I Remember it Well...

Road Trip Chronicles: Gwen and Elaine

Price Road – Part 2

I pointed toward the back window of the house—Aunt Donsy’s room. I remembered when the bathroom was added there; it felt like luxury not to trek to the outhouse anymore. Her black and gold-trimmed Singer treadle sewing machine sat by the window, and at the foot of her bed was the trunk I later wrote about in Aunt Donsy’s Trunk.

All the women in our family were excellent seamstresses, thanks to Grandmom Lettie. In 2006, a 90-year-old woman who knew our family told me she’d watch every Sunday to see what new outfits Ms. Lettie had sewn for her children to wear to church.

The house itself was modest—a perfect square with four equal rooms: the living room, two bedrooms, and the kitchen. A large wood furnace in the living room sent heat through “octopus” vents to the other rooms. Not pretty - but workable.

In the kitchen, we cooked on a wood stove until we could afford an electric kitchen stove. Aunt Donsy did all the cooking—and she was a master. Her hand-beaten cakes and lemon tarts were unforgettable - mixers were not available then.

I still remember the surprise of her “mashed” potato salad.

I’ve never quite duplicated her pickled watermelon rind, despite a few disasters in my own kitchen as I tried. Thank goodness the Dutch in Lancaster, PA, came close.

Summers were for preparing for winter—snapping green beans (so named for the snapping sound), peeling fruit into translucent curls, and canning everything in a pressure cooker using ”Ball” glass jars.

One pressure cooker incident left me with a scar on my shoulder. The lid blew off, hit the ceiling, and landed on me. I often wonder if pressure cookers still exist—air fryers and freezers have replaced so much.

Every kitchen I knew had a Frigidaire, though I didn’t know until later that it was the brand name of a refrigerator made by Sears - not the generic term for a refrigerator.

This house and its neighbors became the heart of my novels.

Aunt Donsy’s Trunk tells the true story of our family here. Price Road was inspired by those around us.

The big house on the hill belonged to the Folks—a couple who taught at Douglass High School and were deeply committed to Black history. In my novel, I called them the “Keys”—a tribute to their role in unlocking potential.

Mr. and Mrs. Folks

Mr. Folks, a science teacher, once led neighborhood boys, including Lourdes’ brother Willie B., in backyard biology lessons involving snake skeletons. Lourdes said she wanted nothing to do with that activity.

Mrs. Folks taught English and spoke with perfect clarity. They had no children, so they parented the entire neighborhood.

Mrs. Taylor standing in front of Aunt Donsy’s flower garden - holding flowers from granddaddy’s funeral.

Down the cul-de-sac, a gravel road that began as dirt, lived the Taylors, who sold my family the land for our home. They treated us like kin and even let us raise a cow and pig and plant a garden on their adjacent property.

Directly across the road were the Martins. I remember when Mr. Martin brought his new wife, Ms. Adele, to Price Road —she fit right in. They had three children. Their house is only a shell of what it used to be. It is empty now and infested by weeds.

Malta Faye Hamlin, a few years older than me, lived nearby. What was the house she lived in has to be imagined in that space now; only a chimney and a particle wall remains.

During my summer visits, Malta Faye introduced me to her friends, took me on outings—even to drive-in movies, where Black families watched from a fenced hill behind the white patrons. It was the Jim Crow days…

Thanks to Malta Faye I saw a drive-in-movie before my Philadelphia friends, because they were not in the city, only in the suburbs. And, of course there was that car requirement.

Malta Faye and I walking to the house, while children (possibly Brenda King) ride bikes. This was around 1954 - 55 - before it was acceptable for girls to wear pants.

Lourdes’ family lived next door to the Hamlins, across from Springfield Baptist Church. Her grandfather and my grandmother were siblings—born because a white doctor violently fathered children with several Black women throughout Rockingham county.

The women all knew each other and the children knew their relationship, and were supportive of each other.

Lourdes and I share a hug for the love of family.

This journey down Price Road isn’t just a scenic ride—it’s a rediscovery of stories, heritage, and the deep roots of the life I continue to write about.