Wetumpka, Alabama.
November 6 and November 20, 2016
I lived and worked in Montgomery, Alabama, in the early 1970s.
A colleague and friend, John Sullivan, lived 20 miles northeast of Montgomery near the little town of Wetumpka.
John was a fine artist and a graphic designer. On weekends, he and I would often go on photo expeditions in the rural countryside that surrounded his home.
One day, we came across a ransacked home that, to me, looked like a shack. A broken door hung from the jamb. Part of the cardboard ceiling hung over the entryway.
Inside, we saw late afternoon sunlight streaming through dirty windows. A cedar chest and a dish cabinet were open to reveal empty interiors.
Outside again, I spotted a pile of trash: rags or old clothing comprised the base; papers were strewn about; a World War II poster was exposed to the elements.
Atop was a piece of what looked like poster board, about 15 by 20 inches.
I turned it over and encountered the countenance of a beautiful African American woman, probably in her late teens or early 20s, dressed magnificently in a fine blouse of a bygone era.
I picked it up and admired it.
Digging deeper into the pile, I also found her insurance papers, letters, and a book titled Saba Meroe, a fascinating text of ritual by the secret society Daughters of the Tabernacle, published in 1923.
I took the items away from there, intending, at least, to save them from the next rainstorm and, hopefully, pass them along to a relative.
John's elderly neighbor, Mr. Mulder, identified the woman as Miss Ollie Alexander. She had passed within the previous few months, he said, adding that she had no living relatives.
I kept the portrait and papers, thinking that, one day, I would learn more about her and write her story.
That thought, over the past 40-plus years, has been continually pushed aside by other writings.
Over those years, Miss Ollie's portrait, which I had professionally framed, hung in my office; her papers were tucked safely away in my closet.
In recent years, however, I became haunted by the thoughts: "What if I were to die suddenly? Nobody would know what to do with these papers? They would be pitched like so much other memorabilia that means something only to me."
So, with the impending Living Legacy Pilgrimage that you've read about in my recent blogs, I decided to take Miss Ollie and her papers back to her home.
I contacted the African American archives at Alabama State University in Montgomery and have recently delivered those items there.
Yet, curiosity prevailed for a while longer. So, on my way to the pilgrimage, I visited the Elmore County Historical Society and Museum in Wetumpka and invested a day looking at historical documents that pertained to the area.
I found references to Miss Ollie and her family.
She had had a husband, Seab (1892 - 1951), a son, Druie (1925 - 1959), and a sister, Lillie Belle Oliver (1894 - 1967), who had lived nearby.
Ollie and Seab were not poor. They had been granted 40 acres of land during the Reconstruction Era. They had a wagon, a horse, a cow, a gun, and a sewing machine. Seab purchased, on credit, fencing and roofing materials from a company in Indiana.
Ollie had attended the Pleasant Hill Baptist Church. I jotted down the church address and went to the Sunday service there two days later.
It was a small church with an attendance of about 20 highly energized people, standing, singing, waving their arms and hands or a banner devoted to Jesus.
As the minister, the Rev. Kenneth Lewis, delivered his Scripture-based message, a keyboardist and a drummer improvised an earthy tune in the background,
crescendoing as the pastor's voice grew in volume and softening as he brought his words into an attention-holding whisper.
Near the end of the service, the minister said, "I wonder if our visitor would like to say something." Clearly, he was speaking to me, the only white person in the room.
I walked the short distance from the back of the church to the dais and took the microphone that he offered.
I spoke of my mission in Wetumpka and asked if anyone had known Miss Ollie Alexander. One man said he had, and he and I agreed to talk more after the service.
Then, in keeping with the minister's message, I elaborated that I had not known of this church two days prior and that -- no doubt -- God had led me here on this Sunday morning.
As I spoke, the keyboardist and drummer began to play softly under my words. I looked at them and felt the spirit of exhilaration.
For another minute or two, I continued to speak of my gratitude for the glory of God and in praise of divine synchronicity.
That afternoon, the helpful congregant showed me where Miss Ollie's house and that of her sister, Lillie, had once stood; both were now gone.
He took me to the cemetery where she lies in an enclosed family plot with Seab, Druie, Lillie, and other relatives.
Then I went on the Living Legacy Pilgrimage, where, as you have read in my recent blogs, my eyes were opened to the atrocities of slavery, racism, and segregation.
With the pilgrimage having ended on a Friday, I drove back to Wetumpka. On Sunday, I attended the service at Pleasant Hill Baptist.
Much to my even greater surprise, Pastor Lewis, at the end of the service, said, "I wonder if our returning friend would like to say anything today."
I rose from my seat with only one thought: "Holy Spirit, help me. I don't know what to say. Please guide my words!"
I took the microphone. The keyboardist and drummer began to play immediately. I looked at them and smiled. I felt inspiration flowing into me.
"Two weeks ago," I said, "I came to this church seeking information about one of your deceased sisters, Miss Ollie Alexander. One of you answered my quest, and for that I'm grateful.
"Since then, I've been on a bus tour to places of significance in regard to the Civil Rights Movement of the 1950s and 1960s.
"My eyes have been opened to the crimes and injustices that people of my skin color did to people of your skin color through slavery, racism, and segregation, through brutality and murder."
I paused, feeling the words catch in my throat.
"There is only one thing I can say to you today: I'm sorry. I apologize.
"Not that I was a part of those atrocities. Not that I participated in them. But neither was I part of the solution.
"As a young white person, living in the North, I simply didn't know. For my ignorance of the plight of black people in the South, I'm sorry. I apologize."
I then added a bit more while the music played under my words, but that was the gist of my remarks.
I turned to hand the microphone back to Pastor Lewis.
His hands and arms whizzed past mine as he took me into a deep embrace.
He is a large man, tall and rotund. He was perspiring from having emoted much energy to his congregation during his sermon. I felt his compassionate radiate from his heart. I nearly cried.
Today, I still recall his message: "God gives us gifts," he had preached. "It is our responsibility to use those gifts for the praise and glory of God and for the betterment of our brothers and sisters.
"Get up off your gifts," he had repeated often, both loudly and softly.
"Get up off your gifts and use them for the glory of God and for the betterment of our brothers and sisters."
I asked myself: "What gifts has God given to me that I can use for the betterment of my brothers and sisters?"
My answer: "The gifts of writing, speaking, relating. Through my blogs and books and stories, I am getting up off my gifts."
What are your gifts? How are you using them?
Next blog: "A White Man at the Back of the Bus"
