Interview with John (Jack) Jones, June 1, 1982

JACK JONES: --despite that, I get up out of the bed because before--

CHARLES HARDY: Let me interrupt. Have you start again because I--

JONES: Okay.

HARDY: I had my thing on the wrong setting.

JONES: Okay.

HARDY: Okay.

JONES: From the beginning.

HARDY: Fire.

JONES: From the top. Okay. [Long pause] The year is 1915. I'm ten years of age. It's a winter morning. A Saturday. It is very early. And yet I know it's snowed last night, even though I'm looking at the ceiling and haven't looked out the window, because I can hear the sleds delivering the milk on Wills Jones-- [?]-- at Tulpelhocken and Germantown Avenue. I get out of bed before 00:01:00it's absolutely necessary because I have to clean the snow off the back and front of my own house and the widow next door before we go out to make money cleaning the snow, mainly in--around Lincoln Drive, Pelham Road and that area. Even as a ten-year-old we would make maybe ten dollars apiece, then lie to our parents that we only made two, and have seven, eight dollars which we couldn't spend because any purchase would bring the logical question, "Where did you get 00:02:00the money?" So the money would burn a hole in your pocket. It's a week before Christmas and the biggest event on Christmas Day happens at ten o'clock in the morning when we go around the corner to the Presser estate. The previous week the butler, Joe Lee, had brought small cards with our names on it to our houses with instructions to be there at--by ten o'clock. There would be roughly 00:03:00between fifty and sixty youngsters, about even white and black. We would go into the hothouse at the rear and Mr. Theodore Presser, his wife, chauffeur, and butler would come out of the house and go up the stairs and we would follow and go into a large room with--with two billiard table--tables. And on these tables were gifts, boxes of chocolates, apples, and oranges. This procedure lasted into about 1920 and always the same, without any variation. The Pressers would 00:04:00give each of us in turn a box of candy, an apple and an orange, and a gift. One year it was Boy Scout knives for the boys. One year it was knitted gloves. Another year it was knitted caps. Whatever--what else transpired--transpired on Christmas Day paled into insignificance to this Sunday morning--uh, Christmas morning event.

On Sunday we--we'd--we would go to the Quaker Sunday School at the Germantown Boys Club on Penn Street. We could go only under one hard fast stipulation. 00:05:00The only reason we could go, these Quaker Sunday School, dot of nine o'clock, from 9:00 to 10:30. We would have to be at our church for the eleven o'clock service. Not 11:01 or 11:02 or 11:05 but by eleven o'clock. And our Sunday school was at the church. Uhh, this started--the Sunday school started about 1906 up--and it was discontinued during the World War II.

Uh, every summer in July Mr. Lee would bring the cards around again and we'd go 00:06:00up to the Presser--around to the Presser estate again, in the yard and sit around that pagoda that still stands and listen to Mrs. Presser, who was a founder of the Philadelphia Chapter of the Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, about being kind to animals. And she would serve us punch and cookies, and that lasted up until World War II.

Another recollection of those days is--concerned my father, who was a hammer 00:07:00shop foreman at Midvale. Nearly every Sunday morning before church somebody would come to the house bringing a brother, a cousin, a relative of a friend who had just come from the south to Philadelphia to get a job in the war effort, which actually started for some firms, immediately after the start of World War I. Something that I can't understand is that during World War II Midvale paid off in gold the schools that we attended in Germantown, such as Hill School, 00:08:00Meehan. Grew to an extent that annexes had to be established because of this influx, in Germantown, at least, of people coming north to work during the war effort.

HARDY: Yeah.

JONES: And--

HARDY: What sort of people were they?

JONES: They were just ordinary people from the farms, uhh most of them were farmers or people who worked farm work. Most of them were people with little education.

HARDY: Hmm.

JONES: But at that time most jobs in mills, especially in steel mills and plants of that type, didn't require any education at all. It wasn't necessary. 00:09:00Just brute strength. So that it wasn't necessary to be able to read or write because employment offices generally consisted of one or two people. In many in--instances they didn't take the applicant's address or inquire if they had a phone because they needed only their name to put on a timecard and a little brown envelope, pay envelope. And these were surplus workers who at the slightest slacking of activity would be the first to be laid off. And they never worried about additional workers to any extent because there would always 00:10:00be men outside the employment offices, uh, inquiring about jobs.

HARDY: Yeah, I heard that down the waterfront they used to uhh, tell people to take a smoke, which meant you couldn't go home but you weren't going to work.

JONES: Um-hm.

HARDY: And you didn't get any--you didn't get paid for waiting.

JONES: Yes. No.

HARDY: You just--

JONES: --no. Because in the--the routine that my father went through was that as these men would come to the house on Sunday morning he would tell them to come back Monday night. He would go to work Monday morning and get a note from the mill superintendent my father would bring home and give to the person 00:11:00seeking a job and they would take it down to the employment offices, little red brick building on Wissahickon Avenue and they could be hired regardless of who was there waiting for work. And this lasted until after the war ended in 1918. In 1915 I--my father took me to Baltimore to see a German sub that had escaped the British blockade, bringing dyes to--into Baltimore because the year 1915 00:12:00Germantown High School was opened and it was odd that the colors were green and white. And I remember very distinctly the draperies on the stage, they had to settle for a wine color because the green--they couldn't buy the draperies in the color that they wanted, which was green. In 1915, this was before the formation of American Stores, there were three independent food chains that combined to make the American Stores. In 1917 Acme, Bell, Robinson, and 00:13:00Crawford, and they were very highly competitive. In fact, here in Germantown, in this immediate neighborhood, within two blocks was three stores. One at Duval and Germantown Avenue, one at Pomona a half a block below, one on Germantown Avenue just below Washington Lane. So that you would go to the store, especially if your parents sent you, where you would be treated better than another store. Also at that time--at that time there were many family-owned independent grocery stores. So some stores would ignore you when you came in because you went up to a counter and the grocer behind the counter 00:14:00would ask you what you want and he would get it and put it on the counter, then put it in the bag and you'd pay. And you'd have to suffer many times because you'd be the next person to be waited on but if white people came in they would wait on them first. So some stores were worse at this sort of thing than others. So you--by elimination you went to the stores that, uh, treated you, uh, in a way that you wanted to be treated.

