The Battle of Athens, Tennessee – 1946

Cleages, memories,
Beatrice Cleage Johnson

In 1946 there was a pitched battle between the corrupt local government and WW2 veterans in Athens, Tennessee. My paternal grandfather was from Athens and I had cousins living there. My cousin, Beatrice Cleage Johnson, wrote a description of that night. It is pretty much the same story as told in the video except that the man shot in the back in the video is white and in the memoir he is black. The video is embedded after Beatrice’s memory of the event.

______________________

I will never forget the day this occurred.  The G.I.s had returned to McMinn County and were faced with the same political machine they had left and were determined to do something about it to rid McMinn County of machine politics.

Paul Cantrell was sheriff at this time and he loved two things: money and power.   He ruled McMinn County with an iron hand.  He was tied to the “Crump Machine,” which was the political boss of the State of Tennessee during the 30’s and 40’s.

Cantrell used deputies who had served prison terms for gambling and bootlegging.

Election day (August 1, 1946) in Athens was a war of “ballots and bullets.” We lived only a few blocks from the jail, where the votes were counted.  There were around nine thousand residents in Athens.  Of these, seven hundred Negroes played a small part in the election, but they formed a balance of power.  Most of the Negroes were Republican and received threats and repeated arrests from the Democrats.  The election of the sheriff was very important in McMinn County.  The Republicans tried to unseat the Democrats.  The pressure of a world war and the return of veterans from World War II had great influence on the politics of the county.

Election day in Athens was like an armed camp.  When voters came to the polls, the Cantrell Machine was staging demonstrations, strutting around with pistols and black jacks.  Deputy Sheriff Pat Mansfield, used thugs from other states as deputies.  The voting was heavy at the polls.  The GI’s were “poll watchers.”

Trouble started at the polls when Tom Gillespie, an elderly Negro, tried to vote and was slugged by the deputies.  He was shot in the back by another and was taken to the hospital.  G.I.  poll watchers were held prisoners at the polls.  No one in Athens slept that night.

"Athen's Jail"
The Athens Jail where the action took place.

The votes were being counted at the McMinn County Jail.  The G.I.’s stood at the door of the jail and demanded the ballot boxes and the release of the G.I.  prisoners.

The battle had begun.  The G.I.’s blasted the jail with dynamite and bullets.  The deputies were safe behind the walls of the solid brick jail.  Cars were dynamited, turned over and filled with bullets.  Picks and axes were also used to destroy cars.

The deputies finally surrendered at 3:30 in the morning with their hands up.  Both Paul Cantrell and Pat Mansfield were able to escape from the jail, leaving their deputies behind to face an angry mob.

McMinn County was without law and order from the night of the election until the afternoon of the next day.  I remember seeing men walking the streets with shotguns and rifles.  I will never forget the morning after when everybody went to town to see the ruins.  After this battle, the county soon settled down to ordinary life.  Freedom of speech and the right to vote their way was given back to the people, but August 1, 1946, will never be forgotten.

McMinn County became a Republican county; however, Democrats also held offices in both the county and city and still do.

—Beatrice Cleage Johnson

My Social Butterflies

Cleages, Grahams, , ,

My mother and my grandmother turned out to be more sociable in their youth than they were by the time I knew them. Here are a couple of photographs I found of them being social butterflies.

Progressive Twelve Club – Montgomery, Alabama – 1911

Some of the young women in the Progressive Twelve Club were relatives. My grandmother, Fannie Mae Turner wrote the song. Daisy Turner was her sister. Naomi Tulane and Jennette McCall were first cousins. Some of them are also in the photo below. The information on the back of the photo was stuck to the album page so I’m not sure who is who.  The purpose of the Progressive Twelve Club seemed to be sewing. I wish I could have heard them sing this song.

"Fannie and friends"
Fannie and friends at Holly Springs, MS

Progressive Twelve Club Song
Composed by F.M.T. 1911

 (1)

It was a bright September day
In dear old 1911;
our club of 12 was organized
An hour to needlework given
We hear the name “Progressive 12”,
As you’ve already seen;
the Kilarney rose adorns us
Our colors are pink and green.

(2)

Chorus
We’re loyal to our motto
with it we like to delve;
See…hear..speak no evil
as do the Progressive Twelve!
We’re loyal to our motto.
With it we like to delve
see no–hear no–speak no evil,
Oh you! Progressive Twelve!

