Of Scarecrows and Scots

2011-11-02T05:47:00.001-07:00

Rebirth

While the sun still lies in repose

just belowthe rim of the rested earth

and stars yet dot the sky, winking eyes

watchingwith care their fading domain

God’s hand revolving the world with ease

breaks thedawn but the stars persist

in their shining as if asking “let us stay.”

But God has plans for a new day and

thecrescent moon on the cobalt winter sky

smiles shyly and fades along with the stars

and God’snew day is born without weeping

Seasons

2011-09-12T13:36:00.000-07:00

Poor blog. Lost and lonely, sitting there neglected for months on end. Here I am again, better late than never they say.

A lot has happened in recent months. I lost a brother-in-law, Dennis, to something called pulmonary fibrosis. It is a wicked disease that comes from inhaling asbestos and other troublesome things from the air in power plants and similar places.

My daughter Christi was diagnosed with breast cancer and has had a radical mastectomy. She is chipper and hopeful, and about to start a round of chemotherapy. It is tough duty for a dad to watch his daughter go through this, tough indeed.

Life is like that, you know. You go along happy as a clam, then wham the roof caves in. That's when you have to call on your faith, if you have it. Thank goodness, I do.

Work continues at a snail's pace on the sequel to Scarecrow in Gray. The Season of the Crow is very slowly taking shape and is, in my opinion, a much better work. I suppose when publication day comes, hopefully next year, we shall see if the readers and reviewers agree.

I shall try to do better, old blog, and old friends. Until next time, hold your loved ones close. You just never know.

Cheers.

New Bakery!

2011-01-12T18:48:00.000-08:00

Under the category shameless family promotion, my chef daughter Christi has a new bakery and catering business in Columbia, NC. You can check out her website at www.sliceofheavencolumbia.com. She makes all sorts of tasty concoctions and will cater small to large events.

The site is still a work in progress, but she is open and ready for business. Way to go Chris!

Still Life

2010-11-19T15:15:00.000-08:00

The gleam of a small lamp
illuminates the quiet room.
The darkness beyond the walls
forms another wall, then another

The old man sits and stares
at the past with eyes wet
from weeping.

The scenes that roll through his mind
some sad, some happy, are all that
remain of the life gone by
like a vapor.

And all around the world moves on
with dancing, and laughing,
and war, and buying and selling,
and loving and hating,
and all that is important
for a moment,
for a brief and vanishing moment.

No matter to the old man,
having seen and done
and thought
and remembered.

Daylight fades, again,
as it always has does will
and with it fading recollections
collective electrical disturbances
in his aging brain only
less than dissipated
already gone
only remembered
for a breath
until that too
is gone
quietly.

Missing the High Country

2010-10-07T15:51:00.000-07:00

Since my old hiking buddy and good friend, Bud Wilson, passed away, I have not had even the hope of taking a weekend hike in the Western NC mountains. I miss those craggy peaks, those windswept hills where life is put in its proper place. There is no room for ego there, nor worry, or anxiety. There is only putting one foot in front of another, looking for the next water source, and finding a good place to make camp.

Then, settling down around the fire, eating a basic meal from a can, every muscle, nerve, and sinew relaxes. You rest to the sound of the crackling fire and gaze at the starry canvas. It gets cool at night in the mountains, and you slide on your jacket, watching the fire worry itself down.

Then to settle into your sleeping bag, where it's warm and quiet. You may hear the wind ripple your tent fly as it sweeps over the mountain. Quiet and warm and relaxed in nature's bower. Sleep comes easy, and your dreams fly away miles toward the sky.

I surely miss it and hope someday I can find another old geezer, slow poke hiker to wander the ragged hills of Caroline.

The Prince and Peace

2010-09-17T04:17:00.000-07:00

In the mists of the long dead past
life arises
In the gleam of sunlight on the rose
life shines forth
In the smile of the young
life expresses love

In all the vagaries of our mysterious world
and existence
there shows forth, to the one who can see
the Love that saves

To open one's eyes is sometimes hard
To keep them closed is the way of the coward
Belief takes effort
Denial only hardness of heart

Listen
In quietness
Read
The Word of God

Then the Truth will come like warm summer rain
and your heart is nourished and renewed
and you can be born again.

The Gray Child

2010-05-03T18:55:00.000-07:00

Copyright 2010

To the aged go the spoils

those miracles of daily life accumulated

those riches laid down and taken up

stored for the day when

the day when

And life its weary journey plods

and bodies fail and thoughts fail

and nights grow long and short again

and pain of heart

and pain of mind

reside in docile, noisy state

And somewhere deep inside

still striving

a stubborn youth must be heard

amid the cacophonous clamor

of arthritis, myelitis, and actinic nuisance

still inside, somehow despite the years

in that solid, quiet place

that ageless, static place

wherein attends the soul

and resides the dew of hope

of purpose

amid the stuff of dreams

that refuse to die

And light the suffocating darkness breaks

and upward reaches

the essence of which

the real man is made.

New Review of On Wings of Gentle Power on Amazon.com

2010-03-26T07:30:00.000-07:00

By: Patrick Trammell, Vestavia Hills, AL

Powerfully Written, Beautifully Packaged, March 25, 2010

This review is from: On Wings of Gentle Power (Paperback) On Wings of Gentle Power, Barry Yelton's second book and first poetry offering, takes the reader on a slow, soulful walk through life's rich journey. Barry Yelton is a technically talented and imaginative fiction writer, as proven in his debut novel, Scarecrow in Gray. In this work, he reveals a man grounded deeply in his roots and his time. His poetry is artfully crafted, yet offers vivid imagery of life, death, the past, and nature. It is at times mournful, at times hopeful, but always grounded solidly in the human condition. A note on the photography of Al Past, which accompanies the book. Many poetry books use stock photography for decoration. Not so here. The photography in this book is as essential to the reading experience as the written word. A wonderfully crafted and moving experience awaits the reader.

New Review of Scarecrow in Gray on Amazon.com

2010-03-26T07:27:00.000-07:00

By Patrick Trammell (Vestavia Hills, AL) - See all my reviews
This review is from: Scarecrow in Gray (Paperback)

In his debut novel, Barry Yelton artfully weaves the tale of Francis Marion Yelton, a distant kinsman of the author. Francis' story could have been of any private soldier on either side of the Civil War. The War we see vividly through Francis' eyes is of a world turned upside down. Plucked from a small farm at the tail end of the war, Francis suffers hardship, deprivation, and becomes all to familiar with the call of death and misery. At times gentle, at times violent, but with a code of honor squarely at home in 19th century America, we see a man who is all too human. Barry Yelton has done a masterful job of stripping away the cavalry sabres and mint juleps, and presented War as most live it. From a craftmanship standpoint, Yelton holds his own with the finest historical fiction writers. Indeed, the book is only historical fiction by accident. It hold its own with the best of recent Southern fiction. Worth a read, and worth more exploration of Barry Yelton's talents.

Listen to Me

2010-03-22T19:12:00.000-07:00

Copyright 2010

I have no part in the enterprise of the day
long since has my voice
been stilled
by time

Yet voice should I give
where voice is not given
and hard lessons there are
to be learned
by those who walk in
sunlight's brief illusion

Man's bold suppositions
ring hollow in truth

eternal verisimilitude

gives lie to the
temporal, shallow dance of fools
we dance

from the place
that I rest
I can only reach out
with the arms
of the living
long since have my own
given way to corruption

Reach out though I must
through the words of a friend
and tell you, poor human
walk lively today
reach upward, sing hearty
embrace
remember
strive
for your day will turn dark
and the ending arrive
when never you expect

and never you wish

Memory of a Loved One

2010-03-11T03:34:00.001-08:00

My friend Jack Dixon, whom I met through the IAG group, has an entry on his website about his beloved wife, who passed away after a struggle with cancer. He wrote a poem dedicated to her memory and a tribute to her, and has posted a couple of photos of her there.

She was obviously a very lovely lady in many ways, and one can only imagine the grief that he has experienced since her passing. Jack is a talented writer, having written a vivid and exciting novel, The Pict, about an ancient people that inhabited the British Isles.

I highly recommend a visit to Jack's website and I highly recommend his novel. He is a talented man, and though we have never met, I count him a good friend. He has been very supportive of my work, and nothing is more important to a writer than the validation of other writers.

You can read Jack's tribute to his wife here: http://www.jdixon.net/karen.html

New Review of On Wings of Gentle Power

2010-02-08T13:16:00.001-08:00

My thanks to Floyd Orr and Lloyd Lofthouse of POD Book Reviews and more for the recent review of On Wings of Gentle Power. You can read the review on the PODBRAM site-
www.podbram.blogspot.com.

Something to tickle your funny bone!

2010-01-30T09:42:00.000-08:00

Harvey Fagan Breaks Bad
Copyright 2010

Did I ever tell you about old Harvey Fagan and Officer Fesco Bass? Well, it’s a real knee slapper, and if you got time, I’ll relate the whole thing. It all happened on a Saturday, as I recall, back in about 1954. There was a bunch of us hangin’ out up town in Elm City, there near the Union Bank, where the town clock hangs.

We was standin’ around talkin’ about how much time President Eisenhower spends playin’ golf, and how purty that Marilyn Monroe is. Harvey had just got through pontificatin’ about how old Ike ought to be working on trying to figure out how to stop the Communists in China, instead of “chasin’ that little white ball around,” and had launched about the seventieth stream into the gutter, there in front of the ice cream store, when up walks Officer Fesco Bass.

Now it was well known all over Elm City that Officer Bass had no use for anyone who hung around uptown, blocking the sidewalks, and spitting tobacco juice into the gutters. He maintained that the tax paying businesses of Elm City deserved to have sidewalks free of loiterers and gutters free of tobacco spit. On a personal level, Officer Bass was the picture of rectitude and civic mindedness, not to mention he kept a clean uniform and the brightest, shiniest pair of patent leather shoes a man ever saw. Why you could shave yourself in the reflection off those shoes and never miss a whisker!

It was also well known that Harvey had no use for Fesco, and quite frequently laughed at him behind his back. Now it wasn’t that Fesco was a bad man at all. It was just, well that he was funny looking. You remember that fellow that played Barney in the Andy Griffith Show? Well Fesco looked a bit like that, except not as good looking, and a might skinnier. It was worse that he had thick lips, not unlike those on a bass fish. Frequently, when officer Bass walked by, Harvey would suck in the sides of his mouth and make a sort of fish face as he went on by, much to the amusement of the other fellows hanging around.

Anyhow, up walks Officer Bass, twirling his baton. I figure he practiced that in a mirror about four hours a day, because he was sure good at it. You could barely see it he twirled it so fast. He came up within about ten feet of where Harvey was standin when Harvey launches this stream toward the gutter. It was short, however, and landed at the edge of the curb and sort of puddled there. Officer Bass, stopped abruptly and glared at Harvey with a look that would wither fresh flowers.

He took a couple more slow steps toward Harvey, and, jutting out his lower jaw, pointed at the puddle on the curb with a long, bony finger. “Harvey, how many times have I told you that it is against the law to spit on the sidewalk? It’s bad enough that you have to fill the gutters up with that nasty stuff in your mouth, but it is a disgrace to this town for you to foul the sidewalks, and right in front of the ice cream store to boot!”

“Well, I’m right sorry, Officer Bass, but I was aimin’ at the curb and must not of taken the windage into account.”

“It’s Corporal Bass, now, Harvey. Chief Gudger done promoted me last week,” Fesco said, with his chin up, his baton tapping lightly at the corporal’s chevrons on his sleeve.
Harvey looked like he was going to choke on the chaw in his mouth. I could see him fighting mightily to get himself under control, but it was a struggle indeed. His big shoulders shook slightly as he fought down the laugh, and his face turned a bright red.

But, I must say, he controlled himself quite well, under the circumstances, and simply said, “Well, congratulations Corporal Bass.”

The Corporal looked mildly aggravated, and, pointing again at the puddle on the sidewalk said, “I could give you a ticket for this, and it would cost you five dollars, but I’m gonna overlook it this once since you said you was aimin’ at the gutter. So help me, if this ever happens again, Harvey, the wrath of Elm City’s police force is goin’ to come down on your head and it won’t be pretty! You got that?”

“Yes, sir,” said Harvey, with as much humility as he could muster. “I shore won’t do ‘er again, no sir.”

Fesco glared at Harvey briefly, and then walked casually away, twirling the baton. I made signs at Harvey, tryin’ to get him not to do it, but he did it anyway. He made the fish face behind Fesco’s back. He sucked those fat cheeks in and made that silly little fish face, lips workin’ up and down, right at Fesco’s back. Tobacco juice rolled prodigiously out the sides of his mouth, but he didn’t pay it any mind. The other fellows standing around proceeded to hee-haw loud enough to wake the dead. Arthur Jones doubled over he laughed so hard.

Fesco wheeled around, and though Harvey tried to lose the fish face, Fesco was too quick and caught him in the act, lips moving and all. All of a sudden, the laughter stopped. It was like a cloud went over the sun. Harvey’s fish face froze in place; a couple of drops of tobacco juice rolled slowly down his overalls. Fesco gripped his baton like a club, and stalked back toward the group.
“Just what do you fellows think is so funny?” he asked, though the question answered itself. Harvey’s fish face gradually faded back into his regular round, fat-man’s face, and he sort of tilted his head and raised his eyebrows as if to say, “I don’t know.” But, he did know, and so did Fesco. Fesco wasn’t a genius, but he had graduated twenty-third in his high school class, and he figured out pretty quick what was going on.

He waived the baton at Harvey. “I’m changin’ my mind about that ticket,” he said, as he strode toward Harvey. “I’m writin’ that ticket and you’re gonna pay the town of Elm City the sum of five dollars or spend three nights in jail.” He pulled out his ticket book and began to write.
Harvey’s face grew redder by the minute. For one thing, Harvey couldn’t stand Fesco. For another, he was as tight a tightwad as ever lived, and for him to even think of parting with five greenbacks was just about more than the man could stand. Harvey stood there about eight feet from Fesco, workin’ his jaw. Over and over, he worked that jaw. All of a sudden, it came to me. I knew what Harvey was about to do. I almost had it out of my mouth to say “Harvey don’t do it” when Harvey went and did it.

Harvey had worked up a monumental slug of juice, and, rearing his head back, then bringing it forward, he spat it at Fesco. Now I have seen a lot of tobacco juice expelled over the years, especially on the street and in the barber shop in Elm City. Many tobacco chewers pride themselves on being able to hit a spittoon at ten or twelve feet. I have seen the best, but never have I seen such a stream as issued from Harvey Fagan’s mouth that Saturday in 1954.
Time seemed to slow down, like it does in the movies sometimes. The stream came from his mouth like a fountain and hung in the air, a blur of gleaming amber in the sunlight. It’s a crying shame that the moment couldn’t have been captured on film, because it was one for the ages. It sort of arced up, shone briefly in the sunlight, and then came right down and splattered the toe of the Corporal’s right shoe.

Time then seemed to stand still for a spell. Harvey worked his jaw once, and then a tight little smile crossed his face, as he stood there defiant as all get out. Fesco’s mouth dropped open, and then he slowly looked down at his shoe. I have to say, it was as sorry a sight as I ever saw, that shiny black shoe absolutely covered with tobacco juice. It ran off the sides and puddled on the ground, they was so much of it!

Fesco stood staring at the shoe for what seemed several minutes, though it surely couldn’t have been that long. Then, I thought maybe Fesco was havin’ a stroke or something, because he sort of sputtered and stammered some words that nobody could make out. Arthur pointed at the shoe and begin to laugh. Harvey lifted his chin up real proud like, and though he didn’t say it, he seemed to be sayin’, How’d ye like that ‘un, boys!”

Fesco finally found his voice. He waved the baton in Harvey’s face and yelled, “You done assaulted a officer of the law!”

Harvey frowned and said, “With baccer spit?”

Fesco tapped Harvey on the chest with the baton. “It don’t matter. It was the intent that counts, accordin’ to the law.” Fesco’s face was getting’ real red. Now I was worried that he really would have a stroke. The baton trembled in his hand.

Harvey wasn’t smilin’ now; he knew he was in trouble. I could see it on his face, like a little cloud came over it, and where he was grinnin’ and all proud of the stream before; now he was worried he had gone a little too far.

Fesco reached behind his back and pulled the handcuffs off his shiny black belt. “You’re goin’ to the pokey, mister,” he says, his teeth gritted real tight.

