Somewhere around 1901 or 1902, Lizzie Black and her husband moved onto my grandfather's farm as tenant farmers. That meant that they worked their butts off in the hot Georgia sun helping plant, tend and gather the crops that were raised for a percentage of the profits. They also helped with slaughtering the animals for part of the meat and they were allowed the use of 5 acres to raise their own garden and a small cash crop.

Aunt Lizzie and her husband were on up in years when they moved to grand dad's farm and somewhere before I was born, Aunt Lizzie's husband died and was buried in my family’s plot at Rehoboth Church.

When I was 5 or 6 years old I used to walk down to Aunt Lizzie's house, which was about a hundred yards behind my grandparent's house, and visit with her because she always told the best stories that I had ever heard and she was all alone most of the time. Besides, her sweet potato biscuits were to die for.

There was the rumor that Aunt Lizzie was a witch and almost all of the neighborhood kids and a fair number of the adults in the community were afraid of her. With the two oversized teeth that she had left and wrinkles that looked deep enough to hide coins in combined with the fact that her skin was the color of tar did make her look a little different I suppose but her gentle nature and her kind heart always masked her flaws as far as I was concerned.

Grandpa or Grandma and sometime my dad or step mother would walk down to check on Aunt Lizzie just to make sure that she was alright and had food, fire wood and fresh water in her house daily. I never thought about it but Aunt Lizzie must have been at least 90 years old then.

As time passed Aunt Lizzie and I became the very best of friends and I grew to love that old black woman like she was blood kin. Sort of like having a great grandmother or something close to that.

One time shortly before she died, she swore me to secrecy one day, carefully lifted her skirt so I could see the outside of her right thigh and just as clear as could be was a big burn scar that read “W T Thomas” where she had been branded as property when she was just a little girl. She didn’t know exactly when she was born but she said that she was a “half grown girl” when the Yankees came through.

(I did some serious digging and I’ve found that Dr. W. T. Thomas had a medical practice at his plantation at Dames Ferry near Macon during the 1850’s and early 1860’s. As the crow flies it is about 30 miles from Dames Ferry to my Grandfather’s farm.)

I could sit and listen to her for hours while she told me all about Brer Rabbit, Brer Bear, Brer Fox and all of those old Joel Chandler Harris "Song of the South" characters just like she had been there and seen them do the things she was telling me about.

Aunt Lizzie was a kid when those mostly African stories were being collected written and since it was only about 40 miles over to Eatonton where Mr Harris wrote his Uncle Remus tales, she had probably heard them for most of her life.

She also had great stories about living in "the slavery days" and she said that she had seen and clearly remembered General Sherman's soldiers plunder, steal and burn their way through after they had burned Atlanta during the summer of 1864 and were heading to Savannah.

In August of 1954, I was 12 years old and Aunt Lizzie told me that she was really sick and was going home very soon. I can remember begging her not to die because I would miss her too much but she explained to me that she was very old and very tired and was ready to go home and be with all of her family again. She asked me to remember her and told me that every now and then, if she possibly could, she would check on me and see what kind of a man I was growing up to be. She died a few days later on August the 12th.

Aunt Lizzie was buried in a hand made cedar coffin next to her long dead husband and I was left with memories to last a lifetime and a big empty place somewhere inside.

Thinking about her, I can almost see Aunt Lizzie sitting in her rocking chair, looking out of her window as she slowly rocked and wove her wonderful tales. She always had her right forearm resting on the window sill and rubbed back and forth on the sill with her index finger as she rocked and kept me spellbound for hours on end.

As the years passed, I wondered from time to time what Aunt Lizzie had meant when she said that she would check on me but as I got older, went to college, got married, had a couple of kids and was too busy to even get enough sleep most of the time, Aunt Lizzie came to mind less and less often.

On August 12, 1966, my wife and I had the girls in bed and I was sitting in what passed for our living room in Griffin, Georgia just breathing and listening to a thunder storm and some music. A bright flash in the kitchen that came with a house shaking rumble of thunder made me look up in time to see a ball of light about the size of a fat softball float through the kitchen door and into the living room. The ball floated across the living room to the window and with a loud pop, it was gone.

I ran to the window because I thought that ball lightning had visited us and had probably damaged the curtains and possibly set them on fire but there wasn’t a mark to be seen. The next day when I got home from work I checked the window and curtains again in the daylight and all I saw was a polished streak on the window sill like the one Aunt Lizzie used to have on her window sill from where she rubbed it endlessly with her finger as she told me stories. Aunt Lizzie had been dead for exactly 12 years but I quickly and quietly convinced myself that I was nuts and put that thought aside.

August 12, 1978, I had divorced, remarried and moved to Cleveland Tennessee. My wife and I were sitting in the living room, my son was already in bed and my stepdaughters were getting ready for bed. I was sitting in my recliner right by the kitchen door and I heard a low frequency buzzing coming from behind me. I sorta twisted around in my chair to look into the kitchen and another ball of light about the size of a softball floated through the kitchen door into the living room, crossed the living room and popped sharply as it hit the curtains and it was gone. There wasn’t a storm to blame the ball lightning on that night.

A careful inspection of the curtains and window didn’t show any damage anywhere but the polished streak was on the window sill again. This time I was beginning to wonder if just maybe Aunt Lizzie was actually reminding me that she had once lived and died 24 years ago.

August 12, 1990 found me sharing an apartment with the son of a friend of mine and one of his many girl friends. Jeff was in the shower and I was sitting in the living room talking to which ever girl friend was on duty that night, I’m pretty sure it was Julie, when that ball of light floated out of the kitchen, across the living room and popped against the curtains again. Once again there was no damage but the polished streak was there on the window sill. Julie totally freaked and ran into the bathroom and latched onto a soapy wet Jeff and left me alone in the living room to seriously wonder if Aunt Lizzie was really keeping her word again 36 years after she died. The same occurrence on the same date at 12 year intervals is just too much for me to believe that they are all coincidences.

If Aunt Lizzie visited me on August 12, 2002, I was probably in a coma from working as a rent-a-cop and being on call 24 hours a day and 7 days a week. Sorry I missed you Aunt Lizzie. I hope to see you on August 12, 2014 if I’m still around.