HERBERT MARTIN

Source: WWI Draft Registration Card
Dallas County, Alabama; Roll: 1509379; Draft Board: 0.
County: Dallas
State: Alabama
Birth Date: Apr 1900
Race: Black
Roll: 1509379

Address: Summerfield, AL
Occupation: Farm Laborer
Employer: Sol (Solomon) Green(e)
Nearest Relative: Lucy (Callens) Green(e), She is the wife of Sol
Height: Medium
Color of Eyes: Black
Color of Hair: Black
Signed By: R.J. Moore, 9/12/1918

Source: 1920 Census
Location: Valley Creek, Dallas County, Alabama
Rangeline Road

Luke Martin, Farm Laborer
Born 1883, Alabama

Melyena Martin, Spouse
Born 1893, Alabama

Children:

Julia Martin, Born 1913
Laman Martin, Born 1914

By Lynn Mari, ⓒ 2008.

“God can jumpstart any battery!”—Pastor Moore

As a single mom, I have learned that an ordinary day can quickly become a lively circus.

I begin the morning tripping over Norrie’s toys; DP’s shirt is growing moldy on the bathroom floor… Cheetah Girls are bumpin’ in the CD player. As I reach for my cup of coffee on the counter I unexpectedly slip across the kitchen floor. A shimmering pink surface of Wonder Bubbles was invisible until I am ice-skating across ceramic tile! DP and Norrie are laughing at my wild antics, arms and legs flailing. Both children are pouring Wonder Bubbles into a toy with a built-in fan that was made to shoot plastic balls into the air. My kitchen is boogie wonderland, with bubbles flying in all directions.

I sigh, add maple syrup to my coffee. Raooow! DP and Norrie are squaring off at the table. Norrie is bouncing in her chair, squealing, “Jelly face! Jelly face!” DP crosses his arms over his chest, glaring at his little sister. DP ate a croissant with blackberry jam that is now smeared on both sides of his face like sideburns. I do my best to regain my composure, while holding my sides, “DP, honey, you have jam all over your face—go look in the mirror. You really are a jelly face. And I’m a jelly belly all full of these rolls!” Tension is released as quickly as it comes, in peals of laughter. DP runs to the mirror to inspect his new look. He “shaves” blackberry sideburns with one finger, running it across his face then licking it clean. Just as I am about to relax, I glance at the clock—we have to move if we want to be on time for church!

Coffee half gone, better top it off. I ask DP to hand me the syrup and next thing I know he is dumping the bottle in my cup! I breathe a sigh of relief when both kids are finally out the door. As I am locking the door, Norrie is running down the hall, waddling like a duck. She has decided to wear the too big sandals that no longer fit DP, proudly asking her beloved big brother, “Am I cool?” With each step Norrie is loudly flopping against the pavement. Not even halfway down the block, we see our bus pass by. I grit my teeth…then look across the street at my neighbor’s beautiful yard. Pastel flowers greet my eye from afar. Thick bushes in radiant shades of emerald shine in the sun. Marigolds gather beneath the bushes, lining a cobbled path. DP, Norrie and I stop over to say “hi”. The beautiful Himalyan cat with ice blue eyes purrs at our feet then rolls on the sidewalk, begging to have his back scratched. The children are fond of the cat and dash to the ground, ready to indulge. When we leave, both children resemble the Abomidible Snowman of the Himalayas, shaggy with cat hair and neat church clothes now worn. They couldn’t be happier, racing down the sidewalk towards the bus.

DP, Norrie and I arrive at church and are greeted with hugs. When Pastor Moore begins to sing, DP is excited to play the “shaker” he made in school—two Styrofoam plates decorated with banners made of crepe paper. Inside the plates is dry rice. Norrie accompanies DP, shaking a penguin shaped tambourine. Pastor’s bellowing voice fills the chapel, “…You’ve got to move, But when the good Lord gets ready, you’ve got to move…” It takes but a moment for Norrie to dash from the pew, to the front of the chapel. Once reaching the front, Norrie begins to dance. Pastor, an imposing man standing well over 6 feet tall, with hands the size of bear paws, gently takes Norrie’s small hands in his. Together they dance. Norrie stands barely the height of Pastor’s knees but excitement keeps her steps in time. DP raises his shaker, cheering loudly. This is a memory I will always cherish.

