‘MY D-DAY REMEMBRANCES’

As I write today, on this the 68^th Anniversary of the D-Day Invasion of Normandy and Occupied Europe, with the strains of 1940’s big band music playing in the background, my thoughts go not only to the awesome sacrifice made by so many that fateful day, but also to two men of that era in particular… my Papaw Lelton H. Pittman and the Rev. Ralph H. Clark, Sr.

I don’t actually remember ever meeting Bro. Clark until February of ’99. Although, I’m pretty sure that I’d seen him a time or two back when I was a kid, seein’ how he and my Papaw were not only good friends but also because Bro. Clark was, for a great many years, the pastor at Mamaw and Papaw’s church. On this date, though, Bro. Clark was there to speak at my Papaw’s funeral, and, boy, did he ever speak. What he said, I will never forget.

Turns out, Bro. Clark and my Papaw’s friendship had started when they attended college together at Howard University, in Birmingham (now known as Samford University), where they both studied for the ministry. They also had something else in common, though… both men were decorated veterans of World War II. Now, these two men were very humble and never bragged about what they had done or been through, not even to their families, but they did, as fellow veterans have been known to do, swap war stories from time to time.

Bro. Clark had survived the Hell and horrors of the Normandy beach landings during the D-Day Invasion of Normandy, while my Papaw had fought the fanatical Japanese in the malarial jungles of the South Pacific. One was awarded a Silver Star, while the other received a Bronze Star, for their ‘gallantry in action’ and ‘heroic achievement’. Interestingly, though, each man was awed by what the other had gone through while fighting in the war. Neither considered that he could have done what the other had had to. Each saw the other as a hero.

Now, that wasn’t all that Bro. Clark had to say about my Papaw that day, but that’s the part that comes to my mind each June the 6^th. And nearly a decade and a half later, I still find it remarkable how the one who had participated in the D-Day beach landings with their heavily-defended fortifications felt what he had done paled in comparison with what a fellow soldier had had to go through while fighting in tropical jungles clear over on the other side of the world. They truly were The Greatest Generation.

‘THERAPY OF THE RIVER AND THE ROD’

          It’s a hot summer day in North Georgia, and beads of sweat stream down off my ol’ bald head and down my face. A light breeze wafts over me as I wade waist-deep in the cool, clear water of the gently flowing river. With a couple of rhythmic false casts, I work out 30-feet or so of fly line and smoothly shoot the line up under some low-hanging tree limbs with a sidearm cast, dropping the little feather and cork poppin’ bug with it’s wiggly li’l rubber band legs mere inches from the heavily shaded riverbank. It lands with a small plop, and before the ripples can broaden out more than a couple of feet… KER-PLUNK! A fish SWIRLS, greedily snatching my offering from the surface. With a quick flick of my wrist, the rod tip comes up, firmly settin’ the hook. The ‘bull-gill’ immediately dives for the bottom as he goes to doin’ li’l dosey-dos in his struggles to get free. I feel the fish’ every movement as my 8-foot-long fly rod bows, throbbing and quivering under the strain. A minute later, I strip the fly line in and scoop the fish up, dripping and wiggling. It’s a big ‘Bull’ Bluegill, and his colors are iridescent and gorgeous. A moment later, the popping bug is pulled loose from the corner of his mouth and he’s slipped back into the cool river water, where he darts off into the deep… to live and fight another day. A couple of false casts to stretch my line back out, and I’m casting to another likely lookin’ spot along the bank. A usual day on the river can mean repeating this scenario anywhere from a hundred to two hundred times, bringing a heart-pounding adrenaline rush with each catch.

          This weekend, a couple of friends and I will push off in a couple of beat-up old canoes to float the deep spots and wade the shallows, all the time tryin’ our darndest to outwit some of the Good Lord’s finny creatures. If we’re lucky, we’ll bring a mess of the biggest ones home for a supper of deep-fried fish and homemade hush puppies. If not, well… I reckon we’ll just have to settle for cold beer and good barbeque from JORDAN’S, up at Cleveland. Either way, though, each of us’ll come back completely worn out, sore as can be, and burnt to a crisp from a day spent on the water, but better men, for sure… thanks to good camaraderie and the therapy of the river and the rod.

‘GOOD MANNERS’

Now, when it comes to manners, my Momma and Daddy raised this ol’ boy right. Yes, siree… I learned from an early age to ALWAYS say please and thank you, yes, ma’am and no, ma’am, yes, sir and no, sir. It was mister, miss, or missus, until given permission to address someone otherwise; a gentleman always gets the door for the fairer sex, and a blue million other particulars that helped to make an Alabama country boy into some semblance of a Southern gentleman.

