You can't lose something you never had

I think the saddest thing on God’s green earth is an abandoned cemetery. It ain’t got nobody to take care of it. The headstones get lost in the grass, and if’n you ain’t careful, you gonna wind up steppin’ on somebody’s bones!

This poor old graveyard here is just a perfect example. It ain’t been tended to in about a hunnert years. There used to be a fence around it—just one of them low things that would hit you in the shins if you weren’t careful. I think it’s somewhere still in there, if it ain’t rusted back to nature! Watch where you step because it had some sharp points on it at the top, and you don’t wanna get punctured by one. You might come down with a case of the lockjaw, and that just ain’t no way to die. If’n I’m rememberin’ this right, it’s under all that bushy-lookin’ grass.

Now, this was a family-owned plot—a big part of the reason why nobody ain’t carin’ for it no more. This area’s been around for almost two hunnert years. They was always just a farmin’ community, nothin’ real fancy. Town came into some money (and some notoriety) after the railroad come through, but just as quick they lost it all when they built the interstate. The powers that be didn’t even give the town an exit.

Anyway, this was for the O’Connor family. Oh, they was important back in the day!! There’s about, hmm, let me think, fifteen or twenty folks resting here for their “eternal repose.” That’s sounds real fancy, don’t it. That’s how the preacher talked when he’d say one of their funerals. Used to make me hoot!!

Over yonder are the graves for, let me think, great Granddaddy and Grandma. You see the ones with a bunch of those purty yellow flowers on top? That’s called tickseed ‘cause it grows like ticks on a hound dog. Their names were James and Lucinda. They died before the Civil War, you know? They settled in what was the territory of Florida around 1820, I think. They were still livin’ when Florida become a state in 1845. At any rate, they died in the 1850s. Yellow fever, I think. Even out here in the country people would catch that awful sickness. If’n you look, I do believe there’s, let me see, one, two, three…five little graves next to ‘em. Great Grandma sure did have her a lot of young’uns. Ten all told, but only half of ‘em lived past a year old.In fact, if you could see the markers, there ain’t no names on ‘em. Just, “Baby Girl” or “ Baby Boy.” They thought it was unlucky to name the babe until they knew it was goin’ to survive.

Now where you see that blue-eyed grass just beyond the greats, that’s the grandparents. Their names were Jack and Susan. Jack wasn’t quite old enough to fight in the War, but he had plenty of uncles and cousins who did. I do believe between Great Grandma and Jack is Cousin Robert. He died in the War, and the family managed to get him back. That didn’t happen often, you know. Like I said, Jack wasn’t old enough to enlist, but he kept up the good fight by joinin’ the Klan.

Don’t go gettin’ all uppity with me about the Ku Klux Klan. I understand most folks think they was bad men doin’ bad things. It was worse. They was good men doin’ bad things. These men were skeert. Their whole world had been turned upside down. They took a whoopin’ in the war, and they was embarrassed about it. They thought they’d win ‘cause they was right with the Lord. It’s a terrible thing when a man thinks God is only on his side.

All right, maybe they was bad. I don’t know no more. Or maybe I just don’t wants to know.

Jack and Susan did a bit better with their young’uns. They had five boys and two girls, and they lived to see their grandchildren from ‘em. Susan even helped deliver a couple! She was a hard case. Didn’t cut nobody no slack. She was a no-nonsense, little bitty slip of an old country woman. Life was hard, and she knew it. Better’n most, truth be told. She ruled that house with an iron fist—no velvet glove with her! Jack, he ruled the farm the same way, ‘cept his whole body was iron.

God help the man that got between Jack and keepin’ his family safe.

Two of Jack’s boys and their wives are buried over yonder under those black-eyed Susans. I always wondered why those didn’t grow on Jack and Susan’s graves, but there just ain’t no tellin’ with Mother Nature. She got a mind of her own when it comes to gardenin’ a place like this. At least there’s beauty here in the middle of it bein’ all abandoned.

The back yonder is bordered by some wild pecan trees. They been there ever since I can remember. Folks used to come out here in the fall and pick up pecans to haul home and shell and store for makin’ pies and stuff. Oh, such good pecans!! And sittin’ around shellin’ ‘em while we told stories and sang songs together. I’m telin’ you! Nothin’ in this world quite like it.

And, yes, there is a walnut tree. Lots of folks don’t think walnut trees grow in Florida, but they do. Of course, that tree has a bit of a sad history…

Now, Mama and Daddy are over here on the other side. You know, even though all their children ‘cept the oldest left home, they all wanted to be buried right here in the family cemetery.

That was afore the bad thing happened. The thing with that tree.

What’s that noise? Is that one of them motorcars? Nasty, smelly things. Look, it’s more than one. It’s a bunch!! What are all them people doin’ way out here? Hush, now. Let me listen.

