'SIL'

        Now, I’ve got me a big ol’ blue, hard-backed book sittin' at home on my bookshelf, what lists all the descendants and ancestors of my 5th-great-grandparents Robert B. Jennings, Sr. and his wife Tabitha (Lockhart) Jennings. And some years back, I came across an entry in it, concerning my great-great-grandfather’s eldest brother, which reads “Sylvanus ‘Sil’ Jennings, by unconfirmed report, served time for killing his son-in-law”.

WOW!! A murderer in OUR family??? Now, THAT was a shock! Why, our whole family’s full of nothing but God-fearin’, Bible-thumpin’ church folks.... generations of Baptist preachers, ministers of music, deacons, and missionaries. Now, who would’ve ever thought something like that? A killer.... in our family!

Well, you know me.... I started diggin', bound and determined to find out more about this man-killer of an uncle of mine. The only problem was, there just wasn’t that much out there on ol’ Uncle Sil.

I first found him in the 1900 Census..... and wouldn’t you know.... listed as an inmate in the Paris City Jail, in Paris, Texas. Well, he obviously done something to get himself locked up for, but what?

A bit more lookin’ and I found him in the 1920 Census, as well. Only now, he was 75-years-old and living with a brother, in Chickasaw County, Mississippi. Not only that, but their youngest brother.... my great-great-grandfather Reuben Alexander ‘Dock’ Jennings and his wife were living just two doors down from them. And lo and behold, living in the house between them was Dock’s son.... my great-grandfather Lonnie B. Jennings and his family. Well, now, that set me to wondering if any of my aunts or uncles might know anything about dear old Uncle Sil.

My Aunt Helen

So, the next time my Aunt Helen, the eldest of my Daddy’s brothers and sisters, was up for a visit, I asked if she remembered ever hearing about Pa Jennings’ Uncle Sylvanus. She didn’t. But when I mentioned that he usually went by ‘Sil’, instead of Sylvanus.... now, that name did ring a bell.

        She said that when my Uncle Glen was born, her Daddy... my Papaw Jennings, had wanted to name the baby Sil, and that Mother.... my Mamaw, would not hear of it; not at all. Now, you had to know my Mamaw and Papaw Jennings. Theirs was a traditional marriage of the time. He was the head of the family, and she was the quiet, obedient wife and mother of their children. What he said went; no arguments, decision final. On this occasion, though, Mamaw put her foot down. Aunt Helen said that it was the only time she knew of her Mother and Daddy ever having a disagreement, let alone an argument, but that her Mother refused to allow their son to be named 'Sil'. Aunt Helen also remembered that Papaw, who was always a big cut-up, would, from time to time, refer to Uncle Glen as 'Sil' just to get Mamaw's goat.

My Uncle Glen

According to Uncle Glen, though, he'd always been told that the reason Papaw called him 'Sil' was because he'd been hit on the head by a windowsill as a baby.

When I told Aunt Helen about Sil supposedly having been a killer, though, she herself said that that would've been reason enough for Mamaw to be so against the name Sil for a son of theirs.

I'm thinking that that explanation seems much more likely than the one about a brand-new baby getting hit in the head by a heavy wooden windowsill and surviving.

And so, with that began my quest to find out all I could in regards to my great-great-great-uncle Sil.... to write as much of his life story as I could find out about. Below is a condensed version of what I've come up with, so far.

The eldest of Robert and Mary Amanda (Faulkner) Jennings' 7-sons, Sylvanus C. Jennings was born in Chickasaw County, Mississippi, in 1844. At the start of the Civil War, he was 17-years-old, and as of yet, I've found no record of his having served on either side during the conflict, which is really quite hard to believe.

Typical of his station and time, Sil was a farmer by trade, as his father and his father's father had been before him. He married at age 24, and the next decade-plus saw both his family and finances slowly grow.

Then in 1882, Sil and his wife Eliza lost their 4-year-old daughter Susan, from which Eliza never fully recovered. 2-years later, Sil was a 40-year-old widower left with 3-young children to care for. His first marriage had lasted 17-years.

Later that year, he married a 38-year-old spinster named Josephine Mixon, and soon after picked up and moved his family to Texas, in search of better opportunities. This union lasted 9-years before they parted ways, and Josephine returned, with their son, to Mississippi.

And, now, to the meat & potatoes of this here tale....

The year was 1897, and his children by his first marriage were all grown-up. Sil had recently moved to Tigertown, Texas, where he took work as a farm laborer on the farm of one Andrew Jackson Wiggins, Sr.

