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.

Mounds of Farming.

To continue on a on the farming theme I thought I'd share some more about the history of Agriculture in Georgia. This idea was helped along by a recent field trip to the Etowah Mounds State Historic Site in Cartersville, Georgia. The video at right is of one of the rangers on site giving information regarding the Three Sisters of Mississippian Era agriculture. 

Corn. Squash. Beans. With these three crops, these people developed a broad menu of foods. 

Agriculture was a way of life in the South long before the arrival of European settlers. This particular community was populated by farmers as early as 1000 A.D. (over 50 years before the Norman Conquest of England) and perhaps even earlier. These "primitive" farmers had learned the value of crop rotation, or at least the benefits one crop can have for another. It would be centuries before the settlers learned some of these ideas. 

So this culture domesticated dogs and turkeys in addition to their three sisters. They gathered nuts and berries from the fields and forests nearby. They caught fish from the river and hunted the wildlife that lived in the area. They wasted nothing, having a use for everything they killed, grew and gathered.

At left you'll find a demonstration of the weapons advances they made in order to feed themselves and their families. With the use of fishing, hunting, gathering, and agriculture, these people formed a civilization that survived for about 500 years at this location. To this day, their artifacts are still being found in the ground. To this day, their mounds and fish traps still remain as visible remnants of their society. Structures that date back ten centuries. 

That's not bad when you figure practically no structure in Atlanta is over 150 years old.

Long story short, this is our heritage. A wise and diverse use of the land. A sustainable and interactive form of agriculture that we can still learn from today.

It's our past. But it's about our future. And with so many other troubles mounting against farmers, they're not getting any younger. You can't eat a legal writ. You can't eat a bank note. And, as important as health care may seem, if you don't have food to eat, a doctor can't help you.

Educate yourselves about farming. Ask a farmer about the challenges of the job and life in general. Make this an election year issue. Let's put emphasis back on the agrarian heritage of our region. 

No more canned peaches from China.

Farm

My first job out of college was with a corporation with a household name. The position was dealing with higher end food service. It was the type of operation that used chefs and "quality" ingredients. A higher priced operation with some fairly exclusive clientele.

My coworkers were from all over the world. They had left the far reaches of the Earth and worked in other far reaches before this particular stop in the shadows of Atlanta's skyscrapers. 

These folks knew good food.

So it caught my attention when I heard one of them comment, "why are we using canned peaches? Isn't this Georgia?"

Peaches weren't out of season. Some of the finest peach orchards in the world were an hour and a half down I-75. And we were using canned peaches. They might even have been from China.

The previous summer I had visited Atlanta. I was in Centennial Olympic Park with a couple thousand people from all over the world. One thing that sticks out in my mind was an exhibit to tell these visitors our story - to introduce us to them. It proclaimed "The South is Agriculture". 

It's true. If you can eat it, wear it, smoke it, chew it, turn it into fuel and burn it, we'll try to make it spring from the ground. Agriculture is such a big deal that parts of our agriculture depend on other parts of our agriculture.

And we eat canned peaches from China.

Georgia specifically: we grow peaches, pecans, peanuts, apples, native grapes (muscadine, etc.), Vidalia onions, cotton, corn, soybeans. We raise poultry, beef, pork. And more.

And we eat canned peaches from China. 

Earlier I read a Twitter tirade straight out of Tattnall County. It inspired this post. There's a man down there, a Chicken Hippie, if you will. He has this crazy notion that Georgia dirt, fresh Georgia air, and Georgia sunshine will produce quality, tasty, nutritious chicken, duck, quail, & turkey. No crowded chicken houses. (You can find him on Twitter at @GApasturedbirds and on Instagram at grassrootsfarmsga.)

Next time you pass a chicken truck on the highway, take a look at the cargo and see if you agree with him.

Admittedly, I don't buy birds from him. Not right now. He makes his birds available through a distributor and restaurants can offer customers sustainable, locally-grown, pasture-raised poultry. And then they can switch back to Holly Farms and not tell you any different.

Thus the tirade.

Listen to me. This isn't about being a foodie. It isn't about being a hipster. It's about being a Southerner. It's about English settlers founding Georgia on agriculture in 1734. It's about Native American tribes sustaining themselves on this red clay on agriculture seven centuries before the English came.

It's about Georgians not eating canned peaches from China.

