“I was born on Dark Isle in 1940, so that means I’m eighty years old, probably the oldest person in the room. When I was about five, a big storm blew over the island. It was wintertime and, as you know, it occasionally gets cold here. We didn’t have radios, never heard of televisions in 1945. There was no electricity on my island. So, we had never heard of a weather forecast, we simply didn’t worry about the weather. We just took things as they came. Late one afternoon, it was really cold, and it started snowing. My parents, who were about thirty years old, had never seen snow. We were all excited, same way we are now, just waiting for it to start, but this snow was serious. It got heavier and heavier, the snowflakes bigger and bigger. Soon the ground was covered and it began to pile up. We were very poor and never wore shoes, so we had no choice but to go inside where our parents and grandparents were tending the fireplace and making dinner. My grandfather was named Odell Jackson, and he told us the story of his first and only snow. It happened when he was about fifteen years old, so somewhere around 1890. It snowed just enough to cover the ground, and the next morning the sun was out. The snow melted fast. He didn’t like snow, none of my people did, because they were descendants of African slaves and there is no snow over there.”
The crowd sat silent and absorbed every word. Mercer was amazed at Lovely’s presence and poise. It was doubtful she had ever spoken to such a large audience, yet she was at ease, unruffled, and completely unintimidated.
She continued, “The next morning when we got up and looked out the window we were amazed at the snow. It had stopped falling and the sky was clear, but everything was covered in a beautiful white layer, like a big thick cloud had settled on the island. We stepped outside. It was still very cold. As I said, I was a little girl, only five years old, so the snow was almost up to my knees. It was probably the biggest snow ever around here.”
She smiled at Mercer, nodded to the audience, and said, “Thank you for listening to my story. And thank you for inviting me here. May you have a Merry Christmas.”
An eager ten-year-old boy raised his hand and Lovely smiled at him. “Did Santa Claus come that year?” he asked.
Lovely chuckled and flashed a broad smile. “Well, we didn’t have a Santa Claus over there on Dark Isle. Though it’s not too far from here, it was a different world. It was settled by former slaves, most of them from the plantations of Georgia. They had learned the English language and some of them were Christians, so we had a little Christmas ceremony each year in our chapel. But, as I said, we were very poor and didn’t give gifts and things like that.”
The children looked at each other in disbelief. Mercer stepped forward and said, “If you want to know the rest of Lovely’s story, I suggest you read her book. It’s a fascinating history of her life on her island.”
After the party, Mercer, Thomas, and Diane retired to a wine bar two blocks down Main Street. Diane didn’t want to go home to Tennessee for the holidays and was hanging around the island. Mercer had invited her to dinner later in the evening at her cottage where she had a pot of gumbo on the stove.
Thomas bought a bottle of wine from the bar and poured three glasses.
Diane said, “We may have a problem.”
“The snowstorm,” Mercer said.
“Yes. A great story but I’m not sure it holds up. Snow around here is a big deal, right? According to
Mercer said, “And I don’t recall this story in Lovely’s memoir.”
“Another problem. It’s not there, not that it has to be. As the author, the memoirist, she can include anything or nothing. There are no rules, right?”
“I suppose.”
“But, you’d think she would have included such a good story.”
Thomas said, “Maybe she forgot it.”
“Yes, and that would be okay, except Lovely is forgetting a lot of things. I’ve studied her deposition, word for word, and compared it to her memoir. I have flowcharts, spreadsheets, and timelines, and so far I’ve found at least a dozen inconsistencies, or discrepancies, or whatever you want to call them. Names, dates, events.”
“Are you doubting her story?” Mercer asked.
