The Toilet Paper Roll War

          I am certain that this strikes you as a strange subject to write about, but I assure you, it has become an issue in our home. Am I the only person in this house that can change out a roll of toilet paper? Along with the first question comes a second, how do three sheets left on the roll constitute a reason to not change it?

            I have asked the question once a week for the past fifteen years. What is so hard about it?  If you see three sheets left on the roll, change it. What can you do with three sheets? Nothing, so why leave the roll?

            When this is presented in the calmest voice imaginable to the Admiral and Princesses, I’m greeted with silence, blank stares, maybe even a roll of the eyes, and then, “Why are you yelling at me?” I swear, I did not yell. I am convinced that this is a ploy women use to divert a man’s focus. It works.

            The Admiral did answer once, saying, “I don’t want to see them (the last three sheets) go to waste.” Okay, I'm down with that, save a tree, go green, there’s value in that, so why not take the last three otherwise useless sheets off the tube, change the roll, and place the sheets on top of the new roll to be used by the next person? Her response, see paragraph three.

            I have begun to think that the women I cohabit with do not know how to change the roll, but this cannot be true. The facility downstairs, the most often used, has a decoratively painted dowel notched on either end, which sits in corresponding grooves to hold it. You pick it up, no springs to collapse, or anything else mechanical, slide the empty or nearly empty roll off, put on a full one and set in back. “How can that be so hard?” I ask. 

            See paragraph three.

            The Princesses' bathroom is upstairs between their two rooms. I seldom journey up there unless I want to hunt wild beasts lurking in the piles of worn-ten-minutes-then-discarded-to-the-corner clothes, but seeing that this issue needed investigating, I ventured forth.

            What I suspected was true, but with a twist. There was a roll with three sheets hanging on the dispenser and on the floor were two other rolls in varying stages of use. “Maybe they really don’t know how to change the roll,” I told myself.

            With the best of intentions, I called the ladies upstairs for the express purpose of demonstrating the task. When gathered, I begin my instruction and demonstration. The results were fearfully predictable. See paragraph three.

            I don’t get it. Why is this so difficult? Is it just me? Of course, I am the one out of step, the faulty part. Maybe I’ll just take the holders off the wall and use that space for…I can’t think of anything.  I would ask the Admiral and Princesses for ideas, but I’m afraid of paragraph three.

            Since I have broached the toilet paper subject, I might as well explore another point of contention between the Admiral and me. Which is the proper placement of the roll on the spindle, the tailing sheet against the wall, or rudely intruding into the space of the room? Can you guess my preference? I try not to show bias here.

            “Doesn’t it make more sense,” I say, “and isn’t it more aesthetically (I throw in big words on occasions during “discussions” to have my point taken seriously) pleasing to have the tailing end of the roll against the wall? It doesn’t protrude into the room waving its little hand as if to say, ‘Here I am, use me’.” 

            I cringe, fearing a paragraph three response, but receive, “It’s easier to use when it points toward you and you pull from the top. You have to hunt for the end when it hangs against the wall.”

            There is weakness in her argument, but as I am about to exploit it, I see her eyes start to roll, and by now, I know when to quit. As you can see, we are at an impasse, aesthetically pleasing vs. utilitarian availability.

            To solve this dilemma, I thought I would allow the Princesses to have a say, thinking they would see the clear side of the argument. I did not get the results for which I held hope. 

            The sixteen-year-old, who I interrupted while obsessing over her Facebook page, looked at me and said, “Whatever”.  The fifteen-year-olds’ response was a brilliant rendition of the dreaded paragraph three. She is a student of the Admiral. You would think I would have learned.

            I know I should give up. This is a battle of the sexes, and being outnumbered, I know I cannot win. I ask myself, “Is this the hill I want to die on?”

            The answer is, “Yes”.

            I will not stop my efforts to show my way is superior. I just need to change tactics. Sun Tuz says in his ancient and famous treatise, "The Art of War", that all warfare is based on deception. When I get the opportunity to change the roll, I will continue to lay the tailing end against the wall, and if the Admiral or Princesses ever change a roll, they will do the opposite, but as Confucius says, "Persistence furthers." From now on, silent protests will be my way, stealth roll-changing the tactic. 

