MY MOM CRIED My parent�s first child, Emily, was born six years before I came into the world. She died at nine months old. She is buried alongside my maternal grandmother in Scot County, Arkansas. These two graves were very dear to my mother. Now, I must tell you, my mother, all of five feet, six inches tall and weighing about one hundred pounds, was the strongest person I have ever met, but at times, she would give in to her emotions. Every year, on Decoration Day (now called Memorial day) my father would hitch the mules to the wagon and we would go to the cemetery. Dad would bring a shovel, hoe, rake, and usually some seeds or flowers to plant at the graves. Once there we would clean the area, build up the mounds, and plant the flowers. We would then have a prayer holding hands together. Later we would picnic under the large oak trees that surrounded the cemetery. I remember once, when I was about six years old, we had finished cleaning the area and mother was sitting between the two graves, poking at the earth on my sister�s grave. Evelyn, eleven years old, was holding Bethel, an infant, in her arms. J.W., eight years old, and I was standing alongside. My father suddenly put his arms around J.W. and I, motioned to Evelyn, and led us away . I looked back to see my mother kneeling in the freshly tilled dirt, her head bowed slightly, and crying as if her heart were breaking. Evelyn sat down and dad squatted between us boys. We were all crying, including dad. That was the first time I saw my dad cry. As young as I was, I seemed to understand why my mom was crying. I think all us kids understood. That moment of time is burned into my memory forever.
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