“Yeah, all our kin is in this cemetery, but not everyone on the farm.”
Just like that, his mood changed from pride to anger.
“What do you mean? Whose remains are buried here but don’t deserve to be?”
He looked away, removed his straw hat, ran his fingers through his wavy white hair, and sighed.
“What I’m about to say is for your ears only. I never told Buddy Boy or your grandma, either. Aside from myself, there are only two people who know what happened that night.”
“Try to imagine what this town was like in 1942 in the deep South, in Jim Crow Alabama. White folks literally and figuratively got away with everything under the sun, even murder in broad daylight. White folks had all the power. Any opportunity they had to oppress, threaten, beat, or lynch, they gladly took it. The sad part about it, these very people called themselves Christians. And on top of that, to make matters worse, they always got away with it scot-free. Especially since the folks doing all the bullying and harassing were either the law or related to the law.”
He scooped up a handful of soil in his hand. He rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger, allowing it to slowly fall back to the ground.
“You know, long ago our ancestors became friends with this soil. Remember, son, not only will it grow any seed planted in it, it will also conceal whatever you want to remain hidden. Now bear with me for a moment, Scooter. I’m going to tell you about something that happened here on this farm sixty years ago. I probably should have told you about this first, but I thought this way would be better.”…
Charles R. Butts Jr. 