Moose and Moxie and Maine, Oh My!

Maine. It's not Southern. In fact, if you look on the map, it's about as far north as you are allowed to go without a passport.

But wait. There's a story to tell.

I keep this crazy blog going on a few themes. Agrarianism, tradition, history, culture, family. You know, you've read it. It's true conservative, not Republican Party conservative.

So Maine has squeezed its way into my Southern perspective on a little bit of everything.Because by "everything" I mean Maine too.

So I'm sitting on Row 6 of the world's smallest commercial airliner, grimacing as I look out the window trying to tell if we are coming in for a nice soft landing with a safe, gentle coast to a reasonable taxi speed to the arrival gate or if we're going to smash into the rocky Atlantic shore and explode in an seemingly oxymoronic eruption of burning jet fuel and frigid salt water, killed...or worse.

Luckily it was somewhere in between. I hear the wheels go down...we're getting closer...I hear the wheels go up again. We gain altitude and the pilot starts complaining about some cross-wind mumbo jumbo like the other grown man wedged into row six and I  didn't notice that strobe effect of the opening scene of Newhart and the sky flickering in the window while our stomachs cried out for any possible relief. "We're going to loop around and try that again." He tells us. Good. You try that again. I'm going to pray.

We found the ground safely and I found my ride. And they helped me find my first meal of the day, shortly after 3 pm. Which was not that bad, considering that landing thing and all. And long story short, there was peanuts and Coke. Maine and I were off to a good start.

The road to my destination weaved through small towns, communities founded in the late 1700's and the fall colors were gorgeous.

As I've mentioned before, I was going to see my Grandpa. And that is where this whole odyssey took a turn that wound it up on this blog. Grandpa built things. Houses, parts of houses, furniture, cabinets, things of wood, things of brick. He built stuff for rich folks. He built stuff for not-so-rich folks. Big stuff, small stuff. He built all kinds of stuff. If he had a clear spot and the right parts he could build a house from chert to chimney.

He built his house from the ground up with his own hands. He had finished everything but the floors in three rooms when he got sick and couldn't finish. So my uncle stepped in, assured him that he would complete the task and then went out back and felled three white pines, right behind Grandpa's house. They brought the portable sawmill in and started making lumber.

This is where I came in.

My cousin and I finished making the lumber needed to finish Grandpa's floors, right in the back yard. Another cousin and I hauled that last load of lumber to be kilned and milled into flooring.

And Grandpa passed away.

So my uncle, some of my cousins and I took some of his lumber for his floor (because we had plenty) and we built Grandpa a traditional pine coffin, just like he wanted. And his devoted wife made a beautiful fleece lining for the inside of it. And he'll be buried in it in a family cemetery near people he loved.

And somewhere in that it hit me. My Maine experience was a lot more congruent with my theme here than some of my "Southern" experiences. (I'm looking at you, Hartsfield-Jackson Int'l Airport). I thought about Henry Grady bemoaning the post-reconstruction south and the funeral where the South only provided the deceased and the hole. Here Grandpa had provided everything, except the labor for the coffin - and he had helped produce the laborers (his grandchildren). He died in a house he built with his own hands. His widow will walk on solid floors made from wood on their own property. He will be buried in the coffin, made by his family from that same wood, on a beautiful hillside in rural Maine, And part of me wept because such a thing is the exception instead of the rule.

If that wasn't enough, We walked in the woods on his property, scouting beaver and identifying trees and fungi as we talked and laughed and told old stories. We dined on moose and "whoopie pies" and drank Moxie - all of which are local treats (sound familiar?). And the foliage, the population density, the complete absence of almost any hint of urban sprawl...and the lobster roll from Rick's, the local joint down on the corner. Ok, the lobster roll isn't very Southern but if you can't enjoy it, you might not have a soul.

My experience was very agrarian, traditional, local, and family-oriented. It was everything I try to celebrate and support here. If I'm honest, when my new found friends dropped me off at the airport, I went inside and felt a grieving in my gut. Obviously Grandpa being gone played a large role in this feeling. But part of it was sadness that this time was coming to an end. I was anxious to see my family and my Georgia but I also felt like I was leaving something behind. I sat with a few mementos and I wept. A surge of emotion washed over me and I did, I wept.