I was taught that good manners just make life more pleasant for everybody involved. That was especially so for myself, seein’ how my parents were firm believers that the manners I displayed out in public were a direct reflection on them; a fact that they pointed out to me on more than one occasion… with a hickory switch.

Regardless, though, the lessons took, and as I grew older, I came to appreciate how good manners don’t cost a single penny to use and how not usin’ ‘em can very well cost a person very dearly further on down the road. Besides, aren’t our good manners and hospitality what Southerners are known for most?

Most remembered for his military leadership of the Confederacy, General Robert E. Lee was also revered, by both Southerners AND Northerners, for his impeccable manners, his self-control, self-denial, patience, humility, and principled approach to life.

Once, while on his way to Richmond, he was seated in the very back of a railroad car, of which every seat was taken. At one of the stations, an elderly woman of humble appearance entered the car, carrying a large basket. She walked the entire length of the aisle and not a man offered her a seat. When she was opposite General Lee’s seat, he promptly rose, saying, “Madam, please take this seat.”

Instantly a score of men were on their feet, and a chorus of voices said, “General, have my seat.”

“No, gentlemen,” he replied, “if there was no seat for this old lady, there is no seat for me.” Reportedly, it wasn’t long before the car was almost empty, it obviously being too warm to be comfortable.

          Now, if the greatest general of all time, a man well-advanced in age and of very high station, could display good manners daily to even the most common of strangers, so can this ol’ boy. Thank you for readin’ today’s post. I do appreciate it. 

‘SLOW DOWN & ENJOY LIFE’

          Remember the evenings spent sittin’ around the table with friends and family playin’ ROOK, UNO, or dominoes? How we’d send the kids outside to play in the yard, while we laughed and cut-up with one another, socializin’ and enjoyin’ each other’s company as we played games for hours?

          Remember sittin’ out on the porch in a rockin’ chair or porch swing or in a lawn chair out in the yard under a shade tree, shellin’ peas or butterbeans, snappin’ green beans, or shuckin’ and silkin’ corn, listenin’ to our parents or grandparents talk? How nothin’ ever tasted so good on those hot ol’ days as a glass of ice-cold sweet tea from out of one of Mamaw’s colored aluminum tumblers?

Remember how as kids we traveled in packs, riding our bicycles all over the ‘neighborhood’, havin’ fun just hangin’ out? How we’d climb into a swing, twist it around and around, then let it go, spinnin’ ‘til we were ‘dizzy drunk’? Remember playin’ badminton out in the yard with your cousins, arguin’ over whose turn it was to serve, or playin’ hide n’ seek ‘til dark, and then fillin’ an old jar with lightnin’ bugs just before bedtime? Ahhh… those were good times.

In this day and age of hurry, hurry, hurry… all of us can benefit by taking the time to slow down and enjoy life. Slowing down leads to a greater appreciation for life and a greater level of happiness; and, most importantly, it strengthens the relationships we have with our families and friends. We should live life, not just experience it, so… Tag! You’re it!

‘BETTER CONFEDERATES DID NOT LIVE’

          The topic of black Confederate soldiers is rarely talked about, nowadays, because it's not ‘politically correct’, but the truth of the matter is that quite a number of black Southerners served in the Confederate Army, and way before Mr. Lincoln ever let the first black man fight for his beloved Union. The contributions that Black Southerners made to support the South in its struggle for independence should not be denigrated.

Why would a black man fight to protect slavery, you ask. It wasn’t for slavery that he fought. Black Southerners fought for the same reason that they defended the United States colonies during the Revolutionary War; they fought because their homes were being invaded. This was their country. They fought to protect their homes, their families, their neighbors, and, quite frankly, the only life they knew.

          It is impossible to know exactly how many black soldiers served the Confederacy during the War for Southern Independence, but it has been estimated that between 50,000 - 90,000 Southern Negroes, both slave and free black, served in the Confederate ranks, with over 13,000 of these men having seen actual combat.

          Although it was late in the War before the Confederate Government finally approved for blacks to be officially enlisted as soldiers, in ‘the ranks’ it was a much different story. Many Confederate officers frequently enlisted blacks with the simple criteria of “Will you fight?” And fight, they did!