HARDY: Were there any--were there any black-owned grocery stores--

JONES: Uh--

HARDY: --that you could shop at?

JONES: No, no. No. In Germantown in 1915, uh, we had one black realtor, uh, 00:15:00one dentist, two--three doctors. Uh, quite a few independent black businessmen but mostly your black men--black businessmen were in businesses that catered to whites, like John S. Trower, one of the largest catering firms in the city. So that uhh most of the landscape gardening business was done by Blacks or Italians. Uh, or the--the--it's a fact of life that for the full length of 00:16:00Germantown Avenue, the full length of Germantown Avenue, there wasn't a restaurant that a black could go in and sit down and eat. The first to be opened, it wasn't a restaurant per say but a hotdog place, Coney Island, which is still in existence on Germantown Avenue on the west side above Rittenhouse Street, which was opened in 1921. Uhhhh

HARDY: So where'd you all go when you wanted to eat out?

JONES: Well, we had--uh, far--if you went in town you had one saving grace. Horn & Hardart. Horn & Hardart, which opened its first automat in 1906, opened 00:17:00it to serve everyone--everybody. So that if you happened to be in Center City, there were quite a few in Center City. I remember in 1915, one Saturday my father, in the fall of 1915, my father took me in town on the Chestnut Hill local to Broad Street Station, which was quite an event. We walked down to Market Street to Strawbridges and went in the basement to buy what was then known as the Buster Brown suit, serge suit, that cost five dollars with the shawl collar. Bought the black cotton socks for ten cents a pair in 00:18:00Woolworth's. And this particular Saturday we went into Horn & Hardart's.

HARDY: Interrupt a minute. Did you have to wear that suit? Was that for you?

JONES: Yes.

HARDY: What did the--uh, your friends think?

JONES: Well, everybody did.

HARDY: Oh.

JONES: See. And you had to wear the hard collar with the bow up here choking you and the bow down here. I have a picture. I have a photograph upstairs taken in 1915 with the summer Buster Brown suit on in white. White cotton.

HARDY: Huh.

JONES: Same thing for summer.

HARDY: Okay. So you're back at the restaurant.

JONES: So we went into Horn & Hardart's across from the regular post office at Ninth and Market where you could get a good meal for a quarter. Baked beans for 00:19:00a dime. Coffee for a nickel. A roll for a nickel and a slice of pie for a nickel. And then my father took me into the Victoria movie house. It was next door to Horn & Hardart's on Ninth and Market. This was on the north side of Market Street, to see a picture that starred Houdini. Escape artist. And back up to Broad Street Station and home on the Chestnut Hill Local. And that was a very big day.

HARDY: Was there discrimination in the movie theaters when you were a kid?

JONES: There was -- the -- there was discrimination in the movie theaters up 00:20:00until just before World War II. The last time an attempt was made to sit me up in the balcony was in 1941 when I went to the Stanton -- it was the Stanton Theatre. It was next to the Fox on Market Street, on Sixteenth and Market. And they actually tried to sit me upstairs. Well, it was ridiculous because at that time, especially due to the Depression, the movie theaters eliminated two price policies, especially the Center City theaters, of one price for the first floor and a lesser price for the balcony. And for many reasons most of the day they 00:21:00couldn't fill the first floor and they kept the balcony closed. But this happened to be on a Saturday and I walked down and sat down in the Stanton. And an usher came down to tell me to go upstairs. But a man sitting beside--behind me told the usher to move off because he was interrupting his viewing of the movie. That was the last time that I, uh, was ever--and it was an isolated incident.

HARDY: Hmm.

JONES: And at that time it goes--from about '35 there wasn't any 00:22:00discrimination, at least in the Center City theaters. Uh, because at that time--even before then, in fact far as 1931, the Pearl Theater on the Ridge, a man by the name of Slatko, Harry Slatko, operated and he brought in all the big black attractions like Louis Armstrong, The Ink Spots, those brothers.

HARDY: Hmm.

JONES: And you had the blue laws at that time, back in '31 and no movies or professional sports on a Sunday with an admission. So they had a--would have a midnight show starting at twelve o'clock midnight on Sunday night and they would pack the house. And then the Lincoln opened at Broad and Lombard, that showed 00:23:00uhh black attractions. All the big bands uhh Billie Holiday and all those attractions. But the most fascinating showman of Philadelphia had to be the man that operated the Standard Theatre on South Street between Eleventh and Twelfth. He was a little short man who made a fortune at the Standard Theatre. He later built the Dunbar Theatre at Broad and Lombard that subsequently became the 00:24:00Lincoln. He, uh, was extraordinary because he had a white chauffeur in full uniform and he had a red Pierce-Arrow limousine, which was one of the most expensive cars at that time. It cost perhaps twice as much as a Cadillac at that time. And at that theater where I first saw Bessie Smith, Mamie Smith, Ethel Waters, all of the ranking artists, black artists of that day played the Dunbar--played the uhh--

HARDY: --Standard.

JONES: --Standard Theatre on South Street.

HARDY: This was--this was the major black theater then in the city?

JONES: Yes, before--yes, oh, yes. Oh, yes. Yes.

HARDY: Do you remember this fellow's name?

JONES: Oh, God. I have to ask my brother. My brother. It just--it just 00:25:00slipped out of my mind.

HARDY: Slipped it.

JONES: Slipped my mind. But he made--to give an idea of the money that he made in that little place on South Street. He bought the original John Wanamaker's estate in Jenkintown and that is a fact. And lived there for a while.

HARDY: When was this about? The Twenties?

JONES: In the--oh, in the Twenties and around '26 or '27, I don't remember. And naturally when he booked the, uh, Dunbar on Broad and Lombard he made a mistake because his idea was to show Negro drama. There wasn't that much of it around. There was a repertory company called the Lafayette Players out of New 00:26:00York, who would come in and do maybe ten or twelve plays with the same company. But there wasn't enough to run a house for the---the whole year. And he, uh, eventually--eventually wound up broke. And so that for a time, though, he must of made quite a--

HARDY: --raked it in.

JONES: Yeah.

