40 Years

40 Years - © Kent Fletcher
April 4, 2008

And what were YOU doing on this anniversary date? Were you in school? Were you working? Were you enjoying the fruits of your labor? Or were you grossly entrenched in your own sorry, pitiful self?

I was on my way to the metropolis of Oakdale, Louisiana, taking a baby in a casket for burial there. I had just passed through the loop at Monroe, Louisiana, heading south on US 165 when I heard the news that Martin Luther King had been assassinated on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tennessee. "Oh, my God," thought I, as I kept moving on down the road. At the moment I was more concerned about my own safety than I was for the rest of the world, the black and the white communities, specifically.

I could do nothing but continue my journey to Oakdale with my cargo. I was the ripe young age of a mere 21 years, the product of a middle-class white family, and working in a family business - a funeral home. Thinking back now, but probably not then, the business also provided an ambulance service to the communities surrounding Cleveland, Mississippi, and either our business or our competitor's business was called at all hours of the days and nights for "emergencies" of many kinds, anything from a stubbed toe to a catastrophic wreck somewhere within a 20- to 30-mile radius. I can remember some very specific wrecks I was called out on, involving drunks, idiots, and in general ne'er-do-wells, resulting in grievous, bloody injuries to the "innocent" folks who were minding their own business.

I remember one wreck specifically that happened on State Highway 448 just west of Shaw, Mississippi, around 10 p.m. An older black man and his wife were heading home from somewhere and were hit head-on by a white man in another truck. The white man was profusely drunk and relatively unscathed in the incident. Other than his drunken stupor and wild ranting and raving about "the niggas on the road," in his way, he needed no attention whatsoever. I doubt seriously I would have carried him anywhere, anyway, as his attitude toward some colored folks was abysmal in my eye. The colored folks were simply in the wrong place, at the wrong time, but I don't think anything could have changed that.

This black man and his wife, however, were in much worse shape, as they were stone-cold sober at the time of the incident. I seem to remember they were driving an old Chevy pickup which had a hard, steel dashboard, no padding. The old lady had "kissed" that dashboard with her face, specifically her lower jaw. In addition to her mouth, there was another gaping hole just above her gum line that looked like another mouth, except the bleeding was profuse, the tissue looking like hamburger meat. I went to the old man and offered him and his wife a ride back to the hospital in Cleveland for her injuries to be taken care of.

The old man accepted my offer, we loaded up his wife, and as he was closing the door to the back of the ambulance, he hesitated, then called out, "Hey, nigga, you takes care of my stuff, be back in a while!" Of course, I cannot really write what he said, but it was in that vernacular. I don't think our business even billed that call out, as there was really no sense in it. But I did feel good about it, that I actually helped someone less fortunate out in a time of need.

Back to the story. For some five or ten miles north of Oakdale, at that time, there was nothing, absolutely nothing in the way of civilization along that highway: No small towns, no street lamps, no nothing other than a state forest. On this particular night there was also no moon and a very clear sky. I was literally within sight of the town of Oakdale when I had a blowout. I'm here to tell you it was dark on that road, very dark. There was no jack in the station wagon, either. I had no choice but to flag down a passer-by, ask him/her to stop at the first gas station along the way, send help.

I must have stood out there for some 10 minutes before I saw an approaching somethingoranother. I was in a dark suit with a white shirt, frantically waving a white handkerchief in the wind as the 18-wheeler lumbered past. The driver was able to stop within a very short distance, and I was trotting along after him. I arrived at the side of the tractor about the time the driver rolled down the window and looked out. From his elevated position he appeared to be one of the biggest black men I had ever seen. I made my case very quickly and short, saying I had a baby's body in the car, I was trying to get to the town we could both see in the distance, I couldn't just leave my cargo and walk into town, would he please stop at the first gas station he came to, and ask someone to send help. No problem, says he, and off he goes. I wish, now, I had gotten his name, for I would have written him, thanking him for his assistance. Really, I would!

In about 15 or 20 minutes, someone came out and changed the spare for me. I drove on into town, paid off the service station, and proceeded to the funeral home with my cargo. As was the norm, I called home, and my Mother insisted I stay in Oakdale for the night. She said events in Memphis were unfolding fast and furious, and no telling with the "niggas" were going to do now, that I could be in mortal danger if I was "on the road." So I slept on a couch that night.

The drive back home the next day was completely uneventful. Could it have been that the populace was aware but not extremely prejudiced about the assassination? Could it have been the news had not arrived in that sleepy little section of the country? Who knows, and after 40 years, does it really matter? I had a once-in-a-lifetime experience, I was on the edge of history in the making, and I was alive and well, that's what counted the most. Wow!

Footnote: The only "consolation" for a lot of folks about MLK being killed is that he was not killed within the borders of Mississippi. I tend to agree, although not as a consolation, but as a fortunate thing for my home state. Memphis was close enough. Can you imagine what that great movie of a couple of years ago would be like had he been killed IN Mississippi? Mississippi Burning would never have come about, because Mississippi would not even be among the living, now.