Jones of Old Lincoln (Epilogue, page 1 of 3)


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...even unto the seventh generation.

A half-year later, in the summer, I was again in Fayetteville. My book had been written and was at the publisher's. I hoped to have it in hand by Christmas. On the second day of my stay, I repeated my early morning ritual when in the area of my early years. I was up and out and off to the pool hall. Kathy seemed truly glad to see me. I talked her up about the book, without mentioning my ghost and life in general.

"You got married, yet?" I teased her.

She didn't blink. "And ruin a great romance? Get real, writer. You don't write them cheap, awful, mushy, unreal romance novels, do you?" She laughed from deep inside, shaking as she went to fix my order. I thought with good humor, 'Well maybe I do write just that.' About nine o'clock I made my way to the Rose Hill Cemetery. The heat of summer had not arrived yet. It was pleasant, maybe 70 degrees, with a nice breeze. I'd lost count of my pilgrimages to Mr. Jones' grave, but I'm sure they were in the double digits. Since he'd inspired and helped me to write what I knew would soon be acclaimed as the next 'great American novel,' I felt obliged to offer him a salute. When the book came out, I was pretty sure I'd be persona non grata in my hometown.

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