Thompson
How did y’all meet? [laughs].
Hardy
We grew up at the end of Tenth Street. Our house was the last house on the street. And it just so happened that my birthday was August 17th, 1956 and yours was…
Black
Mine was August 31st, 1956. And we’re like 14 days apart and our mothers carried us at the same time. And we’re at the dead end of East Tenth Street. so I’m at the corner and he’s at the end. It was just us two kids. There were others in the neighborhood, but…
Hardy
Not as close as we were.
Thompson
So you went all through school together?
Hardy
Pretty much.
Thompson
What school?
Hardy
In elementary school, it was Hopper [Academy]—between Eleventh [Street] and Celery Avenue—and afterwards, it was Lakeview [Middle School] for seventh grade, I think.
Black
Yeah. We were 12 at Lakeview and we went to Sanford Junior High [School] at 13.
Thompson
And where was Sanford Junior then?
Black
That’s Sanford Middle School now. It’s the same one.
Thompson
Oh. It’s on [U.S. Route] 17-92.
Black
Yes. The next year we went to Crooms [High School], which became our ninth grade. Then we went to Seminole [High School].
Thompson
So you were there for the integration of—or you were one year after?
Hardy
No. We were in the midst of it.
Black
We were in fourth grade when that began to happen, so we kind of had a choice for our fifth grade. Our parents could decide if they wanted to send us to the other school, because they didn’t close Hopper or anything like that.
Hardy
It just made an opportunity to go to other schools, if they wanted to, but we stayed. It was right around the corner [laughs].
Black
We lived one block away. It was on the corner of Eleventh and Bay [Avenue] and we lived on Tenth and Bay so—my parents left the choice up to me, because all my life I’ve always gone to integrated schools. I began school in New York state and…
Thompson
Oh, so you left?
Black
I would leave every year. My father was a migrant crew leader, but they lived here. They stayed here. My parents’ work was as a migrant to carry people up north to pick apples—to harvest the fruit.
Thompson
And so you went to school up there every year? So you were just home in summertime?
Black
And I spent all my summers in New York. I began school in New York and I would end it here every school year. From September to November, up to the week before Thanksgiving, I would go to school in New York. Then we’d come down here and I’d finish school. And it used to be June 6th that would be the last day of school, and then as we got older it would be June 11th. The next day, my mom and I would get on a Greyhound bus and go to Rochester[, New York] to visit with my sisters, and my father would come up around July 5th—out to the migrant camp that we lived on.
Román-Toro
Could you elaborate on the differences between going to school up North and coming to school here?
Black
Yes. I sure can. For me, it was more of a freedom. When I’m in New York, I could be myself. I could be all that I thought I could be. I went to school with whites. I started out with whites, so in school, there was no limit to what we were taught we could be—even the black students.
However, down here I had to go to an all-black school, which wasn’t a problem, as far as it being black. I knew I fit in there. However, at a very early age, I learned the difference. It was kind of sad for me, especially by sixth grade, I had a grip on what was going on. I didn’t like when I got to Florida, I had to feel “less than.”
Thompson
When you were in Florida, did you feel like the teachers didn’t tell you you could be all that you could be? Did the teachers treat you different in the North and South?
Black
No, but there is a difference and I saw the difference. The teachers here did all they could, but you still left school thinking that you could go no higher than a teacher. We weren’t taught about, “You could be a doctor one day.” This is what I remember.
Thompson
Billy, how about you?
Hardy
Just like she was saying earlier. we were in that situation and, as far as going to school, that’s what we did. We knew we had to go. we knew we had to have an education, so we went. The thing about Sanford during that time was that we lived over here and they lived over there. In other words, the black part of town was over here, and the white part was over here, and our parents taught us, “You don’t go over there.”
There were many parts of time that—I’ll tell you what, as I came home from service, after 23 years of service, there were parts of town that I had never seen. When I came home, I was right down Melonville [Avenue] and I said, “I’m going over here,” and I did. I rode on through the neighborhoods and I was like…
Román-Toro
How’d you feel about that? How’d you feel about having that opportunity to go wherever you wanted?
Hardy
After being in the service, basically, I was going everywhere I wanted anyway, so when I came home it didn’t matter anymore. [laughs] The door was swung wide open. When I joined the Army, the door was open so wide, it wasn’t black or white anymore. It was green. We were fighting for one purpose and one cause and that was it. Sometimes prejudice situations came up, but it wasn’t a big thing. It was pretty much—it happened. It was controlled. It was dealt with, and that was the end of it. Growing up as a child, I had to stay where my parents told me to stay.
Thompson
Did it make you feel fearful—them telling you that you can’t go there?
Hardy
It bothered me. It really bothered me, because Sundays—you know, Sunday afternoon—after a Sunday meal, everybody’s been to church. We would go out to the schoolhouse and play football. It was all the guys in the neighborhood and we would have a blast. Gosh, we would just play football all day.
What happened was, some of the guys from the other side of town—the white guys—came and saw us playing football at the schoolhouse—and this is kind of what got the ball running as far as the integration part. We played ball. They played ball. We played ball over here, but they played ball over there, so when they came over and a group of them decided, “Let’s go ask. Let’s go talk,” and we began to talk and things began to change. I think there was more to it than that, but that was one of the changes I saw.
Thompson
So you and your peers—black and white—you made the decision to integrate before your parents?
Black
Our parents didn’t decide for us to integrate. It was the white man. It wasn’t our parents. I believe that all of our black parents would rather have kept us where we were. They feared. They wouldn’t have sent us out to white schools, but as time went on, white people had to make a change, so that’s where it came about. We didn’t care that it was integrated. We were fine just where we were. I chose not to go. They gave us a choice. It was a very easy decision for me. I had been looking at white people all my life, and honestly, I was afraid of the white people down here, because here there was always that segregation, but in New York—so I knew there was a difference.
The white people in the South – he probably could name some white kids that we went to school with. I can’t. There were no relationships with any of the white kids that we went to school with. It’s like…
Román-Toro
So you were segregated, even when you weren’t segregated is what you’re saying? When segregation started informally, and then later formally, did you trust it? Did you trust that it was for sincere reasons? or did you suspect that there was an agenda behind it?
Black
Well, I suspected that there was an agenda behind it—that they were being forced to make it happen. They didn’t want us. They didn’t think it was the right time to do this. There was a force behind it.
When I—in fifth grade, in New York state—well, I had heard it while in fourth grade down here—but in fifth grade in New York state, when it was time to move back down here in November, I remember that all the kids thought that I was so smart in school down here. The books that they were learning through, I had already studied and completed in New York.
Thompson
So you were getting second-hand books in Florida?
Black
And in fifth grade, the books were coming from the North. Yes, because when I got here and went to school and for Thanksgiving, the guy next to me, Willie Jones—when he opened his geography book—in the front they have whose name is in it and then they have the school stamp up in the corner. And there it was: “NRW,” which was North Rose-Wolcott [High] School—that I went to. I was just floored, and I went home very upset with my father, because I had asked him, “How do these books get from New York to Florida?” He told me he didn’t know, but in fifth grade I had my own evidence. I saw the book and I just—it was just never a good feeling for me.
That’s where my—I am a big advocate for diversity and I have been ever since then—and with Martin Luther King[, Jr.] and John F. Kennedy—for me, in my life, even with what I was going through, I was going to be what Martin Luther King was talking about—black and white kids holding hands and walking to school together. I was going to show white people that that could be done, because I knew there was a difference between the whites in the South and the whites in the North and you’re all white, you know?
Thompson
I want to go back just for a minute. When you said your parents wouldn’t let you go there, did your parents explain why they didn’t want you going in those neighborhoods?
Hardy
Well, basically they didn’t want us going over there because it was trouble. Some of the experiences—I mean, I got dogs sicced on me. I got to the point where I just got fed up by a lot of stuff and it was—I walked to the store one day, and this guy sicced his dog on me. He had one big one and one little one, and they didn’t bite me, because I guess I was a pretty good size as a kid. I would jump at one, he’d run and the other one would try to get me and I’d jump at him, you know? I tell you what, the hatred that built up in me during that time—I was going to kill the dogs, but they died. I had something on the inside that really bothered me for a long time. and when we left Hopper and went to Lakeview it was like a big melting pot.
Thompson
What year would that have been?
Black
We were 12. That would have been [19]68. We were 12 years old.
Thompson
Because the integration of Crooms didn’t happen ‘til 1970.
Black
We were 14 at the time. Crooms was in ninth grade. Lakeview was built for the seventh grade—for all of us. Everybody was going to have to go to Lakeview.
Hardy
We fought every day. every day. They shut the school down once, because we fought so much. I mean, it was lunch time, and here come the buses, and it was a mess. I could honestly say that the class of ’74, from Lakeview all the way up to high school, we fought.
Just to take it even a step further, I played football. My thing was football. I was big in sports, and it got to the point where I just decided, “What are we fighting for? I’m tired of fighting.” Did you see the movie Remember the Titans? We finally came together Homecoming. It took Homecoming in the 11th grade for us to come together—actually, in the 12th grade. It took Homecoming for us to come together. We were down 7-6, and we got in that huddle, and we looked at each other and decided, “That’s it. We’re going to do this.” That was the first time we joined hands and said, “That’s it. No more.” We were on defense, and I was on defense, because I played both ways. when the game started, I was on the field from then to the time the game was over. Gosh, their quarterback dropped back for a pass and we rushed him hard. And he dropped back and he threw it and one of the quarterbacks—I’ll never forget it, Jimmy Clemens, a white guy, intercepted it. We formed a wall and we wiped out everybody and Jimmy ran in for the touchdown and we won the game.
