HE KNOCKED ON THE DOOR AND STAYED FOREVER

Known in our part of the world as Decoration Day,  it was a day late in May when the flowers were in bloom—the early roses, the peonies, the irises, the lilacs, the snowballs.  The woven baskets were pulled from the smokehouse where in other seasons they held vegetables, or the house where on other days they held clothes and filled with a wide array of clipped blooms and blossoms.   The tall fruity juice cans were opened with a can opener and filled a half to two thirds with water, carefully place in a spare cardboard box and securely stashed in whatever vehicle was making the trip to the family site on top of the hill

The only women in the house were Granny and I……after all my mother had already joined her ancestors in the fenced in area on top of the mountain at the end of the Moore Holler.  It was woman’s work to distribute the flowers….in the water filled cans for the more recently dead or at least for those persons closest to us or for all others in the fenced area in bunches of flowers or strewn petals,  Each grave site received some flowers or petals .  The lone grave next to the east fence …..was not a family member but Granny always made sure that it was never forgotten.  As a three year old, I followed wherever Granny led.  She watched and nodded in agreement when I carefully picked my favorite flowers for the can on my mother’s grave.   She knew I didn’t fully understand because I  constantly asked her to explain “death” to me.  I’m sure she tried but I couldn’t quite get it.

That grave by the east fence puzzled me greatly and I kept asking “Who is it? “ I knew everyone was kinfolk but I couldn’t figure out who this person was.  Granny would only shake her head but she always made sure that one grave was not forgotten, Finally one year when I was older, she gave me an answer It was not a long story but it is a story that is important to our once and future family.

The Great Depression during the decade of the 1930’s signaled a massive upheaval in the economy of the United States.  Manufacturing output had fallen by over 50% and over 30% of the work force was unemployed.  In our area of Appalachia life went on much as it always had except families pulled a little closer together.  Granny and Grampa still lived on the family farm that my great-grandfather had bought after the Civil War.  All the grandchildren had been sent home to Cassville to insure their safety and survival.   Grampa would plant more vegetables and hoped to buy another pig to fatten. Granny made plans to can as much food as possible…extra vegetables, some meat..anything the Ball’s Blue Book talked about.  The grandchildren would follow her to the pasture field hill to gather both walnuts in the burlap bags salvaged from livestock feed and  hickory nuts in whatever small buckets little people could handle.  There would be plenty of food for winter.

During the summer the parents, the family’s adult children, had scattered to various places where they could find work, My father was working as an electrician in a steel mill in Pennsylvania and my mother was teaching summer term, my aunts and uncles were finding work where they could. The family at home were left with the responsibility of planting the usual garden spaces with , sweet potatoes, corn, beans, peas, onions, cabbage, beets, lettuce, tomatoes, pumpkins, squash, turnips and any other edible plant that could be dried, canned or otherwise preserved for the coming winter months, The pigs were fattened through the summer and in the fall slaughtered to be salted, canned or hickory smoked to get the family through the winter, By late October seasonal jobs had vanished and those adults who no longer had work  wandered home to the farm and the home community…to help with the both the harvest and preparations for the winter.  

One late day there was a knock at the back door.  A stranger stood there, a black man from “somewhere else.” Between hacking coughs, he asked if there was some work he could do on the farm that would pay for his being allowed to sleep in the hayloft above the barn.  The family took him in, gave him a place to sleep and made every attempt to nurse him back to health, Despite all their efforts, the stranger died…of pneumonia, they thought.   The family and extended family gathered at the farm to discuss the dilemma…the man’s name was not known…all that was known is that he had been riding the freight cars from place to place trying to find work and a place to stay.

The women met in the house, the men met in the barn with a fifth of whatever liquor was available. After much discussion in both places the decision was made. The stranger would be treated as a member of the family. The word was passed, the preacher, a distant cousin, was sent for, the undertaker was negotiated with and the funeral services were set.  The men went to the cemetery to dig the grave and the women gathered the food. At the end of the service, the family prayed together…that if ever one of ours is lost and can’t get home…maybe someone will treat him like he was family. They gathered up the earthly remains of the stranger, carried him to the family cemetery on the hill and buried him.  Every Decoration Day after that, those who came with flowers added flowers to the stranger’s grave. 