(2)

On Thursdays to our meetings
In sunshine or in rain:
We go to greet our hostess,
and new inspiration gain.
We’ve carried a record high and fair
on which we look with pride
Not only in art but in music,
we’re noted far and wide.

Chorus

(3)

Mesdames Campbell and Dungee sing,
Washington and Miller too,
McCall and Tulane join in,
(while) Laurence and Wilson sew.
Mayberry makes the music
Jones and the Turners two
just work and think of our motto,
with hopeful hearts and true.

Chorus-

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 The Social Sixteen – 1937 – Detroit, Michigan

My mother, Doris Graham is in the back row center with the flowered dress on.  Her sister, Mary V. is seated in the very front. First man in the back right is Frank “Buddy” Elkins who Mary V. would later marry. My father’s sister, Barbara Cleage is seated on the far right, front. I don’t know what exactly the Social Sixteen did but my Aunt Barbara told me that the only reason they had her in the club was because of her 4 older brothers.  The young woman at the other end of the couch was my mother’s best friend, Connie Stowers. We used to go visit her once a year. Which I still don’t understand because she lived across town, not in another city.

"The Social Sixteen"
The Social Sixteen – 1937

A Sunday Morning in 1953 merges with a day in 2011.

Cleages, Photographs,

"St Marks, Detroit 1953"
After church on a Sunday afternoon in 1953. My mother, Pearl and me on steps. Henry with hand on hip.

In the fall of 2011,  my friend, Ben,  went down to old 12th Street in Detroit and took some photographs so that I could combine them with old photographs from 1953.  I finally got around to doing it.

"Close-up St. Marks"
Close-up of Sunday morning 1953 - my mother in the dark suit.

 

I Once Was a Brownie

Biography, Cleages, sepia saturday,

When I was in the second grade I became a Brownie for a few months.  At the time my father had left St. Marks Presbyterian Church with 300 members and founded a new church, Central Congregational church. We met at Crossman School on Sunday and held all other church activities at 2254 Chicago Blvd. We also lived there.  It was a huge house.  That was my sister and my bedroom window on the upper right. Perfect casement windows for Peter Pan to fly through.

Central Congregational Parsonage at 2254 Chicago Blvd, Detroit.

The scout troops met in the basement recreation room where all of the youth activities were held. We wore the usual Brownie uniform and used the usual Brownie handbook.  I remember only one event, a jamboree held at Roosevelt Elementary School in a small gym, up a short flight of stairs above the 2nd floor. There were various stations set up and we went to different ones and did different things.  After several months I quit because I was bored. I wish I had a photo of me in my Brownie outfit, but I don’t.

At some point I was in the kitchen, which we shared with the church, while my mother was making dinner. One of the Brownie leaders came in to prepare a snack and asked where I’d been. I told her I wasn’t coming any more. That was my experience as a Brownie. One more thing I remember. A little girl at school, which was majority Jewish at that point, said there couldn’t be any brown Brownies. I don’t remember who she was telling this to but I told her, yes you could be because I was a brown Brownie.

That was the uniform I had on the right.
This was our scout handbook.

Input from Benjamin Smith, one of the scouts pictured below:

“Between Scouts and Youth Fellowship, I spent a lot of years in the parsonage basement. It was a different time. The side door was unlocked until your father went to bed.”

“I am the taller kid in the rear. All of us in that picture went through Cub Scouts, Boy Scouts and Explorers. Sadly, I am the only one still here.  John Curry, standing, left front. Ligens Moore, seated front. Norman Cassells, seated front right. Harrison Stewart, standing with rope, front right. Benjamin Smith rear left. Longworth Quinn rear left. Ligens had a pilot’s license at 12 yrs old. Longworth’s father published the Michigan Chronicle for many years.

“The girl scouts from left to right, are Andrea Keneau, Ann Page, unknown, Laura Mosley and Janice Mosley, deceased (and Laura’s older sister.)

I remember Longworth. In 1969-1971 we both worked with the Black Conscience Library. He was in Law School at the time.  Such a long, long time ago.

