by Randy Hill
but the glory belongs to our ancestors ~ Plutarch
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
From Richmond, Virginia, all the way out to the West Texas town of El Paso, Confederate monuments, cast in the bronze and stone of the fighting spirits they honor, stand guard on courthouse lawns and town squares. Atop some of these are the likeness of "Johnny Reb." Under an unwavering gaze, in an eternal guardianship the length and breadth of Dixie, rest the finest generation of men the South ever produced.
Understandably, perhaps, we often freeze those Old Soldiers' place in history as belonging solely to the War. But, as Paul Harvey might say, here is the rest of the story:
Following the conflict, the soldiers returned to wrecked homes and rebuilt. Or they picked up and moved west, beginning a new life in western Texas. Today, their legacy in the state is the wealth created from oil, cattle and cotton. It can fairly be said that the South of today is the most significant and consequential of their enduring monuments -- a reminder of the old adage, "You can't keep a good man down."
It is in April of each year that Southerners come, on Confederate Memorial Day, to pay simple respects to the memory of the boys who wore the gray. And for those of us who remember, and cherish, our Southern history and heritage, a trek through a cemetery on a spring afternoon can be a pure jewel of an experience. A powerful and humbling combination of a history book and a story book, it is as close a thing to visiting with those heroes as an earthly life will ever allow.
The most meaningful part of the occasion, and often the most private one, is the placing of little Confederate flags, in solitary recognition, on the soldiers' final resting places. With that act, under the shadow of aging tombstones, names ordinarily lost to the multitudes of history come, at least for a moment, into a focused clarity. Plant a flag and gaze upon the etching on the stone and, just as the fine stitching on a Persian rug reveals itself when closely examined, so, with a little imagination, it is easy to wander and reflect on and over the life of that one man.
The best of this is in the graveyards far off the beaten path. They are all over this part of North Texas. Take just about any country road and you are probably close to one, overgrown with johnson grass, and wildflowers ... and largely forgotten. Far back from anything but dirt, blacktop lanes and flat prairie interlaced with belts of post oak, these tiny burial grounds trace their history back to a day when family took care of their own. They are easy to miss even if one knows they are there. Few do.
On an April in 1992, I took my kids with me. My little boy was six and my baby girl was four, and I think it was the first time I had really ever taken them out tromping in the country. Today, they are young adults, starting lives of their own, but that year, they were still my children.
There was no gate -- probably there never was one -- but I knew how to pull up the strands of a barbed wire fence to get in, and no one would be the wiser. Aware of state laws concerning trespassing, I'd have been a bit leery had I thought anyone had active custodianship of the land, but I was pretty sure no one did. It just looked too sad and lonely.
We made it through the fence and, sure enough, jutting up among the patches of ragged growth were stones faded by erosion and the excuse for moss that just seems to claim squatter's rights in rural cemeteries. I found the one I was looking for, the one I was always drawn to, and wanted to show the kids. It read:
Confederate Soldier
Died 1929
That is all it said. So simple an etching, barely readable, and so abbreviated a legacy.
I pulled a few weeds, put a small flag right up next to that neglected marker, and smoothed the dirt around it. Then I tried to explain to Ricky and Sherilyn why their daddy does the silly things he does. Why each and every year those pieces of April draw him to that solitary grave way off a dirt road in rural Texas. And why what matters most is . . . just who was Lewis Ferlman?
I would think he has family somewhere, but no flowers or signs of care indicate this. He might have been a back-slappin' sort, ever ready to share stories or jokes and have a good word for everyone he met. Maybe he made his living cotton farming and, as he got old and up in years, told the tales of battle to wide-eyed grandchildren on the front porch as the sheet lightning from a distant thunderstorm lit up the western sky. He could have been something like the Confederates in my own family lines that I myself was generations too young to know.
I tried to explain all this to my kids, getting a bit choked up doing so, but they just listened respectfully (I wouldn't have expected anything less) and impatiently asked if they could go out exploring. What else could I tell them but that yes, they could?
It was a warm day, and a breezy one. It was also tornado season in the plains South. At any moment the puffy clouds that cottoned up the sky could burst all restraints and become a full- blown thunderstorm. Up from the Gulf gushed the warm, humid air on which these storms fuel. With it came a sun-spiced, moisture-laden scent -- indescribably young -- borne on the type breezes that make children play and make kites -- and flags -- fly.
A sudden tug on my shirt brought me out of the reflections. When I turned, my kids were standing there, and both pulled some squashed and crumpled yellow daisies and bright bluebonnets from their jean pockets.
"Daddy? We picked some flowers for the soldier man." Then they put them, very quietly, on the grave of Lewis Ferlman, right beside the small flag.
That fresh Southern wind swept the wild grasses into angel hair. It sang and whispered as I hugged my children and let go a few secret tears. The flowers they had laid stirred a bit. And the little banner snapped proudly to attention.
Deo Vindice.
Randy Hill is a fourth generation Texan of Deep Dixie ancestry, and he bleeds Confederate Gray with Lone Stars. He lives in Wichita Falls, Texas, holds a BA degree with a major in political science and a minor in journalism. He's a public school teacher (asking that such not be held against him). His interests include all things Texan and Southern, his kids, hunting, fishing, camping, cold beer, and severe weather. He dabbles in writing--with file folders full of scribblings too sophomoric to submit for publication--and is a member of the Sons of Confederate Veterans. He also believes passionately that a Southern birthright is a gift from God.DIXIE ~~ anthem of the South
Memories of a Family Reunion
Texas and the Deep South
A Southern Homecoming
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