Now.... A.J. Wiggins was a prosperous farmer and businessman, known to carry large sums of money on his person. And then, one day in late November, whilst he was hiding some of his money out back of the barn, A.J. was suddenly hit across the back of the head and knocked unconscious.

His family found him laying where he fell, still out cold and badly injured. Wiggins was taken to the house, where he later came to for a bit. And, he did talk some, but never did say who attacked him. The family believed the motive for the assault was robbery, and their prime suspect was Sil.

5-days shy of his 71st birthday, on December the 2nd, 1897, A.J. Wiggins died from his injury, and not long after that, his 46-year-old widow Eliza shocked the family by marrying Sylvanus C. Jennings, who had started coming around the house while Wiggins was bedridden.

I’m sure you can imagine how that went over with the rest of the Wiggins Family, and Sil didn’t help matters none by forbidding any of them to come around. Tensions between Sil and his wife’s family steadily increased, until in November of 1898, Eliza's 20-year-old half-breed son David, angry over it all, came to the old home place to confront Sil. The two men got into an argument over Eliza. David accused Sil of killing his father. An altercation ensued, and afterwards, threats were made. As David mounted his horse to leave, Sil shot him. Young David Wiggins died as a result of that bullet wound, and hence.... we have a murderer in the family.

After the death of her son, Eliza divorced ol' Sil. A grand jury brought charges against him for murder, and he was promptly arrested. He pled not guilty, but eventually was convicted of Murder in the 2nd Degree, for which he was sentenced to 5-years in the state penitentiary.

Now, folks.... the Texas Prison System of the early 1900’s was brutal enough on those who chose to ‘make no waves’ and quietly ‘do their time’. Sil, however, was no model prisoner; being punished for at least one act of Mutiny while a convict at the Durovant Prison Farm. And punishment in that time and place usually involved flogging with a leather strap. Still, he was able to complete his sentence, and gain his release in November of 1905.

A few years after getting out of prison, Sil married for a 4th and final time. This wife, though, was much younger than he, being 25-years his junior; and it wasn't very long before they, too, went their separate ways.

The Lonnie B. Jennings Family (1912)
(Lamar is the boy on the left)

By January of 1920, penniless, hard of hearing, and getting on up there in age, Sil was back in Chickasaw County, Mississippi, living with his brother John O. and his family. And right next door to them lived 12-year-old Lamar Jennings.... my grandfather. 

        Now, it don't appear that Sil and the boy were around one another for too terribly long a period of time, seeing how Sil passed on later that same year. But it’s obvious that the old man made a memorable impression on the lad. If he hadn't have, then why else would he have later wanted to name a son after him?

        Think about it.... a ‘new’ uncle from ‘out west’ telling wild tales from his storied and checkered past. What young boy wouldn't have been fascinated? 'Killer' or not, I would’ve been! Well.... I guess I actually was.... enough so's that I researched and wrote this short piece on him.

Oh, well.... Congratulations, Uncle Sil, you’re now immortal*.... at least as far as our family’s history is concerned.

* - The information I've gathered on the life of Sylvanus C. Jennings has since been added to my copy of the 'big blue Jennings book' for future generations of my family to someday read.

‘TIL DEATH DO US PART’

SSgt. Lelton H. Pittman, U.S. Army - WWII

            Were they still living, yesterday would have been my grandparents’ ’ 75^th wedding anniversary. Childhood friends, they were both dating other people when he joined the Army, in March of 1943. A year later, while he was back home on emergency leave for his grandmother’s funeral, they saw each other briefly at the service. They each knew that the other had recently broken up with their boyfriend/girlfriend. He asked if he could write her, and she said yes. And then he was back aboard a train headed back to California to finish his training, and then on to the South Pacific to fight the Japanese.

Margaret Clay

        Through their letters, a relationship blossomed, but then.... he’d tell you he had always been head-over-heels for her. By Christmas, he attempted to propose to her in one of his letters, repeatedly saying he had ‘a very important question to ask her’. Finally, on the last line, he chickened out, asking instead ‘did she believe in Santa Claus’? He did follow through in the next letter, and, of course, she said ‘yes’.... but he never quite lived that one down.

        As he was on New Guinea, at that time, he sent money for his parents to go pick out an engagement ring for him and take it to her. Throughout 1945, he was ‘in the thick of it’ overseas, and she was busy teaching school on an emergency teaching certificate; yet they continued to write one another every chance they got. And then suddenly, the War was over.