Finally, the man at the check-in counter at the Portland airport saw my name on my ticket, "Burnham is an old Maine name." "Yes sir" I replied, "I'm an old Maine Burnham from Georgia." He laughed and told me the story of Burnham Hill, "It's the reason Maine doesn't have a death penalty. They hung a man named Burnham and then found out he was innocent. His case overturned the death penalty in the state. They have a monument for him up there.

I decided, if they hang innocent Burnhams up there, that it was high time that I got going.

And so I will...until next time.

Good Friday

So the cemetery thing has become a recurrent theme as of late. I admit that on face value it does seem a little weird but it satisfies a curiosity within me that a shopping mall just can't seem to handle. So that is how on Good Friday 2013, with the help of Google Maps turn-by-turn directions, I found myself at Oakland Cemetery in Atlanta.

Once inside the gate, I was stunned by the breathtaking beauty of the place. Something about it screamed "life", not "death". A quick stop at the visitor's center to get a map and I was off on my exploration.

My first encounter on the grounds was a small Boston Terrier that came running towards me. At first I thought he was growling but when he came closer I realized he was grunting. The dog had a tennis ball in his mouth and seemed to wonder if I wanted to play. I reached to get a picture of him but I think he was camera shy. He spun around and headed off again to find someone more interested to fetch than photography. Suffice to say, his image won't be making an appearance in this article.

Then there were birds, squirrels, trees, grass and shrubs. There was a young mother and her child enjoying a picnic. Small groups of people were on self-guided tours, much like myself. Several joggers made their way through the streets, conversing as they prepared for the 5K run hosted by the cemetery every October. Even the many workers I encountered seemed to be enjoying the warm Georgia sunshine and their picturesque surroundings as they carried out their tasks.

While I was at the grave of Margaret Mitchell two ladies came up and advised they had come to have lunch with the author. Being a polite Southern gentleman, I excused myself as they spread out their meal along the path. My mother didn't raise me to impose on people with company, even if the host is deceased. So I headed off to find the father/son governors Brown.

For over three hours I walked among the lanes, saw famous names from Georgia and even national history, took in the serenity of the park and enjoyed myself. The Italian Cypress trees swayed lightly in the breeze. The dogwoods began stretching their blossoms as if they knew Easter was upon us. The Lion of the Confederacy continued his eternal nap, resting among the Unknown. No one cussed me out, tried to kill me, shot me a bird or questioned the legitimacy of my heritage.

And then I merged back onto the Downtown Connector for the drive home.

What a difference a mile can make.

There is a lesson here. One about Good Friday and what it means to us. And so I'm going to just go with tradition and not get caught up in the discussion of the Friday/Sunday/three day debate for now. Just go with this because the truth of the Gospel is what is important.

Inside the brick walls of Oakland among the 70,000 +/- dead people I found life. Out in Atlanta, among the 3 million +/- living people I found death.

A small spot of death full of life surrounded by a expanse of life full of death.

Do you see the Good Friday in the analogy?

Many of the people in these graves died violent deaths and caused the violent deaths of others. Almost 7000 soldiers from the War Between the States make up the Confederate Memorial grounds, including 16 Union soldiers. A plaque commemorating the Andrews' Raiders, their capture, trial, hanging and initial burial (a mere 280 feet past the south wall) stands at the wall along Memorial Dr. And on that fateful day in 1864, John Bell Hood stood on the hill behind the Bell Tower and watched as he commanded Confederate forces during the Battle of Atlanta, which spilled over onto what is now cemetery grounds.

But today one can get lost in the beauty of the place. And on hot summer days, Oakland Cemetery can be as much as 5 degrees cooler than the rest of Atlanta around it

In a place of death, I found life...even while surrounded by a place of life where I found death. And over 163 years of history, Atlanta has not punctured the brick walls surrounding Oakland. The Olympics, the Super Bowl, the World Series, The Final Four, the rapid growth that all these can bring. Atlanta has spread over Georgia like pepper gravy over a warm cathead. Yet, Oakland's streets and lanes remain largely as they were built. It's trees, flowers and beautiful monuments are protected from the sprawl because of the death inside.

Death brings and protects life.

That, after all, is the message of Good Friday