He lies a space or two to the left of my great-grandparents and should you happen to visit the family plot on the mountain, don’t forget this visitor whose name we do not know.

 

WIVES AND HAY FIELDS

 

Two men walked the fields, their identical heads bent in conversation. One man, the elder, walked with a cane, the other man’s gait consciously slowed to match his. In turn each pointed to a specific part of the farm. It was late spring and all the fields were planted.  A wandering traveler headed west had brought the seed of a new wheat variety through the area the fall before. The old man, a canny poker player and an even better horse trader, had negotiated for a share of the precious seed. The field of winter wheat had been planted in the fall by the young man and the few other black men that still lived on top of the mountain. That field of wheat was now almost knee high and would need to be harvested by early summer. There would be plenty of hay and grain  for the coming year.

The tour of the fields ended at the gate behind the farm house. The two men paused and the elder spoke, “The fields are in good shape. You have managed well….no other farm in this area is this far along. The only thing that concerns me is that you are  alone. You don’t pay any attention to any of the women who look at you.”

“Can’t.” was the one word answer. The younger man stared out toward the field, his closest thoughts miles away. He knew the conversation could not be avoided any longer and he stared at the horizon of the far fields. It had been nearly ten years since the elder had filed court papers declaring the young man’s freedom from enslavement but the young man held his greatest sorrow to himself. His personal freedom did not apply to his carefully hidden family.

“Why not?” The elder looked at his only son. There was only concern in his question.  He himself had been alone since the death of his mate….the mother of his only child.  He alone knew why there was a patch of wild flowers in a far corner of the farm and why he walked there some evenings and simply sat upon a huge rock..seemingly lost in thought…his unfocused eyes scanning a high ridge across the valley below. This one spot was a secret he could never share but even now, the memories of that season and spring when he had not lived alone on his mountain kept his heart warm.  His son would need warm memories when he too grew old.

“Don’t feel like being beat up.” The answer surprised both men. The younger man did not realize that he had made a fateful decision…although as he thought to himself..his father had a right to know. The private truth and public secret had been theirs to share for many years.. As a child he had known that as long as he stayed on the mountain and in close proximity to the older man…he was safe.  The older man’smother had seen to his security as a child and both elders had carefully taught him the habits that would protect him as he grew older.

“WHO would dare touch you?!” Anger flared from the older man’s eyes. His thoughts went wild with fury for a few seconds until he saw the younger man’s smile, a smile which was no expression of fear but rather an expression of fact. The older man was somewhat reassured.

“Margaret.” The young man’s eyes narrowed softly as he waited patiently  for a response…

“Who’s she?”

“On old man Howard’s place in Christiansburgh.” The elder remembered a yound woman who worked in the kitchen of the Howard plantation…in the back area where William Henry had to wait his father’s return when business required Meriweather’s presence on that property.  Thinking back over time…yes he could see that there had been some interest between the two.

“You interested in her?” Older grey eyes  stared at younger grey eyes. There was something that  wasn’t being said. The older one waited for the rest of the story.

“Guess so..we got five babies, four boys and a little girl.”

“Why the Hell didn’t you tell me? I would have bought her!” The older man exploded, wondering why he was just now finding out. The two men with identical eyes glared  at each other before the eldern stompednthrough the gate toward the house. Then over his shoulder “Saddle my horse…I’ve got business in Christiansburgh. Does that old drunk know she’s your woman and those are your children?”

“He’s not there. He went to Richmond last week,” the younger man yelled back. “Don’t know when he’s coming back.”

“Then you take the horse and go tell her I’m going to buy her and the children.”               

“Won’t do no good…Howard is mean as a snake…and if he thinks you want to buy her especially for me…he’ll treat her mean….meaner than he treats everybody else.”

“Then you go tell your woman that if I have to get Howard drunk and beat him in a poker game…I will get her and the children away from that old son of a bitch! And if I can’t buy her, we’ll find a way to steal her!’

Surprised at the force of the elder’s response, the younger man answered. “Can’t take the horse...they’ll think I stole it. I’ll have to take one of the mules late tonight. Nobody in his right mind would steal a stubborn mule.”