            Please don’t think me cowardly. I am not afraid of paragraph three, well, maybe a little, but, I swear, I’m just changing my approach. I am not giving up. I wonder if tackling the toothpaste squeezing issue would be easier. 

Memorial Day and Ribs

          It will be Memorial Day on Monday. Our family will put on our annual celebration. We will deck ourselves out in our homemade, red-while-and-blue t-shirts that we made years ago, decorate the house with patriotic banners, ribbons and bunting, and even lights along the driveway. It is a big deal for us and for many of our friends, but whereas we observe the day for its intended purpose, to honor our nation's fallen heroes who have sacrificed all for our safety and freedom, I suspect some of our guests are wanting to come over for another reason, the ribs.

            I have friends who love my ribs. These friends hint at various times of the year that it is time to do ribs and to invite them over.  I have friends who are only friends because I do ribs. They are the ones who, when the ribs are late coming off the grill, pace the floor drooling. They are the first to say, “We hate to eat and run, but…” 

            All want my recipe and I will tell them, as I am about to tell you, the recipe and the method, but nobody believes me because it is not magic, or complicated. It is so simple people think I am withholding some dark secret. Secrets take effort, and if cooking ribs took effort, I wouldn't do them. If it leans toward work, I am not doing it. Lazy describes my culinary work ethic. So, like myself, my recipe has to be simple and easy.

            The number of askers has grown to a demanding mob, well; a large group, maybe ten or so, and I acquiesce.  I shall reveal all…most all. You won't accept it, but here we go:

            Rub down the slab of ribs on both sides with a dry rub the night before you are going to cook them and keep them refrigerated. "Slap Ya’ Mama" is good stuff, if you can find it, as are many others on the grocer’s shelf, or you can make your own.  Guess which way I go…lazy.  Don’t overdo the rub, most go a long way. I guess I should used a culinary phrase such as, “season to taste”, but I ain’t no gourmet, or for that matter, a cook. 

            Build a small fire in such a way that you can feed it as the day wears on. My grill allows for indirect heat, and that is the only way go. Direct heat and flames are big no-nos. Your fire should be between two hunert, and two hunert and fity degrees. Maybe that’s “hunnert”. I am never sure.  The key is to cook the ribs s – l – o – w.  That is to say, not fast. If you do not have a goodly portion of the day to dedicate to this task, do not insult the ribs by trying.

            You place the ribs on the grill bowl side up, or for you scientific types, the concave side up, and you don’t turn them…ever…remember, lazy.  If you break a sweat doing this, you are doing something wrong.

            You now make a trip to the grill every half-hour, which figures to be about every other commercial if you are watching a ball game. This is when you add charcoal and smoke. Smoke is the key. You need lots of smoke, little heat, and did I mention s – l – o – w?

            The ribs are done when the meat pulls away from the ends of the bones. Depending on your grill, this could be anywhere from two-and-a-half to three hours on up to four to six hours, or even longer. You should consult a cookbook about cooking pork and use a meat thermometer, or do as my daddy taught me, put your fingers on the meat and count, “one Mississippi, two Mississippi”…  If you get to five Mississippi, they ain’t done.  I get to ten Mississippi these days.  It has something to do with the scar tissue on my fingertips.

            Oh yeah, I almost forgot, the smoke! That is the real secret. Let me tell you about it.  Smoke comes from wood. You burn it…slow. You burn it slow by getting it wet before it goes on the coals. I use a mixture of woods. They are…oops, running out of space here. Told ya’ I’d reveal all…most.

            As you are enjoying your ribs or whatever this Memorial Day, please, at some point in your festivities stop and remember. There are families who are hurting as they miss loved ones who are not here to celebrate. Take a moment, be silent, and offer up a "thank you" for their sacrifice. They did it for you, to protect your right to cook ribs on a holiday. Take just a moment. I know they will appreciate it. Besides, you've got thirty minutes before you have to check the ribs again. Enjoy.