Thompson
But didn’t you all go to the state [championship] that year?
Hardy
No. We didn’t. We didn’t go to state. I’ll tell you what—it took that to bring us together. We really had a time. We really did.
Thompson
It wasn’t every black or white person, but it was certain ones that they had been…
Hardy
It was certain ones. I’ll give you a good example. I have a good friend named Pat Howard, okay? Pat were[sic] practicing one day, and I was on offense at the time. Pat intercepted the ball, and I hit him pretty hard. We were in the shower and I wasn’t expecting Pat to come up to me. He said, “You tried to kill me out there.” I said, “Coach is wearing us out out there. Nah. I didn’t try to kill you.” I said, “You all right?” He said, “Yeah.” We shook it off. The next day we got ready to line up and the coach blew the whistle. He said, “Hardy? You’re over there on defense next to Howard.” Now we’re on the same side. Now it’s getting good. “Don’t come this way,” I said. “I don’t care who you are—black or white. Don’t come this way.” Pat catches on real quick and he stood back to back with me and said, “Don’t come this way.” Now we’re having fun. Now it’s getting real interesting. We’re great friends right now. As a matter of fact, his mother has a barber shop across the street—a hair salon. Betty Ann?
Thompson
Oh, yeah. I don’t know her, but everybody says what a wonderful person she is
Hardy
That’s his mom, so when we get together we hug, fish, and talk. Needless to say, when the wall was torn down—while we were in the pot fighting—there were some friends made in the pot. The wall came down. Doing sports—the wall came down. We realized fighting wasn’t going to do us any good. “You’re here and I’m here. We’ve got to go to the same school. We’re from the same town. Hey, we might as well get along.”
Thompson
Your thought process is that that brought about the change, because you said, “I’m not fighting.” Then you said that to them, and they said that they didn’t want to fight either. You were really a catalyst for the change in your school.
Hardy
Somebody had to do something.
Thompson
Well, I’m glad to meet you, because that was a wonderful thing that you did.
Hardy
All that fighting and carrying on—it gets to the point where you’re like, “Come on. We just did this yesterday.” There was a big change. When we graduated. Tears flew. “I might never see this guy anymore.” I knew these guys, so when reunion time comes around, that’s great. We go get a ride, Pat gets drunk, and I have to take him home[laughs]. All of a sudden he’s hugging you and wants to tell you how much he loves you. The true feelings come out then. When I see him in his momma’s shop, it’s like, “Hey! You didn’t call me!” They look at us like we’re going to tear the place apart.
It had to come to that. The wall inside of me fell. and it didn’t just fall, it crumbled. After I joined the service, it really crumbled, because now those I thought were my enemies were now my friends. Now we’re fighting for the same cause. I’m training them and they’re training me. I’ve been to the battlefield.
Thompson
Which one?
Hardy
[Operation] Desert Storm. I rescued so many I can’t even count the number. I was a combat medic and I’d pull them out of holes and hills, and rescued them out of the battlefields. It has been a great life and it ain’t over yet. The best is yet to come.
Thompson
So when you got out of the service, what did you do?
Hardy
I opened up an automotive repair shop in Columbus, Georgia. That’s where I live now. That’s where I’ve been ever since. I work on everybody’s car [laughs].
Thompson
Now, when you were in school, did any of the girls fight?
Black
Well, he saw more fights than I did. I think that since I went to school in New York, when I got here, I didn’t have to put up a wall, because I understood already, because I understood what was going on. However, as an African-American, I knew where I stood and how far I could go. Which brings me back to the fifth grade and having to—it was an awful feeling to have to feel “less than.” I spent six months knowing that I was more than that. Then you get to a place where you can’t go here and you can’t go there. I think we grew up desiring not to. Which is why when we got old enough and came home, we wanted to see what all the hoopla was about. We wanted to see why we couldn’t go over there. It was to our great disappointment, because there were houses just like ours. Our house looks better than theirs.
Thompson
Okay, but what about the fighting? Did they do any fighting?
Black
Oh, yes. There was fighting. However, I would be in New York, so he would see more. The fights were always in the beginning of the school year and definitely at the end of the school year. The last day of school [laughs].
Hardy
You can’t get suspended. The only thing you can do is go home.
Black
You’ve been saving up the whole year for the last day of school.
Thompson
Get even time.
Black
I think we even picked fights. It was the last day of school.
Hardy
It was wild, I tell you. I think about some of that. There was one in particular. I had a problem with one teacher. This guy—from the moment I walked in his class until the time class was done—did not like me. I didn’t bother with him, but there was this girl that liked me. She was white and she liked me. My thing was, “I can’t do nothing with you. Ain’t no way.” I wasn’t interested, but because she liked me, he was upset about it. She didn’t try to hide it. She liked me and I kept saying, “Look, I can’t do nothing with you.” And he realized what was going on, and one day, he called me outside the classroom and he said, “You are one dirty, stinking, colored boy.” It hit me and I told Dad about it and he said, “Don’t worry about it.” but I still had to deal with this guy
One day in class there was a hand-cranked electrical generator. You can generate electricity with this hand-cranked electrical generator. Now, my dad was a plumber, but he was also a carpenter, and he knew electricity, and he taught me a lot of things. One of the things that he taught me about electricity was if you got in line with the electricity, if you touched it and I’m touching you, then I’m going to get it, okay? He had this electric generator in class and he was trying to prove a point, and the point was that if you touch this—he had us get into a line and hold hands and guess who was last? Guess who was next to last? The young lady. I knew what was going to happen. He was going to crank the generator. He was saying, “Y’all ready?” Everybody was ready. When he made a motion to crank that generator, I snatched my hand out of hers, and her hair stood up on her head, and she said, “Eeeeeee!” [laughs] When she hollered, he looked straight at me. I was standing there looking at him, because I knew. Needless to say, I got an F. I wound up going to summer school and I passed with a B. Stuff like that happened and I couldn’t do anything about it. I had to deal with it.
Thompson
So what happened to that girl?
Hardy
She followed us right on through high school. She was right there. I can’t remember what her name was, but she graduated.
Thompson
But she learned her lesson that—she didn’t mess with you again did she?
Hardy
We went to high school and I would see her and she would—but that was it. I couldn’t. My dad said, “No,” and that was just it. It was taboo and I just didn’t do it. You have to be obedient to your parents, so I didn’t. And with everything that happened to me, I didn’t want anything to do with that. The only thing that got me interested was when they came to the football field and said, “Hey, y’all want to play?” At first, there was a wall. After playing football the first few times, there were a couple of fights and everybody was like, “Come on.” As time went on, you get tired and you say, “Hey, something’s got to give.”
Thompson So what about the girls? They fought too?
Hardy
Yeah. The girls fought too. You know how girl fights are—tearing clothes off, pulling hair, scratching. [laughs] There was a lot of that too, but when the girls start fighting, a lot of the guys would get in too and they would hold them and keep them from fighting. At the end of school, there weren’t enough people to stop all the fights that broke out though. The only thing you could do was get on the bus and go home. The last bell rang, run to the bus, and go home [laughs].
Thompson
Well, you both have come out with really wonderful attitudes.
Román-Toro
How did you guys feel when the Trayvon Martin case happened? How did you act when you heard about that?
Hardy
I was in Georgia at the time. I was just working in my shop when I found out about it, and I was like, “Man, that thing ain’t going anywhere yet. It’s still there.” I was saying, “Gosh, the only way that this thing is going to leave this city is that some folks just have to die.” How long are we going to be upset with each other? If I get cut, I bleed. If you get cut, you bleed. It’s the same color red. The same thing God did for you, he did it for me. Some folks won’t let it die.
When it happened, I was like, “Wow, here we go again.” Just when you think everything’s good and maybe there’s a chance and we’re doing all right, here we go again. It blew me away. It really hurt, because a lot of people knew me as the guy from Sanford. When I was in school, they used to call me “Sanford.” When Trayvon got killed, everybody was like, “Ain’t you from Sanford? You better look at the news. Something’s going on down there.”
Thompson
Did you talk to any of your friends down here? What did they say?
Hardy
Oh, gosh,. You know, you always get some radical friends, because this happened to Grandma and this happened to Granddaddy. The memory is still there too. People say, “I’m going to get in on it too,” and “I’m going to do something about it.” I’m like, “Hey, man. That ain’t the way.” Then the demonstration—I was so glad that they were peaceful. I didn’t want that for Sanford. I didn’t want all that fighting and carrying on. We fought enough.
I’ve got a lot of sisters down here and a lot of kinfolk, and I’m like, “Hey, man. Be peaceful. Let’s let the law work for a change.” I mean, it’s obvious what happened. If the blind man heard what he said to the 9-1-1 operator, I mean, come on. You[1] were out to get that young boy and he didn’t do anything but go to the store. Now, I don’t know what had been happening in the past. I don’t know how many break-ins they had had in the past. I don’t condone that kind of stuff. I mean, if there’s a thief, let’s catch him. I don’t want him to break-in mine. I don’t want him to break-in yours either. You work hard and you don’t want anybody breaking in and taking your stuff. but Trayvon wasn’t doing that. This guy was so obsessed that he just had it out for him, and what he did was wrong.
Black
And overboard.
