The Legacy

“The history of the Underground Railroad will be an important part of history you’ll be taught in school a bit later. And if I’m right, each of you will have quite a contribution to share in your classes when that time comes.”

“I don’t get it, Mom. A railroad under the ground? Like the subway? Way out here in the country?”

Chuckling “Not quite like that, Sarah. It wasn’t a real railroad with train tracks and a gigantic locomotive engine with cars and a caboose. Underground Railroad was a metaphor, a figure of speech to describe something that is actually something else.”

“I think I’ve heard of that . . . something about a railroad, not that meta-whatever.”

“Metaphor.”

“Yeah, that. Didn’t it have something to do with slaves?”

“It did, Jimmy. Before the Civil War, before the end of slavery in our country, that is exactly what it was about. Just like a real railroad is transportation for freight and passengers to travel around the country on trains, the Underground Railroad was a secret system of transportation to assist slaves who had escaped from their owners in the South to freedom in the northern states and Canada where they could be free.”

“Canada! That package came from Canada!”

“And that is a major clue, Sarah, that your ancestors from more than 100 years ago, were part of that system, helping escaped slaves reach safety there.”

“That’s really cool, but what are we supposed to do now? What about the map and Gramp’s quest? And all this stuff from Canada?”

“Let’s put the brakes on what to do for a bit, kids. I do want to help with all that, very much. But the first order of business simply must be all this food! If you guys will help, we can get back to your quest much sooner AND we can give some thought about where and how to get it started.”

The rest of the morning was spent sorting, wrapping, storing in the refrigerator and freezer, boxing donations for the nursing home . . . and eating some, themselves. After lunch, Mom called the senior center and the nursing home to let them know they had several desserts to bring for their senior members and the residents. They loaded them into Gramps’ truck and drove into town.

“Hey, Mom, Jimmy, look!”

There, on the corner, attached to an old red brick building, was a sign:

“Would you look at that. How have I never seen that before?” Mom eased the truck to the curb alongside the building. “I can’t think what was here before, but it wasn’t an Underground Railroad Museum!”

“Can we go there, Mom?”

“Yes, Mom. Please, please, and pretty please?”

“Let’s see if they’re open and check the hours. Maybe we can come back by after we deliver all this food. We must get that taken care of before anything else.”

A sign Opening Soon was taped on the locked door and no lights could be seen through the windows.

“Well, that’s disappointing. We’ll have to ask around town and see if anyone can tell us when they expect to be open, won’t we?”

“But we won’t still be here. Can we come back?”

“I think we should be able to make that happen. But it would have been nice to have a little help with your quest, wouldn’t it?”

“Maybe our quest will help the museum?”

“Now, that’s an interesting thought, Jimmy. You may have a really good idea. But for now . . . delivery time!”

The Senior Center and nursing home were next door to each other and just around the corner on a shady, tree-lined street. There was a bingo game in progress at the Senior Center, so the Marshalls didn’t linger. They handed over cookies and a couple of pies with smiles, waves and “Enjoy!”

They had barely entered The Groves Nursing Home when a smiling African American lady came out of her office to greet them.

“You must be Jim Marshall’s family. I’m Memory Robinson, the director here, and I have to tell you, while our residents will enjoy all those goodies, we certainly are going to miss that gentleman around here.”

“You know . . . I mean, you knew my Gramps?” Sarah handed over a platter of cupcakes.

“Oh, I surely did know him. In fact, I knew him my whole life. He was a good friend of my father’s and one of our most popular volunteers here.”

“Memory. What an unusual and lovely name!” Mom set the peach cobbler on the counter to shake her hand.

“Why thank you, and yes, it is different. I’m the fifth Memory in my family, so I’m rather proud to have the name.”

“Wow. That’s a lot of Memories!”

Laughing “Well, yes, young man, it IS! A whole lot of memories go along with my name.”

Whispering “Like that Marigold, Mom.”

“Forgive me, Ms. Robinson. I’m Elizabeth and these two are Sarah and Jimmy. My husband is David, Jim’s son. I expect you knew him growing up?”

“I did, although I was a few years older than David. It’s so good to meet all of you. And what was that about a marigold, Sarah?”

“She’s somebody in Canada we’ve never heard of before and she sent us a package from there.”

“Marigold. From Canada. Oh, my. Would you have a few minutes for me to have someone come take care of all these lovely desserts and then talk?”

“Of course. We can do that.”

In short order, Memory Robinson had summoned someone to collect the various desserts, then ushered the Marshalls into her office.

“Did you happen to notice the new little museum around the corner? The Underground Railroad Museum?”

“We did. And Jim, the children’s grandfather, has left quite a mystery behind on that very subject. Even enlisting them in a “Quest”, of all things. Can you enlighten us on any of this?”

