Buying Christmas

Growing up, I enjoyed hearing my mother's Christmas stories. The only girl in a poor family of four children, she remembered fondly a special Christmas when she received a baby doll. Unfortunately, a neighbor's child ruined the doll by drawing on its face. My mom was very upset by the fact that her parents had spent money they could ill afford on a toy she could no longer enjoy. She would have many other gifts in the years to come, but the desecration of that baby doll dampened her Christmas spirit.

As she grew older and had her own children, she felt great joy watching us (me and my two younger siblings) open our gifts on Christmas mornings. My mother never outgrew feeling poor, though, and she has always felt that what she gave us over the years was never enough. In truth, she and my father gave us more than we could have dared to hope for: a loving home with stability and support. We may not have known it at the time, but the material gifts were just icing on the cake.

Grief now hangs over my mom's Christmases. Each year, our large family seems to lose a member; this year, it was my uncle Tiny. In 2010, my father passed, and the holidays serve as poignant reminders of his and others' absences. The season just does not feel very merry any longer.

My own holiday merriment has diminished over the years, too. I dislike Christmas the most of all the holidays. Some may call that statement blasphemy, but the reason we celebrate has been transformed into a shopping nightmare. The only reason for the season seems to be to make Visa & Mastercard more money. Let's face it: Christmas has been turned into a contest to see who can outspend whom and who forgot whom on their lists. I find myself having to purchase gifts for people I don't really like for the sake of no one being offended, when in truth, I don't really care if they get offended or not.

I also get slightly annoyed with people who get annoyed with me when I tell them I don't really want anything. They don't seem to believe me, although I honestly mean it. What I would rather have than someone's once a year token gesture of affection is having spent time with that person over lunch or at a show sometime during the year. Instead of it being an obligatory Christmas gift, why can't we just get together on some random Tuesday in August and have lunch just because you enjoy my company? Don't like me enough to go to lunch with me? Then you probably shouldn't buy me a Christmas gift either.

I guess this kind of thinking won't get me far. I'm bound to give and receive a number of gifts this year, but if I seem a little "scroogy" about it and mutter a "bah humbug" under my breath, please don't hold it against me too much. I've just lost some of my Christmas spirit.

However, if you are a truly good friend or family member, wrap me up an IOU card for a future lunch date in March. That'll put a smile on my face, guaranteed.

About Time

One month ago today, I had surgery on my right wrist to solve the problems I was having with my thumb and tendons. I have had several surgeries before this one, but they've all been of the emergency room variety where life and death hung in the balance. I had more than a week to dread the surgery before it ever happened, and I really had no idea what to expect in the aftermath.

The day of the surgery, my husband took me to the hospital where they put me in a private room for pre-surgery prep and for post-surgery recovery. The anesthesiologist came in for our consultation, and recommended a block instead of being fully put to sleep. Because I faint when I see open wounds, we nixed this idea. Later, the surgeon came and drew the marks on my arm to show where the incision would be...that comforted me because I knew that at least they wouldn't operate on the wrong arm.

After being taken back for the operation, I was given a shot to knock me out, so I don't remember anything until coming to in recovery. I was nauseated from the anesthesia, and I felt so sick. The nurses wouldn't let me leave until I ate something and had gone to the bathroom. I managed to get down a biscuit, so eventually, they let me go. I could barely stand up to check up, and although it's less than a mile from the hospital to my house, I felt carsick the entire time.

When I got home, I immediately took a pain pill and went to bed. That day, a Thursday, I spent most of my time in and out of consciousness and completely sick. According to my mom, I have never handled anesthesia very well, so when she came to check on me, she said my green pallor didn't surprise her at all. I don't remember much about Thursday except that my friend Lori cooked us supper. I managed to get up to thank her, but when she saw how ghastly I looked, she sent me back to bed. Honestly, I didn't feel better until Tuesday. Dealing with the anesthesia was the worst part of the entire experience!

As for pain, I never really had any. In that regard, I was lucky. However, the contraption my wrist had been put in was obviously built during the Spanish Inquisition as a torture device. My thumb was strapped in such a way to render it motionless (the whole purpose of the surgery after all), but the formation of this "wrist cuff" caused my entire hand to be immobile. Also, the curve of the cuff gave me a slight claw look.

To my surprise, bathroom duties weren't hard to overcome, but brushing my teeth and hair proved to be problematic. Other things that turned out to be a challenge included (but is by no means limited to) unlocking key-locked doors, pulling paper towels of the roller (unrolled an entire roll), ctrl+alt+delete to start my computer, opening lids on pill bottles and drinks, buttoning any pants, and worst of all, eating with a fork. I was able to avoid writing for a while, but I had to eat, and each day, I ended up wearing half of what I put on my fork!

After two weeks in the claw, I was ready for my follow-up visit to the doctor. I seriously thought that I was coming out of the splint that day, so imagine my horror when after removing my bandages and stitches, the nurse came in with a new splint. Although it returned to me the use of my four fingers on my right hand, having to slide it over my incision was painful. I was mortified that I had to spend another two weeks in a splint!

I must pause here, though,and elaborate on the bandage removal. The surgeon had a large bandage on the incision spot, and I was not permitted to remove it. So, for two weeks, I had purple marker peeping out from underneath the edges of the bandage. Underneath that bandage the surgeon had placed suture tape to help close up the wound. When the nurse removed the tape over that fresh incision, I nearly cried! Yes, it hurt! I got an involuntary wax job because she yanked out every hair on my arm where the tape was! Only now, two weeks later, is the hair starting to grow back.

Monday, I returned for my second follow-up appointment, and I got the splint off! I still have to sleep in it at night because I tend to twist my hands and sleep with them tucked under my chin. I was given exercises to do, and I was worried that they would be painful. Again, I have been lucky in that regard. The incision is tender, but I have not had the pain I thought I would.

Although I still have weeks before I am fully recovered, I am so much better now than I was before the surgery. I'm not sure, knowing what I do now, if I'd re-do the experience, but then, if all goes right, I shouldn't have to.

A Helping Hand

When I was five years old, I took a tumble down my great-grandmother’s back door steps, upon which she sat the glass Coca-Cola bottles she collected and returned for their deposits. As I fell, my right arm slipped under the jagged edge of the only bottle that had burst the night before due to a hard freeze. As soon as I stood up, I realized my arm, close to the wrist, had been flayed. I had a gaping wound with blood pouring out of it. Each time my heart beat, a nice squirt issued forth from the main artery.

Although the story of how I arrived at the hospital is one for the ages, it’s not what is important here. After waiting a long time for the ER doctor to decide what to do about such a terrible injury, I ended up undergoing a grueling surgery that resulted in 55 stitches. I remember the doctor telling my mother that the scar would fade, but I’d never be able to use my right arm again. By the next morning, I was already drawing with my right hand, but to this day, 34 years later, I still have that ugly scar.

