Uncle Sime Landum was the oldest person I ever knew. He wasn't sure about when he was born, but is estimated that he was about 116 when he died in 1947. He was an ex-slave.

In Fosterville, Tennessee, he was everybody's "uncle". It was an old southern custom to honor respected elderly men and women as "uncle" and "aunt". So, we had lots of "uncles" and "aunts", black and white. His wife was Aunt Tennie, who was much younger than he, but she had died several years before he did. He lived alone in a modest home but was very active for a man his age. He had many friends who constantly looked in on him and saw to his needs, which were few. He was retired from the L&N Railroad, but kept busy caring for the Brothers' Cemetery, and doing other odd jobs for neighboring farmers. He could be seen almost daily walking up and down the railroad tracks and around the village with a toe sack over his shoulder picking up lost and discarded items that he could use. Late one fall, he accidentally scalded his foot while helping to butcher hogs. The postmistress, Mable Harris Watkins, a Christian, went to his home daily to change the dressing. He was old and had trouble breathing. So, he usually slept in his chair before an open fire in the fireplace in the wintertime. It was thought that a coal of fire popped out on him and set him afire. To save his home, he ran outside, where he burned to death. It grieved the community. A large crowd was as his funeral of both races, and a white church of Christ preacher, Bro. Clyde Gleaves, preached his funeral. He was buried in the white cemetery that he had kept for many years. He was beloved by all.

Uncle Sime did not have any sons or daughters of his own, but he loved children. He had the habit of buying hard candy at Harris & Watkins country store and dividing it among us little boys and girls. He also gave us pocketknives, marbles, and other trinkets that he found. He would often sit down and gather us around and tell us about his life as a slave. He told of being separated from his mother as a small child. He said that he was sold to a new master who took him up behind on his horse and rode away. He looked back and saw his mother standing in the middle of the road crying. That was the last time he saw her. That story made me feel so sad as a small boy. On one occasion, he witnessed a murder as a young man. He must have been expecting trouble, for he was hidden up in a tree in the front yard. A man came to the front of the house and called for the resident to come out. When he did, the man pulled out a pistol and shot him. The wounded man ran off the porch and around the house and then lay down on the porch and died. This frightened Uncle Sime. I don't remember how many times he said that he had been sold, but I do remember him saying many times that he never had a "bad master".

Uncle Sime was born into slavery. Was it fortunate or unfortunate for him? Was it a blessing or a curse to those who knew and loved him? We now think of slavery as an evil thing, which it is. It can never be justified. We do not believe that God ever intended for humans being to own other human beings as mere chattel, but God has a way of taking something evil and causing good to come from it. Yet, it seems ironic that had it not been for the institution of slavery, Uncle Sime probably would have never existed. Had the northern slave merchants not traded for his ancestors, who?were probably prisoners of a warring tribe somewhere on the Western coast of Africa, and brought to American and sold to southern farmers and plantation owners, he would have never been born. Booker T. Washington, Marshall Keeble or Colon Powell would have never been born. And, I would have never had the privilege of knowing Uncle Sime.