“We didn’t even know what an underground railroad is, did we, Jimmy?”

“Sarah’s right, Ms. Robinson. We haven’t studied that yet in school. But it sounds really cool.”

Smiling “It IS cool, Jimmy, and I believe you will be very proud of your ancestors when you begin studying that part of history.

Now, my father, Jasper Robinson, and your grandfather were working together to get that little museum going. They were hoping for some very important information to be forthcoming from Canada, and it would appear that it finally has. I’m so sad your Gramps isn’t still with us to see the results he and my dad have worked so hard to make happen. They’ve also hoped your husband would join their efforts, Mrs. Marshall.”

“Elizabeth, please. And to be totally honest, I don’t believe my David knows anything at all about the subject.”

“And isn’t that a shame. But it sounds like Jim left a plan, getting your children involved, to change all that. Am I right?”

“Is that what the Quest is all about, Mom? So Dad will want to help with the museum?”

“Maybe that’s part of it, Jimmy. But I believe there may be more to it . . . something more about the farm.”

“Let me call my father. He’s working on the museum, if you have the time. He can explain at lot more that might be helpful.”

“Well, we do have an awful lot to get done out there, but we’re here in town now, so yes. That will be fine.”

“Excellent. Oh, and there’s one thing you must do, children. Ask Mr. Robinson to tell you the story about the bull. OK?”

“Sure.”

“OK.”

“Thank you, Ms. Robinson. The children and I are so grateful.”

“Please, call me Memory. And it is my pleasure to meet you and I hope to see more of you.”

Smiling “We hope so, as well.”

Memory Robinson was picking up the phone to call her father at the museum as the Marshalls waved goodby.

“You guys sure are quiet. What’s going on in those heads of yours? Are you maybe feeling a bit befuddled right now?”

“I don’t even know what to think right now, Mom. Everything just feels really weird, you know?”

“I do know, Jimmy. Your Gramps has certainly stirred up a lot of questions, hasn’t he?”

“Mom, I really, really miss him. I wish Dad was here.”

“Oh, sweet Sarah, so do I. But just think how much you’ll have to share with him when he comes this weekend.”

Mr. Robinson waved at the front door of the Underground Railroad Museum, his smile broad and welcoming.

“Oh, my good friend James must have been so proud of you children! Aren’t you fine! Come in here and let’s get acquainted. Mrs. Marshall, it is a pleasure.”

“Thank you so much for opening your door here, just for us, sir.”

“Why, you are special honored guests here. And if I’m not mistaken, you are going to have a few things to share here, isn’t that right? A package from Miss Marigold and something about a Quest?”

“You know about our quest?”

“You must be Sarah, and yes, I do know about that quest. Your grandfather shared most all his secrets with me.”

“Will you help us, Mr. Robinson?”

“Are you another James or are you Jimmy?”

“Jimmy, sir.”

“All right then, Jimmy. Let’s say I will be available as a consultant, someone who might have something to offer if you really need it. But your grandfather had all kinds of faith in you two, so I do, too.

Now then, I’m sorry there isn’t more to see here . . . all these boxes, empty display cases and what-not. Things will take a little longer to get all set up, but now that you’re here, I believe we’ll begin making good progress.”

“Your daughter, Memory, said the children should ask you to tell us a story about a bull.”

“Oh, that’s a good one! It happened right out there on your grandfather’s farm, too!”

Everything looked like a green light, that all was in place to move a small group of souls on to the next station, meaning the next safe place for folks in their journey to freedom.

Now, these passengers were a young family – mother, father and two little boys. Mom and dad are each carrying a child plus their bundles of food and clothing, so they aren’t moving across the field toward that big stream all that fast. All of a sudden, these two men ride up, waving guns and shouting. Bounty hunters, they were.

One of your great-great granddaddies was just a boy, but a smart lad, keeping watch up in the barn loft. When he sees those men halt their horses, hop over the fence and begin to run toward that family, he swung himself down by the rope tied up there and high-tailed it to open up the pen on the backside of the barn. In that pen was Brutus - the biggest, meanest old bull you hope never to meet. Old Brutus just LOVED to go after anybody running and when he spied those fellows racing across that field he snorted and he bellowed and he charged right after them!

Brutus caught one of them by the seat of his pants and flung him so high and so far his bones sounded like pistol shots when he hit the ground. It took so long for all his broken bones to heal he never even went back down south. His buddy barely managed to fling himself back over the fence in time, jumped on his horse and disappeared in a cloud of dust.

It was a mighty long time before the Marshall farm station had any more frights like that one!

“Wow. What about that family?”

“Yeah. Did they get away?

“They did. The Robinson family did, indeed, find freedom.”

Part 5 continued in ADVENTURES