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               Welcome to The Nations Books

           I am a retired schoolteacher and these two novels are  my first attempt at serious writing for publication.  If you enjoy reading books based on actual events, you will enjoy these novels.

                               
                                        
                                                 Sale Price $14.95
                                      
                                            Size 5" x  8" 300 pages

 
Ship from and sold by Virtual Bookworm Publishers
 http://www.virtualbookworm.com/bookstore
           
 For help contact gnations@aol.com


                              Book Description

           The big white house that sits on  a hill just outside the small southern town where Bobby Joe Culver lives holds within its walls many secrets. One secret, more carefully guarded above all others, is buried deep in the mind of its owner, Bill Anderson, a former sheriff who abuses his family and nurses a deep hatred for the Culver family.

Bobby Joe learns the destructive power of hate when he elopes with the former sheriff's daughter. Bill Anderson will do whatever is necessary to break up his daughter's marriage to Bobby Joe, even if it means having Bobby Joe killed. He unleashes his hatred with a violent act against the Culver family. Bobby Joe fears for his life and blames himself for causing his family to suffer.


Bobby Joe struggles to stay alive and confronts Bill Anderson. He is gripped by a different kind of fear when he learns the secret Bill Anderson has carefully guarded. Has Bill Anderson deceived him, or is what he learned true. If true, it could destroy his marriage and haunt him for the rest of his life. As he struggles to overcome his fear and save his marriage, Bobby Joe has to make the most difficult decision of his life.

                                 
Inside the Book


Jason and Byron Culver walked into Jason's office filled with apprehension about what they might learn from the letter their father had instructed them not read until he was gone. Now, as directed they were obeying his instruction. They knew he was forcing them, even from the grave, to learn whatever secrets he had so painstakingly kept from them.

Jason took the envelope from his office safe and fumbled with it for a few moments. "You might as well open it and see what he's been hiding all these years," Byron blurted with a slight quiver in his voice.

Jason looked at his brother and knew that he, like him, was grieving from the loss of a father they never really knew. "Maybe this was the only way he could tell us about whatever had bothered him all these years. Maybe he thought we would judge him or love him less, or maybe not love him at all."

Byron scoffed, "Whatever his reasons, it doesn't matter now, just open it." Jason opened the envelope, removed several pages and read the first page silently. When he finished, he handed it to Byron and continued reading, handing each page to his brother until he finally handed him the last page. Byron finished the last page and handed it back to Jason. They both sat quietly for a few moments, thinking about what they had just read. Byron broke the silence. "Wow, what a story. I fully understand why he kept it secret."

 

To purchase a copy, please copy and paste the address below on your address bar and type The Big White House in the Search bar.
 
http://www.virtualbookworn.com/bookstore

The book is also available on www.Amazon.comwww.Barnes&Nobel.com. www.PowellBooks.com.

==========================================================================================
  
 





         Sale
price $13.95

     Size 5" x 8"  230 pages

 Ship from and sold by Virtual Bookworm Publishers
        
 
http://www.virtualbookworn.com/bookstore  

 For help contact 
gnations@aol.com

                                                                                                                                       

                               Book Description
      
              Newspaper reporter Blake Murphy set out to write a story about a shooting in the small town where he was born and raised. The shooting is the latest episode in a feud between two families that has been going on since the Civil War. With help from an elderly former slave, he learns the root cause of the feud, a tragic event that occurred when the son of each family fought on opposite sides  during the Civil War. While learning about the people involved in the feud, and the anguished it had brought both families, he also learns a long held secret that could change his life forever. 