In truth, the scar does not bother me. The fact is that I never could tell my left from my right until I cut my arm. After the fall, all I had to do was remember which arm the scar was on to know the difference. This little secret was how I often won drill downs in band! Unless I turn my arm a certain way, people never even notice the scar, so I’m very glad that the doctor got it wrong. Given a choice, I’d take the scar over not being able to use my right arm any day.

Over the years, I often wondered, though, if all the damage and scar tissue in my right arm would one day cause me problems. Growing up, about once a year, my arm would get sore and seize up on me; eventually that once a year turned into twice a year as I got older. Still, the problem only ever lasted a day or two, and things would go back to normal. I figured I was home free, but that’s just not the way things work.

About a year ago, a little knot started appearing on the inside of my right wrist. I noticed the knot got worse the more I graded, but during Thanksgiving and Christmas, when I could rest, the knot would go away. In January, it returned, but this time, pain accompanied it. I dealt with the pain for as long as I could, but during the summer when I have to teach both composition and literature classes, the knot and the pain reached epic proportions. Not knowing what to expect, I visited a specialist.

The diagnosis wasn’t what I expected. Honestly, I thought that it was a cyst that would have to be removed, but it turns out that I have something called “De Quervain’s tendonitis,” a condition where the tendons are inflamed and the sheath that protects them becomes irritated. It doesn’t sound so bad, but believe me, the pain sometimes makes you want to gnaw your arm off at the elbow to get rid of it.

Even after going through therapy, inflammatory treatment, and injections, the problem persisted. My week off between summer and fall terms did nothing to alleviate the knot or the pain, which started feeling like I had doused my arm in Icy Hot. Imagine your arm feeling like it is on fire all the time! I knew it was time to revisit the doctor, and as expected, he scheduled me for surgery.

The surgery itself does not worry me…much. According to the doctor and my research, the surgery will not be bad and does not take long. However, recovery can take some time. Because I have become so right-arm dominant over the years, the recovery and its repercussions scare the daylights out of me. At age five, I used an arm with 55 stitches in it the next day, but I’m older now, and this is different. My right arm may be out of commission for several weeks.

So, to get myself ready for the inevitable, I have started practicing doing things with my left-hand. First, I tried writing with it. A kindergartener’s writing is much more legible than the chicken scratch I produced. Next, I practiced typing with one hand. Although it takes forever, I can do it, but I become increasingly frustrated the longer the message gets. Next, I rehearsed opening and closing doors with my left hand. Ever try using a key with your other hand? I also discovered that I will need people to tote my groceries, carry my laptop to different classrooms, and wash all the dishes. Housecleaning with one hand is out of the question. Heck, I cannot even punch numbers on my cell phone very well.

 

Yet, the worst part of this deals with bathroom issues. I will have to get a head start on any potty trips I need to make because it takes such a long time to unbutton my pants and get the zipper down with my left hand. Yesterday, I cataloged how many clothes I have with elastic waistbands in order to avoid buttons and zippers! I don’t have enough! All of this pales in comparison, though, to the worse debacle of all: wiping!

Wiping is a must, and our ancestors really should be given credit for having survived without Angel Soft or Cottonelle. Having grown accustomed the fluffiness that is Charmin, I just knew that wiping with my left hand would be a snap. It isn’t. Don’t believe me? Go try. I’ll wait… See! Told you so! Now, imagine several days of that! Isn’t a pleasant thought, is it?

To be truthful, while the wiping is an upsetting reality I’m about to face, the deeper heartbreak is knowing that I will need others to do things for me. I’ve always had an independent streak, and I firmly believe that no one can do the job I need done better than I can, and while that has often led to me being overwhelmed at times, this disposition is one of the qualities I like best about myself. I don’t like depending on others; I even drove my own self to the hospital to have my son.

This hospital trip, though, my husband will have to drive me, unless I can figure out some way to escape unnoticed afterwards. (Shouldn’t be too hard, right?) I’ll also need him to pick up my medicine and do a lot of what I will not be able to do for myself. He has already informed me, though, that wiping is out of the question!

The thing is that while this surgery is minor and may cause a few weeks of aggravation, it’s only a precursor of the things that come as we age. In our infancy we are completely reliant on others for our well-being, and as we get older, we become dependent again. I don’t want that for myself. I want to be one of the ones who still gets up at age 90 to go out for a three-mile walk before going home to clean up my own house. I can see that.

So, while I may need a helping hand (or ten) over the next few weeks, here’s to hoping that it won’t become a trend in my life. After all, who has time for that?

The Last Dress Rehearsal

When I was getting my degree in language arts education, I had to take several theater classes. As an English teacher, you never know if you’re going to end up teaching drama, journalism (print and/or broadcast), yearbook, debate team, or several other extracurricular clubs that seem to come with the territory. Although I eventually got a master’s degree with a concentration in theater, it was academic, not production, so even then I would not have believed in my wildest dreams that I would one day become the president of a community theater group, much less its director.

 

Yet, that is exactly what has happened. Two years ago, I got involved with the Greenville Area Arts Council’s summer productions: first as a stage manager, then as a performer. This year, though, after our director moved to another city, we found ourselves without a group or a show. Dismayed, those of us who wanted to see this endeavor continue banned together and created The Greenville Community Theater.

 

Tomorrow night, we open with Crimes of the Heart, a play by Beth Henley. Set in Hazelhurst, Mississippi, in October 1974, COTH features the dysfunctional Magrath sisters who have come together to save one of their own from impending doom. Along the way, other characters attempt to assist them in their plight.

 

We picked this play because it is set in the South in a recent enough time-period that we felt like we could accommodate the setting, hair, makeup, and costumes. We also liked that it only had six characters, mostly females, because let’s face it: sometimes in a small town, it’s hard to get people to try out for a show.

 

Since the time of the audition, we have rehearsed every Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday afternoon from 6 p.m.-9 p.m. We have built sets on Saturdays and Sundays. We’ve taken our Wednesdays (and Fridays and Saturdays) to search for items we needed or to put together displays or to put out posters and signs. We’ve rehearsed, we’ve built, we’ve bought, and we’ve borrowed to get this show together. Heck, at times, we’ve even bled for it.

 

But most importantly, we’ve learned. As a first time director, I have felt terror, exhilaration, exhaustion, and happiness to the point of tears. My emotions have run the gamut. At times, the play seemed so far away until I didn’t feel like it would ever happen at all, but now, here we are…on the verge of the last dress rehearsal, and all I can say is “WOW!”