“Take the mule  and when you get there you’d better teach that girl how to get here  across the

ridge!” The older man yelled over his shoulder nas he stomped into the house. “I’ll be dmned if that

old fool, Howard, will keep her! I will find a way...you should have told me before now!” The

kitchen door of the house closed with a loud thud.

ONE DAY IT SNOWED IN MARCH

 

Sunday, March 3, 1861, was a cold rainy day in the mountains of western Virginia. The clouds in the sky were an inky dark gray the perfect color to signal snow as the day wound to a close and nightfall came. There was a restlessness moving through the slave quarters of the Howard plantation. The ghostly ones, the all but invisible house slaves, had slipped out to brng troubling news to their counterparts in the shacks that served as shelter. The Old Man was drinking heavily and swearing almost continuously,. Tomorrow Abraham Lincoln would be inaugurated President of the United States. Change was no longer just a whisper in the breeze…the Old Man felt that it was a major change to his Southern way of life.

As  night came and snow began to fall, the Old Man sank into a drunken stupor and finally into a drunken sleep. The house slaves finished their work, then one by one slipped away to the quarters to whisper urgently with their friends and   relatives.  The Old Man had been muttering threats all afternoon. If that “damn Yankee” fool became President, it wouldn’t be long before those “damned abolitionists” took over and freed the slaves and if those “nigrahs” were going to be freed, he’d be damned if he’d feed and clothe any “nigrah.”

By full dark, all  the  black folks on the plantation had gathered to discuss the very real  possibility that they would be kicked off the plantation. Where would they go? Who would take them in? Would they be treated as runaways? Would the Old Man sell them South away from family and all they knew? Winter was sliding away but spring had not yet come to the mountains…just look at the snow that was piling up. Margaret was especially worried. She had five little ones, 8,6, 5, 3 and 1 and if she  was right….another one on the way. If she carried baby George, William  could take Belle’s hand, and Lewis would  be able to hold Charles’ hand. It would not be easy but it seemed the only way. She knew exactly where she would go but it was a long way and she did not know if the children could walk that far and stay warm. Later into the  night, she gathered as much warm clothing as she could find. The other woman asked her in hushed whispers, where would she go, could her husband come and get her and the children? How far away did he live? What were they going to do?

William Henry had whispered to her in the night…his “owner” was really his father and  had tried so hard to buy Margaret and the  children but Old Man Howard would not deal. Then William Henry had whispered the directions to be mountain where he lived and made her memorize the directions. In the ashes from the fireplace…he had drawn a map. She knew she could find the way, she would find the way, she just had to find a way to keep her babies warm. She talked to one of the younger men…did he know a way to get a message to William Henry? Finally she had a promise, her friend would slip over to the next plantation and pass the word and someone else would pass the word until it got to William Henry, He didn’t know how long it would take but he would do his best. She worked tirelessly throughnthe night..whe would walk every step if she had to but she had to carry food and warm clothes…to keep her babies safe.

Slipping and sliding through the night. From farm to plantation, across the mountains and through the valleys, the message traveled more tyhan the twenty road miles between the two Virginia mountain communities. Before daylight broke the next morning, William Henry left his loft bed in the main cabin of the isolated farm on top of  Little River Mountain. He dressed quickly and grabbed a warm coat.  It had  snowed overnight and the livestock must be fed, the cows milked and other early morning chores completed. He stomped down the narrow path to the barn knocking the snow off his boots.  To his surprise, the lat ch on the barn door was open. Looking around the side of the building, he looked for tracks…saw nothing out of the ordinary and then cautiously opened the door, entered the barn and hung his kerosene lantern on the nail be the feed room. There was someone hiding in the barn, he could smell the difference in the air!

A whispered voice came from the hay loft. “William Henry? That you?” He recognized the voice as beng from a neighboring farm…from a Quaker owned farm on the other side of the mountain. It was a black man who had lived at the nearby farm for many years…who had studied beside him in the night when the Quaker lady had taught them both to read and write. “Yep, it’s me Oscar. Something wrong?”

