No Hill Too High for a Stepper

by Mike Mahan

  When I was young I used to look at a stained-glass window over the entrance to the Methodist Church and wonder what the words Methodist Church South written on it meant. I was told that the Methodist Church split in 1844 over the question of slavery, and that no blacks were allowed to attend. That was only changed after the desegregation battles of the 1950s and ’60s. And that change was not easy in the Montevallo Methodist Church, where a segregationist pastor worked out a deal with the administrative board that the organist, who had an excellent view of the doors, would sound a note on the organ if a black person entered the church. Then the entire congregation would rise and sing the Doxology and be dismissed. But questions concerning segregation and civil rights were not a part of the conversations Earl and I had out behind the barbershop.

  When Earl also left to join the military, I was sorry to see him go, but I took great pride in hearing of his achievements, both in the military and in academia. My pride was enhanced by the fact that, in the segregated south, there was still room for my father’s humanity to make a difference in the life of a young black man and to know that Earl credited Dad with giving him a sense of self-worth that has served him well throughout his successful life.

  The barbershop had many interesting nearby businesses on Main Street. One establishment was Jeter’s Mercantile, owned by the Frog Hollow Jeters. They sold everything from baby clothes to caskets. Old Man Jeter was nice to all us kids. He’d give peanuts to Harry, Agee Kelly, Joe, and me. But his son, Pep, who took over the business in the forties, was, I thought, a real bastard. He’d yell at you at the slightest provocation. He had a son named Pep Jr., who took after his dad and was a real badass and a bully.

  One part of Jeter’s Mercantile was an embalming business in the basement. Caskets were displayed up in the balcony. A hearse was always backed up to the rear entrance to unload the dead bodies. In those days there were no funeral homes, so services were always conducted in the churches.

  Jeter’s Mercantile always reeked of embalming fluid. My great aim as a boy was to see a corpse. Pep Jr. told us he had seen plenty of them—men and women—naked as jaybirds. I envied him the chance. I was never admitted into the sanctum sanctorum, though Pep Jr. did sneak in several girls from Shelby Street. Martha Ann Cox was actually there more than once and, other than Pep Jr., became our chief source of information about the embalming processes.

  The Jeters had competition. Across the street was Mr. Rogan’s store. He too was diversified. Like Jeter’s, he sold hardware, furniture, farm equipment, and operated an embalming business. He also sold clothing (for the living and the dead). In addition, he ran a delivery service from the train station for other businesses and for individuals.

  1940s Montevallo postcard showing Main Street.

  Although Mr. Rogan’s embalming parlor was located on the ground floor and was painted a neat white, the Jeter service was considered to be higher-class. Like the Jeters, Mr. Rogan embalmed only white corpses. Black corpses were taken care of at the black funeral home across the creek, an establishment that also was part of a bigger business, including a honky-tonk.

  When word came—often to the barbershop—that someone had died, it was always a matter of great speculation who would embalm them. If we were out of school, we’d watch for the arrival of the bodies. From Pete Givhan’s bottling company, we could see them arriving in the alley behind Mr. Rogan’s store. From this spot we also liked to watch Mr. Rogan operate a hoist that lifted caskets to the second floor for storage.

  Also on Main Street was the Strand, Mr. Eddie Watson’s picture show, which he operated from 1935 through 1971. His mother had operated a picture show in Montevallo since 1920, and she continued to sell tickets there and even clean the theater until she was ninety-five.

  Montevallo High School homecoming festivities on Main Street in 1952 with the Strand Theater in the background. The two majorettes with visible faces are Joanna Sharp, left, and Beverly Taft, right.

  Mr. Eddie decided to build the Strand in 1935 because he learned that local businessman and entrepreneur Pat Kroell was planning to build a new state-of-the-art 500-seat theatre that would be in direct competition with his own theater. By that time Eddie was president of the Southeastern Theater Association, and he traveled to Atlanta to see what could be done to discourage Mr. Kroell. His friends in the association told him that if he constructed a new theater himself, then they could arrange it so that the studios would not honor contracts for films from Mr. Kroell. By then, Kroell had already poured the foundation and footings for the building, but he quickly saw the way the land lay and he suspended construction. Eddie got to work building his own fine new theater.

