Samson’S Diary

CHAPTER 1

The Passing

MOMMA, MOMMA! The eerie pleas bellowed from the walls within. Mourners, closing their umbrellas, passed through the doors of the funeral home on this rainy, Friday afternoon, July 17, 1987. One by one, they hung their coats, moving ever closer to the echoes of grief, and then entered the viewing room to pay their last respects to Mary Hayward. The solemn mourners—a large contingent of Summerville, a small town in Dorchester County, where the Haywards lived—were ill prepared for the wrenching spectacle they were about to witness.

Momma, the boy screamed, tossing aside his father’s grasp and falling limply to the footrest below.

Please come back, Momma. Please come back. I love you. Don’t leave me, the grieving ten-year-old pleaded, wrapping one arm around her body and stroking her face gently with the other.

Samson, she’s gone, his father said to the six-foot-nine, 175-pound, gentle giant, pulling his son from his mother’s side.

No! No! She can’t be gone! Momma! She promised she’d never leave me! She promised! the boy shrieked.

A mourner said, We’re here for you, Samson. We’re here for you, son!

Samson, she hasn’t left you. Momma will always be with you, in here, son, said his father, pointing to his child’s heart.

No, Daddy, wake her up. Please wake her up.

Come, Samson, let’s sit down, the father implored, sensing a breakdown of his bodily functions.

Sam tried to muster the bravado, but the pleadings by his son and his own grief were ripping his heart apart. He leaned forward, placing the palms of his hands to his face. Then his body quivered, his sobbing echoing through the chamber. His barriers of strength for the sake of his son were broken. It was an unbearable scene for those in attendance to witness, the challenged Samson clinging to his deceased mother, pleading for her to awaken, and a father pouring out his loss, falling to his knees, grieving for his wife.

Sam Hayward was a popular attorney whose future extended beyond the borders of Dorchester County. His wife, Mary, had been the first-grade teacher at Summerville Elementary for the past fourteen years, four miles from the Hayward home. Both grew up in this sleepy, South Carolina town, with a pedigree that stretched back to the pre–Civil War era, choosing small-town living over larger neighboring towns and cities.

Summerville was a trivial town by most standards, with a population of less than three thousand. It was a throwback to the days of county fairs and visiting carnivals, the social events of the year.

Cherry blossom trees lined the sidewalks of Main Street, tantalizing the senses of a visitor while residents familiar with the sweet smell took it in stride, as a child no longer interested in a tattered doll but nevertheless claiming prideful possession.

There were no freestanding buildings along Main Street, just a continuous array of stores that served the needs of the town. Now, most were closed as the owners paid their last respects to one of their own.

Cumberland Hardware was a common stop for locals and sold everything from tools to pottery and antique trains, things one could only find in an obscure corner, a host of lost treasures.

Laura’s Diner was across the street. It was an old converted railcar, its roof adorned with a distinct white-and-red neon sign. It was where gossip originated and deals were made among the local businessmen.

The well-wishers expressed their condolences one by one as they filed past the open coffin of Mary Hayward.

Sam, I don’t know what to say. Cancer is just a terrible way to die, said a friend of the family, placing his arm around the beleaguered husband.

I know, John. My Mary, she fought a brave battle to the very end, but her body just surrendered, said the grieving husband, struggling to maintain composure.

Sam knelt at his wife’s coffin, placing his arm around his son. His muttered words were lost in a sea of despair, and after a time, he slowly pushed his slim body upright, slipping his arm from his son.

What does a father say to a child who’s lost his mother? What words can soothe a broken heart? The path was foreign, one not traveled, books useless in the given moment. Sam searched for an explanation that would make sense to a ten-year-old, but his own grief couldn’t find a consoling answer within himself.

Samson, can you remember when Momma said she was going away for a long time but would always be by your side and that someday we’d all be together again?

Yes, but I don’t want her to go now. Bring her back, Daddy. Please, bring her back. I’ll be a good boy. I promise not to be bad anymore.

Samson, I can’t bring her back.

Did she leave … because I was bad?

No, no, Samson. She left because the angels needed her in heaven.

But I need her here, with me, Daddy. Can’t the angels find someone else? Samson pleaded.

Your momma, she was special. The angels wanted someone like her to take care of the little boys and girls who need her more than we do.

Will she love them … more than me?

No, son, she’ll always love you more than anyone else. Let’s go home. I have something your momma wanted me to give you.

What is it, Daddy?

It’s a story about you, son, from the day you were born, his father said.

A story about me? replied the startled boy, his eyes bright with anticipation.

Yes, Samson, it’s all about you.

Who wrote the story? asked the six-nine fifth grader.

