Hi gang, A slightly different version of this story is coming out in May of 2009 in a book called Bedpan Banter. Hope you like it. Pam

Hannah

Hannah was one hundred and six years old, tiny in stature, frail as a sparrow, and toothless. She was a proud woman and she held her head high with nobility the likes of which I had never seen, not even in Queen Elizabeth. She was in hospital for a small stroke she’d had on an Easter Sunday.
That was forty years ago. I remember her as if it were yesterday.
“I was the first one in my family to have an education,” Hannah told me. “I became a teacher. Could never teach in a white school, though. Had to wait until I moved here to Canada.”
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“Born and raised in Georgia I was, during the American Civil War. My ma and pa and me were slaves until that war ended. I was seven years old at the time.” “Wow, you lived through that war?” I said while placing a cup of tea in front of her. Hannah loved afternoon tea with Peak Freen cookies, the vanilla ones with strawberry jam centres.
“I surely did, child. None of my brothers survived, but I never knew them well. They had been sold to a farmer down the road when I was still a baby.”
“What do you remember about that time, Hannah?”
Hannah shrugged her shoulders. “Nothin’ much other than bein’ hungry.” She smiled. “But I do remember one day in particular. The day I met President Abraham Lincoln.”
I plopped down in the chair next to her. “You met Abraham Lincoln? What was he like?”
“Oh, my. Well, he was a very tall man. Thin but broad shoulders. Kinda ugly, actually, and he had bad teeth. But there was somethin’ wonderful about him. He had kind eyes. You could tell from just lookin’ at him that he was a wise man.”
She took a sip of tea. “I didn’t talk to him long, maybe a minute or two. But I’ll never forget what he said to me. He said, ‘Be proud, child. Always be proud of who you are and where your family came from. There’s no shame in having been a slave. But you’re free, now, and it’s your responsibility as a free person to do good in the world.’ I believed him.”
She looked down at her hands. “I told all of my students what President Lincoln said that day and I made them promise to be responsible free people and to do good. And I believe they all did. Except for that Randy Smith. He was a no-goodnik from the get go, that boy was. It didn’t surprise me a bit when he was charged with murder.”
“I’m shocked you remember what Mr. Lincoln said to you, Hannah,” I said, trying not to laugh at her little outburst of annoyance at Randy Smith. “I don’t remember anything anyone said to me when I was seven.”
“But you never met President Lincoln, child. Like I said, there was somethin’ about him.”
She winked. “Besides, I had a permanent mark to remember him by.”
“What?”
She held up her right hand. It was completely white from the skin disease, Vitiligo. “This hand. It’s the one he shook. And right after he shook it, the darn thing turned white as snow. I swear it was a sign from the Lord above to never forget President Lincoln’s words. And with a powerful sign like that I was goin’ to remember those words for the rest of my days.”

Hannah died a few weeks later. She’d had a massive stroke while sleeping – no pain or suffering. I attended her funeral and paid my respects. Hundreds of people were there from all walks of life: lawyers, doctors, policemen – even a clown in a costume covered in bows and obnoxiously large buttons and tulips.
Her youngest son was seventy-four and gave her eulogy. It seemed that Hannah had really taken those words of Mr. Lincoln’s seriously. She had been a modest woman, known by everyone for her kindness and volunteer work. Her son remembered her pecan pie and her keen sense of humour.
For years Hannah had held reading classes at her church for anyone of any colour who could not read and they were well attended.
She and her former student, the clown, went to local hospitals and read to sick children.
Hannah was also heavily involved with the Civil Rights movement in the Southern States. That came as no surprise to me. Her son remembered his mama going south nearly every school break where she taught older African-American people how to read and write so they would be able to vote. He was glad that Hannah had lived long enough to see that day arrive.
I was a student nurse when I took care of Hannah, but I have never forgotten her. Though I did not develop Vitiligo, I too have remembered Mr. Lincoln’s words and have passed them on to many people, including my own children.
And every now and then an image flashes before me – Hannah and Abraham Lincoln having tea together, sharing Peak Freen cookies, the vanilla ones with strawberry jam centres, smiling.