Times were different but I remember that someone tried to break into the house one night when my father wasn’t home. My mother rapped on the upstairs window with her ring – they were in the backyard trying to break in through the french doors of the conservatory – and they fled. Pearl and I were asleep. When she called the police they said she shouldn’t have knocked on the window, but she was so mad at the nerve of them.  They would have been so angry if they had gotten inside and found nothing worth stealing.

My youngest son joined the Boy scouts. He was an active member of a troop in Baldwin, Michigan for some years. They did all the scout things, camped out, went on hikes, earned badges, went to Jubilee at Mackinaw Island. He earned the Sharp Shooter, Swimming, Water Skiing and the Polar Bear badge to name a few.  To earn the Polar Bear Badge he had to camp out two nights in a row in weather below freezing, preparing all their meals at the campsite. As I remember it was in the 20 degree range.  My husband became the troop treasurer and continued in that capacity long after my son lost interest.  He also camped out in the 20 degree weather.  They were a pretty free-spirited group and never wore uniforms so I have no photos of him in scout gear. My older children were in 4-H clubs.

To scout out other Sepia Saturday offerings, CLICK here.

My Mother in the News

Biography, Grahams,

My mother, Doris Graham, was in the news quite a bit during her years at Eastern High School in Detroit. Some were from the school paper, “The Indian”. Some were from “The Detroit Tribune”, a weekly black newspaper published by my mother’s cousins, James McCall and his wife Margaret.  I have other articles “starring” my mother but I am just using those from 1937 – 1940.  The others will appear later.  The articles were saved by my grandmother Fannie, Doris’ mother. The writing on them is hers.

"Doris Graham"
An article written my mother for the Eastern High School paper, “The Indian”.
My mother sitting alone on the right front of the picture. From Eastern High Yearbook, “The Arrow”.
The same photograph was used from her Junior High graduation article.
From “The Detroit Tribune.”
From the Eastern High paper “The Indian.”
1 Year Scholarships to Wayne State University – from one of the Detroit daily papers.
From “The Detroit Tribune.”

My mother was a teacher

Biography, Cleages, Grahams
Mrs. Cleage in her classroom - 1959.
Doris Graham Cleage in her classroom at Roosevelt Elementary School – 1959. 36 years old.

My mother was 36 years old and had been teaching for six years at Roosevelt Elementary school when it was taken.  My sister and I attended Roosevelt. I had my mother for a Social Studies teacher when she first began teaching.  We pretty much read the book, “Someday Soon.” and answered questions. It was not very interesting.  She improved a LOT as she went through twenty years of teaching.

"Duffield Elementary Distar"
With class at Duffield Elementary School. Distar on the board. September 1969.

Her last teaching assignment was at Duffield Elementary school, where she taught reading using the Distar method. She loved it and taught it to me and I used it to teach all of my children to read.

I found the writing below in one of my mother’s notebooks. It isn’t dated and I don’t know if she wrote it after retirement or before or what she was planning to do with it.

Each year when school begins I see again the many ways in which my children are alike. I am equally impressed with their differences. Close on the heels of these feelings comes the realization that once more I must try to build with each child the kind of relationships that will make it possible for me to teach him.

Children ask themselves many questions about a new adult. Is she friendly? does she smile often? Does she really mean what she says? What does she expect of me? Too much? Too little? Can I be myself with her? Or must I pretend to be what she has already decided I must be?  Will she listen when I am happy or in trouble or need help? Or will she always be too busy?

Satisfactory answers to these questions will mean satisfactory learning experiences for a child.  Unsatisfactory answers will mean no learning – or even worse the learning of things that must later be unlearned.

It was a warm afternoon.  The sounds of children at play came in through our open windows along with the good smell of newly cut grass.

My forty odd second-graders, (who come to me for two distressingly brief forty minute periods each week), were eagerly writing with crayons on small pieces of lined paper. Rough desks and clumsy crayons made writing difficult, but they settled to their pleasant task of writing for me their first and second choice for group work.  We had been studying transportation as groups.  Now according to our plan, we were dividing ourselves into groups of seven or eight to paint, draw write plays, poems, or stories, or create in clay about airplanes, boats, subways, cars or trains – whatever appealed the most to us. We had decided to use crayons instead of pencils because it took less time to pass crayons from a large box than it took to pass each one his own pencil.

As I walked among the crowded seats helping when I could, I came upon a small boy in a front seat.  His paper was empty. His small fists were clenched on his desk.  Leaning down to keep from disturbing others I asked, May I help you Julie?”