Momma did. She loved you very much. You were very special to her. When she knew her sickness was serious, she sat down and began to tell her story about how you came into our lives.

Daddy, let’s hurry, said the child, tugging on his father’s jacket, wanting to hear his mother’s words, starving for consoling thoughts.

We will, son. We have to say good-bye to our friends.

CHAPTER 2

The Diary

SAM HAYWARD’S CAR approached the two-story house. It would be a wrenching reminder to his son that his mother would no longer greet him with open arms. Sam would miss her gentle kiss and the warmth of her love, affirming her joy of being married to him. He parked the car in the driveway, unbuckled Samson’s safety belt, and approached the steps to the front porch. As they entered the house, Sam instinctively looked to the landing of the spiral staircase, seeing visions of Mary smiling, acknowledging her husband’s arrival.

Daddy, please read me the story that Momma wrote for me, Samson said, grasping his father’s hand.

Come with me, son, his father said, gesturing in the direction of the great room. Samson followed with anticipation. They sat down on a brown leather couch facing a stone fireplace. Sam pulled out a drawer from the coffee table. He removed a leather-bound book the size of a hardcover novel.

What’s that, Daddy? asked Samson.

This is the book, the one that your mother wrote.

The cover has my name on it. What does the other word say? the boy asked, rubbing his hand across the embossed letters.

Diary, replied the father.

What does it mean, Daddy?

When someone wants to remember what was special about each day, they write it down in a book, and it’s called a diary. It’s very important to that person.

Is this the story about me?

Yes, it’s about you, said his father as he opened the cover of the journal. His son moved closer, the child’s expression glowing with anticipation.

Dear diary, Sam and I are getting married today. My heart is surely racing away, and I do think it’s going to pop right out of my chest. Mrs. Williamson delivered my dress this morning. It’s stunning. The sheer embroidered lace extends from my shoulders to just above the hands. The neckline is also sheer and embroidered. The remainder of the dress is made of white satin, which seems to be in perfect harmony with my five-six, 120-pound stature. I have imagined this day since I was a little girl.

Daddy, how old was Momma when she got married?

We were both twenty-one, Samson.

When was I born?

On July 15, 1977, your momma and I were twenty-eight.

Wasn’t that’s the same day … Momma … died?

Yes, it was.

Samson looked at his father; nothing had to be said. It was a confusing simile, an interpretation lost in the mind of a challenged child.

Keep reading, Daddy. Sam continued …

My momma helped me with my dress and was so excited that her hands were trembling, as were mine.

Hold still, Mary, while I button you up in the back, declared your nervous Grandma Sinclair.

Momma, I’m so excited I could just burst, I told her.

Take in a breath so I can get this last button fastened, your grandma demanded.

Momma, can you recall when I first told you about Sam?

Yes, dear, I do—the third summer you came home from school …

Momma, Daddy, I had said. I met someone at school.

Grandpa and Grandma Sinclair looked at me in unison, their forks suspended in air.

Samson’s quizzical look warranted an immediate explanation by his father, explaining that his grandparents held their forks; they were not floating by some magical power.

His name is Sam Hayward.

Bill and Laura Hayward’s boy? asked your grandpa.

Yes, Daddy, isn’t it just fate? You’re born in a small town, go to a college with thousands of students, and meet the boy you’re going to marry, from the same town.

Marry? asked your startled grandfather.

Now, Daddy, Momma, I know this is sudden.

Are you in trouble, Mary Sinclair? My daddy bristled.

Daddy, what did Grandpa … mean by that?

The young Samson had raised an unexpected question, requiring a response that would seem plausible to a ten-year-old, even to one with certain challenges.

Grandpa Sinclair wanted to make sure your momma told her teachers that she intended to get married, said the flustered father, the best explanation he could conjure up.

Oh, but why would Momma have to tell her teachers?

Well, it’s like you telling your teacher when you do something good.

Or … bad?

Yes, or bad.

Was getting married doing something good?

Yes, it was, Samson.

Okay, keep reading, Daddy, the ten-year-old said, placing his head on his father’s lap.

Okay, son.

I thought you and Daddy were going to choke on supper when I told you, I said to my momma.

Well, you must admit, blurting it out at the dinner table wasn’t the most tactful approach, Grandma said.

Well, I was just as nervous telling you as you were hearing it.

I thought your father was going to hit the ceiling. Grandma chuckled.

Daddy, why would Grandpa … hit the ceiling? asked Samson.

It’s just an expression. When someone’s surprised by what another person says, sometimes they jump out of their chair.

But how could someone hit the ceiling by jumping out of their chair?

They can’t, Samson, but it’s like someone saying holy cow. Did you ever see a cow in church?