Well, I reckon Harvey didn’t take to goin’ to jail. He spent a night there two years before, when he was drunk and was singin’ “Old Folks at Home” real loud on the town square on a Saturday afternoon. What happened next was absolutely amazing. I never knew a fat man could move that fast, and him almost fifty years old too. He spun on his heel and took off down Main Street at a dead run, his overalls floppin’ all around. Fesco stood for a minute with his mouth dropped open, again, and then he begun what they call a hot pursuit. Down Main Street goes Harvey and Fesco, their feet slappin’ the sidewalk and Fesco yellin’, “Halt, police!” You could hear it from one end of town to the other.

The rest of us boys looked at each other, and then, as with one mind, we all took off after Harvey and Fesco, because we wanted to see how this would turn out. So here we go, Harvey in the lead, face red and sweat a rollin’; Fesco runnin’ behind him, his knees near up to his chest and bony arms pumpin’ hard. The three of us come runnin’ along behind. I sorta took the lead, because Arthur and Frank was bad out of shape, and lacked the motivation I had. I really wanted to see how this story would end!

Folks on the street stopped what they was doin’ and watched this strange parade movin’ up main street. For some reason, Harvey decided to cross the street and run the other way; so Fesco follows, yelling, “Halt, police, stop!” and all that kind of thing. I could see Harvey was slowin’ down, and Fesco was catchin’ up. Harvey was a big man, to put it kindly. In fact, he probably tipped the scales at near three hundred pounds, and there wasn’t much muscle on him.

Anyhow, it seemed Harvey had him an idea. He crossed the street again at the square and went into the little park in the middle. Elm City had a real nice little park right in the middle of town, with some nice fir trees, and bushes, and a little fountain in the middle of a round pool, which was surrounded by a wrought iron fence. That was to keep the kids (or somebody like Harvey) from wading in it. Harvey ran around to the opposite side of the fountain from Fesco. When Fesco would start around one way, Harvey would run in the other direction. Every time Fesco changed direction, Harvey would too.

Back and forth it went, until Fesco had himself an idea. He was determined to get his hands on Harvey, so he takes a runnin go and jumps over the wrought iron fence, and into the fountain. Then he goes splashin’ across real fast. Harvey was sort of froze in place; he never figured on this! I must say I have never seen a more determined look than Fesco had on his narrow little face that day. Why he leaped over the fence on the other side, before you could say skat. Harvey come to himself and turned to run, but it was too late. Fesco leaped on Harvey’s back, meanin’ to take him to the ground. Unfortunately for Fesco, a one hundred and thirty pound man is always goin’ to have a hard time takin’ a three hundred pound man to the ground.

It looked for all the world like Harvey was takin’ Fesco for a piggy back ride! Fesco had Harvey around the neck with both arms. Harvey was spinnin’ and flailin’, tryin’ to get Fesco off. Fesco was shifting around tryin’ to take Harvey to the ground. A crowd began to gather. In fact, it was the biggest crowd I had seen in Elm City since the fire truck caught on fire several years before. Now that was a sight to be seen. But this one took the cake.

Well, Fesco figured this had gone on long enough, so he let loose with his right arm and swung the baton down on Harvey’s head, with a little whack. Now Harvey didn’t take much to pain, and he was wore out, so he sort of sat down on the ground, which took Fesco by surprise and he tumbled off. Then, somehow Harvey got his second wind. He got up and took off again! Fesco was a bit stunned, and so he just sat there and watched Harvey run down the street, stoppin’ every now and then to grab his side, then runnin’ on about as fast as a fat man can run.

That was the last time we ever saw Harvey, him a runnin’ down Main Street in Elm City, overalls floppin’ and sweat flyin’. The sound of his brogans hittin’ the pavement faded away in the late afternoon air. It got so quiet around the fountain, you could have heard a pin drop.

Some say Harvey moved over to Frog Level. Some say he left the state. All I know is that Fesco gave any and all tobacco chewers a wide berth from that day on, and that’s the truth with my hand up.

Reviews of On Wings of Gentle Power

2010-01-15T03:49:00.000-08:00

My thanks to Janet Riehl, poet, blogger, and all around fine person, for posting the first review of On Wings of Gentle Power. You can find it on her blog at http://www.riehlife.com/2010/01/08/poetry-on-wings-of-gentle-power-by-barry-d-yelton/.

Also, many thanks to Janet Elaine Smith, prolific author and IAG friend, for reviewing the book and posting the review to Amazon.com. You can view it at http://www.amazon.com/Wings-Gentle-Power-Barry-Yelton/dp/1932045708/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1263556479&sr=1-1.

Ms. Smith's blog is at www.janetelainesmith.blogspot.com.

On Wings of Gentle Power is Here!

2009-12-30T13:51:00.001-08:00

My book of poetry, On Wings of Gentle Power, is now out and available on Amazon.com. It is a collection of poems, with terrific black and white photography by Dr. Al Past, of the Distant Cousin novels fame.

Special thanks to Al, and to my publisher/editor, Mike Katz of Strider Nolan Media. He and his wife did an incredible job with the artwork and layouts.

I hope you will check it out.

Short Story Contest for Kids!

2009-12-18T11:16:00.000-08:00

My IAG friend, Bobby Ozuna, is promoting a new contest. Here is his recent post to the IAG Group...

Hey gang, I could use some help promoting a new short-story contest for kids by the foundation READ3Zero. I co-founded this organization with author Melissa M. Williams of LongTale Publishing and we are presently taking short-story submissions by children in and between grades third through eighth. We are going to publish the best short-stories in an anthology entitled: "I Write: Short Stories By Kids, For Kids" in 2010. We could use your help in promoting this contest which will help spotlight the creative efforts of children. I am going to feature the winners of the contest on my show, The Indie Author Show next year. I created a short infomercial for READ3Zero and the I Write contest which you can view here:

http://bit.ly/5kkELQ

This is a great way to show your support for literacy and encouraging and possibly nurturing the next great American author....supporting the independent arts...~Bobby Ozuna

www.OzunaPub.com

If I Could Sing

2009-12-13T05:04:00.000-08:00

Copyright 2009 by Barry Yelton

If I could sing a thousand years
in space of just a minute
I wouldn’t hesitate the least
but certain sure begin it.

To sing the hurt of all the young
with solemn stanzas borning
the tragedy of small hearts torn
the battered painful morning.

The tiny frame with stricken eyes
that plead for understanding
The fist and steel strike hard in place
of simple reprimanding.

How can the human heart possess
such evil and such coldness
to harm a child such brutal sway
such elemental boldness!

Beyond the ken of decent thought
this perfidy residing
rolls down the hall of all the years
with human soul abiding.

The pain of separation sore
Divorce and death and sadness
wreak havoc on the little ones
and trample all their gladness.

If I could sing a thousand years
from this very minute on
I would surely sing for children
happiness from dawn to dawn.

Sing sunny days with garland clouds
laughing hours and fishing streams
of Mother’s love and Daddy’s lap
cheerful morn’ and rainbow dreams.

Sing the love of their Creator
sing to heart of young and old
Sing the song that’s never ending
greatest Love that ‘er was told.

Light in the Far Distance

2009-11-08T18:28:00.000-08:00

Copyright 2009

The Problem

the road stretches beyond my sight
out where lovely day replaces gloomy night
replaces day
replaces night
and yet that glimmer still lights up
the trusting soul
and hope won’t die

the road still rocky
still hard
both that within and that without
two roads to travel
the dual test that puts the soul
on trial
a daily court of accusation
with no defense
save one alone

and looking one to the other
the finger pointing barristers
their bony digits directed at me
and i retreat within and seek
the solace only one provides

the one maligned and scorned
in this post modern nightmare

The Second Problem

and from the columned halls
the white coated gurus utter their
foolish proclamations of the death of god
and the randomness of existence
and how it all came to be
by chance or accident or just because
is their doltish refrain
a homily of oafs
with egos outsized to ridiculous proportion

as if anything really happens by chance

randomness they proclaim
randomness
parroting while always massaging their collective
liege called science
the coterie ensconced in their quiet echo chambers
issue edict upon edict to the
benighted masses who work and who worship
facts! they cry
empirical evidence! they trumpet
their vision limited to the extent of their beaks
as they tinker with the building blocks
of the universe
like children at play
pitifully unaware
dangerously unaware
of the watchful parent
from afar

and yet always, yet always
the question still lingers
still imposes its weighty presence
in the consciousness of men
in the light of the sun, the drift of the rain
in the glow of moonlight, the purr of a cat
in the laughter of a child, the music of the spheres
in the fantastic spin of the atom, and subatomic particles
(of what do they consist, pray tell?)

in hope, in faith, in love
the question uttered by the ancients
still uttered and will be by the truly sentient
and that question is

Why?

The Resolution

a question for which science
has no answer
and will never
for it falls beyond the corporeal thrall
here
bound by finite minds
seeking infinite knowledge
as they tinker and expound with grave proclamation
as if claiming to their own
the essence of the material
their knowledge impressive!
their understanding rather paltry

the ultimate knowledge is
only to be obtained
in the realm of the spirit

though we seem to be peering through darkness
at the light beyond
steady and majestic there in the distance
brilliant
welcoming
eternal

it beckons to him who
would have eyes to see
and ears to hear

perhaps someday
at a microscope somewhere
the light will be found
that finally and irrevocably
on that day of endings
and of beginnings
at long last illuminates
the circumscribed mind of science

"On Wings of Gentle Power" is almost ready!

2009-11-03T02:22:00.000-08:00

My publisher, Strider Nolan Media, informs me that my new poetry book, "On Wings of Gentle Power," will be ready within a couple of weeks. It is a compilation of poems written over several years, along with stunning black and white photographs by Al Past, author of the acclaimed "Distant Cousin" series of novels.

The release date will be announced here, hopefully within two weeks.

Review of Floyd Orr's "Timeline of America"

2009-10-31T15:36:00.000-07:00

Posted to Amazon.com

Timeline of America is an engaging journey through America's history, as the subtitle states, in "sound bytes." In reading it I became aware of how much recent history, from the fifties, sixties, and seventies, I had forgotten. I recalled songs, movies, and books that at the time seemed timeless, but nonetheless were lost to memory.

Mr. Orr does a valuable service with this book in bringing back those memories that will be especially evocative to baby-boomers and of interest to younger generations who have perhaps heard some of the names, records, movies, etc. enumerated herein. Except for one or two minor lapses, such as putting one city in the wrong state, the book appears to be very accurate and quite comprehensive.

This is not a book to sit down and absorb, because it is mostly a categorization of facts, not a treatise on American culture. It is, instead, a book to ponder over, reminisce over, and re-visit from time to time to catch a glimpse of a bygone America and its triumphs and failures. It is a book to keep and one that will give pleasure and inform for a lifetime. I recommend the book to anyone interested in popular history, especially of the late twentieth century.

You can get the book here:

http://www.amazon.com/Timeline-America-Sound-Consumer-Culture/dp/0595400043/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1257028820&sr=1-1

Review of E.L. Doctorow's "Homer and Langley"

2009-10-24T12:09:00.001-07:00

Posted to Amazon.com...

This novel, based on the true story of the Collyer brothers, found dead in their Harlem brownstone amid tons of debris in 1947, is an exceptional achievement by one of the finest writers of our age. This story of two brothers from a prominent New York family, each dealing with his own profound impairment, is a not so subtle metaphor for human existence and its ultimate conclusions.

Doctorow changes the time frame of their lives, and fills in the sketchy story with his own elaborations. After the two experience profound tragedy early in life, the narrative takes them through most of the century with its wars, fads, and foibles. They meet and interact with a parade of characters, while leading an increasingly cloistered life in the inherited Fifth Avenue manse. The slow deterioration of the house roughly coincides with that of the brothers' physical and mental states. Each is increasingly closed in, both physically and psychologically.

The book is immensely engrossing and subtly moving. For lovers of good literature this is that rare breed of novel that is both literate and captivating. While moving the reader through the highs and lows of the brothers' lives, it takes one on an intellectual journey that is both edifying as well as frightening. The final paragraph is one of the most chilling I have ever read.

This relatively short novel is indeed well worth one's time.

Scarecrow in Gray, Chapter Five

2009-09-08T16:59:00.000-07:00

Loosed from their bonds
in a thousand southern corn fields
in grim and ragged array
these scarecrows looked dangerous.

The next morning we were up before dawn and started a fire to cook a bit of breakfast. Whit said he felt bad, like he was getting sick, so I cooked his breakfast for him and made sure he had plenty to eat. Whit’s a strange one and has his peculiar ways, but you look after your friends. Whit seemed to feel a bit better after breakfast as we marched off toward Petersburg, shouldering our rifles and our bedrolls. They said we all needed to be alert because we were approaching the battlefield. I didn’t relish the thought of shooting at the Yankees, or being shot at, but I confess I was finally getting used to the thought.

The next day we left camp at 5:30 in the morning and arrived in Petersburg about eight o’clock that night. We had walked almost seventy-five miles through the Virginia countryside in three days and were very much sore of foot. Whit and I were directed to the 18th North Carolina Regiment, of General Lane’s Brigade in General Wilcox’s Division in General A.P. Hill’s III Corps, Army of Northern Virginia. We were told it was important to remember all that. Seems now I can’t forget it.

When we got to the camp behind the entrenchments, our jaws dropped at what we saw. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t what I saw. The men of the regiment, sitting around the “bombproofs” and in the trenches were the skinniest, dirtiest men I ever saw in my life. Many were the color of the dirt of the trenches. Some sat back in holes dug into the trench walls to protect themselves from the shells that fell from time to time. Some lounged around the huts. Others stood posts along the earth works, which wound on and on, as far as the eye could see, north and south. Their clothes were mostly rags, some had no shoes. They peered at us through haunted eyes, their cheeks hollow with a hunger that seemed to go to the bone. They indeed looked like scarecrows that someone had pulled out of every field in the south and put here in Petersburg as though an army of crows had to be kept away from a sea of corn. Whit leaned toward me, his eyes wide, and whispered, “Is this the Confederate Army?”

“I guess it is, and if this is what being a Confederate means, I expect that you and me are in for some hard times, old friend.”

The fellows watched us as we came in, Whit and me and two other men, Lester Carpenter and Walter Gross, who were also assigned to the 18th. The veterans seemed to think we looked funny and there was a lot of jest about the new crop of dirt farmers come to be soldiers. Some sneered at the conscripted and coerced newcomers. There was plenty of good natured laughter and joking about us. As we walked by, a few called out, “Hey mister, here’s your mule!” I learned later it was a sort of joke based on an old farmer who lost a mule in a Confederate camp. One or two yelled out, “Keep yer head down, Billy’s got ye in his sights.” You could tell some of them had seen some hard fighting and hard living and needed to jest to keep their spirits up.

We got directions to Regimental headquarters and there we reported in and were sent to Sergeant Caswell Hutchins. The sergeant was from Rutherford County. I knew his family. They lived only a few miles from me. He was tall and angular, a huge man, maybe six four or five, with broad powerful shoulders. His hair was dark and he wore a full, thick mustache that mostly covered his mouth. The men called him Sergeant Cas and he didn’t seem to mind. He got us situated in a hut and told us about the duty routine. It was mostly spending time on watch and every third day on picket duty. Sometimes we drilled. The colonel liked to keep his men active. The army was just waiting for the Yankees to attack. By this time in the war, General Lee was not able to maneuver his army because the Yankees had come in such numbers that he was forced back into these entrenchments around Petersburg for the defense of Richmond, the capital of this here Confederacy. There really wasn’t much he could do when he was outnumbered by three or four to one, short of supplies and very much out-gunned. Some called him the Gray Fox. Now the fox was cornered and the hounds knew it.

The Southern politicians had counted on the North to give up the war, since so many Yankees had been killed or wounded; some said maybe three hundred thousand. The war was hard on the Yankees, but harder on the South. The Yankees had all the manufactories and shipyards and three or four times as many people and Mr. Abraham Lincoln just would not give up. You had to admire him for that, whether you liked him, or agreed with him or not. Old Abe had the bit in his teeth, and he was holdin’ on like grim death.

The Yankee papers said he wanted to preserve the Union. I never could argue with that idea. This is a great country, even if we were having a family quarrel. Our problem was the Yankees kept sending troops and guns, including huge artillery pieces and powerful mortars, a mile or so away, like nothing the Confederate Army ever had, guns that would throw 120 pound shells right into the Confederate entrenchments and into the city beyond. They never seemed to run out of ammunition. The more about this I learned, the more amazed I was that the Yankees hadn’t already won the war. Then they told me about the character of General Lee and how he refused to give up. The men vowed that they would fight for him until hell froze over and then fight on the ice.

