A real life cuckoo atones for his past and asks forgiveness

I read with curiosity a story in The Baltimore Sun last Sunday morning about a man who has deep regrets about his racists’ past.
His life and character would easily fit into my new novel, The Cry of the Cuckoos. The theme of my novel is deceit and forgiveness and that’s what Elwin Hope Wilson of South Carolina has been doing as he struggles with his own mortality. He has repented for his past sins and asked for forgiveness from the people – blacks – he has harmed in one way or another most of his life.
Now that he is 72-years-old, ill with diabetes, his eyes degenerating, Wilson wants to atone for his misgivings.
“The former Ku Klux Klan supporter says he wants to atone for the cross burnings on Hollis Lake Road. He wants to apologize for hanging a black doll in a noose at the end of his drive, for flinging cantaloupes at black men walking down Main Street, for hurling a jack handle at the black kid jiggling the soda machine in his father's service station, for brutally beating a 21-year-old seminary student at the bus station in 1961,” the newspaper reported.
Sound familiar?
Wilson is a clock collector, and his life has been ticking away with the burden of racism for many years. Among his collections in his home is a cuckoo clock. I was mesmerized by the story because the characters in my book could have been Mr. Wilson.
In the final chapter of his life, Wilson is seeking forgiveness. The burly clock collector wants to be saved before he hears his last chime.
And so Wilson has spent recent months apologizing to "the people I had trouble with." “He has embraced black men his own age, at the same lunch counter where once they were denied service and hauled off to jail as mobs of white youths, Wilson among them, threw insults and eggs and fists.
”Wilson has carried his apology into black churches where he has unburdened it in prayer.
”And he has taken it to Washington, to the office of Congressman John Lewis of Atlanta, the civil rights leader whose face Wilson smashed at the Greyhound bus station during the famed Freedom Rides 48 years ago.
”The apologies have won headlines and praise. Letters have poured in, lauding Wilson's courage. Strangers, black and white, have hailed him as a hero.
”But Wilson doesn't feel like a hero. He feels confused. He cannot fully answer the lingering questions, the doubts. Where did all the hate come from? And where did it go?
And the question he gets asked most often: Why now?
"All I can say is that it has bothered me for years, all the bad stuff I've done," Wilson said. "And I found out there is no way I could be saved and get to heaven and still not like blacks."
”If you do get to heaven, his wife pointed out, they're going to be there with you.”
Mr. Wilson has found a secret ingredient to his life now. His regrets and weight of the past has given him the freedom to be a real person.
There is a lesson in his story.
Holding onto regret is like dragging the weight of the past with us everywhere we go. It drains our energy, leaving less available for life in the present because we are constantly feeding an old issue. This attachment can cause illness the same way watering a dead plant creates decay. We know that something new and beautiful can grow in its place if we only prepare the soil and plant the right seeds.
We also know that we create our lives from our thoughts, so dwelling on the past may actually recreate a situation in our lives where we are forced to make the choice again and again. We can choose to move on right now by applying what we have learned to the present and perhaps even sharing with others, transforming the energy into something that is constructive and creative for ourselves and others.
Forgiveness is the soothing balm that can heal regret. In meditation, we can imagine discussing the issue with the self of our past and offering our forgiveness for the choice. In return, we can ask for our selves’ forgiveness for keeping them locked in that space of judgment for so long.
We may also want to ask forgiveness from anyone else who may have been affected and perhaps offer our forgiveness. By replaying the event in our minds, we can choose a new ending using all that we now know.
Imagine that you have actually gone back into the past and made this change, and then say goodbye to it. Release your former self with a hug and bring the forgiveness and love back with you to the present. Since we are usually our harshest critics, it is amazing how powerfully healing it can be to offer ourselves love.
Keeping our minds and our energy fully in the present allows us to fuel our physical and emotional healing and well-being today. This action frees our energy to create the dreams we dream for the future. By taking responsibility and action in the present, we can release our hold on the past.