The week he was mustered out of the Army, his Daddy took the truck down to Birmingham to pick him up, as it was snowing so bad that the buses couldn’t risk the icy road conditions of North Alabama.  She said that they’d honked the horn three times as they passed by her house just so she’d know that they’d made it back safe. Mamaw was a worrier. Over the next week, the young couple had the only ‘dates’ they ever had before their wedding, which consisted of them sitting, surrounded by her many younger siblings, and visiting at her parents’ house each evening.

Our Beloved Mamaw

            That next Wednesday, less than a week after his return home, they stood in his parents' living room and were married.  A second snowstorm had hit the area, again making the roads practically impassable, requiring that his father go out on the tractor to bring the preacher to the house for the ceremony.

They were married for 52-years when the Good Lord called my Papaw home, in February of 1999. Mamaw would live another dozen years without him, but she never stopped missing him or loving him.

Ask any of the family what they remember most about our Mamaw and Papaw and they’ll most likely tell you it was how the two of them constantly bickered and fussed with one another about almost anything and everything imaginable. At times, it was plumb exasperating, and at others, absolutely hilarious.

Our Wonderful Papaw

            As a matter of fact, the two of them once went back and forth during a conversation, in regards to a specific length of time. Mamaw said ’18-months’, and Papaw corrected her, saying ‘no, it was a year and a half’. This went on for several, several minutes, until my Momma finally interrupted them to point out to Mamaw that a year and a half WAS 18-months. Mamaw blustered, and Papaw just grinned with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. He loved to ‘get her goat’, and she was bound and determined that he wasn’t ‘always right’. Still.... that they loved one another was obvious. Who knows.... maybe the bickering banter was their ‘love language’.

Regardless, they were shining examples to their children and grandchildren of what devotion to one's spouse should be. They never gave up on one another, and the result was a partner for life. She never 'wanted' for a thing, and he was provided for like a 'king'.

 

‘IT’S TIME FOR A 2ND REVOLUTION, YOU SAY?’

 

    The usually-quiet American majority are angry over election fraud, government overreach, and the near-constant attacks on their American way of life. They are fed up, and many are now openly discussing armed conflict with their government. Many of our brothers and sisters, friends, family, neighbors and coworkers are actually gearing up and calling for a civil war. Wait. What?! 

    Do they not remember the lessons learned from the last two times America went through that? The first-hand accounts from both the American Revolution (1775-1783) and the American Civil War (1861-1865) are absolutely ghastly. It’s the civilian population that suffers much more during such conflicts than the actual combatants do. Women, children, and the elderly suffer starvation and homelessness, as well as atrocities physically committed against their persons. Does not the prospect of your little son or baby girl going hungry for want of food, or the probability of your wife or girlfriend, mother or sister being abused and molested, give you pause? “It’s the 21st Century, you say, stuff like that doesn’t happen anymore.” Bull hockey. It can. It will. And it most certainly does still happen. A civil war is anything but civil, and it’s fought amongst your homes and places of business, with your loved ones constantly in danger. Indiscriminate gunfire and IED’s kill and maim civilians as easily as they do warriors.

    During the American Civil War alone, we suffered over 450,000 non-combatant casualties, or 2.1% of the total population of the U.S. at that time. 2.1% of today’s population would be more than 6.5 million casualties. Think about that the next time you hold your wife’s hand or kiss your kids good night.

    Mostly armed with customized AR-15’s, 1911’s, and Glocks galore, not to mention a plethora of hunting rifles and shotguns, and a beaucoup of stockpiled ammo, the patriots of today clamor for revolt. They’re hardworking, law-abiding citizens frustrated with the powers-that-be and the double standards by which they govern, and they’ve decided that enough is enough. And I get it.... I really do.

    Riddle me this, though. If this great uprising should occur, who do we ‘go after’? Who do we declare ‘the enemy’? If we say ‘the government’, does that mean our local or state officials? Or are we just talking about the Feds? The reason I ask is.... if there’s an armed uprising, then State and local authorities will be expected to respond first. Those State troopers and local law enforcement are our neighbors and kinfolk. Have you seriously thought about what you’re going to do when faced with having to kill your sister’s boy or an old classmate from high school, both of which now wear a badge and is sworn to keep the peace?

