Evicted!

Big Man Blues
The year was 1954. James Junior learned about love and loss before he learned to read. His mama and daddy would work all week and drink all Friday night. Before leaving her children alone, Dorothy would kiss James Junior and say, “Take care of Baby Ann.”
James Junior was only five and Baby Ann was three when James Senior would pat the boy’s head on Friday nights and say, “You our Big Man now!” Then the parents would hitch a ride from Fayette County to Beale Street in Memphis. And when Baby Ann cried from hunger, James Junior fed her day-old biscuits. When Baby Ann cried from fear because the house was cold and dark, Junior rocked her in his arms until she fell asleep.
One Friday night in July turned into Sunday morning. Their parents had not returned. Baby Ann lay on the patchwork quilt and groaned from one of her headache spells. “I want mama,” she cried.
“Mama gone,” huffed Junior as he turned to face the wall. Who could he call for help with no phone in the cropper shack? The boy prayed for Uncle Harpman, his daddy’s brother, to knock on the door. He prayed for Aunt Minnie, his uncle’s wife, to come in with plates of food.
RAP-TAP-TAP! His grandmother knocked. A grumbling in her feeble mind made her remember the children. She stood on the porch in a blue work jacket, and mismatched brogan boots. She wore a crumpled old church hat with a silver cross around her neck. Golden was her name.
When Mama Golden opened the unlatched door and shuffled toward the bed, James Junior shot up to hug her with all his strength. Baby Ann stretched out her arms for Golden to pick her up. Golden helped the children button their clothes over frayed pajamas. She tied their scuffed-toe shoes, and they all sat on the bed, watching black storm clouds gather and waiting on a savior.
Golden could not tell the future through the cracks in her feeble mind. But when it came to Harpman Jameson, her understanding was clear as rain. Her oldest son would search the county roads for her and receive the children. He would feed the lambs, raise them up, and love them like a father.

The Legend of Burton Dodson
James Junior understood that most bedtime stories don’t carry a bit Jof truth. But according to his Uncle of truth. But, according to his Uncle Harpman, the legend of Burton
Reverend Dodson was a sharecropper back in 1940. It was rumored a white farmer challenged him about a woman they both loved. After Dodson served a lashing and left the farmer in the dirt, one hundred white men surrounded his shack to lynch his black body. Dodson ordered his brood of children to fall to the ground. Then he kicked the door open and ran through the night firing bullets to protect his life.
The white mob shot guns from bushes, trees, and the roof of an old smokehouse. Burton Dodson was hit five times, but his quick feet never stumbled. The preacher bolted from Fayette County and ran fifty miles to Memphis, where he hitched a ride to Chicago. Then he settled down in East St. Louis, Illinois.
Olin B. Burrow, a white deputy sheriff, was killed in the wild crossfire.
The mob pinned his murder on Dodson, who never ran in Olin’s direction. “How did dat coon get away?” marveled men in the mob. Burton Dodson lived proud and free for the next eighteen years. And as the legend of his miraculous survival spread across the cotton fields, Black children in Fayette County would boast and brag, “I’m bad like Burton Dodson!”
Authorities captured Dodson in 1958 and shuttled him back to Tennessee. He stood trial for murder in 1959 at the dusty Somerville Court- house. For the first time ever, a Black lawyer tried a case in Fayette County. and Black farmers filled the seats to watch J. F. Estes defend Burton Dodson. Estes searched the court to pick Black jury members. But most were not registered voters and they could not serve as jurors.