In the course of our evening discussions in our hut, I learned that General Lee was the son of a great revolutionary war hero named General “Lighthorse” Harry Lee who was a trusted officer of General George Washington. General Lee had graduated at the top of his class at West Point and had finished with no demerits. He was a hero in the Mexican War and after South Carolina seceded, he was offered the position of Commander in Chief of the entire United States Army. Instead, he chose to fight with Virginia, since that was his home and his country and he could not raise his arm against it. He loved the United States of America and had served it honorably and well, but to fight against his family and his home, he could not do.

He and the renowned generals Stonewall Jackson, Jeb Stuart, James Longstreet, A.P. Hill and others had won many victories over the Yankees. The Federals had replaced their top general of the Army of the Potomac, which was the main Union army Lee faced, five or six times. Seemed they couldn’t best General Lee, even with more troops, better equipment and heavier artillery. The new general, Grant, had learned how to use his huge army to force the Confederates to maneuver backward toward Richmond. Lee had to move the army in order to cut off Grant’s intended line of march. Grant had forced General Lee to entrench around Petersburg, to protect the vital supply lines to Richmond. And that was where it stood when Whit and I arrived in Petersburg, that sunny September day.

Camp routine was monotonous. The food was pitiful; we got about a pint of meal and two spoons of sugar every day. We made sloosh, a kind of soppy cornpone. Sometimes there was meat, usually spoiled bacon, and once in a while we got some cornfield peas or dried beans. And there was always hardtack.

There was a lot of sickness in the camps, typhus, measles, dysentery and every other ailment known to mankind it seemed. We all dreaded getting sick, but the thing I learned to hate worse than anything was the lice. I had always taken pride in keeping myself clean as possible. I bathed more often than most and my dear wife kept the few clothes I had as clean as any farmer in the county. When Whit and I settled into our hut, the lice found us. It made me feel dirtier and lower than a snake’s belly. I hated the feeling of some little critter living on my skin. Whenever I could get lye soap, I scrubbed myself the very best I could. It was most distressing for anyone who was not used to living in filth. Lice were the scourge of the Army, though they were only one among many. It was a hard life in Petersburg.

There were over thirty miles of entrenchments manned by no more than 50,000 troops. The Yankees, it was said, had 100,000 around Petersburg alone. It was a wonder that they had not already overrun us. They had a huge supply port and depot on the James River at a place called City Point, just east of Petersburg. They brought in all the supplies an army could ever need, guns, ammunition, food, clothing and other equipage. They had a hospital there. They even had a bakery which produced fresh bread every day for the troops. We would have walked five miles on our knees to get a loaf of fresh bread.

The Yankees had all the advantages, except that they were on our soil. Still, I don’t know how General Lee held on. Some said Grant was just waiting to starve us out. From where I stood, it looked a lot like that just might happen.

We spent a lot of time watching the Yankees across the entrenchments. You had to keep your head down because there were sharpshooters, which we had as well, but mostly they left us alone, except for the shelling. Sometimes it came in volleys, sometimes just a single massive shell. You could hear them coming, screeching through the air. Sometimes we heard the boom of the big guns that fired them. Out of the blue they came, ripping the air, hurtling in an arc over our entrenchments and into our camps and the city, the rifled shells shrieking like hysterical birds.

Death came quick if an artillery shell found you. The uncertainty day to day wore on the nerves. Starvation and the ever present possibility of walking out of your hut and being blown to a thousand pieces kept your mind agitated and your body in distress. I often thought I would rather we just leave the entrenchments, march toward Grant’s boys and have at it. Win or lose, at least we would be doing something, not waiting to starve, or die of the typhus, or be blown apart by a random shell.

I have to say life in Petersburg was not all grimness, though. Sometimes things happened that were so funny or so strange; they made you forget that death lurked just around the corner. One day in late September, a bunch of us were watching a new detachment of Yankee troops set up camp no more than a mile away from our outermost fort. They had brand new uniforms and were all spit and polish. Theophilus Pate had some binoculars and was watching them, when he busted out laughing, threw his head back and almost fell over backwards. It turns out he could see their latrine sinks from our position and he said, “Look at what they’re wiping theirselves with!”

We took turns peeping through the binoculars and we could see that there was a big patch of poison ivy near the Yankees’ new latrine. The men would grab up a handful of leaves as they went to the sinks. I reckon these Yankees were mostly city boys or maybe new immigrants, had never seen poison ivy and they were using the leaves! Maybe they had run out of paper. If so, it must have been the only thing.

We all had a good laugh over that little episode. In fact we laughed so hard, men gathered around from the regiments on each side of us to learn what was going on. When they found out, half the Division was rolling around laughing. I’m sure the Yankees wondered what the Rebs were laughing so hard about. Quite a few of them found out within a day or so. In fact, for quite a few days after that, there were a lot of Yankee soldiers scratching themselves furiously about their private parts. Some of our pickets would call over to them and say “Hey Yank, scratch where it itches!” or “How do you like that Rebel paper?” We felt pretty safe from attack from that bunch since we knew they couldn’t scratch with one hand and fire with the other!

"On Wings of Gentle Power" Nearing Publication

2009-08-30T13:54:00.000-07:00

My new book of poetry, "On Wings of Gentle Power," is in the final stages of publication and should be available with a couple of months. This is a collaboration with the acclaimed novelist and all around renaissance man, Al Past, who is providing some incredible photography to go along with the poems in the volume. Al is author if the acclaimed "Distant Cousin" series of novels.

From the introduction...

"This is a work of many years, an effort at communicating a personal perception of life and its continual mysteries. We explore childhood’s beginnings, concepts of universal origins, the charms of the high mountains, the tragedy of war, and the reality of life’s endings.

The compilation of such various poems is an effort to wrap life’s experiences into a relatively small package. If you read closely you will find embedded in the sometimes fanciful, sometimes serious verse what I believe to be fundamental truths about God, the natural world, and the human condition."

The book will of course be available at online booksellers such as Amazon.com. I will provide further information as the publication date draws near. I am excited about sharing some of my old and new poetry, and Al's marvelous black and white photography. Please stay tuned.

Only Good Movies Blog

2009-08-10T04:12:00.000-07:00

I am pleased to say that the "Only Good Movies" blog has posted a link to this blog, because of the reviews of "Gettysburg" and its soundrack. The blog has a section of "75 War Movies to See Before You Die." You can find the site here - http://www.onlygoodmovies.com/blog/movie-megalists/75-war-movies-to-see-before-you-die/ .

Good info for students of history and those interested in movies about war.

The Movie "Gettysburg"

2009-08-10T03:46:00.000-07:00

I wrote in an earlier post about the movie soundtrack to "Gettysburg" the epic movie made by Ted Turner's studios in the early nineties. When the movie came out, I was very excited that a realistic, feature length movie was being made about this epic battle.

I remember going to see the movie with my wife, who was not all that excited about sitting through a five hour Civil War film, but who gamefully came along. We settled in for the movie, and when the opening credits rolled, it was enough to take a Civil War buff's breath away. There on the screen appeared the pictures of the great generals and the actors who played them, behind which played the powerful opening theme. For a student of the war, it was a powerful moment.

The movie itself did not disappoint. It was well scripted, reasonably historically correct, and had a good mix of action and dialogue. Martin Sheen's portrayal of Robert E. Lee was surprisingly good. Sheen replaced the producer's first choice, Robert Duvall, who was unavailable for the role due to a conflict. Duvall subsequently portayed Lee in the less impressive "prequel," "Of God's and Generals."

Tom Berengers portrayal of General James Longstreet was equally good. He captured the essence of the powerful commander of Lee's First Corps, known as his "war horse." Other portayals, including Steven Lang as General George Pickett were also good. I thought Sam Elliott as Union Cavalry General Buford was a waste of Mr. Elliott's talent and persona. He would have been better used as a Confederate General with that western drawl of his.

The movie was probably overlong by about an hour. There were certain segments that could have been left out, but no major complaints. Jeff Daniels' portrayal of Union General Joshua Chamberlain was also impressive and believable. He did a remarkable job of depicting this exceptional officer's contribution to the battle, and reflected his outstanding personal character.

The battle scenes were realistic enough, though there was very little gore on display. On the one hand that was merciful in itself, but not completely true to life. During Pickett's Charge, when the Confederate troops were hit by Union grapeshot at point blank range, they only appeared to be thrown backwards. In life they would be be torn to pieces. Most people would understand that, and the reason for keeping the bloody parts to a minimum.

My major complaint with the film was that the Confederate re-enactors were almost all too fat. Real Confederates of the day were almost universally lean, from poor and insufficient rations and continual marching. None were grossly overweight as some of the re-neactors used were. I suppose budget constraints were the reason for using these guys, but it did not help the realism of the film.

All in all this was a very impressive movie and one which is a must see for any student of the Civil War. Just realize that even the best depictions of historical events fall woefully short of the real thing.

Scarecrow in Gray, Chapter Four

2009-07-15T04:21:00.000-07:00

The life of a Southern soldier
is such a life of ease;
the cold and the dark
are but a bad dream.

September 10, 1864 dawned a bit cooler than the past few days. Whit and I left Camp Vance early that morning with about seventy-five other men to serve as replacements in various units in Petersburg. We rode on an old box car made for cattle. They herded us aboard and we sat shoulder to shoulder on the rocking train as it rolled toward the battlefields of Virginia. The undulating hills, woods and fields rolled by with what became a dull sameness. Decay and neglect were evident in the countryside as we passed, the steel wheels clacking rhythmically beneath us. Whit stayed close to me the whole time. He had come to look to me to take care of him. I don’t know why since I was just as scared and lonesome as he was. In the afternoon of the 11th, it started to rain. The rain soaked us as it blew in through the slats in the car, and the wind that whipped us felt cold. It was a miserable ride toward a dreaded destination.

After riding all that day and most of the next, we got off somewhere in Virginia and marched the rest of the way to Petersburg. Sections of track in the area were torn up by Federal Cavalry and the trains that were able to get through in Southern Virginia were needed for more important cargo I suppose. We stopped for the night about forty five miles west of Petersburg at about seven o’clock. A light rain fell as we made camp.

I checked my Pa’s pocket watch to be sure it was dry. He had left it to me when he went on to be with the Lord. He must have saved up his money for years to buy that watch. It came all the way from Switzerland and was made of silver with some fancy carving on it. He only got to use it two years before he passed on. I remember that day well. It was a dark stain on the pages of my life. My Pa sat down in his rocking chair one night, after supper, and closed his eyes and in a little while, he was gone. We never knew why. He had been having some pains in his chest and arms and some folks said it was neuralgia, but nobody really knew for sure. His passing hit me hard. I had to take care of that watch. It was what I had to remember him by. I kept it wrapped tight in a little oil cloth to keep it clean and dry.

We cooked up a little fat back and eggs for supper then soaked some hardtack in the grease for a dessert. It wasn’t half bad considering where we were and how we were living at the time. The sergeant placed pickets at a hundred to two hundred yards out because of the possibility there was Yankee cavalry roaming about. The night was warm and the rain had stopped, so we put out the fire early. I strolled out from the camp a ways and lay down in a little clearing and began to search the sky. The clouds had blown off. The stars were bright pinpoints on the coal black canvas of night.

As I lay there, looking up, I began to wonder if I would ever see my family again, or plow old Moses, or even see my farm again. I couldn’t help it; my eyes began to grow moist. I love my wife and my children and I knew how badly they needed me at home. I knew Harriett would try to plow the mule and keep things running, but she’s a woman and was not built for that kind of work. My girls could not be of much help with the heavy work, though I was sure they would try.

I thought about the war, about why I was here and the thoughts ran into a dead end. I lay there under the stars, looking up at God’s heaven. It surely was beautiful here in Virginia, a lot like home. I also thought about how good the weather was, good for working the fields, for cutting firewood for the winter, for just enjoying God’s nature. A farmer always keeps a weather eye out. You have to work the fields when you can, because the times are many when the weather won’t let you, when it’s too wet to plow or too cold and the ground’s hard. The house needs some work too. I needed to split some new shingles for the roof. Then I thought, Lord, that roof’s going to leak this winter just as sure as I’m laying here. What will Harriett do? She’ll probably get a bunch of pots and buckets and catch the water as best she can. She’s like that, doesn’t complain, and just does what needs to be done. Lord, I miss that woman, the light of my life.

About the time I started thinking about Harriett and was kind of losing myself in the thought, along came Whit with a dreadful hacking. He let go a stream of tobacco juice with well practiced ease and said, “Better come on and get in the sack, Francis, long day tomorr’, startin’ before sunup.”

“I’ll be on in a bit,” I said.

Of course that didn’t satisfy Whit. He settled himself down on the ground beside me and reclined with an exaggerated groan, following my gaze upward. Then he asked, “What you lookin’ at, Francis?”

I replied without looking at him, “Just the sky.”

He cocked his head and asked, “Why you lookin’ at the sky? Worried about the weather? You don’t have to plow tomorr’.”

“I’m just lookin’ and thinkin’.”

He wrinkled his brow, “I know what you mean. Say, I been thinkin’ for some time about somethin’.”

“What’s that,” I asked, not really wanting to know the answer because Whit’s mind is a garden of the trivial.

He said “I was wonderin’ why your maw and paw named you Francis. Ain’t that a girl’s name?”

I sighed and smiled to myself at the familiar question. “It is a girl’s name if it’s spelled with a ‘E.’ My name’s spelled with a ‘I.’”

He grunted. “You mean one little letter is the difference between yore name and a girl’s?”

“That’s right.”

Then he asked with some agitation, “Well why didn’t they name you John, or Robert or William or something that couldn’t be confused with a girl?”

Again I smiled to myself and said, “My folks named me for the great general of the Revolution, Francis Marion. He was called the ‘Swamp Fox’ because he outfoxed the Brits and the Tories. He would attack them and then fade into the swamps down in the South Carolina low country; he just disappeared in those dismal haunts like a ghost.

“My Paw was real impressed with the stories about the Swamp Fox, so he named me after him. My grandpa, James Yelton, fought in the Revolution. He was a die hard Patriot. He lived to be ninety-three years old. My Pa was so proud of my Grandpa and his fightin’ the Tories and the British in the Revolution. He wanted me to carry on a famous revolutionary hero’s name. So that’s how I came to have the name ‘Francis.’”

Whit was silent for several minutes. Then he looked at me with this sort of amazed grin and said, “Well, I’ll be the son of Red Coat!” He shook his head a couple of times and said, “I’ll be, I’ll be.”

I think for once I answered one of Whit’s questions without him having to ask fifty more questions about “why.” “I guess we better turn in,” I said, and we walked back to camp where the other men were already sawing logs. I lay there for a long time before I went to sleep, wondering about the future. Will I make it home? Will I be crippled by a Yankee bullet? Will I see my family again? It all rolled over and over in my head until I finally fell asleep.

Comment

2009-07-10T03:22:00.000-07:00

Thanks to O.M. Dalessandro for the comment on my Gettysburg post. I have seen the Burns documentary of course and heard the music, but it did not strike me like the Gettysburg score did. That may be partially because I bought the CD and have listed to it so many times. In any case, I have a hard time imagining a more powerful expression in music of the War and specifically of the Battle of Gettysburg.

Thoughts on the Gettysburg Movie Soundtrack

2009-06-22T08:06:00.000-07:00

I have recently been listening again to the soundtrack from "Gettysburg," and I am struck all over again by what a profoundly moving collection of songs this is. As a relatively new student of the Civil War in 1992, I remember it was as though the air was pulled out of the room when the main theme began, and the pictures of the protagonists began to appear majestically on the screen. Beginning with a photograph of General Lee, then one of Martin Sheen, who played the role, on through Longstreet, Chamberlain, Pickett, Meade, and the rest, along with the respective actors. For anyone with an appreciation of the great war, it was a powerful moment. If music sets the mood, this soundtrack struck exactly the right cord for the depiction of this pivotal event.

The songs on the soundtrack range from powerful orchestral pieces to quiet reproductions of period music. I have never heard a soundtrack for any movie before or since Gettysburg that even approached its power and beauty. It is stirring in a way I have never known music to be before.

It captures the essence of the valor, heroism, struggle, and suffering not only of the epic battle of Gettysburg, but of the Civil War in general. Randy Edelman, the composer, whose credits include the score for The Last of the Mohicans, among others, gets it. He created a unique and monumental score for a very powerful movie. If you are a music aficionado or a Civil War buff, this soundtrack will move you. I almost guarantee it. It is truly exceptional.