John W. Cargile, Msc.D, D.D. is a licensed pastoral psychology counselor. He is a member of the National Educational Association and Alabama Educational Association. He is the author of a new novel, The Cry of the Cuckoos www.thecryofthecuckoos.com You can contact him at jwcargile@charter.net. All conversations are confidential.

The Cry of the Cuckoos -- Chapter One

Chapter One Midfield, Alabama He was in thick woods with grass taller than his four-foot-two body. He wanted to race away as fast as his legs could carry him. The burning wood crackled and lit up the cloudy night sky, illuminating the white-sheeted figures that circled a cross and chanted. A plea for help from a black man sliced through the ritual of the robed men. A long rope hung over a tall tree limb. The noose meant death to the nigger. “Noooo...Dad!”
He awakened from the dream in a cold sweat from the shrill ringing of the telephone next to his bed.
“Donald, come quick,” his mother’s voice exploded through the telephone line. “I think your father is dead.”
He rolled over on his pillow and glanced at the clock radio. It was 5:32 in the morning. He shook his head trying to clear the cobwebs from his brain still somewhere in dreamland.
“Stay calm. I’ll be there in a few minutes,” he told her. The old son-of-a- bitch has finally croaked.
“What’s the matter?” his wife, Anne, asked as he threw back the bed covers and hung up the telephone receiver.
“It’s Dad,” he said, nearly falling onto the floor when his right foot tangled up with the bed sheet. He unsnapped his pajamas and grabbed his blue jeans.
“Mother thinks he is dead.”
“Really,” Anne said, sitting up in bed. “Do you want me to go with you?"
“No, honey,” he told her. “I’ll call if I need you.”
Donald reached into the closet, grabbed an old XX-large green plaid shirt with button-down collar and his sports jacket. His keys and wallet were in his jeans. He pulled on ankle top boots and raced out of breath into the garage and climbed into the Jeep. He opened the garage door with the remote device clipped to the sun visor. As soon as the engine kicked in, he reversed out of the driveway.
He was normally a safe driver, but today he was not in the mood to obey stop signs or red lights. He turned on his emergency flashers just in case he ran into a cop in the five blocks to his parent’s home. It was six days before Christmas and the houses in the small city he raced past were decorated with colorful lights. The lawns lit up the dark morning with sparkling scenes of the manger, plastic reindeer, Santa Clauses and snowmen. White bulbs glowing, outlining Christian crosses.
Peace on earth and goodwill toward men. Goodwill toward men was not his father’s best characteristic.
He gunned the accelerator to the floor as the Jeep climbed the long, steep driveway. The black wrought iron gate was already open. No need to stop and punch in the security password. He parked at the front entrance of the mansion sitting atop the hill overlooking the city.
Rose Marie Drummond stood on the porch with the door half-open. Still in her pajamas she waved him in.
Donald turned the ignition and red emergency flashers off, got out and raced to her.
“He’s gone, son,” she said. Her eyes were pink and heavy, her face buried in her wrinkled cupped hands.
Donald gave her a quick hug and walked into the den where his father usually stayed most of the day. He found his father lying on the couch, dressed in a black suit, white shirt and a black tie. His black laced shoes polished to a spit shine. Donald cast his eyes toward his father’s face. It was drawn and haggard. His head, bald from radiation and chemotherapy. His body, gaunt and frail. The thin arms were folded across his chest. He knew before he took a pulse his father was dead; dead at eighty-two years of age.
Donald sensed his mother standing behind him waiting for a verdict.
He turned to face his mother and took her in his arms without saying a word. He nodded his head. Rose began to whimper softly, and Donald hugged her tightly.
“I know, I know,” he said, trying to console her. He stroked her solid gray hair as she laid her head on his chest.
He was unable to cry. His mind numbed, unattached to the body lying on the couch. With a strange dispassionate calm, as though he were his own guru, he tried to examine his final thoughts. He felt like he had been swallowed inside a giant vacuum and sucked into a higher state of mind. It was an emotion he never had experienced. Had the dream earlier that morning meant anything? He barely remembered it. It was more nightmare than dream. He wondered why death was in his dream and suddenly he awoke to the reality of his father’s death. Prophetic? Coincidence?