Hardy
The 9-1-1 operator telling you, “Wait ‘til the authorities arrive.” And you’re going to take matters into your own hands, and, as far as I’m concerned, you’re guilty. You shot that young boy and he didn’t do anything to you. You messed with him. It could have been your brother, son, or cousin. He came from Miami. I hate that he came to Sanford for this thing to happen to him, but it opened up a lot of eyes in this city—black and white.
Thompson
I was so proud of the City of Sanford. They had a thing from the Sheriff’s Department that said that all through that spring there were no reported fights, no break-ins, no attacks, etc. We stood head-and-shoulders above any community that was having all that outside pressure to do something and we didn’t do it. We stood together.
Hardy
And my sister called me and told me, “You should have been here. You should have seen the city. Everybody got together and marched.” It did my heart good. I hate what happened to Trayvon, but it sure did bring this city together and it got people to thinking. I mean, it was something deep inside of me.
Black
When we’re born, that’s something that’s imbedded inside of us from birth. In New York, we say that white babies are born with a backpack full of privileges, and when the black babies are born, the first thing you get is: “You’re black.” If you come from a black parent, this is one of the first things that you’re going to learn. You are Negro. It’s changed several times since then—colored, African-American, black.
Hardy
You heard it different. See, I heard it as, “If you’re white, you’re born with a silver spoon in your mouth. If you’re black, you get a slap on the butt.” [laughs]
Thompson
Okay. Now I want to hear your feelings about what happened to Trayvon.
Black
I’m not an avid television watcher. I certainly try to stay away from the news. I prefer the peace, because I can always hear God speaking. When the Trayvon Martin situation happened, I was unaware of it, but I was in the process of relocating from New York to Sanford, and when I got here in February, I didn’t need the TV. All of our friends and family were talking about it.
What happened to me when I got here, as far as Trayvon is concerned, was that I came downtown really just trying to feel Sanford again, because we were allowed to come on First Street. We used to go to the Rexall Drugs.; we couldn’t eat at the counter thingy, but we could go and get our medicines. Then there was the five-and-dime or the 10-cent store.[2] So I came downtown and remembered [inaudible] and Manuel[?] Jacobson and, in passing one of those places and seeing that it was open, I went in.
Immediately, Sarah Jacobson—I got pretty upset, because she wanted to know how I felt about it, but she felt that the world is thinking that Sanford is a horrible place now. and since I was from New York, she wanted to know how I felt. I said to her, “Unfortunately, I’ve just come from New York now, but I’ve lived in Sanford all my life, so I can’t agree with you that this is something different. This has just come out, but they have been killing all along.” That’s what I said to her. “This isn’t new. We don’t know how many black people or children someone has killed and they’re out there in the St. Johns River. I do know that, in my lifetime, Trayvon is not the first one. He’s just the one the Lord is using to clean up Sanford.” Cleaning up Sanford from the top. starting with the police department and everything. We got into a heated discussion, because I wouldn’t back down. I’m the African-American. I know what happened, so I’m not going to listen to you tell me based on what your parents—and all of that. I told her, “Sarah, but you’re still white. You don’t get to have a say in stuff like this. Your opinion is not going to matter to us or to the world, because we look at you and we still see white and all the things that conspired in the meantime.”
She was very proud of her mother. Back during that time, when her mother had Manuel[?] Jacobson, she only had white ladies working for her. Somehow, it had come about in the city that they were going to boycott her, because she didn’t have any black employees. Well, one of the ladies that lived in the neighborhood heard about it and she liked Mrs. Jacobson, so when Mrs. Jacobson got to work that morning to open up the store, this lady was waiting outside so she asked her, “Why are you out here? I’m not open yet.” She said, “Well, I came to apply for that job that you’ve got.” She let her in and she said, “Well, you know I can’t hire you.” And she told her what her credentials would have to be before she could hire her and she just kindly told her that they were going to shut her down that day. She said, “I’ve come here to work for you for free as to save your life.” Sarah thought that that was really great, but not on the woman’s part. she thought her mother had done this awesome thing by letting this black lady come in there. I said, “Sarah, they were going to kill your mother.”
Thompson
Kill the business, not kill the mother.
Black
Well, I don’t see it that way. I don’t see that they were just going to get there and it was going to go over peacefully. I see Mrs. Jacobson in all of that. The black woman really put her life out there to save their livelihood. All Sarah had gotten out of that was that her mother had done this awesome thing for a black woman.
Thompson
Well, did the woman keep her job? Did she continue to work for her or did she just work one day for free?
Black
No. It was for a while until all of that had blown over. People saw that she had employed a black person. From that, Sarah just took this great pride that her mother—I said, “Well, she may have been loved enough by the blacks that this woman would come up to her, but she didn’t do anything great. She came and opened her shop like normal.” We just kind of had it out about that, and she wanted to know how I felt about the Trayvon thing. “Is Sanford really a bad place?” I said, “Well, it’s the same. Nothing’s changed.” She disagreed with me, and that’s okay. I never expected her to agree with me, but I was really pissed inside, because that brought back something. I could feel the ball and the chain around my feet while I was talking to her.
What happens to us is that we know what to say to you and how to be diplomatic when we say it. However, if your attitude is the same as Sarah’s, then we have to come together and see the truth. This isn’t the first time this has happened in Sanford. We really have to control our anger. We don’t intend to be anger[sic], but it angers you when you’re talking to someone and they’re not listening. and you know they’re not listening by what they keep saying back to you. I just finally got tired of talking to Sarah and I told her I didn’t want to discuss that anymore. Sanford hasn’t changed. She said, “I could see this is really upsetting you.” She was laughing and there was this guy there watching. “What’s wrong with you, woman? Okay. it’s your money. It’s your money that’s still got you down here and you own half these buildings here, so okay.” She said, “Well, Patricia, if you’re going to open up a shop down here, you should go over across the street and talk to the black lady over there to see how she’s doing.” I said, “Why? Sarah, I don’t need that, because whatever they’re doing to her, I don’t need to hear her troubles and I’m not going to let any of you all do anything to me while I’m here. I’m from the North, Sarah.” She said, “I still think you should go over there.” I left there with a thorn. I still feel it, but it’s better now, because I get to say it to white people [laughs].
She was purposely sticking something to me. She knew she was doing it. She was laughing the whole time. That bothered me and it really discouraged me from even being downtown. I’m opening my shop over on Sanford Avenue across 25th Street. Sarah’s not invited [laughs].
Thompson
Did you have other encounters with blacks or whites in Sanford that you knew when you lived here all those years?
Black
, at this time I’m not going to repeat any of it, because it’s not suitable for the audience. It was negative towards whites. I’m using that word, because I can and it’s true. Sanford as a city has done nothing but grown. It’s the people in Sanford—both black and white. When we speak about different situations, we’re talking about the whites. In our minds—well, they are in charge. Even if we did say “the city of Sanford,” we still mean “whites.” They had lots of opinions, but they were basically what we’ve shared about whites.
Hardy
Our house was next to the bushes, so there wasn’t anything else back there. There was a big ol’ yard. When I went outside—growing up, I can remember having no shirt on—short pants, barefoot. I can remember wearing a shirt, short pants, barefoot. I can remember standing in the road, because my aunt—she used to keep me, and I would always be outside when a story came on called Search for Tomorrow. Do you remember that?
Thompson
Yeah [laughs]. Take a look at this white hair.
Hardy
I remember that. Organ music and everything. And I would go outside, because I didn’t want to be inside the house—no way, no how—because it was on a black-and-white TV. I’d be outside and I’d look over there, because the house across the street was Mr. Jack and Mrs. Blanch’s. They were old folk. No one around was my age except Patricia and—and lived across the alley.
Black
There were other kids, but this is Tenth Street, but when you get to the stop sign, this is where I am. This is the end of Tenth Street—a dead end, actually. It was just he and I as children over here, so we all played together at some point. But at the end of the day, and even at the beginning of the day, it was he and I. Today, we are best friends.
Hardy
We got close.
Black
He can tell you what I looked like. He swears I had ponytails all the time.
Hardy
And it wasn’t hard to figure out who I was either. It was like this most of the time, because this is the only kind of haircut you got. [laughs] Some of the old ladies would plait them. They would take one piece of hair and make this long plait and they’d [inaudible] back and one back here—four big plaits and that was it.
Black
I always had plaits.
Thompson
Now, did she wear little dresses or would she wear shorts?
Hardy
She had a little dress on. Every now and then she’d come out with shorts.
Black
Well, at the age of seven, my mother taught me to sew. At the age of eight, I was doing well enough that, at 10, she bought me my own sewing machine. I would come home from Hopper around third or fourth grade, and all the kids would come out and gather together to go out and play. I would be finishing up my little halter and shorts, and I would go out in an outfit that I just made in 15 minutes. That’s when I would have on shorts. Yeah, but he’s my best friend.
Thompson
Did you ever see him play football?
Black
No. That was during the time we separated in spirit, due to the other part of my story. We separated even though we were still there.
Thompson
Talk about the separation.
Black
We didn’t see each other for about 50 years.
Hardy
We used to walk to school together. Young girls they grow up faster than we do, and they reach a certain point where they lose their mind. It’s just crazy. As young guys we’re like, “What’s the matter with them?” It’s because we don’t have that yet. It was me and you and a whole bunch of girls, and it got to the point where they were way ahead of me. I didn’t have a clue. I realized that something was going on, and at the age that I was, I didn’t want to be a part of it. We used to have to walk to school—talk about no bus. They said, “If you live two miles away, the bus will come.”
Black
We lived two blocks from the two miles.