                                            Inside the Book
   
   Josh was anxious to see his friend, Jake Hill. Instead of stopping at his home, he continued down the road toward Jake’s home. He and Jake were about the same age, had grown up fishing, hunting, playing and attending school together. They could almost pass as twins. Both were sandy headed, had blue eyes and stood six foot tall with broad shoulders. It never occurred to him Jake and his parents may have different opinions about the right Texas had to secede from the Union and join the Confederate States of America. He dismounted from his horse, walked upon the front porch and knocked. Maggie Hill, Jake’s younger sister opened the door. Josh was glad to see her. She had beautiful blond hair, blue eyes, and at the young age of sixteen was showing she was developing a well-formed body. Even though she did not know it, he really liked her and secretly considered her his girlfriend. “Hello Maggie, is Jake home?”
    “No Josh, he’s not,” Maggie answered a little hesitant. “He left three days ago.”
    “Left?” Josh questioned, sensing Maggie’s hesitancy. “Where did he go?”
    “He went north to join up with the Union Army.”
    “Join the Union Army? You mean he’s not going to help us fight for our rights?” 
   “No, Pa said the states have no right to secede. He said God had put the states together, and it was Jake’s duty to fight to preserve the United States.”
    Josh could not believe what he had heard. He and his best friend would be fighting on opposite sides. “I never knew your father held that opinion,” Josh said, wondering why Jake had not told him his father was in favor of the Union
   “Well, he does, and he has drilled it into us ever sense we were kids. It’s all he’s talked about recently.” 
   “Does your father know I’ll be joining the Confederate Army?”   
    “Yes he does. He also knows your father is a strong secessionist and when he learns Jake has joined the Union Army, he will brand us as Union sympathizers, and may even try to do us harm.”
    “My father may think you are Union sympathizers, but he’d never do you harm.” 
   “Well, I hope not, but Pa says we are the only family living in this area that favors the North, and we will have to be on our guard.” 
   Josh looked at Maggie and could see the fear on her face. He had never told her how he felt about her. He had taken her on a Sunday picnic a couple of times and she had invited him to attend church with her, but that was all. Yet, he knew something pertaining to Maggie had been stirring within him the last few months. “Maggie,” he said, “I’ll be leaving in a few days, but before I go, I have something I want to tell you.” 
   “What is it Josh?” Maggie questioned, hoping he would be more forthcoming with his sentiment for her. 
   “Maggie, I think you are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met. I’m really fond of you and I hope this war will not come between us. I know you will be praying for Jake, and I want you to pray for me also. Wherever this war takes me, I’ll hold your beautiful face in my memory and long for the day when this war will be over and I can see you again.”    
   “Thank you Josh, I will be praying for you and I want you to know while you’re away I’ll not even look at another boy. I guess it sounds a little silly, but you are always in my thoughts. I have daydreams about us and our future together.”
    “I’m glad to hear that Maggie,” he said, as he walked closer to her, took both of her hands in his and kissed her on the forehead.    “I must be going, it’s getting late, and my folks will be worried about me.”
    “Can you come again before you leave?” Maggie asked, as Josh mounted his horse. 
   “I’ll try,” Josh replied. “I don’t know when I’ll be leaving.” 
   Josh trotted his horse toward his home in disbelief his best friend had joined the Union Army.
What would I do if Jake and I find ourselves staring down a rifle barrel at each other? Would I pull the trigger and kill my best friend? This war is going to be hell,
he thought.

This book is also available on
www.Amazon.com, www.Barnes & Nobel.com, www.Powellbooks.com

                       
===========================           
    Author Bio: G. Elliott Nations is a retired educator. He was raised on a southern cotton farm. After serving in the United States Army,  he worked in the aircraft industry while pursuing his education for a teaching career. He holds a Bachelor of Arts degree in government and history from Texas Wesleyan College and a Master of Arts degree in education and school administration from the University of Missouri. As an educator, he wrote several articles for professional periodicals.  He lives with his wife at Rockport, Texas.

 

Authors note:  In the novel The Fued, I write about Uncle Henry McCoy, a former slave.  The slory about him below is true. 

                              Reminiscence

               of

    G. Elliott Nations

 

                Tribute to a Former Slave                                                                                       

 

Everyone called him Uncle Henry. His full name was William Henry McCoy. No one, not even himself, knew his exact age. He said that he thought he was eight or nine years old at the beginning of the Civil War.

 

Uncle Henry was born into slavery. His parents were owned by a wealthy farmer who had moved to Texas, bringing all of his slaves, shortly after statehood. His parents were sold to another slave owner near the end of the Civil War.

 

Slavery in Texas was declared officially over on June 19, 1865.  Uncle Henry, being a teen age colored boy, having nowhere to go, decided to stay with his former owner; working mostly for his food and a place to sleep.

 

During the reconstruction period immediately following the Civil War, many schools were established for young colored people.  Uncle Henry had been taught to read, write and do some simple arithmetic by the daughter of his former owner. When the school for colored students was opened, he enrolled and was not only able to complete high school, but also get a few years of college.

 

Uncle Henry served as pastor of the African Methodist Episcopal church, the only church for colored folk in our community, for over forty years. He also served for many years as principal and teacher at the school for colored children. When he retired, he devoted his time to making tonics and ointments. Using herbs, plants and who knows what else, he mixed up all kinds of concoctions that were believed to help cure many ailments. His sassafras tea, made from boiling sassafras roots, was believed to be the best cure for digestive problems.

