Ezekiel, Yuma’S Native Son: A Journey Through the Eyes of a Centenarian: Bishop Herman E. Dean

By Kevan N. Dean and Terry L. Brown

Ezekiel, Yumas Native Son will allow you to open the window of life through the eyes of a centenarian, retracing the steps of a barefoot island boy, Herman Ezekiel Dean. Experience the authors vivid account of Zekes boyhood adventures in Yuma, the original name given to Long Island, Bahamas by the Arawak Indians, to his migration to Miami, formerly called Mayaimis by Native American Indians, meaning Big Lake. Feel Hermans passion as the authors take you on a moving journey of heart-throbbing love stories, encounters with Christ, years on the Contract, a near-fatal accident, and his seventy-plus years of ministry and service to God.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456712433

Kevan N. Dean

Kevan N. L. Dean was always intrigued about his grandfather, Bishop Herman Dean’s life, particularly growing up on the Island of Long Island, Bahamas. Desiring to tell the story of a one hundred-plus-year journey to eternal life, he dedicated his time towards documenting Herman’s life to encourage others to serve Christ at all cost. This young author, who is an engineer by profession, lives and works in The Bahamas, and is also a Lay Minister in the Church of God of Prophecy. He is married to Dr. Anita Brown Dean and has two children, Kianna and Koen. Terry L. Brown is the co-author of this book, and brings to it a literary style that is both unique and genuine, preserving the true island flair. She was born in Crooked Island, Bahamas and is the author of Jus’ Strollin’ Down Mem’ry Lane in Crooked Island. She is an avid worshipper at Bahamas Faith Ministries Int’l; single, enjoys writing, reading and cooking and is employed as a Senior Executive Officer at the Cabinet Office, New Providence, Bahamas.

Book preview

PART 1 – OUT OF YUMA

It was a sultry November night, and the non-rhythmic water drops were falling gracefully from the sapodilla tree nearby to their final resting place. Moments earlier Herman was almost gasping for air as the raindrops darted through the branches, raindrops that made their entry into the night as though they had a standing appointment with the settlement where he lived. If circumstances were different, he would have welcomed the children’s favorite rain nursery rhyme:

Rain, rain, go away,

Come back another day;

Little Johnny wants to play.

Rain, rain, go away.

The rain had just passed, and the air was stale with its post-storm aroma mixed with the unpleasant scent of the wet, dead leaves; rich, black soil; and the droppings of creatures that had grazed the area earlier.

In the distance Herman could hear the faint sounds of crickets playing cheerfully in the mangroves near the edge of the Salina. For the moment, this offered a melody of peace and calm that helped to relax his mind as he pondered what he would do next.

Crouched tightly in a fetal position with his legs locked as if someone had poured dilly sap between them fusing them together, his arms interlocked tightly around them, Herman braced his georgie bundle firmly between his chest and knees to ensure that they stayed as dry as they possibly could from the drips above.

His pupils, piercing through the leaves above, were awakened to the mystical stars surrounding the half moon as if God himself were winking at him and saying, Don’t worry, sonny boy, I have my eyes on you. Still, he could only wonder what he should do now, cradled in the fever grass under the sapodilla tree flanked by silver palms.

Then all of a sudden he could hear the sound of footsteps gently compressing the damp leaves. The sound grew louder, almost in harmony with the water drops from above, as the slender silhouette gracefully appeared closer and closer to his resting spot for the evening. Who could it be at this time of night? His mind raced with curiosity, as it must have been at least 9 o’clock, and that was late for family island people.

The sun had fallen long before, and everyone had gone to bed a long time ago in Mortimers, the Deep South settlement in Long Island, The Bahamas.

Harriet, ‘Harri’ for short, is what Herman usually called her, but he was so startled to see her that he must have felt it necessary to call her full name to make certain that she wasn’t one of the local settlement sperrid the old people always talked about.

It sure is good to see you, Harriet Dean, Zeke said.

Zeke was short for Ezekiel. Ezekiel was his middle name, but everyone in the settlement called him Zeke; perhaps they were just too lazy to say Herman, much less Ezekiel.

Boy, you sure done made Poppa mad this time, Harriet said.

I know, Harri, Zeke replied, but you just don’t understand. I just can’t explain what happened on that trip to Crooked Island. You should have been there.

Anyway, Zeke, Momma sent this for you.

What is it, Harri? Zeke asked in amazement.

"It’s some sweetened lime water, johnny bread, and a piece of fried shad Ben caught earlier in the Salina.

Momma say she sorry she can’t come, but she don’t want to make Poppa any worse mad than he already is. Zeke, you know he done been proud of you since the day you were born.

I know, Harri. I know, Zeke whispered.

I Am Here

It was November 3, 1910.

With his shoulders back, chest out, and chin up, William Nathanial Dean rode commandingly down the dirt road that connected the island settlements. Click clack, click clack, click clack, Evalena’s shoes echoed like a metronome as the sound bounced off the tree trunks of the lush, green forest lining each side of the road like a brigade waiting for inspection.

