From Appalachia to South of the Border: …in search of a life

By Judy Gray Johnson and Alison Mills Newman

The initial reaction after reading this book is to feel sorry for Judy Carol, a little 5 year old black child growing up in the mountains under very challenging circumstances. She is a product of her environment. Her role models in life were not quitters. Money was very scarce. Yet when something ailed them, they got out the ole “home-remedy” playbook( rub down with this or that and then take a spoon full of castor oil) and then you continued what you were doing. Judy Carol displayed a tremendous amount of strength, determination, vision, and responsibility. In spite of the mystery and questions surrounding her constant pain episodes, she never gave up… in spite of.. her accomplishments were many. Throughout her childhood, she had one trusted friend, her sister Linda (18 months her senior) who became her friend, her playmate, her mother, and her protector. The important lesson learned is that when faced with an obstacle, find another solution.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Apr 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9781665747035

Judy Gray Johnson

Judy Gray Johnson (creator and producer) graduated from South Carolina State with a bachelor’s degree in elementary education in 1964, earned a special education MEd from Virginia State University in 1971, and completed the coursework for a doctorate in educational administration and supervision from Virginia State Polytechnic Institute and State University in Blacksburg, Virginia. She is also certified in the Commonwealth of Virginia as an elementary and secondary school principal. She developed the Travelmate Program in Fairfax County specifically to introduce third graders to geography, history, and the community. For three years, she served as president of the Fairfax County Federation of Teachers (the second largest teachers union in the state of Virginia,) representing teachers and aides in the largest school district in the state of Virginia. Alison Mills Newman (author) is an artist, screenwriter, poet, and author of the acclaimed Francisco, Maggie 3, The Tree Widow Book, and If You See Me Dancing. She is the author of St. Augustine’s Confessions, which was performed at the Perris Community Theatre. She is an award-winning film director of “The Tree Widow” short series, executive producer of the award-winning feature film Virgin Again (directed by Francisco Newman and now available on TUBI). She is a graduate of Saint Stephens University in the field of theology and has served as a chaplain for the Fulton County Jail in Atlanta, Georgia, for five years.

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Copyright © 2024 Judy Gray Johnson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the creator & producer except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of non-fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the creator & producer and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and in some cases, names of people and places have been altered to protect their privacy.

Archway Publishing

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Bloomington, IN 47403

www.archwaypublishing.com

844-669-3957

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the creator & producer and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6657-4702-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-4703-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023913252

Archway Publishing rev. date: 04/10/2024

CONTENTS

Chapter 1     A Life of Pain

Chapter 2     My Dear Linda

Chapter 3     Growing Up

Chapter 4     Winter in Gate City

Chapter 5     Teenage Days

Chapter 6     A Moment’s Reflection

Chapter 7     Good Times and Bad

Chapter 8     Leaving Gate City

Chapter 9     New Beginnings

Chapter 10   The Sock Hop

Chapter 11   Blessed Grandparents

Chapter 12   Life in Barnwell

Chapter 13   Summer in Florida

Chapter 14   Graduation

Chapter 15   College Days and Loss

Chapter 16   Like a Peacock

Chapter 17   Cecil J Williams

About the Authors

This

book is the result of a lifelong desire to be like other people I hold dear. My earlier life was nothing close to normal. My choices were to say something or continue to suffer, and I hoped that one day I would change that and save myself. However, it became evident that I was not going to live forever. I had this nagging feeling that there were things I could not leave to others. I had to do them myself.

I hope that every family that wants to give their children the best that life has to offer will know that success begins within families, neighborhoods, schools, and workplaces. Understanding that message creates a chance that our children will succeed regardless of their circumstances.

The official United States Census recognized five racial entities: White, Black or African American, Asian, Jewish, Native American/Alaskan Native/Hawaiian/Pacific Islander, and people of dual or more races. Forget about what we have heard or even think we know about individuals in each group.