As the other man climbed down the ladder from the loft, “Got  a message for you, A fellow came late last night…from up the road.” The two men looked at each other eye to eye. “Said to tell you…Old Man Howard…is fixing to put your family out! He’s drunk, cussing and swarping cause Lincoln is president. The word is he’s putting all the people out…with just the clothes on their back…no papers..nothing.”

The blue gray eyes darkened and flashed with fire. The neighbor man grabbed the busket, “I’ll milk the cows and feed your stock fore I go back to the Meetin’ House. Haven’t heard of any slavecatchers around lately…with this…snow..they’d be easy to track and once I get back over the mountain, I’m safe.”

William Henry headed back to the main cabin and went in. The older man by the fire knew something nwas wronh. The lighter gray eyes met the darker flashing ones….square on, “What’s going on?

“Word’s come…bad word..old Howard is putting everybody off his place…says he’s not gonna feed or clothe nobody..”

The man with the light eyes slammed his tin cup on the plankboard table.  His eyes flashed with anger, “He wouldn’t sell her to me and he wouldn’t sell the children and now the son of a bitch is throwing them out!  You get the wagon ready and go get them…don’t waste time..GO!”

William Henry set out on Webbs Mill Road toward Christiansburgh. That was the way he had whispered to Margaret,,,if she ever got free to walk on that road. He had knelt by the fireplace and taught her the letters so she would know. Thoughts raced through his mind….he had piled enough hay in the back of the wagon to keep them warm and to hide them from prying eyes. His grandmother had handed him warm blankets to put in the straw and had put warm bricks in the bottom too, She was old and didn’t say much but the message was clear…go get those children and bring them home! The mules plodder along the rowd, The sun was trying to come through but the wind was still swirling the snow about. He had been on t he road for nearly an hour and he was more than half way there when he spotted a small group of people ahead, There seemed to be a woman there who walked like Margaret…could it be her?

Margaret was cold and her three year old boy was heavy but she knew she dared not stop walking. The oldest boy carried the baby and her second  son held his sister’s tiny hand. Both older boys walked in their mother’s  footsteps. They could not be caught on the road, they had no pass…but they had been lucky so far. There had been no other people on the road. Coming down the next hill was a wagon pulled by two mules. The man driving the wagon was black. Surely he would not harm them…but he was headed the wrong way! They could not go back to Christiansburgh…they had tom go the other way….but wait!  The wagon was stopping and the man was climbing down!  Would he help them? Then Margaret recognized the man driving….it couldn’t be! But it was!

“Woman, get up in this wagon. Give me the children! There are warm bricks and blankets in the middle of the hay. Boy, get up in this wagon  and get warm!”  William Henry grabbed his family and loaded them in the wagon, snugly hidden in the straw, “We’re going back up the mountain as soon as I turn this wagon around.”

And, they did.

THE ONION PATCH

          For several months, William Henry had been gathering barrels and storing them in the barn loft. The sporadic news he had been hearing was not good. The war would soon creep  into the everyday lives of those who lived in the western Virginia mountains.  White people in the surrounding towns were talking.  Of course most the them paid little attention to this young black man as he drove the mule powered  wagon from place to place….on farm business. He had his signed pass in his pocket….a pass that authorized him to do certain for Meriweather  L and under that pass…William Henry could travel safely over much of the nearby area as he had been doing since his early teenage years.

          As he traveled the countryside, he played the game well…always acting subservient…his blue gray eyes hidden behind the floppy hat he always wore…eyes (and ears) that missed very little of what was going on around him. From time to time, he would carry a note…complete with a signature  that supposedly belonged to Meriweather,,,asking to be sold an oak barrel. That barrel would ride home securely in the wagon with no white person aware that William Henry had written the note and counted out just enough money to pay the bill….,and placed the money in the money box under his seat.    Any curious person in the community  would assume that whiskey was being made on top of Little River Mountain and there was…just enough to justify a few barrels. What the curious would not know is that  William Henry had purchased more than a few barrels and more importantly…he had a plan, a plan that he prayed would be successful. The survival of his young family and everyone else living on the farm atop Little River Mountain depended on his plan’s success.