 

I knew about Uncle Henry, but did not really get to know him until I was about ten or eleven years old.. He lived in a small house a short distance down a dirt road that went by the side of our house. His house was located on a small plot of land that had been given to him by a descendant of his former owner when he was a slave.

Even though he was nearing ninety years old, Uncle Henry planted a garden every year. He raised all kinds of vegetables, and even grew his own tobacco; curing and crushing it to be smoked in his corncob pipe.

 

My brother and I spent a lot of time sitting on Uncle Henry’s front porch with our legs dangling over  the edge listening to him tell stories. He was a master storyteller. He had a deep voice that resonated clearly; making it easy to understand every word. His stories were from his life experiences mixed in with stories about Bible characters.

 

Like most southern boys, my brother and I had no qualms about harassing colored folk. It was just the thing to do when the opportunity presented itself. 

 

There was an old colored man who passed our house every day in his buggy on his way to the post office in the back of the general store.  One day we followed him, and while he was inside the store we tied the back wheels of his buggy together with bailing wire. When he started to drive off, the wire came up under the bed of the buggy, raising it, pitching it forward and almost causing the old colored man to fall off. We had a good laugh; along with several white adults who had seen what happened. No one chided or scolded us for playing such a dirty trick on an old colored man

 

One day, while playing around our barn with our sling shots, my brother and I saw some colored children coming down the road behind the barn. When the colored children got within firing range, my brother and I let loose with a volley of rocks from our sling shots. I don’t think we hit anyone, but it was sure fun to see them colored children run.

 

I don’t think Uncle Henry ever heard about the incident with the buggy. However, the next time we visited him we learned very quickly that he had heard about the shooting. He simply announced that he had heard about what we had done and wanted to know if it was true.  I really wanted to lie, but I was not about to lie to a preacher; even a colored preacher.

 

Uncle Henry said he was disappointed in us, but he understood.   We were just young innocent white boys who were expressing the attitude toward colored folks that we had learned from white adults.  I noticed that his voice had become much more serious as he begin to talk about God’s purpose for the human race. He said that all of us, regardless of the color of our skin, were a part of a common humanity; that we were all the children of God, and that each of us deserved to be treated with respect and dignity.  He said God has placed each of us here to make the world a better place for our fellow human being.

 

He told us about how the colored folks had suffered for years under the oppressive rule of white government officials; about the Ku Klux Klan scaring and threatening   colored folk, sometime burning their homes and barns and even lynching a young colored boy who was accused of saying something inappropriate to a white girl.

 

He spoke about what we know today as the “Jim Crow” laws.  These laws were enacted after the Civil War to keep the colored folks from enjoying the full benefits of their freedom. These laws were common in every southern state. They made the colored people into second class citizens; depriving them of the opportunity of participating fully in an open and free society.

 

Uncle Henry said he hoped that we would grow up into young men with strong convictions about right and wrong; that as young white men we would do everything we could to make the lives of colored folk better.

 

I thought about Uncle Henry quite often during the Civil Rights movement that swept though the southern states during the 1950”s and 60”s. I know he would have been pleased by the leadership that came from the colored community.  I think he believed, as we all found to be true several years later, that racial prejudice was so embedded in the psyche of most southern whites that the only hope of ever making life better for colored folks would have to come from leadership within the colored community.

 

All Texas public schools were ordered by the court to integrate in 1963. As a high school teacher I was, for the first time, faced with having colored students in my classes. As the new school year approached, I kept thinking about the words of Uncle Henry. “We are all, regardless of the color of our skin, the children of God.”  “All of us deserved to be treated with respect as a person of worth and dignity.”

 

Uncle Henry died when he was at least 100 years old. His funeral was at the little African Methodist Episcopal church he had served for many years. So many people attended, both colored and white, that the little church soon filled and many stood outside in the church yard. He was buried in the little cemetery across the road from the church.

 

A few years ago, I returned to this small community in east Texas where I had lived all of my childhood and most of my teenage years. I wanted to visit Uncle Henry’s gravesite.  As I drove down the road toward the cemetery I passed where Uncle Henry’s house had once stood; recognizing the location only by the big oak tree in the front yard. I reached the cemetery and parked my car in what was once the church yard. Both the church and the school had been demolished many years earlier.

