Into the Wild (Man's)

April. Confederate History Month.

Where to start?

I'll start with this. Confederate History is a complex, mangled, interwoven mass of good and evil. I'm looking at it honestly, trying with everything within me to be unbiased in my approach to learning what really happened.

It is all too appropriate that the traditional color of the Confederate forces was gray.

I've been around this block enough to know what so many are thinking about this topic. "Slavery" is bound to pop up any time the word "Confederate" is uttered. And that's a shame, because there was so much more to the Confederacy than slavery.

Let me say this up front. I'm a Southern apologist. Guilty as charged. But I'm not a "slavery was wrong, but" apologist. I'm a "slavery was wrong, period." apologist. It was an indefensible practice that is best left in the past, and that only because it cannot be undone entirely.

It was wrong.

And so, no matter how hard we try, we cannot ditch the elephant in the Confederate parlor. Despite the indisputable evidence that the South was fighting for independence to pursue the form of government established in the infancy of this nation and despite the irrefutable evidence that the North was fighting to centralize all government power in Washington, the South just can't seem to get the albatross from around our neck.

We were absolutely right...and dreadfully wrong.

Which brings me to today's adventure.

Tucked into the masonry of the old town of Big Shanty is this little gem known as Wild Man's Civil War Surplus. For those of us that can't seem to get enough, it's always good to find someone that has extra to spare. And so today, while on a completely unrelated errand I found myself, along with my favorite Southern belle, walking through the front door of "The Best Little Warhouse in Kennesaw". We found ourselves surrounded by piles, stacks and rows of history and even some propaganda. Various sundries ranging from wildly hilarious to embarrassingly offensive filled the store that seemed like the attic of Reconstruction-era Dixie. And then, from the back room, appeared the most celebrated artifact in the establishment, Dent "Wild Man" Myers.

Dent "Wild Man" Myers, Photo by Roadside America

Wild Man has progressed in years since last I saw him. He wears a beard that makes the Duck Dynasty bunch look like some contestants from Project Runway. The loaded pistols on his belt let you know he's ready for any foolishness you may have for him while the "Guns Allowed" sign on the front door invites you to have a fighting chance. While the organization of the store might not be up to snuff by many critics, he seems to know where everything you could ask for could be found. His hands are adorned with rings on every finger but make no mistake, this is not Liberace. Let me just say that his selection in jewelry does not reflect modern notions of diversity and ecumenism.

There is so much in the store and about the man himself that I just cannot agree with. I've heard the word bigot used to describe him. There is some evidence to support such claims. But there is just something about the man that won't let me throw him out entirely. First of all, he is a primary authority on The War. If you need proof of this, go to Kennesaw Mountain National Military Park, configure the most detailed question about a specific aspect of the battle that you can muster and present it to one of the rangers. You get a good attempt at an answer and then he'll say, "You know, if you really want to know more about this, you should go see Wild Man." And the Surplus is the best place to learn about that battle.

Also, he is, appearance aside, a delightful person to meet. He was very polite in my interaction with him today. My transaction was interrupted by a telephone call, a company trying to offer him a credit card. The side of the conversation I was privy to went something like "Well, I'm trying to get to lunch and trying to help a customer...how much money we talkin' about? $100,000? I've got more money than that in my pocket right now." I had to laugh. And then when he returned, apologetically, to me he accepted cash. Cards are worthless in Wild Man's, he figured the total on an old adding machine and presented me with a hand-written receipt from his carbon copy pad.

But it's more than that. To me he represents a microcosm of the South. There's some things that I don't agree with but I see a lot of good there as well. And much of the bad needs to be remembered. We cannot purge every drop of "offensive" history from our society. We have to know where we've come from if we want to move forward.

I also want to judge people on the whole. Not just on the negative aspect I see. The truth is, Wild Man is open about his opinions. His faults and wrongs are laid out on display, much like the Confederacy's. But what about my faults? What about yours? What prejudices do we hide? What fears haunt us? What do we conceal within us that we'd be ashamed for anyone else to know? Are we honest with ourselves about it?