    I can hear it now. Some will undoubtedly declare “They’re either with us or they’re against us!” Stop and think about that for a second. We can’t even agree to disagree about college football or which brand of pickup truck is better. Yet, you expect everyone to agree with someone else’s timetable for armed revolt? Not likely, hotrod. So’s you best prepare yourself to have to go up against of a lot of good men and women that are equally determined that civil unrest is NOT the answer, just yet.

For the sake of argument, though, let’s just say State and local doesn’t offer any opposition, and the armed uprising heads to Washington, DC. What then? Can you picture it in your head? Thousands upon thousands of armed men and women descending upon our nation’s capitol, milling about without any clearly defined purpose; no discipline, no organization, no clear leadership. Facing those thousands are, again, equally determined men and women in law enforcement that are not only determined that civil unrest is NOT the answer, but also resentful that all of you have come to threaten their city where their families live. Add to that the hundreds of U.S. soldiers.... Army, Navy, and Marines.... that will be deployed to the city under the Insurrection Act of 1807, along with all of the advanced weaponry that is the United States military.

    Thousands of armed men and women with no discipline, no organization, and no clear leadership, that alone is clearly a recipe for disaster. The sudden wrong action or escalation on the part of one small faction within this crowd can and will doom the entire gathering to an unbelievable response from the forces arrayed against it. I for one wouldn’t want to have to face off against my nephew who’s currently serving as a rifleman or any of his brothers in the United States Marine Corps. That tough young man is a veritable badass; not to mention he carries one helluva grenade launcher.

    Another question.... what will be our objective? “What do you mean what’s our objective, you say? You know good and damn well what the objective is! It’s to stop the government from trampling our God-given rights, you say with obvious disgust.” And just exactly how do you intend to accomplish such a task? You don’t seriously expect a show of force to ‘scare’ those-in-power into doing ‘the right thing’, do you? The lack of clearly defined objectives is precisely how America has failed every major military conflict since World War II. But then, this too should be expected.... no discipline, no organization, no clear leadership.

President Donald J. Trump

    Well, then, let’s address the most fundamental of the three.... the lack of leadership. For with the right leadership, discipline and organization will inherently follow. So.... who will lead us?

    There’s only one person I’ve seen, in my lifetime, that a majority of us ordinary every-day Americans trust enough to gather behind, and that’s President Donald J. Trump. And, let’s be real about it, folks.... that man loves America way too much to allow, let alone encourage, her people to make war on its own government.

    Unless..... unless, the United States government were to openly oppress the American citizenry first, which resulted in a sudden and almost nationwide uprising of its armed populace, organized under some type of State leadership.

    Then.... and only then, could I see him involving himself in some such rebellion, by stepping forward to restore calm and return law and order to this great nation that he so dearly loves.

    Don’t get the wrong idea from all that I’ve just brought up. I’m not a lot different than many of you. I’ll not be put upon by anyone, be it another man or an over oppressive government. And, I have no intention of standing idly by while my rights are taken away, either. I just have no desire to enter into something as momentous as open rebellion without it being an absolute last resort. Should the time come that I have no other choice, then I will follow in my ancestors’ footsteps, take down my rifle, and wage war with a vengeance. A reluctant and reflective warrior I may be, but a warrior none the less.

    Until that time, though, I will vote. I will hound my legislators with hand-written correspondence. And, I will trust that the Good Lord continues to watch over this great nation of ours just as he always has.

 God Bless America!

This quote is as relevant, today, as it was back in 1860:

    “You people of the South don't know what you are doing. This country will be drenched in blood, and God only knows how it will end. It is all folly, madness, a crime against civilization! You people speak so lightly of war; you don't know what you're talking about. War is a terrible thing!“

    - Comments by William Tecumseh Sherman, a soon-to-be General in the Union Army, to Prof. David F. Boyd at the Louisiana State Seminary (24 December 1860)

‘THEY WANTED A FIGHT, SO WE GIVE ‘EM ONE”

          I, Daniel Springer, was one of the two-score-plus men that stood under arms, on Lexington’s green, early that Wednesday morn. It was just comin’ on to daybreak, and the weather was right pleasant for the middle of April. Yet, me stomach growled nevertheless, ready for a cup o' coffee and some eggs, as we'd been been standin' here for more'n an hour, already.

          Some say we were lookin’ for a fight. Well.... maybe some were. I, meself, I’m not one to be ridden roughshod over.... not by anyone. Still, I was a hopin’ that them Reg’lars, seein’ us there and not backing down, would just turn around and go back to Boston-town from whence they came. Man, was I wrong.