Hardy
But they told us, “You guys can’t ride the bus,” so we walked. It was a trip. It got to the point where you would see people that lived right around the corner of the school get on the bus. They’d drive from the schoolhouse and drop them off.
We used to walk. And they had gotten to the point where they had begun to walk fast, so me being the only guy, I knew something was different. You start growing up and you start looking in the mirror and you see them and you see yourself and you say, “Nah. I don’t fit. I’m not what they’re looking for.” When they sped up, I slowed down, because I just didn’t—you know, after you’re called “ugly” enough…
Thompson
You were shy.
Hardy
No. I went through school being called ugly, big head, big lips, big feet, and all this stuff. You know, after you hear that enough, you kind of think, “You know, I don’t want to deal with that.” Then I would purposely wait until I would see them turn the corner, and then I would walk on to school. When I got to Sanford Middle School, I already had a license. At 13 years old, I had a driver’s license. I had restriction at 13. I had operator’s at 14. All that walking was done once I got my license.
One of my uncles had a car that was in the bushes and I wanted the car. He laughed me up under the porch. He laughed and laughed. And I stood there until he finally said, “You really want that car, don’t you?” He said, “If you could get it out of the bushes, you can have it.” I went and got my dad’s truck and pulled it out of the bushes. I carried it over to my house, and three days later, I drove it over to his house [laughs].
I had my driver’s license, and I taught my aunt, which was his wife—I taught her how to drive, because he’d try, but he’d freak out and holler at her. I taught her how to drive, so he loved me. I was driving his truck and he bought a Cadillac for her, and she was scared of that car. It was so big. I would drive the Cadillac. Woo, man. The car I pulled out of the bushes. I would drive that. It wasn’t a big deal.
Thompson
Okay. I want to hear a little more about the car. What kind it was and what you did to repair it? That became your life’s calling?
Hardy
I was fixing [inaudible] and lawnmowers since I was eight years old. I didn’t know why. All I knew was that I could do it. When I got the car—which was a ‘64 Oldsmobile Starfire—it was like a tank. It was cast iron. I was teaching her how to drive one day, and she just tore it all up. We didn’t have any insurance. Nothing wrong with the car. [laughs] The other car was all torn up and the owner said, “You could go. [laughs] It was a light blue ’64 Starfire. I got that thing running.
I carried it home, rose up the hood, and started checking stuff out—spark plugs, distributor, wires, battery. and it didn’t take much. I put some gas in it and fired it up. He just gave up on it, basically. I think about that now that I run an automotive repair shop and think, “It just needed a tune-up.” It cut off on him and he went and pushed it into the bushes.
I was driving in junior high school. So when they took off walking, I rode a bicycle for a while, and then I started walking. It wasn’t a big deal. I would see them walking on the other side of the road.
Thompson
And you didn’t even offer them a ride?
Hardy
No [laughs]. I was doing good[sic]. I was satisfied. I drove all the way through high school and everything. I always had something to drive. My dad used to have an old Chevy pickup. I used to drive that. I fixed it up for him. I didn’t realize that God put that gift in me until later—until I accepted him and got saved.
I was reading the Bible—about [King] Solomon. When he was building the [First] Temple, he was trying to figure out, “Who’s going to help me?” Then God told him, “This guy over here knows about bricks, this guy knows about wood, etc.” I got to thinking and realized, “You did that.” [laughs] I thought that I was going to be the mailman after I got out of the army.
I had taken the post office’s[3] exam. scored big time. After I came from taking the test, they told me, “You’ve got three interviews already.” I said, “Shoot. I’m going to be the mailman.” I had had about three tickets in the past. I went to Macon and they said, “Oh, you had these a long time ago. Just clear your racket and you’re good. Take the test and everything.” I go to my first interview, and the guy said, “It looks good, but you have too many tickets.” I said, “What do you mean I have ‘too many tickets?’ I talked to these people at Macon and they told me that my driving record is good.” He said, “Man, I can’t use you. You’ve got too many tickets.” I said, “I know what I’m going to do. I’m going back down to Macon to straighten this out.” I went back down to Macon and got another ticket. [laughs]
Now I’m sitting there in the car, and I’m saying to myself, “Lord, what do you want me to do?” He said, “Go home. Enroll in school.” I went home and went to the schoolhouse and enrolled in school and I started the very next day. That’s what he wanted me to do, and I signed up for automotive technology. They thought that I was the best thing since ice cream. I was just doing what I know, and they were like, “Nobody like you has ever come through here.” I kept saying, “Man, all these mechanics...” They said, “Look, no one like you has ever come through here.” I would get my grades and throw them on the table. When it came time to graduate, the instructor walked up to me and gave me these papers and said, “Fill these out.” I looked at the papers and they said, “National Honors Society.” I said, “You got the wrong person. Wait a minute now. National Honors Society means that I’m going to wear a white gown. You got the wrong person.” The guy said, “No. you haven’t seen your grade point average.” I said, “Well, what is it?” He said, “It’s 4.2.” I said, “4.2? How do you get 4.2?” I built a car, and that’s how I got 4.2.
This young lady and I were in the class, and I guess we were neck-to-neck and it got to the end of the class, and I said, “I’ll know what I’ll do. I’ll just build a car. You know, I’ll just put the engine in, and the transmission and everything.” They said, “You ain’t going to be able to do that.” I looked them and said, “Y’all don’t know.” I built that car and I didn’t realize they were looking at me, because I would go to the end of the hall, where the car was, so I could work on it. But they were looking. Finally, I finished it and I stood there and looked at it. I put the key in and fired it up and it looked like everybody came out of the woodwork and it looked like everybody came out and started clapping and everything. I was like, Wow. [laughs] So I filled out the papers and was part of the National Honors Society.
I was floored. I didn’t think that was me. As they finished with the National Honors Society, they said, “Now we’re going to name the Student of the Year.” And they’re going on about this guy and they’re just talking about how great he is and how good he is and I’m saying to myself, This guy must be—goodness, boy. This guy really did good[sic]. They just kept talking until they said, “The Student of the Year is Billy Hardy.” And I’m sitting there and they’re just clapping and hollering, and I’m sitting there, because it didn’t hit me yet. and somebody said to me, “They just called your name.” I looked around at the instructor and walked up to the podium and said, “Y’all said all that about me?” I was like, Wow. I’ve been doing it ever since he blessed me to open up a shop. I worked at the dealership and a couple of other shops and then he blessed me with my own shop.
Thompson
Were you in contact with him when he was in the service?
Black
No. It really was 50 years. It was 50 years last year since we saw each other. It’s been a year now.
Hardy
When I left, I left. I’d come home and ride in and ride out.
Black
I wouldn’t see him though. We still lived in the same places, but we didn’t contact each other. The separation was my doing. I did it because of what was going on in my home. He and I were so close that I knew what he knew. The separation was me not wanting to ruin him by telling him what was happening to me all those years.
Thompson
Okay. If you want to tell that. We have 14 minutes left.
Black
I’m the one that started to walk ahead. I would look over the corner to see if he had come out. If he hadn’t, I would shoot out so I would be ahead. That was because I decided not to tell him what was going on. He was quiet and I could just tell he wouldn’t have known what to do with that information. This had already been happening to me for six years at that point, and we had played together up until that point, so I had to make a decision. It wasn’t until all these years later that I could tell him why.
Thompson
You can tell that if you’d like to.
Black
I had been being molested every week by a family friend in my home or wherever he would drive me to. At one point, Billy and I were playing and he dared me not to do something to him. and I was always hitting on him and everything, because he’s always been a whole lot bigger than me and he dared me this time. He always let me have my way, but this time he was saying, “Oh, you better not do that.” I knew he was serious, but I also knew I was his girl and he was going to let me get away with it. so I did real quickly and I ran across to my yard and he came running after me. The guy that was molesting me was standing there and I ran into the house and as Billy was running to come up behind me, the man hit him. and when I looked back I realized the man was really fixed on me. Billy got up to come after me again, not knowing why this strong man that he didn’t know would punch him like that, and he punched him again. so I knew I had to leave him alone. I made the decision to walk ahead.
Thompson
Did he hurt him?
Hardy
He hit me pretty good. I was just a little fella. If I find him again—I don’t know. I remember clearly how he did that, and I couldn’t have done anything, because this guy was swinging some hammers. He knocked me down about three times and the only thing I could do was get up and go home, you know?
Black
I couldn’t look anymore. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know if to tell him that this is what the guy was doing. For me, I let Billy go. I didn’t want to mess him up or leave him thinking he had to save me or something, so I did that. The girls didn’t do that. I was the one that said, “Here comes Billy. Walk a little faster.” The girls didn’t even know why. It was very painful for both of us.
At the age of six, he and I were playing make-believe, and the aunt that he was talking about saw us and called my mother. And at six years old, I got the beating of my life. It was my molester that went and caught me and brought me back, and my mother beat me with a leather belt. and when she stopped swinging me around, I got introduced to shame. The guy was standing there and he watched me get the beating, and from there, he began to touch me and became my friend. So I thought I was saving Billy at that time.
We would still go to school, but we ignored the feelings we had for each other. We were in love at six years old. We went to the store on one of the lawnmowers that he hadn’t fixed yet. I have no idea where I learned any of that from. But for me, the separation was very difficult. because your friend doesn’t know what is going on and I just couldn’t tell him or anybody else.
Thompson
And for how long did that go on?
Black
For 11 years. I was 17. By the time. But by that time, our lives had gone in different directions.
Thompson
When did you go to the military?
Hardy
In ’76. After football season I said, “It’s time to go.”
