those times in the Nashville community.

Since we had a few poor white neighbors, we sometimes had our differences. There was this mean kid who used to sic his dog on me. He usually had him on a leash, but one time he let him go. I ran for dear life. I got away, but he thought it was funny. I never stopped going over to my friend, John Louis’ house back across the alley between North 5th and North 6th Streets. I did not want to appear scared of the dog, even though I was. So finally, he had his dog tied up and was in his yard alone. I ran over and ran around in a circle to make the dog’s rope shorter and when I finally got it short, I ran and grabbed the boy and beat his butt. I told him if he ever put his dog on me again, I was going to beat his butt again and again. The problem ended that day.

On Sunday, it was off to Cleveland Street Baptist Church where Reverend James Pitt was the pastor. Rev. Pitt was such a dynamic preacher that if you thought about going to sleep, it was impossible because when he preached, there was shouting everywhere. When you got settled on your left, somebody would jump up and run down the aisle on your right. He was probably my first childhood hero.

The first time I ever sang was with a small group at Cleveland Street. The song was Lord I Want to Be a Christian. When Momma went to work, I had to go over to my sitter’s, Mrs. Lockridge, who was respectfully called Muh Dear. We played there and learned strict discipline. To show proper manners at Muh Dear’s house was a must if you liked living. I always thought it was funny how they never killed you but whipped you to the point you thought you were going to die. The psyche 101 game was the worst. Go get me a switch! Well, I got a little one of course. Then it was, Go get me two or three! And if they’re too little, I’ll come get them myself! Then it was, Twist ‘em up. And as I got older, it became, Go take your clothes off. Then depending on what happened came the waiting. By then, I thought I was gonna die. Finally came the long-awaited whipping. After that, it was Clean up the branches. The manners and good discipline were lasting and would shape my life forever.

Mamma, Muh Dear, Lasses, Poppa, and the rest of my family were good, yet firm. If you did right, you were praised. If you did wrong, you got your butt whipped or punished. It was the belt or the switch and depending on what you did, you’d have to duck whatever was near.

After years of staying at Muh Dear’s, it was time to go to school. I was ready to go and see what it was like. Because of my date of birth being in October, I was allowed to enter first grade at the age of five years old. I went to Meigs Elementary School from kindergarten to first semester of fourth grade (1952-56). The kids I met at Meigs would continue to be part of my life for years to come.

One of the greatest lessons I learned from school was to never get in the middle of girls fighting. I did once and got scratched up pretty badly. Not only did I find them attractive, I also found them to be dangerous.

The East Nashville experience was the beginning of my life. Going to and meeting new friends at Meigs Elementary School and going across the street over to Mr. Buddy Scotts’ to look at his horses and to later ride one with him was great. I really thought Mr. Buddy was rich. He had a big house, barns, and horses. He had just about everything.

Even one of my babysitters played an important part in my life. I really didn’t understand until years later what the experience was about. Actually, what I experienced through her teaching could have been called statutory. Until now, this was only shared by her, God, and me, but this also played a very important part in my life. From the experience, I learned sensitivity, to respect the opposite sex, and that men and women were meant for each other. All these experiences were the beginning of me learning that I should accept life as it is, for what it is, and for what it’s going to be. Therefore, I truly began to live—changing what I could and knowing when I could not change things.

Walking through the field to Meigs (now known as Ellington Parkway) was another experience in itself as older guys were shooting dice. I learned by sneaking and watching them that dice games could get violent as I saw people beat up, and on occasion,