True love is stronger than many think and it’s the topic of today’s Bits of Bill. I think most authors write about what they believe. I mean, how many novels about a loving God would you expect to find written by atheists? So, with that in mind, I’m going to be diving into dad’s novel, Bluebell, for things important to him.
Willis Jefferson is a young black man in his early twenties when Bluebell opens. He’s minding his own business but a deep influence from an older white woman, that lingers deep within his soul, is about to launch him into the type of trouble he’s never seen before.
As we read in an excerpt from the story, he’s nearing a town when a woman’s scream shatters the rural stillness. It’s a predominantly white town in the 1930’s and he knows full well that intervening could be challenging or even dangerous. But the love instilled in him by Miss Rowena Kramer, was stronger than even fear and dread, and pushed him toward the house where the sound had originated. Here’s how my dad tells the rest of the story.
“A whimper from somewhere off the hall was sufficient motivation to re-focus his thoughts, and Willis moved to the doorway. His glance, taking in the shattered remains of a vase, and a second overturned chair, came to rest on the battered form crumpled on the floor.
Her face and neck were covered with huge red and purple welts. Blood trickled from one unrecognizable mass that had been an ear; and it was impossible to ascertain the presence of eyes behind the puffed, lacerated lids. A slightly stronger flow of blood, coming from a ragged gash at the side, just above the left eye, gave Willis his most immediate cause for alarm.
Snatching the cover from a pillow, he dashed to the kitchen. Returning with a pan of cool water, he fashioned a compress with one of the several strips he’d torn from the pillowcase. With the larger piece of material, he carefully washed the hideously swollen face.
Willis had no idea of how long he had huddled over the wretched figure; nor, under the circumstances, was he concerned.”
He should have been more than concerned, and would have been had it not been for love. A love, so strong, that it put the plight of a white woman living in a largely racist town, before the well being of a black man.
Dad writes about love because it’s important to him and part of his life. He worked long, hard hours to support my mom and raise two children and he still shows the love of his life, as they approach their 73rd anniversary, the type of love and respect that some married couples only dream of.