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Ancestors. All of us have them or should. Some are phenomenal in strength of
character, some are disreputable, and all are interesting. Here in the South we
honor our forebears through oral family histories, the written word, manicured
graveyards, statues, and hand-me-down artifacts and antiques. We revel in the
past, whisper among ourselves about the dastardly so and so, and glory in those
that came before us. No
doubt all of you have heard someone say, “Why, don’t you know? He was related to ____: but it wouldn’t do for everyone to
know that."
Or the famous words “Why, his daddy would just roll over in
his grave if he knew what he’s gone and done!"
Or maybe the phrase
“Oh, my! If only THEY (reference to the family past) could see what he’s
become."
As Southerners, we all agree that there is no better land
under the sun and that no freedom fight was as just as The Cause. We also
acknowledge a very close affinity with those honored dead that served our
Confederacy and gave their very last breath here on this earth for its
preservation. Each family has a family memorial hanging on the wall, over the
mantle, on a bookshelf or what-not stand, or just in a drawer preserving a
keepsake from an honored forbearer who shouldered a musket in defense of his
native soil.
The Daughters of the Confederacy, these Grande dames of
yore, still monitor the culture of small Southern communities and the
new-growth larger cities of the New South. So do the Sons of Confederate Veterans. There is nothing
that stirs the hot blood of Southerners as much as the bringing of the colors
of the Confederate States of America to the forefront of a formal gathering
accompanied by bagpipers playing the Bonnie Blue Flag or Dixie. Immediately,
the members of such a gathering are on their feet, facing the flag, throats
tensed, ready to sound the stirring Rebel Yell at the conclusion of the anthem.
Dyed in the wool, homebred Southrons still clear their
throat at the mention of Cump Sherman’s name and loud harrumphs will resound if
the name is used in public. Praise of ancestors usually re-enters a
conversation right about here and the listener is usually informed informally
“During the War my Great-grandfather rode with Wade Hampton… or marched to
Gettysburg with General Lee… or sailed with Admiral Semmes.
Turncoats and Unionists are never mentioned in public, just
whispered about in family gatherings while the older folks look furtively over
their shoulders to see if anyone has overheard the conversation. Some things
and certain ancestors are best kept quite, you know, in the family. Never the
less, it won’t do for anyone to slur them outside of the family. Kins kin,
don’tcha know? Well, now you do.
Years ago, in the mountains, the grownups would let us kids
sit around the fire in the parlor after supper and the dishes were done. This
was part of the Southern Mountain up-bringing… the exposure of kids to adults.
We could listen to the tales, we could plead for more of the story, but we
couldn’t comment….sometimes we might get away with a simple “Why?" And
sometimes there would be an explanation if known, but most of the time just the
answer… "seemed right to him at the time."
The fireplace was large, something over five feet wide, and
made of flat river rock blackened by a century of use. Blacksmith forged
andirons allowed for a good draft that caused a fire to roar and the mixture of
oak and popular woods caused sparks to crackle and spurt up the chimney. The grownups got to set close to the
roaring flames, leaning back in their split cane and hickory chairs. Then came
us kids, setting cross-legged on the floor with the more favored edging in
between the balanced chairs to hear the stories better. The flickering lights
cast by the fire highlighted the craggy features of the elder adults and
increased the suspense of the ancestor stories. Sometimes, as if on cue, one of
the blue-tick hounds outside would howl, mournfully, causing the chills to
travel up and down young spines.
The oral histories recited and tales told might drift back
centuries to the old homes in Scotland with commentary about Bonnie Prince
Charley and the No Name Clan.
An elder’s comment might jump the stories forward to tales of Daniel and
Becky Boone or Lewis Wetzel and the villainous Simon Girty. Another jump through time and history
and we came face to face with the nightriders and their women during the Civil
War. Stories of their atrocious
deeds against the community and the South’s Cause struck fear in our young
hearts and we edged closer to the circle of grownups, seeking solace in the
warmth of the fire and the closeness of age. Then came the stirring part of the story where
Great-granddad and the enterprising young Confederate Lieutenant led a band of
militia against these villains holed up in their mountain stronghold and
riddled their evil bodies with musket balls.
And poor old Great Aunt Maude… who loved a young Confederate
soldier who perished on the way home after the surrender. Some say a mountain cat ate her beau.
Never the less. Maude never married.
She wore his locket around her neck until the day she died... single, a
spinster, in mourning for her lost love. This part always made the girl cousins sniffle,
don’tcha know….
And Grandmamma, meeting Teddy Roosevelt when he came to
campaign in the mountains cause she was the prettiest girl in the valley.
Someone always mentioned Great-Great uncle Zeb. Zeb stabbed another valley youth at a barn raising. Seems
that the argument was over a girl favored by both. Zeb, thinking he had killed
his antagonist, hung a sign that read GTT on his cabin door and lit out for
Texas. He got there just in time to fight at San Juancito under Sam Houston. A
grateful Texas government gave all the San Juancito survivors, including Zeb,
huge land tracts in honor of their valor. Zeb, being so valorous, gambled and
drank his away. He died never knowing that the land that he lost later would
become the Spindle Top oil fields.
By this time, it’d be full dark outside, quiet like, and
usually, if it got quiet around the fire, well, Aunt Dora and Uncle Cliff would
get their guitar down, snuggle up so that they could harmonize better, and
maybe sing an old song or a ballad or two….and the words would drift through
the air, captured in our minds eye along with the visions of our ancestors….
"The scaffold
was high and eternity near
She stood in
the crowd but shed not a tear
But sometimes
at night when the cold winds moan
In a long
black veil, she cries all alone
She walks
these hills in a long black veil…."
And a dog would howl outside and
us kids would shiver!
Or they might sing something
more stirring.
“One hundred
and eighty were challenged by Travis to die
by the line that he drew in the
sand when the battle was nigh
Remember my
dearest my darling by dying if Texas is sovereign and free,
We’ll never
surrender and ever will Liberty be.
High up,
Santa Anna, we’re killing your soldiers below,
So the rest
of Texas will know
And Remember
the Alamo, remember the Alamo."
Could be that as Southerners who cherish our ancestry, we
may be on to something.
There’s lots of fun in searching out family histories. You meet some
pretty nice folks and realize that all of those that came before were just
surviving in the land and playing the cards that were dealt them. Our
forefathers were just like us, working, loving, living and they made history.
So will we as time passes and we take our places among the ghosts of the past…
ancestors to those who come later… wondering… what where my kinfolks like.
Today, I watched a younger member of our family learn about
the honesty of democracy. She joined me at our polling place. There, along with
dozens of other adults and children, she stepped into her future by exercising
the most basic and simple task of freedom; the right to choose one’s leaders,
the right to choose one’s future by voting. She is six, inquisitive and
informed. She is part of the
vision of America, she exemplifies that for which so many of our ancestors gave
their lives, LIBERTY!
Take heart. There is a tomorrow, there is a future, there is
freedom as long as we instill the values of our forefathers in our
children. |