The Season of Moving On

          It is the time of year when fledglings leave the nest and parents wonder where the time went, clinging to what was, knowing they have to let go. Their children are wondering how it took so long and are struggling to be free, not knowing what is over the next hill, but confident in the zeal and innocence of youth that whatever it is, they can conquer it. It is graduation season, and another generation moves on.

            It is a bittersweet time for parents and graduates. The graduate has spent roughly two-thirds of their lives preparing for high school graduation, and are now, at 17 to 19, beginning to realize that the near terminal case of total knowledge they were so sure of at the age of 14 to 16, may not be as iron clad as they thought. The parents have been through this before, and have spent approximately one-third of their lives getting the fledgling to the edge of the nest. They know the graduate, so full of confidence, pomp and circumstance as they strut their stuff across the stage for their piece of paper, has now gained only the right to begin to learn.

            That is the irony of graduation in anything, at any level. You work years to master a program, a situation, to become the big fish in the pond, and just as you become proficient, someone hands you a piece of paper declaring your mastery, says, "Congratulations," smiles, pats you on the back, and with malice aforethought, kicks you into the bigger pond where you become the little fish again. We call that growth, and I suppose it is, but it would be nice to be the big fish for a while and just swim around as lord of that particular pond, but that is stagnation, not good for you or the pond. 

            I reflect on past graduations. For me, high school was a biggie. No one in my family thought I would make it, but I did, without repeating a grade or a class. I became a big fish, ready to jump into a bigger pond.

            My high school pond was so big that it took three hours for my 984 co-fish to walk. Because my name begins with the letter "A", my glory was over within the first quarter hour, and I had to sit watching as the rest had their moment. I saw people cross that stage that I had never seen before. I was stunned to realize that I had been swimming in a very isolated area of the pond. I am certain that the size and number of my graduation is why I have an aversion to these types of ceremonies. That, and the fact that I was greeted by my family after the interminable display with the question, "When are you leaving?"

            I did leave, and after busting out of college joined the Marine Corps. That was a graduation to see. I don't know how many passed in review that day and earned the title of Marine, but I and my platoon did. I still remember our drill instructor's final words to us; "You think you know something, but you don't. All you have now is enough knowledge to be dangerous to yourself and others. That can get you and them killed. You also know enough to start learning. Don't waste it. That will save your life." I was a big fish going into a bigger pond, but this one had sharks in it.

            I survived that pond, went back to school for what seemed like forever, but did not graduate. After swimming in the shark pond, the rest of it seemed rather pointless to me, so I never had that experience, but I had seen enough.

               I reflect on my children's graduations, and my grandchildren's, and the graduations of students that I have taught, as well as those that have honored me by asking me to deliver key note addresses, and I see something in common to them all, something that is a pleasant surprise to me to overshadow my aversion.

            I sit and watch, or speak, and I am amazed at the feeling of satisfaction I get as I look at the graduates and a warmth flows over me. I am sure in that moment that the world is in good hands. These young people marching in the line behind us are better trained, better prepared, and made of better stuff.

            There are some in this year's class that can, and will solve some of the world's most demanding and perplexing problems. Some will grace the world with art, music, story, and poetry. They have been raised up for this purpose, and are ready to meet the challenge. As long as they believe they can, who are we to think otherwise and limit them in any way? We need what they have, and that is the joy of graduations. It is like spring. As flowers bloom, so do our children. In them are the seeds of hope for the future. Lead on graduates, and welcome to the pond. 

We Are Losing Who We Are

          We are losing it. That which makes us unique, we are losing it, our heritage, our history. It is sad, and sorry, but we are losing it.

            May 1, 1863, my great-great-grandfather stood on a battlefield in Port Gibson, Mississippi with 6,000 others, and faced off Grant's 20,000 invading Federal troops. The Confederates were attempting to prevent his eventual taking of Vicksburg, the Gibraltar of the South.