And it's about not wondering how a small farmer in South Georgia is selling poultry to restaurants in Atlanta and beginning to wonder why such products aren't widespread in our grocery stores. Why do we settle for less just because it costs a little less?

And Grassroots isn't the only farm like this out there. I know several people raising cattle & crops the old ways. You'll find them if you look. 

There's more on this topic but it will have to wait for another time.

Until then...

Day 3

Day 3 of the road trip found us headed south on 75 from Cordele en route to the furthest southern point on the trip. Tifton.

The Cravey House, built in Inaha, Georgia and moved the Tifton

The destination in Tifton was the Georgia Museum of Agriculture on the campus of Abraham Baldwin Agricultural College. This museum has both indoor and outdoor facilities that tell of Georgia's agricultural past and the cultivation, harvesting and marketing of the major cash crops of the region - cotton, tobacco, timber and turpentine. These stories are told through historic interpreters in various settings including a doctor's office, a blacksmith's forge, a cotton gin, a print shop, the Victorian home of a wealthy man and farms from different eras of Georgia's past.



The Tift House

I was quite impressed with the feisty lady that gave us the tour of the Tift Home, the Victorian mansion of the man for whom Tifton is named. The preserved home is an excellent example of what I call "they don't make things like that any more." The house itself is a work of art. The original furnishings and decor make the home a museum unto itself. I'd have to admit that my favorite part is the lone closet in the house - covered, as it always has been, by a curtain to avoid paying the taxes on the additional door. Sounds like Mr. Tift was a man after my own heart.

And so we learned about forging farm tools, printing newspapers, ginning and baling cotton, raising livestock and crops and making turpentine. That was life in South Georgia around the turn of the last century. It was simpler and yet more complicated leaving me wondering where the tipping point of good thing/bad thing in that scenario is. The work was hard and the comfort level was much lower than we are accustomed to but a lot of the hustle and bustle (i.e. TRAFFIC) was non-existent

The trip back to Cordele carried us through Irwinville to visit one of my disappointments of the trip. In 1865 Jefferson Davis was fleeing to the west to wage a guerrilla war against the occupiers of the South in hopes that Southern Independence could still be a reality. (Incidentally, it was about this same time that Alexander H. Stephens - all 100 pounds of him - was sitting in his parlor at home playing cards when the Union /Army knocked on his door.He asked to see their arrest warrant and then replied, "If y'all had let me know you wanted me I'd have saved you the trip all the way out here. Let's go". But that's another story for another day.)

The Jeff Davis Memorial Marker

Davis met for one last time with his cabinet in Washington, GA and then they went their separate ways. Two units of the Union Army pursued him to a campsite just outside the minuscule town of Irwinville. The adept military professionals actually shot at each other for a spell before they realized that they were on the same team. Davis, realizing the Yankees were on his tail, beat a hasty retreat. But it was too late. And there in a pine thicket in the dead of night the 16th President (from Georgia's perspective) became a prisoner of war.

Some years later, the State of Georgia dedicated a monument and state historic site on the location. A few years ago the operation was turned over to Irwin County. The building is headed toward disrepair, the grounds show signs of neglect. It is a testament to the event it commemorates. The economic system established in the absence of the Southern delegates to Congress does not make for wealthy farmers. Money is for bankers, industrialists and railroad tycoons. Farmers can have money when they get real jobs - like working in a bank, factory or maybe on the railroad. So money is not plentiful in Irwin County. And let's face it, a county full of farmers, service industry workers catering to farmers and the handful of rangers that work at the site just do not have the resources to appropriately maintain such a site.

I'm not sure what led Georgia to the decision to jettison this park. It has added several newer, more elaborate parks in various locations since discarding the Jeff Davis site, so it doesn't appear to be budget related. The site is not far from the interstate so it doesn't appear to be logistical. That brings me to the fact that rural South Georgia gets the short end of the stick from the state on a regular basis and the ever growing evil of political correctness that is constantly trying to sweep clean any remnant of the South's past.

Davis would be held in terrible conditions for two years. During that time he received encouraging gifts from Pope Pius IX, his legal representation was the former governor of Maryland. His official charge was treason but he would never stand trial as the Union knew there was no hope of conviction as he had committed no crimes. He was released on bond which was posted in part by Horace Greely, Cornelius Vanderbilt and Gerrit Smith.