Scarecrow in Gray, Chapter Three

2009-06-19T08:09:00.000-07:00

Here is the third Chapter of Scarecrow in Gray for your reading enjoyment:

Chapter Three

On the long winding road
to Gehenna
I paused to look at the stars,
sparkling with the cold eye of death.

We started out early the next morning, after a delicious breakfast of eggs, ham and some of the finest biscuits I ever ate. When we finished breakfast, Mr. Samuels saddled his horse and tied the deserter to a rope, pulling him along behind. The deserter never spoke a word the whole way to Morganton. We said good-bye to Mr. Samuels in town as he pointed us toward Camp Vance. We arrived at the camp about seven in the evening, footsore and hungry. The camp wasn’t much. There were a couple of rows of burned out buildings and a few dozen tents to the side. It looked like they were building a couple of new structures, but hadn’t gotten very far. The frames rose up like wooden skeletons from the muddy ground. Overall, it had a depressing look, like a place that tried hard but was still all loose ends and shabby ones at that.

We found a group of soldiers having supper near a large tent. We asked a sergeant where we could sleep. He said there were no tents left for recruits, but that we could bed down near the creek and pointed to a small stream about two hundred yards to the west. He also said that we might find a biscuit or two over by the mess tent. We walked over and asked the corporal if there was any food left. He went in the tent and brought out four small biscuits and some bacon. We went on over to the stream, which was about five feet across and maybe a foot deep as it rushed over the smooth stones. Poplars and river birches lined the banks. We found a relatively level clearing and laid out our bedrolls, then started a little fire. We boiled some water, made some coffee, and ate our biscuits and some chicken Mrs. Samuels had sent with us.

We reclined against a tall poplar tree and listened to the murmur of the stream in the dark. Everything got quiet in the camp, but I stayed awake for a long time. Too much had happened, leaving home, and tangling with the deserters. I turned it all over in my mind for what seemed like several hours. I finally went to sleep, but I kept awakening from a dream in which I was fighting off a wolf that was trying to get at a calf. I hit at the wolf with a stick, but it kept coming back, biting at me, biting my arms and my legs. I could feel the wolf’s fangs tearing at me. I would knock it down, but it kept coming back. About five o’clock, after I had awakened from the dream for the third or fourth time, I got up and walked over to the creek. I stripped to my skivvies and sat down in the cold water to bathe as well as I could. I tried to wash the blood out of my shirt.

I didn’t bother to shave. I figured that living in an army camp and maybe marching about, I wouldn’t have many opportunities to shave, so I began to let the beard grow. My Pa had a full beard and I always figured I would resemble him even more if I let mine grow. It would come out brown, with some reddish tint to it. A lot of the men had beards and it seemed like the thing to do. I got out of the creek and went back to build a fire to dry off. I patted down with my blanket and sat close to the fire. When I was reasonably dry, I got dressed.

By that time old Whit was awake and I told him to hurry, that we had to report to the headquarters. He growled, “I don’t care what that old sergeant said about bein’ at headquarters at six thirty. All my conscript orders said was to be here by 25 August. That’s today and we’re here. That’s all that counts!”

“Just the same,” I said, “we ought to try to get off to a good start.”

He whined, like only Whit can. “Francis, you is the durndest man I ever seen to try to go out of his way to do what somebody else thinks you ort to do, even contrary to what’s fer yer own good. These fellers don’t care about us bein’ on time, all they want is more fodder for the Yankee cannons.”

I said, “Maybe so, but this fodder ain’t gonna start out a shirker from the git go. I didn’t want to come, but now that I’m here, I’m gonna do my duty if it kills me.”

“Prob’ly will,” Whit muttered as he rolled out of the blankets and on to his feet.
He sauntered toward the creek to do his business. I looked out over the camp, which was beginning to stir. Men started fires, put on coffee, and some were gathering at the mess tent. Daylight was coming; the sky was a deep blue. It looked like a clear day, no clouds in sight. I thought about home.

As I stood there, I felt as if I were suffocating under a huge weight. I don’t know what it was. I’m a simple man, a farmer and a worker, but I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders that morning. Our country was torn asunder; the grim reaper stalked the land cutting down men in their prime by the thousands. The death and destruction were overwhelming. I wondered if we would even have homes to come back to. I worried for my wife and my little ones. The future looked as bleak as a stony tomb in the wilderness.

My thoughts were interrupted by Whit returning from the creek. “Whooee, that crik water’s cold! What say let’s git some breakfast.” We walked to the mess tent where there were some tables set up outside and men walked through a serving line. The food was all right, some eggs and a little fatback, but the portions were small. There always seemed to be a shortage of some kind or another these days, not enough of anything to go around. Talk around the camp was that things were going from bad to worse. Richmond and Petersburg, where Lee’s army was entrenched, were cities under siege. Food and supplies, war materials, and anything else needful for surviving this holocaust were in dreadfully short supply.

By the time we finished our meal it was almost six thirty, so we grabbed our belongings and headed over to the headquarters building, which looked like it had just been finished. It was a little one story wooden building with a small porch and a window on either side of the door. The wood looked and smelled new, but the floor was already mud-stained. We walked in and reported to a young lieutenant who was seated behind a little oaken desk, which was maybe two feet by three feet. He had a real neat stack of papers on each side of the desk and he was writing on a sheet in the middle. He had a candle placed perfectly in the middle at the front. On one side was an ink well; on the other was an ivory handled pen knife.

We handed him the papers they gave us and he studied them with a scowl on his face. Then he looked us both up and down like we were something he had just scraped off the bottom of his boot. He looked no more than eighteen. He had a skimpy blond mustache which drooped to either side of his mouth, no chin whiskers. His hair was slicked to the side and curled up about his ears. Fair skinned, he did not appear to be a man who had spent much time out of doors. He was all decked out in what they call a “butternut” uniform. The lieutenant was resplendent with shiny boots and the uniform didn’t have a speck on it. I wondered how much fighting he had done, and decided probably not much if any at all.

He said (with a sort of sideways sneer on his face), “Report to Sergeant Washburn over at Company C,” and he looked back down at the papers on his desk. I asked him how we would find Sergeant Washburn and he yelled, “Look for the flag with the big ‘C’ on it, or can’t you sod busters read?” I looked at Whit and he sort of raised his eyebrows, and we turned and walked out the door.

“There it is,” Whit said, almost as soon as we walked out the door. Whit could read a little and he took every opportunity to show off his somewhat limited ability. At least he knew what a “C” looked like. Sure enough, about a hundred yards over to the left was a group of tents with a flagpole and a flag with a big “C” on it. Whit bit off a plug and then offered me some, which I gladly took, and we walked over to the tent nearest the flagpole. “We’re here to see Sergeant Washburn,” Whit announced as we walked up.

A couple of soldiers looked up from a card game and said, “In there,” nodding toward the big tent near the flagpole.

We walked on in and there sat the sergeant behind the same kind of tiny little desk the lieutenant had. It held an inkwell, a quill pen and knife, and a stack of papers. The floor in the tent was wooden and had been swept clean. He was writing something as we came in. A stout man, he stood about five feet eight and was about forty years of age. He had a shovel beard and a head full of unruly hair and just about the bushiest eyebrows I ever saw on a man. As he looked up I noticed he had a big scar which ran along his left cheek from his ear almost to his mouth, right at the line of his beard. He studied us critically for a minute, an intense scowl on his face, his hard gray eyes narrowed.

Whit seemed nervous and kept shifting from one foot to the other. I nodded at the sergeant. We handed him the papers and he looked at them like they were written in Greek. He sighed and looked up. “A conscript and a volunteer,” he said to no one in particular with a tone he might have used after stepping into a cow pile. He shook his head and then he looked at us appraisingly. “Let me see you grin.”

Whit looked at me, and I said, “Beg your pardon?”

He sighed. “Grin at me, show me your teeth and then bite like your bitin’ off a chaw.” We did as we were told, though somewhat bemused by the whole thing. When Whit opened his mouth, his chaw fell out and splattered on the floor. The sergeant shook his head again. He growled, “Clean it up.” Whit bent down and scooped up the chaw as best he could. He looked around for a place to dispose of it and finding none, he ceremoniously placed it in his pants pocket. The sergeant groaned a little. Whit grinned, pulled out another plug, and bit if off dramatically. The sergeant closed his eyes and, speaking slowly, explained, “In order to serve in the army, you have to have two teeth that meet in the front, for bitin’ open cartridges. I suppose you’ll both do.”
He looked us over and said, “You fellers ain’t old and you ain’t young. How come you ain’t been in the army all along?”

Whit pursed his lips and said solemnly, “Well, Sergeant, I been busy a takin’ care of my family. I ain’t rightly had time to sign up what with farmin’ and loggin’ and a runnin’ the sawmill.”

The sergeant looked at Whit disgustedly and said, “All of us has things to do. But duty comes first, which you’ll soon find out.” Then he turned to me and said, “What’s your excuse?” I told him that I had served in the militia and that I was a farmer with a family to feed and that I had supplied corn and sorghum and felt like I was doing my duty. Besides which, I really had no quarrel with the Yanks and I have always been happy to be an American and live in a free land and wasn’t even sure about all the whys and wherefores of this war anyway. I told him I came because I did not want to be seen as a dodger.

The sergeant got this real disgusted look and shook his head slowly once again. He looked down, then back up again, and took a deep breath. He began to methodically spit out the words. “Let me tell you something farmer.” He said the word “farmer” like it tasted bad in his mouth. “If men like you don’t come forward and fight, the blue-bellies will be marchin’ right through the middle of this country, burnin’ your crops, stealin’ your women and shootin’ you down like dogs and no hometown militia is gonna stop ‘em. Hellfire, they’re already doin’ it! Look at Kirk. (He meant a certain Colonel Kirk who led a band of Yankee and turncoat cavalry raiding in Western North Carolina and Tennessee). They came stormin’ through here and burned this camp not two months ago. Not to mention the gangs of deserters tearin’ up jack. The Yankees and the lawbreakers will take over.

“But that ain’t nothin’; look at what Sherman’s doin’ in Georgia and what any number of Yankee vermin has done up in the Shenandoah.” He paused long enough to glare at both of us some more. “I been on the front lines at Sharpsburg, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, and Gettysburg, not to mention a hundred dustups of one kind or another. I watched them carry Stonewall from the field after our own men opened fire on him by accident; my own outfit, the old 18th North Carolina! I saw the men fall down and cry like babies when they learned what happened.

“I got this (he pointed to the scar) when a Yankee cavalryman tried to take my head off with his saber! I been shot, stabbed with the bayonet, and damn near froze to death a dozen times. I’ve seen men blown to pieces by Yankee artillery, and they was the lucky ones. I’ve seen men come back from battle missing an arm or a leg or an eye or private parts, or with holes in them you could stick your fist in and them still walkin’. You may have no quarrel with the blue-bellies now, but that’s because you ain’t seen ‘em up close and personal like I have.

“Now I’m here to make soldiers out of you dirt farmers and that I intend to do, in about two weeks time. You just plan right now on doin’ what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it, and you might just get to come back to your little farms in the piney woods” He said this with a particular bit of disdain in his voice, wrinkling his face when he said “piney woods.” He took a deep breath and said, “Now you men go see Corporal Hamrick about some equipage and report back here in one hour for drill.” With that, he looked back down at his papers and we knew we were dismissed. The sergeant must have given that speech a hundred times because he sure gave it well.

We got our equipage from the quartermaster and reported back to Company C for drill. We talked with a few of the men gathered on the parade ground. They were mostly scared and depressed about the situation we found ourselves in. We had all heard the stories about the war, like the one Sergeant Washburn told. We also all knew that more men were deserting than were being killed by Yankee bullets. We knew that while we were marching to Petersburg, there would be thousands of men walking back toward the hills of North Carolina and Tennessee because they were tired of the fighting, the sickness and the starving. They were tired of getting letters from home telling of loved ones near starvation, of wives and sweethearts trying to work like men, and children dying from illness and lack of decent food.

Most of the men were not cowards in the least; they were just tired of the war. They were tired of freezing in the open when rumor had it there were blankets rotting in warehouses in Georgia. They were tired of marching on bloody bare feet when there were shoes by the thousands sitting in musty buildings near Richmond. They were tired of starving when canned food filled warehouses to overflowing in Salisbury. It is one thing to fight an enemy with the full support of your government behind you, but it’s quite another thing to fight when that government is too ill-equipped or ill-managed to provide for your basic needs.

Even the most ignorant private in the ranks somehow knew that the Confederate government was woefully bad. Poor old Jeff Davis tried mightily to do his best, but he was surrounded by a lot of selfish pocket-liners and sycophants who undercut him at every turn. The Yankees had some of the same problems, but their sources of supply were far more plentiful. They had all the manufactories and the shipyards and many more able bodied men. The south with its little farms and plantations had very few manufactories. So when the Confederate government messed up, it hurt plenty. The men knew this, so they were leaving faster than people like us could fill the ranks. Knowing all this made the thought of marching into what looked like a disaster all the worse. We all tried to put on a brave face, but we were scared and homesick to a man and we wondered how we could be such fools.

The sergeant came out to the parade ground and we drilled until almost sundown, with the sergeant yelling and waving his arms in the air most of the day. Our instruction at Camp Vance was brief but very intense and very thorough. We learned the manual of arms, to load our weapons in nine times and four times and at will. Over the two weeks we learned firings, direct, oblique, by file and by rank. We learned to fire and load, standing, kneeling and lying. We had bayonet exercises. We also learned how to march, a concept which amused me to no end at first. I had always thought anyone could march. I was ill-informed. We learned how to march in union of eight or twelve men, the direct march, the oblique march and all the different steps. We learned to march by the flank, and the principles of wheeling and change in direction. We learned long marches in double quick time, and the run, with arms and knapsacks, and on and on.
Whit looked confused much of the time as, I must say, did most of us. We didn’t look much like soldiers and we often felt foolish, but it slowly came to us thanks to the sergeant’s persistent and rather vocal efforts.

They gave me an 1861 Springfield rifled musket, .58 caliber, probably captured from the Yankees. I told them I couldn’t carry two muskets, so they said they would pay me ten Confederate dollars for my musket and give it to the home guards. I knew then my old musket was gone for good. I might as well have given it to them. Ten Confederate dollars wouldn’t buy you supper in Petersburg. The rifle they gave me fired a large round, about the size of the last joint of a man’s little finger. They called it a minie ball, named for some Frenchman. If the heavy lead round struck a bone, it splintered and the splinters tore up the muscle and flesh and the limb had to be amputated. It was not a pleasant fate. If the ball struck you in the chest or head, you would soon be saying hello to your Maker.

For two weeks we drilled and marched and practiced shooting, then we drilled some more. The sergeant said all this would be most useful when thousands of Yankees were charging your position. Most of the men could shoot, but none of us knew anything about military tactics and such. They told us we had to learn fast because the Yankees were threatening Richmond, where Lee’s Army was entrenched along a line about thirty miles long from south of Petersburg to north of the capital.

The day before we left for Petersburg, we learned that Whit and I would be joining the 18th North Carolina Volunteer Infantry Regiment in General A.P. Hill’s corps as replacements for those who had died or deserted. Sergeant Washburn told us it was his old regiment (he had mentioned as much in his speech), the very same regiment that had accidentally shot Stonewall Jackson in the dark at Chancellorsville. The general was riding back from the direction of the enemy with some others, including General Hill, and the North Carolina boys thought the riders were Yankee cavalry. He died a few days later from his wounds. It is said that the loss of 10,000 ordinary men would not equal the loss of Stonewall. He had been a brilliant field commander, defeating every enemy he encountered, often with odds against him of two or three to one. His name was spoken with fear and respect in the North and with reverenced and adoration in the South.

He was Lee’s ablest lieutenant and some said the best general on either side. And to think boys from his own Army were responsible for his death. It goes to show a battlefield can be a most confusing and heartbreaking place.

Turns out the 18th had lost its colors twice in battle. A regimental flag was a real point of honor and pride in the Confederate Army and to lose one was almost disgraceful. But to lose two was just about too much to bear. It seemed to Whit and me that maybe we were joining up with a real hard-luck outfit and it didn’t exactly make us feel any better about things. The sergeant made it clear to us though that any regiment that had lost its colors in battle had clearly been in the thick of the fight. They weren’t guarding the wagon trains and they weren’t quick to retreat. Whit and I went back to our little camp by the creek to spend the last night before marching off to Petersburg.