No, Daddy, but that would be funny, said the smiling child, tugging at his father’s pants, prompting him to keep reading.

Samson, your daddy and I went to New York City on our honeymoon, July 15, 1970. We had a wonderful time seeing plays and eating at fancy restaurants. We even went to the Bronx Zoo and the Statue of Liberty.

What’s a honeymoon, Daddy?

The father hesitated, wanting to address his son’s question with the most delicate of answers and one that would make sense to the ten-year-old.

When two people get married, they go on vacation to get to know each other.

Don’t they know each other before they get married?

Yes, they do, Samson, but now they can go somewhere together that would be a special place to visit, said the father, gulping a breath of air.

Why do they have to be married to go somewhere special? Our teacher sometimes takes us to special places like the zoo or the museum … and I’m not married.

Are you hungry, Samson? the flustered father asked.

Yes, Daddy, I am.

Why don’t we eat some dinner? We have to go back to see Momma, and when we come home, I’ll read some more.

Okay, Daddy.

After dinner, Sam and his son went back to the funeral home. The evening was uneventful, but anticipation of an unexpected outburst by Samson made for a tense environment. The thought of tomorrow’s burial added to the wrenching pain of his loss.

Daddy, let’s hurry home so you can read more of Momma’s story to me.

Sam, I’m so sorry for your loss, a neighbor interrupted.

Daddy, come on, let’s hurry, the boy pleaded.

Samson! shouted the father as he turned to his son, grabbing his arm in anger. Don’t be rude. We’ll leave in a minute.

That’s okay, Sam. Tend to the boy. I’ll see you tomorrow, said the neighbor.

Can we go now, Daddy?

That wasn’t very polite of you. Mr. Peters was trying to be nice to us, and you interrupted him.

But … I was talking to you first … and he interrupted me.

The boy was right, and his father couldn’t argue the point. He kissed his son, his quiet apology, the loss of the boy’s mother weighing heavily on his heart.

I just wanted to hurry so I could hear Momma talk to me … from her diary.

Let’s go home, his father said, putting his arm around his son, feeling guilty for snapping at the challenged boy.

Samson, your daddy and I were married on a beautiful day, July 15, 1970. We were both twenty-one and very much in love. Grandma and Grandpa Sinclair had a wonderful party for us at their house. The sun was shining, and the cherry blossoms were in full bloom. It was just glorious and the happiest day of my life … until you were born, Samson, and I’ll never forget that special day. But one rainy Tuesday morning, on April 26, 1977, just shortly after breakfast, you were eager to come into this world three months before it was time and gave your momma a real scare.

Mother Sinclair called while you were in the shower. She invited us to dinner tonight, said your daddy. Do you want to go? Mary, did you hear me? your daddy repeated, turning from his chair and lowering his newspaper, then hearing a dish crashing to the kitchen floor.

Mary! your daddy shouted, seeing me on one knee, with both hands grasped firmly on my belly. He leaped from his chair.

Sam, call Sherman. Something’s wrong.

We drove the three miles to the doctor’s office.

I don’t see anything out of the ordinary, Mary. I believe it was just a strong contraction, Dr. Sherman Carter reassured me.

A strong contraction in the sixth month? your daddy asked his Saturday morning golfing partner.

Daddy, what’s a … contraction? the inquisitive boy wanted to know.

When a baby is in their mother’s tummy, sometimes they move around, giving a message that they want to come out and say hi.

Why don’t mothers let us come out when we want to?

Because they know that it takes nine months for you to grow and be healthy before you come into the world.

Is that for all babies, or was it just for me?

Most babies, Samson, the father said and then returned to Mary’s diary.

Sam, Mother Nature doesn’t always march to the beat we expect from her, the mild-mannered doctor told your father.

Daddy, who’s Mother Nature?

Samson, God has a very difficult job. He has to listen to everyone’s prayers and also determine who he’s going to let into heaven, so he has someone special to watch over things here on earth. For example, when it’s time to snow or rain, when it’s time for the flowers to bloom, and when it’s time for babies to meet their parents. He gave a woman the special name Mother Nature.

Why did God choose a woman and not a man?

Who cooked your food, picked out your clothes, and made sure you knew your prayers?

Momma did.

Why her and not your daddy?

’Cause … she was better at it then you, Samson answered with genuine innocence.

And that’s why God picked a woman to be Mother Nature.

Oh, okay, Daddy. Keep reading.

Sherman, this didn’t feel like a contraction. It was as though a bolt of electricity suddenly hit me, I told the doctor.

Mary, you said this happened while you were washing dishes in the kitchen. Did you plug in something electrical with wet hands? the doctor asked me, searching for an alternative explanation.