 

I walked across the road to the cemetery. It did not take me long to find Uncle Henry’s grave. It was marked by a large tombstone.  At the top of the tombstone were the words “UNCLE HENRY” and below that was his full name WILLIAM HENRY MCCOY.  Inscribed near the bottom was a most fitting epitaph. It read:

 

                  “A BRIGHT AND SHINNING LIGHT

                     IN A WORLD OF DARKNESS

 

As I stood beside his grave, I thanked Uncle Henry for his words of wisdom, for his patience toward two white boys who really did not deserve it. I told him that his dream of better days for colored people was now becoming a reality. 

 

As I turned to walk away, I took one last look at the words, “A bright and shinning light in a world of darkness.” and hoped that I had lived my life in a way that those who remembered me would inscribe a similar epitaph on my tombstone.

 

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                              Reminiscence

               of

    G. Elliott Nations

 

         

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  Tribute to a Former Slave                                                                                       

 

Everyone called him Uncle Henry. His full name was William Henry McCoy. No one, not even himself, knew his exact age. He said that he thought he was eight or nine years old at the beginning of the Civil War.

 

Uncle Henry was born into slavery. His parents were owned by a wealthy farmer who had moved to Texas, bringing all of his slaves, shortly after statehood. His parents were sold to another slave owner near the end of the Civil War.

 

Slavery in Texas was declared officially over on June 19, 1865.  Uncle Henry, being a teen age colored boy, having nowhere to go, decided to stay with his former owner; working mostly for his food and a place to sleep.

 

During the reconstruction period immediately following the Civil War, many schools were established for young colored people.  Uncle Henry had been taught to read, write and do some simple arithmetic by the daughter of his former owner. When the school for colored students was opened, he enrolled and was not only able to complete high school, but also get a few years of college.

 

Uncle Henry served as pastor of the African Methodist Episcopal church, the only church for colored folk in our community, for over forty years. He also served for many years as principal and teacher at the school for colored children. When he retired, he devoted his time to making tonics and ointments. Using herbs, plants and who knows what else, he mixed up all kinds of concoctions that were believed to help cure many ailments. His sassafras tea, made from boiling sassafras roots, was believed to be the best cure for digestive problems.

 

I knew about Uncle Henry, but did not really get to know him until I was about ten or eleven years old.. He lived in a small house a short distance down a dirt road that went by the side of our house. His house was located on a small plot of land that had been given to him by a descendant of his former owner when he was a slave.

Even though he was nearing ninety years old, Uncle Henry planted a garden every year. He raised all kinds of vegetables, and even grew his own tobacco; curing and crushing it to be smoked in his corncob pipe.

 

My brother and I spent a lot of time sitting on Uncle Henry’s front porch with our legs dangling over  the edge listening to him tell stories. He was a master storyteller. He had a deep voice that resonated clearly; making it easy to understand every word. His stories were from his life experiences mixed in with stories about Bible characters.

 

Like most southern boys, my brother and I had no qualms about harassing colored folk. It was just the thing to do when the opportunity presented itself. 

 

There was an old colored man who passed our house every day in his buggy on his way to the post office in the back of the general store.  One day we followed him, and while he was inside the store we tied the back wheels of his buggy together with bailing wire. When he started to drive off, the wire came up under the bed of the buggy, raising it, pitching it forward and almost causing the old colored man to fall off. We had a good laugh; along with several white adults who had seen what happened. No one chided or scolded us for playing such a dirty trick on an old colored man

 

One day, while playing around our barn with our sling shots, my brother and I saw some colored children coming down the road behind the barn. When the colored children got within firing range, my brother and I let loose with a volley of rocks from our sling shots. I don’t think we hit anyone, but it was sure fun to see them colored children run.

 

I don’t think Uncle Henry ever heard about the incident with the buggy. However, the next time we visited him we learned very quickly that he had heard about the shooting. He simply announced that he had heard about what we had done and wanted to know if it was true.  I really wanted to lie, but I was not about to lie to a preacher; even a colored preacher.

 

Uncle Henry said he was disappointed in us, but he understood.   We were just young innocent white boys who were expressing the attitude toward colored folks that we had learned from white adults.  I noticed that his voice had become much more serious as he begin to talk about God’s purpose for the human race. He said that all of us, regardless of the color of our skin, were a part of a common humanity; that we were all the children of God, and that each of us deserved to be treated with respect and dignity.  He said God has placed each of us here to make the world a better place for our fellow human being.

 

He told us about how the colored folks had suffered for years under the oppressive rule of white government officials; about the Ku Klux Klan scaring and threatening   colored folk, sometime burning their homes and barns and even lynching a young colored boy who was accused of saying something inappropriate to a white girl.

