On Decoration Day, From the Archives

From the Archives: this post appeared on a past Memorial Day but its message is still relevant so I thought it was worth another round.

Shades of Gray on Decoration Day

By Sam Burnham

So it's been a while. 


The Spring has been busy and loaded with events, travels, a few disasters and the trappings of everyday life. In the words of a hero, "so it goes". 

Mentioning such a hero is a fitting way to start this entry as heroes are what make this weekend possible. For that matter, they make most everything possible. And so we set out to place men and women on tall pedestals and revere them for great works that they have done. Such great men and women walk on a plain above us. They are not susceptible to error or wrongdoing.. And if we find them guilty of wrong, we drag them from their pedestal and cast them from the ranks of demigods, back to a life as a lowly commoner...perhaps even a criminal. I won't even enter into the examples of this from the ranks of American celebrities that we drag out until they become cliche.

One of my journeys this spring carried me to a rural patch of land on the Tennessee River, where the states of Tennessee, Alabama and Mississippi all meet up. In places, it is so desolate that a man will stop and ask for directions. And so I did. 

Oh, I was on the right road, the lady reassured me of that. I needed to only drive a few miles until I saw the "kwairy" which, incidentally is a hole in the ground from which rock is harvested. The lady was not the best speaker in the world, had obviously seen better days...if not years. But in that moment, she was a hero to me. She was a friendly source of practical knowledge along a poorly marked road. She probably had no advanced education of the significance of my destination, but she knew where it was and how I could find it. She saved my morning.

And so we finally found the location of Pittsburg Landing. Better known to American History as Shiloh

My son and I walked through a cemetery filled with fallen Union soldiers. We saw the  "trenches", mass graves filled with the Confederate dead. We walked around Bloody Pond, where the wounded of both armies turned the still water red.

I was almost brought to tears when we walked from the monument where Albert Sidney Johnston was shot to the the small ditch where he was carried to die. It was so far from his native Texas. He had left the US Army at 58 years old. He had been a hero in previous wars. At Shiloh, he fought his last. 

In the midst of the Union Cemetery is a marker for the location of Grant's Headquarters. We also saw sites that were significant to Sherman's involvement. There was the location of Fallen Timbers, where Forrest was nearly killed but instead elevated himself to legend status. 

And my mind comes back to the trenches. Family members requested safety to bury their dead. But Grant had already buried them in the trenches due to the heat of the day. And so, the mass of Confederate dead lie unmarked. Known only to God.

Heroes and villains....depending on who you talk to.

And as I shared such important time with my son, teaching him and learning with him - even learning some from him, I wondered to myself what it all meant. It can be a humbling thing to stand in such a place and have an eleven-year-old boy in a blue kepi ask you who the good guys were. I wanted to just make it short and answer "yes and no". But I knew that answer was not good enough for him. Or for me.

So, for months I have thought about it. Other events have played a role and I've come to realize that a war that is often painted, quite literally, so black and white is just not that simple. And when I look at my personal heroes, they aren't that simple. And then I have to look inside myself for the Grace to grant these people the right to maintain their humanity while still remaining heroes - the Grace to live in the mores and standards of their day - the Grace to make mistakes but still be great.

And so I hold my nose for an ATBIG first. I have to share a quote by the monster and war criminal William T. Sherman: "General Grant is a great general. I know him well. He stood by me when I was crazy, and I stood by him when he was drunk; and now, sir, we stand by each other always." 

Loyalty born of Grace and a common struggle. I'd be hypocritical to recognize the evils of these two men and somehow pretend I am above them. I'd be in the wrong if I denied them the ability to be heroes to someone and pretend that everyone holds the same opinion of me that my children do. Because "hero" is a tricky word and can find itself on the oddest labels. And evils, both real and imagined, can cloud our judgement towards people, allowing us to skew their stories. 