 

I don’t think people who’ve only ever seen a show realize just how hard it is to pull one off. Oh, I’m sure it’s easy for large companies who have tons of paid employees, but for small town folks like us, this is a big deal. We don’t just love this play…we’ve lived it, breathed it, and devoured it for so long now until it is permanently embedded in our hearts and minds. It’s a part of who we are, and we just hope and pray that our audience will like it. Sure would be a huge let down if they don’t.

 

So, here we are, the night before we open. Our last dress rehearsal. One more time to smooth out any troublesome parts and get everything right. I know all directors must feel this anxious at this point. It’s our last chance to fix things because after this, what will be…will be.

 

Here’s hoping that our play is a hit and that our audience loves it!

The Bag Lady

I dislike a junky car, which is one of the reasons why I don’t like to go anywhere with my husband if we have to go in his vehicle. The floor of his truck is encrusted with grime and is filled with trash. By comparison, my own vehicle is a near spotless paradise. The outside may need washing, but the inside is clutter-free, and you don’t have to move a ton of stuff just to sit down. So, imagine my surprise when I realized the other day that my SUV has suddenly become a glaring example of a disorganized junk heap.

Fortunately, my vehicle still pales in comparison to the disaster that is my husband’s truck. Instead of loose mess everywhere, I have several bags: three in the backseat and one in the front passenger floorboard.

The contents of these bags are specific to the different hats I’m wearing these days. My Harry Potter bag has the prompt book and sound cues for the play (Crimes of the Heart) I’m directing this summer. The pink bag I purchased at a rummage sale for .50 cents contains the clothes that have been rejected from that play. The bag I bought in England, depicting Queen Elizabeth II on 50 pound bank notes, houses the papers I have yet to grade for the composition and literature courses I’m teaching this term. The recycled-material bag featuring a girl riding a bicycle with “She traveled far” embossed on the front holds my writing materials for upcoming articles and assignments. My purse counts as a bag, too, and in it are the contents one needs for being a mother and wife: credit cards.

I’m rather ashamed to admit that my purse, my family bag, is the smallest of the lot right now. If I were to get all psycho-analytical babble-speak for a moment, I’d have to come to the conclusion that my family receives the least of my attention at this time, which happens to be true. The other areas of my life have crowded in on my family responsibilities, and I am so overwhelmed by these other duties until I go home each night and just collapse. My son has accused me more than once this summer of being too tired or too busy to talk with him. My Russian daughter is visiting and is only here for 20 more days. I feel as if I’ve ignored her, which upsets me to no end because this is her first visit in three years. In the mornings, I drop off my step-daughter for day camp, and sometimes I do not see her again until the next morning when it’s time to repeat the process. My husband now knows how I feel when I become a hunting widow during deer season.

The fact that two of my bags relate to my directorial duties lets me know which aspect of my life is dominating it. I love the theater, and I have enjoyed directing this play. At the same time, I have truly felt its consumption. If I didn’t have so many other things going on right now, and if I had more theater production under my belt, perhaps the responsibilities associated with the show wouldn’t be quite as daunting. If it were not for my assistant director and other support team members, I’d be a nervous wreck.

What’s most fascinating about the bags, though, is how they’ve compartmentalized my life and how, over time, the weight of each shifts. That shift represents how the load gets heavier or lighter for each part of my life. For example, soon I’ll be finished with my summer classes, so I can empty out my teaching bag for a few weeks. The last article I have due for a while will be submitted shortly after that, so I can put aside my writing bag, too. The play will close mid-August, and we won’t do anything with the theater for a few months, so that heavy load will lighten. Perhaps then, I can allow all of the weight to shift to my family bag; it’s too bad that by the time that shift happens, my Russian child will be gone.

Sometimes, I do get the urge to de-clutter and to just toss a bag or two. Yet, if I were I to throw away just one of the bags, I’d lose part of who I am as a person. Even when some bags get too heavy to tote, I still carry them. I have to because I’m a mother, wife, teacher, writer, and director. I enjoy all my roles, so I love my bags and their contents, even when some of them overwhelm me.

So, if you see my silver Trailblazer parked somewhere and get curious as to which aspect of my life is in control, just take a peek and see which bag looks heaviest. But just so you know, I never leave my purse in my vehicle. Its contents, like my family, are just too valuable to leave behind. Even though they are the smallest bag right now, they are still and always the most important one.

A Lesson Learned

In late May, I got an email from the Alabama Writers' Conclave's review board that my short story "The Ghost" had won an award in their annual writing contest. Each category (mine was entered in short fiction) would have 4 honorable mentions plus 1st-4th awards and money prizes. The email did not say if I'd only gotten honorable mention or if I had placed, so I wasn't going to go to the program in case I didn't win anything.

Then, I got to looking at their conference programme, and one of my favorite authors was going to be a guest lecturer. I decided I would go. As it turned out, almost all of the guest lecturers were outstanding, and I really learned a lot that I can use in my own writing. However, what I really wanted to know was about my award.

The banquet and awards ceremony was Saturday night. We had a nice meal, a reading by a well-known author, and then the awards. My category was announced in the middle of the ceremony, and as the announcer started going through the list of honorable mentions, I just prayed that I had placed instead. As it turned out, I did. I got fourth place. My feelings? Believe it or not, disappointment. But why? Why should I feel disappointed when I got what I asked for? Well, the answer is simple, yet complex.

You see, I am a perfectionist, and I want to be the best at whatever I do. I want to win. I should be used to not winning, though, because most of the time, I don't. However, I always do well in my endeavors...just not as well as I'd like. I don't let it bother me after the initial disappointment. I just go find something else at which I think I can excel.

The problem, though, is why can't I let my accomplishments be good enough and stand for themselves? I later found out that there were somewhere between 50-75 entries in the Short Fiction category, so to finish 4th the first time I even entered their contest was actually pretty darn good. And, as my daughter pointed out to me, some of the people who entered pieces, and certainly those in attendance at the conference, have much more time available for their writing. Now, I am happy with my award, but not at first... no, not at first.

The lesson I should learn here is that, at some point, I am going to have to learn to be satisfied, happy, and proud of what I've done instead of feeling disappointed or go on looking for the next thing. I need to realize that I AM GOOD ENOUGH! Yet, I am not the only one who needs to come to terms this lesson. Apparently, there are a whole bunch of us "A" types out there who just cannot accept 2nd place. It's too bad really, but there it is.

I don't have any great epiphany here, but I do know that we all need to lighten up on ourselves and rejoice in our accomplishments and good qualities. We need to nicer to ourselves, and we need to learn that we are good enough, most of the time, just the way we are.

