Several years ago I was visiting in my hometown. In the rambling conversation I heard something about 'Ms. Bennett'.
"She's still alive?" was my first reaction. I grabbed my purse and my keys and drove the block and a half to her home. Sure enough, she answered the door. I introduced my 50 something year-old self, she smiled and welcomed me in. We spoke for a few moments and she confessed that she didn't recognize me. I was crushed. Of course, she hadn't seen me since I was in my teens and I was somewhat depressed that I had changed so much that she didn't recognize my fifth-grade self in this old face, attached to a body that resembles nothing of the body of my youth.
She invited me to come back and we agreed that I'd see her in two or three weeks... and that I should bring my fifth-grade year book.
As I drove out of town that day and stopped at the intersection of Rts.13 & 1, I heard my mom say, "You know... Miss Bennett grew up there..." It was just as plain as if she were sitting next to me. It was the same phrase I'd heard my whole life, every time we passed that intersection.
"Oh my gosh! Ms. Bennett grew up there! Ms. Bennett grew up at The Old Slave House!"
Wow! A living history had been available to me all these years and I'd never put it together in my mind! Now I had the chance to find out the real story! Not the sensationalized version that had been told for the tourists all these years about slave breeding and kidnappings. I had a chance to find out what really happened!
Ten days later she died.
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