Yankees helped post his bond and Georgia hung his park out to dry. What a shame.

I'll say this before leaving the topic of the politically correct assassination of Southern History - "Remove not the ancient landmark, which thy fathers have set." - Proverbs 22:28.

This verse may or may not be talking about such landmarks but the tone is explicit. Don't destroy memorials. They point to where we came from and therefore teach us where we are and where we are headed. Only an ignorant man would be offended by such a memorial.

All in all, day 3 was a great educational outing filled with the stories of Georgia's identity. It taught us about the work ethic, the ingenuity, the grit that it took to survive in the Georgia of 100 years ago. We learned a little about where we came from and who we are.

That's two presidents for those who are counting....

Day 2 (Part 1)

I knew what awaited. I wasn't sure how I'd handle it but I knew it was there.

But first things first.

There's a certain satisfaction that comes from seeing where your food comes from. I have the utmost respect for farmers and seeing them at work was like viewing art being made.  

Watermelons. I'm not talking about a fruit stand. I'm not talking about a farmer's market. I'm talking about a 40 acre field where you can't see the ground for the watermelons. I'm talking about watermelons laying in the road like dead possums.

What do you do with that many watermelons? You cut the top off a school bus, pull out all the seats, stack the watermelons up to what would have been the bottoms of the windows and haul 'em off. A bus load of watermelons is a beautiful thing. A convoy of five such buses...I don't have the words...

And then there's just something about getting off the Interstate. You haven't really experienced Georgia until you've seen towns like Irwinville, DeSoto and Buena Vista. Many of these places have lost their luster. Some may have never had it. But if you really want to understand the South, you have to look in these places.

And such towns lead the way to the brick columns that I had been dreading, but knew I had to confront.

Andersonville.

Just hearing the word makes my stomach quiver just a little. Seeing this in person is a must...even if you don't study war...especially if you hate war.

One of the many exhibits in the museum.

The traditional visitor's center at Andersonville is anything but. This facility is the National POW Museum. It covers the history of American POWs from the Revolution  to the present. It serves as a witness to the cruelty of war and the way it impacts captives, captors and the families involved. While Andersonville is specifically covered, there are also accounts from Union prisons such as Rock Island, IL, where similar atrocities were carried out on the Confederates unlucky enough to find themselves there. There are also memorials from POW experiences from every other American war.

And then I walked outside. 

The POW Memorial Courtyard

A bas relief on brick and a bronze sculpture stands as a visual of the misery at Andersonville. A water feature symbolizes Sweetwater Creek, a name that almost evokes it own cruelty when it identifies the poison stream that eked its way through the middle of the camp.

The camp has much in common with the war. It seemed good at first - reports of plentiful food in the area, far from the fighting, railroad depot downtown and a creek that would be a source of clean water and wash away waste...until they built the stockade across it...on both sides.

And then it got worse. The blockade and the truth of the area's food supply began to send the

The view from the gate of the stockade.

situation downward. Then the Union realized that their superior numbers made cessation of prisoner exchanges to be to their advantage (this assessment is part of the official audio tour offered by the park and not just Southern propaganda) so they just stopped. The situation deteriorated further. A band of prisoners began terrorizing other prisoners. This bunch was eventually brought down with the help of other prisoners that had enough of their violence and thievery. The six "raiders", as they were called, were hung, 149 years, to the day, prior to our visit.

As food and medication became more scarce in the South, so went supplies in the camp. The guards consisted of men too old, too young or too sick to be on the lines trying to hold off Sherman's advance. And no matter how remorseful anyone felt about it, if there wasn't enough supplies for the citizens and soldiers in the area, there sure wasn't enough for enemy prisoners.

Wirz's view of the camp.

Sitting on the hill overlooking the camp was the man given charge of the place. Henry Wirz, the Swiss-born Confederate captain was witness to it all. Looking at the verdant field and the quiet creek in the midst, it is hard to imagine the din of over 30,000 human beings, some merely talking, others moaning or crying out. The residents of Americus, some ten miles away complained of the foul stench wafting from the camp - the smell of body odor and human waste festering in the Georgia summer.

The stones in the cemetery stand in memory to the horrors of the camp. The dead were buried shoulder-to-shoulder in trench graves. The Federal Government later placed stones over each prisoner using the meticulous records of the Confederate Surgeons Corps. And the number of stones - rows and rows of white stones - gives the eye perspective as to just how bad the situation got.