****

“Okay everybody! Over this way!!” The group of folks congregated in front of the young man who was in charge. They were dressed in work-clothes—jeans, long sleeve shirts, caps, and, as they gathered, they began to pull on gloves and retrieve weed eaters, rakes, garbage bags, shovels, and a couple of hoes. They were mostly thirty-somethings, but there were a few older men and women, and even a pre-school aged child. As they found places around the leader, he said, “I just want to thank y’all first for givin’ up your Saturday mornin’ to come out here and help me with this. And for the party later,” he said conspiratorially, pointing at the child. “As you know, this is my family’s cemetery plot. It hasn’t been mowed or anything since 1925. The story is there was a lynchin’ from that” he pointed toward the corner of the property, “walnut tree back yonder.” He turned back to the group. “I have no idea if that’s true, but these are the resting places of a bunch of folks, and it deserves a good cleanin’!”

The group cheered and began to move slowly into the plot of ground. “Careful!” someone yelled. “There’s an old fence here!”

I told ya’.

“Oooh, look at the dates on this!” another graveyard prospector said. “She died in 1856!”

The young man and his little girl moved toward the marker with parchment paper and charcoal. He had his daughter, who looked to be about four years old, hold the paper in place while he secured it with tape. Then, he showed her how to hold the charcoal so she could rub it over the marker and copy the inscription.

“That’s right, Delilah,” he encouraged her. “You’re doing a great job!”

“She’s going to have that all over her,” a woman fussed. “Here,” she pulled a package of wet wipes out of her bib-overall pocket.“At least clean her hands when you’re done—please!!”

“You worry too much, Janie,” her husband replied. “She’s in old clothes, and she’s havin’ a good time. It ain’t gonna ruin nothin’!”

Janie looked petulant. “Ain’t? Really? We’re going to give up correct English while we’re at it?”

Her husband stood, taking the charcoal from Delilah, and checking the rubbing. “Take Delilah for a minute,” he said. “I need to spray this with some hair spray before I take it down and roll it up.”

Janie called Delilah to her, holding her at arms’ length saying, “Let me clean your hands first, and then you can give Mama a big hug!”Delilah giggled with delight. She looked over Janie’s shoulder and waved furiously. Janie turned, but there was no one there. “Who you waving at, sweetheart?”

Me, Janie. She can see me. Yes, sweet girl. I see you. Can you blow kisses?

Delilah plastered her mouth with a charcoal-covered hand and blew a kiss.

“Oh, Delilah!” Janie fussed.“Now it’s all over your face!”

Oh, don’t wipe it off, Mama! She looks beautiful!!

Janie grabbed another wipe and attacked the charcoal on her daughter’s face like it was bacteria in a petri dish. With a few expertly applied strokes, it was removed in seconds. “There. Now you look like my daughter again!” she said, and kissed her baby girl.

Delilah was still entranced with something behind her mother. She giggled and started to play patty-cake in the air. She blew more kisses, and then walked toward the old walnut tree.

“Where are you going, Delilah?” Janie asked, concern painting her voice. “Delilah!” she called. “Come back here!”

Delilah ignored her mother, continuing her quest. She stopped along the way to pick a flower or retrieve a pebble, but she made slow, deliberate progress toward the tree. “Sam!” Janie fussed. “Stop her! There might be snakes over there!”

Sam put his arm around his wife. “Honey, we are making so much noise and commotion, any self-respecting snake has put plenty of distance between us and him!”

At that moment, one of the workers let out a screech followed by embarrassed laughter. “What is it?” her companion asked.

“Nothin’,” she said. “Just a black racer. I think I scared him more than he scared me!”

“A black racer!” Janie exclaimed. “I told you there were snakes!”

“Harmless snake,” Sam said.He took Janie into an embrace.“Non-venomous. Good snake,” he purred in her ear.

This time, she thought, not comforted by his words. She pulled loose and looked in the direction she last saw Delilah.

She was gone. Vanished. Janie panicked and began to move. “Delilah!” she screamed uncontrollably. “Where are you? Answer Mama, Baby!!”

Delilah popped up from behind a patch of orange, butterfly milkweed. Grinning ear-to-ear, she said, “Here I am, Mama!! Come look what I found!!”

Sam said, “What did you find, Delilah honey? There aren’t any graves over there!”

“Yes there is, Daddy!” Delilah countered. “There’s three. One…two…three! ” she said, holding up fingers as she counted.

Now the whole group was interested. They had uncovered all the graves on Sam’s list, so who else could be here. Someone brought the weed eater and started working on the lovegrass growing where Delilah pointed.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Sam said.

“Language,” Janie scolded as she poked him with her elbow.

There on the ground were three carved stones. One had only a hand-carved “W” on it. The middle one was larger. It was inscribed, “Janie. B 07/06/1896 D09/17/1925”. The third was small, but not as small as the “W” stone. It was inscribed, “Delilah 09/17/25.”

“They have our names on them,” Janie said, holding Delilah close. “And look at those dates, Sam.”

“I see,” he said.

“What?” one of the team asked.