  For many years this theater, with 500 seats downstairs for whites and 100 in the balcony for blacks, was a very successful operation. Eddie, the town’s most eligible bachelor, cut quite a figure. No one could out-market him. He printed thousands of handbills advertising his movies, and placed them on the windshields of automobiles all over Shelby County. They were also inserted in the Birmingham News, the Montevallo Times, and the Shelby County Reporter. Probably in violation of all sorts of federal laws, friendly post office employees placed the handbills in the Montevallo post office boxes. Afterwards, it was said, Eddie would go back to the post office and pick up all the discarded handbills to recirculate them.

  In addition, Eddie conducted a lottery scheme in which each movie ticket bought during the week was accompanied with a raffle ticket, which was placed in a large round wooden tumbler, built by the excellent carpenter from Wilton, Mr. Jim Splawn. At the end of the Saturday night movie, a number was drawn. If the jackpot was not claimed, the prize money increased, sometimes reaching $300 or $400. The raffle was going so well that Eddie began to sell tickets to those not even attending the movies, and this was seen by the minister of the First Baptist Church and the police chief, Mr. Gardner, as a form of gambling. They brought charges, and he appeared before the grand jury in Montgomery and was indicted. Back in Shelby County, Judge Wallace told him he would be released if he paid a fine of $50 and ceased running the lottery. Eddie agreed, but on the way home to Montevallo he had a change of heart. He went back to Judge Wallace and asked to withdraw his commitment to end the game. The judge said no, but Eddie continued the game for several months before closing it down.

  All Eddie’s marketing methods paid off. Crowds from Shelby and the surrounding counties swarmed to Montevallo to see the movies. The mining communities of Marvel, Boothton, Aldrich, and Maylene all ran buses two or three times a week to transport their citizens to the Strand, and the girls at Alabama College were a constant pool of patrons. He was able to get new movies as soon as the Birmingham theaters did, sometimes before. He had standing contracts with Paramount, 20th Century Fox, MGM, and all the major film companies. He also had live stage shows there, once booking the country comedienne Minnie Pearl to do a show. He even allowed the president of Alabama College, Dr. Oliver Carmichael, and his brother, an ordained minister, to conduct a men’s Sunday School class there. That class was so popular that the ministers of local churches complained that their attendance was being hurt.

  In 1948, Eddie married Georgene McCauley, a professor of physical education at Alabama College. She helped him run the Strand until 1971. Through those years, the Strand had seen a lot. Many young couples held hands, and some of them kissed for the first time in the Strand. Romances began and romances ended there.

  My memories of the Strand are some of the fondest of my childhood and youth. Every Saturday Dad gave me a quarter, and I followed the same ritual every week. I’d go to Mr. Rogan’s store and buy a bag of peanuts and a sweet drink. Mr. Eddie did not permit you to bring in your own refreshments, as that was a major part of his earnings. But we couldn’t resist. My friends and I would sneak peanuts and drinks in every week. It was not such a problem in winter, but in summer it was very difficult. Someone had to divert Mr. Eddie’s attention so we could rush
by undetected. The illicitness of our refreshments made the drinks that much sweeter and the peanuts that much richer. I expect, upon reflection, that Mr. Eddie winked at our breaking his rule. After all, we paid him a nickel admission to see the feature, the cartoons, and the serials, and most of us boys bought a bag of Mr. Eddie’s popcorn, too.

  By the time this photograph was taken in the late 1950s, the Kroell House had seen better times. The flower beds were gone and the ancient oaks that stood sentinel along the street had been cut.