          It was early May 1964 and rumors were rampant throughout Floyd County. Two bloody battles had been fought nearby…on Cove Mountain, two counties away, and on Cloyd’s Mountain just barely across the border of the next county. Both battles had been decisive Union victories and the Confederate forces had scattered looking for safe haven and a place to regroup. Many of those straggling soldiers had begun to raid farms and take whatever they wanted….food, valuables, livestock, anything that could be carried…eaten…or drunk. Having heard those rumors, William Henry had made a plan and taken action. The majority of the livestock were safely hidden deep in a cave on the Quaker lady’s side of the mountain. His two oldest boys, eleven year old Lewis and nine year old Stan, had been given the responsibility of caring for the animals and had been warned to keep themselves well hidden. Since the cave was high on the mountain in a heavily wooded and secluded area, it was unlikely any person unfamiliar with the mountain would find either the stock or the boys.

          The livestock should be  secure from scavengers  and now  it was time to secure everything else of value on the farm.  Those items of value would be carefully packed in the barrels…cooking utensils, good tools, dishes, warm blankets, warm clothes, any usable money, hunting weapons…whatever would appeal  to a renegade soldier or that would be useful to a retreating army fighting for the enslavement of every black person hidden on the farm.  While the barrels were being packed, the men on the farm were digging a huge pit in the garden plot. Rocks were thrown in the bottom of the pit to cushion the barrels and promote drainage . Fence slats were thrown across the rocks and the sealed barrels were carefully placed in the pit. When all of the barrels had been carefully placed, more slats were crisscrossed across the top…..followed by enough bound sheaves of hay to fill in the gaps between the slats. Finally the dirt was shoveled back into the pit. The last layer of dirt was mixed with composted manure and mounded into raised garden beds.

          Next sprouted onion sets were pulled from the farm’s root cellar. By shaded lantern light, the men planted the onions in neat rows. The women followed with  watering can to make sure the plants would not wilt in the sunlight of the day. Next to the onion plants, thinned seedlings from the lettuce bed were carefully planted and watered. Following the lettuce, pea plants were added to an additional bed and carefully watered and mulched with dried straw. At last the camouflage was completed. The men were sent off to bed with instructions to wear their most raggedy clothes for the next few days. The onion patch was planted and the valuables were safely hidden.

          A few afternoons later, straggling Confederate soldiers stumbled out of the lower woods. They were confronted by a bearded Meriweather  L.  sitting on his back porch with a shotgun across his knees. The adult black folk, dressed in rags and shoeless feet were working in the big garden plot. The children were carrying buckets of water from the well first to the working adults and then to pour on the straw mulched plants and seedlings. The working adults kept their heads bowed and paid no attention to the stragglers.

          “Howdy boys!” Meriweather spoke to the soldiers. “Can I help you all?” Black folks kept  on working. The old man shifted his gun toward the soldiers, “If you are looking for food…it’s been a bad year….some fellers came along and took nearly all the stock so I’ve got no meat…all I’ve had is dried beans…not seasoned too well…got my people working on trying to grow a little food….but….I can share my beans….Margaret…bring these fellows some of those beans….they were cooked yesterday and might be a little sour…but it’s all I have!” The soldier peeked in the stripped bare house…saw an elderly woman seated by a cold fireplace…smelled the sour beans….thanked Meriweather as he pointed out the path down the mountain. The shotgun’s barrel followed the straggling soldiers. Black folks kept on working and did not look up until the sound of the whippoorwill was heard from down  the mountain. William Henry raised his head and answered the whippoorwill call.  Soon two boys and a rag tail dog came out of the woods.

          “Those soldiers are gone…sent them down the rocky way…down the cliff.” Meriweather chuckled softly…and handed the gun to Margaret. "Feed those sour beans to the pigs!” he instructed the boys, and then to William Henry…”You reckon that pig you got buried in the fire pit in the lard rendering kettle is done yet? I’m hungry…lets eat.”

          The top of the mountain grew quiet as the sun set.

50 YEARS LATER

 

 

 

The week was not a typical winter week but it was not atypical either.  In southwestern Ohio a dusting of snow fell to renew the remains of the unmelted late February snowfalls. The weather forecasters talked about a storm front  but the end result was not remarkable….barely demanding the use of four wheel drive on our hill.