          Turns out, them wasn’t reg’lar Lobsterbacks. Them was Grenadiers, the King’s own elite, the toughest of ‘em all. They marched into town, took one look at us and wheeled around to face us, and I’m here to tell ya.... I was scared spit-less. It was obvious that bunch was spoilin’ for a fight.

          Now, I’m a tough man.... a blacksmith, by trade.... and I’ve done me share of fightin’, especially back in me younger days when this was all frontier, with red-heathens skulkin’ about. But this here was different.

          We were simple militia, made up of townsfolk and farmers and such, not professional soldiers. In our minds, we were here more as a show of defiance than anything.

          A red coated officer on a white gelding demanded we lay down our arms and disband, but t’weren’t none of us havin’ any of that. Ain’t nobody layin’ hands on me gun but me.

          Cousin John, Cap’n of our militia, had earlier spoke boldly about “if’n they want a war then let it begin here”, but now.... facing a much larger force than we’d expected, he did the right thing. John give us the order to fall back slowly. We were to retire, but with our weapons, in hand.

          Suddenly, a shot was fired.... from where, I know not; but that surely opened the ball. The Grenadiers fired upon us, and I took out at a run for a low stone wall just behind us.

          Prince, Judge Estabrook’s man, was the first of our number to fall; a bullet in his breast. There were others, too. Several, in fact, lay dead or wounded on the common green. 

          The soldiers advanced, the morning sun now gleaming off fixed bayonets, and Cousin John gave the order to scatter, every man for himself. He and I took to the woods, as did most of the others.

          We found out later that the British sacked our town, ripping it apart in search of weapons and gunpowder that we’d secreted away the night before, thanks to Mr. Revere’s midnight warning.

          From Lexington, the soldiers marched on Concord, where they met more’n a thousand of our neighbors, all loaded for bear.

          In the noontime, we received word that the Reg’lars had taken a lickin’ at Concord and were now marchin’ for Boston-town; and that militia from neighboring towns were attacking all along their line of retreat.

          Not to be left out, we took off for the road between Lincoln and Lexington. There, John positioned us atop the Bluff, overlooking the Boston Road. As the column of Reg'lars come abreast our position, we opened up with our long rifles, droppin’ a red coated officer, as well as, several soldiers.

          They rallied, sending skirmishers to dislodge us from our positions, and we took off into the brush, only to set up further along the road to ambush ‘em again and again. It was hot, mean work, it was. From behind a rock or a tree or some such cover, you take a position and sight down the barrel at one of them red coated buggers, all jammed together, marchin' side-by-side, one right after the other, down the rock-walled lane. You take aim, slowly let out your breath, and squeeze the trigger. Past the gun smoke, you see the effect of your shot, and within half a minute, you've reloaded, ready to do it, again. All the time, takin' care not to get shot, ye'self.

       And that's how it went, all afternoon long. Take three or four shots, then hit the woods runnin', two jumps ahead of the skirmishers; makin' your way further along the road, to set up and do it all over again. I’m tellin’ you, friend, I shot that ol’ squirrel rifle of mine ‘til I was plumb sick of reloadin’ the dang thing.

       But then, they did come a askin' for it. They wanted a fight, so we give ‘em one.... all the way back to Boston-town.

'A VERY GOOD EVENING'

The ride home was as routine and uneventful, as ever; my 12-hour shift of ‘playin’ with the Natives’ was over, thank goodness. Outside my truck window, it was a beautiful spring afternoon, with blue skies, lots of sunshine, and temperatures in the low 70's. I debated going fishing when I got home. The dogwoods and the redbud trees were in full bloom, so I knew the crappie would be biting. I also considered taking the dogs out for a run over at the hatchery, but we'd done that the last two evenings in a row. So, no.... that's not what I really wanted to do. In the end, I decided to spend the evening, sitting outside by a fire, reading a bit and just unwinding after a very hectic day.

It took only a few minutes to change out of my uniform and into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. A few more to get a good fire going in my old tractor wheel fire ring, and then I piled up in a sack chair, with a good book in hand.

I'd just gotten into my reading when a turkey sounded off in the distance. The second time he gobbled, I laid my book down and just listened, a smile on my face. I could picture in my mind that ol’ Tom cautiously making his way down the little cove at the back of the farm, looking for him a girlfriend. I knew that’s where he was, 'cause I'd watched that rascal feed, back there, all throughout hunting season while sitting in my deer stand. I never saw a deer, but I sure saw him, a plenty.