  Also on Main Street was another landmark, the Kroell House. Occupied by two of the would-be theater owner Pat Kroell’s sisters—Miss Kate and Miss Mary, this was an immense Victorian house, featuring many gables and turrets and a great deal of stained glass. Their father had been a very successful merchant in town, and they lived on many years after his death. Between the house and the street were flower beds set off by bricks lined up in a rick-rack pattern and divided by walkways, which the Kroell sisters swept daily with brush brooms. On occasion, if some child tried to walk on the bricks in the garden, one or the other sister would come running out the front door and chase them away. Often, a black man could be seen working in the beds and pulling grass from between the cracks on the sidewalk. The Kroell sisters were largely unapproachable. In fact, by the time I came along they had pretty much established themselves as the town recluses. No other place in town was so mysterious.

  In the twenties, though, the Kroell House had been the center of local social life. Large parties were held in a dance hall on the third floor. But that all changed. In fact, the only visitor they regularly entertained in the thirties was a Mr. Cassie Fancher, who rode his white horse into town, tying it up on the back side of the house and disappearing inside. He was a most impressive sight for Main Street. I remember that his attire was that of an English gentleman: knee-high shiny black or brown boots and dark riding pants. They looked like the knickers I was made to wear, and I was not sure why Mr. Cassie would have chosen to wear them. I hated mine. He also sported a white shirt that was buttoned high around his neck, with a small bow-tie, and he had a vest with two watch pockets, a gold watch chain coming from one pocket and disappearing into the other. He always wore a flat-billed hat with a pinched crown and a leather band.

  Mr. Cassie’s appearance on Main Street was always an event, as he never ever acknowledged the cars on Main Street. He just rode straight down the street with no doubt in his mind that he had the right of way. Engine noises, horns, and hostile comments some of the drivers shouted from open windows did not faze him one iota. People speculated recklessly on what was going on inside the Kroell House. Most said he was having an affair with Miss Kate, who entertained him in an upstairs boudoir. But no one ever knew what transpired on those visits, and eventually Mr. Cassie left Montevallo and was said to have emigrated to Australia. So far as I know, he was never heard of again.

  Bill Lovelady Ford Motor Company, the corner of Main and Boundary Streets.

  Farther on down Main Street was the Ford place, with a repair shop full of cars, their engines roaring as gas pedals were pushed down to check the engines. But the most special thing about the Ford place was the banjo player, Cody Battle, who once played in bands with Dad. He had become a mechanic—the best in town according to Dad, but he still loved to play, and during his lunch break, banjo runs could be heard up and down Main Street. I thought I had never heard a sweeter sound.

  You could also hear the ringing from Mr. Hamm’s blacksmith shop, behind the Ford place. Sometimes my friends and I would go into the doorway and watch Mr. Hamm, who wore heavy leather boots, a leather apron from neck to his knees, and a long-sleeve denim shirt. He did not wear glasses, but had a cap similar to a railroad cap pulled low over his eyes. He wielded the large steel hammer, pounding on red-hot pieces of iron. He worked with a clear rhythm—one long bang, followed by two short bangs over and over again. Red-hot sparks flew off the iron as he repeatedly hit the hot iron with his hammer—a horse shoe or some other item he held with a large pair of tongs. Ding-ditty-ditty, ding-ditty-ditty. When the fire began to slacken, he would pump the overhead bellows, and, when he deemed the fire sufficiently hot again, he would begin the anvil chorus all over. When our music teacher in elementary school, Mrs. Farrah, introduced us to Verdi’s Anvil Chorus, I already understood the music.

  Another place that intrigued me was the Brown bagging plant, a large two-story building that faced directly to Main Street. As you walked down the street, you could hear the roar of sewing machines, and inside you could see women wearing scarves over their hair leaning over the machines and sewing the croker sack (burlap) material into bags. I could not imagine how so many croker sacks could be used. A colored man would place the sacks on a cart and take them outside, stacking them under a tin awning that ran from the front door out to the curb. In the summer time the sweet smell of the croker-sack material and volumes of dust drifted out the front doors and down the street.