‘Uncle’ Jeff Shields, General Thomas

‘Stonewall’ Jackson's Negro bodyguard

          During the first major battle of the War, the 1^st Battle of Manassas (that’s 1^st Battle of Bull Run to any Yankees readin’ this), Black Confederates were in the thickest of the fightin’, shocking the Northern soldiers who went up against them, and later, 3,000+ Black Confederates were serving under General ‘Stonewall’ Jackson, during his famous Valley Campaign of 1862.

And when the folks down around Macon, Georgia, heard that the Yankee Army had burned Atlanta and was now comin' out the other side destroying everything in its path, some of the colored men there asked their white mistresses for permission to form what the white folks called a militia, as they had heard that General Sherman was killin' and burnin' everything in his path - killin women and children, colored and white alike. As most of their men were off fightin’ in the War, the ladies readily gave their consent, and preparations were hurriedly made.

Armed with such weapons as could be rounded up, from old revolutionary muskets left behind to machetes, pitchforks, and even clubs, and flying a Confederate Battle Flag made up of old rags dyed and sewn together, the 300-colored men marched out to meet the Yankee devils.

Under General Pleasant J. Phillips, they and other militia troops met the Union Army, approximately seven miles east of Macon, near the small hamlet of Griswoldville, where there was a Confederate pistol factory and other mills. A day-long battle ensued, and the relatively inexperienced Confederate militia made seven ill-fated charges, through withering fire, upon a fortified position manned by veteran Union soldiers armed with the new Spencer repeating rifle. The battle ended at sundown when the Southerners retired from the battlefield. The Confederates lost more than 1100-men dead, wounded, or captured.



Louis Napoleon Winbush, seen here @ the
1932 Confederate Reunion, rode with Gen. Forrest
during the War Between the States



Of the 300-Black Confederates that marched off that day to meet the Yankee invader, only three of those men made it back. Theirs was the only major opposition to General Sherman's infamous March to the Sea.

          Even General Nathan Bedford Forrest, ex-slave trader and plantation owner, had 65-Black Confederates voluntarily serving in his legendary cavalry troop, bedeviling the Yankees all across Alabama, Mississippi, and Tennessee. After the war, he said of the black men who served under him, "These boys stayed with me… and better Confederates did not live."

          And when General Robert E. Lee finally surrendered at Appomattox, in April of 1865, dozens of Black Confederates were present amongst the ranks of the infamous ‘Army of Northern Virginia’.

          So, don’t think for a minute that the storied battlefield successes of any of the above-mentioned Confederate units would have been possible without the support of these loyal black Southerners.

          Now, some folks want to point out that more black soldiers fought for the North than did for the South, which is true. But, what they don’t tell you is how the North forcibly conscripted blacks, both free blacks and slaves, as they came upon them in occupied territories, giving them no choice whatsoever.

            In February of 1865, Union General Ulysses S. Grant (a slave owner, himself) ordered the capture of “all the Negro men… before the enemy can put them in their ranks.” He feared that black Southerners would take up arms for the Confederacy.

The order spread universal confusion and terror among the Negroes, and they fled to the woods and swamps. They were hunted to their hiding places by the Yankee soldiers, and the men and young boys were seized and forced to enlist. Many of the men had large families of young children dependent upon them for support. Their crops and domestic animals were stolen or destroyed, and their women were held as the legitimate prey of lust. Husbands and wives, children and parents, were separated; some to never see one another again. So much for the Union Army being the emancipators of the enslaved and oppressed black man.

More than 40 black Southern men attended the 1890 Alabama Confederate Veterans Reunion



After the War ended, the Southern people did not forget their black comrades-in-arms, either. For the 50th Anniversary of the Battle of Gettysburg, in 1913, arrangements were made for a joint reunion of Union and Confederate veterans. The Commission in charge of the event made sure that there were enough accommodations for the black Union veterans, but was completely surprised when unexpected Black Confederates arrived. The white Confederate veterans immediately welcomed their old comrades, gave them one of their own tents, and saw to their every need. Nearly every Confederate Reunion held after the War included those blacks that served with them, still proudly wearing the gray.

The descendants of those Black Confederates now live all across the United States – north, south, east, and west - and have a right to be proud of their ancestor's service to the South. Truly…“better Confederates did not live."



‘THANK YOU TO OUR PO-PO!’

            On Wednesday afternoon, our local law enforcement officers once again chose to put their lives on the line for us, the people of this county, as they began an intensive manhunt for the man suspected of committing a brutal double-murder last week in Dawnville. The deputies, police officers, and state troopers who were already on-shift didn’t get to go home when their regular day should have ended; and the ones that weren’t working had their days-off interrupted and were called in.