The largest snowfall fell in central Kentucky around I-65 and the I-71 interchange with I-64.  That hundred miles to the South sounded like a different world, Facebook and Instagram lit up with snowfall pictures and the news channels talked about an accumulation of between ten to 20 inches depending on one’s location. The Kentucky governor declared a snow emergency…people had been stranded in major traffic jams on interstate highways.  College and school campuses either closed or were on time delays.  Prospects for a trip south to Alabama did not look good as of late Thursday evening.

My sons were looking at me with  an unspoken question. They knew I was supposed to be in Berea Friday afternoon. Not being prepared for a discussion, I said nothing. Truthfully, the argument was in my head….would I go or would I stay home? I tried calling my cousin in Lexington to get his take on the roads and the weather.  Unfortunately, there was no answer so I continued to say nothing while delaying my final decision until Friday morning. I decided to email Diana as soon as Berea College opened for the day…at least my information would be first hand.  The internet provided no more information than I already had so Diana’s response would be critical.  

We left at 1:15 and managed to avoid Cincinnati  rush hour although as we crossed the Ohio River, there was close to a five mile backup on the northbound interstate.   To my surprise, Kentucky had totally cleared the interstate (remember we were NOT on I-65, we were on I-75).  We checked in a motel a few minutes from 4 p.m. and as soon as we deposited our luggage in the room….headed for the Berea campus.  Since I am no longer able to walk extended distances, I was dropped off at the door of the alumni building along with my transport wheel chair.  Thanks to my younger son I was soon in the Carter G. Woodson Center where to my surprise, I was expected to participate in a panel discussion. Normally, I don’t do panels…my preference is to talk interchangeably  with folk.

Left the panel discussion and my sons and I went around the corner from Boone Tavern to Papalenos. There we connected with Irene  and her daughter. Since I really hadn’t seen Irene in nearly 50 years, we  talked about people we knew and with whom we had attended Berea.  Surprisingly to me, many of those folk are no longer among the living. In one’s mind, as one grows older, the people you knew are just as you last saw them. In that sense, the people you know never age and in spite of the fact that logically some folk pass on…logic does not attach itself to memory.

Saturday morning arrived with a 5:30 a.m. wakeup call. The assembly time at Boone Tavern Hotel was 6:30 a.m. in preparation for the nearly ten hour trip to Montgomery, Alabama.  We stopped at McDonalds on old highway 25 and headed for the middle of campus. The Berea College bus was in place.

 

 

Walter and I would not ride the bus, however.   We rode south in a car driven by the husband of another participant in the 1965 march and the 2005 commemoration.  I will be eternally grateful for their support  because, without them, I would NOT have been able to make the trip.

The further south we got, the less roadside snow we saw. By the time we got to Tennessee, a student who had been left behind and had jumped in her car to catch the bus….reached our caravan. By that simple dedicated act. It was apparent how much the trip meant to a student nearly three generations younger than most of us “originals.” That action by this young lady reinforced  my premise that my generation needs to open our mouths and talk to these concerned rising young adults.  Many times our foreparents did NOT share their experiences with my generation perhaps under the mistaken impression that they were “protecting” us. They misread us badly. I did not bother telling  any of my family I was participating in the 1965 trip.  Why? I refused to let their fears hold me back.

 

            The trip south was in a sense mind blowing. At a rest area in Alabama we picked up a very colorful, tourist aimed brochure titled “Selma –Historic places, Social graces” and labeled OFFICIAL VISITOR GUIDE 2014.  I  sit and look at this brochure over a week later and I find that I am bothered by the concept and I feel more bothered now than when I picked it up. When I think of Selma, Alabama, I picture in my mind’s eye “Bloody Sunday,” I think of the late Rev. James Reeb, I think of   the late Jimmie Lee Jackson. Yes, I also think about Viola Liuzzo even though she was killed outside of Montgomery at the end of the Voting Rights March.   The Edmund Pettus Bridge is prominently labeled…the memorial park,not so much….but it is there. The last time I crossed that bridge, I spent some time at the memorial park. Yes, technically I was a tourist…but I didn’t feel so much like a tourist… I felt like a distant observer of those historical days and in a sense I feel the restlessness of those that were lost….fifty years ago.  