The Black Box

Her mother was sitting in a folding chair next to the black box that seemed to be the center of attention.  She was holding a fist full of crumpled tissues, and she was crying.

The little girl was confused.  She knew she had never been to this church before, but she was sure that was where she had to be, for Nanny had dressed her in her favorite Sunday outfit.  It was a strange church, too.  Instead of the usual singing followed by lapses into near silence save for the droning of one old man who always stood at the front of the church, this church was filled with groups of people whispering as they stood clustered together.  Sounds of crying interlaced with snippets of laughter erupted from time to time.  No padded benches were present either.  Just folding chairs placed along the walls of the room; chairs like the one her mother was sitting in now.

The little girl wasn’t quite sure how she had gotten to this new church.  It was dark outside, but she knew the way to their regular church because they always traveled there during the day.  In the dark, she was unsure of the route they’d taken.

This church had more flowers, too.  Surrounding the long, black box were hundreds of flowers.  Some were in pots while others stood upright perched in tripods.  A blanket of red roses lay on the bottom portion of the box.  The little girl usually liked flowers, but not these.  Combined, their scent created an unpleasant medley that befuddled the senses.  They tried to mask a hidden odor, but the acrid smell was still present.

Nanny took the little girl’s hand and led her over to her mother. “Net, here’s your daughter,” Nanny said as she handed the child over into her mother’s care.  The little girl sat down in the chair next to her mother’s.
“Mommy, why are you crying?” she asked.  A long silence passed between them.  The child started to wonder if her mother had even heard her question.

“Something sad has happened, Frog,” her mother answered at last.  Frog.  The little girl knew that something sad had indeed happened if Mommy was calling her by her grandfather’s pet name for her.  Only her grandfather called her Frog.  It was then that she wondered, “Where is he anyway?”

The little girl quickly scanned the room seeking for the one face in the crowd that could have lifted the somber mood pervading the room.  She did not see him.  In fact, she had not seen him since the night before. She had stayed the night with Nanny and PawPaw.  They always let her sleep between them in their big bed, and she loved to nestle between her two protective grandparents who slept on either side. It had been late in the night when she heard it, a loud thump that had awakened her and Nanny both.  The little girl reached over in the dark to feel for PawPaw, but he was not on his side of the bed any longer.  She peered over the side to find him lying on the floor.

“Nanny,” she said groggily, “PawPaw’s fallen off the bed.” Most of what happened after that was a blur.  Nanny moved quickly to the other side of the bed to get PawPaw up, but he would not move.  When her efforts proved fruitless, she tore from the room into the hall where the telephone was. She was gone a long time. The little girl was afraid.  She knew something was wrong, but she did not know what.  Maybe if she got down off the bed and asked PawPaw then he could explain it to her.  He always had a way of explaining things to her so she could understand. But he did not explain this time.  His eyes blinked when she called his name, but he bore a look of blankness.  He did not move; the only sounds that issued forth from his body were ragged, heavy breaths.

In an instant, Mommy was there along with Daddy and Nanny.  Then it seemed as if the house was suddenly full with aunts, uncles, and cousins.  Men in uniforms and other strangers, too, were there.  Nanny ushered her and her cousins into another part of the house amongst whispers that “children shouldn’t witness such things.” It was late anyhow, and the children, who had been torn from their pleasant slumbers, slept where they were.  The next day they went to a neighbor’s house where they watched television and played all day.  None of them, not even the little girl, noticed anything amiss.

Then it came to be that Nanny brought her here to this strange church with its strange chairs, flowers, smells, and people.  She was sitting with her mother who was crying and telling her something sad had happened, though she would not say what. So the little girl just sat. People started coming up to her and her Nanny, and they kept telling them how sorry they were for them and that if they could do anything just to let them know.  Sometimes the people would even talk to her.  They would say things like, “So, this is Frog!  I sure have heard some stories about you!” or “Your granddaddy sure did love you.  You were all he ever talked about.” None of this made much sense to the little girl, but she did not question her mother or Nanny about it. Questioning adults was frowned upon, and both her mother and Nanny were busy with the people, so she did not want to bother them.

When she had sat for as long as she could with these questions about what was happening burning in her mind, she went to find PawPaw and ask him about it.  He’d help her understand. She waded through the sea of people, and every now and then she thought she saw him.  But, on closer examination, she realized it was someone else; another kindly looking white-haired man with a patient smile and twinkling eye would meet her gaze. As she walked through the crowds, an aunt or uncle would place a hand on her head as she passed by, but they were all too engaged in their conversations to stoop down, take her on bended knee, and ask her what was troubling her.  No, only PawPaw would do that.

When she had looked everywhere in the church, she found herself back in the room with her mother and grandmother.  She stood for a moment taking in her surroundings yet again when she noticed the two women starring down into the black box.

They murmured something under their breaths that the little girl barely caught.  One said, “They did a fine job.” To which the other replied, “Yes, they surely did.” Unable to contain her curiosity, the child edged her way to the box and the women.  As they turned to leave, one of the ladies saw the little girl and smiled at her.  With the women no longer blocking her view, the little girl stood before the box alone.  She was too small to see over its edge, so she grabbed the side and hoisted herself up on tiptoes to get a clear view of the box’s contents.

The sight that met her eyes sent thrills of delight over her entire body, for there, in the box, was PawPaw!  At last, she had found him.  His eyes were closed, and his hands were folded across his chest; he appeared to be sleeping.  She called his name, but he did not answer.  This time he did not even blink. That was when she realized, for the first time really, that something about PawPaw was terribly wrong.  He never slept with his glasses on, and he certainly did not sleep with all his clothes on like that.  Also, the skin on each side of his lips hung haggardly as if it had slid down into a permanent frown.  She touched his hand, and it felt ice cold. 

Frightened now, she quickly lowered herself from the box and ran over to where her mother was still sitting.  “Mommy,” she cried, “what’s wrong with PawPaw?  He is in the black box, and he won’t talk to me.  He needs a blanket, Mommy.”

Her mother broke into body-racking sobs and was unable to respond.  It was Nanny who answered the question.  “Frog,” she said, “PawPaw’s gone to Heaven.  He can’t hear you now.” The little girl did not understand.  Nanny always told her the truth, but at the same time, she knew her grandfather was in the box.  She also knew he would not talk to her.  That is when she knew that she was not in a church at all.  This was Heaven, for Nanny had said so.

Lost in thought, she sat down beside her mother again.  If this place was Heaven, then she did not want PawPaw to be here.  She did not want him to be somewhere he could not talk to her or hear her voice.  No, she did not want anyone she loved to be here.

