"...Under the Shade of the Trees"

By Sam Burnham

The title "General" has a way of stirring up extravagant mental images. Paintings of Napoleon, garments flowing in the breeze as he points the way to glory. George Washington remaining dignified, even in the humility of his Valley Forge prayer. Eisenhower, reviewing the troops as the prepared for D-Day.

And then there's General Jackson.

His mama named him Thomas Jonathan but destiny named him "Stonewall". Dressed in his tattered blue US issue jacket and sitting on a horse that most agreed was at least a bit too small, he was hardly the visual stirred by his title.. His VMI cadets believed him to be eccentric, if not insane. This was due to quirky behavior such as his belief that black pepper caused him to suffer leg pain. He also thought one arm to be longer than the other and held "the longer one" above his head to balance his circulation. There are modern mental health professionals that hypothesize that Jackson suffered from Aspergers Syndrome.

Despite his ailments and peculiarities he was riding an impressive string of victories when he was cut down by friendly fire while returning to camp from a scouting excursion. It seems his trademark blue coat might have been his undoing. Many historians, including myself, believe this to be the turning point in the war. The North couldn't stop him and the South was never the same without him.

But besides the war, besides the general, Jackson was a man. His love for his wife is evident in letters that survive to this day. His young daughter likely held few, if any, memories of her father,having losst him so young. He was revered by the slaves and free blacks that he dedicated his talent and his treasure to educate. His men grew to love him and he achieved legend status even before his death.

He was a man of devout faith and devotion to his home state who loved his family and led his armies well.

On May 10, 1863, after suffering pneumonia following his wounding, he made the suggestion "Let us cross over the river, and rest under the shade of the trees." And then he did exactly that.

Lieutenant General Thomas Jonathan "Stonewall" Jackson, forever 39 years-old, might not have held the same image as a painting of Napoleon but no one can deny he left an indelible mark on the South. His legend still stands like a stone wall , devouring lemons and holding that long arm high, keeping his circulation even while he himself pumps the life blood of Dixie.

Thomas Jonathan "Stonewall" Jackson,

January 21, 1824 - May 10, 1863

Bread Crumbs

By Leigha Burnham

I'm very proud to present this 'guest article' by my favorite Southern Belle. In addition to being a great wife and mother she is also recognized by two fine institutions known for educating educators. Having taught literature, language and writing she now spends her days among stacks and stacks of books, out of the formal classroom setting but still inspiring young minds and introducing them to reading, writing and ideas. This particular batch of biscuits is hers....

On a recent trip to my mother's house, I was sharing a meal with my mom and my niece. Mother and I were trying to tell my niece about our Grandmother Edna and her skill as a Southern cook. As we talked about fried chicken and mayonnaise rolls, the memories came flooding back.

For those who don't know, we Southerners associate memory with the foods we eat and vice versa. Edna's cooking was a special treat I enjoyed once a week as we visited her and her aging father. Edna was not my biological great-grandmother but had married and been widowed by my great-grandfather Petty years before. I actually never knew him personally, but he came to life for me through stories my mother and Edna shared over our weekly meals.

Communion is not just for church, you know. It is an act very much a part of our Southern experience. So, I want to break bread with all of you - in a virtual-sort-of-way, by sharing a few of the recipes Edna passed on to me in my first recipe box. Each card was typed on a manual typewriter with the same hands that patted the tender dough that made some of the best biscuits in Georgia, not to mention the best fried chicken.

Mayonnaise Rolls:
2 c. self-rising flour
4 tsp. mayonnaise
1 cup sweet milk (Sam note: "sweet milk" means "not buttermilk")
1 tsp. sugar

Mix all ingredients in a bowl for about 2 minutes. Pour into 12 cup muffin pan. Bake at 450 for 10 minutes or until brown.

June's Banana Pudding:
1 c. sugar
1 tbsp cornstarch
1 can condensed milk
3 egg yolks/whites seperated
1 tsp. vanilla

Let cook on low heat until slightly thickened. Pour over vanilla wafers and sliced bananas. Top with egg whites that have been beaten to stiff peaks and brown in a 400 oven. Cool and then refrigerate.

Edna & Malcolm's Buttermilk Chicken - Southern Fried
Skinned chicken - fryer size/clean and dry
2 c. buttermilk
flour
oil

Roll and dip in buttermilk and flour alternately for at least three turns.
Drop into DEEP oil that is hot. Fry until coating is cooked and brown. Inside of ck will not yet be done.
Place on baking sheet in preheated 200 oven for approximately 1 hour.
"Best stuff you've ever had!"

What Does the Song Mean?

By Sam Burnham

Through the magic of the Internet and a college friend I found myself reading another blog last night. It stuck with me. In fact, it has me listening to some old tunes that I can only imagine are just as good as they were 60 or 70 years ago.

Credit where credit is due: http://www.nextavenue.org/blog/why-harry-connick-jr-couldnt-sit-idle-during-idol is the inspiration for this post, with special thanks to Mr. Harry Connick Jr.

So I read the article. I hope you gave it at least a once-over. The article is all I know of what happened. I'm not an "Idol" fan and that comes as no surprise if you have followed this blog for long. I don't sing or play any instrument. I'm the least musically capable person in my home. But I love music. For me it is so emotional...almost otherworldly. It is oh so very important to me. From a Southern perspective, Blues, Jazz, Bluegrass, Southern Rock, Soul and (though I'm not much of a fan) Country are all a part of our culture. It tells our story...often times to us.

That is why I tend to grow frustrated with popular music. It has no soul, at least not one I can detect. Then someone gets after a song, wailing on, trying to impress with something physical and ruins the whole thing. A perfect example is Joan Baez recalling the anguish of Virgil Caine of which she knew nothing...and it showed.

But the philosophy of today is to sing louder, carry a note farther, belt out a note that will wow the audience, after all the show is what matters. Who cares what the song means?

But that philosophy doesn't end with the music. It infiltrates our history, our philosophy, our language, our literature and our religion. Who cares what it means? Meaning is nothing as long as the presentation is awesome!

So I ask, what does the word "love" mean? We love our spouse, our kids, our dog, our favorite sports team, that joke we heard last Thursday.

When one of these modern day crooners belts out "...that our flag was still there..." do you really feel what Mr. Key was feeling as the first rays of light brought Ft. McHenry into the visible spectrum? Do you even know what Ft. McHenry is? A recent poll of Americans seemed to suggest that a large percentage believed that the song was referring to Ft. Sumter.

Really?

After seeing a video of a youth pastor crashing his dirt bike into a church's interior wall while trying to "make an entrance" this morning...well, that sort of speaks for itself.

Why did we fight the Civil War? The Vietnam War? The Revolutionary War? Not the knee-jerk answers. The truth. When our government tells us they are doing something in the name of "freedom"...what does that mean? We love freedom. Except for that guy over there. We don't agree with him so "common sense" dictates we "regulate" his freedom.

Common sense you say? These are indeed the times that try men's souls.

And so to borrow a quote from a friend. We need to define our terms.

Knowing what the "songs" mean helps us to "sing" them the way they were meant to be sung. We don't have to buy into propaganda, advertising or hype. You can recognize a lie when you know the truth. When the sun comes up in the morning, you can know which fort you are looking at. I can love my wife and kids while I show partiality to my Gamecocks and enjoy the joke I heard last Thursday. I can allow my fellow American to exercise a little freedom while I demand to be allowed to exercise my own.

So you have a song to sing. There is an audience waiting. You can sing in the way the establishment tells you so that you can become rich and famous but your song will mean nothing. Or you can sing your heart out and tell the world your story, the true story.

Is your song worth the risk?