The racial problems of 1962 have found their way to the small West Tennessee town of Humboldt. A white woman has been brutally murdered, and one of Carson’s childhood friends has been accused of the crime. Carson’s friend is a colored man who once worked for his grandfather, but the accusations and problems extend beyond the crime and to the heart of this small community.
Carson finds a divided town; a town divided along the lines of race and the interference of outside groups, which makes this division even wider.
Challenged with defending his friend, Carson must find a solution before the two sides collide, which would definitely have devastating results.
Join Carson, as he faces one of his toughest challenges in
It seems some things never change, while others always are. 1962 is a year where everything seems to be changing and, unfortunately, a large majority of our country’s citizens are having a difficult time dealing with it.
My grandfather was a farmer and he owned and farmed many acres of land in West Tennessee. As a little boy, I spent most of my summers riding with him in his old truck or sitting on his lap while he drove a tractor. These were times that I cherish and will remember forever.
Because he owned a lot of land, my grandfather employed several families to live on this land and help with the farming. These employees were called ‘Sharecroppers’. My grandfather furnished the land, the equipment and the housing. The ‘Sharecropper’ did most of the work, and they actually ‘shared’ in the profits that came from selling the crops, thus the name, ‘Sharecropper’.
These summers, when I wasn’t in the truck or on the tractor, I was usually at one of the ‘Sharecropper’ houses, playing with their children. In addition to raising crops, raising children was also something they did very well. All the families had at least four, and some had as many as ten kids – they liked large families! And, of course, as the children got older, they were taken into the fields to help with the farming.
It was during one of these summers when I met Robert Henry Walker, Jr. He was the seven-year-old son of Robert and Roberta Walker. Henry, as he was called, was second youngest of the eight Walker children. He had one younger sister, four older sisters and two older brothers. They all lived in a small two-bedroom house, along with a grandmother and, what seemed like, a half-dozen dogs. This was a close and happy family, and I spent many wonderful days that summer playing in the front yard of the Walker home.
Years later, as I was sharing this story with someone, they asked me that magical question, ‘were they colored or white’? I didn’t know the answer. I mean, I knew the answer, but I actually had to think about it. That was just something I had never thought or cared about. The fact that the Robert Henry Walker, Sr. family was colored was something that had never occurred to me. I didn’t care and was surprised that anyone else did.