Not knowing what else to do, she simply sat silently next to her mother.  And when they finally got up to leave, the little girl turned back to look at the black box knowing that PawPaw was still in it.
It was at this moment that she began to cry.  She was not hurt or angry or tired.  No, for the first time, she began to cry for someone other than herself.  She cried for her PawPaw, who had gone to Heaven in a black box and who would never talk to her again.

A Childhood Memory

Growing up in a small town on a street where everyone was related or at least knew everyone else certainly had its perks as well as one or two drawbacks. I mean, you knew you had to behave or your misdeeds would make it home to Mama before you could. Mostly, my childhood was a safe and sheltered environment in which I thrived. That is probably due in part to the fact that I was the oldest kid on our street. The closest in age to me was my cousin, who was two years younger.

Being the oldest granted me some type of “cool” status, as it was assumed by my younger playmates that somehow I was more worldly-wise and knowledgeable than they were. It should come as no surprise, then, that I was often the ring-leader in whatever we got in to. Thankfully, my mind was not bent on evil or mischievousness, but instead tended towards the fantastical and the imaginary. I could create whole worlds out of the grass houses that my friends and I would make after my Daddy would mow the lawn and the grass dried. A mound of delivered dirt became a mountain we had to scale or an airy castle where we lived. Our trampoline was a place for adventures on the high seas as well as a source for one or two incidents that led us to the ER.

Of all the adventures of my youthful summers, though, one of my fondest memories is when we created a neighborhood newspaper. Even in my younger days, I found ways to make money, and by peddling our newspapers, I was sure we’d hit upon a source for making millions.

Time has blurred my memory as to the paper’s name or even its content. I feel certain that we had some jokes; some we made up, others we found on bubble gum or Laffy Taffy wrappers. There may have been a recipe or two, but the rest was devoted to neighborhood gossip, of which we seemed to be curiously devoid. Working people, both then and now, just don’t have much time to spread malicious rumors or start trouble.

Still, as serious writers, we had a job to do, so when we completed our first edition, one of our parents ran it off on a copy machine. We stapled the paper together and walked around the street trying to sell our product. Sales weren’t too hot, and as quickly as it was brought to life, our paper folded under the vicious law of supply & demand. We got a big kick out of the whole experience, but looking back, it may very well have been the spark that has driven me to want to become a writer.

These days, I have started having some successes in the field of writing. Only now, it often feels more like work instead of the fun I had when I was twelve. Perhaps I am approaching it the wrong way. Maybe to be successful, or at least not worry if I am or not, I need the carefree attitude that one only seems to possess in youth. Either way, when the acceptance letters come, I feel the same joy I did when I was twelve selling those papers. When the rejection letters arrive, I feel a different type of dejection. Young me would have thrown back my shoulders and proceeded to the next house; thirty-none-of-your-business year old me allows my shoulders to droop and sag under the weight of defeat. Yet, I’ve never been one to wallow in misery for too long; eventually, I dust myself off and set pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) and begin anew. That’s what writers do.

Some days I wish I could go back to the summers of so long ago when it was safe to ride my bicycle from one end of our street to the other while visions of fantasy worlds and ideas of making it big one day raced through my mind. Other times, I am just glad that I had that idyllic childhood, which has brought in to being the person I have become today.

The Murder of Francis Bartow Lloyd from The Greenville Advocate, September 1, 1897

I found these articles (all on the front page) in The Greenville Advocate while I was doing some research a few weeks ago. I have typed it and am sharing it because it's just too good to keep to myself!

From September 1, 1897 issue of The Greenville Advocate

A Shocking Tragedy

Hon. F. B. Lloyd

Shot Down in the Public Road

By Mr. John A. Gafford Who Had Been Impatiently Waiting for Him

Last Wednesday evening, as night’s shadows were falling over our quiet little city, the news of an awful tragedy three miles east of here was received. Hon. Bartow Lloyd had been killed by John A. Gafford. He had left the city less than an hour before and his friends who had talked with him and those who had shaken hands with him as he bade them good bye, looked aghast, incredulous. They could not grasp the awful reality. Frank Daniel and Earle Lewis were out on their bicycles; when near the home of the late Mr. Gus Gafford they were accosted by Mr. John Gafford who called to Mr. Daniel, asking if that was Frank Daniel. They stopped and he came to them saying: “Boys, I’ve emptied both barrels of my double barrel shotgun into Bartow Lloyd. He’s up the road; you’d better go and see what you can do for him; good-bye.” They remounted their wheels and soon reached the spot, less than half a mile beyond, where the dead man lay. There had been no witness to the deed, the two men had met and with the blood of one wiped out a bitterness that had come between them. A crowd soon gathered and carried the body to the home of Mr. Lewis, near by [sic]. The news spread like wild fire. In a short time messages were flashed over the wires and the next morning’s daily papers told of the awful fate of one of Butler county’s most prominent citizens. Sheriff Shanks and posse went out at once to arrest Gafford, but failed to find him. A pack of blood hounds was telegraphed for and arrived on first train Thursday. In the meantime a message had been received from Gafford to the effect that he would surrender if assured protection. Judge Gaston called a number of citizens together and they gave the pledge of safety and a fair trial to him if he would come in and give up. All day passed and still he did not show up. A large posse of men from Greenville, Ft. Deposit, Pineapple and the surrounding country gathered at the place where the murder occurred, having the dogs ready to take up the trail in case Gafford did not surrender. Messages passed between him and the posse, Neil Gafford coming to them from his brother. Some of the men grew impatient but others advised caution. So the hours dragged by.

Sheriff Shanks and deputy, Mr. W. H. Shanks and Mr. William Creech accompanied Neal [sic] Gafford finally, to Mr. Mat Hawkins, where the sheriff and deputy remained while Neal Gafford and Mr. Creech went to the hiding place of Gafford to bring him in. This took some time, as he was in the fastness of Pigeon creek swamp beyond the McKenize old mill, eight miles from here. It was said that this was his hiding place on a former occasion when his whereabouts baffled all the officers. The posse received word from Mr. Shanks about night to return to their homes, and he would come in later with the prisoner. At ten o’clock they entered the jail ward and John Gafford heard the click of the big key which shut him out from liberty and freedom, to await the action of the next grand jury.

            John Gafford is a Butler county boy, and lived in Greenville some years ago. Since reaching man’s estate his career has been checkered to the regret of those who knew him. For several years past he has led a quiet life on a farm about four or five miles from the city. It has been learned since the tragedy that Mr. Lloyd had been warned of impending danger, and had evidently feared trouble, for he was armed with a pistol when killed, though it had not been fired. Only two reports were heard by persons who were near enough for the sounds to reach them. Two ghastly wounds were in his body, one in the region of the heart, the other near the center of the chest. He was lying on his side, his face buried in the sand. Mrs. Joe Hartley, who lives on the hill to the left of the place where the tragedy occurred, saw Mr. Gafford just before the shooting took place, he having called at her home for a drink of water. Mr. C. H. Dees, who was working his field to the right of the scene, but nearer this way, also saw him pass up and down the road several times. Both heard the shots and saw the smoke from the gun. No one heard what passed between the men, if, indeed, there were any words.

