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/