Whit grumbled as we walked back to our camp. “Well Francis, looks like you and me got ourselves into a real fine outfit. They cain’t keep their battle flag, and they shoot their own generals. Do you think they know which end of a rifle is which?”

I shook my head. “Don’t be so hard on ‘em, Whit. War is rough business, which we’re about to learn first hand. I just hope I can remember which end of a rifle is which when the time comes to use it and the Yanks are coming at us in hordes, like the sergeant said.”

Whit laughed loudly and said, “Well, Francis, just watch me! I’ll show you how shoot Bluebellies, because I don’t aim to be captured by them Yankee hordes. I heard the food in them prison camps is so bad the buzzards won’t eat it!”

The Passing of a Friend

2009-05-31T18:42:00.000-07:00

My friend, Bud Wilson, has been gone now for over three months. I don't believe he thought he was near death. I believe it came upon him as it does many of us, as a "thief in the night." His sister, who found him, said he was sitting in his favorite chair as if comfortably watching television. The set was still on and he was sitting with his hands folded across his chest and a blanket pulled up to his waist.

He most likely sat down to watch a favorite show and passed away quietly from a massive coronary. Apparently a hiatal hernia caused a build up of gas which cut off the blood flow to the heart.

Like many men, he hated to go to the doctor, and though he was suffering from chest discomfort and shortness of breath, he did not get examined.

I suppose there is a lesson in there for us all. Being macho or overly self-assured about our health, is not necessarily the wise attitude to take. We all need to tend more toward the hypochondriac and less toward the rugged individual when dealing with health issues.

It is literally a matter of life or death.

I for one miss my friend very much. We hiked together, did business together, and helped build the NFA together. He was a brilliant thinker and a true friend. He is gone much too soon. If you care about your friends and family, take care of yourself. Don't fail to go to the doctor when you know something is wrong. Do the right thing and get checked out. Your family and friends will thank you for it.

Godspeed.

A Brighter Day

2009-04-29T18:37:00.000-07:00

Copyright 2009

if you waken in the morning
you can be glad.
some percentage of the human population
did not.

the earth turns
seasons come and go
a great cosmic clock.
life persists
with an astounding doggedness
and along the way
come unexpected joys
salted within the sorrow.
so breathe the intoxicating
air of hope
and live as if tomorrow is not a given
and life clings precariously
to each passing moment.

we are but the passing fancy
of universal fate
though
that does not diminish
what we
as species homo erectus
bring to our small corner
of the infinite.

finiteness of itself brings
a certain peace
focus
on our small world
where children laugh
amid the falling leaves
and lovers abandon all other
reality
except their own.

breathe deep of it all.
grab hold of the cheer that lies
within reach.

forget regret.

joy pleads to be held
close to your bosom
the light of hope begs to illuminate
the pathways of your mind.

let it.

Night and the Solar Wind

2009-03-17T02:40:00.000-07:00

Copyright 2009

Across the night sky,
along ancient, spectral avenues
blow magnetic winds
charged with electric particles
and along those roads travel
all mankind’s fondest aspirations
with the flow of matter
stark, eternal
yet as ethereal as
a sigh.

May you blow hope in the heart of the hopeless
may you blow peace in a warring land
may you blow calm in a troubled mind
may you blow redemption for the piteous lost one

May you blow the love of God to the hearts of
the callous
the distant
the arrogant
the powerful
who stand as a law to themselves
crowned with their carefully crafted ignorance
cloaked in cold self interest,
estranged from their brothers
dreadfully lost in their own exaggerated egos.

May it be, strange wind,
as you course darkly through space
and wrap the earth in freshening power,
that the blackest night
of the human soul
is illuminated somehow
by you,
slightest breath of the great I Am.

In Memoriam

2009-03-09T18:27:00.000-07:00

I lost a dear friend on Saturday. My hiking buddy, close friend, and business associate, Bud Wilson, passed away at the age of 65 of an apparent heart attack.

I seem to be losing people with a distressing frequency. My mother passed away in February of 2008; my Uncle passed away in July of that year; and now Bud is gone, long before his time. Each one has hit me in a different way, but each was a body blow. They all hurt.

Bud was the very picture of health. He was a strict vegetarian, did not smoke, and usually hiked five or six miles daily. He could literally walk me into the ground on the backpacking trips we made in the past few years up in the mountains of western North Carolina. That is just part of what makes his death such a shock. I thought that Bud would long outlive any of his peers, including me. Life and fate operate in unknowable ways.

Bud was a high energy guy, enthusiastic about many things including the National Funding Association, which he co-founded and headed, as well as hiking, photography, genealogy, and music. Bud was something of a renaissance man, with interests as diverse as stock market investing and single-action firearms.

On our forays into the wilderness, he proved to be knowledgeable about woodcraft, camping techniques, and nature. Bud took all the backpacking pictures you see here on the blog. I often called on him as a sounding board about business, politics, and life in general.

On Thursday, March 12, we will bury our friend. I have been asked to serve as pallbearer. When I am past the shock and deepest grief, I shall compose a poem for Bud. It is the very least I can do for such a good man.

Meantime, all I can think to say is good-bye, old friend.

The Sunset of Valor

2009-03-03T05:40:00.000-08:00

Copyright 2009

Sheets of yellow flame issue
from a thousand rifled muskets
as the blue ranks pour fire through the trees.
The vines and low limbs jerk and twist
under the hail of lead.
The ragged, butternut line shivers and recoils like a single being,
and then recovers and blazes back in furious answer.

In this wilderness battle
the winners and the losers
are one and the same
as death grins darkly
from the shadows
with the fall of each farm boy
face down to the damp earth

as if striving for that final resting place
seeking the comfort of cool soil
solace from this hell on earth
where smoke and flame
consume the body
consume the hope

A boy of sixteen loads his musket
face black from powder
hands shaking
stomach clenching with hunger
and the feasting of lice completes his orgy of suffering
in a dank tangle of rotting forest
where death makes himself at home
and the blue and the gray
mourn their lives
and cleave to death
where to live is to suffer
and to hope presages
the most piteous despair.

The dark presence welcomes each one
his arms open wide
the unexpected friend.

Occupo Dies Quod Capto Deus

2009-02-18T02:55:00.000-08:00

Copyright 2009

The chattering box pours out the bad news
recession
depression?
stock market compression
relentlessly, day by day, like some insane preacher of doom
“the end is near”

as it has been since the dawn

We have ever lived on the brink of disaster,
this human family, this myriad, majestic, maddening tribe
living on an orb of rock and water
with a core of liquid fire
swirling through a vast, eternal night
a vacuum
airless, hopeless

Wobbling profoundly round a seething, roaring cauldron
of exquisite, unimaginable heat and light

Accompanied in space by ten thousand random stones the size of mountains
each able to wreak terminal devastation
should it come rumbling down to earth
ripping apart the air
heaving up the waters
with superheated energy which
traveling round the globe
wipes away the life
like so many bacteria
from a table top
until breath ceases
photosynthesis is extinguished
and the teaming planet
becomes as lifeless as dust.

And still but a tiny speck
in an insignificant solar system
looping around an ordinary star
in a vast but unremarkable galaxy
which races away into infinity
leaving its own kind
a wandering family of planets and stars
and black holes
fleeing into the beyond

While a few thousand light years away
a star threatens to go supernova
and spew gamma waves which travel
at the speed of light to earth
and kill every living thing.

And we fret about the decline in our savings

There come childhood remembrances of looking up at night
marveling at the light from the Milky Way
a view to the edge of the galaxy
as it spilled down the
the cobalt dome, pale and remote
now gone from our view

thank you smokestacks
gracias tree burners
danke automobiles

Man can die a thousand ways
life can be whisked away
like a wind blown leaf
its sweetness swallowed up in an instant
and everything loved or owned or hated or feared
is gone, evaporated like steam from a kettle
and those left behind to wonder
about the other side
whence did that essence depart?
the question indeed

And answers come slowly
come quickly
come seldom
come late
but they come

And the Word breathed Truth
with beauty and brilliance
and in the end
His children abide in
Halls of Light
where reign peace and joy
and resides that Balm in Gilead.

Visions, Volume 1

2009-02-14T17:51:00.000-08:00

I am pleased to tell you that I just had a short story, "Black Mountain," published in an anthology of horror and speculative fiction tales. The anthology, Visions, Volume 1, is published by Visionary Comics and Strider Nolan Media.

My friend, Dianne Salerni, also has a story in the book, The Necromancer, which is dynamite.

The book is available through Amazon and other booksellers. The url for the Amazon page is http://www.amazon.com/Visions-1-Bernd-Struben/dp/1932045198/ref=pd_rhf_p_t_4.

I wrote Black Mountain partially because of my love of hiking and backpacking. If you have ever been alone on a soaring mountain in the middle of a wilderness at night, you can appreciate that noises in the woods might take on a special kind of terror. If you like spooky stories, this book just might be for you. I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter Four

2009-02-03T17:37:00.000-08:00

Greetings, gentle reader. Herewith is the fourth chapter of the book, Scarecrow in Gray.

The life of a Southern soldier
is such a life of ease;
the cold and the dark
are but a bad dream.

September 10, 1864 dawned a bit cooler than the past few days. Whit and I left Camp Vance early that morning with about seventy-five other men to serve as replacements in various units in Petersburg. We rode on an old box car made for cattle. They herded us aboard and we sat shoulder to shoulder on the rocking train as it rolled toward the battlefields of Virginia. The undulating hills, woods and fields rolled by with what became a dull sameness. Decay and neglect were evident in the countryside as we passed, the steel wheels clacking rhythmically beneath us. Whit stayed close to me the whole time. He had come to look to me to take care of him. I don’t know why since I was just as scared and lonesome as he was. In the afternoon of the 11th, it started to rain. The rain soaked us as it blew in through the slats in the car, and the wind that whipped us felt cold. It was a miserable ride toward a dreaded destination.

After riding all that day and most of the next, we got off somewhere in Virginia and marched the rest of the way to Petersburg. Sections of track in the area were torn up by Federal Cavalry and the trains that were able to get through in Southern Virginia were needed for more important cargo I suppose. We stopped for the night about forty five miles west of Petersburg at about seven o’clock. A light rain fell as we made camp.

I checked my Pa’s pocket watch to be sure it was dry. He had left it to me when he went on to be with the Lord. He must have saved up his money for years to buy that watch. It came all the way from Switzerland and was made of silver with some fancy carving on it. He only got to use it two years before he passed on. I remember that day well. It was a dark stain on the pages of my life. My Pa sat down in his rocking chair one night, after supper, and closed his eyes and in a little while, he was gone. We never knew why. He had been having some pains in his chest and arms and some folks said it was neuralgia, but nobody really knew for sure. His passing hit me hard. I had to take care of that watch. It was what I had to remember him by. I kept it wrapped tight in a little oil cloth to keep it clean and dry.

We cooked up a little fat back and eggs for supper then soaked some hardtack in the grease for a dessert. It wasn’t half bad considering where we were and how we were living at the time. The sergeant placed pickets at a hundred to two hundred yards out because of the possibility there was Yankee cavalry roaming about. The night was warm and the rain had stopped, so we put out the fire early. I strolled out from the camp a ways and lay down in a little clearing and began to search the sky. The clouds had blown off. The stars were bright pinpoints on the coal black canvas of night.

As I lay there, looking up, I began to wonder if I would ever see my family again, or plow old Moses, or even see my farm again. I couldn’t help it; my eyes began to grow moist. I love my wife and my children and I knew how badly they needed me at home. I knew Harriett would try to plow the mule and keep things running, but she’s a woman and was not built for that kind of work. My girls could not be of much help with the heavy work, though I was sure they would try.
I thought about the war, about why I was here and the thoughts ran into a dead end. I lay there under the stars, looking up at God’s heaven. It surely was beautiful here in Virginia, a lot like home. I also thought about how good the weather was, good for working the fields, for cutting firewood for the winter, for just enjoying God’s nature. A farmer always keeps a weather eye out. You have to work the fields when you can, because the times are many when the weather won’t let you, when it’s too wet to plow or too cold and the ground’s hard. The house needs some work too. I needed to split some new shingles for the roof. Then I thought, Lord, that roof’s going to leak this winter just as sure as I’m laying here. What will Harriett do? She’ll probably get a bunch of pots and buckets and catch the water as best she can. She’s like that, doesn’t complain, and just does what needs to be done. Lord, I miss that woman, the light of my life.

About the time I started thinking about Harriett and was kind of losing myself in the thought, along came Whit with a dreadful hacking. He let go a stream of tobacco juice with well practiced ease and said, “Better come on and get in the sack, Francis, long day tomorr’, startin’ before sunup.”

“I’ll be on in a bit,” I said.

Of course that didn’t satisfy Whit. He settled himself down on the ground beside me and reclined with an exaggerated groan, following my gaze upward. Then he asked, “What you lookin’ at, Francis?”

I replied without looking at him, “Just the sky.”

He cocked his head and asked, “Why you lookin’ at the sky? Worried about the weather? You don’t have to plow tomorr’.”

“I’m just lookin’ and thinkin’.”

He wrinkled his brow, “I know what you mean. Say, I been thinkin’ for some time about somethin’.”

“What’s that,” I asked, not really wanting to know the answer because Whit’s mind is a garden of the trivial.

He said “I was wonderin’ why your maw and paw named you Francis. Ain’t that a girl’s name?”

I sighed and smiled to myself at the familiar question. “It is a girl’s name if it’s spelled with a ‘E.’ My name’s spelled with a ‘I.’”

He grunted. “You mean one little letter is the difference between yore name and a girl’s?”

“That’s right.”

Then he asked with some agitation, “Well why didn’t they name you John, or Robert or William or something that couldn’t be confused with a girl?”

Again I smiled to myself and said, “My folks named me for the great general of the Revolution, Francis Marion. He was called the ‘Swamp Fox’ because he outfoxed the Brits and the Tories. He would attack them and then fade into the swamps down in the South Carolina low country; he just disappeared in those dismal haunts like a ghost.

“My Paw was real impressed with the stories about the Swamp Fox, so he named me after him. My grandpa, James Yelton, fought in the Revolution. He was a die hard Patriot. He lived to be ninety-three years old. My Pa was so proud of my Grandpa and his fightin’ the Tories and the British in the Revolution. He wanted me to carry on a famous revolutionary hero’s name. So that’s how I came to have the name ‘Francis.’”

Whit was silent for several minutes. Then he looked at me with this sort of amazed grin and said, “Well, I’ll be the son of Red Coat!” He shook his head a couple of times and said, “I’ll be, I’ll be.”

I think for once I answered one of Whit’s questions without him having to ask fifty more questions about “why.” “I guess we better turn in,” I said, and we walked back to camp where the other men were already sawing logs. I lay there for a long time before I went to sleep, wondering about the future. Will I make it home? Will I be crippled by a Yankee bullet? Will I see my family again? It all rolled over and over in my head until I finally fell asleep.

Scarecrow in Gray, Chapter Three

2009-01-13T17:00:00.000-08:00

Copyright 2005, 2006

On the long winding road
to Gehenna
I paused to look at the stars,
sparkling with the cold eye of death.

We started out early the next morning, after a delicious breakfast of eggs, ham and some of the finest biscuits I ever ate. When we finished breakfast, Mr. Samuels saddled his horse and tied the deserter to a rope, pulling him along behind. The deserter never spoke a word the whole way to Morganton. We said good-bye to Mr. Samuels in town as he pointed us toward Camp Vance. We arrived at the camp about seven in the evening, footsore and hungry. The camp wasn’t much. There were a couple of rows of burned out buildings and a few dozen tents to the side. It looked like they were building a couple of new structures, but hadn’t gotten very far. The frames rose up like wooden skeletons from the muddy ground. Overall, it had a depressing look, like a place that tried hard but was still all loose ends and shabby ones at that.

We found a group of soldiers having supper near a large tent. We asked a sergeant where we could sleep. He said there were no tents left for recruits, but that we could bed down near the creek and pointed to a small stream about two hundred yards to the west. He also said that we might find a biscuit or two over by the mess tent. We walked over and asked the corporal if there was any food left. He went in the tent and brought out four small biscuits and some bacon. We went on over to the stream, which was about five feet across and maybe a foot deep as it rushed over the smooth stones. Poplars and river birches lined the banks. We found a relatively level clearing and laid out our bedrolls, then started a little fire. We boiled some water, made some coffee, and ate our biscuits and some chicken Mrs. Samuels had sent with us.