“September 17th. That’s today. Exactly one hundred years ago.” Janie said.

Someone blew out a low whistle. “Man, what a coincidence!” he said.

“Well, you want some more?” Janie said, panic choking her slightly. “It’s Delilah’s birthday, too, remember? And July 6th is mine, also exactly one century later.”

Silence settled over the group like a church in worship. No one spoke. All anyone could hear, all they wanted to hear, was the sound of bugs buzzing a counterpoint to the lullaby of the grass rustling in the breeze. A squirrel fussed in the branches of the walnut tree. One of the workers grasped a cross hanging around her neck.

“What do you ‘spose it means?” someone finally ventured to ask.

“I don’t know,” Sam said. He squatted down and looked at the rough, hand-sculpted memorials. “My guess is that this Janie,” he pointed at the gravestone, “died giving birth to that Delilah.”

“How you figure?” another volunteer queried.

“They died on the same day.” He stood. “That happened a lot back in the 1920s.” He shook his head slowly. “Sad.”

“Wonder who ‘W’ was?” someone else asked.

“Don’t reckon we’ll ever know,” Sam answered. “It will have to be a mystery.” He turned to the group, embracing Janie with one arm. “Y’all, again. Thanks so much for bein’ here! Let’s head back to the old place now and have a party for this birthday girl!”

The group sighed with relief and turned to leave. Janie looked back at the graves, worry darkening her face. Delilah clapped with delight and began blowing kisses again. Janie pulled her hands down, but the baby jerked away, intent on her task. She continued all the way to the car, crying, “Mama! I loves you!!”

“I love you, too,” Janie said, but Delilah wasn’t looking at her.

****

She was looking at me. I followed her to the car, blowing my kisses in return. I waved. I shouted, “I love you, baby!! You be a good girl, you hear?”

When the cars were gone, I went back to the walnut tree. William and Delilah were there waiting for me as I had been waiting for them for the last century. Delilah held out her arms, chocolate-colored skin shimmering in the sun. “Mama!” she squealed.

I took her, holding her close, filling my senses with her scent. Finally, we be a family. After a hunnert years, we together.

William was my lover back in 1925. It was wrong by all counts. He was black. I was white—and married. My husband was a cruel man, but William was kind and gentle. I didn’t want to be a cheater, but I loved him in a way I didn’t even know was possible.

When we got caught in bed together, I got skeert. I lied and said he forced me. All it took was my accusation, and the good men of the town lynched him—from this very walnut tree. The place with the rock and a “W” carved on it is where his body fell and rotted. My William didn’t even get a burial. As I look into his eyes now I wonder how he could ever forgive me for that, but I know somehow he has.

My husband locked me in the bedroom and took me cruelly after William was lynched. I was surprised he’d even touch me, but he said it was to “cleanse” me from “that colored boy’s filth.” Ever night for a month. Over and over. Weren’t no love in it—just punishment.

When I told him I was pregnant, he kicked me out of our bedroom and made me sleep on a pallet in front of the fireplace. He never touched me again, ‘cept to beat me. I think he knew it weren’t his babe, and he was tryin’ his hardest to make me lose it. He didn’t want to deal with the shame of a wife who chose a black man over him.

My labor was awful. He made me suffer all alone for a full day before he finally sent for the midwife. Delilah came out almost as dark as William, with a head full of soft, black curls. My husband took one look at her and dragged me by my hair, holdin’ my baby, out to this graveyard. Standin’ me next to William’s bones, he ripped her by her feet from my arms, me screamin’ and beggin’ for mercy—"If not for me, for the child,” I hollered. “Her name is Delilah!” I pleaded, thinking her name would somehow settle him down. There was no pity in my husband’s heart. He slammed my baby girl against the tree, killing her instantly, and threw her at my feet like a dead polecat.

Her cries escaped to eternity on the breath in my lungs. I gasped for air that weren’t there. I fell to my knees and, when my chest finally heaved greedily, I wailed, a horrible sound I didn’t even recognize as my own voice. I swathed my child in my embrace. I wasn’t aware of nothin’ ‘ceptin’ my own sorrow until the whip lashed my back. My husband was pitiless. He hooted with pure hatred, tearin’ my flesh with that whip until I jes’ died, lyin’ across my William’s bones, Delilah hid ‘tween us, my head on his chest achin’ for the heartbeat I treasured in life.

Here I’ve waited, watchin’ when my brother buried us and marked our graves, feelin’ the seasons come and go, waitin’ for when my family could be one. Yearnin’ for someone to see our names and long to know our story, to hear my voice like I never knowed in life.

That’s Sam. He’s my great-grandson. I conceived him by my husband at the same time I conceived Delilah with Sam.Don’t happen often, but it do happen.I quit school after third grade, so I cain’t tell you what that’s called. I begged the mid-wife to keep him from his father’s madness. She agreed and took him to one of the family what lived out of town. They was childless, and they gave him a home.

He survived.

He was loved.

And now, so am I.