Finally, Donald asked her: “Have you called 9-1-1?”
She shook her head, “no.”
He walked into the silence of the dining room, switched on the light and found the telephone attached to the wall. His heart-beat raced. He dialed the emergency number. He gave his name and address to the house then dialed his home.
“Honey, it’s Dad,” he said softly, trying to stay calm. He was the oldest of the three sons and felt it his duty to be strong for his mother’s sake. His mother was the glue that kept the family together. Not this monster of a man lying prone on the sofa with a stiff face.
“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” Anne said. “How’s Rose holding up?”
“She’ll be fine.” “I’ll call David and Daniel and tell them to come to the house.”
“He was lying like this when I woke up and came into the den,” his mother said. “I guess it was just before 5:30. The television was on. His eyes were closed and he was just like he is right now. I called his name, but he didn’t respond.”
Sirens from first responder vehicles screamed into the early December morning. The red and blue emergency flashers lit up the neighborhood. A police car was the first on the scene, then paramedics. The yard swarmed with activity. Neighbors stirred outside their homes.
Donald watched as the responders hurried into the house to examine the body. Thirty minutes later a coroner arrived and behind him a government agent he recognized from the FBI.
The den was covered with a stack of magazines spilled across the floor. The drawers of a desk had been emptied, and a closet looked as if it had been imploded, most of the hangars and clothing on the floor.
He watched as the medical examiner uncovered a sheet Donald placed over the body.
“He’s been dead for several hours,” the examiner said.
Donald turned to look at Rose, whose eyes were now alert. The tears were gone. She walked around the room, looking at the family pictures she personally placed in the room to help remind her husband of his offspring. Donald knew his mother was reminiscing. He had seen her like this before. His father hadn’t placed a lot of value on his children. Not what was expected from an old man near death. He hadn’t been the model father or grandfather. He placed more value on friends... and enemies. Donald remembered his father’s words, “Keep your friends close, but your enemies even closer.”
“Mrs. Drummond, I am the county coroner. Do you want an autopsy of your husband?”
“Why would we need an autopsy?” Donald blurted out before giving second thought to the question.
“He might have died of natural causes but sometimes there are extenuating circumstances,” the coroner responded.
Henry Drummond was a familiar figure in Birmingham, Alabama and across the country for that fact. Even the coroner knew his name. His name appeared in newspaper articles and in court records, something Donald knew all too well. The Federal Bureau of Investigation listed Drummond as a former member of the Ku Klux Klan. He controlled the underground Southern mafia though the agency could never prove it. The Civil Rights Legal Center in Montgomery, Alabama listed his organization, The Society of Southron Patriots, a right wing supremacist hate group and a terrorist’s threat due to its philosophy as a Southern Nationalist organization whose ultimate goal was a free and independent Southern republic. He had been accused and acquitted of all charges in court of being an accessory to the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church bombings which took the lives of four young, innocent black girls in 1963.
Donald spotted his friend and high school classmate. Midfield Police Chief, Jay Norris, was the first cop on the scene that morning.
“I’m so sorry, Donald,” Norris said, putting his arm around Donald’s broad shoulders.
“Thanks Jay.” Donald’s name was familiar in Birmingham for a different reason than his father. His bylines often made the featured headline story for the newspaper. Radio and television reporters often relied on him in order to get their leads for stories breaking in the court systems. He was the city’s expert on court news. Drummond’s death meant the media would be at the house in a matter of minutes.
“I don’t need this right now. It’s Christmas, and I am retiring on the 31st.”
Local television reporters appeared out of nowhere, setting up cameras in his parent’s front yard. Donald hesitated but walked out to greet them.
“Mr. Drummond, can I get an interview with you?” a TV reporter asked, sticking a microphone in Donald’s face. Other TV crews were on the scene, and a reporter from his newspaper was there with pad, pen and a tape recorder.
“My father is dead, that’s about all I’ve got to say,” Donald said.
