Single-Minded: An Independent Journal of Fact and Opinion

A couple of weeks ago, my wife and I were invited to attend a ceremony honoring her great-great grandfather. My wife's family on her father's side has deep roots in the South, and her great-great grandfather was killed during the Civil War, most likely in the Battle of the Wilderness. His exact fate remains uncertain, because his body was never found.

The Daughters of the Confederacy, as part of an ongoing effort to memorialize the soldiers who fought and died in the service of the Confederate Army, commissioned a grave marker, to be dedicated in the cemetary of the church where he was married in 1858. A second marker for his wife was also to be dedicated during the ceremony.

My wife and I viewed this ceremony as a quaint relic from a by-gone era. We soon discovered that the Civil War is still very much alive in the minds of many folks in those parts. First, a small troop of uniformed men marched from the shade of the trees surrounding the Church to the area of the cemetary where the markers stood out in their newness, the polished gray of the granite offsetting the dull gray of the Confederate uniforms. A color guard bore the American flag, the Virginia state flag, and the battle flag of the Confederate Army. Another group of men trailed behind, carrying muskets at right shoulder arms.

Once the honor guard was in place, we all pledged allegiance to the flag of the the United States. Most made an effort to recite the Virginia State pledge, although nobody seemed to know the words very well. Finally, a smaller number of voices recited the pledge to the Confederate flag.

Next came several speeches in which the life of my wife's great-great grandfather was recounted, interspersed with a retelling of the main grievances of the Civil War, at least as it is remembered in those parts. I remarked later to one of my wife's cousins that the folks down in southwestern Virginia seemed to be in possesion of a great many facts that had eluded my college history professors.

The ceremony ended with a salute from the 6 muskets, three sharp volleys that filled the cemetary with surprisingly dense clouds of smoke. The sharp tang of burnt gunpowder stayed in our nostrils as we walked the short distance to the Church, where we were all invited to join in their Sunday service and the pot-luck dinner immediately after the service.

Sitting in the Church pews, enjoying the potluck dinner and relaxing in the company of my wife's relatives and the regular members of the small congregation, it was easy to understand how these little churches were the binding force in the lives of these farm families scattered throughout the ridges and valleys of the Piedmont. It was at Church that one saw one's neighbors and heard news of the world from outside the sheltering valley. It was at Church that one met for the first time the man or woman you would marry. It was at Church that you said farewell for the final time to a beloved grandparent or a child too soon dead.

While we were eating, I overheard someone talking about the controversy in Richmond over whether or not to put a portrait of Robert E. Lee in a public square. Apparently there has been a lively debate over the propriety of honoring a man viewed by many as a traitor, a racist, and a slaveholder.

The Civil War continues to rattle around in the American psyche. We can't seem to find one single place to put all the conflicting emotions that lie just beneath the surface of words like "slavery" or "States rights." Whether in a small cemetary in rural Virginia or in Richmond, the old capitol of the Confederacy, the War Between the States is still America's unfinished business.

Perhaps those folks who are so worried about a simple portrait would do well to heed Lee's own words, as quoted in a wonderful essay by Edward C. Smith on the op-ed page of the Washington Post, dated August 21, 1999:

"Before and during the War Between the States, I was a Virginian. After the war, I became an American."

August 1999

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