On June 21, 1964, three young men, Civil Rights activists, James Chaney, Andrew Goodman, and Michael Schwerner, were murdered by local white members of the Ku Klux Klan near the rural area of Longdale, Mississippi. These young men were kidnapped, shot, and buried in shallow graves for the crime of visiting a local church and trying to help other people. Five years later and about 45 miles away, my dad and I drove into the yard of an extremely poor, rural Black family to sell them religious books. While I was ignorant of what had happened in the area around us and the continuing hate and discrimination, my dad surely was not. I wonder what it felt like for him to drive into that yard? What did the family feel when they looked out the window through their front curtains and saw us coming up the driveway toward the house? Was anyone afraid? My father had taken a job selling books for his church, moving my mom and three of us kids to one of the most rural parts of the deep South to the community of Toomsuba in eastern Mississippi, a few miles from the Alabama border. Our little single-wide trailer sat nestled in the middle of pine covered hills near a lake. Everything around us was dyed in muddy red clay. It was an incredibly quiet existence and any time my father took me on one of his routes to sell books, it was a little slice of heaven. The family was unbelievably kind to us. As an adult looking back, I wonder at the kindness of their greeting and presume that they must have requested someone come to show them the books. I cannot imagine how anyone at that time would have so graciously accepted strangers from another race into their home unless there was at least a little warning. But at the time, as a small child, I did not know that. I just felt that we drove to someone’s house, and they greeted us like friends returning home for a visit. The ladies of the house fixed us the most colorful and tasty dish I had seen in my life. It was filled with the colors of summer—bright yellow corn, eye popping red, sweet tomatoes, and smooth green okra. All if this abundance was served in the most flavorful sauce I could imagine, along with piping hot cornbread, fresh from the oven. It was the best food I had ever tasted and the beginning of a love affair between me and flavorful dishes. After the meal, the men with my father retreated to the living room, where the discussion over the religious books began. This talk lasted a long time and seemed to include a fair bit of other topics about politics, world history, and religion. There seemed to be a lot of serious conversations, but laughter, too. I really did not notice their interaction overly much. A young girl and I had more important things to attend to. We sat together and played. First, we fixed our hair. She commented on how soft and fine the lanky straight tresses of tangled mess down along my face and neck were. She could not believe how difficult it was to braid these gossamer strands and then keep them together. We laughed as each braid wisped apart. I, on the other hand, was entranced by the springiness of her hair. It obeyed my wishes entirely when trying to braid it. What a novel experience; obedient hair! I was terribly envious. Eventually, my dad and I got up and went back to the car to drive back home to our little trailer in the clay. I really have no idea whether he sold any books that day or not, nor do I remember seeing that family again. I have not forgotten their hospitality. I wonder if more of the people in Longdale with pink skin like me had spent afternoons together with families like this one, if those three young men would not have been senselessly murdered. If more had turned into the driveways of those who were different from them or welcomed with graciousness and kindness the visits of others, would so many people have had to fight for their freedoms and the right to vote