            May 1, 2013, the oldest Princess and I stood on that same battlefield, now silenced by the passing of 150 years. We were there to observe the sesquicentennial of our ancestor's capture by Federal forces, and the changing of our family history. We were there alone. My first emotion was disappointment followed by sadness. Of over 26,000 families represented on that field 150 years ago, only one was there on the day. Sad, we are losing it.

            Granted, May 1 this year was on a Wednesday, and it had been raining, with the threat of rain all day. The field is a long way off the beaten path down a dirt road, but we were there. Where were the rest? The question gnawed at me, but we were there to observe, and we did.

            Evans Atwood was captured about 10:00 AM in a ravine where he was attempting to aid an unnamed comrade to the makeshift hospital. He was allowed to continue there under guard where he became a prisoner. His life, our heritage, our history changed in those dreadful moments.

            I have visited this battlefield twice before, but this time was much different. The Princess and I located a likely ravine where Lieutenant Atwood first experienced the terror of being in enemy hands. At that moment, he knew that the best he would hope for was captivity, but he had to be anticipating the worse, him and his comrade's deaths. The battlefield was silent for us, but for him it was thunderous with the sound of cannon and rifle fire, men shouting in battle, and the cries of the wounded mixed with the silence of the dead. I felt his horror; I felt his fear, all of which have become part of who I am.

            We went to the preserved and open Shaifer House that served that day as a hospital for both Union and Confederate troops. We stood in the empty yard and could see and hear the milling of troops from both sides, the moans of the wounded laid out on the porches and benches as they were triaged for treatment. We envisioned the blanket covered dead laid out in the yard near the garden. We watched in our mind's eyes as our ancestor turned his wounded burden over to the hands of medical men, and turned himself to his captors, resigning himself to an unknown, and terrifying fate. It is a horrible moment in our family history, but it shapes us.

            We left the battlefield full of wonder and awe, still feeling the fear of battle, as well as the terror of imprisonment in the hands of a hated enemy. As we drove, we imagined the troops in blue fighting their way through the brambles, vines, and ravines pursuing the troops in gray retreating toward the town, the direction we were driving. I had questions that needed answers, and the town is where we would search for them.

            Port Gibson is an unusual town using for its slogan words attributed to Grant saying to leave the town, because it was, "Too pretty to burn". It is pretty in its own way with the unique Presbyterian Church's gold hand atop its steeple with the index finger pointing skyward, and its antebellum homes, but it is ugly in the poverty of small town, rural Mississippi.

            We stopped at the visitor's center on Church Street where I asked if the sesquicentennial of the battle had been observed, or if there were any activities planned on this, the anniversary day. The docent told us that yes, it was observed over the previous weekend, but there was nothing planned for the day.

            I asked, "Was the observance well attended?"

            "Yes," she replied, "we had about 100 people turn out". She spoke it with a mixture of pride and a little trepidation as to how I would receive it.

            I reserved my judgment of the town and its people until later and simply said, "That's nice," but it was not.

            We left the town headed home with mixed feelings of satisfaction that we had honored our ancestor who had been willing to sacrifice so much for the freedom of his new country, and pride at his courage in facing prison for over two years, and the feeling that this history was fading from our grasp. It is felt, and voiced by too many that the war is over, forget it, but I can't, and more importantly, I won't, it is too much of who I am.

            As we drove, I wondered as to other wars. Have we forgotten the Revolutionary War, the War of 1812, the Spanish-American War, the Mexican-American War that gave the soldiers on both sides of the Civil War their experience, World Wars I and II? Over the next ten to twenty years, we will lose those who fought in WWII. Not far behind them, those of us who were in Korea and Vietnam will be gone. Those wars are being actively forgotten how.

            There is danger in forgetting, but time does that to us. That is why history is studied, so we don't forget, and for the hope that just maybe we wont' be that stupid again. Let us work harder at remembering. We do not want to lose it all, and we are dangerously close.

A Rocker and the Front Porch

          I love my front porch. It is a special place. It is a place to go to relax, drift away and see things. It is mine, and maybe it is special only to me, but it is special.