         After a few minutes, my mind turned back to reading, and I, once again, immersed myself in the centuries-old saga of the Welsh Prince Madoc. Presently, I felt my black cat Boy rubbing back and forth against my leg. He didn’t really want to be petted. He just seemed happy to have a bit of company for the evening.



As I continued to read and soak up the last warm rays of sunshine, I could feel the tension in my body slowly evaporating. A calm had befallen me, and an unbelievably wonderful feeling it was.

My Sweet Shrub

The sun was now beginning to set, yet the fire kept the creeping evening chill at bay. Most relaxing of all, though, was the smell of wood smoke; a stress reliever in its own rite.

While getting another stick of wood for the fire, I noticed that the sweet shrub that Kim had given me, last year, already had a bloom on it. That made me very happy. I’m already looking forward to the sweet, fruity fragrance of sweet shrub later this summer.

A Whippoorwill

I marveled at the darkening evening sky, as I sat, listening to the lonesome call of the first Whippoorwill I've heard, this year. As full darkness set in, the heavens filled with brilliantly-lit constellations overhead. Of them all, the ones I knew best were that of the Big Dipper and Polaris, the North Star. The star-studded sky was mesmerizing. With it too dark, now, to read anymore, I was content to sit statue-still by the warm fire, soaking in the peace and quiet.

The fire gradually burned down to glowing red coals. I leaned back in my chair to look up through the still-bare limbs of the surrounding trees, as I watched the flashing lights of high-flying jet airplanes streak across the star-studded night sky. From back behind the house, I could hear an owl hooting, calling out to others of its kind.

Finally, after about nine, I decided to call it a night. As I banked the fire so that it would burn completely out during the night, the coyotes from across the Keeler pasture opened up, pups and all, serenading the waning full moon that was already easing below the western horizon. As threatening to our young calves as they are, I still enjoy hearing their weird, wavering song. It’s just another reminder of the wildness that’s still out there in the dark.

With the chirping of crickets the only sound, now, I inhaled deeply of the wood smoke one last time before heading inside. It had been a good evening, a very good evening.

‘YOU CAN’T WHITEWASH HISTORY’

          All this here hate for the Confederacy bull hockey has done got plumb ridiculous, lately, and I think it’s about time I spoke my piece on the subject.

It was bad enough back when ‘those people’.... and, yes, I am using the same term General Robert E. Lee used when referring to the enemy, and I feel it will suffice as well, today, as it did back then.... let us continue. It was bad enough when ‘those people’ were all going after the Southern States for having the Confederate Battle Flag or similar such Confederate influences incorporated into the designs of their state flags.

Bed-sheeted pinheads

          They insisted that the Confederate Battle Flag stood for nothing more than racism, hatred, and bigotry; a hurtful reminder of the Old South. That.... because white supremacists had flown it before, during, and since segregation.... it was an evil symbol; guilty by association alone. What ‘those people’ forget, though.... or just plain ignore.... is that at every gathering of those bed-sheeted pinheads and rednecks, you will also see, and always have seen, the Star Spangled Banner being flown, as well. So, under that rationale, our beloved United States flag would also be considered a symbol of racism, hatred, and bigotry.

Current Georgia State Flag
& the 1st National Confederate Flag

                       Still, they kept on about it here in Georgia ‘til that bunch down in Atlanta changed ours, not once but twice. As a historian, I can’t help but shake my head in amazement at the final state flag design that ‘those people’ agreed upon. And as a Southerner, I simply smile and softly chuckle. We went from having a state flag with the Rebel flag on it, to a replacement that’s basically the 1^st National Confederate flag with the State seal dead-center of the ring of stars. LOL

Then, when that crazy little Klu-Kluck-wannabe shot them poor folks’ church up, in Charleston, SC, a few years back, ‘those people’ decided that the Battle Flag was to blame for that one idiot’s evil doings. So, the next thing you know, theBottom of Form Governor of South Carolina ordered that the Battle Flag be taken down off’n the State House grounds there. As if that t’weren’t enough, amid all the media-driven hoopla during the time, the U.S. National Park Service took it upon themselves to remove the Confederate Battle Flag from.... of all places....  the Civil War battlefields where it used to fly. Really?? If that old flag belonged anywhere, surely it would have been on the battlefields where it had originated from.

