Once upon a time I attended the Baptist church that hosts the cemetery where this picture was taken a few weeks ago. I also attended kindergarten through fourth grade on the same grounds. Many of my relatives are buried there. Their remains are devolving under the ground(s) that I used to play upon. The playground was next to tombstones of the unknown. As I grew and evolved, many of the headstones marked the final departure spot of my elders. Some marked my friends final resting place. A place they once played so close by. The head of my Family's remains remain there -- my Granddad Bell. The head of my Step-Family ("Eddard") just recently departed from there, though His remains remain there and with my blood.
In the midst of my fourth-grade year at Coosa Valley Elementary, my parents "decided" I should go to a "private" school. My family's best friends' Son -- my Best Friend -- Paul, Jr., was going to that school some 30 miles away. (So I went to CVA -- AKA, Coosa Valley Academy.)
Our families were very close. But Paul, Sr. had a dark, underworld; a world we did not know about; at least not the depths of. It was a world I can now reflect upon, and unfortunately understand how cold and dark it was. . .and a world Paul, Jr. must have suffered in while I lived within another type of dimension; still dark, but NOTHING like my best friend. Paul, Jr. suffered a different type of misery than I could ever grasp.
Not more than two years passed, and my parents took me out of CVA. I was back in public school.
Paul, Jr., his wonderful Mother, and the wretched father -- Paul, Sr., were murdered. Paul, Jr. was 10-years-old. To describe the brutality, severity, intensity, in which they suffered and died is another story that I am not prepared to tell in detail. (Maybe another day. Maybe not. However, I have posted official court details below. Read with caution.)
My Dad, Sister, mother, and myself were on vacation in Florida. Paul, Jr. and His Mother were invited to join us. Paul, Sr. denied them the opportunity. Before we learned of my Friend's and Family's demise, we had been notified of their disappearance. We abandoned our vacation early and headed home. Upon hitting Montgomery, AL, my Dad stopped at a gas station. "Son, please get me the newspaper."
My Dad, Sister, mother, and myself were on vacation in Florida. Paul, Jr. and His Mother were invited to join us. Paul, Sr. denied them the opportunity. Before we learned of my Friend's and Family's demise, we had been notified of their disappearance. We abandoned our vacation early and headed home. Upon hitting Montgomery, AL, my Dad stopped at a gas station. "Son, please get me the newspaper."
Birmingham News headliner read:
"Three Found Dead, Apparently the Franklins"
. . . .
(I cannot express in any words the shock and horror and sickness we ALL felt. My Sister was only 8. I was almost 11.) I read the article over and over and over during the last two-hour drive home. My family. . .speechless.
My heart was devastated. "Life" as we knew it changed in so many ways. My Dad and (so-called) mother decided the "private" school had too many connections/memories regarding Paul, Jr. I assume they meant the best. I had no idea how to deal with such tragedy and trusted any change was for the best.
Changing geography, friends, teachers, bus drivers, yearbooks, lunchrooms, playgrounds, lifestyles, and everything else we tried, never changed the hurt I felt. Nothing ever will to this day. (I actually went back and forth to CVA and local public schools at least four times. I'm not sure what or why or where I was running from, 'cause I still haven't found where I was "supposed" to go.) It's not like I could ever find Paul, Jr., nor ever forget Him. I could never leave Him behind. I still haven't.
The murderer was executed several years ago. He was on death row for 22 years.
I had the "opportunity" to witness his death. I drove towards the prison with tears in my eyes. I stopped. I turned around and headed the opposite way.
I headed to an Amnesty International gathering. They were holding a peaceful protest for said murder's execution near the Birmingham Civil Right's Institute. I observed their sincerity. They did not believe in an "eye for an eye." (There was no matter if said-murderer really DID murder my friend and family.)
I monitored their prayers. I even held hands within their circle. They meant no harm; nor did I.
Upon the 6:27 PM mark, the murderer was pronounced dead. I had waited for years for him to face his fate. He was executed by lethal injection. The circle had many tears. I tried not to cry. I was not successful.
Before leaving, I turned and asked the departing crowd to hear my words and look at what I had i my hands. I simply said: "Here is a picture of my best friend, Paul, Jr. The child and Son of the family that was murdered. Please pray and remember Them, as you have prayed and remembered (and I did so as well) the murderer."
I felt no justice. No peace. No. . . NOTHING. I was numb. I walked away as many followed me and asked to tell them more. I couldn't.
I buried my thoughts, feelings. . .anger. I buried my ancestors and friends. I bury more. There are many more to come. It is a place that draws me back to a space in time I will never shake. The crossroad(s), monuments, relics, memories and sentimental scars, tragedy, beauty, essence, reality and existence.
I often visit the cemetery where my blood still soaks into plots meant to one day hold my flesh and all of my still-living family's as well. I still hear the organ, feel it pumping, smell the playing, swinging above the grounds like a little boy -- still living.
"Three Found Dead, Apparently the Franklins"
. . . .
(I cannot express in any words the shock and horror and sickness we ALL felt. My Sister was only 8. I was almost 11.) I read the article over and over and over during the last two-hour drive home. My family. . .speechless.
My heart was devastated. "Life" as we knew it changed in so many ways. My Dad and (so-called) mother decided the "private" school had too many connections/memories regarding Paul, Jr. I assume they meant the best. I had no idea how to deal with such tragedy and trusted any change was for the best.
Changing geography, friends, teachers, bus drivers, yearbooks, lunchrooms, playgrounds, lifestyles, and everything else we tried, never changed the hurt I felt. Nothing ever will to this day. (I actually went back and forth to CVA and local public schools at least four times. I'm not sure what or why or where I was running from, 'cause I still haven't found where I was "supposed" to go.) It's not like I could ever find Paul, Jr., nor ever forget Him. I could never leave Him behind. I still haven't.
The murderer was executed several years ago. He was on death row for 22 years.
I had the "opportunity" to witness his death. I drove towards the prison with tears in my eyes. I stopped. I turned around and headed the opposite way.
I headed to an Amnesty International gathering. They were holding a peaceful protest for said murder's execution near the Birmingham Civil Right's Institute. I observed their sincerity. They did not believe in an "eye for an eye." (There was no matter if said-murderer really DID murder my friend and family.)
I monitored their prayers. I even held hands within their circle. They meant no harm; nor did I.
Upon the 6:27 PM mark, the murderer was pronounced dead. I had waited for years for him to face his fate. He was executed by lethal injection. The circle had many tears. I tried not to cry. I was not successful.
Before leaving, I turned and asked the departing crowd to hear my words and look at what I had i my hands. I simply said: "Here is a picture of my best friend, Paul, Jr. The child and Son of the family that was murdered. Please pray and remember Them, as you have prayed and remembered (and I did so as well) the murderer."
I felt no justice. No peace. No. . . NOTHING. I was numb. I walked away as many followed me and asked to tell them more. I couldn't.
I buried my thoughts, feelings. . .anger. I buried my ancestors and friends. I bury more. There are many more to come. It is a place that draws me back to a space in time I will never shake. The crossroad(s), monuments, relics, memories and sentimental scars, tragedy, beauty, essence, reality and existence.
I often visit the cemetery where my blood still soaks into plots meant to one day hold my flesh and all of my still-living family's as well. I still hear the organ, feel it pumping, smell the playing, swinging above the grounds like a little boy -- still living.
There is much more to this tragic story of my past that I still carry with me. I will share further when the time comes.
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Official Court Details
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Official Court Details