            It is ordinary in appearance, a typical southern veranda, or if it were on a bayou in Louisiana, it would be the gallery. It is wide and long, running the length of the front of the house. It is screened in, as any good, special porch should be, and is situated geographically in such a way to catch most any breeze blowing except from the north, which wind you do not want anyway. The breezes aid in cooling, but in the hot months, the porch has ceiling fans, two of them, big ones.

            I am writing this while sitting in the rocking chair on the porch, and it is taking me forever. For one thing, the rocking chair is not conducive to work, nor for that matter is the porch. There are too many distractions. The hedges on three sides do not grow high enough to block my view of the yard, the creek that feeds the big pond, and the street way out there somewhere. If I turn my head slightly, I can see the little pond, the azalea bushes, and through the trees, the neighbor's house.  There is always something going on.

            Sitting here, I’ve watched squirrels, blue jays, mockingbirds, Great Blue Herons, hawks, Odessa the owl, an eagle once, and in the winter, little chickadee like birds.  There have been raccoons and opossums, roaming the creek and the yard, and on one occasion, a fox with a rabbit in its mouth.  I won’t be watching that rabbit again.

            The porch is accessed from the house by three doors, one from the family room, one from the master bedroom, and the front door, which opens to the rest of the house. In spring and fall, both days of either, we open all these doors making the house an extension of the porch, which I am not so sure was not the original intention of building the porch in the first place. I often get the feeling that the porch was constructed, and then the house added as an afterthought, a support system for the porch.

            The house is confining. It is not so much that it keeps me in; it is that it keeps life out. In the house, you don't get the wind and rain, the smells of the earth in spring, the radiant, often oppressive heat of summer, and the deadening cold of winter. On the porch, you are part of these. The porch is a magic place. It is a place I go to get away. It is a mini-vacation if only in my mind.

            The rocker I sit in is part of the porch. Other than rocking, it doesn't move much. It is an old, maple, hardback rocker. It has changed color over the years from a light blonde, to a deeper brown. I have rocked thousands of beats in that chair, and it has carried me that many miles as I sit, rock, and read.

            The chair has been a ship on the high seas in calm and in storm, a camel along caravan routes, and has taken me on foot as a prisoner and slave. It has been a horse on the plains of the west, a jet fighter of modern age, a bunker in combat, a rice paddy in the orient. It has taken me to the moon, and beyond, to the tops of Mounts Everest, McKinley, and Kilimanjaro. It has been a wonderful conveyance. It has propelled me thousands of miles, but has moved only inches.

            It is on this porch, and in that chair, that I have gone on other trips too, trips that did not require imagination, or the aid of a book. There have been many times when the reading, the hum of the fans, the calls of the birds, the gentle breeze, the nearness of a sleeping dog have robbed me of wakefulness. It has been in the in-between state of awake, and asleep that I have gone places, and seen things. The place is the same, I don't leave the porch, but the colors are more intense, the smells more fragrant, and each thing I observe is sharper, more in focus.

            I have seen the land as it was before with oaks older than the Spanish and French that walked here. I have seen the First Nations people pass this way before them, all moving along the expanse of my mind's clearer eye. I have seen the settlers come and tame the land, the street beyond the porch but a dirt road with wagons pulled by horses. Rows of crops growing along the land have swayed in the breezes, and I have been transfixed by the passing of generations marching before me.

            It is a good land, this place that we now call Lower Alabama. It has served many before us, and will serve many more after we have left our mark. I wonder, is it a good mark, or will our progeny call it a scar and work to repair it?

            As the street out there is now paved and people pass too fast to wave to me in the chair on the porch, I realize one day, they too will be no more. The thought makes me a little sad, but it is the way of all things. Time marches on, people and places change, but as long as I can have a chair and a porch, I will remember and enjoy the moments come rain, wind, shine, or cold. It's just a special place. 

Medicines I have Known

          I have never thought of myself as sickly. I feel that I am in good health, but when I compared myself to another man last week, I am a sick weakling, the runt of the litter who should have been turned out into the cold to fend for myself.