HARDY: What--when did you start to go? Were you, uh, I guess, uh, an avid music, uh, goer then?

JONES: Well--

HARDY: --musical fan?

JONES: --I liked--uh, I was--I have quite a collection upstairs. My favorite 00:27:00was Duke Ellington. And--

HARDY: Can you describe to me the first Ellington concert you went to back then?

JONES: Yeah, I'll tell you, yes. Because I almost starved to death. You see, uh, three years ago the Inquirer wrote a column, almost a full page, commemorating the opening, the fiftieth anniversary of the opening of the Mastbaum Theater on Market Street. I--I don't know why I didn't write a letter. As far as I was concerned the most important aspect of opening the Mastbaum, look at it this time, this happened--Mastbaum was opened in '29. Jules Mastbaum died in 1926. Before he died he took out a full page ad in the--in the local papers announcing plans to build the Mastbaum and this theater there would be no 00:28:00discrimination. So the first time a Negro band ever appeared at what--what was known--they were known as presentation houses at the time. Earle, the Fox, the Stanley were the three big ones on Market Street until the Mastbaum was built. So in 1931 Duke Ellington played the Mastbaum, the first one to play on Market Street by far. And at that time they didn't have water, drinking water in the movies. They didn't sell anything. And they had a third rate movie because the attraction was Ellington. So you'd--what I would do, what I did, was hear the band, then go into the restrooms or someplace until the movie was over and go back. I stayed in there to see three shows and two movies--and see the movie twice. So you can imagine. But he, uh, was always a class act. In fact, he 00:29:00was the first negro to be written up in Fortune magazine. And the year might surprise you, 1933.

HARDY: Huh.

JONES: He was written up in Fortune because at the time--this is during the Depression. He took his band to England and the deal was he was going to play on board ship every night going and coming plus a tour of England, which was--which was very unusual. So when the Lincoln opened they drew most of the--in fact, all the negro bands because that was the backbone of the presen--what--what we call presentation houses. And they lasted until World War I because wasn't too many years after World War--I mean after World War II that 00:30:00the presentation at those theaters as presentation houses actually ceased to exist. The Earle was torn down and the--two years ago they--they started tearing down the Fox on Sixteenth and Market Street.

HARDY: Now, the--was the Lincoln the only presentation theater then for Negro groups?

JONES: Yeah, they were all Negro. They had all Black, uh, shows. Negro shows.

HARDY: All of them did? The Fox, the Earle?

JONES: At time.

HARDY: Okay.

JONES: They--they would show the top ones. And--

HARDY: --what--that seems to be a large number of theaters to sustain that sort of--

JONES: --yeah, well, they--well, well--

HARDY: --music --.

JONES: --but see, most of them, in the first place, they would only have the top black, uh, artists, at--and maybe one out of fifty-two weeks they would have maybe eight or ten. That's all they'd have. Duke, Cab Calloway, Fats Waller. 00:31:00The top people.

HARDY: All right.

JONES: See.

HARDY: Were the audiences--

JONES: --mixed. Oh, yeah.

HARDY: -- all black or mixed?

JONES: Oh, no, no.

HARDY: All sorts?

JONES: No. Even at the--even at the Lincoln you had maybe one-third or 40 percent white. Because, uh, a lot of bands, like Jimmie Lunceford, as far as my recollection, he never played up on Market Street as far as I can recall. So that, uh, there was a lot of competition for the top black groups to perform. But then the small things made quite an impression. I remember when Benny Goodman, the first time Benny Goodman played at the Earle in '38. He had the 00:32:00trio with Lionel Hampton and Teddy Wilson on the piano. He had a band. And Tommy Dorsey later had a--a, uh, a group, small group within the band. And it was, uh, in '37, '38, '39, it was revolutionary to see a white man on the stage. Even Art--Artie Shaw had a--a lead singer who was a first trombone in his orchestra. So that, uh, these were small things that happened over forty years ago.

HARDY: Right.

JONES: Yeah.

HARDY: What were the--what was the--do you remember the earliest shows you used 00:33:00to go to I guess down at the Standard? What--what--what was an experience like that?

JONES: Oh, well, they had--they--well, oh, yeah, that.

HARDY: But see, early--when did you start going?

JONES: Around 1924.

HARDY: Okay. Describe me a 1924 concert.

JONES: Well, what--what they had in the first place at--at the uhh Standard. They had a uhh standard chorus line and they had two standard burlesque type comedians that appeared every week, did skits, every week. And, uh, uh, the latest type of comedian that was exposed to the general public was Pigmeat Markham. Pigmeat Markham who was on Ed Sullivan Show about twenty years ago for about ten or twelve weeks. He appeared years ago down in the Standard. Then 00:34:00they would bring in large bands, uh, a pit orchestra. They'd have a pit--like Fletcher Henderson, who became quite a--an arranger of music for Benny Goodman and other big white bands. A lot of the white, uh, players and a lot of the white bands hired talented musicians away from black bands. Not to appear in their bands but because they were good arrangers and composed songs themselves. So that the--there was a Whitman Sisters. Were two sisters that were coming to the Standard back then, '25, '26, and '27, and they would put on about four different shows in four consecutive weeks. And they had a young fellow in the 00:35:00show called Willie Bryant, who later formed his own band, and for years was at a radio show out of the Apollo Theater in New York, and ran amateur nights at the Apollo Theater for quite a few--he was just a boy in short pants. And they would have like Bessie Smith and Mamie Smith, uh, Ethel Waters. And practically all of your black musical people, whoever they were, see.

HARDY: Right.

JONES: The name of the owner was John T. Gibson.

HARDY: John T. Gibson.

JONES: John T. Gibson. Yes. Uh--

HARDY: He must have offended, uh, some people driving around in a Pierce Arrow 00:36:00with a white chauffeur--

JONES: --no, no.

HARDY: --and buying the Wanamaker estate.

JONES: No, no. No, there wasn't--see, in those days--

HARDY: The old Jack Johnson story about the trouble he used to get in, right.

