Wie the people... Part VI
ln the mid-1960s, in Millett, South Carolina, Willie Mae Samuel, her friends and a group of Freedom Riders were trying to register Black people to vote. This is Part VI, which tells of what came after their hard-won success.
Life did not end there. Good and bad situations followed many years after the Summer of 1965. My Aunt Cornelia continued to live there in that same area until she died at 100 years and 6 months in 1993. Wade Smith, the mayor, lived not too far from her and they continued to have a close relationship. During those days there was a lot of forgiving and forgetting. He visited her often and brought his new wife to sit and talk with her on many hot summer days. He loved fishing and he took Aunt Tee fresh fish occasionally. I was responsible for caring for her long-distance for 35 years. Aunt Tee always told me about who came calling on her.
The homes in this area were 25 miles from Allendale City limits and by this time there were no grocery stores of any kind nearby. One weekend I was over in South Carolina, taking care of her shopping and cleaning her yard, and — bless me — Wade came by for a visit with my Aunt Tee, not knowing that I was there.
We had both put that horrific incident on the back burners of our minds because we greeted each other as old friends would have. He invited me to come by and meet his new wife. I promised that I would. He asked me about my mom and sent his good wishes to her. She had left South Carolina and was living in Florida at that time.
Many years passed and I never seemed to have the time to sit and visit on the weekends when I was over in South Carolina cleaning and shopping for my aunt. As stated earlier, she transitioned in 1993. I continued to keep her house 20 years after she passed. One day during the week I asked a friend to ride over to Millett with me to check on the place. He agreed, and as we traveled, I shared with him some of my growing-up experiences in Millett, especially the voting rights venture.
We made it to Millett early that morning, so I knew that we had a little extra visiting time. I did not think long or hard about the visit but — just after crossing the railroad tracks that we had flown over in 1965 in the ‘57 Ford — I decided to pull into Wade Smith’s driveway. I told my buddy Horace that I just wanted to say hello to Wade. He said, “OK, I will stay in the car until you come back.”
I said “OK, I will be right back.” When I reached the door it was open, and I could see inside through the screen door. Wade was moving around in the kitchen/dining area. He looked toward the door and saw that it was I, and he began to smile. “Come on in and have lunch with me,” he said. “I was just getting ready to have some cheese and crackers along with a Coca Cola.”
I was caught off guard by the invite and ended up walking on inside without looking back. By this time, he had pulled out my chair and his chair and was sitting down. It slipped my mind that I had a guest in the car. We sat and ate some of that good old hoop cheese, and talked about many things — but neither one of us mentioned the horrific incident that happened during the stormy summer of 1965.
After about half an hour, I remembered that I was only supposed to say hello to Wade and let him know that I was in town for a while. I just knew Horace was an absolute nervous wreck, outside in a strange little area with no stores, no cars passing, and pigs and chickens running around in the yard. A big dog that was over near the house being lazy never lifted his head. I told Wade that I enjoyed the lunch but must go because I had company waiting in the car. He said that he understood, but for me to take the Coca-Cola with me, and I did. He walked me to the door and waved at Horace as I rushed to the car with apologies hanging out all sides of my mouth.
After I got in the car, Horace looked at me and said, “You got me sitting out here all this time in no man’s land while you are sitting in there ‘eating cheese with the enemy’.” We both laughed and could not stop until we drove the country block to Aunt Tee’s house. We both knew that the expression carried with it some historical significance, but we could not bring it forth at that time. We both just laughed. “Eating cheese with the enemy” was not a good thing because it means buddying up to the enemy and could possibly mean that the individual is a sellout.
For years, before Horace died, we always found humor in his reaction and my neglect that day when I sat and “ate cheese with the enemy.”