We reclined against a tall poplar tree and listened to the murmur of the stream in the dark. Everything got quiet in the camp, but I stayed awake for a long time. Too much had happened, leaving home, and tangling with the deserters. I turned it all over in my mind for what seemed like several hours. I finally went to sleep, but I kept awakening from a dream in which I was fighting off a wolf that was trying to get at a calf. I hit at the wolf with a stick, but it kept coming back, biting at me, biting my arms and my legs. I could feel the wolf’s fangs tearing at me. I would knock it down, but it kept coming back. About five o’clock, after I had awakened from the dream for the third or fourth time, I got up and walked over to the creek. I stripped to my skivvies and sat down in the cold water to bathe as well as I could. I tried to wash the blood out of my shirt.

I didn’t bother to shave. I figured that living in an army camp and maybe marching about, I wouldn’t have many opportunities to shave, so I began to let the beard grow. My Pa had a full beard and I always figured I would resemble him even more if I let mine grow. It would come out brown, with some reddish tint to it. A lot of the men had beards and it seemed like the thing to do. I got out of the creek and went back to build a fire to dry off. I patted down with my blanket and sat close to the fire. When I was reasonably dry, I got dressed.

By that time old Whit was awake and I told him to hurry, that we had to report to the headquarters. He growled, “I don’t care what that old sergeant said about bein’ at headquarters at six thirty. All my conscript orders said was to be here by 25 August. That’s today and we’re here. That’s all that counts!”

“Just the same,” I said, “we ought to try to get off to a good start.”

He whined, like only Whit can. “Francis, you is the durndest man I ever seen to try to go out of his way to do what somebody else thinks you ort to do, even contrary to what’s fer yer own good. These fellers don’t care about us bein’ on time, all they want is more fodder for the Yankee cannons.”

I said, “Maybe so, but this fodder ain’t gonna start out a shirker from the git go. I didn’t want to come, but now that I’m here, I’m gonna do my duty if it kills me.”

“Prob’ly will,” Whit muttered as he rolled out of the blankets and on to his feet.

He sauntered toward the creek to do his business. I looked out over the camp, which was beginning to stir. Men started fires, put on coffee, and some were gathering at the mess tent. Daylight was coming; the sky was a deep blue. It looked like a clear day, no clouds in sight. I thought about home.

As I stood there, I felt as if I were suffocating under a huge weight. I don’t know what it was. I’m a simple man, a farmer and a worker, but I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders that morning. Our country was torn asunder; the grim reaper stalked the land cutting down men in their prime by the thousands. The death and destruction were overwhelming. I wondered if we would even have homes to come back to. I worried for my wife and my little ones. The future looked as bleak as a stony tomb in the wilderness.

My thoughts were interrupted by Whit returning from the creek. “Whooee, that crik water’s cold! What say let’s git some breakfast.” We walked to the mess tent where there were some tables set up outside and men walked through a serving line. The food was all right, some eggs and a little fatback, but the portions were small. There always seemed to be a shortage of some kind or another these days, not enough of anything to go around. Talk around the camp was that things were going from bad to worse. Richmond and Petersburg, where Lee’s army was entrenched, were cities under siege. Food and supplies, war materials, and anything else needful for surviving this holocaust were in dreadfully short supply.

By the time we finished our meal it was almost six thirty, so we grabbed our belongings and headed over to the headquarters building, which looked like it had just been finished. It was a little one story wooden building with a small porch and a window on either side of the door. The wood looked and smelled new, but the floor was already mud-stained. We walked in and reported to a young lieutenant who was seated behind a little oaken desk, which was maybe two feet by three feet. He had a real neat stack of papers on each side of the desk and he was writing on a sheet in the middle. He had a candle placed perfectly in the middle at the front. On one side was an ink well; on the other was an ivory handled pen knife.

We handed him the papers they gave us and he studied them with a scowl on his face. Then he looked us both up and down like we were something he had just scraped off the bottom of his boot. He looked no more than eighteen. He had a skimpy blond mustache which drooped to either side of his mouth, no chin whiskers. His hair was slicked to the side and curled up about his ears. Fair skinned, he did not appear to be a man who had spent much time out of doors. He was all decked out in what they call a “butternut” uniform. The lieutenant was resplendent with shiny boots and the uniform didn’t have a speck on it. I wondered how much fighting he had done, and decided probably not much if any at all.

He said (with a sort of sideways sneer on his face), “Report to Sergeant Washburn over at Company C,” and he looked back down at the papers on his desk. I asked him how we would find Sergeant Washburn and he yelled, “Look for the flag with the big ‘C’ on it, or can’t you sod busters read?” I looked at Whit and he sort of raised his eyebrows, and we turned and walked out the door.

“There it is,” Whit said, almost as soon as we walked out the door. Whit could read a little and he took every opportunity to show off his somewhat limited ability. At least he knew what a “C” looked like. Sure enough, about a hundred yards over to the left was a group of tents with a flagpole and a flag with a big “C” on it. Whit bit off a plug and then offered me some, which I gladly took, and we walked over to the tent nearest the flagpole. “We’re here to see Sergeant Washburn,” Whit announced as we walked up.

A couple of soldiers looked up from a card game and said, “In there,” nodding toward the big tent near the flagpole.

We walked on in and there sat the sergeant behind the same kind of tiny little desk the lieutenant had. It held an inkwell, a quill pen and knife, and a stack of papers. The floor in the tent was wooden and had been swept clean. He was writing something as we came in. A stout man, he stood about five feet eight and was about forty years of age. He had a shovel beard and a head full of unruly hair and just about the bushiest eyebrows I ever saw on a man. As he looked up I noticed he had a big scar which ran along his left cheek from his ear almost to his mouth, right at the line of his beard. He studied us critically for a minute, an intense scowl on his face, his hard gray eyes narrowed.

Whit seemed nervous and kept shifting from one foot to the other. I nodded at the sergeant. We handed him the papers and he looked at them like they were written in Greek. He sighed and looked up. “A conscript and a volunteer,” he said to no one in particular with a tone he might have used after stepping into a cow pile. He shook his head and then he looked at us appraisingly. “Let me see you grin.”

Whit looked at me, and I said, “Beg your pardon?”

He sighed. “Grin at me, show me your teeth and then bite like your bitin’ off a chaw.” We did as we were told, though somewhat bemused by the whole thing. When Whit opened his mouth, his chaw fell out and splattered on the floor. The sergeant shook his head again. He growled, “Clean it up.” Whit bent down and scooped up the chaw as best he could. He looked around for a place to dispose of it and finding none, he ceremoniously placed it in his pants pocket. The sergeant groaned a little. Whit grinned, pulled out another plug, and bit if off dramatically. The sergeant closed his eyes and, speaking slowly, explained, “In order to serve in the army, you have to have two teeth that meet in the front, for bitin’ open cartridges. I suppose you’ll both do.”

He looked us over and said, “You fellers ain’t old and you ain’t young. How come you ain’t been in the army all along?”

Whit pursed his lips and said solemnly, “Well, Sergeant, I been busy a takin’ care of my family. I ain’t rightly had time to sign up what with farmin’ and loggin’ and a runnin’ the sawmill.”

The sergeant looked at Whit disgustedly and said, “All of us has things to do. But duty comes first, which you’ll soon find out.” Then he turned to me and said, “What’s your excuse?” I told him that I had served in the militia and that I was a farmer with a family to feed and that I had supplied corn and sorghum and felt like I was doing my duty. Besides which, I really had no quarrel with the Yanks and I have always been happy to be an American and live in a free land and wasn’t even sure about all the whys and wherefores of this war anyway. I told him I came because I did not want to be seen as a dodger.

The sergeant got this real disgusted look and shook his head slowly once again. He looked down, then back up again, and took a deep breath. He began to methodically spit out the words. “Let me tell you something farmer.” He said the word “farmer” like it tasted bad in his mouth. “If men like you don’t come forward and fight, the blue-bellies will be marchin’ right through the middle of this country, burnin’ your crops, stealin’ your women and shootin’ you down like dogs and no hometown militia is gonna stop ‘em. Hellfire, they’re already doin’ it! Look at Kirk. (He meant a certain Colonel Kirk who led a band of Yankee and turncoat cavalry raiding in Western North Carolina and Tennessee). They came stormin’ through here and burned this camp not two months ago. Not to mention the gangs of deserters tearin’ up jack. The Yankees and the lawbreakers will take over.

“But that ain’t nothin’; look at what Sherman’s doin’ in Georgia and what any number of Yankee vermin has done up in the Shenandoah.” He paused long enough to glare at both of us some more. “I been on the front lines at Sharpsburg, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, and Gettysburg, not to mention a hundred dustups of one kind or another. I watched them carry Stonewall from the field after our own men opened fire on him by accident; my own outfit, the old 18th North Carolina! I saw the men fall down and cry like babies when they learned what happened.

“I got this (he pointed to the scar) when a Yankee cavalryman tried to take my head off with his saber! I been shot, stabbed with the bayonet, and damn near froze to death a dozen times. I’ve seen men blown to pieces by Yankee artillery, and they was the lucky ones. I’ve seen men come back from battle missing an arm or a leg or an eye or private parts, or with holes in them you could stick your fist in and them still walkin’. You may have no quarrel with the blue-bellies now, but that’s because you ain’t seen ‘em up close and personal like I have.

“Now I’m here to make soldiers out of you dirt farmers and that I intend to do, in about two weeks time. You just plan right now on doin’ what I tell you to do; when I tell you to do it and you might just get to come back to your little farms in the piney woods” He said this with a particular bit of disdain in his voice, wrinkling his face when he said “piney woods.” He took a deep breath and said, “Now you men go see Corporal Hamrick about some equipage and report back here in one hour for drill.” With that, he looked back down at his papers and we knew we were dismissed. The sergeant must have given that speech a hundred times because he sure gave it well.

We got our equipage from the quartermaster and reported back to Company C for drill. We talked with a few of the men gathered on the parade ground. They were mostly scared and depressed about the situation we found ourselves in. We had all heard the stories about the war, like the one Sergeant Washburn told. We also all knew that more men were deserting than were being killed by Yankee bullets. We knew that while we were marching to Petersburg, there would be thousands of men walking back toward the hills of North Carolina and Tennessee because they were tired of the fighting, the sickness and the starving. They were tired of getting letters from home telling of loved ones near starvation, of wives and sweethearts trying to work like men, and children dying from illness and lack of decent food.

Most of the men were not cowards in the least; they were just tired of the war. They were tired of freezing in the open when rumor had it there were blankets rotting in warehouses in Georgia. They were tired of marching on bloody bare feet when there were shoes by the thousands sitting in musty buildings near Richmond. They were tired of starving when canned food filled warehouses to overflowing in Salisbury. It is one thing to fight an enemy with the full support of your government behind you, but it’s quite another thing to fight when that government is too ill-equipped or ill-managed to provide for your basic needs.

Even the most ignorant private in the ranks somehow knew that the Confederate government was woefully bad. Poor old Jeff Davis tried mightily to do his best, but he was surrounded by a lot of selfish pocket-liners and sycophants who undercut him at every turn. The Yankees had some of the same problems, but their sources of supply were far more plentiful. They had all the manufactories and the shipyards and many more able bodied men. The south with its little farms and plantations had very few manufactories. So when the Confederate government messed up, it hurt plenty. The men knew this, so they were leaving faster than people like us could fill the ranks. Knowing all this made the thought of marching into what looked like a disaster all the worse. We all tried to put on a brave face, but we were scared and homesick to a man and we wondered how we could be such fools.

The sergeant came out to the parade ground and we drilled until almost sundown, with the sergeant yelling and waving his arms in the air most of the day. Our instruction at Camp Vance was brief but very intense and very thorough. We learned the manual of arms, to load our weapons in nine times and four times and at will. Over the two weeks we learned firings, direct, oblique, by file and by rank. We learned to fire and load, standing, kneeling and lying. We had bayonet exercises. We also learned how to march, a concept which amused me to no end at first. I had always thought anyone could march. I was ill-informed. We learned how to march in union of eight or twelve men, the direct march, the oblique march and all the different steps. We learned to march by the flank, and the principles of wheeling and change in direction. We learned long marches in double quick time, and the run, with arms and knapsacks, and on and on.

Whit looked confused much of the time as, I must say, did most of us. We didn’t look much like soldiers and we often felt foolish, but it slowly came to us thanks to the sergeant’s persistent and rather vocal efforts.

They gave me an 1861 Springfield rifled musket, .58 caliber, probably captured from the Yankees. I told them I couldn’t carry two muskets, so they said they would pay me ten Confederate dollars for my musket and give it to the home guards. I knew then my old musket was gone for good. I might as well have given it to them. Ten Confederate dollars wouldn’t buy you supper in Petersburg. The rifle they gave me fired a large round, about the size of the last joint of a man’s little finger. They called it a minie ball, named for some Frenchman. If the heavy lead round struck a bone, it splintered and the splinters tore up the muscle and flesh and the limb had to be amputated. It was not a pleasant fate. If the ball struck you in the chest or head, you would soon be saying hello to your Maker.

For two weeks we drilled and marched and practiced shooting, then we drilled some more. The sergeant said all this would be most useful when thousands of Yankees were charging your position. Most of the men could shoot, but none of us knew anything about military tactics and such. They told us we had to learn fast because the Yankees were threatening Richmond, where Lee’s Army was entrenched along a line about thirty miles long from south of Petersburg to north of the capital.

The day before we left for Petersburg, we learned that Whit and I would be joining the 18th North Carolina Volunteer Infantry Regiment in General A.P. Hill’s corps as replacements for those who had died or deserted. Sergeant Washburn told us it was his old regiment (he had mentioned as much in his speech), the very same regiment that had accidentally shot Stonewall Jackson in the dark at Chancellorsville. The general was riding back from the direction of the enemy with some others, including General Hill, and the North Carolina boys thought the riders were Yankee cavalry. He died a few days later from his wounds. It is said that the loss of 10,000 ordinary men would not equal the loss of Stonewall. He had been a brilliant field commander, defeating every enemy he encountered, often with odds against him of two or three to one. His name was spoken with fear and respect in the North and with reverenced and adoration in the South.

He was Lee’s ablest lieutenant and some said the best general on either side. And to think boys from his own Army were responsible for his death. It goes to show a battlefield can be a most confusing and heartbreaking place.

Turns out the 18th had lost its colors twice in battle. A regimental flag was a real point of honor and pride in the Confederate Army and to lose one was almost disgraceful. But to lose two was just about too much to bear. It seemed to Whit and me that maybe we were joining up with a real hard-luck outfit and it didn’t exactly make us feel any better about things. The sergeant made it clear to us though that any regiment that had lost its colors in battle had clearly been in the thick of the fight. They weren’t guarding the wagon trains and they weren’t quick to retreat. Whit and I went back to our little camp by the creek to spend the last night before marching off to Petersburg.

Whit grumbled as we walked back to our camp. “Well Francis, looks like you and me got ourselves into a real fine outfit. They cain’t keep their battle flag, and they shoot their own generals. Do you think they know which end of a rifle is which?”

I shook my head. “Don’t be so hard on ‘em, Whit. War is rough business, which we’re about to learn first hand. I just hope I can remember which end of a rifle is which when the time comes to use it and the Yanks are coming at us in hordes, like the sergeant said.”

Whit laughed loudly and said, “Well, Francis, just watch me! I’ll show you how shoot Bluebellies, because I don’t aim to be captured by them Yankee hordes. I heard the food in them prison camps is so bad the buzzards won’t eat it!”

The Civil War Dichotomy, an Essay

2008-12-16T11:52:00.000-08:00

In 1861, the culmination of a series of political conflicts caused the nation to spiral into the bloodiest war it ever fought, more deadly than the two World Wars, and more tragically divisive than Vietnam or Iraq. In the early years of the nineteenth century, the booming, industrial north and the mostly agrarian south constantly came into conflict on a variety of issues, most importantly that of human slavery. That fundamental disagreement boiled over into armed conflict resulting in the first modern war.

Slavery is so alien to us today that it is difficult to comprehend the countenancing of human bondage. Something that civilized people now recognize as a barbaric and inhuman scheme seemed to the rich planters of the mid-nineteenth century a profitable economic institution. Anti-slavery voices in the south were almost non-existent at the time, shouted down by slavery’s proponents. In the north, however, an abolitionist movement grew stronger by the day, led by freed slaves and Christian groups intent on ridding the country of the curse of slavery.