JONES: Well, you see, there wasn't--he got a--see, the radio invented black protests. There wasn't--there was protests but it wasn't--it was muted. Uh, see, in those days we had a bigger problem. It is now but not to the extent in those days. For--for many blacks the problem existed. And, uh, black, uh, so-called leaders didn't come to the fore until the white people started poking microphones into their face. That was the first beginning of black leaders per se. In other words they had an instrument where they could be heard over, beyond 00:37:00the immediate black community. See? Because in those days, as in the day, the black preachers were the sole voice that blacks heard before they invented radio. See? And you must remember that in Philadelphia until 1934 this was a one-party city. Republican. There was a token Democratic party that was owned by two brothers named O'Donnell. About thirty registered--30,000 registered Democrats in the city. And the Vares who ran the city kept it alive to give the semblance of two-party system and they were throwing crumbs enough to keep them--keep them going. That lasted until [George] Earle ran in '34 for 00:38:00governor. That was the first emergence of a--of the Democratic party per se in Philadelphia. But before that there was a lot of pro--you could--uh, during the Twenties you could go up in Harlem on the street corners and there would be speakers that were mostly West Indians.

HARDY: Huh.

JONES: Yes, it's an odd trait but if you--if you do some research on the subject, uh, you'll find out that the--also, uh, as a group in this country, West Indian blacks who immigrated to the United States statistically have done better than native born American blacks.

HARDY: Slavery.

JONES: Yes.

HARDY: I have a question for you.

JONES: Sure.

HARDY: You were saying that, um--you know, talking about, you know, the poking microphones in people's faces on the radio.

JONES: Um-hm.

HARDY: When did, um--do you remember the first black radio program in the city?

JONES: No.

HARDY: When would that have been? Any idea?

JONES: The first--the first-- Well, I'll tell you what happened. Back in the thirties when radio first became popular Parisian Tailors on South Street, in the 1400 block on the north side had an amateur program on for black performers. And it ran practically fifty-two weeks. It just was a running thing. It was an amateur night. And far as Philadelphia concerned, as far as I can remember, that was the first black program on radio in Philadelphia that had any 00:40:00following. And it actually had a following among the ordinary class of blacks. And quite the--only one performer out of all those radio shows put on by Parisian Tailor that I can recall made any kind of a career with this--a singer by the name of Ida James. She didn't go too far but it's the only name I can recall.

HARDY: Huh.

JONES: Yes. Then there were, uh, a group, a singing group, the men's singing group, that came on Sunday morning in the Thirties and sang hymns. Came on about ten o'clock every Sunday morning singing hymns and that's the first group that I can recall on more or less national television--uh, the--national radio.

HARDY: Right.

JONES: See. In fact, when Amos and Andy came on with the black face comedy, uh, it's fair to say that most blacks resented it. But they didn't have any instrument in which to express their indignation over and above the level among themselves. All this came, all this protest came after, as I said before, in a competition when--especially when television news start competing for--against print media in a competition. I remember at the Still [Emmett Till] trial in Alabama, uh, the Today Show, the first--Dave Garroway was the first, uh, man on 00:42:00the Today Show when it was originated in New York, NBC. Now, this may not be the first time but I'm pretty certain the first time they went directly to a site. And they went to the town where the Still trial was to be held. A typical southern town. I went through--went to many of them when I was in the service now--in Tuskegee during World War II, where the church was one end of the square and the courthouse at the other end. And, uh--and congressmen from Detroit, he's a congressman that was recently voted out. I think his name was 00:43:00[John] Dingell.

HARDY: Don't know.

JONES: Yeah. Well, he--

HARDY: --yeah.

JONES: --he was--he was a--he was--even at that time, I think around '52, I think he was a congressman then. Yes. He was down there because it was his hometown. So what they did, interviewed some of the old white men sitting around the square about their reaction to the trial and the reaction was, "Raising all this fuss about a nigger." Well, natural, natural reaction. That caused a sensation at the time because--I couldn't say for a fact whether that was the first type of broadcast of its kind.

HARDY: Or it was the first to leave an impression on you?

JONES: Leave an impression, yeah.

HARDY: Yeah. Now, I'd kind of like to turn the conversation--

JONES: Go ahead.

HARDY: --back a bit. Um, last time we talked can you tell me about that again, thinking of the date, you told me that your father was the first black foreman 00:44:00at--at Midvale Steel.

JONES: I--I'm pretty--I'm pretty certain.

HARDY: He was an early black foreman.

JONES: Yeah, they had--

HARDY: Can you tell me where--where he came from, how he got the job and--

JONES: Well, he came from Ch--Charlotte, North Carolina, in 1889. My, my grandmother brought him, his brother, and his three sisters to Germantown. Lived ov--over here on Mechanic Street. And looking for a job he just went down there and was hired. And the man who was president at the time, his name was Albert--Albert C. Dinkey. D-I-N-K-E-Y. And he supposedly---I could--I--I can find

[Break in Audio]

well, the best

HARDY: --he applied to.

JONES: Well, the best job for an average black with a high school education if possible to get in the post office. But that wasn't easy to do because there wasn't any turnover. A man go into the post office, he would stay until--until retirement. There wasn't that turnover that happened after World War II. And I 00:45:00imagine the turnover has diminished in recent years because of the pay and the fact you just can't, uh, quit a post office job, especially you got twelve years seniority, where you get top grade. At the pay today and get another job, have to be--you'd have to be--be in a special situation so that, uh--uh--

HARDY: --the post office--

JONES: --post office and then the government, because the government was very small then, federal government. In fact, the V.A. was started after World War I. And no--whoever heard of the V.A. until after World War II because relatively speaking the number of--of men in the service during World War I was--wasn't that great. The number wasn't that great. So the V.A. just 00:46:00slumbered more or less. After World War II, then it just mushroomed because of the millions of young men with World War II, the Korean War, and the Vietnam War. So you have a--what you have today far as the V.A. is concerned. Uh, most of the men, butlers, chauffeurs, gardeners, ah-- Mostly to like--most of the steel mills hired blacks. Uh, the heavy--work in heavy industries, the laboring work because at the time I worked in Midvale in 1923, this is twelve years before the CIO, CIO was started by John L. Lewis. There was only steel union, Amalgamated Steel Workers Union and Midvale had about six members. Had a few 00:47:00old men that belonged to the old man-- which didn't mean anything. And because in those days, working in a steel mill, 95 percent was sweat and blood. Just hard work, that's all. Uh, Stetson didn't hire any blacks at all. It was an all-white business--all white employees because most of the people who worked with Stetsons lived in the neighborhood.