Whichever group you fall into, it’s essential to consider how your life intertwines with others. While living in this world, you will likely cross paths with other humans who have similarities to you and have hopes and dreams for their loved ones, and they may not look or have skin tones and or hair like yours.

When this book is shared with your family at home or in school, you will not know everything there is to know about any of the racial categories mentioned above. However, it might inspire you to look at others’ differences with dignity and respect.

The focus going forward will not be those in the present day. This book will increase your perceptions and understanding of how we got here, to our present grasp of occurrences, from the 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s.

I will forever be indebted to Nikole Hannah-Jones. Her work about the 1619 Project made me aware of Dr. Susan Moore’s contribution to her understanding of Black health. She described the disrespectful treatment of Black people who needed treatment for pain and how the American medical system betrayed her. She emphasized, This is how Black people get killed. That created a spark to write this book.

With no special training or interest in the medical field or attention to history, my lack of self-confidence kept me from saying what those in the medical system needed to stand up for and notice. At the end of Judy Carol’s story, one will begin to understand how Black people live and history’s impact on the Black community.

The development of this book has been a long time coming. For someone who only wanted to be like other children, it took more than seventy years to muster the courage to put this down on paper.

Childhood should be full of play, laughter, friends, exploring, and companionship. My life had none of that. This book traces my life from my toddler years to adulthood. I had but one trusted friend, and that was my sister, Linda.

I hope that others who suffer from so-called chronic pain will add their voices to this discussion. I have traveled a long road, and if I’d given up at any point, I would not have known the impact of the civil rights movement and the church on my life.

CHAPTER 1

A LIFE OF PAIN

Spring gloriously shared bouquets of perfumed colors lavishly blooming from maple, cedar, and dogwood trees on that special day in 1947 when Mama, and I strolled side by side, up and down the hilly dirt back roads of Gate City, Virginia. We were headed home. It was a special day ’cause I somehow had Mama all to myself without my siblings competing for attention. It was just the two of us, dressed in pastel spring dresses Mama had sewn in the sitting room of our humble, neat wood-and-brick home. Flowers swayed together in tranquil rhythm as I kicked and threw rocks, meandering along, delighted that Mama didn’t mind. Warm winds swirled, serenading us gently like the cool phrasing of Ella Fitzgerald’s scatting or sweet sounds oozing from Duke Ellington’s sophisticated jazz band.

The Appalachian Mountains stood steady and prominent in the background. Luxurious and wondrous pastures with sundry shades of green, forever present and protective, stirred a feeling within me that all was right with the world. I remember being so happy and content walking beside my sweet, light-brown-chocolate, slightly overweight mama. For some reason, on that particular day, she was not at her job as the dutiful custodian at the bank. Mama only had an eighth-grade education, and she worked low-paying jobs at the bank and as a housekeeper in a friendly white lady’s house. It seemed like Mama was always gone, working to keep food on the table and make ends meet. She essentially was raising her children on her own, though my soft-spoken, five-foot-seven, dark-skinned, handsome, smelling-of-alcohol, lost-soul father showed up from time to time to argue and fight.

The sun smiled down on us harmoniously as our neighbors—white and Black—passed by. I remember the white and Black folks in Gate City getting along despite the racist, cruel, inhumane segregated times. We called each other colored back then; calling someone Black would be fighting words, words to be ashamed of.

Black folks knew their place, I suppose, yet an unspoken understanding of our common impoverished struggle to eat, live, and put a roof over our heads created a human bond of mercy and grace that was devoid of color. In Gate City, the line that separated Black people and white people was definitely there, but it was more defined by the lack of wealth, opportunities, skills, jobs, hope, dignity, medical care, education, food, clothing, vision, and dreams. We were poor. We were all dirt poor. We were looked down on together, but I don’t think I knew all that then.

Mama, you ever been on the other side of the mountain? I asked. My childhood curiosity had caught a glimpse of a hummingbird gliding toward the mountains, happy and free.

