When my family came here it was all trees and bushes. The houses were far apart, and there were no streets. We paid fifty dollars an acre for this land in 1939, with five dollars as a down payment. Man, it was hard to come up with the one dollar each month to pay off the loan. 

I helped my family make money by chopping wood. We’d cut it, haul it, load it in the car, and sell it in Conroe—all for twenty-five cents a cord. Getting to Conroe was a challenge. There were only three old cars in Tamina, two old Model T’s and a Model A. We’d catch a ride on Saturday mornings and sit in the hot, hot sun waiting to be paid for the load of wood. You know the blacks couldn’t drink the whites’ water. We couldn’t drink out of any faucet, and we sure couldn’t ask white people for water. They’d sit up on the porch drinking their cold water. It was painful. We’d be so hungry and thirsty.  We’d be in the dark before we’d get paid. 

When I was fourteen years old we brewed whiskey even though it was illegal. We’d cook up whole or chopped corn, sugar, and water in barrels. If we used wood, the “revenues” (Federal Marshalls) would catch us ’cause they saw the smoke. We got wise to it and started to use propane, carrying twenty-five gallon containers on our shoulders from the store. We still got caught, though. After cooking the corn three times, we’d pour out the cooked corn to start a fresh batch. The horses and cows would find it, eat it, and then pass out. Brewing was dangerous to do. They didn’t want you bootlegging whiskey. The “revenues” shot a boy right across the tracks. Two men rolled in and they shot him in the back when he ran away. We never brewed whiskey again.