Three of James Reeb’s killers were “acquitted” when they went to trial! The fourth ran a used car dealership in Selma and was NEVER tried.   Justice for those who were lost during the civil rights struggles was at best illusive but ultimately will be rendered  on Judgment Day. In the meantime, the Reeb family  would complete his crossing of the bridge in 2015.  I would like to believe that the spirit of that lost husband and father accompanied them!

Jimmie Lee Jackson’s killer was a cop who ”feared for his life.”  My sarcastic side sneers “sure he did.” Somehow that feeble fake excuse has been so overused that I can safely label it a “trite” falsehood. As an old man …he finally plead guilty and spent 6 months in jail. Two of the three men involved in Viola Liuzzo’s murder did serve jail time (10 years) but the third turned state’s witness and in modern slang “copped a plea.”  As further indignity, J. Edgar Hoover  orchestrated an attempt to assassinate her character. He was NOT successful.

All of these thoughts swirled through my mind when I stood in that \memorial space ten years ago. Have I forgotten? No. There is one thing I fervently believe about all of these killings. There is no escaping the final justice! The perpetrators may have largely escaped mankind’s justice. They will never escape God’s justice.

I look at the Selma tourist brochure again. It still disturbs my thoughts but the only consolation would be that if  the brochure brings some financial sustenance to the city and people of Selma…so be it.  When I looked at a city that now has a substantial black majority population….I stumbled on the cracked and broken sidewalks…barely crossed the cracked and stagnant water filled street gutters…understanding that if problems are to be remedied….the people must be able to generate public money. Good jobs are needed and if tourism generates money to support the citizens of Selma…then maybe, just maybe they will be able to move on from the ghosts of the past and create a viable future.

When we finally get to Selma, early on Sunday morning, I do see signs of a hopeful future. Two of our alumni, a husband and wife team, have sunk roots in the community. He is an attorney, she is a physician and their professional home is

 

 

 

in the community and our group was able to touch base with these alumni and briefly visit. From these roots springs hope for the future.

            We also met another striver in Ms. Martha Hawkins, owner and founder of Martha’s Place, a great soul food restaurant in Montgomery.  Ms. Martha greeted our group and shared her story…of prayerful determination, courage and fortitude as she made her journey from single parenthood in public housing to businesswoman and entrepreneur.  To those of my generation meeting successful folk like Attorney and Dr. Robinson and Ms. Martha is an indication that out of the confrontational “fires” of the early Civil Rights Movement….are firmly sowed the seeds of hope and progress for the generations behind us….our children and grandchildren. The path to the future is not perfect but….there is hope.

            Because our group left the hotel early, we were able to establish a walking
“home base” on the edge of downtown Selma. Because the focus of the commemoration was the bridge crossing, I wanted an early picture of the bridge.

 

 

Despite the early morning chill people were already standing and walking on the bridge and many more  were purposely headed in that direction.  Neither the time of day  nor the temperature of the air were a deterrent.   Someone in the crowd mentioned walking to Brown Chapel AME Church,  a significant starting point in 1965. Dozens of folk headed in that direction. Many others followed.

            As we grew closer, the immense police presence in Selma became obvious.  There were state police cars,  sheriff cars, and municipal police cars from many jurisdictions parked here and there along the way. Some officers stood quietly simply observing the growing crowds. Some officers walked along the streets and sidewalks with the crowd, The mood of the crowd we walked with was both somberly serious and helpful. The distance walked was maybe five to six blocks, maybe a little more.  Neighborhood residents watched the throng of visitors walking by in a quiet, slow and steady stream.  Here and there were vendors selling tee shirts, posters, commemorative calendars and other memorabilia.  There was no money in my pocket for such and our focus was on reaching the church/ At times we were forced to walk in the street because of the deteriorating infrastructure…a malady  that affects many small cities  during these stressful economic times. In a sense…the physical limitations of that early morning walk  were and are symbolic of the obstacles that even fifty years later are being restructured to deliberately keep voters distanced from or even removed from exercising their right to vote.