No, Mama answered thoughtfully. My place is here with you all.

A striped squirrel scurried past us. It dashed by so quickly that if I had blinked, I would have missed it.

Mama laughed out loud. When I was your age, I used to try to catch squirrels.

Did you ever get one? I asked.

No, never, child. They quick like lightning.

I giggled and laughed as I bathed myself in my mama’s adoring smile. Oh, how I loved my mama. I wondered if she knew how privileged and special, I felt to have this time alone with her and her sturdy, pleasant ways. I secretly wished that moment would never end. It was just the two of us, and I would cherish it forever.

Suddenly, a sharp, brutal pain stabbed my four-year-old arm. It felt like a laser-edged knife striking my skin, cutting my bone, and knocking me down to the dirt. Excruciating pain drew tears from my eyes, and torturous screams escaped from my gut. It was so shockingly loud, inexplicable, and unreserved that I suppose I could have been heard for miles.

Judy Carol! Judy Carol, what is it?

Mama bent down, frantically wiping dirt from my face and holding me tightly. She did not know what to do. Terrified and panicked, she hollered, Help! Somebody, help me! Please help us!

We both wept hysterically. We were anxious and terrified and trembling with fear.

Mama!

All right, Judy Carol. Mama’s here. We’re gonna get you home. You gonna be all right, sweet girl. You gonna be all right. Mama spoke tenderly and from her heart, and then she turned her head toward the neighborhood. Help! Somebody, help us please!

Big, brown, bumbling Jack Anderson came stumbling out of his house on the back road. He started running and tumbling from side to side in the distance. He seemed anxious and excited, and in a flash, he was hovering over me.

Can you help me get her home? Mama asked.

Nodding his head, he scooped me up in his brawny arms.

Mama said, I don’t know what happened to her. We were walking along just fine …

Did something hit her?

I didn’t see anything, Mama said.

Mr. Anderson held me protectively, kindly, and neighborly, and he and Mama hurried down the road to our house.

I shrieked all the way, petrified and writhing in affliction. I didn’t understand what was happening to me. I’d been having such a special time with my mama, such a beautiful moment, so perfectly wonderful, skipping along and throwing rocks without a care in the world. Why was this happening to me?

Scattered neighbors standing on their porches and in their yards sang out like a unified choir. Ms. Janie, what’s the matter with Judy Carol? Did she hurt herself?

Don’t know. Can’t talk now, Mama hastily responded as she followed Mr. Anderson.

Mr. Anderson carried me up the steps of the wooden porch of our home. I felt as light as a feather in his sturdy arms, passing the wobbly swing and an old rocking chair beside a potted plant. As soon as Mama opened the screeching, raggedy front door, he sprinted past the old upright piano in the living room, two chairs, two end tables, and Mama’s crocheted artwork hanging on the walls. He placed me on the old, worn sofa, which was decorated with thrift shop pillows, but Mama guided Mr. Anderson to take me into her bedroom. He set me down gently on her neatly made-up regular-sized bed of freshly washed sheets, pillows, and a homemade, multicolored quilt. Two chests of draws stood in opposite corners, and a bulky black telephone with a rotary dial sat on the end table by an ashtray.

Don, my oldest brother—who had a reputation for mischievous rebellion—leaned against the wall, scrutinizing the situation. He soon left the chaos to go about his teenage business.

Linda, my big sister—who was eighteen months older than me—held one-year-old Rosemary’s hand with one hand, entered Mama’s bedroom, and pulled back Mama’s white cotton curtains with her other hand, opening the bedroom window slightly to let in some fresh air.

Uncle Hoyate, my mother’s dutiful, hardworking brother who lived with us in a back room with his son, Hoyate Jr., who mostly stayed with his grandmother in Kingsport, somehow showed up, viewing the situation with calm self-control. He pointed to the phone. Call the doctor now.