While wealthy slaveholders demanded the right to hold slaves, there were millions of southerners who were never slaveholders, and had no stake in the institution. The vast majority of southerners were in fact small farmers, sharecroppers, tradesmen, and the like. They lived from season to season, surviving on what they grew, purchased, or bartered, with little hope of significant economic betterment. Content to feed their families, and have a roof over their heads, they, the ordinary people, had no reason to go to war with the north. In order to provide them with a compelling reason, the wealthy landowners, slaveholders, and politicians developed the concept of “states rights” to convince the common people that going to war was in their vital interest.

Much as masses of people have been misled and duped over the millennia, so were southerners sold a bill of goods to inspire them to fight for their beloved Southland. Wars have to be sold, for the obvious reason that they are both horrendously painful and dreadfully expensive. To garner support for a war, you have to convince people they are fighting for some great purpose, such as doing God’s will, stopping Communism or Fascism, or ridding the world of a dictator’s weapons of mass destruction. Southerners were sold on the fact that the scheming politicians of the north wanted to take away their rights. Never mind that the primary right the abolitionists, north and south, wanted to take away, was the right to own human beings, which was something that affected virtually none of the people who would ultimately suffer the most. The vast majority of southerners could not afford to own slaves even had they wanted them.

The north did its share of selling as well. The Radical Republicans in the north insisted that subduing the “rebellion” was crucial to the existence of the country. What the north referred to as “rebellion” was in fact secession, a very different thing altogether. Indeed secession was something many scholars believe was perfectly within the right of any state or states at that time in our history. Our country was then (and still is) the United States, not the United State. At the time of the Civil War, when one spoke of one’s “country” it was usually in reference to one’s home state, not the Federal Union. Other states had tried without success to secede at various times, including some in the north, so the concept was not without precedent. To help sell the war, however, the north insisted that the act of secession was in fact rebellion, and had to be put down by force of arms.

There was, then, conflict among both northerners and southerners about whether the country should travel the path to Civil War. Once the die was cast, however, both sides for the most part pitched into the process with great fervor. There were cheerful pro-war songs in the south with lyrics like, “Wait for the wagon, the dissolution wagon. Hop on the wagon and we’ll all take a ride.” While on the lips of northerners were uber-righteous songs such as “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” The nation went to the holocaust with cheerful hearts, martial music, and, for some, dreams of great personal glory. It was in essence a sort of tragic, collective errand of fools. What began with bright hope and regional patriotism would end with the death and debilitation of hundreds of thousands of young men, and the country would never be the same. As it has been said of the Civil War, “America was crucified on a cross of black.”

As the war began, virtually shining with promise, wealthy landowners, bankers, and men of other privileged classes often raised their own regiments, thereby becoming instant colonels. Some simply joined existing regiments, and obtained rank based on their financial status or political connections. The graduates of the military academies were in strong demand to fill out the officer corps, of the regular army in the north, and the newly formed regiments in the south. The men of farm and mill, however, could expect to serve their time in the army as mere private soldiers, otherwise known as “ground pounders” or “cannon fodder.” Still they came to volunteer, answering the call enthusiastically, if naively.

As a consequence, military organizations, like the famed Army of Northern Virginia, were led by the social elite, and peopled by men of common stature. The work was done, and the blood was shed primarily by what we would today call the “working class.” The landed gentry, the slaveholders, successful politicians, businessmen, and others with a substantial stake in the war, could often serve in relative comfort, or could buy or bribe their way out of service entirely. The common soldiers, on the other hand, often served in conditions, which one would not permit an animal to endure these days.

Those who chose not to serve were eventually forced to do so by the conscription laws. One could either bleed on the battlefield or bleed before a firing squad; take your choice. Men with no stake in the war, other than their perceived “rights,” bore the burden and sacrifice which rightfully belonged to the slaveholders and the wealthy.

To compound the injury, most of those men who marched off to join the struggle left families back home. Women were left with the entire responsibility of providing for their children and themselves. They also often had to provide for their soldier husbands fighting far away. The Confederate government, in particular, often failed miserably at equipping and feeding its troops. The folks back home sent clothing, canned food, and other goods to help sustain the much-deprived men in the field.

At the same time, the women were often expected to do the hard labor to keep farms running, or perform other work to generate enough income necessary for survival. They often had to deal with lawless and predatory men completely alone. Their lives were made brutally hard for completely unsupportable reasons; wealthy people wanted slaves, and politicians north and south could not come to a rational and peaceable agreement. The whole affair soon became one tragedy piled upon another.

The common soldiers may have been ignorant, but most were not stupid, and they soon saw through the façade of “states rights,” coining the term “a rich man’s war, but a poor man’s fight.” This helps to account in part for the increasing flow of deserters as the war dragged on. Men were fighting for someone else’s cause, paying the price in blood and treasure. All the while their families suffered back home. It became an intolerable situation, and as a result, both armies experienced a staggering rate of desertions.

Though the Confederates deserted in great numbers, particularly after 1862, Union soldiers took to their heels at an even greater rate. Over 200,000 Union troops deserted during the course of the war. Men literally “voted with their feet.” The men believed their families had suffered enough, and since there was little personal stigma, they often simply quit the army, and went home.

Stark indeed are the social and political divisions in the country today. Nonetheless, they pale in comparison to the divisions of the Civil War era. As poor Southerners suffered for the benefit of rich plantation owners, and as poor Northerners battled for abstract ideals, or simply for a paycheck, the societal fractures of the Civil War era were manifold. Political and moral failures led to America’s holocaust. Let us indeed hope that such failures never again lead to the fatal divisions that so traumatized America during her tragic Civil War.

Free Chapters

2008-11-25T19:25:00.000-08:00

Since I published my book in September of 2006 I have heard many good things about it from my readers. It is very gratifying that people who read it take something from it that is meaningful. It is always interesting to me that different people get different messages, and focus on different aspects of the book.

I decided that I wanted to begin to share, at least part of the book with the world in another way, namely, here on this blog. In the archives you will find Chapter One of the book and below this post, I have just posted Chapter Two.

I am not sure how many chapters I will ultimately include here, but let's take them one at a time. I hope you enjoy the first two chapters. If you like them, you can always go to Amazon.com and order the book. Happy reading.

Scarecrow in Gray, Chapter Two

2008-11-25T19:21:00.000-08:00

Copyright 2005, 2006

Chapter Two

The day dawns bright but
the prospect is grim
on the road to a land
strange and dark and violent.

Camp Vance was only about thirty-five or forty miles from my farm, so I figured I could walk it in two days time or less. Early in the morning of August 23, 1864, I kissed my wife good-bye, hugged Jane and Susan, and started down the path to the Camp Creek Road to make my way to Camp Vance, which was over near Morganton. As I rounded the bend in the path, I turned back and waved at my family. I felt my face get hot and my breath got short. I didn’t know if I would ever see them again or not. My wife stood with my two little flaxen haired girls huddled close. She smiled bravely but even at a distance I could see the glisten of tears on her cheeks. Little Susan turned and buried her face in her mother’s dress. Jane looked at me with a doleful look and waved good bye. I turned and walked on down the path. I left my very heart standing on that ridge above Camp Creek.
The thought of the long road to Camp Vance was oppressive to me. The things that gave me such joy, the beauty of God’s nature around me, seemed superfluous and sullied somehow. My legs felt heavy before I had gone a half mile. I walked on like a man asleep on his feet, a dull ache deep down.
Life sometimes takes curious turns, and one’s aspect can change from day to night and back again in the space of an hour or a minute. Such a change occurred when I had barely begun my journey. I hadn’t gone much more than a mile when I saw Whit Whitaker ambling down the rutted road from his cabin on the lower slopes of Hogback Mountain. Whit hollered at me and I stopped to wait on him. He had a bundle over his shoulder like I did. He was still a hundred feet away when his coarse voice rang out. “You goin’ to sign up. I am!” I nodded.
Whit was the type of fellow who always thought he knew better than anyone else about most any subject you wanted to talk about, religion, politics, farming, or anything else. The fact was most folks realized that half the time he was flat wrong but everybody hereabouts knew him and made allowances. Whit was a bit older than me, about thirty-four, two inches shorter and probably thirty pounds heavier, a deceptively powerful man who had worked with logs and lumber all his life. He always said that logging and lumber work would make a man out of you or kill you in the process. He had brownish hair, ears rounded from too many boyhood fights, a droopy mustache and he wore an old slouch hat, the brim turned up in front. He always had a big chaw in his mouth and there was usually a trickle of tobacco juice running down one corner of his mouth or the other. Doc Callison in Gilbert Town said you could predict whether the day would be sunny or rainy by which side of Whit’s mouth the tobacco juice ran down that day. Doc always was one who tended to say things that were ridiculous and try to make people believe them, but the twinkle in his eye usually gave him away.
Whit spat out a big stream as he walked up to me. “Did you get conscripted too?”
I shook my head. “No, I quit the militia and I’m signin’ up; ain’t gonna be called a dodger.” He laughed his hoarse laugh, sounding a little like Moses when he’s feelin’ sick at his stomach.
He said, “We’ll most likely both end up planted on some hill in Virginia so we’d better get a good look at this old valley now, because we ain’t ever a goin’ to see it again.” He grinned. “Whit, you need to learn when to make a joke and when not to. I don’t think this is jokin’ business,” I said, somewhat irritated.
Whit looked a little sheepish. “I reckon it don’t hurt to joke about such matters. It ain’t gonna change things one bit. At least we can go to our death with a smile,” he said with a grin big as Texas. I didn’t answer him, he always did think he had to have the last word and that what he thought was the way it was or the way it ought to be.
“Yo’re lucky you didn’t get conscripted,” he said. “They came by Frank Scoggins’s house about three weeks ago and tole him that he had ten minutes to gather his belongin’s and say his good byes. I heered his young ‘uns was a squallin’ and his wife was a beggin’ them not to take him. It was a regular pitiful sight, is what I heered.”
I looked down at the rutted road and said, “I heard about it too. They say they need men real bad, that sickness and Yankee bullets are destroying the army.”
Whit said, “Think of it as an adventure, Francis. I never seen Virginny before and I sort of look forward to it, though I’d as soon not have blue bellies shootin’ at me whilst I’m lookin’ around!”
I shifted my musket. “Oh, they’ll be shootin’ all right, and we’ll be the targets. I’ve had two brothers die already and one took to his heels. We don’t know what became of him. I hear it’s so bad that there’s more men leavin’ and comin’ home, than there are new ones to take their places. It don’t sound like much of an adventure to me, Whit.”
Whit grinned. “Well, Francis, we’re on our way for good or ill, so let’s try to act like it’s an adventure ‘cause it will be one way or t’other.”
He might not have been the most desirable of companions, but at least he was someone to talk to besides the crows and the rabbits. I tried to count my blessings. It was not easy. As I walked out of the valley, I felt like something was emptying out of me, like water out of a bucket. I never felt that way before or since, but I felt it that day. We walked for a long time without saying much. Whit seemed to be more thoughtful than usual. The sun rose higher. I pulled out my Pa’s old pocket watch. It was almost eleven o’clock. I suggested we stop over by a little branch that ran near the road and eat a bite. I had some biscuits and some fried chicken, and he had some cornbread and fatback, so we sat and ate.
Whit regained his voice and started on the war again. “Francis, this ain’t our fight. You know them politicians in Richmond is just a bunch of fools and buffoons. They gonna get us kilt.” I reminded him that a short while before he said it was going to be a great adventure. He looked thoughtful for a moment and then he started on the Confederate generals. He said, “Them generals up there is pitiful. They cain’t figure out how to whup a few city-boy Yankees.” Then he said, “They’s plenty of outliers over in the high mountains and we kin go over there and stay until the war’s over. The provost marshals and the militia is afraid to go over there after them boys because they’s a lot of ‘em holed up in that rough country and they don’t aim to be took alive.” I looked at him and shook my head.
Then he took up the theme about how it was a rich man’s war but a poor man’s fight. He said it was all about the coloreds and he didn’t own any and why did they bother hard workin’ folks like us anyway. I let him talk, because there ain’t much else to do with Whit, unless you want to slap him, because when Whit’s gonna talk, he’s gonna talk. I sort of faded him out and listened to the buzz of the bees and the rustling of the wind through the white oaks instead. The day was getting hot; rolling white clouds spotted the deep blue sky. It reminded me of wash day and clothes on the line, for some reason. I missed home already.
As soon as we ate, we got started toward Morganton again, walking the dusty, winding road through the mountains. It rose through the passes and then wound down into the valleys. Here and there we passed a farm. Most of the farmers that had not gone off to war were harvesting their crops. It seemed their numbers were few. Most of the fields looked neglected. I felt a pang at not having completed my own work. Between the farms the oaks, hickories and chestnuts crowded the road side, and the deep forest stretched up the mountain slopes, running up and over the craggy summits.
Whit still talked, mostly complaining about being conscripted and about the “durn fool Confederate Government in Richmond that couldn’t run a war well enough to whup a few sorry Yankees.” It seemed to be his theme for the day. I mostly let him talk and tried to listen to the sounds of the woods and fields and, like always, I watched the sky.
The day’s monotony began to replace the anguish of leaving home. I stopped for a moment to watch a red tailed hawk circling overhead. He flew in lazy circles and then at a point about a hundred yards away from us; he suddenly hurtled downward like a bolt of dusky lightning. When he was about six or eight feet off the ground, his wings flared wide, his talons stretched down and he snatched up a fat field mouse and carried it away on powerful wings. I marveled, as I often did, at how he spotted the mouse in the tall grass from several hundred feet in the air; and then swooped down to the exact point to seize the little creature.
As he flew off, Whit said, “Why ye watchin’ that hawk, Francis?”
“Well, I just find it amazing the way they hunt and catch their prey. They move so fast and right to it. God knew what he was doing when he made hawks.”
Whit looked at me a bit sideways and said, “You seen hundreds of them things, Francis. What’s so interestin’ about ‘em today?”
I smiled at him. “I just think it’s something to be admired, don’t you?”
“Well, I s’pose so. Say, I wonder what a hawk would taste like?”
I had to laugh. “Not too good, I think. They eat rats and snakes. I sure don’t plan on finding out.”
I brought along one of my two smooth bore muskets and a fair amount of musket balls and powder. The musket was old and worn and I was hoping they would provide me with a better weapon once we got to Richmond, or maybe even at Camp Vance, but I thought “better safe than sorry.” I shot a fat rabbit along the way for our supper. Shouldering that old musket felt like I was off on a long hunting trip instead of off to kill some of my fellow men. That thought kept coming back again and again. It didn’t seem to bother old Whit any, but it bothered me plenty. Truth is I didn’t know whether I could shoot another man or not. It preyed on my mind, a gnawing thought that imposed itself from time to time. Here I was a small time farmer with forty-two acres, which I still owed the bank thirty-seven dollars for, on my way to fight for the Confederacy and I didn’t even know if I could make myself shoot a Yankee. Some soldier I was.
Along about five in the afternoon I asked Whit how much longer he wanted to walk that day. He said maybe another hour; that he was tired. Well, I was tired too but I said we should walk until dark so as to make as many miles the first day as possible. He finally agreed, but not without some persuading on my part. I told him I was going to walk until dark whether he did or not. He didn’t much fancy walking alone, so he agreed.
The sun was getting low in the sky when suddenly we heard voices and crying or yelling, up around a bend in the road. It gave me a very bad feeling here in this sparse country, so I checked my musket to be sure it was ready and we walked on cautiously to see what was making all the fuss. Down to the right side of the road, beyond a grassy field, there were some trees and bushes which formed a deep thicket. The noises were coming from there. There was a sharp scream like a woman or a child in terrible pain. The sound made my blood chill and Whit looked at me like he’d seen a ghost. “We gotta find out what’s goin’ on,” I said. Whit nodded. I checked the musket again to make sure it was loaded and capped. We ran across the field and into the thicket, me in front, Whit right behind me, his Bowie knife at the ready.
As we pushed our way into the thicket, my musket held ready, I could see some people on the ground in some sort of struggle. There was a girl laying there crying hysterically and two men cursing and laughing. There was a big man with a gray hat on top of a young girl and another man holding her arms. The man holding her was as thin as a rail and dirty as a hog in a wallow. He laughed and grinned, toothless in front. The girl was struggling and kicking but they had her pinned down.
When I realized what was happening, my fury rose up, and my body grew taut. Whit gasped, “Good God!” The man holding the girl looked up. Grasping my musket by the barrel, I lunged at the holder and swung my musket so the stock caught the man square in the mouth. There was a loud cracking sound.
He fell backwards with a scream, blood spurting from his nose and mouth and I knew he was out of it for now. The other man jerked around and looked at me, his face as red as a beet and his eyes wild. He had pig-like eyes and his fat face was smeared with dirt and grease, a scraggly beard across his ample jaw. I brought the musket back around and swung it again and hit him a glancing blow in the side of the head. The butt plate caught his left ear and almost tore it off, blood splattered the leaves nearby.
I straightened myself as he toppled over. My heart pounded like it was going to leap plumb out of my chest. He came up fast for a big man, pulling a long hunting knife. I yelled at him to stop as I brought my musket back into firing position, but he kept coming at me. His eyes were filled with pure hate and pure malice. As fast as I could I cocked the musket and pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked. The cap had jarred off. The man grinned and moved toward me. His left eye twitched, his stringy yellow hair hung limp. His belly bulged over his pants. Even as he came at me I wondered how he had got fat in these lean years. He laughed coarsely and said, “Looks like you’re out of luck, mister. I’m agonna kill you!”
I said coldly, “You still got it to do, mister. I ain’t goin’ easy!” I turned the musket and grasped it by the barrel. He came at me with the knife moving back and forth, thrusting it at me now and then, and grunting out a little laugh each time. I took a couple of steps backwards and then I brought the musket back and swung at his head as hard as I could, stepping into the swing. He raised his arm to ward off the blow, too late. The stock connected with his head just above his left ear. There was a sharp crack. He staggered to his right.
His eyes crossed and then closed and he dropped to his knees, stayed there for a few seconds, and then pitched face down to the ground, his skull indented on the left side. Blood began to soak the ground around his head. Whit and I stood there for a moment. Then Whit sidled up and said in a shaky voice, “I think you killed him, Francis.” I nodded. Then I spun quickly to look at the holder. I need not have worried; he was lying on the ground, holding his face, moaning and crying. Whit looked around and kept saying, “Oh Lord, Oh my Lord.” The scene was like something from a nightmare, a hysterical young girl, a dead man covered with his own blood, another rolling about in pain, and two bewildered farmers, gaping and gasping for breath.
The crying, moaning girl began to gather her torn clothes around her. She was a frail, brown haired girl with soft brown eyes. I went to her side. I didn’t know what to say or do. The poor girl had just been violated and beaten. So I just asked her if she was able to stand and she nodded yes, tears streaming down her reddened face, but she didn’t look ready to stand. So I sat down beside her, offered her some water, and asked her who the men were. She said she didn’t know. I asked her name and where she was from. She said she was Janie Samuels and her Pa was deputy sheriff Robert Samuels of McDowell County. She lived about two miles up the Pea Ridge road. She had been out picking flowers, when the men came upon her. I said, “We’d better get you home.” I gave Whit the rope off my bedroll and told him to tie the holder’s hands behind him.
He nodded at the dead man and said, “What about him?”
I said, “We’ll mark the place with a piece of his shirt and let someone come back for the body.”
Whit said, “What about animals?” He knew that bears and bobcats would make a feast of the body.
I spat out the words, “After what these two did to that girl, I don’t rightly care.” It wasn’t the Christian thing to do but the dead man had acted like an animal. Maybe being eaten by one would be his just reward.
It was one of those times when something happens that changes you, maybe forever. I had crossed a bridge I could not re-cross. I was now a killer, something that did not wear well on me. I tried to live like the Good Book says and treat my fellow man as I would like to be treated. I suppose coming face to face with a cold hearted animal of a man brings down the best of intentions.
I helped the girl to her feet. Whit had tied up the holder. He jerked the man to his feet and then shoved him toward the road. He took his knife and cut off a piece of the dead man’s shirt and tied it on a wild cherry limb beside the road. I tried to steady the girl as we walked. We had only gone a few hundred feet when the girl grew increasingly faint. It looked like she had lost some blood, but it came from a private place and I could not tell how badly she was injured. She began to stagger and seemed about to swoon. I tried to steady her. I finally gave Whit my musket and bedroll and picked her up as she passed out cold.
Whit and I decided the two men must be Confederate deserters. One had an old forage cap and the other had a military haversack. They were probably heading for the high country, though the holder couldn’t or wouldn’t talk. When Whit asked him his name two or three times, he finally mumbled that his name was Charles Shepherd. That’s all he would say. He knew he was in a world of trouble whatever he did or said. Whit prodded him on with the barrel of the musket. He staggered, his head hung down, the front of his shirt covered with his own blood.
My arms and back ached from carrying the girl up the Pea Ridge road some two miles or so. It was nearing dark when we arrived at the farm, the unconscious girl in my arms. It was the only farm along that stretch of road. A neatly dressed lady came running out the door of the farm house with her hands up to her mouth. She screamed, “Oh, Dear God! What happened?”
I said, “This man and another, well, they attacked her.” Just then, a big man with a pitch fork ran out from behind the barn to see what the commotion was. We told them the story as best we could. The big man took the girl and went inside with the lady. Whit and I stood there watching the holder until the big man came back a few minutes later.
He went straight for the holder screaming, “What did you do to my little girl?” His voice was tight and his face was twisted with rage. The holder was so scared he fell to his knees and begged the big man not to kill him. The man stopped and kicked dirt at the man. He turned to me, still shaking, and said, “I’m Robert Samuels, I’m a deputy.” He stopped, like he was choking. Then he said, “I swore to uphold the law but I’m tempted to hang this devil right now.”
I looked at Whit and then back at the distraught man. “Mr. Samuels, I’m Francis Yelton and this is Whit Whitaker. We’re from Rutherford County, near Gilbert Town, and we’re on our way to Camp Vance to join the army.”
He reached out his hand. “Mr. Yelton, Mr. Whitaker, I am much obliged. I’m real sure that if you men hadn’t come along, my daughter would be dead right now.” He paused, looked down with his hand over his eyes for a long moment. Then he composed himself and said more calmly, “I’ll take care of this man. We’ll tie him up in the tool shed tonight and I’ll take him into Morganton tomorrow and we’ll put him in jail until the judge can hear the case. Meanwhile, my wife has some supper cooked, so I would be much obliged if you fellows would join us. You can sleep in the barn tonight and start out with me to Morganton at first light. There’s fresh hay and it will be better than sleeping in the woods.”
“We shore appreciate it, Mr. Samuels,” said Whit.
Mrs. Samuels prepared a good meal, much better than rabbit cooked on a spit in the woods. We didn’t see the girl again. She stayed in her room. Her mother said she wasn’t hurt too bad, but I knew than an inside hurt is much worse than one on the outside. On the bright side, the girl was young and there would be time to heal. At least she would have the chance to heal. Still, something like that will stay with her forever. In my mind I could see her as a young woman, marrying, having a family, but her mind going back to this day from time to time, reliving the nightmare all over again.
Mr. and Mrs. Samuels were so grateful they could scarcely do enough for Whit and me. We ate supper like it was our last meal on earth. We all felt thankful to be alive after such an ordeal, and they most grateful that their daughter was still with them. I guess we all shared something more than the meal that night.
Mr. Samuels walked us out to the barn. “We tied a piece of shirt up on a cherry tree near where the dead one is,” I said.
Mr. Samuels sighed, looked down the road and said, “I’ll send Luther Gates from down the road to fetch whatever is left of him tomorrow. It don’t appear to be any great loss.” He looked toward the tool shed and said, “I’ll take that one some water and some bread. It’s the Christian thing to do, though that’s the only reason I’ll do it.” Mr. Samuels showed us to our bed for the night and walked silently back to the house.
“That poor man’s hurtin’ bad, Whit.”
“I know. If somethin’ like that happened to one of my girls...” Whit trailed off. We both lay down on the fresh straw. After a while, Whit said, “How does it feel to kill a man, Francis?”
I grimaced in the dark. “None too good; in fact my insides are turning over.”
Whit sighed. “Already killed a man and we ain’t even in the war yet. It’s not a good sign, Francis.”
I didn’t answer. A man was dead, a family was torn to pieces inside, and you’re in the middle. I stared at the rafters in the barn for a long time. Whit rose up on his elbow and looked at me in the light of the lantern. “Thar’s blood on yore sleeves.” I looked at them, then at him. His eyes were intense, sorrowful. We both settled back. The barn was quiet and after a while we slept.
After that day, Whit looked at me a little differently. I guess he saw another side of a man he thought he knew. I learned that it didn’t take war to bring out that side. It pains me to say it would come out yet again.