            I was asked to visit this man in the hospital. I entered his room, he is about my age, maybe a little older, and was in some serious pain. With his wife's help, he told me his symptoms and I concurred with the doctor's diagnosis that he was having gall bladder issues. I commented, "Ah, that's no biggie. I had mine taken out as an outpatient. I was in by 7:00 and home for lunch."

            For once, I had said the right thing. I could see the great relief in his face as the anxiety drained from him. He was almost giddy, still in pain, but he was better.

            As we talked, I discovered this was the first time in his entire life that he had ever been in a hospital as a patient. "Really," was the only thing I could muster because I was stunned. My first flashing thought after my brilliant statement was, "Has this guy lived his life in a bubble?" My second thought was to attempt to list the times I was in hospitals and all the reasons why. This caused me to marvel more at this man's avoidance of such places.

            His wife further compounded my incredulity by saying, "He's never been sick a day in all our married years."

            "Really," again, brilliantly spoken.

            We went on with our visit, but whenever I could, I brought the conversation back to this man's extreme good health and fortune from injury. I became convinced, he had never been sick a day in his life.

            The reason I am so amazed is that I am near the opposite. I have not been sick every day of my life, but I have spent more than my fair share of time with doctors and hospitals. It is possible that I have become accustomed to illness to the point that it feels normal.

            I was sickly from birth, the runt of previous reference. Fortunately, humans rarely come in litters, so I was kept, nursed, and somehow lived. My mother being a nurse, and having access to doctors, aided my survival, which leads to my current musings. It is a miracle I am alive. If it weren't for modern medicines, I would not be.

            Penicillin was the big drug of my childhood, and I am so glad it was there. I had infections almost continually. I was sickly. I was active, but sick.

            Having my tonsils taken out, something that is rarely done today, aided my health. I stopped having infections, but now I had allergies, which given the clarity of hindsight, were the most likely culprit to begin with.

            Thank goodness for antihistamines. The only problem with the first generation of them was that they made you sleepy. I could be a dopey kid living indoors, half asleep, or an active kid living out of doors, with sneezing, weepy eyes, and difficulty breathing. With medicines, there always seems to be a tradeoff.

            I know the wonder drugs of my youth, penicillin, smallpox and polio vaccines had drawbacks, and a small percentage of people taking them had horrible reactions, some even died, but the good they did far outweighed the bad. In my mind, and most of my generation, it was worth the risk. Smallpox and polio are gone, or controlled, and many sick kids are alive because of the new antibiotics.

            Today is a different story. There are miracle drugs for everything, even things that don't need a miracle. It is nice that I can stop my hair from falling out, but is it worth the expense and side effects? Not to me. The same can be said for a myriad number of diseases and discomforts. To those who suffer from whatever the ailment is advertised on TV tonight, I am sure they are relieved to be taking the medication, but these ads terrify me. If I were a hypochondriac, I would have a new disease every night, and the disclaimers make it sound as if the cure for one thing will be replaced with serious side effects, which are worse than the original disease.

            Due to my aging self, genetic predisposition, and former hard-charging life style, there is a lot wrong with me. I take enough pills daily to choke the proverbial horse. Some have side effects, and my body has had to adjust to them, but would I do without? No, I would not. My quality of life is enhanced by these medications. I am thankful for them. Without them, I would have been dead a long time ago.   

            The life expectancy in the US today is 77.9 years, up from 47.3 in 1900. There are many factors that contribute to the increase, but a lot is due to advances in medicines. I am grateful that I do not suffer from some of the diseases advertised on TV, but if I did, I would be thankful that there is something to ease the suffering. If it weren't for such remedies in my day, we runts of the litters would be long gone. 

The Confederacy Remembered

          April is Confederate History Month in Alabama. The fourth Monday in April is Confederate Memorial Day. Will you stop to remember? 

            We are into the third year of the Civil War Sesqucentenial rememberance of a war that crossed five Aprils. April of 1861 saw hostilities break out between north and south, and 148 years ago on April 9, the war ended with the surrender of Robert E. Lee's forces in Virginia. On that same day, the last full engagement battle of the war was fought here in Baldwin County near the township of Blakeley and became known as The Battle of Blakely.