The sunrays beamed off William’s polished gold buttons that streaked down the front of his midnight-black suit. The black legging boots dangled like licorice sticks as they flanked down on both sides of Evalena. The only things that were shining brighter that day were William’s gray eyes.

As he approached the invisible boundary line to Mortimers on his way from the nearby settlement Fords, where he had concluded some matters, his mind locked onto the significance of that special day.

Lucy, the midwife, not only told him that that was the day his beloved Harriet would deliver, but she went so far as to guarantee that this one would be a boy, and he believed her—after all, this would not be the first, second, or even third time he and Lucy would meet under these circumstances. She had also delivered their two beautiful girls, Julia and Pearl, born two years apart in 1906 and 1908.

He trusted Lucy. He had no other choice but to trust her; she on the other hand made it quite clear, on the few times that he had called on her that she did not approve of his ways. Harriet is a good woman, she would say to him every time their paths crossed. She been good to you. He knew that all too well, but just didn’t like Lucy reminding him.

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Lucy was one of the few midwives on Long Island. William had called upon a couple of them in the past.

Lucy was a beauty; then there were midwives like Clotilda, whom he swore was the least attractive person he had ever laid eyes upon. He guessed that she was in her late sixties. She stood at five foot eleven, weighed about 115 pounds, and resembled an owl. Her pea-sized emerald green eyes were crossed, her nose was hooked like an eagle’s beak, she had huge ears and very large feet—a size eleven, he estimated—she was bow-legged, and she rarely smiled. She was about his complexion. He was a conchy joe. He had color.

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William was just a short distance past the gate into the settlement when he wondered again whether Lucy was wrong about her prediction; then he thought midwives were never wrong. They were flawless in interpreting the positioning of a woman’s stomach, the roundness of her nose, the condition of her skin, the changes in her diet, and the very spirit of the pregnancy.

This birth was special. It would be his and Harriet’s first son. That was every settlement man’s dream.

Mr. Dean, it be a boy, it be a boy, a little girl swinging from a makeshift swing in the schoolyard shouted to William.

William smiled proudly.

The motion from Evalena’s gallop increased once again from the anticipation of taking her master home.

At a somewhat brisk pace, Evalena ushered William past the Anglican church, a few thatch roof houses, Mortimers Convenience Store, and, of course, the local bar. Every settlement had one—a bar, that is.

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Herman Ezekiel Dean had arrived bringing excitement and a reason for the entire settlement to celebrate.

Evalena slowed to a trot as she drew nearer to the front step of the well-constructed three-bedroom house with push-out windows, a place the young couple called home. Whoa! Whoa! William said, pulling gently on the strap that was latched to the bit in her mouth, allowing him to control the beautiful animal, bringing it to a rest.

Lucy met him at the front door.

Not one step further William, uumm, Mr. Dean, she said, stopping him in his tracks.

The shocked look on William’s face took Lucy by surprise. She muttered an apology.

Not yet, sir, she said in a milder yet commanding voice. You have to wait outside just a little while longer, and do, sir, please wash your hands before you come in. We don’t want this handsome baby boy picking up germs you mighta been exposed to today or catching ammonia for that matter.

That was one of the few times in his life that William was not in control of a situation; Lucy was, and there was no room for debate. There were no ifs, ands, or buts about anything. He didn’t want his son catching pneumonia or being exposed to germs.

Feeling both proud and humble, William meandered ’round back to the well that was all stone inside with steps he and his father had dug a few years earlier after he had moved to the settlement with Harriet.

The circumstance which led to him settling in the community other than the one he was born in left a bittersweet taste in his mouth after all those years. It was his own people who had distanced themselves from him and told him with one, unified voice that he was no longer welcomed—that was, after he had married his beautiful wife, Harriet. And she was a good-looking black woman.

When he first saw her it changed everything. He was instantly attracted to her and knew at that moment that he was ready to take on a wife and put an end to the wagging tongues. William frowned at that thought.

He stood six inches above her slender, five-foot-four-inch frame. Her thick, jet-black hair was shoulder-length, and she had the most beautiful brown eyes, but it was her smile that caught his attention.

As was customary, he had written to Harriet’s parents for her hand in marriage. Their courtship began only after both parents met and agreed to the marriage.

Harriet’s parents were strict. They had rules, and those rules could not be broken. He remembered each of his visits to her, and that they were never left alone. His visiting time during the evenings was set by her parents, and he had to leave when the time was up.

In those days a woman’s reputation was all she had. A man might lose his honor and regain it again, but a woman could not. He was careful to respect their wishes as well as Harriet’s.

They were married after ten months of courting.

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William dipped a cup and rinsed his dusty hands and face from the recent journey. He lowered the bucket again to fetch a refreshing swallow. The water dribbled down his chin and splattered in the reddish brown clay below his boots. There was good soil near the well. That would explain the sweet potato patch surrounding it.

