Chapter I
Honey seeped through wooden slats as bees labored feverishly under the rotting eaves. Other than the occasional sting or the delectable taste of their nectar, the young boy gave little thought to bees until his schoolteacher compared them to the unpardonable bond between master and slave. She told the class that - after the bees dedicate their entire life to doing the queen’s bidding, they die.
As he gazed out the pane less window, the lazy Carolina breeze reminded him of the first summer slice of watermelon - cool, sweet, and ripe with anticipation. While one ear listened to what was being read, the other vibrated to the tune of cicadas that were determined to secure the season with their endless droning. Their only competition was a mournful song from those picking in the fields. He craned his neck slightly to see who was leading the soulful sound, but the grace of the new day had other plans for his thoughts.
By the time the sun pierced its way through the crumbling ante-bellum mansions, it wouldn’t be long before the promise of a tranquil morning turned into an inferno that would blister the backs of sharecroppers. Because the added weight of wet cotton sacks from the evening mist cheated the boss-man his due, most mornings the workers idled until the heat sucked up the last bit of moisture and the load was made lighter. As soon as the cotton dried and somebody’s melody set the tone for the day, they began to pick. Each song was a gentle reminder of an imagined freedom that put a rhythm in everybody’s step. The faster they picked, their thoughts drifted closer toward freedom until sharp cotton brambles cut their dreams in half.
The boy was glad he didn’t suffer that humiliation. As soon as his mother put him in the field, the heat was too much for his tender scalp. Hats did little to ease the throbbing to his head which was nearly the size of a full grown gourd when he was born. It seemed to have extra sensitive nerve endings and neighbors near and far thought a calf was going to slaughter for all of the wailing whenever an attempt was made to cut his hair. Later he would learn how his glorious dome would impact his future. Even though he was named after his father Hubert Washington Till, the usual distinction between father and son as big “so ‘n so” and “little so ‘n so” was pointless. There’s was nothing little about the eleven-year-old’s head that would permit such a label. As a consequence, he acquired the nickname Eubie so there’d be no confusion.
Headquarters, headstrong, and knucklehead were only some of the insults that Eubie endured from classmates. When they wanted to be particularly mean, he was singled out as the son of a Hoodoo Lady or worse, a devil child. The relentless taunting and sometimes physical assaults took their toll so that all he could think about was how to escape such a cruel existence. It was only after his mother reassured him that a big head meant having a big brain that he vowed not to let anything get in the way of his freedom.
