Back to the Homeplace

March 1, 2026

Mamie Smith: February 6, 1890 – February 13, 1911

I knew my dad was from Anderson, Alabama. That was about it since the Smith family moved to a house on a hill off Savannah Highway in Florence later on – the house I identified with when it came to visiting my Smith grandparents and relatives.

About the only other thing I knew about Anderson was that it was home to the Fish Creel – a favorite restaurant of ours that Dorinda and I visited many times.

But last week, I went to the small community in Northwest Alabama for discovery. While working on a writing project about my father’s life, I realized I needed to go back to Anderson and see where his story began.

With the help of an older cousin, Jimmie Lawrence-Hammond, I opened the book on that story.

The original goal was to find the headstones of my great grandparents – B.Z. and Rebecca Smith, and their daughter, my great aunt, Mamie Smith. Folks I never knew. But it was important to me to find them.

On a cold, gray Monday afternoon, I arrived at the cemetery behind a Primitive Baptist Church off the main highway running through the heart of Anderson. Stepping out of my car, the first thing to notice was a massive oak tree at the front of the old cemetery, almost like it was standing guard.

With my walking stick in hand, I began my search for the Smith headstone. Along the way, I noticed two small markers for children. To the left of a larger stone bearing the name Belue stood two markers reading Belew — one for a baby who lived less than two weeks, another for a child not yet two. The dates on the larger stone showed the adults lived decades longer. I can’t imagine carrying that kind of loss for a lifetime.

There was a marker for a young man killed during World War I – with words about him being laid to rest far too soon.

I continued walking toward the back of the cemetery as that was the direction Jimmie told me to head. I saw a Smith headstone – but it was not the one I was searching for – a different Smith family.

Once at the back of the graveyard, a hundred yards or so from that giant oak tree, I noticed two small, square concrete slabs. S. That was it. I took a picture and messaged Jimmie if this could be the markers of my great grandparents. I thought it was.

However, she messaged back saying no, they had a family headstone. But I had come as far as I could on this day. My legs weren’t working. But the pain was.

I left disappointed, but knowing I would come back with Jimmie a couple days later for more exploration in Anderson – and to have her point out the headstones.

An old Southern oak tree stands guard at the entrance to Anderson Cemetery.

I returned to Anderson with her Wednesday. We started with lunch at the familiar Fish Creel before we drove the short distance to the cemetery. She was clutching her walking stick as well when she stepped out of the passenger side of her car – her daughter had driven her there. Jimmie pointed to the direction for me to look for the Smith headstone. So, I began another quest, along with her daughter, Michelle. Jimmie was unable to walk with us.

It didn’t take long this day. First, I saw the tall, stately marker of my great grandfather – B. Z. Smith. To the right was the marker for his wife and my great grandmother – Rebecca Smith. On the other side, the marker for Mamie. It was as close as I had ever been to this generation of my family. I stood there a few minutes, just thinking about the life they never knew – about me and their great, great, great grandchildren – my grandchildren that help keep me going today.

Ready to head for our next stop – an important one – I turned to my right and there in plain sight was the top of the Fish Creel restaurant. As many times as I’d been there in the past, I had no idea the cemetery for an early generation of my family was within eyesight.

Our next stop was the Smith homeplace, which Jimmie still owns.

As she told me stories about the family passed down to her, I stepped onto the porch of that old house, thinking about my dad bursting through the front door as a child, going racing up the wooded hills behind the house, or going fishing in the small pond to the right that used to be fed by a natural stream.

We stepped inside for just a few minutes, long enough to get a sense of the original small house that consisted of a living room, bedroom and kitchen. The house has since been remodeled, but the core remains. There was no bathroom in that original house. It would have been outside. The bedroom would have been shared – Jimmie said my Aunt Loretha carved this in the attic – where the children would have slept: “Loretha was here.” She was the oldest of the six Smith siblings, born in 1918. My father was right in the middle, born in 1923.

Venturing back outside, Michelle took a photo of me in front of the old homeplace. On this day, through our stops and Jimmie telling me stories about dozens of old photos she had, I learned a lot about my Smith heritage. They were ordinary, hard-working folks. They endured hard times and just tried to survive.

It was a different world a century ago. I stepped into it, so to speak, on this day. I was searching for many answers — including what might have been passed down to me. My walking issues trace directly through the Smith men. My dad and grandfather likely carried the same thing, though they called it arthritis. It was likely more than that, with my diagnosis coming through genetic testing in 2024.

I told Jimmie goodbye and thanked her for the afternoon. Relying on my stick again to cross the muddy drive, I went back to my car and began my journey home, knowing I’d be back to Anderson.

I had come looking for answers. But some stories require more than one visit.

Standing at the homeplace where my dad grew up in Anderson.