The Georgia Monument

I could explain that the Union had similar prisons - Rock Island, Camp Douglas, "Helmira", just to name a few. I could point out that the abundant supplies were withheld from those prisoners for spite and to be maliciously cruel. I could point out that at Camp Douglas that the dead were piled into a common hole and buried without the dignity of a grave. I could mention that, in spite of the northern camps, after the sham trial by military tribunal and a mis-tied knot that 250 paying spectators at Washington's Old Capitol Prison watched Wirz swing and writhe as he slowly suffocated while the crowd chanted "Remember Andersonville" - an event that is widely believed by historians and the National Parks Service to be the murder of a scapegoat.

And every bit of that is true. But none of that would change what happened at Andersonville. To try to deflect or deny what went on at Andersonville would not change one second of the tragedy that was the Confederate Military Prison at Camp Sumter. And to deny this place would be to insult the honor of the prisoners and custodians of this horrible place. Even as a Georgian and one that leans heavily toward the gray, I cannot look at such a place and not feel pity for the people imprisoned there. It was terrible, period.

What I took from it all was all the terror of war, crammed into a compact package. To think of lives lost, of irreversible damage from illness and disease, the images that a mind just never forgets and the horrible cruelty of it all, no matter what lengths are taken to prevent or alleviate it - war is a terrible tragedy. For all the glory we attach to it, it can never be made anything other than tragic, even when it is necessary. That being said, we should never enter in to it brashly or flippantly. Such cruelty must never be celebrated or enjoyed.

And so that brought us to midday and time for a change in venue. I'll pick up the afternoon section of this day in the next update. I promise that it will be a much happier entry....

Hit The Road!

It began simple enough. How my poor children ever reached their current ages without a meal at Waffle House, I'll never know. Our journey began with breakfast and the discussion of exciting plans.

The road was kind to us and the HOV lane helped us proceed through Atlanta relatively easily. They say the best thing to ever come out of Atlanta was I-75. 

We found the southbound version.

With great traffic and the skillful navigation of a great driver (me), good companionship from my family and perhaps a few tips from the Google map voice that lives in my phone we arrived at Ocmulgee National Monument.

It's places like Ocmulgee that get overlooked in the study of Southern History. And that's a shame because at the estimated date of 15,000 years ago people began to inhabit this location. The first bunch were nomadic people which simply means they were, like us, on a road trip. (Although theirs was at least marginally longer).

                                                                                                                                                    

The Earth Lodge

Somewhere in the centuries people settled down. And they lived off of agriculture, the industry of the South. You see, the South, from the very beginning depended on nature for survival. While Europe and the North were spewing carbon and other so-called "greenhouse gasses" into the atmosphere, the South was relying on plants, forests, rivers and the sun for survival. The people depended on these resources to be healthy and abundant in order to make any sort of living. Factories and pollution were imported later on and, now that we're dependent on it, are now demonized and regulated by the very folks that forced it upon us.

Make up your mind!

The Temple Mound

Back to the mounds. Seeing the work that it took to build such structures and the care and dedication it took to carry basket after basket of dirt to create such monuments really impressed me. The Earth Lodge with it's original floor, dated ca. 1000 AD is truly amazing. There is also a very good view of Downtown Macon from atop the Temple Mound. Throw in a good museum and an outstanding ranger and it made for a great morning.

We spent the afternoon 22 miles down the road at the Museum of Aviation in Warner Robins. If you are ever in that part of Georgia and have even the slightest interest in the history of the Air Force and/or Army Air Corps, stop in. The museum has excellent exhibits, including the living ones you'll find working in each hangar. Many of the volunteers manning the museum are veterans of the very aircraft on display and are ready to answer questions and give first hand accounts of history made with these machines.

Ok, time for a candid moment. During the tour, we happened upon a couple of gentlemen and a conversation ensued. At first it was great, lots of good information as one of the men was himself a vet that shared information of his experiences. However, there is a butt...er...but to this part of the story. The gentleman explained to us, after learning about our road trip plans, that he was from Pennsylvania and stressed his displeasure with "that stupid, stupid Civil War". He then progressed to deride the Confederate soldiers and to talk about what a terrible place Georgia is. In fact, it is so terrible that he chose to live in Dublin. Then he pulled out some story about what a great humanitarian Sherman was. He finished his speech with some of his disappointment with the direction that our country is going and blamed our central government for it. Really? I was laughing as I thought it inappropriate to cry in a hanger full of fighter planes. Oh how I wished to correct him, oh how I wished to sling a 30 minute soliloquy on him to point out that his beloved Sherman had forced that strong central government on us all at gunpoint and then invite him to return to Pennsylvania...but self-control got the better of me. I sat there with the words of the sage ringing in my ears - "It wastes your time and annoys the pig."

