Selma

When Blake and Megan landed in Montgomery, they still had about an hour drive before they would arrive in Selma.

“How old was Sandra in 1965?” Blake wondered out loud.

“She was ten,” Megan responded.

“I want to hear what happened and why she believes people were willing to be part of the struggle,” Blake said.

When the couple drove into Selma, they went directly to the bridge, where Sandra said she would be waiting.

“Sandra?” Blake said tentatively.

“Yes. You must be Blake and Megan. Welcome to Selma,” she said with a warm smile and a lovely Southern accent.

“Yes. Thanks for meeting us here today. We loved your book.”

“It was a labor of love. You may have noticed, I dedicated it to my mom. She was my hero and my inspiration. We marched together across this bridge, and I didn’t want our story to be lost in the wake of history.”

“We’d love to learn more. Is there a café nearby?”

“Oh yes, and we have some of the best pie in Alabama just around the corner. Follow me.”

“Should we drive?” Blake asked.

“No, we’re not going far. Besides, I want you to walk across the bridge.”

As the three walked across the bridge, no one said a word. Blake and Megan were thinking about what happened there over fifty years ago. Sandra, as she had thousands of times before, drew silent strength from those who had walked before her.

In the café, time had stood still. It was 1965, or at least what the couple thought it would have been like—from the linoleum floor tiles to the Naugahyde barstools and the purring of the milkshake machine. While Megan and Blake were soaking it all in, the waitress, in her period-perfect uniform, apron and all, approached the table with a warm welcome and menus.

“No, thank you,” Sandra said. “No menus needed; we only have one question for you: What kind of pies has Clare made today?”

“Peach and pecan,” the waitress said.

“You can’t go wrong with either one,” Sandra said to her new friends. “If I’m right, the peaches and the pecans came from the trees just outside of town. You’ll never have pie fresher or tastier than this,” Sandra added with a note of hometown pride.

Blake ordered the pecan and Megan chose the peach. “Thanks again for meeting with us,” Megan said.

“Delighted,” Sandra said. “Exactly how can I serve you?”

“Can you tell us what happened here in 1965? And then, we would love to know why you think so many people were willing to march. What compelled you and others to take a stand—why did those courageous women and men care so much?”

“Let’s begin with the story itself . . .

“On March 7, my mama and I were up early to go to church. When we arrived, we were told we were going to march to Montgomery. It was intended to be a nonviolent protest to support African Americans’ right to vote. Little did we know the day would be remembered as Bloody Sunday.”

“That’s a long walk!” Megan interjected.

“Yes, fifty-one miles. I’m not sure anyone had considered all the implications; I know we had not, but the energy was high . . . we were going to march! As we approached the midpoint on the bridge, we could see the troopers on the other side, but many in our group were naïve; we thought, surely they would part to let us through. We were shocked by their response.”

“What happened?” Megan asked.

“They advanced to meet us, hitting people with clubs and hurling tear gas canisters at us. It became obvious that we were not going to march to Montgomery—at least not that day. I tried to stay really close to Mama during the chaos that ensued. Some ran, some fell, others were knocked down. We made it back to the other side; I remember clutching my mama’s skirt as we ran. I was so scared and thankful when we made it home—alive.”

“Unbelievable—and you were there!” Blake said. “I know you were young, but since then you’ve researched, relived, and retold the story countless times. Can you help us understand why people would care enough to be so bold?”

“Well, I guess others might give you a different answer, but as a self-proclaimed historian,” she smiled, “let me tell you what I think. A couple of things probably emboldened the people on the bridge that day and in the larger civil rights movement.

“The cause was just. When you are on the right side of an issue, you can draw strength from that. We knew the jury of history was watching. We decided to stand up and make a difference.

“We also had gifted leadership. Dr. King inspired us to do the right thing—even when it was hard. But make no mistake: it was never about him—it was about all men . . . and women,” she smiled.

“We didn’t feel alone in our efforts; we felt the support of free people around the world. There is power, value, and tremendous strength in connection . . . to the cause and with others. We marched with family and friends, coworkers and neighbors. Even the strangers among us felt like they belonged.

“Like an old quilt my mama made years ago, the individual pieces may not look like much, but when you stitch them together, you can create something beautiful. We were stitched together—we were connected; we were stronger together. This is where the strength to march came from . . . in my humble opinion.”

Like an old quilt my mama made years ago, the individual pieces may not look like much, but when you stitch them together, you can create something beautiful.

For the better part of the afternoon, Blake and Megan asked a lot of questions about Sandra’s mom, the rest of her family, her life since Bloody Sunday, her plans for future books, and more. They also enjoyed some delicious pie.

“Thank you for your time and your insight. This has been a day we’ll never forget,” Blake said.

“And, if you find yourself in our part of the world, you always have a place to stay,” Megan added.

As they walked back on to the street, Sandra gave them a hug.

“Aren’t you going with us?”

“No, my house is the other direction. Besides, I want to let you walk the bridge one more time. Travel safe.”

Twelve-hundred forty-eight feet across the bridge—with each step, Blake and Megan tried to imagine the emotions of Sandra and her friends. The images from more than fifty years ago flashed fresh across their minds.

When they were back at their car, Megan said, “I think we have the first piece of your dad’s puzzle. Connection is huge, if people are disconnected from a cause or each other, it would be extremely difficult to care deeply.”

“I agree.”

The fifty-one-mile drive back to Montgomery was quiet.