Papa and his brothers played for the weddings, the square dances and socials for the community. My papa loved music above all else. A favorite song was "Coon, Coon, Coon, I wish my color would change. I painted my face with white, and had my hair made straight. But still the turtledove in the tree sang Coon, Coon, Coon." Papa sang My Old Kentucky Home, Carry Me Back to Old Virginny, and I Dream of Jeanne.
Sunday evenings at our house featured music by the little band. All those who wished to attend were welcome for listening and dancing. Very few of the Germans showed up. But, no matter, there was an abundance of Smith, Stewart and Manning cousins to enjoy the music. Sometimes a neighbor would arrive with his wind up Victrola and records. We children would marvel at the records spinning and the gravelly sounds coming from the record player.
Occasionally traveling minstrels would approach our back porch. They would begin to play and sing. We caught only glimpses of the musicians in the darkness. Papa would tell Mama to get the last nickel or dime out of her black pocket book. "But Elmer, this is for the church pew rent". "To heck with the pew rent, wifey. These darkies are hungry. They have risked their lives to play for us." Everyone knew that the neighboring Campbell ordinance decreed that no Negroes were to be within ten miles of the town after the sun had gone down. To disobey this was under the threat of a lynching. The rail thin blacks pocketed the coin and disappeared into the darkness as stealthily as they had arrived.
We had other visitors in our community.
On summer days, the gypsies came through Glennonville. They camped at the crossroads. The women wore long colorful dresses in red, orange, green and bright blue. Their dark raven hair and swarthy skins were very different from the blue eyed, fair-haired members of the all-German community. Papa warned us to stay away from the gypsy camps. They captured children to take with them. He herded the pigs, cows and horses into an enclosure close to the house. The warning to stay away did not keep us away. We hid in the ditches and behind the wild rose bushes to watch them. They went about their business of cooking, visiting and sometimes playing fiddles. My brother, a teen, went to the camps, came home and reported that the young men married their sisters. Mama said, "Shame, shame. Don't go down to the camps again." Father Peters was seen paying visits to the camps. He was "the law" in this community. The gypsies were peaceful. No chickens were missing from the chicken coops. The children were not carried off. When they left it was as though they had vanished into the sultry summer air. Not a trace of them remained. Was their presence only a dream? It seems so, now.