Black
I never did try to contact him all these years. I wouldn’t ask his sisters or anybody where he was. I just always prayed to God that one day, I could see him again. and, lo and behold, that was last year. It was always in me, because the day after, he never asked me, “What happened to you?” We never asked each other that. I believe that if he had asked me that, it would have given me a chance to say. But since we didn’t—by the time we’re 12, I’m trying to protect him. I had determined, through all those years, that if my name ever came out of his mouth, I would go.
It was 50 years later, and he was talking to a cousin, and he asked about me and she called me in New York and told me, “Billy was asking about you. He wants your number.” And I asked, “My Billy?” She said, “Yeah.” I said, “Billy boy? My Billy boy?” And I started to cry and asked her, “’Tricia, is it my Billy boy?” And she kept saying, “Yes.” Even she knew what it was. She asked, “Do you want me to give him your number?” I said, “No. give me his.” It had been long enough. I called him immediately, and, probably to his annoyance, I called him every day since then [laughs].
My father owned a school bus, a big truck, and a car. The bus was to carry the people up North and the yard was always full. The backyard was where Daddy kept all his vehicles was actually right in his view.
Hardy
So I knew when they came from up North. When the trucks and the buses were out there, I knew she was back. We were like Forrest Gump and Jenny [laughs].
Thompson
This was just wonderful and I’d love to do it again.
Morris
This is an interview with Charles Whittington. This interview is being conducted on the 18th of November, 2011, at the Museum of Seminole County History. The interviewer is Joseph Morris, representing the Linda McKnight Batman Oral History Project for the Historical Society of Central Florida. Sir, could you tell us about where and when you were born?
Whittington
Yes, I was born in Seminole County, in Sanford, at the old Fernald-Laughton Sanford Hospital, and that was in March of 1938. The building is still standing, and the last time I was by there, it was used as a—I believe it was a halfway house of sorts. I’m not really sure, and I’m not well-informed on that, but that was my understanding. But it is still there. It’s across from the old Sanford library.
Morris
Okay, sir, and can you describe the place where you grew up?
Whittington
Yes, my dad owned a Sinclair [Oil Corporation] gas station on the corner of [South] Park Avenue and [East] Second [Street], and we had a little home on Oak Avenue.
When World War II broke out in 1942, my dad was offered a job as a machinist in the Navy shipyard[1] in Charleston, South Carolina. And we moved up there, and my dad worked in the division of the shipyard that later became the test bed for our first nuclear research into nuclear-powered ships. And it was highly classified and very structured, and he didn’t understand why at the time. and I didn’t either, until later, realized that no wonder was it top secret—I mean, because this was our first involvement in nuclear research for, you know, powering anything.
And then, in the latter part of 1943, my dad had saved enough money to come back here and buy a farm. We bought a little 13-acre farm on Richmond Avenue, and moved down there. And my dad—it was sort of a lifelong dream for him—went into farming. And at that time, primarily we grew celery, and corn and cabbage, other crops that could be shipped up north.
But the days of the small farmer in Seminole County, toward the end of that decade—the end of the ‘40s—was starting pretty rapidly to come to an end. The soil was worn out, and much of the farming had moved to the Everglades, to the area around Lake Okeechobee. And my dad hung on, and tried to make it, and he finally realized that we were going under, and this just wasn’t going to do it for us. And we sold the farm, and moved to Pasco County, down near Tampa, and he got back into the poultry industry there and did, you know, quite well.
But I hated to leave. I loved Sanford. I loved being raised on a small farm, and it was a big disappointment for me to leave Sanford, especially in my sophomore year in high school. The two schools were just as, you know, much different as night and day—the high school here and the high school down there. The one down there wouldn’t come anywhere near the quality of what we had here in Sanford, and I missed that very much. And I come back to Seminole County as often as I can, and that’s why I’m here today, for this interview and also to meet with some former classmates. And I still feel like this is my hometown, but it’s also, if anyone asks me where I’m from it’s always Sanford, not Zephyrhills.
Morris
Okay, sir. And you said your dad, prior to World War II, he ran or owned a...
Whittington
A Sinclair gas station.
Morris
A gas station. What happened to that when he moved to South Carolina for the machinist job?
Whittington
Okay. He sold it to someone else, and the station now is the office of Edward Jones Investment Agency, and Bill Kirchhoff had that, and I believe he has been here and talked to you folks. And he and I are good friends. Matter of fact, I’ve got a tractor radiator cap for him. I’ve got to get to him after our interview.
Morris
Okay, sir.
Whittington
But his dad was involved in the overall agricultural structure of Seminole County during the time that we had the farm on Richmond Avenue. He raised gladiolas in Florida and also in New York, and I think he even had some farms on the West Coast, and he would, you know, follow seasons. And also there was a problem with a little microbe in the soil here called a “nematode” that was not present in the soil of New York, because, you know, the soil freezes up there in the winter and kills these things. And here it doesn’t freeze, and these little guys do pretty well, and they really wreak havoc on both celery plants and gladiola bulbs.
Morris
These were nematodes, you said?
Whittington
Nematodes. Right. It’s a little microbe, and they attack the roots of the young plants.
Morris
How did you counter those when you were farming?
Whittington
You would flood the area. You would dam in a little area of the farm that would be the area for the seed beds, where the young celery plants were growing, and flood it for about two and a half weeks. And just keep, you know, a couple inches of water on it, with the well running in there, you know, all the time, and keep the water in there for about two and a half weeks. And that would kill the nematodes in this area, and you would raise your young celery plants in seed beds in this area. And once the plants caught up to, you know, a height of like three or four inches, they could deal with these little bugs. But it was the little bitty plants that they would go after.
Morris
And when they were the little bitty plants, that’s when you flooded, or did you flood and then plant?
Whittington
No. You flooded, then planted.
Morris
Okay.
Whittington
You would flood, drain it, and form the seed beds, and plant those. And I’ve got pictures I’ll send you too. You had to put muslin covers over the seed beds, because when the plants first came up, they were very sensitive to sun. So you had to keep them covered during the hot part of the day, and in the afternoon you would open the side of the cover, along all the way, halfway through the field, and let air, fresh air and sunlight in, with the sun over here, and in the morning, you would open, you know, the back side, other side, west side, and get air and sunlight in there. But not direct sunlight, because they were very, very—a celery plant is a very tender little guy when it’s, you know, when it’s an inch high.
Morris
Okay. And the sun would just be too strong for it early on?
Whittington
If you just opened it up, they couldn’t handle it.
Morris
Did you have to do that when they, when the little celery grew up, or...
Whittington
No. Once the celery got to a height of maybe two or three inches, then you could take the cover off, and it was okay then. But it was just when they were first starting, first coming up, that they were so sensitive to the sun.
Morris
Okay. What other kinds of problems did you have while raising celery, other than the sunlight, and other than the microbes? Was there any other kind of difficulty that you found out about?
Whittington
Well, the main difficulty would be weather during the, you know, winter months, when you planted celery—typically wasn’t an issue. But the real issue was the market price of the celery when you harvested it. You know, if it was good, why, you did okay. And if it was bad, you know, it was just another bad year.
Morris
What affected these—what would change from year to year that would make it a good year or a bad year for selling celery?
Whittington
Well, just the market price in New York. That was where we shipped. We shipped from the Sanford [State] Farmers’ Market, usually to New York and that—you know, the New England area. And it was just the price of celery up there that, you know, was whether you made it that year or not. And we had too many of the had-not years.
Morris
Oh, really?
Whittington
Yeah.
Morris
Okay. And what was your involvement? Like how old were you when you moved to the farm? And what was your involvement while you lived there?
Whittington
Well, I was five years old when we moved there, and we started farming. We started farming with a pair of mules. [laughs] Now this is how far back it goes. We used mules for plowing and discing and so forth.
And after this, we bought a Model F Fordson tractor. I’ve got a picture of this, and there are several online now. And my dad would let me drive it, but it was so hard to steer, until I was about 12 years old, I could not turn it around at the end of the row. It took that much power to turn the steering wheel. And also, I didn’t weigh enough to push the clutch in. The clutch was the lever that stuck out of the transfer case, and you had to press down on it, and I could stand on it, and it wouldn’t go anywhere. [laughs] So, obviously, I couldn’t operate the Fordson by myself.
Morris
Right.
Whittington
We later got rid of that and got a Model 8N Ford, and that’s the radiator cap for the one I have in my car, and it was, you know, had power steering and the hydraulic lift in the back, and so forth. And so, I did a lot of plowing, and discing, and running the tractor. That was, you know—10 years on, I did a lot of it. That was my part of helping.
Morris
No planting or harvesting necessarily?
Whittington
No. We—for harvesting the celery crops, we usually used crews of labor that we would hire locally. And they would plant the celery, and also cabbage or couple other plants that required—you know, physical planting—and then they would also do the harvesting and packing. And you contacted a crew leader, a team leader, and contracted with him to do the harvesting in your field. And we were just responsible really for, you know, making certain that the celery—if it was celery, or whatever the crop—was sprayed, in case there was any kind of a blight or a fungus, or some sort of an insect problem, that we sprayed it with the proper spray, and that we fertilized it, and also cultivated the rows to keep the weeds down, and it was a very labor-intensive occupation.