As the sun set on the first day of the Georgia trip, having seen the contributions of Native Americans from the Mississippians to the Creeks (Muscogee) and members of the Air Force, including the 332nd fighter group, "The Tuskegee Airmen", I was glad to have started to demonstrate the diversity of the people that made Georgia and the South great.

The first day didn't challenge my thinking the way the following days would. It wasn't very controversial. But it was quite enjoyable and laid the foundation for the days that followed. The next day would hold surprises I could not expect and tore at my heart in ways that I don't even think my family realized...

...but tomorrow is another day...

Carrollton

By Sam Burnham

Took a quick morning trip this week. I've been a regular in that particular town for the last 16 years. I even summered there one year. But I had never really got out and explored it on my own.

A few quick thoughts on Carrollton, GA.

The plan was simple enough. A quick stop in Tallapoosa on personal business and then scoot over to Carrollton.

*Ok, side note* Tallapoosa is a beautifully quaint town. It's small and not overdeveloped so if you're looking for crowds or a lot of action, stay on the four lanes. But if you enjoy a slower pace and some beautiful old homes, Tallapoosa is a neat stop.

After following an empty pulpwood truck to Tallapoosa and finding my rendezvous closed on Wednesdays, I proceeded down Georgia Hwy 16 to Carrollton. The drive was much more pleasant than my usual route down US 27 and the sounds of Appalachian Spring via Georgia Public Broadcasting made it that much better.

I was able to make contact with my Tallapoosa business in Carrollton and then headed out to explore a little.

Brand new Little Free Library

First stop, Adamson Square. Beautifully restored, the square has plenty to offer in shopping and dining. Park benches, wide sidewalks and even a brand new Little Free Library make the area welcoming to visitors such as myself.

A word of caution. Should you visit this area, use caution in crosswalks. The traffic and pedestrian configuration is a bit confusing and I can see that it would not be hard to hit someone or be hit by someone while driving or walking.

Underground Books

Horton's Books & Gifts (410 Adamson Square) is reportedly the oldest bookstore in Georgia. There is much documentation to support this claim so I see no reason dispute it. It is a very nice shop with a respectable inventory of books, nice gifts (games, small decorative items, and other sundries) as well as access to the coffee shop next door. This is a new book vendor with a great atmosphere. They have been doing business in Carrollton since 1892, so they must be doing something right The resident cats are a nice touch...unless you're allergic, like me. But it's a nice place and definitely worth checking out.

I personally had better luck searching in Underground Books (102 Alabama St) which is tucked into a basement just off the main square. Used, antique & rare books are available and this is a buy-sell-trade sort of place. Upon my arrival, a staff member greeted me, let me know they were available and then left me alone to peruse the shelves - exactly what I want from a bookstore. They have a decent variety and the layout lets you walk through a room only to discover there are more books in the next room. Loved it.



Confederate Memorial

 Just off the square at the courthouse sits the Confederate Memorial Monument. The plaza has been renovated recently and the monument is well maintained, including the restoration of the concrete cannonballs that had been missing for some time. The stoic sentinel facing north is a standard in small towns throughout the South and this is an excellent specimen. Several churches and municipal buildings are located in this area. Pedestrian traffic is common and there are plenty of sidewalks.

Grave of a Confederado

A quick check in at the city cemetery (a usual stop for me when visiting a town) was pleasant. A lot of the town's history can be found there. I had received a tour booklet in pdf format from the Visitors and Convention Bureau (per my emailed request) and found it to be helpful. I found some of the monuments damaged, apparently more by time and elements rather than vandals. My stop in the cemetery was nice and I was excited to find the final resting place of a Confederado - not a common find. Overall, it's a nice place with lots of local history.

But the day was windy and an unmistakable aroma was riding the breeze. A good BBQ restaurant needs no advertisement. I followed my nose from the cemetery back over near the square and found Sam's House Memphis Style BBQ and Blues (108 Alabama St.). I laughed at the thought that the place "had my name on it" and stepped inside.

Be brave. You can handle it.

My waitress was friendly, the music wasn't live (at least not at lunch) but was very good just the same. The atmosphere is relaxing and is filled with images, aromas and sounds that reflect Memphis, BBQ and The Blues. The prices were reasonable for good food and that's exactly what I was served. The yellow bottle with the masking tape label reading "XXX" has some tasty stuff in it. Give it a try if you're brave enough. Although it didn't count on my lunch special, they do offer discounts for military and emergency responders. I'm always thankful for that and told them so. Oh, and the sweet tea is spot on.

All in all, it's a great little historic downtown. I collected this info just before lunch. Given a whole day, I'm sure there is much more to find. There's an Irish pub, a few more restaurants and stores and that is just the square. It's definitely worth checking into if you have plans anywhere near the area. Give it a try if you have a chance.

"Un-"

Rows of gravestones lie silent in the Confederate section of Myrtle Hill Cemetery. They're not all Confederate markers. This is one of those rare locations where soldiers from both sides are buried together, their final resting places as tightly mingled as their dying breaths.

Standing amongst the rows is a hardwood tree (an oak, if my memory serves me correctly) that is gradually consuming one of the tombstones. At present, the only part of the inscription that remains visible is "UN". Now, to the casual passerby, this inscription might suggest that the occupant might have been named Unther or that he hailed from Unadilla, GA or maybe even that he served in the Union Army. But to people familiar with military cemeteries and history "UN" is the beginning of only one word. "UNKNOWN".

How ironic. Lying in a historic section of a NRHP registered cemetery is a fallen soldier, known only to God, whose lone memorial is being consumed with the passage of time.

Who was this man? Union or Confederate? Artillery, infantry or cavalry? Officer or enlisted? Race? Religion? Level of education? Who were his parents? did he have a wife or children? How did he meet his awful fate? How old was he? Any identifier, other than to suggest that he's not identifiable, has been consumed by the constant growth of the tree.

And time progresses.

Why is the consumption of a 150 year old grave important? Without getting into cliches about repeating forgotten histories let me say it's very important. This grave is a microcosm of our time. History is disappearing with time. There are many trees eating many headstones but one tree concerns me more than the others.

The tree of political correctness is eating our history at an alarming rate. The removal of Confederate flags from the Confederate Memorial Park and Chapel on Richmond, VA, the changing of the mascot at the University of Mississippi, the discontinuance of "Dixie" by marching bands throughout the South and even the planned renaming of Memphis' Forrest Park - including the exhumation of General Forrest and his wife - are the bark on the progressing trunk. And as history continues to be removed from public view, we will forget and then...well...I promised no clichés.

Why is this happening? What kind of person would do this?

Much of it is ignorance. 150 years of the victor's history has led people to have deplorable knowledge of factual history. Most people today have no knowledge of Nathan Bedford Forrest outside of a comical mention in the opening scenes of Forrest Gump. If you think 1)that he started the KKK or 2) that the Klan was his major contribution to society, then a trip to the library is recommended. NEITHER of these are true.

That being said, there is good and bad on both sides of history. Forrest was not exactly a Girl Scout. But also, as bad as Barack Obama has been, he made it to his second term without razing a single American city. The same cannot be said for the saintly Mr. Lincoln.

Good and bad. Give and take. Shades of gray reenact the entire, stinky, bloody drama that culminated in 600,000 dead combatants and who knows how many civilians. Staggering levels of property damage. Orphans. Widows.

Who were the good guys? Who were the bad guys? The only quick answer to these questions can be "yes" because an honest answer depends on too many other questions. Questions that are gradually being obscured by apathy and ignorance.

Who was he? Who knows? Who cares?

So I come to this. The story of our unknown friend hinges on us. He's already forgotten to history. One day the las speck of stone will slip into the bark, forever obscured and then even this inadequate reminder of someone's son will be gone.

I leave you a borrowed line that I think is appropriate. Another "UN" word. This time it's "UNLESS". Because, as Dr. Seuss told us in the Lorax, "Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot,

Nothing is going to get better. It's not.”

It's not.

Who was he? I don't know. I might never know. But you can bet your next paycheck that I care.