Why speculative fiction, of all things?

I’ve been engaged in a love affair with books for as long as I can remember. I was that introverted little kid with powder blue cat eyeglasses, never without a book in hand. There is a direct correlation between my writing journey and two life-changing events: the first being a visit from Uncle Sammy, and the second relates to the death of my beloved brother.

My parents owned a two-family home in the predominantly black area of Plainfield, a regional hub for central New Jersey, located twenty-five miles outside of New York City. I was seven or thereabouts, and my brother David was barely a year older when they informed us of their intention to take in an elderly boarder. There was a two-bedroom apartment and three single rooms on the other side of our house. The boarder would occupy one of the single rooms. 

It was late July and blazing hot when a white lady with a bad dye job dropped the gentleman we would come to know as Uncle Sammy off. He was a tall, dark-skinned man with a pink bottom lip. I recall being shushed by my mom after commenting on how hot he must be in the black dress hat and dark wool suit he was wearing.

My dad assisted the old man to his room, while my mom plated the delicious fried chicken, potato salad, and fried cabbage meal she prepared for our mysterious new “Uncle” and placed the food on a serving tray for my brother. She filled a thermos with Kool-Aid and ice, wrapped a generous serving of homemade peach cobbler in foil for me to carry, and told us to deliver the food and bring our behinds home.

When we arrived, Uncle Sammy was sitting before a snack table with a paper towel tucked in his collar, hot air from the box fan in the window blowing on his face. We followed Mom’s instructions and placed the food, drink, and dessert on the snack tray. We smiled when he picked up a piece of chicken and ate. David asked Uncle Sammy if he wanted anything else and received a vacant stare. We would later learn that Uncle Sammy was senile and suffering from aphasia. He’d lost his ability to speak. David and I exchanged a mischievous look and, in tacit agreement, simultaneously reached for the dessert.

We wore that cobbler out! 

David and I took turns tipping the bowl to drink the peach juice. A low chuckle brought our attention to Uncle Sammy, whose humorous gaze rested on us like someone had flipped the light switch in his brain to the on position. He was enjoying our childish antics! 

From that day forward, other than Jell-O, fruit cocktail, and rice pudding, which we didn’t particularly care for, Uncle Sammy rarely got to enjoy any of my mom’s delicious desserts. He did, however, enjoy our company. 

The dessert banditry continued intermittently through the rest of the year until disaster struck. Uncle Sammy wandered off in the dead of night during a winter storm without a coat or shoes. They found his body the following evening. His death devastated David and me.

Two days later, I woke up from a sound sleep to find Uncle Sammy sitting at the foot of my bed. I screamed the damn house down.

When David passed in 1992, I hoped writing would ease the pain of loss. 

Memories of Uncle Sammy are what drove me to consider speculative fiction. To this day, I ask myself, “Was it a dream? Or was it real?” 

I started writing and couldn’t stop.