And I was very upset with my dad, especially in the later years, because he could’ve stayed on forever. He already had his foot in the door in the nuclear—the government nuclear involvement in the Military, and he didn’t even know it. I mean, he knew he was under a very tight security environment, but he didn’t know why. But he was an excellent machinist. He was moved up shop chief in no time at all, making good money, but his dream was always to come back to Sanford and own a farm. And, I mean, it was quite obvious by the end of, you know, the ‘40s, that the farming here was in trouble. And, you know, in later years, I thought, “Why couldn’t you have just stayed in Charleston with the Navy?” And, you know, gotten a civil service retirement. And we wouldn’t have, you know, been in the situation that we found ourselves in here. Although, like I say, I do really love Sanford, and loved growing up here.
Morris
Okay. A little bit of a catch-22.
Whittington
Yeah. That’s a very good comparison there.
Morris
Now, you said you moved here—you moved to Sanford when you were five.
Whittington
Uh huh.
Morris
How long was your dad a machinist for the Navy? Because I know when he moved up to South Carolina, you must have been only a couple years old.
Whittington
Right. Well, I was born in ’38, and we moved up there in ’42.
Morris
Okay.
Whittington
And he worked for about 18 months, and put everything aside. And that was enough to buy that farm, and so we came back. And that—and plus he had sold the gas station by this time, and he had some income from that, and so he put it all in that farm and getting some equipment, and…
Morris
Mules.
Whittington
Yeah. Mules. He had mules, and then the Fordson and then the Model 8N Ford, which I’m trying to find—got a couple leads on it—but I’d like to learn how to get some pictures of it.
Morris
Okay. So I’m kind of surprised, because when you moved to Sanford, World War II was still going on.
Whittington
Right.
Morris
And they didn’t have a problem, coming from a very heavily secured area, and during World War II, an able-bodied man—I’m surprised they just—that he was able to leave his job and become a farmer.
Whittington
That’s an excellent point, and I would be surprised at it except that farming was a fairly high-priority occupation, as far as the government was concerned, because you were feeding, you know, you were feeding the population, and providing some foods that could be used in preparation of foods for the—you know, our military. So that was effective. We came back here, and we’re going into farming wasn’t a problem. And he had—my dad had served in World War I in France.
Morris
Oh, okay.
Whittington
And he was past the draft age. So that was something else too. I mean, he was too old for, you know, for required military service.
Morris
Okay. And what was the cap at this time for age? The age cap before you could no longer be drafted?
Whittington
Joe, I don’t remember exactly. I think somewhere in the 30s—like 35?
Morris
Oh, okay.
Whittington
I believe that was it. I’ll do some checking, get back to you on that.
Morris
All right. Thank you, sir.
Whittington
I believe that was in, you know, mid-30s.
Morris
I was a little surprised they’d let such an excellent machinist, you know, leave so easily.
Whittington
Well…
Morris
Unless they put up a fight trying to entice him and keep him to stay. But it just seemed, during World War II, to let him go to farming—I mean, maybe they didn’t have any say in the matter, as well. That’s just where my question was going.
Whittington
Right. And I really wish that, of the many things you want to go back and ask your parents, something I’d really like to talk to my dad about is why you left. I mean, was farming that important to you, that you would leave, you know, a high-tech, high-paying, secure job like that, and go back into something that, you know, almost going in it was a known gamble, because there was problems with weather, insects, and, you know, always the market fluctuations?
Morris
Did he like his career as a machinist?
Whittington
Yes. He did. I mean, he liked that very much, but it didn’t have the pull that, you know, being his own boss in farming did.
Morris
I guess maybe it could have been just his own culture growing up, attached significance to farming and independence.
Whittington
Right. Well, he was raised on a farm in North Carolina.
Morris
Oh, okay.
Whittington
So, you know, that was his—where his roots were. He wanted to get back into it down here. And, of course, you know, in the ‘30s, Sanford couldn’t produce enough celery. I mean, it was the celery capital of the world.
Morris
Right.
Whittington
And some of that aura sort of hung over for quite some time, that, you know— “Oh, get a farm and get celery growing. You’ll get rich.” Well, that didn’t always work out that way.
Morris
Shoot.
Whittington
But, anyway, that was…
Morris
How long did your family own the farm?
Whittington
We sold the farm in 1950, and he leased another farm, and we stayed on ‘til 1953, and at Christmas that year, my sophomore year in high school, we left and went to Zephyrhills.
Morris
So how long did you live, then, in Sanford, from the first farm up until that, 1953?
Whittington
Okay. I was born here, and we lived here until we left in 1942, and then—the early part of 1942—and then toward the latter part of 1943, we came back. So I was only gone, like 18 months.
Morris
Okay.
Whittington
And then we stayed here until 1953, and I was a sophomore in high school at that time.
Morris
Okay, sir. Then, I know we talked a little bit about your father. Could you tell me more about your parents and any kind of siblings?
Whittington
I had one sister that was 17 years older than I was, and she graduated from Florida State [University], which was Florida [State] College for Women back then, with a degree in education. And she went to Melbourne and got a teaching job there, and when World War II started, the City of Melbourne offered her the directorship of the USO that they’d built in Melbourne for the, mainly the sailors, because there’s a lot of Navy and Coast Guard. You know, all these war activities at that time in that area. And so, Melbourne built a USO and offered my sister a job to run that, and she took it and did that until the war ended.
And my dad had a couple years of mechanical engineering at NC [North Carolina] State [University], and that’s why he did well at Charleston, because he had that—already had some college training in, you know, the math end of mechanical engineering. Well, it’s primarily math. But, the, you know, his roots in North Carolina—being raised on a small farm—just were too strong, and he wanted to go back to it. Plus, he just—he had the problem that a lot of folks have of not wanting to work for somebody else. That’s why he ran the gas station is because, you know, he was his own boss there, and, you know, he could hire somebody else to help him, but he didn’t report to anybody else. He was his own station, and he ran it the way he wanted to.
Morris
Okay. And what about your mother, sir?
Whittington
My mother helped my dad a lot. I mean, farming was sort of a family thing that you got into, because, I mean, there was just so much work to be done, that my mother frequently would help, not only, you know, taking care of running the home, but she would actually physically help with some of the labor on the farm itself. And I didn’t like that. It just seemed wrong that a woman should be, you know, having to make ends meet, to have to work, you know, on the farm. Even though it was not really heavy labor work. It was the fact that she still had to chip in and help us to make it. That bothered me. But she did, and never complained about it. But it was, you know—it was something that many families here did. The whole family was involved in farming. And I didn’t mind, you know, running the tractor at all. I liked it. I mean, that was [laughs]—especially the Ford that I could handle, not the big Ford, but the little one that was newer.
Morris
Well, sir, how has Sanford changed over the years, from…
Whittington
Sorry?
Morris
How has Sanford changed over the years?
Whittington
How’s it changed?
Morris
From when you grew up to how it is now, sir.
Whittington
Oh, okay. Well, the change that I noticed when I first came back was the decline of the downtown area, which is so typical of many small towns. The shopping moves out to shopping centers in the suburbs, and that has happened to me—that Downtown Sanford’s the perfect example of it. Because we had, downtown, we had a Firestone store and a JCPenney, and Lerner Clothing Store, and a McCrory’s Five and Dime [Store]—I can’t think of—two hardware stores, some regional area chain department stores, and two banks. And it was just, you know, it was a very functional little downtown area.
And you could see that starting to go. You know, stores would close and be empty, and then somebody else would try something else in it. It wouldn’t make it. Now, it’s a lot of antique shops down there, and that’s about it. I mean, that’s that whole main street, is antique shops. And I didn’t like to see that. The old telephone company was over the JCPenney store. There was an old manual switchboard with operators on the second floor of the JCPenney building, and then there was the Thudson[?] Drugstore on one corner, and the Roman Anderson[?] Drugstore on the other. There were no Target or pharmacy or CVS, any of those. You know, there were none of the chain stores. The Eckerd chain was the first one down here—Eckerd and Walgreens. But, you know, during my growing up years, those two were places that you hung out, and you could get a hamburger and a malt, or, you know, whatever. And, also, there was a pharmacy there. And I hated to see those go, because that was, you know, that was just a very active part of Sanford.
Morris
Okay, sir. And where have you lived over the course of your life?
Whittington
Well, after I got discharged from the hospital following that jet accident in the Air Force, I immediately went right back to the Cape [Canaveral] and applied to NASA [National Aeronautics and Space Administration] and got on. This was during the Gemini program.[2] I got on at the flight simulator over at the Cape. And I worked the NASA contracts. I was at Houston[, Texas] twice. I was in Ecuador for one time, and then a tracking station in the Smokey Mountains, and was there through, well, after the end of the Skylab program. When that ended, and the shuttle program wasn’t yet, you know—we’d gone to the Moon and done that thing with the Apollo series, and the shuttles weren’t flying it, so there was a massive layoff. I got caught in that.
And I got into the telecom industry, and followed that all over the country as a contractor. And I found that I could—of course, you weren’t building any pension or retirement—but I found that I could make more money than a company employee. I could make more money as a contractor if I was willing to move around. And you just had to discipline yourself, and put aside what otherwise would have been your retirement from the company. And I did that and did all right. And I liked to travel. But I ended up in an ISP [Internet service provider] Internet hosting outfit in Seattle[, Washington], and was doing that when I retired in 2001. You know, the travel and, you know, the change, the challenges of new jobs, and being able to go to a new area and move into the new company and a new job—that part of moving around was attractive to me.
Morris
What kind of places did you move, sir? For example?
Whittington
Okay. I was in San Francisco[, California], and was there during the earthquake, and was in Los Angeles[, California], and then in the Seattle area for about 10 years. and then, prior to that, I had moved around just for, like, a few months at a time, in various places all over the U.S.—Indianapolis[, Indiana] and Chicago, Illinois]—you know, for like maybe six weeks or two months at a time on just a contract job. And, it was interesting, but I was single then, and just pull up and move without any real concern. It was okay.