So, on the Decoration Day (the original name of Memorial Day) weekend, while swimming, eating and drinking, take time to remember heroes from all shades of gray that lie in graves and trenches while we party. Remember those that lie in graves and trenches so we can party. And, please grant Grace to those heroes. Someone, somewhere believes in them.

Fan Fiasco

By Sam Burnham

So it's warm outside. That's Georgia in May. It's not a big deal as long as you're used to it and know what to do about it.

So I made a gallon of sweet tea, vacuumed out all the returns on the trusty A/C unit and turned on some fans...

Great. My oldest son's box fan wasn't working. A short? It wouldn't be fashionable for me to have to call the local fire department for a myriad of reasons. So, being thrifty (my coworkers prefer "tightwad") I decided to fix the fan. 

It was a simple task, actually. I found a few loose wires. No problem at all...at least not until the cheap plastic on the switch housing made a crunching noise that made colorful vocabulary words build up on my tonsils. I didn't let them get past my uvula. (That's the dangly thing that hangs down in the back of your throat. I've been told mine rattles at night, creating a sound that makes colorful vocabulary words build up on my wife's tonsils but I've never been awake to prove it.) I knew the fan was kaput.

My wife needed gas in her car anyway so I made an outing of it. A fill up and a trip to the neighborhood discount store. 

It's not a big place and you'd assume something the size of a household box fan would be easy to find...but it ain't.

I found some tools. A ladder. Home pregnancy tests. Macaroni and cheese. A doggie bed. A floor lamp. Kitty litter. Cleaning supplies. Etc.

I was leaving an aisle of adult diapers, headed towards the DVD players when I encountered a man explaining to his children, "women have the best deodorant." When they questioned his assertion he continued, "It's true. 75% of all male prisoners that are locked up request women's deodorant over men's because it lasts longer." I wondered for a second how he knew such a thing. Then there was the validity of his sample. Sort of gives a whole new meaning to "control group".

What ever happened to "4 out of 5 doctors" or "Choosy moms"?

You can't make this stuff up. 

I made another lap around the gift cards. I knew the gig was up. I was going to have to ask for help. So I saw a man shelving light bulbs. Yes! Help is here.

I'm not trying to talk bad about a man trying to put in an honest day of work but my newfound friend probably doesn't speak English at home. And "box fan" got lost somewhere in translation. I made  a circular motion with my arm and he appeared to become more confident with his understanding of my request. He walked off his aisle and pointed, directing me towards "the corner". 

I reverted back to my worried state vis-a-vis his understanding of "box fan". That corner houses night gowns, pantyhose, women's shoes, and underwear. I hesitate to use the term "lingerie". In this particular establishment it's probably more like "lawn-jar-ay".

But then I saw them. Perched on a high shelf was a row that looked to be three deep. Two different styles of ceiling fans and two different styles of box fans. The box fans seemed to be emitting a golden aura that beckoned to me like The Grail to Gallahad.

I thanked my retail Sherpa and meandered through the muumuus and house shoes until I stood beneath the fans...and directly in front of a peg loaded down with lime green thongs, complete with hot pink trim. There were some black lace boy shorts that didn't appear to fit anyone in the building, including the deodorant researcher. 

I'm honestly trying to decide on a fan. So seeing that there are two, I grab one of each and hastily scurried for the door. I paid a very friendly lady for the fans and then headed out the front door, hopefully toward easier to locate goals.

My wife explained that the combination might have something to do with "the change". I'm skeptical about that but I am wondering if Victoria's Secret carries box fans.

Up the Paddle Without a River.

By Sam Burnham

I've never been what you call an "environmentalist". I want to get that out at the onset of this post. This entry is coming from the same Antifederalist Libertarian that believes private property rights and free enterprise to be the core of American values.

Just so you don't think I've lost my compass.