Now, make no mistake. It didn’t matter that they might have had something planned to do later on that day, like maybe celebrate an anniversary, a family member’s birthday, or just enjoy time at home with their children and loved ones. The call went out and they immediately responded. That’s just the kind of folks they are.

Upon arrival, they were deployed to different posts and assigned specific tasks. Officers and deputies, not only from our own county but from cities and counties all over North Georgia, responded, and with them they brought their specialties, too, like K-9 units, special response teams, and even the State Patrol’s helicopter.

Wearing long pants, boots, and body armor, tactical vests and gun belts with automatic weapons slung across their chests, they stomped through the brush and the briars in the sweltering heat, waded through mud holes and poison ivy, searched row upon row of waist-high cornfields, and trudged across dusty pastures in the blazing sun; they knocked on doors, cleared outbuildings, and checked under houses in nearby subdivisions. They manned roadblocks on shade-less stretches of hot asphalt searching hundreds of vehicles, and they responded to innumerable prowler calls in and around the search area all night long. And while this was going on in Varnell, a limited number of others were scrambling to cover the regular, every day calls all over the rest of the county.

Add to that the very real possibility that at any moment, any one of those involved could have suddenly come in contact with the man suspected of brutally murdering two people just days ago and be faced with a probable violent outcome that could change their own life in the blink of an eye.

Stop and think about it. You know these folks, these police officers, deputies, troopers, and detectives. They may be your friends, your family, or your neighbors. Their kids play ball with your kids, or you see ‘em at church on a Sunday mornin’. These are the men and women that protect us from the ‘bad guys’, 24/7, 365-days-a-year.

They’re the ones who never give up, which in-turn resulted in their having the suspect in-custody just under 24-hours later and with no loss of life… just a lot of lost sleep and sweat. To all of the members of local and state law enforcement in and around Whitfield County, I myself want to say ‘Thank you’… thank you for choosing each and every day to don a uniform and keep us safe. Your service does matter, guys, and you truly are appreciated.

- Barry D. Jennings

Cohutta, Georgia

'A TEACHABLE MOMENT'

This past Friday night/Saturday morning, I got one of those middle-of-the-night, wake-me-up-from-a sound-sleep telephone calls from my youngest daughter who, along with her best friend, were supposed to have been home half an hour earlier. Her little red convertible was in a ditch. Would I please come pull her out? And wouldn’t you know it? Sweetness almost dripped through the telephone receiver. “Yes, Honey, I’ll be there in a li’l bit,” was my sleepy reply. Without another word or grumble, I got up, got dressed, trudged through the mud to the barn to get a chain off of the tractor, and then headed her way in my old truck.

As I pulled up, I was relieved to see that there was no damage to either the little car or my girls, with them bein’ the most important. Comin’ out of the curve, they had slid off the road, just bottomin’ out the car frame on the edge of the ditch bank. Within a couple of minutes, I had ‘em back on the road and headed home, albeit a bit slower, now.

           Once home, as I was laughin’ and pickin’ on ‘em about their ‘accident’, it was easy to see that both girls were somewhat surprised that I wasn’t mad and scolding them like most parents would have been doin’. I explained to ‘em that I had ‘been there, done that’; that I well remember the times (yes, plural) when I had done the same exact thing at their age. Only, I hadn’t felt comfortable enough to call my Daddy, who would’ve come down on me swift and hard, so I’d had farmers pull me out with their tractors each time, instead. Now, I look at things a bit different than most folks. I got enough sense to realize that if you drive much at all, you WILL end up in a ditch at some point in time, especially if you drive at night in the rain. That just happens. It was an accident, plain and simple. I’m just glad that no one was hurt and her little car wasn’t damaged.

          Before we all turned in, I asked if they had learned anything from this, as ‘good judgment comes mostly from bad experiences’. Nicole quickly replied, “Yeah, not to go through that curve so fast”, which promptly got her a sharp sideways look from her ol’ Daddy-O. Her next response was the one I was really wantin’ to hear… that ‘no good EVER comes from bein’ out past midnight’. She and I had just talked about that earlier in the week. Both girls assured me that they would be home BEFORE twelve o’clock from now on.

As I lay down in bed once more, I offered up thanks to the Good Lord for takin’ good care of my girls and for givin’ me the wisdom to handle the situation in a way to make the best impression on two wonderful and very impressionable young ladies.

I also gave thought to a dear friend and mentor, who, back about a quarter of a century ago, used to deal with a once wild and reckless teenage boy in much the same manner. See, Uncle Ruffin? I was listenin’.  J