            Please note the two spellings of the same word in the previous sentence. The town is named for Josiah Blakeley, with the letter "e" being used twice. The name given to the battle is "Blakely", with one "e", because that is how it is written in the official record, the Yankee record. To the victors go the history.

            My personal rememberance this year will span all four weeks of this month. It began last week with my making a presentation at the monthly meeting of the Fort Blakeley Camp, #1864, of The Sons of Confederate Veterans, a group of which I am proud to be a member. I presented information on the Battle of Oak Hills, or Wilson's Creek if you prefer the better known name the Yankees bestowed on the conflict. It was fought a few miles outside Springfield, Missouri in August of 1861, and was the second battle of the War Between the States, and the first major engagement west of the Mississippi.

            My next observance was this past Tuesday when the Fairhope Library's Book Review Series invited me to make a presentation on my yet-but-soon-to-be-published book, Under the Magnolia Tree, the Legend of Jeremy of Blakeley. It is the story of the battle told through the eyes of a twelve-year-old boy. Through him, we are able to gain a more human perspective beyond troop numbers and movements. The writing and telling of the story has brought me closer to the battlefield as I have spent many hours walking it in search of inspiration, and I have found it. The spirit of that battle is still strong.

            There was much more to the battle than the actual fighting. The fort had been under siege since April 1, and afterward, there were mopping up operations on the part of the Yankees and escaping for the Rebels. There are many stories of Confederate escapes, and attempts that failed. It was a long and deadly night.

            I will make a visit to Confederate Rest Cemetery at Point Clear. Due to family obligations, I was unable to attend the official memorial honoring the over 400 mostly unidentified Confederate soldiers who died at the hotel which was used as a hospital during the war. A fire years later destroyed the records, dooming the buried to anonymity.

            My memorial observance will conclude this year with a trip to Port Gibson, Mississippi, located a few miles south of Vicksburg. A battle, minor to history, but hugely significant to me and mine, was fought there the night and morning of April 30-May 1, 1863. Those days will mark the 150^th anniversary of the capture of my great-great-grandfather and his subsequent imprisonment in the north. It was an event that altered our family history in ways that we will never be able to fully comprehend, but just as 2nd Lieutenant Evans Atwood's blood flows through our veins, his experiences shape us. 

            You might wonder why all this remembrance. The answer is simple, because it is my heritage. Popular or not, it is who I am, and I am proud to claim it.

            The image of the Confederacy has become tarnished. Those who honor the Stars and Bars are often seen as racist, or as misguided in honoring a lost cause. A few local politicians have, as recent as the past two weeks, told us the war is over, forget it. I do so hope the cause is not lost, nor forgotten, because the cause was, and is, freedom.

            The South was fighting against unfair tariffs, unequal representation in congress, and a tyrannical government bent on destroying their way of life. If those causes sound familiar, they should. They are the same ones the united colonies fought for against England less than ninety years before.

            Granted, there were some unsavory aspects to southern culture in the 1860s that needed to be changed. Slavery is a terrible stain on our history and heritage, but the majority of Confederate soldiers did not own slaves.

            Fighting and dying to keep the rich man rich may have kept some on the battlefields for a few months, but how do we explain those who stayed to the task for four years?  What were they fighting for?

            The troops from Missouri, which was not a slave state, were the backbone of the defense at Fort Blakeley. They were the same units that fought at Wilson's Creek four years earlier. It is recorded that every one of them had been wounded at least once. What cause kept these men in the field across five Aprils? Freedom was the cause, and that is all. The same cause that made their grandfathers stand up to King George. They too were honoring their heritage.

            I do hope we never lose sight of that great cause, or the will to fight for it, because as soon as we do, it will be taken from us. We should honor all who fought for freedoms in the Civil War, south and north. Their sacrifice is deserving of our remembrance. May we ever be willing to stand and bear arms against anyone who would take away what they gave so much to guarantee.