A Southerner's View 150 Years Later

A Southerner’s View 150 Years Later

I wrote this in response to an email from a reenactor friend, who forwarded an article about demonstrations that were forming in South Carolina and Alabama against planned events memorializing the 150th Anniversary of the opening events of the Civil War, or "The War Between the States," which is the official name for the war we were taught in school, for I think everyone ought to know how a REAL Southerner feels; one unbiased and raised "at the foot of the Cross", who was also taught that the "N" word was not allowed. 

There's a sack full of do-gooders that think it isn't politically correct to fly the Stars and Bars or honor it.  They're right in one respect.  We do follow one flag now.  We fought this war 150 years ago, and most of us got "over it."  And as Ashton Sheppard says in her song, "Look it up" if you don't understand "got over it!" 

Being from North Carolina and not too far from that Greensboro sit-in from 51 years ago, those "colored folk" have rights too!  We fought for and against them, but it didn't free them, much as the history books tell different.  They still live under bad conditions, 'cause they have to wake up each and every day and look at their skin and say, "Darn, why me?" 

In 1985, I lived and worked in Massachusetts, and you can't imagine how I felt, when the Dorchester school system was sending folks to Charlotte NC to learn how they handled the segregation and busing issues of 1965 to 1968, because they were having so much unrest and violence in their schools and neighborhoods due to abolishing segregation.  I first asked myself, this is 1985;  we've been desegregated down south since 1965.  What is wrong with this picture? 

Not only, 100 years after the war, we in the south had to "MIX", but those friggin' Yankees were not required to do so?!  And...they want to know how we handled it.  WE HAD RIOTS.  WE HAD VIOLENCE.  WE SURVIVED!  Now, it's your turn!!  How do you think you are going to escape the troubles?  Good ole US of A.  Leave it to the Gov'mint to mess up and make only some change and not the rest!  And I'll bet you a Yankee dime to a doughnut that if you go back and interview the folks in power at that time, the reason was, "it's not politically correct to make the side that 'won' the War Between the States be subject to the corrective actions as a result of that victory, even though it took 100 years to START reparations! 

Further, when I was 16, I discovered I had a Yankee ancestor.  I didn't know anything about my Confederate Ancestors.  I was embarrassed.  I didn't even want to know about bein' related to a Yankee, but I was direct blood kin; my Great Grandfather was Corporal Philip W. Morgan in the 100th NY Infantry;  my namesake for goodness sake. 

In time, I became proud to be related to a Yankee.  He was a hard working man, whose Son went south and married a Southern Belle himself!!  And, he fought for his adopted country, having moved from Canada only 2 years prior to the war.  He was captured twice and was a survivor of Andersonville!  God Bless him.

In time, I also learned of my "Southron" ancestors, two of which were in Pickett's charge, the final day of Gettysburg.  One of these was even in the 18th North Carolina, which has the distinct reputation of having shot "Stonewall" one terrible night during the Chancellorsville campaign.  Who knows; maybe he even fired the shot! 

So, I can go back on both sides and live the war.  However, in 1973, I had the opportunity to move to and work in NYC.  Quickly, I became aware of a much more racist community than I ever lived in or heard of in poor southern North Carolina.  NYC was far more racist than back home.  But that didn't matter.  I was the "redneck," and I was the racist or accused, simply because that is where I called home.  I was raised not to disrespect anyone due to color, creed or nationality, and that was way, way long before it was politically correct "Like everyone!" 

Further, I belong to both the Sons of Union Veterans of the Civil War, and the Sons of Confederate Veterans.  The Union organization is much more proactive in remembering the war in a decent fashion.  However, from the literature I've read and received as a member of the SCV, I find many of them still fighting the war; and don't tell me it is about State's Rights, 'cause states rights in nothing more than the right of "new" states being brought into the Union back in those days prior to the war to Own Slaves.