HARDY: Right.

JONES: Uh, department stores employed, none in sales, anything like that. Mostly as porters, people that worked that type of work. The, uh, railroads had black porters back then. I remember during World War II, coming back in '42, 00:48:00back to Philadelphia for furlough and I was in the waiting room and the, uh, room in the segregated car, the mail room, next to the men's room. And A. Philip Randolph was sitting there. This was in '42, forty years ago, talking to the men. They would come in, you know, and shake his hand and talk to him. And somebody asked, one of them asked him, "Do you still have that check?" Now he's thinking, "Well, what are you talking about? What check?" He said "Yes, I still have it." See, he started the Pullman Porters Union in 1925.

HARDY: Wow.

JONES: And when he started the union, and you can imagine it took a long time before that union had any teeth in it. But during that time show you how businesses anticipated. Pullman Porter, the Pullman company, offered him a sum of money to cooperate with the company, as they call it. And they sent him a check for --[?]. and he still had that check seventeen years later in his wallet. And there--and there's the poor man, there's a man who's been poor all his life. He had that check seventeen years. He could have put that--cashed that check and probably nobody would have known anything about it. See, because can do--I've talked to quite a few people. I had quite a few friends who uhh 00:50:00parents worked on the railroad as porters. Uh, the man in charge of the train, the steward, if he didn't like you or something, he'd cut in on all the tips. He could put you off the train anywhere, anywhere in Georgia, anyplace, any backwoods place. He'd stop the train and throw you off. He was--he was uh a Caesar on that train. Because I had an uncle that worked the, uh, the Florida Special for years and years and years and years. He'd be about a hundred if he was still living and he was--he would tell us stories about working on the trains during the Twenties and before--even before the Twenties. You had no redress. The thing that's--that amazes me is even during the Twenties, how so 00:51:00many black people were able to buy homes. Most of the women worked, the wives, the mothers worked. Some of the women who lived in the 200 block worked for people who lived in the 300 block. See, because here on--from Germantown Avenue, to half the block of--200 block, there were about thirty black families and the street next to us, street parallel on this, about twenty black families. So you were in this--and that's the way the black population in Germantown was. Spots here and there like that. And I always thought the reason it was that way because--so that the upper middle class, the rich people, would have help at hand, close by, see. Some of the people that--you could go back to the houses 00:52:00on that side, 200 block, there's an alley. Lot of the people just went out of that alley through a gate to work for the people on the next street, on Genesis [?] Street, say. How they were able to buy homes--for example, my father bought the house around the corner in 1910 for $2,000. Very few negroes could get financing through savings and loans associations so you'd take--a person would take a flat $2,000 mortgage and the interest would be 5 percent and you could pay that mortgage from now until eternity. The only you could reduce that mortgage is reduce it by saying, "Well, here's a hundred dollars. The mortgage is $1,900." Two years later, "Here's another hundred." It's down to 1,800. The mortgage would stay--that's one of the first things that New Deal did, this new FHA. That's what brought on the FHA, it's one of the reasons, because of 00:53:00old-fashioned mortgage. It was frozen in concrete until you reduced it that way. And how they could--how they could do it I--it's always been a miracle to me how they could do it, reduce those mortgages. How they got the money even to buy those houses.

HARDY: Did your father buy it outright? He get a mortgage?

JONES: No, he had a mortgage. Yeah, he had a $2,000 mortgage.

HARDY: Oh, he had the two thousand--

JONES: A lady, a lady, a white lady who lived down on Diamond Street and I've been--I remember back in 1915 going, taking a trolley ride and down the way we'd pay on the mortgage. But, see, what happened, when World War II came along and there wasn't any time-and-a-half, but you worked long hours and he was able to pay off the mortgage, see, because it was money. Because he'd come back and see him come in and dropping these gold pieces on the kitchen table. Eighty and 00:54:00ninety dollars in gold, see, gold pieces. The smallest gold piece was two dollars and a half. Anything less than that would be in silver, see like--. And that's the way he was able to pay off the mortgage in World War I. But most Negro parents--that which--another thing about it that's interesting. Men and the women worked and came home at night. They worked by day. And they would have to leave home in time to have the white people's breakfast ready, which means they would be leaving home almost by the time you got up. But rules are so strict that parents that went out to work, the children--you'd get them up 00:55:00time to get their breakfast and they would say, "Don't leave house to go to school until 8:30." And many kids the parent would leave at 7:00 and the kids wouldn't leave because you had ten or fifteen sentinels in the neighborhood. Kid come out of the house, start to school, somebody said, "What are you doing?" Absolutely, absolutely. Because, see, in those days practically everybody, all the children worked--uh, all the homes worked on the same regimen. There were a few exceptions, see. There were a few exceptions but most of them worked in the same regimen. The rules that were here were next door and so forth, so that anything that you did that was a deviation was--it was like a sore thumb. So 00:56:00that the--you didn't do anything because, you know, somebody'd see, they'd tell your parents. Your parents wouldn't question you whether you did it or not. It's--so this excuse today, working parents. Black parents have always--the mothers have always worked. Have always worked. We had a man, the first house was a single house on Duval Street, right on the corner, by the name of John Murphy. He had a meat wagon. You ever seen a meat wagon?

HARDY: I've seen pictures of them.

JONES: Yes. Well, he had a meat wagon. Linoleum, white linoleum. And he would go up through Germantown, Mount Airy, and Chestnut-- sell meat from the wagon. And then on Friday we're maybe playing in the back alley. He come home 00:57:00Friday. And in those days didn't have electric refrigerators. You had ice. He'd get rid of all the--what we call hotdogs. "Take them home and give them to your mother." Well, sometimes we'd take them and roast them, you know. Then he would say, "Well, Mrs. Jones, just checking those hotdogs?" Then you're in trouble. See. That's--very, uh--very strict. Sometimes you thought parents were too strict. Very strict. And down at the end of Duval Street, Duval Street runs 300, you'd go over the Chestnut Hill Local and across the street was the McIlhenny place. You ever heard of Mrs. Wintersteen? She's a great art patron of Philadelphia.