 

He spoke about what we know today as the “Jim Crow” laws.  These laws were enacted after the Civil War to keep the colored folks from enjoying the full benefits of their freedom. These laws were common in every southern state. They made the colored people into second class citizens; depriving them of the opportunity of participating fully in an open and free society.

 

Uncle Henry said he hoped that we would grow up into young men with strong convictions about right and wrong; that as young white men we would do everything we could to make the lives of colored folk better.

 

I thought about Uncle Henry quite often during the Civil Rights movement that swept though the southern states during the 1950”s and 60”s. I know he would have been pleased by the leadership that came from the colored community.  I think he believed, as we all found to be true several years later, that racial prejudice was so embedded in the psyche of most southern whites that the only hope of ever making life better for colored folks would have to come from leadership within the colored community.

 

All Texas public schools were ordered by the court to integrate in 1963. As a high school teacher I was, for the first time, faced with having colored students in my classes. As the new school year approached, I kept thinking about the words of Uncle Henry. “We are all, regardless of the color of our skin, the children of God.”  “All of us deserved to be treated with respect as a person of worth and dignity.”

 

Uncle Henry died when he was at least 100 years old. His funeral was at the little African Methodist Episcopal church he had served for many years. So many people attended, both colored and white, that the little church soon filled and many stood outside in the church yard. He was buried in the little cemetery across the road from the church.

 

A few years ago, I returned to this small community in east Texas where I had lived all of my childhood and most of my teenage years. I wanted to visit Uncle Henry’s gravesite.  As I drove down the road toward the cemetery I passed where Uncle Henry’s house had once stood; recognizing the location only by the big oak tree in the front yard. I reached the cemetery and parked my car in what was once the church yard. Both the church and the school had been demolished many years earlier.

 

I walked across the road to the cemetery. It did not take me long to find Uncle Henry’s grave. It was marked by a large tombstone.  At the top of the tombstone were the words “UNCLE HENRY” and below that was his full name WILLIAM HENRY MCCOY.  Inscribed near the bottom was a most fitting epitaph. It read:

 

                  “A BRIGHT AND SHINNING LIGHT

                     IN A WORLD OF DARKNESS

 

As I stood beside his grave, I thanked Uncle Henry for his words of wisdom, for his patience toward two white boys who really did not deserve it. I told him that his dream of better days for colored people was now becoming a reality. 

 

As I turned to walk away, I took one last look at the words, “A bright and shinning light in a world of darkness.” and hoped that I had lived my life in a way that those who remembered me would inscribe a similar epitaph on my tombstone.

 

.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                              

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                              Reminiscence

               of

    G. Elliott Nations

 

         

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  Tribute to a Former Slave                                                                                       

 

Everyone called him Uncle Henry. His full name was William Henry McCoy. No one, not even himself, knew his exact age. He said that he thought he was eight or nine years old at the beginning of the Civil War.

 

Uncle Henry was born into slavery. His parents were owned by a wealthy farmer who had moved to Texas, bringing all of his slaves, shortly after statehood. His parents were sold to another slave owner near the end of the Civil War.

 

Slavery in Texas was declared officially over on June 19, 1865.  Uncle Henry, being a teen age colored boy, having nowhere to go, decided to stay with his former owner; working mostly for his food and a place to sleep.

 

During the reconstruction period immediately following the Civil War, many schools were established for young colored people.  Uncle Henry had been taught to read, write and do some simple arithmetic by the daughter of his former owner. When the school for colored students was opened, he enrolled and was not only able to complete high school, but also get a few years of college.

 

Uncle Henry served as pastor of the African Methodist Episcopal church, the only church for colored folk in our community, for over forty years. He also served for many years as principal and teacher at the school for colored children. When he retired, he devoted his time to making tonics and ointments. Using herbs, plants and who knows what else, he mixed up all kinds of concoctions that were believed to help cure many ailments. His sassafras tea, made from boiling sassafras roots, was believed to be the best cure for digestive problems.

 

I knew about Uncle Henry, but did not really get to know him until I was about ten or eleven years old.. He lived in a small house a short distance down a dirt road that went by the side of our house. His house was located on a small plot of land that had been given to him by a descendant of his former owner when he was a slave.

Even though he was nearing ninety years old, Uncle Henry planted a garden every year. He raised all kinds of vegetables, and even grew his own tobacco; curing and crushing it to be smoked in his corncob pipe.

