"My husband got an eye put out in 1950 and was never the same after
that," Sylvia Maynard said. "In 1957, he went to the hospital and never came
back. He got out of the hospital; he just never came back."
Sylvia was left with 11 children in a little house on top of a mountain
near Inez, Kentucky, in the eastern part of the state. "I drew $150 a month
in state aid, and hated every penny of it," she said. "I hated living on
welfare."
But she had no other choice. Not at first, anyway. She did the best she
could by raising a garden and a flock of chickens, and drawing her water
from a dug well. But she couldn't have gotten by without the paltry check
from the state welfare department. Not at first, she couldn't.
Often her kids had only one outfit of clothes to wear, so, after putting
them to bed at night, Sylvia washed their clothes and hung them up to dry
for next morning.
By 1962, she didn't even have dishes to eat from because "the kids had
broken them all." But at least the kids were all in school by then, so
Sylvia came down from the mountain and started looking for a job.
She had little education and few skills -- and most of the skills she did
have were those of a mother. But, goodness knows, the skills of a mother --
as many and valuable as they are -- generally are not commercial in the
"outside" world. But one skill Sylvia had was commercial, and that was as a
cook.
She got a job as a cook at the Warfield school, near the foot of the
mountain. "I worked from 7 in the morning till 4:30 or 5 in the evening for
$4 a day," Sylvia recalled.
Two of her sons, James and Junior, got paper routes, receiving 65 cents a
paper once every two weeks. That was for delivering papers on a rural route,
where the houses weren't always that close together.
The boys worked their way through high school delivering those papers.
In time, a friend of Sylvia's came to her with a business proposition: He
wanted to buy an old restaurant in Inez. A rundown old restaurant with a
poolroom in the back. The place had a terrible reputation -- someone had
even been murdered there at one time -- and no decent woman would set foot
in it. But he could buy the restaurant, Sylvia's friend said, Sylvia could
do the cooking, and they would split whatever profit they made 50-50.
Sylvia had a lot of doubts and misgivings about the idea. Yet something
inside her urged her to do it. Something told her she just might be able to
clean up the restaurant and make a go of it.
So she accepted her friend's proposal.
They were supposed to be partners, Sylvia and her friend, but her friend
suddenly informed her that he wanted her to run the place. "You take care of
the restaurant and you can have half of anything we earn," he repeated. Then
he walked out. Went fishing.
Sylvia took a hard, deep breath and went to work. She was determined to
make a go of the business. In addition to her good food, she would clean the
restaurant up and make a decent place of it. A place where a family could
come and enjoy a good meal.
Accordingly, she would allow no cussing, drinking or loud talk in the
establishment. If a man came in carrying something in a paper bag, she
always checked to make sure it wasn't booze.
And her business prospered, right from the start. When her partner
returned from fishing, a week later, she informed him that she'd earned
$300, and gave him half of it.
Her partner was delighted. He hadn't expected her to do that well.
"I'll tell you what, Sylvia," he said, "from now on, you give me $150 a
week and you can keep anything that's left over."
Soon her restaurant was one of the best -- if not the best -- in Martin
County. Women came in to eat, and families, and doctors, and lawyers.
Later, her partner saw Sylvia driving a new car. "You mean to tell me
you're doing that well?" he asked in astonishment.
"Yes," Sylvia replied, and reminded him of their agreement. He was
getting his $150 a week, wasn't he?
"I reckon so," her partner agreed, then sauntered away, mumbling to
himself.
