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Authors: M. Bruce Jones,Trudy J Smith

Tags: #Lawson family, #Murder

White Christmas, bloody Christmas (2 page)

BOOK: White Christmas, bloody Christmas
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"Not too good, Charlie," said Fannie as she sat down on one of the long benches at the kitchen table. "I feel real poor with this baby. I don't know why... Looks like I'd perk up a little now that I'm in my sixth month."

"Well, just take it easy today. Don't even try to bring anything out to the field. The young'uns can fetch anything we need. Send Marie and Carrie on out in a few minutes. They can work with me behind the cultivator."

"I will," nodded Fannie, picking up little blond haired Raymond who had toddled up and was tugging impatiently on her apron.

Fannie bounced little Raymond a few times on her knee as she watched her husband dip several times into the water bucket and pour the cool liquid into a glass jar. Charlie was such a strange man, she mused to herself—so quick tempered, so capable of violence. Yet, there were those moments when his gentler side appeared and she could remember well—even if for only a fleeting moment—the reason she had decided she would marry him in the first place... Charlie screwed the lid on the jar and picked up a towel to

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shade it from the warm sunshine in the field. The back door closed with a jar behind him. He walked briskly to the barn, grabbed his hoe and started toward the fields. His male beagle, Sam, came bounding up, tail wagging and tongue hanging, looking for a friendly pat. Charlie obliged and soon, the two arrived in the tobacco field.

Seventeen-year-old Marie and twelve-year-old Carrie were only a few minutes behind their father, and soon, all had taken a position behind Arthur and the mule.

Cultivating tobacco with a mule is a tedious job, one that requires concentration and skill. It was necessary that Arthur keep the mule pulling the cultivator down the rows perfectly straight and just exactly the correct distance from the newly developing root systems of the young tobacco plants. Too far from the plants and he wouldn't be effective; too close and the tender roots of the plants would be damaged.

Charlie and his daughters were following behind Arthur and the mule, pulling the freshly plowed earth smoothly around theyoung plants. The sun had risen higher in the pale blue sky,and its reflection from the newly turned earth made the job a hot one.

As Charlie moved rythmically from plant to plant, he grew angry. He dropped his hoe between the rows and marched up the row to where Arthur and the mule were steadily pulling along.

"What in the world are you trying to do?" fumed Charlie, grabbing his son by the shoulder.

Surprised, Arthur wheeled around and confronted his red faced father. "What's wrong?" he asked. "What've I done wrong?"

"You're tearing the tobacco right up out of the ground-that's what's wrong! You should know better than to pull in so close to the roots!" retorted Charlie, growing angrier by the minute.

"I'm doing this just exactly like you showed me to, Papa," said Arthur, his face also growing flushed. "You showed me

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what distance to stay from the plants and I'm doing it just the way you said!"

I ain't never told you to pull in this close...and I'm getting fed up with yore back-talking." Charlie turned on his heel and took several long, deliberate strides to the edge of the tobacco field. Digging into his overalls, he pulled out his large pocket knife and jerked a young sapling tree over and sliced through its trunk. He trimmed the small branches off of it as he stepped back over the cloddy ground to where his son stood.

Tight lipped and narrow eyed, Charlie ordered his son to turn his back. "I'm gonna teach you to back-talk me, boy."

Arthur stood there speechless, his pale grey eyes meeting his father's squarely. He wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand. Farther back in the field, Marie and Carrie watched, fearful of their father's temper.

"No, Papa," said Arthur very deliberately. "You ain't gonna whip me today. You ain't ever gonna whip me again." He moved a step closer to his father and gave him a look that dared him to try to strike him.

Furious, Charlie drew his arm back as if to strike Arthur across his thigh. Arthur met the whip and jerked it from his father's hand. His eyes level with his father's , he broke the stick over his knee and threw it off to the side.

"I'll keep the cultivator farther from the plants," he said as he regathered the reins. "But, you ain't gonna whip me no more." He clucked sharply to the mule and they moved away.

For a long, tense moment, Charlie glared at his son's back as he and the mule continued up the row. Turning, he noticed Marie and Carrie standing a few yards back with their mouths slightly open.

