100 HEROES

I have bowed my knees at the cross almost 100 times in the past three days. (But no, I haven’t been on a spiritual pilgrimage in Jerusalem or Lourdes or to some other religious shine).

I have been repainting those heavy black metal crosses you see scattered around ancient cemeteries below the Mason-Dixon line, and which are referred to as Confederate Iron Crosses.

And while I haven’t renewed my expired membership, I am a former member of The Sons of Confederate Veterans; “former” simply because I haven’t made a priority of renewing it, (not because I have suddenly embraced a new political perspective of that war, or my fellow descendants, or the men who fought and died in that conflict).

Simply put, I abhor slavery, as well as the illegitimate use of the Confederate Battle Flag, (the flag which happens to be the symbol of The Sons of Confederate Veterans organization). However, (and it is a big “however”) the common Confederate fighting man never owned a slave, he was conscripted into the Southern army, and his personal mindset was that he was fighting for what he thought of as “home and country.”

Several of my own forebears fought under the Confederate Battle Flag, one of which, my double great Grandfather, was a transplanted Yankee from Maine who migrated to Georgia prior to the advent of the war. No doubt, he rued the day he moved south since he was drafted the last year of the war, and was summarily captured and interned in the notorious Union prison in Elmira, New York. His brother remained in Maine, and his allegiance was to the Star Spangled Banner. (Literally brother against brother).

Pt. 2

After a few years in the rain those heavy iron memorial crosses tend to get pretty rusty, and they are prone to develop scaly green patches of mold; (which is where I come in).

As a marriage and family counselor, I have met with thousands of men, women, boys and girls, and refer to them as my “clientele.” Over the past three days all of my clientele have been, well, dead. In retrospect, I have imagined those one hundred brave men, who no longer experience hunger or thirst or ambitions or regrets, in their prime and standing in formation, and arrayed for war; much like I once was.

I “spent time” with a number of interesting men over the past three days at Shiloh, and Wildwood and Oak Hill cemeteries. (And given their biographies and personalities, it almost seems they were present with me there).

First and foremost, (because I am admittedly biased), my great great Uncle Joshua Frier. His mortal remains await the Second Coming in Shiloh Cemetery, Plant City, Florida. As I got busy with my trusty wire brush, I reflected on the stories I read in his Civil War journal; written thirty years after the conclusion of the war. He claimed to have known and befriended Lewis Paine, one of the Lincoln conspirators, as a boy. He wrote about his father’s house slave, a cook and housekeeper, who hugged him when he came home on furlough. And Joshua spoke of his brother Samuel who went AWOL, was tracked down by bounty hunters, and was discovered hiding under a house. Sadly, no trial was necessary. (Interestingly enough, the paragraph relating to Joshua’s brother had been scratched out in the journal, but someone managed to decipher the words, perhaps holding the page against a light bulb, so they have not been irretrievably lost.

My father and I attended a memorial ceremony at Shiloh several years before he passed away. I value the photo I have of him and me posing with several members of a Sons of Confederate Veterans color guard garbed in their grey uniforms and holding replica Civil War rifles.

Pt. 3

While I was at Wildwood Cemetery in Bartow, Florida, I paid a repeat visit to Benjamin Franklin Holland. You see, I painted his and about thirty-five other Iron Crosses in this cemetery well over a decade ago.

Old Ben was just 18 when he enlisted (or was drafted, as the case may be), and was wounded in the Battle of Kulp’s Farm. He attended Bowdoin College, and helped organize the First Methodist Church of Bartow; the church my mother attended, and in which I grew up.

But PVT Holland’s greatest claim to fame was one of his children, who great up to be a tall, lanky man who went by the name of “Spessard.” Spessard had the distinction of serving as Governor of the State of Florida, and, ultimately, was elected to the U.S. Senate.

My Summerlin Institute senior class of 1967 boarded a train for Washington D.C. in May of that year, deboarded a day later, and toured the Capitol Building. I have a photo of our class and Senator Holland seated on the steps of this remarkable building.

Senator Holland is interred a few feet away from his father. A beautiful white marble slab graces his gravesite. On the slab are engraved the various vocational accomplishments of the man, including his sponsorship of the 24^th Amendment to our constitution.

Today I completed my “tour of duty” and stopped by Oak Hill Cemetery in Bartow. Among the three cemeteries, the vast majority of the veterans and their Iron Crosses are here, numbering almost fifty; quite an undertaking, (no pun intended).

As a boy I lived a hundred yards from this cemetery. I will always remember walking past this ethereal place in the dark, as my brothers and I made our way to and from the local theater. (We called it a “picture show” sixty years ago). Our pace picked up a bit as we walked past that stone wall which surrounded the cemetery, and the fire flies flittered around the headstones.

I could imagine a myriad of ghosts and goblins ready to pounce upon us. Little could I have imagined that as an old man, I would be afforded the privilege and pleasure of painting these same memorial crosses which may well have, even then, graced the gravesites of the South’s fallen heroes, and where I played Hide and Go Seek in the glare of the daylight sun.

Ghosts and goblins no more, but friends.

Pt. 4

About halfway through my duties today, I stepped up to the gravesite of one of the most familiar characters “in these parts.” Anyone and everyone who has lived in Bartow for very long knows the name of Jacob Summerlin.

I have seen several pictures of the man. He looked to be a fairly non-descript fellow of his time. Hair parted down the middle, unsmiling, beardless, wearing spectacles and holding a cane. His claim to fame was the founding of Summerlin Institute, (to which I have already alluded), my high school alma mater, the oldest in Polk County.

As I set to work with my wire brush, and followed up with black enamel spray paint, I did something I had previously done at some of the other gravesites. I spoke to ole Jacob. (And had he been present in mind and body, and not just body, I might well have “gotten his dander up”).

“Jacob, I can tell you I have mixed emotions about painting your memorial cross. I mean, I am the GGGG Grandson of a black slave, and you ‘owned’ a few of them. And man, I don’t mind telling you, that ain’t right! I only hope you treated them well.”

(My mother and I took DNA tests a few years ago which revealed that, among other nationalities, we had a small Sub-Saharan black bloodline. I, subsequently, ordered another DNA test which substantiated this rather unique revelation to someone who is a child of segregation).

Our school was referred to as Summerlin Institute ‘til a few years after I graduated. But after Union Academy, a black high school, began the process of integration, and started sending their students to Summerlin, it was renamed Bartow Senior High School. Somehow it didn’t seem fitting to retain the moniker of a slave owner.

I continued speaking to the unhearing man.

“But I won’t play favorites. You did fight for the Southern Cause. And you did experience the fog of war. And you might have well died on the field of battle. And you were the founder of the school from which I graduated. I’ll give you a pass on this time. (And we’re not talking about a hall pass).

And with those words, I finished spray painting ole Jacob’s memorial cross and moved on to the next soldier.

Afterward

And while, as I have inferred, I do not celebrate the war, I celebrate the warrior, many of whom walked around with the same DNA in their chromosomes as I do today. And as for the outcome? How could any citizen of the United States regret the outcome of that awful conflict?

But it is a privilege to, in essence, celebrate these dear men, who answered the call to duty, and as best as God gave them to see the light, they did that duty.

And to speak for them, their voices now muted, as mine most assuredly will one day be.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending