"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.

Grateful

Well, someone shouted through a parking lot today that it was time for an update.

Duly noted.

So what to write about? There's the repaired, yet still rotten economy, Senator Rand Paul's epic filibuster, the drone threat that produced it, maybe a tidbit from Southern history or culture...when all else fails there's always fart jokes...

How about gratitude? It's an overlooked virtue these days. I think it warrants a mention.

In the past few weeks, the loss of a comrade, the retirement of another, the achievement of a long-term career goal and the birth of a nephew have led me into opportunities for gratitude.

So many compliments, intentional and incidental, have found their way to me in the last few weeks. Seeing how very blessed I am with friends, family and vocation, I'm humbled and grateful.

For everyone that reads this, thank you. It means a lot to know that someone takes the time to enjoy (or torture themselves) with my handiwork.

While this one is short and sweet, trust me, I'm digging in cemeteries, old dusty libraries filled with banned books, nefarious websites, crowded public transportation contrivances, wooded areas inhabited by medicated sages and maybe even an outhouse or two to find something meaningful, funny, encouraging, disgusting or otherwise entertaining to scribble down for your reading pleasure or displeasure.

Thanks for coming along on this little journey.

In Memoriam

I don't remember the first time I met Sgt. Steve Carney. I have no idea what we talked about in our first conversation. I don't remember what we ate for the first meal we shared together. I don't even remember the first call we responded to together.

But I know that I'll never forget that man.

Carney was not a loud man. He didn't have to be the center of attention. He was content with the chevrons on his collar for years after the bugles of a captain or chief officer seemed appropriate. And yet his voice carried over the din of 150+\- of the loudest, cockiest most competitive men to ever gather in an organization. He didn't need bravado or brass to be a leader. His example was quite enough.

To say he was a firefighter would be to say Babe Ruth was a baseball player. He was an incredible firefighter, mentor, cook, carpenter, driver and friend. Even as the resident old salt, he always seemed to have room for the young rookies, offering them that famous smile. Now, this smile was detected by all but never actually seen. It remained cloaked behind his mustache, an institution in its own right.

All of this to say, 15 years of knowing this man had a profound impact on me, personally and professionally. And I'm not alone. Seeing grown, rugged men openly weep...it's tough to even write about. It's hard to process in my mind. But that is the the magnitude of the legacy Carney leaves behind.

He wasn't just the chef. He wasn't just the ladder driver. He wasn't just the guy that called from the attic, pointing the way to the fire. He wasn't just the humble voice showing a rookie a better way.

What I wouldn't give for one more chat, one more question, one more raspy laugh, one more helping of those roasted potatoes, one more ride down 2nd Avenue trying to keep up with him. What I wouldn't give for one more chance to see him sit down after a battalion chief ordered him to take a break only to smile and get back to work the minute the same chief turned his back.

But those times have come and gone. Now the legacy falls to us. Now we must rise and pass on what he taught us. We must lead from the front. We must try to be the greatness that we saw in him and hope we get close. And we must all care just a little more to make up for the love that our friend so obviously had for us.

Goodbye, Carney. I will see you again...but not yet...not yet.