“Was it a natural death, Mr. Drummond?”
“I suspect so, but I don’t know anything at this point. My Dad suffered from prostate cancer, so I assume it was cancer which caused his death.”
“He’s been linked to the mafia, and the Society of Southron Patriots is under attack by the Civil Rights Legal Center. Do you think it was a hit job?”
Despite the sobering death experience of his father Donald couldn’t help but see irony in the question and had to keep from laughing.
“Well, I didn’t see any signs of struggle. I don’t think we have a story here about the mafia going to the mattresses.” Donald said, alluding to a scene in “The Godfather,” movie. “That’s all I can say right now. You’ll have to interview the coroner and Chief Norris to get the information you need.”
He knew every one of the reporters and liked all of them. But this wasn’t the Birmingham Media Club. He didn’t feel like being sociable. Maybe another time and another place, he told them.
“This embarrasses me every time something happens with my father involved,” he thought as he dialed his editor’s cell phone to let him know the situation. He wouldn’t be in the office today.
“Don’t worry about it,” his editor told him. “Everyone knows the type man you are, and you are not your father.”
Donald went back into the den. He eyed the coroner who was finishing up his work. He noticed the coroner holding a pill bottle in a handkerchief.
“I found this,” the coroner said, holding out the bottle to let Donald read the label. “I found it lying under the couch.”
Norris overheard the conversation and looked at the bottle the coroner had in his hand.
“It’s empty,” he said. “I suspect these are sleeping pills, Norris,” the coroner said. “You might want to question Mrs. Drummond about them at the appropriate time.”
“It’s his sleeping pills,” Donald said, not surprised at the finding.
“Mr. Drummond, I also smelled alcohol on your father. Due to the findings we must automatically perform an autopsy.”
“We don’t have a choice. Is that what you mean?” Donald asked, knowing how the procedure worked.
Donald went into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. Norris followed behind.
“Donald,” Norris said. “Your father might have taken an overdose of sleeping pills mixed with alcohol. You know what that means?”
Donald stared blankly into Norris’ eyes.
“You think his death is more than a natural one?” Donald asked. “He had health issues. It could have been a heart attack.”
“Alcohol and sleeping pills, Donald! Are you listening to me?” Norris said again, making sure his friend understood what was going on around him.
“That’s possible,” Donald said, managing to regain his senses. “He liked to drink vodka, that’s for sure. Wait a minute. You think he took his own life? He committed suicide?”
“It’s certainly possible, Donald,” the chief said.
Donald circled the kitchen looking for nothing in particular. He opened the refrigerator door, closed it, then checked on the brewing coffee. He went to the sink and stared absently out the window into the backyard where he had grown up with his two younger brothers throwing baseballs and footballs. His mind raced forward and backward with a hundred questions seemingly crashing down all at once.
He was dressed like he was going somewhere.
“Suicide?” he asked out loud. Chief Norris did not respond.
“You know what will happen if the lab finds the pills and alcohol as contributing factors to his death, don’t you?” Donald stated alarmingly.
“Yes, Donald, I do. Most insurance companies do not pay off on premiums involving suicide.”
“Exactly!”
“Donald, another question,” Norris asked.
“Yes.” “Why was your father already dressed in a suit and tie? Was he going some place in particular today?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Donald said tersely. “I guess he figured he was going to hell!” Donald watched as his mother returned to the den. He followed behind. She got down on her knees. Donald thought she was about to pray over her husband. Instead she was on all four’s, stretching one arm behind the corner of the couch as if she had been through this process more than once. She found what the coroner missed.
She pulled out an empty vodka bottle and a piece of paper. She held the bottle in one hand and the piece of paper behind her back in the other.
“What’s behind your back?” Donald asked.
“Nothing. Just nothing,” she said.
Donald saw the coroner return to the den. He looked to be hurried.
“Mrs. Drummond, under law we must perform an autopsy and have our forensic science lab examine his body for foreign substances.” Rose bowed her head in silence and closed her eyes for a moment. She nodded to the coroner she understood.