"Get back to work," he growled, huffing past them on his way back to where he had dropped his own hoe. Giving one last glance toward his son, he struck the soil with an angry whack. Arthur had grown up, he reckoned to himself, and he had hardly noticed—until today.

of the men had a gun. They kept running. Fannie was frightened—she couldn't move. Without saying a word, the man fired his gun and Aunt Fannie fell dead on the front porch. Stepping over Fannie's body, the men entered the house and shot each family member one by one.

Stella lunged straight up in the bed again, her heart pounding fiercely in her chest. She rose from her deep feather bed and walked to the open window across the room. She drew in a long, slow breath of the warm, quiet morning air. The sky was a smoky shade of blue-gray. Faintly, she could make out the hazy outline of the trees that framed her father's dry, thirsty cornfield.

She heard a hollow thud below as the front door of the house fell closed. Faintly, she could hear the rythmic shuffle of her father's footsteps as he made his way toward the barns. In the distance, she could hear the raspy bray of the old mule as he recognized the familiar sound of her father's footsteps as he drew near the barn. More sounds now—the farm was waking to another hot, rainless day.

As the sun grew nearer the horizon, the sky took on a misty paleness and she could see the thickness of the summer humidity rising between her and the distant trees.

She had been hearing the muffled sound of the voices of her father and grandparents, Augustus and Nancy Lawson, downstairs in the kitchen for the past few minutes. It would not be long before "Mammy," as they affectionately called their grandmother, would be calling them. When Stella's mother died a year earlier, "Mammy" had moved in to help out.

"Get on up kids," Mammy called from the bottom of the stairs. "You've got plenty of chores to get done—best you get started before it gets too hot. Breakfast'll be ready soon!"

As her sisters who shared her room began to stir, Stella walked back over to her bed and sat down.

In the dim morning light, one of her sisters noticed the strange look on Stella's face. "What in the world is wrong

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with you this morning Stella?" she asked, looking curiously at Stella's drawn expression.

Stella opened her mouth to tell her sister about the dream but didn't quite know how to begin. Somehow, it just didn't seem right to repeat something so awful about people you loved. It felt sort of like, if you said something about it, it might come true. And what explanation could she have for dreaming such a horrible dream? She decided to say nothing.

With a downward glance, she rubbed her eyes and replied, "Nothing's wrong. I'm okay. It's just so hot this morning."

"Yea, it is," agreed her sister, "Wish this drought would let up some. Everything's so awful hot and dry."

Stella nodded in agreement and pulled on her clothes.

All through that day, the dream continued to haunt her, but she never could bring herself to mention it to anyone.

The next Sunday afternoon, after the noon meal, Stella walked over to her cousins' house to spend the afternoon. Being nearly the same age, Stella and Carrie often played together and, usually, little Mae Bell would tag along with them. ThatSunday all the girls, including Marie, decided to pass the time on that hot, dry afternoon by going for a walk down old Watts Road. They would often walk along the area roads talking and laughing and enjoying each other's company. Often they would tell interesting stories of things that had happened in the past. One of their favorites was Stella's exciting tale of how she and her family had almost met disaster when she was only six years old. As they walked along the dusty road, the others begged her again to recant the hair-raising tale...

The year was 1922 and young Stella's father, Marion, had already moved his family into the Germanton area. Often the family would make a long covered wagon trip back to Lawsonville to visit with relatives. On a trip to visit Stella's grandparents, Levi and Alberta Ashby, Stella and her entire family were nearly lost...

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Marion was still a poor tenant farmer in 1922 and did not own cars or trucks. When they needed to make a long trip, it was always in their old, mule-pulled wagon. The route they chose would take them across the Dan River. They forded it without incident and continued on to Lawsonville where they stayed for several days.

While they visited, area storms produced a great deal of rain and there were reports of the river being dangerously high and flooding its banks in places. Marion's father-in-law was against the idea of their leaving at their scheduled time because it would mean that they would have to ford the swollen river. Marion insisted on leaving on schedule and could not be persuaded otherwise.