HARDY: Oh, Bonnie Wintersteen. Yes.

JONES: Yeah. She--she grew up there. She and two brothers. And the other brother, John, lives on Rittenhouse Square. He has that--has two houses. One house is nothing--I understand from reading the paper, uh, one house is nothing but art. He's got a museum. Then he has a lot of art out there in the Parkway. Well, uh, that--that's another thing, changing times. Blacks are ghettoized today. People could drive up and look over from Wayne Avenue, they had everything. They had cows, horses, peacocks, everything in there. And the youngest brother, John, had his personal Pierce Arrow Roadster and a woman named Miss Lou, who married this Mr. Murphy years later, was his companion. He's a big handsome guy. He's about my age. He's in his late seventies now. And he would--she would come up with him in the car and he'd sit in the car like we're 00:59:00all--you know, and look at us, you know, until we would go down the street on a Saturday, any day in the summer. Go down here and go underneath the railroad where there are four freedoms, home of then and play baseball. And time we got down there, he'd--see, the white would go out from Germantown Avenue down into the 200 block. It was about fifty/fifty. And be half white and black. We'd go over there and play baseball. But, see, the difference in the time is there was a house, a stone house at the corner, Walnut Lane, uh, Walnut Lane and Marsh--that's Marsh Street that cuts down at the Drive. A big stone house there. Now, we would go in their yard and get water from their outside spigot. Go get big bottles of water. Turn the spigot, come out now. Ain't never--those 01:00:00people never objected to it because all we did was go and get the water, turn the spigot, and come out. You'd finish playing baseball, we'd take up our bats and gloves and come home. We did that from about--I remember, you know, they had a--a, uh--polio epidemic in 1914 in Philadelphia. School didn't open until about October.

HARDY: Hm.

JONES: And I remember very well we're going over there playing baseball every day and hoping the schools would never open. So that, uh--And when the movies opened in Germantown, the Colonial was a--was a movie house, seated about 2,200. Below Maplewood Avenue and Germantown Avenue, the Barbary [?]. Well, they opened segregated. They opened in 1913. The Orpheum was on Chelten Avenue, halfway be--on the south side halfway between Germantown Avenue and Greene Street. They were segregated. You had the movie house here, on Tulpehocken and 01:01:00Germantown Avenue. It didn't open--didn't open segregated but it changed. It--it operated about a year non-segregated but it--it reverted to segregated. Now, the Germantown next to the Girard Trust, in those days, early days showed the best movies. And you were humiliated, but you went because they had the best movies. They had a rod that five rows from the back, on the side of the bank. Then they had a rod, brass rod, red rod. There would be a hole here, about four or five holes. So what they'd do, they'd seat from the back to the first rod. Then, say, six rows from the back, on that side, they had two 01:02:00aisles. Sometimes if it was just a few white people sitting in one or two rows in front, they'd ask them to move--to move the rod down. Most times you were set--you were standing back. So shows were 7:00 and 9:00. The worst part of humiliation is they had to wait for the first show and have to wait over to see the beginning of the picture and part of the second show. The white folks would come walking down the aisle looking to--looking in that way. So what you'd do if you went, make sure you get there at 7:00 or you wait till 9:00 so you wouldn't be sitting there humiliated because the people would be walking past in the aisle.

HARDY: Hmm.

JONES: See, and those sorts of adjustments that you--you--you made to, uh, we called them minor adjustments. There were--there were dress shops. There were 01:03:00a lot of family owned--well, Germantown Ave was line--line--was lined with family owned, except for those three, uh, uh, grocery chains until they merged and it was American stores. Everything else on Germantown Avenue was family, individually owned. Then we had what's called carriage trade stores, Worthington's at Germantown Avenue, Walnut Lane, H.O. Thomas on Germantown Avenue, west side. These were on the west side opposite East Rittenhouse Street. The Mission Fletcher [?] in that tavern on the south end of, uh, Vernon Park. That was Benjamin Fletcher's. Then Fletcher's was down at [?]. These were carriage trade stores. So we'd be going to school and you'd go down 01:04:00McCallum Street and you'd go up, go in the side door of Worthington's and you'd ask one thing, "Do you have any broken--broken up cookies?" So they have a row of--of, uh, boxes with the metal tops on them, cases of cookies. And if you happen to get there first or second, the clerk would open up these boxes. And he'd broken a cookie in there. They wouldn't send them. And some lady would come out of the back like this with three, four, five cents.

HARDY: Hmm.

JONES: Yeah. And I remember they had a, a meeting at--on the new library opening on, uh, Chelten and Greene. They had a whole Germantown Sunday afternoon. There was a man that lived, that grew up. I guess he's about ninety now. Who grew up on--at 205 West Walnut Lane. And he could recall when he was 01:05:00a kid--this was before the telephone was in wide use. What these stores would do, would send the delivery man around in the morning to the customers and take orders, then go back to the store and--and deliver them in the afternoon. That was before the, uh, wide use of telephones.

HARDY: Right. I heard a fellow, talking to a fellow this afternoon who said in the part of Fishtown he grew up in, that there was a telephone. When he was young the first telephone was in the corner grocery store.

JONES: Yeah.

HARDY: And, um, if somebody wanted to get in touch with you they'd call the grocery store.

JONES: Yeah.

HARDY: And then they'd--

JONES: --yeah, yeah.

HARDY: --they'd It wasn't

JONES: Was a lot of that. Oh, yes, a lot of that.

HARDY: --to the houses.