Morris
You said you liked to travel, sir. Have you ever traveled outside of the country? Or—vacation travel?
Whittington
Yes. Yes. I have. I’ve traveled to, well, the South America travel was mainly as a function of the Military and NASA time. But I’ve traveled to England, and done the Hawaiian Islands, was in Israel in Tel Aviv for five weeks for a company school. And that was an eye-opener. That really was. I mean, I got a good look at the Holy Land. It was [laughs]—it was a lot different than I expected. It really was.
Morris
How so, sir?
Whittington
Well, those people have got an unreal—I’m talking about the Israelis—have got an unreal work ethic. I mean, if they are asked to work 24 hours a day, and there’s a need for it, they’ll do it, and no griping. You don’t find that very much in the U.S.
I mean, they are very, very much—uh, I can’t really express myself here—loyal to Israel, and to their faith, and to the country. I mean, just, you know, they’ve got a country, and they’re going to hang onto it now. And the [laughs], the guys around them had better not mess with them. I can say that from being there, and being in the technology. I know what they’ve got. And they can—the guys around them can end up a big smoking hole in the ground over there, if, you know, they push Israel too hard.
Morris
All right, sir.
WhittingtonThey might hurt Israel too, but they’ll come out the losers.
Morris
And have you travelled anywhere else, sir, for work or vacation? You said South America. What countries in South America?
Whittington
Okay. I’ve been over a good bit of England, and I was in Alaska, and was in the Army up there. I liked that, but I’ve been back just as a tourist with my wife, and took my in-laws up there. And the Hawaiian Islands several times. I’ve not done China. I’d like to see China. I really would. And that’s kind of the feeling I got, because there was a contract. The Chinese were going to completely replace their aging landline system with a…
Morris
Towers?
Whittington
With a tower network.
Morris
Okay.
Whittington
Yeah. With towers, and cell phones. And several different companies had some pretty good contracts over there, if you’d go and stay for as long as you could take it. But, some of the places I heard about, you know, they were all right, and some were pretty Spartan—I mean, food and accommodations. And you having been there, you probably would validate some of that. I don’t know.
Morris
Some of it, sir. When was this going on? When were these contracts for landlines or...
Whittington
Okay. The contracts for China were, like, in the mid-‘90s.
Morris
Okay, sir.
Whittington
There was some openings there, and that kind of moved around. It would change a lot, and I never could get somebody to, you know, sit down with me and say, “Okay,” you know, “here’s what we can offer you, and here’s when you leave.” And I never was able to find it at that point. Perhaps it’s a good thing. But anyway, I’ve not been there. I’ve met a good friend my wife worked with in San Francisco and Seattle that is from Ethiopia—not Ethiopia. [sighs] Can’t say it. Starts with “E,” and it’s part of the Soviet Union. Oh, fiddle.
Morris
Is this in Africa or Asia?
Whittington
No, it’s in…
Morris
Oh, is it Estonia?
Whittington
Yeah. Estonia. [laughs]
Morris
Oh, okay.
Whittington
I couldn’t say it. And he’s gone back to Russia several times, and the pictures and so forth. And the stories I got from when I would talk to him afterwards, I don’t really have any desire to travel in Russia. And that’s not one of the things I want to do. I want to do Europe first, and really work it over really good, and Hong Kong and Japan. Those are ones that I really wanna [laughs]…
Morris
They’re both very nice. Sir, are you still working right now?
Whittington
No. I’m retired now.
Morris
Okay. How long have you been retired, sir?
Whittington
I retired in 2001.
Morris
Okay. And what have you been doing to, you know, kill your time since then, sir?
Whittington
Okay. I’m very much into researching my ancestry—into genealogy. I’ve got a solid trace back to, now, I don’t if you’ve ever heard of this, the story of Dick Woodington and his cat.
Morris
No, sir.
Whittington
But this was a guy who was Lord Mayor of London four different times. And anyway, he was a far-distant cousin, and I’ve gone 200 years past him, with a solid trace back, and that was a lot of fun. And I think I’ve got my own family tree built now. I’m working my wife’s, and just anybody else that pops up. I thought, “Well, let’s just see what,” you know, “theirs looks like.” That’s a lot of fun.
I’ve been in ham radio for, since, well, it was 11 years old, and that technology keeps advancing. I mean, we were digital before digital phones were, you know, the thing. We were bouncing, you know, signals off the Moon, communicating that way. We’ve got a whole bunch of satellites up. Not our satellites, but we’ve got ham radio, we would piggyback on a lot of satellites that are up there. So you can send up with a little handheld and talk to somebody on the other side of the earth. And that, to me, is fascinating. So that’s been something that’s kept me really busy with my time—is ham radio.
And my wife and I like to travel, and, you know, if we get a few days that we can see we can get away to do something, we get in the car and go. And that’s, you know—we had a great big map when we were in California, a huge, plasticized, ceiling-to-floor map of the whole state. And when I was there, I was able to take off, you know, and be gone for a week at a time, with no charge against any vacation time, because I was on-duty 7 by 24 out there. They didn’t require that much support, but I had to be there. So if I wanted to leave, they’d fly one of the managers out there to watch my equipment, because it was a little vacation for him to San Francisco, and we’d take off. And we went to little towns that we’d just find this map and say, “Let’s go there this weekend.” And we’d go to little towns in California that the average Californian had never heard of, and go spend the night, or sometimes not spend the night. Just go, come back. The travel was a big thing out there, especially in the mountains. Of course, California’s got a lot of them, and that was an interesting thing.
Morris
Okay, sir.
Whittington
I was involved in the Voyager aircraft project that flew around the world, non-refueled, nonstop. It was the bird [Burt] Rutan designed. Canard, weird-looking airplane. And I worked on that for about two and a half months, or two and a half years, as a volunteer on the staff for the world-record flight, and they wanted me for my NASA background, because I knew how to solder without putting a lot of weight in the airplane and solder. Because they proved that if you improperly—if the crews that built the big Saturn [inaudible] spacecraft that we used to go to the Moon—they used too much solder—you could end up with five tons of solder in the spacecraft, that it would never get off the pad. And, so there’s a very finite point in soldering where you can, you have just barely enough but not too much solder, and I had instructors for hand-soldering for, you know, air space flight hardware. And the Voyager crew wanted me for that reason, because I could keep the weight down. We put something in the plane in the wiring—in the way it’s hooked up.
Morris
And when’s this again, sir? Like, can you give me a time frame?
Whittington
This was from, like, ’84 through, the plane flew in ’87. It was those years.
Morris
Okay, sir.
Whittington
And they were up for just under 10 days, but they flew all the way around, you know, nonstop, from Edwards Air Force Base, back to Edwards Air Force Base, in California, nonstop and non-refueled.
Morris
Did you enjoy working for NASA and with NASA projects?
Whittington
Oh, yeah. Yeah. I was very much into that, and I also enjoyed the work when I was assigned to Patrick [Air Force Base] over at the Cape, because we were supporting the NASA effort, and we were right on the cutting-edge of everything there. And that was extremely, extremely fascinating and challenging. And it was the kind of a job you’d go into early, not to be on overtime—‘cause you couldn’t just go clock in arbitrarily—but just to be part of it. And I worked the midnight shift, and a lot of times I’d still be over there at noon just hanging around, watching stuff. You know, just to be part of it, and, you know, you’d realize, “Hey, I’ve got to go home and get some sleep.” And sometimes they’d run you out, when there were too many of us hanging around, but it was extremely fascinating.
Morris
And, sir, you mentioned your wife. How long have you been married, and who is she? Where did you meet her?
Whittington
Okay. My first wife I met here locally. She was from Plant City, and we were married 16 years, and got a divorce. I was divorced 12 years, and I met my second wife in Zephyrhills, and she was with a company in California that provided mortgage insurance—was part of this thing. It kept the housing bubble sort of going, because it allowed you to buy a home with mortgage insurance instead of a much larger down payment. And it was a good concept. There was nothing under-handed about it. But anyway, she had 20 years with them, and she was in charge of a team that would go to the various offices around the country and underwrite, you know, maybe 500 loans at one time. They’d be there a week, and as such, you know, they flew constantly, and we always had a whole stack of frequent flyer tickets on the dresser. And we flew to England, to Ecuador, to Hawaii, to Alaska twice, on frequent flyer passes [laughs]. And took her folks to Alaska. And she enjoyed her work and enjoyed the travel, and I enjoyed being able to grab those tickets and say, “Let’s go to jolly old England.” [laughs]
Morris
That must have been very convenient.
Whittington
It was.
Morris
And do you have any children, sir?
Whittington
Yes. I do. I have a daughter and two boys. And my daughter lives in Brooksville, and the boys are in the Atlanta[, Georgia] area.
Morris
What are their names and ages, sir?
Whittington
Okay. My daughter is 46 now, and the oldest boy is 44, and the youngest one is 37. So they’re getting up there.
Morris
Are they all from the first marriage?
Whittington
All from the first marriage. Right.
Morris
Okay, sir. And, okay. Are they doing anything similar to what you did?
Whittington
No. My daughter worked as a—she did hematology studies for Smith Klein Beacham in veterinary medicine. And I thought she was going to stay with it, because it was, you know, an excellent field, and she got out, and got into, of all things, running a business, and she’s got a fairly large one. But have you noticed on the freeways, you’ll see a large load being hauled on the freeway, and there’s a truck ahead of it with a flashing light?