The concerned grandparents followed Marion and his family to the river to watch them cross. Marion urged the mules into the water. In the wagon holding her infant daughter, Lilly, sat Marion's wife, Jettie. In the back of the wagon were the other children: Vester McHone, Jettie's son by a previous marriage; Sanders Lawson; StellaLawson; and Lula Lawson.

Even before the wagon had reached the middle of the river, it was apparent that they were in trouble. The distrought grandparents wrung their hands in fear as they watched Marion and his family struggle through the murkey water. Marion had made a poor decision. The water was rough, muddy, and fast. The mules were struggling hard against the current and now obviously were swimming. Water rushed over the mules backs and suddenly it became clear that the wheels of the wagon were no longer on the bottom of the river. Thankfully, the wagon was acting like a leaky boat and was floating on top of the raging river. It was being dragged sideways by the swirling current and the mules were struggling desperately to swim and pull the heavy wagon behind them.

Inside the wagon, the water was quickly rising around the legs of the terrified children. From the back of the wagon,

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they could see their frightened grandparents crying and calling to them from the shore.

Marion had no time to think of being fearful. He encouraged his mules to continue on,and it was not until he had reached the safety of the other side, and looked back at the frantic Ashbys, that he realized the full extent of what had almost happened. He, his wife, and their six children had been within an inch of being swept away and drowned in the angry flood waters of the Dan River...

The girls walked along, listening quietly as Stella told her story, and soon had gone as far as Mr. Squire Watts' house. There, they turned and continued to walk in the other direction until they came to old Browder Cemetery. They browsed among all the tombstones studying the names and dates. Marie noticed some colorful wildflowers growing along the edge of the drive and decided to make a bouquet for the grave of her brother, William.

Soon, they grew tired of the heat and decided to return to the Lawson home. The graveyard had been strangely disturbing to Stella. As she walked along with her cousins, she studied each one's face and tried to push her horrible dream from her mind.

For the next few months, the memory of that dream drifted in and out of her thoughts. She never told anyone about the dream until after the murders. After the worst had happened, she somehow felt strangely guilty, as if she might could have warned her Aunt and cousins that there was danger in their lives. Even today, sixty years later, that sad, sick feeling haunts her. But who could have known? Who would ever have believed that anything quite like this could ever actually happen?

Author's Note:

Stella Lawson is now Mrs. StellaBoles. She is the daughter of Charlie's brother, Marion Lawson and sister to Sanders

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Lawson. She still lives only a few miles from the site of the murders.

more quickly and efficiently. They were always looking for a way to get the job done and, if possible, enjoy themselves in the process.

A favorite occasion for worksharing occurred during the harvesting time of the year. The most memorable were the corn-shuckin' parties. Great piles of corn would be gathered from the fields to await shucking. The neighbors would gather together at one family's farm, and in one mass effort, prepare all the corn to be stored for the season. One person would hide jars of homemade whiskey in among the ears of corn, and when the group came to one of the jars, everyone would stop and take a break and enjoy a taste of the liquor. The shucking would continue until they ran across another jar, and again, the group would pause for a well-deserved break. Soon the heaps of golden corn would be ready to place in the corn cribs and the party would be anxious to indulge in the mouth-watering feast of steaming food that had been prepared by the wives and older daughters of the families.

These types of celebrations would continue from one farm to the next throughout the season until all the work had been completed at each one.

Author's Note:

In my own experience, (I was raised on a farm similiar to this in the 1920s) these corn-shucking parties were the highlight of the year. The only difference for my family was that there were no hidden jars of whiskey. The thing most memorable was the wonderful spread of food that was enjoyed by all the participants. There would be crisp, country fried chicken, old "Virginia-cured" country ham, spicy country sausage, and sweet potatoes baked and drenched in homemade butter. At times, there 'might be a stewed or baked rabbit or squirrel with a delicious gravy. On the side there would be tasty vegetables such as canned green beans and corn from the summer's garden. There would be homemade biscu its and com

BOOK: White Christmas, bloody Christmas
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