Fifty-four years ago this month, we moved to Chesney's Little Acre on Maloneyville Road, a part of the old Jess Chesney Farm. Jess's son, Ross, had built a small block flattop house on the property before heading off to Chicago to try his hand in the auto industry. That four-room house, with concrete floors and no bathroom, became our new home. And to us, it was paradise.
At the time, James had just been moved from production work to hourly wages—$1.10 an hour—and we were paying $50 a month in rent. Uncle Jess offered to rent us Ross’s house for just $5 a month, with any improvements we made counting toward the rent. Installing water cost us $120, which covered two years of rent. That’s how it began—modest, but full of hope and possibility.
Back then, there were maybe a dozen houses between the George Maloney home and Tazewell Pike where the Shell station stands today. Many of those early neighbors have since passed on: the Roberts, Bakers, Sharps, Onks, Bridges, Halls, Graves, and the Chesneys—Jess and Lorn. After Cora, Jess’s wife, passed away from injuries sustained in a car wreck, Jess remarried and built a new home just above the old farmhouse. James’s parents later bought the original Chesney place. James and I had only lived here about two years when that happened.
The road in front of our house was quiet. The only regular traffic came from workers heading to Hillcrest North or the Workhouse, now known as the Knox County Penal Farm. The Jess Chesneys, who lived beside us, left early every morning for their jobs at the Standard Knitting Mill. Dewey Graves, on the other side, also left early. It felt like our own little town.
Everyone went to bed early, but James worked late. He wouldn’t get home until around 11:30 p.m. from his shift at Standard Knitting. We’d eat supper together then, and think nothing of stepping out into the yard for a midnight shower. We had no bathroom and only cold running water, but we made do for ten years until we built our current house—with two bathrooms and hot water.
A lot has changed in 54 years. The Roberts built a new home just beyond their original one, and their sons built homes nearby. Some of the Onks’ children now live in the old homeplace, and grandchildren have settled close as well. Much of the surrounding property has been sold off, and now a lot of the old Babelay land is for sale. It was sad to watch the old Crouger Graves house get torn down—I remember him sitting for hours on his front porch, keeping watch over the road.
My children had the freedom to roam wherever they pleased. Whether heading to the creek, picking blackberries, walking along the road, or playing in our yard or a neighbor’s, I never feared for their safety. We never locked our doors because we never needed to. But today, every door and window is wired with a security alarm monitored by the police.
The Workhouse, once a place where 9 months and 29 days was the maximum sentence, is now a prison. Time has brought change, but not all of it has been for the better.