            The body was not removed at once, some deeming an inquest necessary. Later on it was carried to the home of Mr. Lewis until a casket could be procured, when it was conveyed home. What sad home coming to the young wife! Mr. Lloyd had built a new home in a delightful location just opposite his father’s, and it was one of the prettiest places in the county. To those who enjoyed the hospitality of this home there remains the picture of a genial, big-hearted, entertaining host, a gentle, modest, refined hostess and four bright children, the oldest seven years, and the youngest four months old. Oh! The pity of it all—that the picture should be marred, and the beautiful home ruthlessly shattered.

            Thursday afternoon a large gathering of friends and relatives assembled to pay the last tribute to the deceased. The body was conveyed to Antioch church, half a mile distant, and the casket placed before the sacred desk. Rev. Mr. Ross conducted the service, after which the pall bearers lifted the casket and carried it to the cemetery, where friends of bygone days and those near and dear had preceeded [sic] him to their last resting places.

            Mrs. Lloyd’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Carter, of Butler Springs, also her brother and sister were with the poor, stricken wife in her hour of dire trouble.

            Francis Bartow Lloyd was born in this county in the first year of the civil war, and was named for General Francis Bartow, the distinguished Georgian who fell in the first battle of Manassas. He was the son of Dr. C. C. Lloyd; his mother was Miss Lee, daughter of the late Mr. David Lee, of Mt. Willing, a Baptist minister who was loved and admired wherever known. His paternal grandfather was also a minister, being one of the most prominent Primitive Baptists in this section of the state, and the compiler of a hymn book used in that denomination.

            Mr. Lloyd was a very quiet man but a man of great force of character. He had a fertile imagination and was a fluent speaker and writer. Memorial Day of ’96 will oft be recalled by those who heard his masterly effort on that occasion, and in succeeding anniversaries when dead heroes will be honored the “Sage of Rocky Creek” will be remembered and his untimely end deplored.

            Mr. Lloyd chose journalism as his work, and his first position was on the staff of the Selma Times. He afterward went to Montgomery where he served on the Advertiser. His facile pen made him an acquisition to any paper, but the close confinement was telling on his constitution, which caused him to seek the quiet of a country home. Six years ago he severed his connection with the Advertiser, since then he has been a familiar figure on our streets, his home being five miles east of the city. From there he has given to the world his letters under the non de plume of Rufus Sanders and the quaint characters in these humorous articles have become almost as old friends to thousands of readers.

            His last contribution was mailed the last afternoon he came in to the city, for it was on his return from the post office that he met his death. “Rufus Sanders” last copy has been set up, and thousands of readers, reading it, felt a pang of sincere regret that the pen of the gifted writer had been laid aside forever.

            Mr. Lloyd represented Montgomery county in the Legislature while a resident of that county, and at the time of his death was the Representative from this county. In 1894 he received a very large vote for Secretary of State, and was prominently spoken of as the next incumbent of that position.

_______

“Rufus Sanders”

            The general sorrow that is felt everywhere over the assassination of Francis B. Lloyd, “Rufus Sanders,” is shared in deeply by many of those who toil at the State house; yesterday the sad subject was discussed in every office about the building.

            Most of the officials and clerks were wont to regard Mr. Lloyd as a future companion in the service of the State within the big white pile; they looked upon him as being, in all probability, the next Secretary of State.

            While passing through the upper corriders [sic] a reporter instinctively glanced into the deserted chamber of the House of Representatives, and instantly in the mind’s eye there appeared on the floor, the straight, lithe figure of one who in succession was recognized by “Mr. Speaker” as the “gentleman from Montgomery,” and then “the gentleman from Butler.” Vividly the mental photograph portrayed that lithe figures thrilling with the force of its own sound and honest convictions expressed in language that frequently have the index to his own manliness and sincerity, while the rugged face with its broad, high forehead, either bore the iron cast of serious argument, or else was as genial as a May day, dark eyes twinkling as he related an anecdote of possibly some bright saying full of quaint and homely philosophy from the lips of “old Aunt Nancy,” his child of fancy in the “Rufus Sanders” papers.

            But the chamber was empty; a great white vault filled with only memories; tombs of the past!—Advertiser

_______

JNO. A. GAFFORD TELLS WHY HE KILLED BARTOW LLOYD.

________

            A reporter of THE ADVOCATE visited John A. Gafford in jail last Monday morning about 8 o’clock. He was just getting up, having been awake most of the night before on account of the Sheriff’s apprehending that an attempt would be made to lynch him, (Gafford).

            The first question asked Gafford was, “Do you believe a mob would attempt to lynch you?” and he said “I do not, I have no fear of mob violence.” He was as cool and collected as any man could be.

            We then asked if he had seen Sunday’s Age-Herald with the article in it over his signature. He said he had not, but a gentleman representing that paper had called to see him, and he had given him a statement covering his side of the case. We then handed him a copy of the paper and asked if that article was satisfactory, as we had come to have a talk with him for publication on the same line, and if that was correct, and contained what he wanted to say, we would publish it. He read the article carefully and gave it back to us, and said that would do, it was all right.

            We then asked him how he was getting on since he had been in jail. He said, “Oh, it is rough, but I am getting on very well.”

GAFFORD’S LETTER.

Special to the Age-Herald.

            Greenville, Ala., Aug. 28—Two weeks and three days before the tragedy, I went to F. B. Lloyd’s house, accompanied by his father, who went at my request.

            I asked Lloyd about this talk about my sister and himself, and he denied that there was any ground for the talk. We parted in the friendliest manner, and it was agreed that everything should be friendly, but Lloyd was to so conduct himself that no further talk would arise. We were on a perfectly amiable understanding, and Lloyd spoke in the kindest manner of our old friendship and of our being brothers in the church. He and his father both invited me to remain to supper, but I did not remain. This was on Saturday evening.

            On the next Monday my sister went to Spring Hill church in a neighbor’s wagon along with his family, and the deceased went in his buggy and carried a young lady relative of his wife. He paid such marked attention there to my sister that general indignation was expressed by decent people who were there, and wound up by transferring the young lady who had accompanied him to the wagon, and taking my sister in her place, and coming as far as his house with her, a distance of three or four miles. The next day he and his father came down to where I was, and we had a perfectly friendly talk and parted so. I did not know anything about the church trip at the time.