SC State Troopers reverently fold the removed Battle Flag

Did this help bring folks closer to one another in the aftermath of such a heinous tragedy? No, ma’am. No sir. Not, at all. It only rekindled the debate between those for who claim the flag carries hurtful connotations and others for whom it represents family and the land they love.

Now, ‘those people’ are back at it, again.... only they’ve upped the ante a bit. This very week, in Virginia, North Carolina, and also here in Georgia, Confederate statues have been defaced and damaged, and now, there’s what they’re calling a ‘nationwide’ push to erase all mention of Confederates everywhere.

Without an ounce of regard as to how the rest of us feel about the matter, this small minority of the population, with the media as its megaphone, are going after those beautiful granite and marble statues and memorials that were erected long ago to honor the achievements of our Confederate ancestors, saying they, too, invoke racism and are hurtful to people of color, and so, must now come down, removed from public view, erased from history.

'Progressive' protesters tear down and destroy a Confederate monument,
in Durham, NC 

          They march, they protest, they demand. When they don’t get their way, they act as unruly children, pitching a tantrum.... resorting to harassment, destruction, and even violence.... all the while vilifying those that disagree with them, calling them racists, hate mongers, and intolerant.

The Confederate Defenders of Charleston monument, in SC

In doing so, millions of good Southern folks.... some black, some white.... now feel that they’re being deliberately humiliated and made to pay for something that they did not do. It’s nothing less than a cultural purge of the South, something historically associated with tyrannical regimes, such as Nazi Germany did back in World War II, and most recently like ISIS has done in Iraq. Not only is this ‘purge’ wrong, but it’s unworthy of a free nation.

The  Peace Monument, in Atlanta, GA, covered in paint;
               saved from destruction when a lone police officer placed
              himself between the protesters and the monument 

Too immature to recognize the true significance of these memorials to our Nation as a whole, all that these young narcissists seem to be able to focus on are their ‘feelings’, which, in reality, are unfounded and nothing more than how they’ve been told they should feel, by someone else.... most likely a liberal college professor or a social agitator on a FACEBOOK post.

These ‘young progressives’, as they are often referred to, are so callow; so inexperienced in life.... so sure they know all that they need to know about everything.... yet, are so obviously ignorant of our American history, that it makes us older folks somewhat ashamed and sorry for them.

It is said the South seceded to perpetuate slavery.... yet, six slave states sent men to die for the North, and the Southern states rejected an offer from President Abraham Lincoln that would have made slavery permanent in exchange for their return to the Union. In addition, although most Northern states had ended slavery by 1860, many had also passed “black laws,” a forerunner of Jim Crow, which placed tight restrictions on blacks and often forbade them from even living in the state.

Abraham Lincoln, the 16th President
            of the United States of America

In August of 1862, President Lincoln wrote to newspaper editor Horace Greeley, " My paramount object in this struggle is to save the Union and is not either to save or to destroy slavery. If I could save the Union without freeing any slave, I would do it."
       And let's not forget that West Virginia was admitted into the Union as a slave state, in 1863.... DURING the middle of the War.... and slaves in that and other Northern and border states had to wait until 1865, two years after the Emancipation Proclamation, for their freedom.

Folks, slavery was more than just a Southern problem; it was an American problem.

This 'Moment of Mercy' sculpture depicts a Confederate soldier, who, during
              a lull in the Battle of Fredericksburg, VA, risked his life to give water to Union soldiers
            who were lying wounded and dying in a "no man's land" between the opposing armies.

         In 1861, our nation came apart because both sides were focused on differences rather than commonalities. Today we see a similar situation, with skin color increasingly emphasized and the lessons of 150-years ago seemingly unlearned.... perhaps because some are only telling part of the story.

Instead of removing all vestiges of the Confederacy, how ‘bout we use these statues and the names inscribed on them to start a new conversation, one that acknowledges the roles of everyone involved and offers hope for our nation and its people, both black and white.

"Nothing is more unfair than to judge of the sentiments of one age
         by the improved moral perceptions of another." 

          America’s history.... both good and bad.... has much to teach us, but those lessons are lost when their physical symbols are erased. This type of cultural cleansing, itself a form of intolerance, debases both America and its people and sets a dangerous precedent for our civil liberties.

          You can’t change history. You can’t whitewash it. You can learn from it, though, and that is exactly why our Confederate memorials should stay in prominent, public places.... to remind us all where we’ve been, what we’ve endured, so that we could get where we are, today.