JONES: A lot of-- oh, a lot of that. Lot of that. Up here at the corner, 1914 a man by the name of Gross opened up a drugstore and a friend of mine, uh Bill 01:06:00Thurman, he's still living, he's in my age bracket, still living. He got a job there at eight years of age. And ten, eleven, he was making up prescriptions. And in those days you made up prescriptions mortar and pestle. And now you go, the prescriptions are already made [?]. And--and when he was ten or eleven he was making up prescriptions. And I said, "You know, you could--you and old man Gross could have been in jail for years. You were a kid. I mean, that's a--that's a fact. He actually ran, that kid, ten, eleven years old, actually ran that drugstore. He had a soda fountain in there and [?] . He would--see, now, in cases like that, these were deviations from the rule. Soda fountain. We could go, the kids in the neighborhood, everybody could go in there and sit at the fountain because William would be the one that's serving on you, serving you. And the same way, down on Wayne Avenue, across the street from the 01:07:00Macilhenny place was Matterin's. We'd go down on a Sunday. We'd go down, on our way down to the Drive, Sunday afternoon. You'd go and they--they would serve you. Up here, the drugstore up here at Porter and Green, the same thing. But they were exceptions. They were--

HARDY: Right.

JONES: --exceptions. Exceptions.

HARDY: I have a question for you. You want to--

JONES: No, I'm good. No. What's that?

HARDY: No, I'm just checking how much, uh--yeah, let me ask you a couple more questions.

JONES: What's that?

HARDY: What did you want to, um--yeah, what did you want to be when you--when you were young?

JONES: Yeah, that's a--that's a good question. (laughs) You know what my secret ambition was? To open a first class haberdashery.

HARDY: Really?

JONES: Absolutely. I wanted to open a store like Jacob Reed's. Oh, absolutely. Oh, yes. Oh, yes. Absolutely.

HARDY: Why haberdashery?

JONES: Don't ask. I don't know. My father--when I was a kid, young kid, I'd go to church. I'd go in the room where the men would hang their coats and hats. And this was maybe, well, when I was ten and younger. Somebody would--reverend had, "Jack, what do you want to be when you grow up?" Before I could open my--my father said, "He's going to be a doctor." And from then on I never wanted to because we had a doctor here in Germantown, in Dr. Stubbs. He was the most extraordinary doctor I've ever known. He never got married. He opened up in 1913 and he ruined his health fighting the flu epidemic in World War I. During the Depression, even before the Depression because peop--because people were poor long before the Depression, he'd go to the house, people didn't have 01:09:00any coal, any food, he would administer to them, take the uh prescription down to the drugstore. That time at Haines and Germantown Avenue. Buy them a ton of coal, have a ton of coal sent, food. He did a lot of that.

HARDY: Hmm.

JONES: He did a lot of that and he never--he just did it as a matter of course. Just did it. Very unusual man. Then we had a man here in Germantown by the name of William Bird who operated a--operated a large stone quarry in the Eighties, Nineties, up through maybe the start of World War I. Most of the houses--most of the houses built--a lot of houses built in Germantown line and Chestnut Hill with stone come out of his quarry. If you go down Wayne Avenue 01:10:00along Manheim Street there's a playground called Happy Hollowbrook Playground and in the back is a straight up stone cliff. That used to be a stone quarry. He took most of the stone out of that quarry. Even--we went into--and this--this--what I'm telling you is facts. He went into the real estate business and in 1919, after World War I, he started a day nursery on Price Street not too far from here. It was the first time--first time I ever heard--when he opened that as a day nursery, the first time I ever heard the expression, ever heard the word day nursery. And, uh, he owns--he had an office on East Chelten Avenue, almost opposite Redman Station and in '28--now, this he told me himself. He and my father were very good friends. Sears had an idea of 01:11:00building a large store there, a large store. And they offered him $170,000 for his property. He was holding out and he held out too long, so when the stock market crashed Sears aborted the idea and opened up a smaller store on West Chelten Avenue near Greene Street and then moved down further on the south side of Chelten Avenue, other side of Wayne, and eventually closed that place up. And, uh, he--in the Twenties he said he would go into, uh there was a house for sale, that Schaeffer sign on his--Charles Schaeffer, one of the big white realtors in Germantown has a house for sale. "I'd like to have it." He said, "Well, why don't you go to--why don't you go to Schaeffers?" "Well, he won't sell it to me." He said, "Well, how bad did you want that house? You want it 01:12:00bad enough you'll be--you want it bad enough then pay for a straw buyer." He could get a white buyer. He did that so much that he couldn't get a mortgage in Germantown. They froze him out. And that--that's a fact.

HARDY: Hmm.

JONES: Then he built houses. Built houses a block--on Blakemore Street, below--second block below Chelten. He built houses out in Darby and, uh, I don't know whether I told you the story about when my father was in the siding--did I ever tell you the story of when my father was in the contracting business?

HARDY: Yeah. They wanted him to be the front man.

JONES: And I--my father to be the front man.

HARDY: Yeah, because they wanted your father to be--

JONES: And he was to be the real estate agent.

HARDY: Ohh.

JONES: He was--he was the man that was--well, they had it all worked out that--that he would be the sales agent for the houses, sort of like a black operation.

HARDY: Hmm.

JONES: Go ahead.

HARDY: Another question along the lines of what you wanted to be when you grow 01:13:00up. Who did you look up-- to as a kid in terms of--you know, movie celebrities, politicians, people in the neighborhood, people in the-- ?