No, I was just about to leave the kitchen to see Sam in the study. I’ve felt the baby’s kicks before, but never with that intensity, I explained.

Daddy, why did she call me baby instead of my name?

Because we didn’t name you until you were born.

Why not, Daddy?

Parents don’t know if the baby’s a boy or girl. They talk about names beforehand but wait until they know for sure, and that’s when you’re born.

How did I get into my momma’s tummy?

Sam was beside himself. He wasn’t prepared for the question, and so he answered with a question. How do you think you got there?

Momma, she prayed for me to be there?

Well then, Samson, there you go. God does listen to our prayers.

I understand. Keep reading, Daddy.

Mary, take a nice, warm bath when you get home and make this big lug of a husband useful while you rest in bed. You’ll be fine. I’ll be around if you need me, the doctor said.

Sam, something isn’t right. I just feel it. I just feel it, I said to your daddy.

Samson, I think we’ve read enough for tonight. Change into your pajamas, brush your teeth, and I’ll come up to tuck you in.

Daddy, what did you say a contraction was? You told me, but … I forgot.

When a baby moves inside the special place of a mommy, sometimes it feels like a stomach ache, but a nice stomach ache.

What special place … and how can a stomach ache be nice? I just want it to go away when I have one, said the ten-year-old.

All mommies are special. God gave them something men don’t have, just so they can have babies. They know when they feel the baby moving around that you don’t mean to cause a tummy ache. You’re just saying, ‘Hi, Mom. Pretty soon I’m coming out to see you.’

What’s the special place called, and why don’t we have one?

It’s called a uterus or womb. Only women have them so they can have babies when they’re adults. When two adults love each other, like your momma and I did, they’re able to create a baby inside the mother.

Okay, Daddy. I think I understand. Will you help me with my PJs … like Momma always did? I surely do miss her. Why did God have to take her away? Why couldn’t he be happy with his own momma?

Samson, your momma was special. He needed her to help take care of the angel babies in heaven.

Why can’t I go with Momma? I can help her take care of the babies. Can’t you send me with her tomorrow?

Samson, one day we’ll all be together. God has a plan for all of us. He knows that you’re very special and wants you to wait here before he calls you to heaven.

But I don’t want to wait. I want to go with Momma now.

Do you want to leave me alone? I’d be very lonely without you, the father told his son.

Samson hesitated, looked at his daddy, and then wiped a tear from his eye.

Can I go with her tomorrow so she’s not lonely and then come back for a while … so you’re not lonely?

That’s a good idea, Samson, but once you go to heaven, you can’t come back.

But why, Dad? It’s not fair of God to take my momma away when we need her here.

The questions were logical to the ten-year-old but heartbreaking for the father trying to cope with his own grief and the prospect of the lonely days and nights ahead.

Son, it’s time for bed. You and I will talk about it in the morning. Go get your PJs, and I’ll be up in a moment.

The boy obeyed his father, walking up the spiral staircase to his room. Moments later, Sam followed but didn’t find his son in his room. He heard muffled cries coming from down the hallway. He reached the open door of his bedroom, and there was Samson, hugging his mother’s bathrobe, begging her to come back to him. The father placed his hand to his forehead, and his eyes welled, feeling the remorse of his son. He joined him on the bed, holding him closely, stroking his forehead, providing comfort to his boy, knowing the worst was yet to come.

Lord, we commend to you the body and soul of Mary Hayward. May your angels guide her path to eternal happiness.

The pastor nodded to the caretaker, who began the process of lowering the coffin. Samson suddenly bolted from his father, placing his body on top of the mahogany encasement, wrapping his arms around either side.

Momma, I’m coming with you! the child screamed, to the horror of the graveside mourners.

Samson! his father called out, reaching for his son.

Stop the coffin, Sam said to the caretaker as he tried to pry his son’s grasp from the handles, Samson’s power overwhelming.

I want to go with my momma! I want to go with Momma! the distraught boy cried out to his father. Sam asked others for help, but the boy’s strength pushed them aside like they were paper dolls.

Son, you can’t go with her now. Please, Samson, Momma won’t be lonely. She’ll be with the angels in heaven.

The moment was heartbreaking for Sam and the mourners, some openly weeping as they watched the grieving boy clenching his mother’s coffin. The father stroked his son’s forehead and whispered in his ear. Samson looked at his daddy, the kind that showed relief in the concerned boy.

Sam walked his son to the awaiting limousine, caressing the side of his face while whispering assuring words in his attempt to calm the gentle giant.

Samson, when we go home, I’ll read Momma’s story to you so you can be with her in your thoughts.

"I want to go to heaven with her. She’ll be lonely without me. I want