G R I E F - A success Story?

G R I E F -
A success story?
Shirley Moyer

My father was murdered in 1977. He wasn’t a gangster. He was a simple man, an old country gentleman who always smelled like Johnson’s baby powder.

He carried a soft kidskin chamois in his hip pocket and would frequently wipe his face and forehead. I thought he didn’t like the shine on his nose. In reality he was attempting to appear whiter than what he was; I didn’t realize it at the time.

In his coffin I placed my picture. I wanted to lie on his grave and howl to the tall pines surrounding his grave. When I regained my composure and looked down the embankment, I was startled to see a house I hadn’t seen in thirty years — the house I was born in. I didn’t choose this spot in the cemetery, the only spot, with a clear view of the yellow Victorian house. A light rain began to fall. He loved the rain. Perhaps he planned it that way.

I couldn’t place a marker on his grave and convinced myself over the next twenty years, he was mowing the lawn. No one knew a marker didn’t exist; my shame wouldn’t allow such a confession.

He was born in Dallas. His mother was a schoolteacher. He had no relatives. I never doubted his word. Bill Williamson may have been dead to a lot of people; but he wasn’t finished with this world. He had some explaining to do about lies he told and more important — he wanted his marker.

One day while emailing an article, ‘Dealing With Grief’ to the newspaper I contribute to, I thought I heard his voice. I glanced at his picture. “Toni,” he said, “it’s time. The truth for the stone.” My life changed that day.

Then the ghost of Bill Williamson came through the Internet, in a message from someone in Georgia, seeking information on Alice Williams and Pendleton Williams — strange, yet enough to get my genealogy juices flowing. Dallas never heard of Bill Williamson. Bill Williamson never heard of Bill Williamson.

After many months of research, a puzzle formed and I discovered shocking results: My father had masqueraded a lifetime. His mother was a far cry from being a schoolteacher. He lied about his age, name, and color to join the Army in 1917. Then he carried a satchel of lies for the rest of his life, never telling his wife, or anyone where he came from, where he had been, and now he was white.

The success of this story is knowing about a man I thought I knew. It’s ironic the article I was writing, ‘Dealing With Grief,’ provoked the completion of my novel, based on Willie’s life, "Ginkgoes of BenVenue," and the reunion in Virginia, meeting cousins for the first time and the biggest thrill of all — visiting the mansion of BenVenue where my grandparents were born.

But the true success of this story is the acceptance on part of the Williams family welcoming this very white person into their tribe.

Oh yes, the marker. It’s there now and my guilt has been put to rest with him.

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"Ginkgoes of BenVenue" now available:www.authorhouse.com ISBN;1-4033-7361-2

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