 

My brother and I spent a lot of time sitting on Uncle Henry’s front porch with our legs dangling over  the edge listening to him tell stories. He was a master storyteller. He had a deep voice that resonated clearly; making it easy to understand every word. His stories were from his life experiences mixed in with stories about Bible characters.

 

Like most southern boys, my brother and I had no qualms about harassing colored folk. It was just the thing to do when the opportunity presented itself. 

 

There was an old colored man who passed our house every day in his buggy on his way to the post office in the back of the general store.  One day we followed him, and while he was inside the store we tied the back wheels of his buggy together with bailing wire. When he started to drive off, the wire came up under the bed of the buggy, raising it, pitching it forward and almost causing the old colored man to fall off. We had a good laugh; along with several white adults who had seen what happened. No one chided or scolded us for playing such a dirty trick on an old colored man

 

One day, while playing around our barn with our sling shots, my brother and I saw some colored children coming down the road behind the barn. When the colored children got within firing range, my brother and I let loose with a volley of rocks from our sling shots. I don’t think we hit anyone, but it was sure fun to see them colored children run.

 

I don’t think Uncle Henry ever heard about the incident with the buggy. However, the next time we visited him we learned very quickly that he had heard about the shooting. He simply announced that he had heard about what we had done and wanted to know if it was true.  I really wanted to lie, but I was not about to lie to a preacher; even a colored preacher.

 

Uncle Henry said he was disappointed in us, but he understood.   We were just young innocent white boys who were expressing the attitude toward colored folks that we had learned from white adults.  I noticed that his voice had become much more serious as he begin to talk about God’s purpose for the human race. He said that all of us, regardless of the color of our skin, were a part of a common humanity; that we were all the children of God, and that each of us deserved to be treated with respect and dignity.  He said God has placed each of us here to make the world a better place for our fellow human being.

 

He told us about how the colored folks had suffered for years under the oppressive rule of white government officials; about the Ku Klux Klan scaring and threatening   colored folk, sometime burning their homes and barns and even lynching a young colored boy who was accused of saying something inappropriate to a white girl.

 

He spoke about what we know today as the “Jim Crow” laws.  These laws were enacted after the Civil War to keep the colored folks from enjoying the full benefits of their freedom. These laws were common in every southern state. They made the colored people into second class citizens; depriving them of the opportunity of participating fully in an open and free society.

 

Uncle Henry said he hoped that we would grow up into young men with strong convictions about right and wrong; that as young white men we would do everything we could to make the lives of colored folk better.

 

I thought about Uncle Henry quite often during the Civil Rights movement that swept though the southern states during the 1950”s and 60”s. I know he would have been pleased by the leadership that came from the colored community.  I think he believed, as we all found to be true several years later, that racial prejudice was so embedded in the psyche of most southern whites that the only hope of ever making life better for colored folks would have to come from leadership within the colored community.

 

All Texas public schools were ordered by the court to integrate in 1963. As a high school teacher I was, for the first time, faced with having colored students in my classes. As the new school year approached, I kept thinking about the words of Uncle Henry. “We are all, regardless of the color of our skin, the children of God.”  “All of us deserved to be treated with respect as a person of worth and dignity.”

 

Uncle Henry died when he was at least 100 years old. His funeral was at the little African Methodist Episcopal church he had served for many years. So many people attended, both colored and white, that the little church soon filled and many stood outside in the church yard. He was buried in the little cemetery across the road from the church.

 

A few years ago, I returned to this small community in east Texas where I had lived all of my childhood and most of my teenage years. I wanted to visit Uncle Henry’s gravesite.  As I drove down the road toward the cemetery I passed where Uncle Henry’s house had once stood; recognizing the location only by the big oak tree in the front yard. I reached the cemetery and parked my car in what was once the church yard. Both the church and the school had been demolished many years earlier.

 

I walked across the road to the cemetery. It did not take me long to find Uncle Henry’s grave. It was marked by a large tombstone.  At the top of the tombstone were the words “UNCLE HENRY” and below that was his full name WILLIAM HENRY MCCOY.  Inscribed near the bottom was a most fitting epitaph. It read:

 

                  “A BRIGHT AND SHINNING LIGHT

                     IN A WORLD OF DARKNESS

 

As I stood beside his grave, I thanked Uncle Henry for his words of wisdom, for his patience toward two white boys who really did not deserve it. I told him that his dream of better days for colored people was now becoming a reality. 

 

As I turned to walk away, I took one last look at the words, “A bright and shinning light in a world of darkness.” and hoped that I had lived my life in a way that those who remembered me would inscribe a similar epitaph on my tombstone.

 

.