As a single mom, I have learned that an ordinary day can quickly become a lively circus. I have learned how to be the juggling bear—balancing work, children and long bus rides. The ringmaster keeping everything in order. The clown indulging my children in stories or play. And my favorite—the magician, awaiting a surprise.

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DP and Norrie, I thank God everyday that he blessed me to be your “Mommy”. I love you from the top of your head to the tips of your toes… (you finish the rest)…
xoxoxo Mommy xoxoxo

By Lynn Mari, 2008

In a memory, my family is enjoying my son’s Christmas program at school. The theme of the program was “Christmas Around the World”. The program began with the children circling the room, waving flags that represent various countries. I made cornbread for the potluck—using a recipe that had remained in my family for generations. The children celebrated by dressing in costumes that represent their heritage. My son was dressed as a farmer. He wore a straw hat, overalls and a plaid shirt with a boll of cotton in the front pocket. Designing the costume became a time to reflect on family stories, passed down through generations of women.

I closed my eyes to imagine the life of Momma Judge, the earliest ancestor I had traced in my family. Momma Judge was the daughter of slaves, who were bought at auction in Virginia, then shipped to a plantation in rural Alabama. The first and last impression in the life of Momma Judge was of brittle stalks of cotton, the red earth staining the hem of her skirt. Amid the familiar line of her family, she hummed spirituals as she stooped over the prickly bolls. She’d live in a cabin heated by a pot-bellied stove with rags stuffed in the cracks to keep out the cold. Meals cooked over that stove would become recipes passed between generations of women, sharing a connection in the food that brought our family together at mealtime.

I thought of Big Momma, the granddaughter of Momma Judge. Shortly after Big Momma gave birth to my grandpa, she returned to the same fields her ancestors worked, her baby snug in a burlap sack slung at the hip. Big Momma had her first child, Grandpa Bud, when still young and raised him alone after her husband disappeared. Disappearance was a way of life back then. The threats of violence against Blacks, the migratory seasons of sharecropping, the poverty and debt perpetuated by cropping and the hope for something better fluctuated between leaving and coming back–or not being seen again. Big Momma raised six children on her own. She saved up for a house in the city and managed to get a job out of the fields. Faith and determination saw her through.

My thoughts turn to Grandma Dee, the wife of Grandpa Bud. She was a beautiful woman who was devoted to her family. Grandma Dee met Grandpa Bud at a juke joint in the hollows of Bibb County. Together, my grandparents made a dazzling couple; twirling to a rhythm only they shared. Grandpa Bud was a handsome man with a honey colored complexion and wavy hair. He was quiet, and when he spoke he was known to be nobody to fool with. My grandparents were passionately in love, even when they fought there was a spark between them. At my age Grandma Dee would have three children and was preparing to move up North, where Grandpa Bud landed a good job. She was proud to give her children a better life, where they wouldn’t have to work the fields and could go to school. The lives of my grandparents would end in tragedy; they died before I was born.

When I remember stories of my ancestry, I am grateful to the grandmothers whose determination and faith provide a well of strength to draw from. My grandmothers were born into a world where their bodies were worth only a few coins. They gave birth to children whose lives were limited by slavery and racism. My grandmothers were denied an education; they knew only a life in the fields. In deprivation, they gave birth to new life—they prayed until the church shook, they fought for change even if it meant they had to do a man’s work or move to a distant city, and they reminded their children that they are loved, precious and worth so much more. In hardship my grandmothers not only persisted but also thrived. One day I will stand among my grandmothers, and my children will know that I never stopped fighting to provide something better for them, that I never stopped loving them.

I am blessed to be a daughter of a lineage of such intelligent, determined and spiritual women. Women whose ability to love was not diminished by loss. Women who infused their faith, creativity and love into the little they had to create a better future for their children. Women of deep faith in God. Women, who, despite all challenges, impressed a sense of hope that was passed down to the next generations, to me.