But I'm an outdoor sort of guy. I've hiked the trails of several states. Under the direction of my uncles I did my part to protect the lakes of Central Florida from being overrun by warmouth and speckled perch. I've worked on trail maintenance for both hiking and mountan biking in protected wildland areas. I tried my hand (and foot, back and possibly even my head) at mountain biking. I've even tallied an impressively mediocre one (1) specie on the North American Wild Turkey Grand Slam. Oh, and I've done some really good reading in a deer stand...

So I do have this thing for nature.

So lets talk about it for a spell. A few stories.

First off, let's go back to high school. I don't really know how you feel about those days but I can say I had some exceptional science teachers. They got me involved in some conservation and ecology work. I got to do some work in the field. And I could see the benefit of a group like The Nature Conservancy.

Fast forward a few years. I'm out of college, married, a father of two and well into my career. I can still see the scenery as we drove past the tree buffer zone of the local landfill and I heard one of the men I respect the most say, "that right there used to be some of the finest hunting property in this county" as he pointed off in the direction of the trash heap - constantly shifted about by bulldozers.

Something clicked. "Habitat" was no longer a theory. It wasn't some abstract idea of a random hippie. That hunting property was screwed up right that minute.

And thus was born a recycler. If it comes in my house and its plastic, cardboard, paper or aluminum, it's sorted and recycled. I don't typically recycle glass but that's mostly because someone told me that every time you throw a glass bottle away, Al Gore gets heartburn. I don't know if that's true but it's too good to not at least try. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Right?

And then about a year ago, I'm reading one of my favorite blogs, "Vanishing South Georgia" by Brian Brown. It's an excellent blog covering the parts of Old Georgia that are slipping into history. Old houses, cemeteries, stores, barns, etc are recalled mostly through the gifted photography of Mr. Brown himself. (If you're curious, there's a link over there ---->)

But on this day there was more text than usual. The photos in this particular entry were shocking to me. It was eye-opening to behold the pollution on the Altamaha River. The purpose of the entry was to document the efforts of Paddle Georgia kayaking a stretch of the river near industry. Seeing the minuscule flotilla passing lakes of...well...what is that color? It's still shocking.

And then the photographer turned this writer's table over. "It’s strange to me how when I was growing up, Southerners made fun of the Rust Belt cities up north for not caring about their resources and for being such bad stewards of God’s earth." His words bit hard. I could have shrugged them off easy enough...if only they weren't so true,

It was in that moment that I realized the imminent threat to the most Southern thing of all. Not the barns, not the grand houses or churches or monuments. What was at risk was the land itself.

I wanted to cry.

For centuries Southerners (long before there were United States or even American colonies) have raised crops out of this earth, harvested animals that thrived on its bounty, drank the water of the rivers, lakes and streams. The society itself was dependent on the many incarnations of agriculture - each of which are dependent on the habitat we call the South. If the land did well, we did well. If the water did well, we did well.

And then to think of the Federal EPA...how is it that we find ourselves taking land, water and air conservation instructions from the very entity that gave us Reconstruction, the Industrial Model and Sherman's March to the Sea?

But that's the boat we find ourselves in.

So that's where I've arrived. That's why I value the conservation education that my children have received. That's why I take an active role in adding to it. That's why I'm willing to support the work of some environmental groups. I don't support conservation because the government says we should, I support it in spite of what Washington says. I support real, proven methods of protecting the land and water and air - not the ever-changing silliness dreamed up by bureaucrats trying to justify their salary.

 I sit here as a man that refuses to fall for the aforementioned Mr. Gore's "truth", inconvenient or otherwise. But I also know that if anyone anywhere cares about the condition of this land it ought to be good ol' God-fearing, farming, fishing, hunting, hiking, biking, paddling, porch-sitting Southerners. If there is a way to make this land produce energy or other resources without spoiling the habitat, shouldn't it be Southerners? If someone is going to make sure that there are places to hunt, hike, fish, bike or farm, shouldn't it be Southerners?

Because if we lose the South itself then we've flat out failed at being Southerners.