I am proud to be a Southerner.  We generally are a nice bunch of folks with manners and gentlemanly ways.  Chivalry still shines down south!  Yankees lost the meaning of manners years ago.  However, wherever I have lived, north or south, I find ALL THE PEOPLE THE SAME!  They only talk different.  There are good and bad in all locations. The south only gets a bad rap due to the ignorance of the do-gooders that brand everyone with the same iron.  Have a meaningful conversation with anyone on either side of the Mason-Dixon Line, and discuss it without losing your temper or raising your voice, and you'll see that with a little bit of patience, you're both in agreement with how you like to be treated and how you think everyone should be treated equally. 

God Bless you if you had the patience to finish reading this.  I'm sad folks are automatically brought under suspicion for being proud of their heritage just because they live or are from "down South!" 

M. Phillip Brown...American 

Barn Mechanic

"Once upon a time..." Gosh, but don't you wish all stories could start that way and then end "....and lived happily ever after."  Well they do.  It just depends on what part you have in that particular play!

Once upon a time, there was this li'l boy peoples who loved all outdoors.  That'd be me.  The back door of the house was the portal to a wonderful and exciting place, the farm.  You've heard the expression, "forty acres and a mule?"  That is what our place was...without the mule.  We did have a tractor; an Oliver 70, but I'll save that for another tale.

Gran'paw bought the place back in 30's; wantin' a change from life downtown in the big city of Winston to do something more like his raisin', is what I'm thinkin', but who knows.  It was a capitalist venture of the first waters, and it was my life for a long, long time.  Lookin' back, it was the best, but aren't all memories good when you're livin' through a hard time.

I have only "Kodak" glimpses of the original barn.  Before I was 5, Gran'paw and Dad built a new barn and lo an' behold, a separate milkin' parlor, which was built alongside the new barn.  Here, I've a few more glimpses, an' it is neighboring farmers climbin' poles an' sawin' 'em off even, then puttin' up the rafters, the roof, then the sidin'.  There wasn't a construction crew brought in to do this.  They did it themselves, rather Daddy, Gran'paw an' another farmer an' a neighbor or two.  

It was a simple structure; a pole barn.  Telephone poles, which were bought second hand from either Southern Bell, or Duke Power.  They were old creosote poles with the old spike marks.  Simple 1 x 4s lathe around the perimeter and across the roof rafters to which galvanized tin siding was nailed.  The sidin' was second hand too.  We didn't have a lot, but we had enough.  There is the story oft remembered of hearin' me cryin', and everyone lookin' all around for me, only to find me in one of those giant pole holes.  I visualize a dog there barkin' at a groundhog, but really barkin' at me.  Thankfully my memory of that is only a torn corner off that particular "Kodak."

One side of the barn was for hay bales, then the alley down which the tractor brought in the hay wagon.  On the right of that alley was the feed trough or manger with wooden head gates.  On the other side of the manger was a large open area with water trough, where the cows stayed in the winter months during bad weather, which would only be a snow storm.  At the end of the trough was a calf pen.  I suppose that small pen was my favorite place, because of the "little creatures" who lived there.  My first chores revolved around those calves.  They were in that pen for at least a year, before Dad turned 'em out with the rest of the cows.  It was my job to feed an' water these calves; usually two or three were there at any one time. 

I carried water in 5 gallon buckets to that pen from the milkin' parlor.  Lookin' back, I wonder what it would have taken to run a separate pipe down there to a permanent water trough?  It wasn't needed, is the only answer I can figure, 'cause for to a grown man, it's not far to carry a bucket of water. However, I didn't start out a grown man.  I was a li'l feller, an' when I stood straight, the bottom of that water pail weren't but about 5 inches off the ground, if that!  I don't recall any angst about whether or not there was a spigot closer to the trough; there wasn't, so just tote water to those thirsty souls.  They'd hear me comin', an' you could hear them jockeyin' for position to be the first to git their nose in the bucket.  Lordy, but three calves could sure make a racket, an' I suppose that'd be about the first time of my life where I'd contemplate such words that didn't come outta the King James!  As hard as it was for me to lug that water down there, I hated to see it splashed out instead of swallowed.  Every splash was another trip to the spigot back that long path to the milkin' parlor.  I remember now the roots of that giant oak in three separate places across the path from the parlor, runnin' between the giant oak and the pole barn then down the alley to the calf pen.  Daddy would take those roots in stride, but they were hurdles for this li'l feller, an' I figgered I'd already spilt enough water at their crossin' as needed spillin', an' these calves shouldn't be splashin' out any more. 

