I’m a lifelong learner. I love digging through history to find people who inspire me…hearing about new dinosaur fossils being discovered around the world…reading poems, short stories, and novels that make me think and draw me into the story so deeply that I feel part of the author’s created world.

While reading some notes about some of the people buried in a historic cemetery in my area, I recently learned something about my own hometown. I did not know that Dorothea Spotswood “Dolly” Henry Winston, the daughter of Patrick and Dorothea Henry once lived in Memphis. She’s buried in Elmwood Cemetery, so you can visit her grave if you visit. She was born in Williamsburg, Virginia, on August 2, 1778, and died in Memphis, Tennessee, at age 75 on June 17, 1854, at the home of her daughter.

Though her father’s words are easy to find, I couldn’t find much information about her life outside of Virginia, but I decided to write a short story (historical fiction) that introduces you to a little bit of her story.

Liberty and Lunch

By Chris Pepple ©2026

I gathered my belongings and stepped onto the deck of the steamboat. The awe-inspiring monster I traveled on offered me a quick way to reach my daughter and her husband in Memphis as it billowed smoke as if a dragon deciding whether it would protect or devour me along the journey. As I felt the churning of the waves of the Mighty Mississippi lapping at the edge of the boat, I prayed daily to myself: Dear Lord, keep the fires of this dragon contained in its own boilers. Help us avoid the fires that have taken the lives of other travelers.

Here I was, a woman in my 70s, on a new adventure that I had not seen coming. I had eaten my breakfast this morning on this vessel, trying not to think about what was ahead. Now, as I stared at the bluffs and the shoreline I would soon reach, I closed my eyes and thought back to the place I thought I would spend my final days—Red Hill, Virginia. I could picture our modest main house with my father proudly walking in to greet his family. I could smell the flowers blooming, hear my siblings laughing, and feel the wind blowing through the Osage orange tree.

I opened my eyes and saw the reality of the cobblestones and mud on the banks before me. I could hear the workers preparing for us to disembark. So many were excited to be landing in this growing city, but I saw nothing before me that felt comforting.

“Are you Dolly?” I heard a voice behind me calling out.

“Excuse me?” Dolly? Who knows me here to call me by that name? I surely have no friend here yet.

“Sorry, Ma’am. Are you Mrs. Dorothea Henry Winston?”

“Yes,” I replied, feeling tired and wanting to find someone familiar.

“Your daughter left me instructions to assist you off the boat and up the hill to her husband’s waiting wagon.”

I nodded. Elvira and James had been so kind to me over the past few years. After George died twenty-one years ago, I felt a bit lost. Grief over his death and the loss of four of our children through the years seemed to be a constant companion. Now—well, another change loomed before me. I accepted the help off the steamboat, not wanting to slip on the cobblestones or fall off the planks and into the mud that seemed to prey on this landing as if one more layer would swallow it forever. Memphis—my new home with my daughter and her family.

“Dolly, you made it!” my son-in-law called out, being one who could call me Dolly. “I hope your trip went well.”

“So good to see you, James,” I replied as he reached for my bags. “I’ll hold on to this one. It has a few special items in it.” I held that all the way to the home Elvira and James had been preparing for us to live in. They arrived months earlier to have things ready. I entered the house and could feel the care they had both put into it, hoping it would begin to feel like home to me. I had been away from Virginia for years—moving with them to Alabama after George died—but had always hoped to make my way back there for my final days. This house would have to do instead.

“Mother, let’s invite a few ladies over for lunch,” Elvira said two weeks into my stay at our new house. “We could have some chicken or rabbit with biscuits and some okra or greens.”

“It’s time I became a bit more social, I suppose. If we do that, I’d like to use something special at the table. Wait while I get it.” I went to my room and pulled out the only unpacked bag I had left. I pulled out two cloths with items wrapped in them. I smiled as I held them in my hands.

I went back out to our dining table and placed the cloths before Elvira. “These should be with you now,” I said as I unwrapped the largest cloth. Elvira gasped as she saw the items before her—eight sterling silver shell-patterned pistol handled knives, with eight matching three-pronged forks, and eight spoons.

“Mother, where did you get these?” she asked as she ran her fingers over the knife handles, admiring the craftsmanship.

“I’ve had these for years. Brought them from Red Hill when I left. I just never unpacked them. They were part of a wedding gift from my mother and father, handed down from our family,” I answered, once again closing my eyes and thinking of my parents and our homes in Virginia.

“What’s in the other cloth?”

“A tea cup,” I said as I pulled out a small china cup with its high handle and pink flowers with shamrock green leaves. “This is still mine for now. It reminds me of both the fragility and the beauty in life.” I paused before adding, “I think I’ll rinse this and make myself some tea now.”

Three days later, I admired the silverware as we sat around the table with women of various ages who were dear to Elvira and would become dear to me—mothers and daughters facing this growing port city together.

“I feel like I’m sitting with royalty,” Mrs. Thompson said, looking in my direction. “Tell us more about your family. I’ve read about your father a bit.”

“Well, I certainly don’t feel like royalty. Our lives are all of equal importance. Our joys and sorrows are equally felt and shared.”

“But you’re the daughter of Patrick Henry. That name’s known through all of the states—a founding father and a Virginia governor.”

“To me he was simply ‘Father.’ My mother and my father taught me how to read and how to listen, how to find my true self and how to respect the lives of others. I grew up in a house full of love and full of a desire to learn. I suppose his life is that of an American patriot who will be talked about when people pen the history of our nation, but to me he’ll be remembered for all of our long walks and our evening talks.”

“You’re lucky to have been educated and given so many opportunities in life,” a young woman who was sitting near Elvira said. “I’ve been farming for so long that I can’t even remember the last time I walked into a school room or held a book in my hand. Tell me more about what’s happening in other parts of the country and the political discussions I hear when I’m at the general store.”

“I can do more than tell you,” I said as I pardoned myself from the table and went into my room. I came back with three books and some letters tied together with a ribbon. “Here are some of my father’s letters I kept that talk about all that he worked for in this nation—the Bill of Rights he wanted to ensure we all had. I also have a few books that might interest you. The letters can be read here, but you can borrow the books. I’m having even more shipped in soon.”

“Liberties and freedom—people are still arguing about that today. Who has which liberties and who is truly free,” Mrs. Thompson added. “I try to focus on more basic matters such as what our church families face and what food needs to be put on the table. Illness runs through this town so often. Focusing on freedom isn’t going to cure or feed any of us.”

The conversation continued about the importance of speaking out for the rights of all people in our growing nation while also working to feed our families and provide medical care for our communities.

The lunch turned into a weekly occurrence with new faces joining us each week. When the weather was nice, we picnicked out back. With the cold or rain, we filled every chair in the house and filled our tables with food from each family.

During one lunch more than a year later, I looked at our group and said, “My father once wrote, ‘My earnest wish is that Christian charity, forbearance and love may unite all different persuasions as brethren.’ I truly wish that as well. You have made me feel at home here, though I longed to be back in my family home in Virginia. You gave me a purpose and a hope through these lunches—that my father’s wish for all people to be respected in this nation will still be something others are willing to stand for today.”

Maybe Dorothea Spotswood “Dolly” Henry Winston started the Memphis tradition of gathering for book club discussions and creating space for diverse beliefs to share a meal and remember what her father hoped for.