White Christmas, bloody Christmas by M. Bruce Jones, Trudy J Smith

age2; and in her mother's arms, little Mary Lou Lawson, age 4 1/2 months. Buried here also was another son, William, who died at age 6 of pneumonia. From William's original grave, this massive one had been created. The additional space was donated by Mr. Browder, who owned Browder Cemetery. Behind this large grave was the resting place of Fannie and Charlie's oldest son, Arthur.
    Charlie Lawson and his family were simple, average, hardworking people. They were regular members of the Primitive Baptist Church in Walnut Cove. Until that tragic Christmas Day, they had seemed no different than any other rural North Carolina family you would have met unless you lived close by. Neighbors had been becoming increasingly aware that there was some type of problem in the family. Even though they were having problems, no one would have dreamed that something as horrific as this would befall the Lawson family on that tragic Christmas Day.
    As we studied the grave, we wondered to ourselves of the lives these children might have had if they had been able to live them. As we studied the names and dates, I noticed that little Mae Bell Lawson and I share the same birth date: May 18. We were born exactly one year apart. I have been able to live my life while she has slept in this lonely spot for sixty years—forever only seven years old.
    We had so very many questions, yet the only answer was the steady drip, drip of the summer rain. It would tell nothing as it gently rolled from the drooping fingers of the old oak that brushed against the mildewed tombstone. The huge grave would give up none of its many secrets, none of its reasons, none of its understanding—and understanding is what I have always truly desired.
    It was on this day that I began my search. I knew that many others must feel as I feel—that there is a need for the world to finally know the truth about this sad Christmas Day of so long ago. I hoped that I could fulfill the prophecy of the inscription on the tombstone which reads..."We'll read the meaning of
    -11

    our tears, and then someday, we'll understand."
    For many of us, the news of the tragedy was one of those things not unlike the news of Kennedy's assassination or the explosion of the space shuttle Challenger. Although I was only eight years old at the time, the horror of it would haunt me all my life and the desire to understand why it had happened would be something I would carry like an uneasy burden.
    How sad that something like this had to happen. Even more so, our inability to learn from whatever mistakes Charlie Lawson made that carried him to this extreme height of madness and desperation.
    What you will read in the pages of this book is a collection of the memories and handed down stories of that Christmas Day and of Lawson family members themselves.
    For the sake of readability, it was necessary to recreate some portions of the Lawson story through imaginative writing. After sixty years, the memories of exact conversations and small details have faded, and obviously, the passages dealing with the thoughts and conversations of the victims could never have been written without some small risk of deviation. However, each portion of the book is based on our extensive interviews with family, friends,and acquaintances of the Lawson family, and are carefully rendered representations of actual events that took place. We feel confident that we have remained faithful to the Lawson story as it unfolded more than sixty years ago.

    Most of these country farmers had little knowledge of stocks or bonds or the current financial trends—they only had their yearly hopes for success in their fields and ultimately the tobacco market. When Black Thursday fell on the nation October 24, 1929, most of the poor farmers couldn't immediately feel any difference. Their first concern was the effect of that year's drought. The Great Depression did not come upon the country side like a big blow out. It crept up on everyone somewhat like