JONES: Well, what--what--what--well, you see--you see what happened in growing up, there were very few black heroes because the delving into black history came years later, see. Uh, the man, Doc Stubbs, as--as a man, a human--and not only as a physician but as a humanitarian, he was, uh, he was the one. I mean, I had more respect for him, perhaps, for the type of man that he was than anybody else. But, uh, I have--funny. I never wanted to, uh, be, uh, anybody that 01:14:00would be exposed. I mean, like a politician. I could have--I could have gone into politics in '34. I was persuaded. People tried to persuade me. But I didn't want to. It was too dirty. Too dirty. But, uh, there were other men. There were five or six men in Germantown that--that I had a tremendous--in those days, my father's age, but I had a tremendous, uh, respect for them. I was giving--uh, here's another interesting story. Some men during World War II made a lot of money. So after the war, my father was in a group, they formed what's called the Germantown Mutual Association. They had about $7,500 in treasury. They didn't know--they didn't know what to do. So they decided to open up a grocery store and not one of them knew anything about it. So they opened a 01:15:00grocery store here in Germantown, Price and Knox Street. Then they got, um, sort of an--of an idea. And it worked--worked fantas--it worked beyond their dreams. Uh, it was 1919 when I started in high school. Every Friday after school I would go by the store and get a list of the prices, walk from the store to Roberts Avenue, runs off of Wissahickon Avenue, Wissahickon Avenue to Fox Street. It's a long road of porch houses which even in 1919 were black. I would go from there all through Germantown, wind up here in Garrett Street, up in Mount Airy writing orders. And the--the new--here's the extraordinary thing about it. People would give--because it was a black enterprise people would give orders even though they could buy the stuff cheaper and the--and the wages 01:16:00were--you can imagine what wages were in 1919, in 1920. Uh, they, uh, would give me orders. I'd go back to the store, take a cart, and take the cart and put the dry stuff in, go and get a couple of hours of sleep and one of the men, Orland Yancey, he had a fif--1915 Model Ford with the copper radiator. We would go down Dock Street. And he was very good at this because when we'd get down there, all the big -buyers had bought and that's when I found out the scope of Tom Morrissey's job, at Girard Trust. Because this is by--I--I remember when dad was having he's the mountain, five of these these baskets of tomatoes for Girard Trust, which meant they were going to can those tomatoes. At Girard Trust put them up in mason jars. And he could--he could buy it. He'd go. You 01:17:00know, and most of those Dock Street people, were Jews. Two crates of chicken, and he'd wink at me and he'd--and going for the odds and ends. Five or eight bags of string beans, tomatoes, and so forth. He'd be winking at me, you know, because of doing the common expression, you know, Jew them down . And we'd come back up Broad Street and bring that stuff there. And he had--see, some Negroes had--he had a concession. The Chelten Avenue, uh, Reading Station, there's a railroad--railway express off of there for years. A lot of people go away, lot of--lot of our people go away in the summer when those white people went away. They had these humpbacked trunks. They'd call the station. He'd take the trunk to Chelten Avenue. They shipped the trunk where it was going from Chelten Avenue, see. And when--and the reverse when he came back. He had 01:18:00the concession.

HARDY: Hmm.

JONES: He had a, he had a mule, wagon and mule, and we'd use it on Saturday. I delivered the groceries. And--and I only had about two hours sleep. I'd go back there at night and count. And I was honest. I was honest. The one thing, I've been honest. I could have cheated them because nobody would go behind my figures. I'm--I'm fourteen years old. Nobody would go behind my figures. And I would turn in about a thousand, a hundred dollars.

HARDY: Gees.

JONES: Honest to God. But what happened? And they never got--never had the right man to run the store. I could see where, you know--So when school vacation came in 1920 I ran the store but broke up the delivery business. Well anyway, the Depression was coming around. We had a terrific depression 1920 and '21, you know.

HARDY: Right.

JONES: And two things about that store. Sugar, the stores, A&P, American 01:19:00Stores, you know, were competing, naturally. They'd have big signs this high outside. Sugar was the product. Sugar five cents, six cents. But they were paying John--John Scott, wholesale grocers, seven cents and the chains were selling for six. And they sell it for eight. I said, "You can't do that. Just sell it--take a loss." What I --what I found out later was a loss leader.

HARDY: Right.

JONES: But they couldn't see that, see. So that summer, we used to have these farmers that come in the back. One--one item. A farmer with a varietal, about three or four of them came place was wide open, wagons, two horses and one of the wheels broke outside the store, alongside the store. And they've got this whole wagon full of corn. They come in the store and ask me if I want to buy 01:20:00it. What the heck. I said, "Yeah." I bought it for ten dollars. I didn't know how--nobody counted it. And then when Yancy came home at lunchtime, when they came home, I had a stand put outside and all this corn. And he--he was a very good--he was like--he never had a son. I was his son. He wanted to give me hell. And I-and he lived right across the street and I can see him now going across--saying--his wife's name was Elizabeth. "Elizabeth, you see what Jack did? See what he did? Bought all that corn?" That afternoon I sold the corn for ten cents a dozen ears. And people came because it spread like wildfire. Like wildfire. People came from all over. He came home from work about six o'clock and he drove his wagon down--no, he put his wagon and horse up and he 01:21:00came through from Chelten Avenue, Price Street, through Knox. Came by the store. The corn was gone, everything cleaned up. There was a--and at the end of the building was a high fence with a gate. He looked in the back and he couldn't find even a piece of husk or silk or anything around. He came in the store and said, "Jack, what happened to the corn?" I said, "I sold it." I said, "I made forty dollars." He then goes over there--, "That Jack is a smart boy."

HARDY: Hmm.

JONES: And eventually the store went apart because it never had anybody that knew anything about operating a store.

HARDY: Did it make it through the Depression in '20?

JONES: No, they made it up until 1920.

[Break in Audio]

HARDY: Hmm. One final--one final thing.

JONES: Yeah, one final because I want to look at the game.

HARDY: Yeah. Um, you have such a fantastic memory. Do you remember any jokes 01:22:00or songs, hucksters cries, anything like that ?

JONES: Oh, we had a man come through here. Oh, we had all kinds of hucksters. For years we had a man come through sell--you know what he sell? Salmon soap.

HARDY: Hmm.

JONES: Have a bag slung over his shoulder. Salmon soap. Was a brown cake, something like curtain soap. Sold for twenty-five cents a cake. Salmon soap. Salmon soap. Go through all the black areas selling salmon soap. Salmon. And then just imagine. I say black. Forty years ago, fifty years ago, you'd say black to a black person, somebody would want to fight you. But the things just changed, that's all. And we had--then during World War II, World War I, we had the biggest event in Germantown, the opening up of the colored branch of the Germantown YWCA.

HARDY: I want to ask you about that some other time.

JONES: Okay.

HARDY: Any--do you remember any jokes from when you were a kid? Jokes or songs? Your favorite joke.

JONES: That's hard to remember. Hard to remember. Offhand I can't remember.

HARDY: Any songs? Or stories? You know, I'm really looking for the sorts of, uh, you know, kids anecdotes or stories or songs. You know, anything that was going around that really--

JONES: --well--

HARDY: --caught your fancy as a child.

JONES: --I'll tell you, when I was a kid, the blackest day, when I was--I'll tell you about the blackest day when I was a kid.

HARDY: What's that?

JONES: And and and we were living on Duval Street, the--

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