Morris
Mm-hm.
Whittington
Called a pilot car?
Morris
Yes, sir.
Whittington
Well, she has a pilot car operation in Brooksville, and she’s the biggest company east of the Mississippi. And she covers the whole country, because she’s got contract drivers for her all over the country. That one driver can take the load from here to there, and then somebody else picks it up and goes on. And she even had a contract with NASA to escort those solid rocket boosters from the West Coast to the Cape. [laughs] And, you know, this was—she said, “Well, Dad will be proud of this.” And I was. And she asked—they would always—when they would ship these boosters back, they would send two engineers from the plant with them, because they were very critical insofar as temperature and pressures and so forth went, even though they were solid fuel. And one of the engineers told her one time, he said, “If you see smoke coming out of the casing for one of those boosters, run.” And she said, “Right, sir! But let me ask a question: which way?” [laughs] And I thought her sarcastic humor was a little bit funny, because, really, which way is it gonna go if it pops, you know? But, anyway, she does that.
And the oldest boy, regrettably, had a stroke a couple years ago, and his, you know—he won’t be working anymore. And the young one works for a granite quarry in Atlanta—the north side of Atlanta—and is driving a truck, a dump truck. [laughs] So…
Morris
Very eclectic.
Whittington
Yeah. But he’s still—even in this economy, he’s still staying employed. So, you know, more power to him. [laughs]
Morris
Definitely, sir. Could you tell us a little about your military experience?
Whittington
Military experience. The first one—I was in the Army, and they sent me to Indianapolis for court reporter training, and I thought, “Wow,” you know, “A court reporter!” And after four months there, learning to transcribe, you know, court proceedings, they sent three of us to Alaska, and we got up there, and they had civil service court reporters and no need for us. So they assigned me to the Army dock in Downtown Anchorage[, Alaska], and it was one of those dream tours that you get one of in the service. There were seven of us assigned there. There was a captain, and two NCOs [non-commissioner officer], and the rest of us were enlisted.
And during the summer months, when the port was open and—you know, real busy, you’d work sometimes 36 hours straight, and during the winter months, when it was froze up and closed, you’d pull secure watch for 24 hours and, you know, you were off 48. Well, it wasn’t missile science for us to get together and say, “Hey guys, let’s pull it for a week straight and take two weeks off.” [laughs] So I lived to ski though. I did. I loved skiing, and during winter months, you know, I’d work my week and then that was it. They wouldn’t see me again until two weeks’ time went by.
Morris
You would have to be awake for a week straight, sir?
Whittington
Oh, you wouldn’t have to be awake. You’d just have to be on-duty there. The place was closed up and frozen over really. And you just had to be there and answer the phone. That’s all.
Morris
Okay, sir.
Whittington
And also pull fire watch, and whatever.
Morris
No. I understand.
Whittington
But you didn’t do anything. There were only two TV stations in Anchorage at that time. [laughs]
Morris
Got a lot of reading done, sir?
Whittington
Yeah. You did a lot of reading.
Morris
Caught up on world events?
Whittington
[laughs] But anyway, I should have stayed in. I mean, I was—I made E[nlisted Rank]-4 after 18 months. and I had my private license at that time, and if you had any college at all—I had one year at Southern—Florida Southern [College]—you could apply for the warrant officer program, go to Fort Rucker, Alabama, and get helicopter training. And I always wanted a rotary wing rating. I mean, I wanted a chopper rating. But some little voice said, “Don’t do it.” Because if I had, I’d have been one of the first Huey pilots in [the] Vietnam [War].
Morris
Yeah.
Whittington
One of the first, ‘cause this was in 1959, and I would have gotten through warrant officer school and flight training by about 1961, and Vietnam was just starting to stir about then. And a good friend from high school here was the first commissioned officer killed in Vietnam, Terry Cordell. First one killed over there. And I knew Terry. He was our football captain, and he was a senior, and I was a freshman. Just a real nice guy. But flying an observation plane, got shot down. That was the end of Terry.
Morris
And then you got out of the Army. What after that, sir?
Whittington
Went out of the Army in 1959, and enlisted in the Air Force in ’62, and was in there until July ’64, when I got the medical discharge. And I was actually [laughs] —I don’t even like to tell people about it, but in—when I saw the end of the NASA thing coming, the Army had a program at that time called “Stripes for Skills,” and they offered me an E-5 and choice of assignment, which I took Denver, Colorado—but based on my NASA background. They wanted somebody that had some satellite experience, and so the deal was that I go through a little three-week refresher basic, and then would be assigned to Denver, Colorado, as an E-5. And they enlisted my wife at the same time. This was my first wife. She had court reporter experience, and they would put her through the same program, and she would have to go through the full wide basic, but they would assign us to both to go to the same base, and as much as they could, you know, in the military, would keep us together.
But at that time, I’d had a medical discharge, I had three kids, I was overage, I had all kind of disqualifiers. And a retired general and old-timer [inaudible] there where I was working for NASA, said, “Go to the Pentagon.” And, like a dummy, I climbed in the car, and we headed off to the Pentagon, and got there at eight o’clock in the morning, and got in with the crowd that, you know, was going into work, and I fell in with this bird colonel, and he said, “Where are you going?” And I said, “Well, I need to see the Army G2.” And he says, “Oh, yeah?” [laughs] He couldn’t believe this—me and my wife and three kids. I mean, it blew him away so badly, that he took us and signed us in, and he says, “Stay right here.” And finally, somebody from that office came down, and saw all of us kind of sitting there, and he said, “What do you want?” I said, “I want a waiver for the disqualifiers that are keeping me out of the Minuteman program.” And I talked to the guy for about an hour, and I’ve got the letter that waives my disqualifications to go back in the Army. [laughs] You know, this was after a medical discharge, three kids, and overage.
But anyway, I went to Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, went through this little basic training, which was kind of fun—learning the new weapons and new techniques and stuff. And then, everybody else left, and no assignment. Another guy and I were by ourselves in the outfit, and just the cadre people were still there, and finally, they came through and they said, “We hate to admit it, but the Army has enlisted about 10 people in that career field for every slot we have.” And he said—this was the [inaudible]—said, “We can’t offer you Denver, Colorado.” Or Fort—can’t think of the base there now—but he said, “We can offer you Fort Monmouth, New Jersey, and E-3, and no concurrent assignment with your wife.” And I said, “Or what else?” And he said, “Or a discharge.” And I said, “Let’s go with plan B.” [laughs] So, I mean, I had a very short second enlistment in the Army.
Morris
After all that trouble.
Whittington
After all that trouble, you know.
Morris
Shoot.
Whittington
But I didn’t really like the changes I’d seen in the Army either, at that time. I just don’t know. It just—there was a change in discipline, and attitudes, and stuff, that I would have had trouble with, because of coming from the Army of the late ‘50s to the Army of the mid-‘70s. And, I mean, there were guys, even in the training barracks, sitting in the dark smoking pot, and it was—I mean, I’m not that much against pot, but it was against Army regulations and against common sense. And to think like that, I was just this lad, and it didn’t work out, because I’m sure that would have gotten me in trouble, complaining about it—those kind of issues later on. So it’s just as well that I didn’t end up in that.
Morris
Okay, sir. And was that the end of your military experience then?
Whittington
That was the end of it.
Morris
Okay. Are there any historical events that come to mind, over the course of your entire life, sir? Like anything in your life that you felt like stands out or was, you know—that just changed your world, I guess I could say?
Whittington
Well, being on the biomed[ical] council at Houston for the flight of the Apollo 8, the slingshot flight around the Moon, that to me was, it was just sort of a highlight in my life, because I was part of something that it was a first for us, for the U.S., that we were going to the Moon, and I’ll be in a small part. I was part of it. And I was just so impressed with the guys in the spacecraft. I was watching all their, you know—their biomedical functions, and I had no medical training at all. I was there being able to feed the biomed data that was being stripped out of the calorimetry to anyone in mission control that needed it for any reason. All they did was call me and say, “Give me biomed.” And I could patch that data to them, and I had to keep the equipment that stripped it out of the calorimetry downstream, had to keep that up and running, and it was real fussy stuff, because it was built very hurriedly. But, I was watching all of their, you know, their vital signs, and Frank Borman—Colonel Frank Borman—the mission commander’s pulse at T-2 was 80, and mine was way over 100. I mean, I was wound up. We’re going to the Moon! And, here he’s up there, “Okay, let’s—gonna go?” You know. And I was—I thought, Wow. The ultimate test pilot. You know, the thing could blast into a million pieces. You know, he was ready to take a chance on it.
Morris
Okay, sir. That’s interesting.
Whittington
That was, that’s sort of a highlight, and the time in Israel was, that too was a definite attitude-adjuster for me because, you know, seeing the way those people live, the way they felt about their country, and their faith and everything, it just—and I felt that every American Jew, really—they can’t now, because of the mess over there—but I felt that back then, they should spend some time in the Holy Land and see, you know, where they came from, and get an experience with the people who still lived there. The attitudes over here are a lot more lax and whatever than they are in Israel.
Morris
Definitely, sir. Is there anything you’d like to discuss that we haven’t covered?
Whittington
That’s about it. It’s been a real pleasure discussing this with you.
Morris
Thank you, sir. It’s been a pleasure.
Whittington
And, you know, if you can send me a CD or something, I’d love to have it for the record.
Morris
I will definitely do that, sir.
Whittington
Okay.