The calf pen was a simple boarded off section of the barn only about twelve foot square.  The boards around the pen were an odd assortment of boards left over from God knows what.  There weren't two boards of the same size that I can recall;  1 x 6s, 1 x 8s an' such.  There might have been a 2 x 4 or 2 x 6 in there somewhere.  This is where I first used a hammer.  I watched Dad nail back a board which a cow or rambuctious calf had kicked down.  This pen was where the cow lost her calf once she got back into the milkin' rotation two to three days followin' calvin'.  An' Lord only knows an' any momma can tell you that you can't separate a momma from her youngun' easy at all.  They'd both be bellowin' at one another beside that stall for a couple days followin' separation, each one tryin' to get to the other side of those boards. 

Dad would pull the board off, pull out the nail careful not to bend it anymore, then like a craftsman buildin' some fine machine, he'd lay that nail across a rock or the even another sturdy board an' carefully hammer it back straight.  I have never...I repeat never...seen a new nail.  Never!  After a fashion, the next time that board was knocked from the posts, the nails might just pop outta that board an' guess what?  You'd hunt till you found through the straw and manure till you found it.  Why?  'Cause there wasn't another one in ten miles of that barn, I'm sure.  An' bein's we didn't have a truck, that'd be a far piece to walk just for one nail.  I laugh now, but wasn't life so simple?  Then I think, findin' that lost nail was about as worrisome as havin' my car breakdown in later years.  I'd venture a guess you could say, I was good at "findin' a needle in a haystack!" 

I'd give my eye teeth for a sack of new nails back in those days, but that wasn't to be.  I wish I had a dollar for every nail I straightened.  Heck, we even straightened staples on the fence line aound the pasture, when ever it had to be repaired.  You used what you had, an' if you didn't have, you jury-rigged till the day you could have. 

Many years passed these first chore days, an' I eventually left home to a life of my own.  I was finishin' a power house job in Maine, an' workin' in the home office in Kernersville NC, preparin' for the next job in Georgetown SC.  Home was too convenient for me, so rather than bein' put up in a motel for this interim, I stayed home, which was pure joy for me.  Every night a home cooked meal better'n any I'd had since first leavin' home.  Every evening I'd help Daddy milk.  It was not work for me, but pure enjoyment.  I loved bein' in that barn, more'n any fish loves water.  The smells, the warmth as you put your head in the cow's flank as you put the teatcups to her udder.  It's near good as a plate of warm biscuits an' gravy for breakfast.

It was sad, those last couple months, 'cause Daddy was not well.  I had no idea how bad till I worked with him every night.  It was all he could do to carry the milkers from the cow, then dump the milk into the storage tank.  His knees were shot from a lifetime of squattin' beside those cows twice a day every day his whole life.  Daddy was 57; young to most, but old beyond his time.  God took me to that place for those months to be close to Daddy, an' share that precious time.  I was there two months; his last two months.  He passed early one December morning of a severe heart attack.  That was a tough moment.  It puts water in my eyes every time I recall it.  But I was there, and that is all that counts. 

It was during these next few days, as sad as they were, I had to laugh at a few things.  I was preparing all the outdoor spigots for the winter weather, and put the lamp in the well house so it wouldn't freeze too.  I was rummagin' through the "Old Milk House", which had been converted to storage, when the new parlor was built.  It was a mess.  Daddy was a pack rat.  Nothing was ever thrown away.  I was lookin' for insulation, rags, anything to wrap the exposed water spigots.  Amongst all that stuff was a cardboard box approximately one foot wide, tall and deep.  I turned back one of the top flaps and what was before me....a FULL 50 pound box of 16 penny nails.  So help me, I didn't know whether to laugh or speak of those words not of King James!  You have to know, the first thought crossin' my mind was all those nails I'd straightened in that calf pen, an' here's a full box of nails, which were probably from when the barn was built, and they'd been there covered up on the steps of that milk house for more'n 25 years!  Precious Memories, how they linger.