Jorden rolled down the window and waved. Her spirits lifted. Looking at Grandma Marshall, Jorden could see a resemblance. They had the same light cream complexion and oval face. Strands of gray hair drifted out from her grandmother’s darker locks. She remained slim; the years had treated her well.

Her grandma greeted Jorden with a huge hug. She had prepared a scrumptious meal of southern fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, turnip greens, and cornbread. During lunch, the conversation dealt with Uncle William’s death and the upcoming funeral. Jorden’s mother was quieter than usual.

For dessert, Grandma Marshall served Jorden’s favorite, banana cream pie. “You did it this time, the best meal I’ve had in months,” Jorden exclaimed. She noted even her mother lightened up while she finished her pie and iced tea.

Afterward, Jorden’s father drove them to Selma. The day was sunny, clear but cool and in the forties. Jorden remembered visiting Uncle William several times in Selma. He owned a grocery store in the poorer section of the city, where the population was predominately Black. The store was a one story, rectangular, wood-framed building. The exterior looked worn but the interior appeared well-organized. The cash register and checkout stand stood at the front of the store. She remembered the large wooden candy counter encased in glass. It was her favorite section.

Customers wandered in during the day to make purchases, oftentimes charging them to their accounts. Although unusual for the time, Uncle William extended credit to many of his customers by keeping an informal ledger.

Racial problems were stirring up in Selma, which prevented many of his Black customers from registering to vote. The practice of segregation was rampant. This reminded Jorden of a paper she had written in college titled “The Voting Rights Act of 1965.” At the last minute she had thrown it in her bag and now pulled it out on the ride to Selma.

“What do you have there?” Jorden’s mother asked.

“An old paper I wrote about Selma.”

“Read it to us. It should get our minds off Brother and the funeral.” Her mother frequently referred to Uncle William as Brother. This was her affectionate name for him.

“It’s pretty dull,” Jorden replied. She had brought it along to refresh her memory of Selma’s recent history, not to read it out loud.

“I don’t care, maybe we’ll learn something.”

“All right. If you insist.”

“‘Selma was the county seat of Dallas County, Alabama. This county’s population was over fifty percent Black people and most of them lived in poverty. Only a small percentage of those in the Black community were registered to vote; not by choice, but by the negative influence of state and local officials.”’

“Are you sure of your facts? Seems pretty tough,” her dad declared.