When we look back on The War the North had it share of atrocities - Camp Douglas, "Hellmira", Sherman's March to the Sea, Lincoln's true intentions about slavery, the suspension of the Constitution, all these swept under the rug or even justified because of the behemoth sin of the Confederacy.

That sounds more like the rest of us. "I thank you Lord that I'm not like that Wild Man."

And then I looked at him today. I saw an old man. A man whose remaining years are getting fewer by the day. All that knowledge, the humor, the carbon copy pad and the faults will die with him. Some kid will move in, open a skateboard shop and...

See? There I go again. "God be merciful to me, a sinner."

Confederate History Month. Take the good with the bad.

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

Rust

So there's this truck. I can only imagine the stories it could tell or that old men could tell about it.

I'm not currently privvy to any of those tales so I'll just cue up the Mississippi John Hurt station on my Pandora app and hash out some thoughts that struck me when I saw this truck earlier this week.

For me, the past is a passion. If you know me or have read my writing at all you know this. There's something about an old house, a crumbling cotton mill or an old truck. Then thre are the people that knew these as "home", "job" or "transportation". And then they have the stories of what made these things great.

Every day we lose history to the wrecking ball, to Alzheimers, to the Death Angel

And so sits the truck.

It isn't in any shape to serve its intended purpose. Even with meticulous maintenance and up keep, it just wouldn't be capable of filling the role it was intended to serve. There are bigger, more powerful, faster models now. It would be difficult and expensive to even find replacement parts for the old pumper. You can't exactly run down to Napa and pick up a transmission linkage for a 1950 Mack.

But you have to admit, the ol' gal has something that these new models just can't match. Those new trucks are red because models like this one were first. Those running boards carried men long before enclosed jump seats and seat belts. The open top was the tradition before air conditioning became standard. Then there's the details, many no longer visible or even present. that made her beautiful. Class. Grace. Style.

But she's just an old assemblage of metal parts, no longer useful. She might as well be in a scrapyard somewhere.

Or maybe a nursing home?

What?

I made a little transition there. It was intentional. I'm not trying to place a moral equivalence on a rusting fire engine and an elderly person in a home. Although many in our society have no problem whatsoever doing exactly that. On some level, I've been guilty of this myself.

Think about it. Not able to fill the old role, not quite as physically impressive as before, well versed in the old ways, a little sketchy on the new-fangled stuff, still has hints of the class and charm of the past but might have a few parts missing.

Ever known anyone like that?

I could make a list of such people that I wish I could tell me a few stories. But they can't. They'd understand how to ease through this "economic downturn". They'd probably laugh at it and tell us that they called it "Wednesday" because a man that walked miles to work did so because there was a job in the midst of a depression and even if the government was handing out checks, he had too much dignity to take one.

My how times have changed.

They could tell us about garden fresh vegetables and ration stamps. They were recycling materials for the war effort and turning in Coke bottles for the deposit before Al Gore was an inconvenient truth. They knew hard times and how to get by...and how to make sure their kids and grandkids wouldn't know times like that.

And we fouled that up.

Those old people used trucks like this one to make the world a better place. How many of us are here because someone used this old truck to save the life of a father, grandfather, great-grandfather? How many of us are here because a forgotten or neglected old man or woman was a doctor, a nurse, a teacher, a soldier, a fireman, a musician, a cotton mill worker, a banker...well...you get what I'm saying.

Sometimes a rusty old truck isn't just a rusty old truck. Sometimes it's more. Same goes for that grumpy old man down the road. A lot of things can make a man grouchy. I've learned that sometimes its the weather in places like Bastogne, Chosin or the Mekong Delta. Sometimes it's the view from the scenic Winecoff Hotel or a stroll through the Cocoanut Grove.

You don't have to restore the old truck and drive it down the road. Old trucks and old people both pass on. That's the natural order of things. Time moves on. But as it does, give that old rusty truck a second thought or at least the benefit of the doubt. There's a good chance that it deserves it.