I Think Someone Put Roots On My Grandfather
Just so you know, I never did meet the man, my father’s father I mean. To hear my father tell it, they both caught some sickness at the same time. My father was about seven or eight then, and I understand that his mother, my grandmother, was spared of this event.
I don’t have any pictures of my grandfather. This would have been around 1947 or 1948, when they got sick. Of course, we live in a different world now. We are bombarded by pictures everywhere and all the time. But back then it was still something special.
According to my father, my grandfather was a supervisor of some sort, something to do with tobacco farming. It was supposedly a really big deal. Men like my grandfather, black men, didn’t hold positions of that type, and some white men weren’t even allowed to either. But the story goes that my grandfather was fired from this job after “stealing” tobacco, even though the common practice was that people (I don’t know who…remember this is my father’s version) could keep tobacco that fell from the truck.
Sometime after that firing, both my father and grandfather became ill. My father suvived. My grandfather did not. I’ve been told that someone put roots on the man and killed him.