His close-set blue eyes were intense and unblinking as he raised them to me and said between clenched teeth, “I can’t do it.”

Thinking that he wanted a neat paper and knew that this was well-nigh impossible with crayon and rough desks, I said reassuringly, “Don’t worry about how it looks this time. Do the best you can.”

His hands did not move as he stared as his paper.

“I’ll never help him on the playground if he is in a fight – I don’t care if he is getting beaten, I’ll never help him.”

Work had stopped and forty pairs of eyes watched us unwaveringly.

“Who is it that you won’t help, Julie?”

He pointed silently to the boy who had passed a crayon to each child from a box of assorted colors.  Julie’s jaw was set – his face moist, “I hate purple. He gave me a purple crayon I can’t stand it.”

Here was a child who brought to school a brilliant mind (At 7 he could read on a fifth-grade level) burdened by countless problems at home – over-worked parents building a small business, a senile grandmother, constant competition for recognition and affection with her as well as with older and younger brothers.

I stooped beside his desk.  “We didn’t know that you don’t like purple. What color would you like to have?”

“I don’t care – but not this one! He opened his fist and showed a purple crayon moist from a small hand’s clenching.

All eyes were fixed on me as I rose from Julie’s desk.  Their tension now was almost as great as his. I walked to the cupboard and returned with a green crayon. “Will this one do?”

He took it without a word and began to write his choices.

I looked over his head at the children. They smiled gently and I smiled back.  We had taken another step on the road to good learning.

_______________________________________________

The inspiration for this post came from reading “Fearless Females Blog Post: March 12: Working Girl” on the blog The Accidental Genealogist.

 

Beards in the Family

Allen, sepia saturday, Williams

Dock Allen – 1839 – 1909

To read more about Dock Allen and his escape from slavery, click Dock Allen’s Story.

Husband and sons with beards.

To see more beards and hair, CLICK.

This weeks theme is hair, specifically facial hair. I only have one photo of an ancestor with a beard. Dock Allen is sporting a pretty nice one.  My husband and sons are doing their part to bring more bearded photos into my albums.

Picking beans – Old Plank 1963

Cleages, Grahams,

Doris Graham Cleage picking green beans at Old Plank 1963

I’ve been thinking about my mother these last few days. My mother, Doris Graham Cleage, was picking vegetables in the garden at Old Plank. I wrote about the farm in my post  Playing Poker. What else was my mother doing in 1963, aside from maintaining a large, organic garden?  She turned 40 February 12 that year and lived on the west side of Detroit at 5397 Oregon  with her second husband, Henry Cleage and her two daughters Kris, 17  and my sister Pearl, 14.  Both of us were students at Northwestern High School.  Henry was printing in those days and putting out the Illustrated News.

She was in her 5th year of teaching Social Studies at Roosevelt Elementary School.  She took two post masters degree classes at Wayne State University that year, Urban Geography in the winter quarter and Constitutional Law in the fall quarter.

There was a lot going on in those days and my family was involved in a lot of it. To see what was going on in the news in 1963 click here –> Politics

To read about the March To Freedom in Detroit, when over 100,000 people walked down Woodward Avenue to protest the violence in Birmingham, Alabama, in July 1963 click here –> Walk to Freedom.

To see Henry and the press at Cleage Printers click here –>  Henry printing

 

Playing Poker at Old Plank – 1962

Cleages, Houses, sepia saturday,

Playing poker – my aunt Gladys with cigarette, me, my uncle Hugh, cousins Jan and Dale, my mother.

Still playing poker – my mother with glasses, cousin Warren, cousin Ernie, aunt Gladys, cousin Jan and cousin Dale.

The house on Old Plank Road. Between Milford and Wixom Michigan.

My mother and Henry bought this house about half an hour from Detroit about 1961.  There was talk of moving there year around, but it never happened. We had a large garden and went up on weekends and for longer periods during the summer. We only owned 2 acres of the 40 acre farm, not including the barn. In 1967 someone bought the barn and started keeping chickens and pigs there,  though they didn’t live on or near the property. The animals regularly escaped.  The pigs dug up our garden and the chickens roosted on the porch. Before Henry and the man came to blows, they finally sold the house to the man with the animals.

For more fun and games, click here –>