My mother, during the Depression -- we lived five blocks away from the railroad tracks -- had a steady stream of hobos, many of them black, come to our house looking for food. She always fed them. She never said anything, she just fed them.
And one day, I'll never forget, one came and said, lady, do you wonder why so many people come to your house? And she just smiled and said, well, yes, I do. And he took her out and he showed her a mark on the curb on the curb. He says, you're a mark, lady. This house is marked. People know you'll feed people.
And after he left, I said, Mother, do you want me to wash that off? And she looked at me and said, no, Son, these are people just like you and me. The only difference is they're down on their luck.
So, I had the great fortune to grow up in that environment. My father used to go to the black churches. And white people didn't do that. If you've ever been in Texarkana, a long time ago, there was a famous Polly Chapel Church and the Polly Chapel Choir, and I will never forget those visits, and I will certainly never forget the beautiful singing in that church.
When the people who worked for him were baptized and their children were baptized and their relatives were baptized, we went because they were his friends. And as you know, back in that point in time, they weren't baptized in the church or in baptismals. It was in ponds and creeks. And we were there because he loved them.