            Finally we reached the church. The  television media  took up most of the sidewalk in front of the church..apparently filming the arrivals  of significant folk, among them Andrew Young, John Lewis and Melissa Harris Perry. For a few minutes tall people were taking pictures over the heads and shoulders of media personnel.  I guess the media were being crowded because a policeman soon started ordering the growing crowd to the center line of the street in front of Brown Chapel For the second time, the crowd was finally moved to the sidewalk completely across the street. There was no argument probably because there was a huge outdoor screen  blocking the area to the far left of the church but allowing the crowd to see what was transpiring in the church.

 

 

 

 

 

As  people gathered, the sidewalk became more and more crowded, more SUV limos arrived and it became increasingly difficult  to see beyond the assembled company. The students managed to secure a vantage point where our banner could be prominently displayed. I was glad my son managed to get that picture.

 

While Walter was working his way back to me, I spotted a box of posters lying on the curb. A bystander pulled a few out and I remember thinking that the poster was very appropriate for the occasion. Both sides screamed at me to be framed and kept because they summarized all that mobilized the march in 1965 and 2015.

 

 

I was surrounded by a group of teachers and I mentioned to them that this exemplified the whole battle then and now and that if I had still been in the classroom, there would be two securely framed pictures on my wall on Monday morning! From their reaction I believe that there are some classrooms somewhere in this country where both sides of the NAACP poster are prominently displayed and ready for discussion.  Then someone spotted my Berea shirt and name tag and made the 50 year connection! I found myself somewhat overwhelmed by their reaction since then and now…I consider myself to be an insignificant one of many thousands.

 It was time to leave Brown Chapel but before we could leave I found myself talking to a free lance female journalist from Colorado and a young man who works for a major daily newspaper.  The sidewalks were congested by that time but that same young man talked to a police officer working on the street and the officer cleared a path through a barricade for my adult son pushing his mother in a wheelchair.

We took a different path back toward the center of Selma. Never in my life had I seen so many media trucks and vans….both sides of the street for a solid city block…all vehicles backed against the curb to make maximum use of the space. I saw print journalists mixed with electronic media representatives. Maybe someday I will do an internet search just out of curiosity regarding the national reaction to the half century commemoration.  

I watched the people surrounding the center of Selma and tried to read as many of the identifying shirts as possible. There were groups of union members, church groups, family groups, fathers pushing their babies in strollers, school groups led by their teachers, local church members, members of fraternal organizations, college groups. They walked proudly with their heads held high not huddled together shoulder to shoulder as we did so many years ago. They stopped near the big screens to watch and listen to events at Brown Chapel, they paused in small groups and talked. I sat on a street corner nearly three blocks from the bridge and watched…and listened. Some of the students came by and stopped to sit, talk and snack on the street corner near me. Other members of our group drifted near.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was fascinated by the crowds as they began the lineup in the street. I found myself thinking of the contrasts from 50 years ago…and the similarities.  The police scattered here and there  throughout the crowds were black, white, male, female and were dressed in ordinary every day walking the neighborhood type uniforms. There were no military vehicles in site…no military types obviously about…only a few, very few folks in camouflage….authentic or not…I wouldn’t know.

Most remarkable to me was the seriousness of the whole assembly. The people were walking in and on the footsteps of history. Most of them were NOT even born in 1965….yet here they were and they were going to cross that bridge. Many had walked over to the museum and taken pictures and here and there were snatches of conversation about why they had come…it was a very, very

 

serious day and the beginning of a very serious week.

 

            The students soon gathered in the middle of the intersection and asked the whole delegation to gather with them, Once more our banner would unfurl.

 

By this time of day people had filled the streets and sidewalks in every direction.

 

We “originals” would hold the banner before it was passed off to our young adults.

Everyone gathered and soon it would be time to join the bridge crossing group. 

 

I will always wonder how many people crossed on that Jubilee Sunday. All I know

 

is that our young adults were ready and anxious to make the journey. I was so proud of their enthusiasm and energy and their recognition of the importance of their mission.

            I did not cross on Jubilee Sunday. On the day when I crossed ten years ago, in my minds ear I could hear the voices of those who attempted to cross and did  not make it and those who successfully made the original crossing . This is the new generation stepping up to the responsibility to let their voices and actions be heard. I wish them well and I pray for their continued success. For our democracy to survive, their involvement is critical.