Edited interview with Roberta Robinson (RR), daughter of Sadie Barton. Interview conducted by Joe Manning (JM) in the spring of 2008.

JM: Tell me about your mother.

RR: She was born Sarah Agnes Lenora Barton. Back then, as she related to me, if you gave the first gift, the child was named after you. Given that three women gave gifts, she was named after them. When I was growing up, she was affectionately called Miss Sade. She was Aunt Sade to her nieces and nephews. Mother was outgoing, a friendly person. If anything was happening in the neighborhood, illness or joy, she was called on. She cared for people with TB and other diseases. She always remarked that God always protects you when you're taking care of other people. She was the strength of our family. Everyone came to her house for the holidays. She served as president of the PTA, and later was made honorary president. She was a beautiful woman.

She had eight children. I was the youngest. Three of the children died infant deaths, one at childbirth. At one of those deaths, my father had to come home from the mill before the funeral, and Mother had to wash his clothes and dry them by an open fire, so he could wear them at the funeral. Dad then had to return to work for the remainder of that workday.

It was not an easy life. At work, the women had to wear soft slippers, much like house slippers, because they worked such long hours. They wore aprons with large pockets, in order to collect the debris from the spinning frames. Dad and Mom both worked in the mills when they were young, working 12 to 15 hours per day. I think Mom was about eight or nine when she started working there. She never complained; it was just the way things were. They were grateful for the opportunity to earn a living.

JM: Tell me about your father.

RR: He was an outstanding man, kind and gentle and wise beyond his years (as told to me by my aunt, Frances Pugh, his only living relative I ever met). His mother died when he was born. Aunt Frances said that Dad's paternal grandfather came from Massachusetts through a company that provide Springs with the original machinery for the mill. Dad worked as a section hand at the mill. He once described his job as someone who made sure that everyone did their job well and kept everything running smoothly. At one time, he was told that he was going to be promoted to supervisor. His supervisor stated that in order to take the job, ‘You've got to give the workers hell. You don't let them get away with anything. You don't start your day with ‘Good morning' or a ‘How are you?' You give them hell every day.' My dad told me that he said to them, ‘I have to live so that I can die with a clear conscience, so I will not accept your promotion.' So he worked in the same position until his retirement. He died as he had lived, a man of faith.

JM: Did you live in a mill village?

RR: Yes. I was born there, not far from the mill, but only lived there for my first year. Then we moved to what we called ‘the new village.' It was a new home, but did not include an indoor bathroom. We had five rooms and a path (to the outdoor toilet). When we had our first bathroom built, only showers were being installed. I had so wanted a tub (for bubble baths), so Mom made some requests, and our first bathtub was installed. She had two brothers who worked in supervisory positions, and it wasn't too difficult to get company cooperation. When it came to her ‘brood,' as she jokingly referred to her children, she would stick her neck out if necessary to please. But then, I believe all mothers are ‘trained' that way.

During the run of a regular day at work, the employees in the mill, including my mother and dad, would go out for their little break and have a Coke. When I was just a kid, I can recall being in the company swimming pool, which was located just below the mill tower, and my mother and dad would come out and wave at me. That was a big deal for all three of us - it simply made our day.

At Christmas time, the mill would put on a big event, and we would all go down for the celebration. Our gift from the mill (one for each child) was a little brown bag of fruits and nuts and candy - a great joy. There was a mill store. My mom told me that when my brother and sisters were little, they would wait to see if there was any money left at the end of the week. Even if it was only a dime, Dad would always bring home a treat for each of them. Mom saved the sacks which the store used for items such as flour, sugar and meal, and she would use them to make clothes for us. I had kept a couple of the sacks as keepsakes, and she made them into the pillow and mattress for Eddie, my firstborn, in 1955. These are sweet memories for him, which he shares with his two children these many years later.

When I was in the fifth grade, I was selected to be a Little Miss Springmaid. The mill provided our dresses and cap and aprons. We were in the big event the day when the first Miss Springmaid was chosen, and we served in her court. My mom and dad were ever so proud. Those were nice times. Had we known more then, perhaps we would have been unhappy. But I am convinced that we were okay where we were, and we grew out of a beautiful life into an even more beautiful life. Mom may have been faced with things we will never know, but it did not destroy her spunk and strength. She was very much with me the day I learned about her picture. No words could ever explain the depth of emotion I felt when I first saw it, knowing my mother was the beautiful girl in that photograph.

Mom taught me to cook. She was the best cook in the whole world and she loved doing it. During World War II, she would make what they called Japanese Fruit Cakes. My brother, Jim, was stationed in Germany, and Mom mailed many of those cakes over there. Jim was so proud to receive them, and would always say, ‘I only got one slice of my mom's cake.'

JM: One of things that attracted me to the photograph was that she looked so strong and wise, as if she were more mature than her years would indicate.

RR: That was exactly what she was like, and it is wonderful that the photographer could somehow reveal the real person. In my opinion, he was ‘called' to his work, and it has touched countless lives throughout the nation and the world. Thank God for Mr. Hine.

JM: Mr. Hine would have wanted people to look at the photo and say: ‘That's a shame. Why does that girl have to work at such a young age?' Do you think that it would've been justified for people to feel that way about her?

RR: At the time, she may have seen it as an opportunity rather than a bad thing. I think it is understandable for someone in better circumstances to say, ‘How sad.' But from Mom's point of view, she would have been thankful that God had provided her a means to help her family. We should not have child labor, and thank God our grandchildren are not exposed to it. But many people were very poor in those days. I think that my grandchildren, who are by no means spoiled, need to recognize that they are just two generations away from five rooms and a path.

Despite their troubles, Mom and Dad provided for their children and inspired them to greater challenges. I was inspired to go to college, and later worked for the University of South Carolina, and retired from there. My parents were delighted to know that we did not have to do the things they had to do, but they never felt bitterness about their plight. They believed in God and equally believed in a work ethic that says that one should work hard, and always know that what you do and what you have is not who you are. ‘Love is everything' was the theme in our family.

Mom died of breast cancer in 1957, at the age of 62. The doctors told us that they had never seen a patient with more spunk, who had that kind of outlook on life. The night she died, she shared with me the story of when her own mom died of cancer. Mom was the baby in the family, and she did not know how she would ever let her mother go. Mom told me, ‘My mother looked at me when she had finally suffered enough and said, ‘I know how hard it will be, because you are my baby, but please ask God to let me go.'

I've never doubted that God answers prayers, even when they are difficult to ask for. So I put my head down and prayed, ‘If she cannot be healed and cannot suffer anymore, please take her to her rest.' When I finished, she said, ‘What are you doing, Baby?' I said, ‘I'm just resting a bit.' I raised my head, and she looked up at me and smiled and said, ‘Thank you.' Everyone in the family was taking turns, so I left, and about three hours later, she was gone.

Her inspiration lives on through her family, and for me personally. I smile as I go remember a more gentle time, snuggled on my mother's lap, as she sings to me her sweet songs about her dreams of ‘Red Sails in the Sunset,' or ‘That Little Girl of Mine.' I envision all those travels she inspired me to take that she never could take. I saw those ‘Red Sails in the Sunset,' and sing that song to my own babies and grandbabies. Miss Sadie did good. May God bless her memory.