            The day before the shooting my sister used his horse and buggy all day. The day of his death we met and I asked him why he had broken his agreement. We talked about the matter a few moments, when he suddenly drew a large revolver and I instantly shot him. He jumped up and fell out of the buggy, and I walked up the road about 100 yards and sent Charlie Dees down, telling him I had shot Lloyd, and to go down and do all he could for him. I also sent Claude Parmer and Earle Lewis down for the same purpose. I sent word by Mr. William Butler and others to Sheriff Shanks that I would come in and surrender myself in a day or so.

            The next day I surrendered to Neil Gafford, my brother, and Wm. J. Creech, they having been deputized by Sheriff Shanks. They delivered me to Sheriff Shanks at the house of Mat Hawkins, and we all came to Greenville.

            Lloyd has tried to frighten me out by threats sent by others, but I would not go. We were both cool and sober at time of the killing.

            Yes, Mr. Lloyd was a brave man. His nerve was better than his judgment. We never had any conversation that was not perfectly friendly in our lives until the time of the killing. At the time Lloyd paid a fine for me in Montgomery no cause existed as far as I know for any but the friendliest feelings between us. I had never had any hint of this until I was in Coalburg. I talked with Mr. F. H. Gafford, of Birmingham, on the subject, and when I came home I went to investigating. But everyone naturally kept what they knew from me. The Sheriff offered to take me to Montgomery, but I did not want to go.

            My conscience is clear in this matter, although I deeply deplore the necessity for this trouble. I am sorry for his widow and children. Mrs. Lloyd is one of the best women I have ever met. Had her husband not forced this trouble she would not have been a widow today. Had I not felt entirely justifiable, I would not have surrendered, as it was in no sense compulsory.

JOHN A. GAFFORD

________

WAIVED EXAMINATION

            Gafford has waived a preliminary hearing, and will await the action of the grand jury and trial in the court.

________

JOHN GAFFORD TAKEN TO MONTGOMERY.

            Last Monday evening Sheriff Shanks rather than be harrassed [sic] by the rumors, whether false or otherwise, that Gafford would be lynched, carried his prisoner to Montgomery, and there placed him in jail. Messrs. G. J. Peagler, J. F. Brown, and J. D. Owen accompanied the Sheriff. A large crowd went to the depot to see the prisoner depart.

________

SOME EXCITEMENT

________

            About 9 o’clock Sunday evening, a young man came in with a note to Sheriff Shanks, from a man in the western portion of the county, in which it was stated that a mob was forming to lynch John Gafford. The sheriff immediately summoned a possee [sic], to guard the jail, and then visited his attorney who advised him to take no risk, and to telegraph the Governor ordering out the Grenville Rifle Company. In obedience to the Sheriff’s request, this Gov. Johnson died, and by 12 o’clock our military boys were on duty guarding the jail; but no mob made its appearance and the night passed without a ripple of excitement except that felt by the boys doing guard duty. At this writing nothing further has been heard of a mob, and the people generally seem to think there is no danger to be apprehended from one. There is, and no doubt there will be, rumors for some time that an attempt will be made to lynch Gafford, but it will, in our judgement [sic], prove as unfounded as was the rumor that a mob would visit the jail and lynch old man Atkinson and his sons some months ago.

The Student Becomes the Teacher

As many of you know, I have recently taken on the role of director for the Greenville Community Theater, a grassroots effort to keep the summer productions alive in our town. Helping start this theater group has been an eye-opening experiene in the amount of legal documentation that must be completed and how much work it takes to make a play successful. I am just lucky that I work with wonderful people who want to see this group succeed!

Tomorrow night, though, will be a test for me. I have always been on the auditioning side of a performance, but this time I will be in the director's chair; so the student will now become the teacher. I already know that I will face the challenge of wanting to give everyone a part, but the fact is that there are only six roles available in Crimes of the Heart. Some people will be disappointed if they don't get a role, and I know how that feels. I just hope no one will be angry and decide never to audition with us again. Selecting actors for roles takes a lot of consideration, and just because a person is not the best fit for a role in this play, doesn't mean he or she won't be perfect for a role in a future production. Trust me, I've been too old for parts, too young for parts, too Southern for parts, and so on. It isn't personal.

Anyhow, I look forward to the new challenge, but I am also a little terrified, too. I think all first-time directors are. What if my vision falls short of what should be done? What if I fail my actors? What if I just royally screw everything up? I may, but I certainly hope not.

In a few months, I will be able to look back on this entry and know how I did. For now, the show must go on! So, everyone say a prayer for me and everyone else who is involved in this project. We will need all the prayers we can get!

http://www.greenvilleadvocate.com/2013/05/31/greenville-community-theatre-set-to-hold-auditions/

Help Save the Earthworms!

Every morning when I go walking, I see them: the mummified remains of hundreds of earthworms littering the sidewalks and roadways of my route. Many of the carcasses are straight as if the worms were extending themselves as far as they could to reach safety, only to fail in the end. But, most are curled into a fetal position in their last ditch efforts to save themselves from “dawn’s early light.” I don’t know why they wait so late to start their final adventures, but inevitably, most of them get caught by the sun’s unforgiveable rays.

Death by sun exposure would have to be a bad way to die. First, with the sun beating down on their liquid-filled bodies, the earthworms begin to slow even more than their usual “snail’s pace.” Then the sun starts to heat the asphalt and concrete, which results in blistering on this side, too. They just don’t stand a chance. If the sun doesn’t finish the job, the ants usually do. Either way, this is a painful, slow, and terrible way to go.

The odds are always against earthworms anyhow. Those lucky enough to make it home before the sun can torture them to death are often eaten by birds, and some even become fodder for the fishes. Still, these previous two ways seem less painful, and somehow more humane (after all, they are helping with the life cycle), than the sun simply evaporating their insides and leaving only a crunchy outside for me to bemoan.

Thus, I have decided to save the earthworms. I don’t necessarily enjoy touching them; without legs, they remind me of snakes, which I abhor, but my compassion always wins out, so I am compelled to act on their behalves.

Mostly, I don’t find them in time to do any good, but every once in a while, I do. Take this morning for example. On my way down Northgate to do my Glendale/Country Club loop, I saw him (yes, they’re asexual, but I feel strongly that my earthworm was a male because he was plodding along aimlessly to his destination). He had almost reached the pavement’s edge, but how he intended to scale the curb and get into the grass was a mystery to me.

So, I decided to intervene. I bent down to pick up my earthworm, but he thrashed wildly until he finally exhausted himself; he simply gave up. Gently, I lifted him off the road and put him on the grass that was still wet with the morning dew. Unfortunately, my earthworm’s new location didn’t motivate him at all, and he remained still. To begin with, I wondered if in attempting to move him, I had given him a heart attack and only hastened what the sun had already started.