  Next door to the Brown bag plant was the two-story Masonic Lodge, with a bowling alley at street level. Mother disapproved of this establishment, thinking it was a den of iniquity. I don’t know whether it was or not, but when I passed it I could hear loud male voices and smell a strong odor of cigar smoke. The place never failed to raise my curiosity, and eventually Dad took me in. I was fascinated to see how efficient the black pinsetters were and even more how they avoided getting hit in the small space they had at the end of the lanes. I grew to like this den of iniquity.

  In the basement of this same building could be found Times Printing Company, which published the Montevallo Times. The Wyatt family owned the company, and I envied Mr. William Wyatt, who became Montevallo’s mayor, and his son Pat being able to work in such a wonderful environment. There was a strong smell of ink, kerosene, and cleaning solutions, and I noticed that the fingernails and hands of Mr. Wyatt and Pat and their workers were black or occasionally another color, depending on what the printing job was. The huge press went round and round, producing a clankity, clank as the newspapers were printed. For some reason it reminded me of “Bolero,” which Mrs. Farrah played on an old 78 record in our art appreciation class in elementary school.

  Travis Killingsworth sat at a huge linotype machine with hundreds of levers moving up and down and back and forth. He printed letters upside down and backwards on wafers of bright silver lead. These wafers, made from molten hot liquid lead, were placed in a pot connected to the machine, and when Travis struck a key, a shiny silver-colored wafer fell out in order in a tray to his right. Travis wore a clear green eyeshade, which I assumed kept the glare off his work, and he always had a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth as he worked. I thought he had one of the best jobs in town.

  After you crossed the street from Times Printing, you immediately passed by another two-story building with huge oak trees in front. Upstairs there was a porch with rocking chairs and swings, from which the occupants of the building could enjoy a view of Main Street. Below were shops, including the Whaley Furniture Store, which was full of brilliantly colorful sofas and chairs and rolls of linoleum lined up along the walls.

  In the next building was Fancher’s Radio Shop, opened by Tom Fancher after World War II. I can vividly remember him sitting on a workbench surrounded by all manner of wires, tubes, and electric meters. I was mystified as to how Mr. Tom could find what he needed in such a disorderly place, much less fix a radio that had so many parts that might go bad. Later Mr. Tom went into television sales and repair, and, because the televisions took up more space than the radios, the shop became even more cluttered. And there was always a strange smell of burning wire.

  Looking northeast up Main Street about 1959. The large oaks had yet to be cut and the F. W. Rogan house, far right, still faced the street.

  When I hung around Fancher’s, Mr. Tom and his wife Miss Marie were always willing to answer my dumb questions. I liked the Fanchers very much. Mother particularly
admired Miss Marie, saying she could take the worst situation and make it positive. I remained close to Mr. Tom throughout his life, and I still see Miss Marie in church every Sunday. She is in her late nineties, but lovely and lively as ever.

  The Kroell house was not the only grand Victorian house in town. Next to the post office on Vine Street were two old multi-story, well-kept Victorians occupied by Alabama College professors and staff. The great Mr. Cooper with the loud voice lived in the one to the left of the post office, and Mr. McConatha lived further down the street.

  Just off Main Street was the fine Montevallo Post Office, which opened when I was three years old. Constructed of brick and white marble, it had ornamental iron railings out front and brass-trimmed glass doors that led into the lobby, which was paved with terrazzo tile. Over the door to the postmaster’s office was a hand-painted mural entitled Early Settlers of Shelby County. I was told that it was painted by a Florida painter named William Sherrod McCall and that it was paid for by the Department of the Treasury. Along the interior walls to the right, there were rows of little brass mailboxes with numbers stenciled on their glass fronts. We had a key for box 448, and Dad made one or two trips to the post office every day. I suppose one of my rites of passage was when I was entrusted with the key to 448 and strolled up the marble steps and pulled the mail from the box. I must have been twelve or thirteen at the time. In those days, most people didn’t even include the box number in their addresses. We were small enough that the post office workers had memorized the numbers for everybody.