He rested patiently as he waited for Lucy’s call.

The heat from the sun created a sleep potion like warm milk comforts a baby. The wait was a little while, and William would have time to reflect on the excitement of the moment. Their bulla had finally arrived.

Bulla was a common name for firstborn males, and every man dreamed of having a bulla, especially to carry on the family’s name, but also to help out with the daily chores.

Herman Ezekiel Dean came with great expectations.

At that time William was the Lighthouse Keeper. He had status. He was also from a family of prominence, but it would have been perceived that he was from a different class just because he was a conchy joe.

After learning that Harriet was pregnant and that it was a boy child, he had dreamed of the many things that he and his son would do.

His son would help to run the family store, manage the workers in the field, and take produce and livestock to market. He dreamed about teaching his son how to fish, how to hunt ducks and wild hogs, and how to make and fly a kite. The deputy that he had longed for was now here and would help to carry out the security duties for his girls, Julia and Pearl, to protect them and their honor from the boys in the settlement. He was also prepared to use his rifle if he had to, if the need arose.

He was known to be a protective father and therefore made sure that he was aware of every move his children made. He could not garner respect from the community if he couldn’t run his household. With young Herman on the scene, he could expand his military might.

Mr. Dean … oh Mr. Dean, you can come in now, Harriet and your boy done clean-up and ready, Lucy shouted, waking William from his daydream.

William jumped up with a sparkle in his eyes. With haste, he trampled over the potato slip and up his half step at the entrance to the front door and with a brisk walk entered their bedroom. In the corner of his eyes he saw a small box secured tightly with ropes. His stomach lurched. He knew what the box contained.

William’s gaze shifted to their bed.

Harriet, you done well, he said with a peaceful countenance, at the same time quickly wiping the tears in his eyes.

We have our son.

Harriet, still exhausted from the hours of labor in childbirth, only smiled, drifting between sleep and wake, mostly sleep.

Harriet, you done well, William repeated as though she hadn’t heard him the first time.

Yes, William. As if to say I was able to give you every man’s desire, it’s a boy, she said. You have your son.

Harriet placed their bundle of joy in his father’s arms, quietly closed her eyes, and drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

Bless Me, Father

It was a beautiful Sunday morning. It was July 30, 1911.

The family had gotten up much earlier than usual that day.

Little Julia and Pearl were running around their tiny kitchen playing tag, you’re it and screaming with laughter as they caught each other. If it had been a regular Sunday morning, William would have scolded them for playing around, but that was no ordinary day.

William hugged his wife tightly. She gently rested her head on his chest, slightly comforted by his embrace.

He was not one who openly displayed affection to his wife, not even in the presence of their daughters. It was his belief that some things between a husband and wife were private and should be kept that way, but that day was no normal day. It was the day their baby boy was to be christened.

Everything is going to be fine. Zeke will be okay. William tried to assure Harriet.

Harriet wiped her hands down her skirt.

Perhaps you are right, she said.

I know that I am right, he replied.

Zeke had kept them up well into the early hours of the morning. His cries earlier that night woke them both out of their sleep. William rolled over and picked his son up.

Sh-h-h-h, little one, Daddy is here, he’d whispered in little Zeke’s ear.

William held the back of his son’s head carefully in one hand while the other hand was gently wrapped around his tiny waist. He placed his cheek on his son’s and continued walking back and forth in the bedroom. His soft singing seemed to soothe Zeke for a few moments.  …Daddy’s gonna buy you a fishing boat, and if that fishing boat does sink, daddy’s gonna burry you in pink. And if—

Whatcha doing? Harriet shouted.

Sorry, William whispered. I couldn’t find a word that rhymes with sink. But it worked, Harriet—he ain’t crying no more. Listen.

Rest him down beside me, Harriet snapped.

William sat at the edge of the bed about to lay Zeke down. His cries were louder than before.

Gimme the child, Harriet said.

William handed Zeke to her.

Is something terribly wrong with our son? William asked.

The child has the colic, Harriet said, gently rubbing Zeke’s stomach. Boil some dill seed for tea. That should help.

Will he be all right for his christening? William asked.

Only Christ knows. Only God knows, but it ain’t hurt to pray, Harriet said, still rubbing Zeke’s stomach.

Zeke fell asleep five hours later, at 5:00 Sunday morning.

Do you think that we should warn Father Jay Black about his situation? Harriet asked.

Naw, that won’t be necessary, William replied.

But I’ll keep an eye on him, Father Black that is, for any telltale sign that Zeke has wee wee in his pants, and I’ll double his nappy and plastic just to make sure nothing leaks through.

William laughed. Now that’ll be a christening to remember.

I am serious, William, Harriet said.

I know, Harriet. Our baby is going to be just fine, William said.

Zeke’s navel string had just been buried the night before, not far from the well where his sisters Julia’s and Pearl’s had been buried a few years earlier.

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Little Zeke’s infectious smile was noticeable