Even though he was on the grass now, I feared my earthworm would be dead in the 20 minutes it would take me to make my loop and return to check on him. So, I began tearing up wet grass and placing it on top of him. This action would at least give him some additional moisture and some protection from the sun. Feeling I had done all I could do, and praying that the homeowners whose grass I was tearing up hadn’t seen me, I left him. I’d done my part, but now it was up to him to do the rest.

When I came back through, I checked on my earthworm. Thankfully, he had started burrowing into the earth, but more of him was out than in. I tore up some more grass, keeping an eye on the curtains in the process, placed it on top of him, and wished him luck. Hopefully, my efforts were not in vain and the little guy had enough time and strength to get back into the ground.

Now, most of you are probably wondering, so? What’s the big deal about saving an earthworm? If he lives, he’ll probably die tomorrow anyhow. Well, yes, that’s true. He may not have made it through today, and if he does, he may not make it through tomorrow, but then, neither may any of the rest of us, and sometimes we just need a little help along the way to get through to fight again the next day. Today, I was that earthworm’s salvation, or at least, I hope I was, but it’s about more than that really. It’s about compassion, for all God’s creatures both big and small, both cuddly and slimy, and both important and insignificant. Today I helped an earthworm, but tomorrow, who knows what creature may need my assistance; perhaps, that creature may even be human. I just hope I’m there to lend a helping hand if it is needed.

Tomorrow I will be back out in force. As always, I will watch the ground to make sure no snakes are lurking in the bushes, and along the way, I will see hundreds of earthworm carcasses, but should I be lucky enough to see a live one, I will pick him up, find him some shade, cover him, and wish him the best. It’s all I have to offer, and while it may not seem like much, to that one earthworm, it’ll be everything.

Day-cation Adventures 5, 6, & 7

I have not forgotten about my adventures posting, but my Friday day-cation was rather boring. The only thing I did that was notable was to get a meningitis vaccine, which now has a rather colorful reaction site. Go figure. I did manage to get our other bedroom reorganized for practical purposes. Friday night I went to a painting party at my cousin Mitzy's house.

Here's my owl:

Saturday was a true fun day for me and Ronald. We went to Big Kahuna’s water park. My son does not like water or fun or us (he’s 13, so what do you expect), so he did not go. It was just the big kids. Big Kahuna’s is a lot of fun, but there are things no one warns you about regarding the aftermath of all this enjoyment. First off, Big Kahuna’s has hundreds, if not thousands, of stairs, and I fully believe I climbed each one…twice. Before we left, I was already feeling the major throbbing in my legs that I am still feeling two days later. Honestly, all the fun we had Saturday is why I could not move on Sunday. I can barely walk…still.

The pains aside, Big Kahuna’s is attractive and reasonably priced, except the food, but they have to make their money somehow. I predict that a return trip is in store for the family this summer when our Russian daughter comes home for a short visit! We are so excited that Polina will be with us, even if it is only for a month. L

Sunday, the final day of my day-cations was spent recuperating from Saturday. You know that people say you need a vacation from your vacation? Well, amen to that! I did get an entire Dan Brown novel (Inferno) read, but it was because just walking to the bathroom was a fete!

My day-cations are over, and it’s back to work as usual. Thank goodness!

Day-cation Adventure 4

Thursday’s “day-cation” started with a trip to Rutledge to purchase a twin-sized bed. Normally, this would not be worth mentioning except for how I had to drive home. I own a Trailblazer, and if I let down the backseats, I have about five feet of space to put in things. Apparently, I needed five and a half feet of space because my “trunk” wouldn’t close. In order to get it to close, I had to let up the front row of seats; yes, that would be my driver’s seat. Everyone knows I have long legs, which has always been a perk. Yesterday it wasn’t; I drove home with my knees up around my ears!

I spent part of my morning in the mayor’s office trying to work out details for the beginning of a new community theater project. As of right now, we will be performing Crimes of the Heart on August 16 & 17 at the Ritz Theater in lovely downtown Greenville. I have never directed a production, so I am both elated and terrified. I’m sure many of my future blog posts will be about this experience, and it will be filled with what I learn along the way.

I rounded out my morning with a trip back to the stacks in the court house. In looking for an article on an ancestor, I came across a fascinating murder of the Honorable Bartow Lloyd, age 36, who in August 1897 was shot and killed by John A. Gafford. I am going to type up the article and include it in this blog at a later date, but it’s fascinating. According to Gafford, the married Mr. Lloyd was dishonoring Mr. Gafford’s sister’s reputation. Hhhhmmmhhh!

Another article I found was a despicable piece on “Blue Gums.” It is short enough for me to include it here, but readers beware that it is a terrible article showing racism at its worse. The article is also from 1897.

Day-cation Adventure 3

After yesterday’s “day-cation” adventure with the bicycle, I have been exhausted. Believe it or not, my forearms are what really hurt! For this reason, I kept today’s “day-cation” short.

I went looking for graves again. According to one of my cousins, my great-grandparents are buried in Pleasant Home Cemetery, which is located on Ridge Road before the Forest Home turn-off. The cemetery is hard to find because no sign exists, plus you cannot see it from the main highway. The only thing you can see is a road that is blocked by a gate. Fortunately, one can walk on either side of the gate to the old church, which has been vandalized by some people who have terrible grammar skills (no big surprise, right?).

I found the graves of Archie and Stella Seale Boutwell, who was the sister of my great-grandmother Stella Seale Boutwell. I haven’t confirmed this, but I believe Archie was the brother of Stella’s husband David “Chap” Boutwell. The relationships appear to be that of two sisters marrying two brothers. Anyhow, Stella and Chap’s graves are not marked. I’m fairly certain which ones are theirs, but I cannot be 100% sure, of course.

Next, I went back out County Road 38 to where it turns into Old Federal Road in Monroe County. The road turns into a bumpy, winding dirt road that is difficult to traverse. Happily, I located Middleton Cemetery, which is where Elizabeth Stroud is buried. Elizabeth was attacked by Creek Indians during the Ogley massacre, which happened a week before the Butler Massacre in which Captain William Butler (for whom my home county is named) was killed. Elizabeth and two children survived the attack, but she died en route from Fort Bibb to Claiborne, where she was being transported for medical attention. Apparently her husband Eli Stroud was not present during the attack because he remarried a second Elizabeth, who is buried next to the first one oddly enough. Where Eli is buried is not something I know.

On the way to Middleton Cemetery, I stopped and took a picture of the Holley’s Store historical sign. It may have been the first mercantile business in the area.