Hoyate, I ain’t got no money for no doctor. You know that.

Mr. Anderson stood around for a while, shellshocked, and told Uncle Hoyate how he had heard Mama and me screaming.

Mr. Anderson’s daughter ran into the house and told him his father needed him.

If you need anything, Ms. Janie, you be sure to let me know. Mr. Anderson left Mama reluctantly.

Sweet Aunt Lucille, short and plump, her complexion an earth-brownish-red, like a baked sweet potato, lived with Uncle El right across the street. She came in through our front door and stood in the bedroom, worried and upset.

Mama saw her and didn’t miss a beat. Lucille, get a towel and wring it through some hot water.

Aunt Lucille followed Mama’s direction and brought the towel to Mama.

Mama wrapped the towel around my arms and continued rubbing them to ease the pain. Linda, get the heater and the rubber pad for the bed.

Linda helped Mama place the rubber pad on the bed as Aunt Lucille plugged the heater into the wall. Mama and Linda covered me up in two warm blankets, and Mama rocked me in her arms. Aunt Lucille went into the kitchen, heated some soup, and brought it to Mama.

Mama sat on the edge of the bed and fed me until Linda just naturally took over.

Aunt Lucille said, I’ve got to go, Janie, but call me if you need anything, you hear?

Back in those days, going to the doctor for colored folks in Gate City was a hard thought to wrap a mind around. For sure, it was a rare occasion. Going to the doctor cost money, and money was scarce. Besides, I never knew nobody to be sick, and anyway, folks used home remedies they concocted to get better if they did get sick. It wasn’t until years later that I even knew there was such a thing as a hospital, and the nearest hospital was in Kingsport, Tennessee. Mama just didn’t go to hospitals; colored folks weren’t always received favorably anyway.

Call Dr. Wallace. Don’t worry ’bout no money. I’ll give you the money, Uncle Hoyate said.

Frustrated, Mama found her telephone book and flipped through the small black book, looking for Dr. Wallace’s number. After finding his number, she calmed herself and dialed his number. Telephones had party lines back then, and thankfully somebody hung up just as Mama picked up the phone.

Dr. Wallace, a white man, didn’t live too far from us, just over the hill, and I remember how she steadied herself as she waited for someone to answer the phone.

Hello. Dr. Wallace. Yes, sir. My daughter … she in pain. I don’t know what happened. We was walkin’ along just fine, and all of a sudden. She fell to the ground screamin’. Sir, we don’t know what to do. We don’t know what the matter with Judy Carol.

Mama looked distraught as she listened to the response on the other end.

Uncle Hoyate encouraged Mama to calm down again by placing a hand on her shoulder.

Linda sat beside me on the bed, wiping my forehead with a warm towel that didn’t help at all. You’re gonna be all right."

Thurman, my younger brother who we all called Junior, gazed at me suspiciously. Judy Carol fakin’. He sauntered out the room.

Shut up, boy. Linda was peeved.

Mama! I screamed, screeched, and hollered again and again. I was so immeasurably afraid.

Little Rosemary wailed right along with me.

All right. Thank you, Dr. Wallace. Mama hung up and turned to Uncle Hoyate. Dr. Wallace said I could bring her in tomorrow morning. He gonna charge me five dollars. She wiped tears from her eyes.

Mama dialed Aunt Lucille’s number and asked if she was working tomorrow. She asked if she could take care of Linda and Rosemary in the morning.

No, Janie. I ain’t workin’, Aunt Lucille responded. I’ll bring over some lunch for the girls and make sure they all right. You don’t worry ’bout them. You don’t worry ’bout nothin’ but Judy Carol …

I don’t remember Mama ever saying a prayer. I don’t remember Mama ever calling on the Lord’s name for mercy or healing, but all through the long, loathsome night, Mama held me in her plump, comforting arms like a holy, fervent, silent prayer.

I felt safe in her warm, snug flesh,