The attached photo is of a beautiful little cemetery in Oklahoma. It is widely believed to hold the oldest grave in the state. The associated cotton plantation is long gone but the cemetery remains. I like to visit it, not because of the people laid to rest there but because of the slaves who built it - dug the holes, lowered the bodies, covered them up, raised the fence, placed the stones, and cared for the grounds. I am their direct ancestor. The last to hold the designation of slave was my grandfather's grandfather, Andy Cotton, and his father, Ben. They were given their surname for the crop they toiled over - generally, a sign that your master was a mean SOB. I feel them and this place in my bones and my breath. I see them in my children.