'DECORATION DAY WEEKEND'

One of the many flower arrangements I made for this year's Decoration Day Weekend

            This coming weekend is Decoration Day Weekend; our annual trip around Alabama and into Mississippi to go see dead folks. As odd as that might sound, it’s something my parents and I look forward to each and every year.

            We first visit Crane Hill, where my Momma’s people, the Pittmans and the Clays, have lived for generations. We replace last year’s weather-worn flowers with beautiful new floral arrangements on grandparents’ graves, and set a new American flag in front of my Papaw Pittman’s headstone in honor of his wartime service.

            From Crane Hill, it’s on to Pickens County, Alabama, where my Daddy and his brothers and sisters were all raised. At Pleasant Grove and Hargrove cemeteries, we decorate my Mamaw and Papaw Jennings’ and Grandma and Grandpa Hicks’ graves. And all the while, my Daddy has us laughing as he tells us, for the umpteenth time, about the time Grandma ended up astraddle of a big ol’ hog, ridin’ it backwards, hollerin’ “Help me, Will! Help me!” And how Grandpa Hicks couldn’t, for laughing so hard at her.

We also stop along the way to admire different things and places as we travel the old byways and dirt back roads. I’m one of the world’s worst for stopping to take pictures of seemingly mundane things that most folks wouldn’t give a second thought to, like the rusting old Coca Cola sign on an abandoned country store, a one-room clapboard-sided country pharmacy whose original druggist I later found out had been a local Confederate veteran, or a dilapidated farmhouse turned ‘deer camp’, surrounded by a dozen old travel trailers patiently awaiting the next hunting season. Yet, some of these turn out to be some of the most interesting photos I take all year.

Here and there we stop to visit with our living kin, as well. Whether it’s sharing a delicious home-cooked meal with my dear Aunt Mary or laughing and cutting up with my Uncle Jerry, we relish getting to see them, since some of 'em aren’t able to travel as much as they once could.

On over in Mississippi, we head out to Chickasaw County, an hour northwest of Columbus. It’s here, in Mississippi’s agricultural Black Belt, that my Daddy’s people have lived for generations. This is where my grandparents, my great-grandparents and their parents were all born and raised, where they met their true loves, lived out their lives, and ultimately took their last breaths. So, it’s understandable that, in a way, Chickasaw County feels more like home to me than anywhere else I’ve ever been.

Grandmother Tabitha's grave

We visit the local cemeteries there, cleaning grass clippings and fire ant beds away from graves, putting new flower arrangements on headstones, and sticking bright new Confederate flags into the ground of the graves of our ancestors that served in the War Between the States. I point out different tombstones, explaining who each person is and how exactly we're all related. And, no trip to the Pleasant Grove cemetery, in Atlanta, would be complete without me venturing off down the hill to the oldest section of the graveyard, to check on my 5^th-great-grandmother Tabitha, and to let her know that, even after 170-years, she’s not been forgotten.

What was once part of the John L. 'Jack' Jennings plantation, in Hohenlinden, MS

As the resident history nut and family historian, I'm frequently haulin' us off out into the sticks, to some small, little used, almost-forgotten burial ground so I can introduce my parents to more of our great-grandparents. Other times, I’m pointing out where this or that ancestor’s plantation once stood or where Great-great-grandpa So-and-so used to live back in the 1860’s, 70’s, or 80’s. That information is compliments of years and years of genealogical research.

'Waverly Mansion'

On this trip, we also get to enjoy the occasional historical attraction or roadside oddity. We’ve toured Waverly Mansion, a gorgeous antebellum plantation home near West Point, Mississippi; looked upon the ‘Face in the Courthouse Window’, in Carrollton, Alabama; had our pictures taken in the giant Adirondack chairs at Ashville, Alabama; and stood beside a 32-foot tall tin man on Jim Bird’s farm, outside of Forkland, Alabama. And rest assured, 2017 will be no exception. I've got a visit to Confederate General Joe Wheeler’s beloved plantation ‘Pond Spring’, in Courtland, Alabama, planned, along with a few other interesting and odd sights mapped out, as well, for this year's trip.

When at last we roll back in at the Jennings Farm, in Cohutta, late Sunday evening, we will be thoroughly worn out, having logged more than 800-miles in three-days, over rough secondary roads for the most of that distance. Yet, we will have once again paid homage to our grandparents and family, retold their stories, and made even more wonderful memories in doing so. And I think that that’s what Decoration Day Weekend is about the most.... the strengthening of and reveling in of our family’s wonderful heritage.