Big Smith

2008-10-10T17:12:00.000-07:00

Copyright 2008

He walked to the fields behind his mule
Sam
A day of plowin’ in mind on the eighty acres he farmed
back there in 1869
The Big War was over, and he came back
lead ball in his stomach
don’t bother him much

Bothers him more that his brother
Will
didn’t come back with him
left there in that sandy Tidewater soil
when Lee tried to push McClellan
into the sea
with half as many men
Will was one

Canister tore him apart on Malvern Hill
they made a charge a fool would spurn
Smith found half of him
his mouth still workin’
but nothin’ comin’ out
there in Virginia
Summer of ‘62

He can still see Will’s eyes
beseeching him for something he couldn’t give
his legs back
his life back
home

He puts a trembling hand to his brow
a tear streams from each eye
He’s glad no one can see

Brothers like Will don’t come along every day
One year apart, they took care of each other
Watched out for each other
growin’ up on a poor farm
in the Southern hills
where winters were so cold it hurt
where food got scarce and the boys went barefoot
in the snow
But they had each other
Brothers they

Off to war together
Glad to serve
Proud to help drive the Yankees back

One is wounded
One is dead, the lucky one

Smith wipes the tears
flicks the reins and the mule moves
plow sinking deep in the soil
sinking deep in his heart
where the furrows never close
and the past is never past.

Hallelujah Breakdown

2008-08-17T20:00:00.001-07:00

Copyright 2008

I tell you what, my friend
today was a whale of a day
for old men and old dogs
sun was bright
spattering the ground with brilliance
dappling the forest with shivering light

And here I am at a keyboard
pecking away
trying to tell you
don’t sit there in four walls
get out to where the clouds race
across the sky
and the cardinals sing
and streak red across your vision

Where the ground hog shuffles and digs
and the fox trots
and the crow flops across the sky
awkward as a teenager

and the breeze ripples your shirt
and your lifeblood pounds in your ears

frail human
time is short
live each moment
breathe the precious air
caress the bark of an oak tree
and pray that we remain
for another season.

Cherry Blossoms and Scarecrows

2008-08-17T19:46:00.000-07:00

Many thanks to Linda Austin, co-author of Cherry Blossoms in Twilight: Memories of a Japanese Girl for mentioning the essay below about Robert E. Lee and also recommending a visit to this humble blog. She did so on her fine blog at http://moonbridgeblog.blogspot.com/ which is entitled "Cherry Blossom Memories." As an aside, my favorite ornamental tree is the Yoshino Cherry. Nothing is prettier in Springtime. Thank you, Linda.

Robert E. Lee and The Spirit of Conciliation

2008-07-29T19:16:00.000-07:00

Copyright 2008

As the country agonizes about dishonesty on Wall Street and in Washington, and the contentious election cycle, there is a powerful lesson from our history about the need for conciliation and coming together. The current political situation threatens to divide our country even more deeply than it was during the Vietnam era. We as a people need guidance. Our nation’s civil war provides many lessons about conciliation as well as the results of failing to reconcile. Possibly the greatest single positive example from that war was the life of Robert E. Lee.

For most Americans today, if they think of Lee at all, he was someone we read about in high school history. Perhaps we saw a portrait of him astride his horse, Traveler. To most, he is a figure from an ancient and hopelessly retrograde culture, who could not possibly have any relevance in the new millennium.

He was indeed a product of his time and his culture, a man who tolerated human slavery even as he deplored it. He led an army, which was the martial instrument of a racist and repressive society, though one which held itself to be civilized and indeed enlightened. While he did hold such a post, and indeed held it with incredible energy, creativity, and resolve; at the same time he was by all accounts kind-hearted, humble, and sincerely religious.

History itself seems mostly irrelevant to the vast majority today. “Why should we dwell on the past, when it is dead and gone? This is the Twenty First Century!” I would submit that history has exquisite relevance for this and any other generation. The people who passed before us with their combination of heroism and butchery, triumphs and foibles were, after all, made of the same stuff as you and I. The culture has changed, as have attitudes, but the human animal in most ways has not. We have the same desires, hopes, aspirations, and we all still have our prejudices, as much as we may protest to the contrary.

Lee, if he were alive today, I believe, would have a very different message from many of our contemporaries who like to wave the Confederate battle flag. Many of these “neo-Confederates” talk a lot about heritage and pride. However, the messages on both sides of the flag and heritage debates are divisive, and often sown with arrogance and resentment.

Lee was indeed a respecter of heritage, with a noble lineage and family ties to George Washington. His actions after the Civil War demonstrated, however, character of a type, which is very rare indeed. After a humiliating and devastating defeat, he refused to call out bands of diehards to fight a vengeful guerilla war in the mountains and backwoods of the South, as many of his subordinates and various firebrands remonstrated. He most certainly could have done that and it would have divided the country to this day in a way, which would make what happened in Northern Ireland look like a Sunday School picnic.

Neither did Lee attempt to cash in on his name, which was venerated almost as deity in the South. One insurance company offered him $50,000 per year (a king’s ransom in 1865) to be its President. When he protested that he knew nothing about the insurance business, he was informed that he did not need to – they just wanted to use his name. To this, he quietly replied that his name was not for sale.

He also did not become bitter and lash out verbally at his former foes. Instead, he took the helm of the nearly defunct Washington College in Virginia and spent his last years in training the young to deal with the realities of the new United States of America, building what today is Washington and Lee University.

He urged his former officers and men to put aside hatreds and return to their farms and shops and to rebuild the society, which had been destroyed, to put behind them the bloody and bitter struggle. He was a voice of conciliation and forgiveness. He neither said nor did anything to encourage the voices of discord. He put his Christian faith into practice under the most difficult of circumstances.

It is safe to assume that were Lee alive today, he would counsel the same in our society. He would encourage the races to be done with hatred and to move on in harmony; to cease and desist from the continual one-upsmanship that pervades our social and political life today; to give more and demand less.

He was a man who subsumed his own selfish desires and ambitions to do his duty as he saw it. As war became imminent, he rejected the honor of leading the Union Army, which had all the advantages necessary for success, to cast his lot with his countrymen and kin in a dangerous and desperate struggle, because he could not lift his arm against his own. It is highly probable, given his considerable abilities, that had Lee accepted the command of the Union Army, the war would have been shortened by two years or more, and that Lee would occupy a place in history alongside Washington and Lincoln. Lee was no fool; he knew this very well. Still he chose what he believed to be his duty over self-promotion.

This is a key for Americans today. Our commercial and capitalist society, with all its advantages still encourages self-interest and greed at the expense of compassion and generosity. Our competitiveness tends to stifle the higher impulses to conciliation, which many consider a sign of weakness. In fact, it takes far greater strength to conciliate than to confront, to forgive than to hate. It is easy to show hatred and lack of compassion. It takes strength to reach out.

I believe we should learn from our past, take the best from history and from its protagonists, and use it to move humanity beyond the petty hatreds of race, class, or region. Having studied the life of General Lee, I believe there is very much about him which is truly exemplary, a pattern for modern man.

It is patently criminal that in our effort toward political correctness, we have virtually expunged his name from public school history books. I can hear the naysayer’s chorus now. “He should have fought a defensive war...he had slaves...he alone was responsible for losing the war...he should have done this and he should have done that, etc.”

Intentional, malicious criticism of Lee is becoming sport among some so called scholars, as they sit on their duffs in their comfortable Monday morning quarterbacking chairs, whilst ensconced securely within their tenures. The vast majority of them could not lead a group in silent prayer; much less lead a rag tag army to immortality on the battlefield, as did Lee.

Spare me the jealous character assassination. The truth is that Lee was one of the best military commanders our country ever produced. More importantly, after the tragic and untimely death of Lincoln, and after the war was over, he did in fact do more to promote harmony in this country than anyone of that era.

We owe a supreme debt to him for that, not insipid criticism 135 years after the fact. Heroes are in short supply, we need to revere the greatest and learn from them, not excoriate them for their failures. However, Lee was far nobler than I, and he would have said to ignore the carping critics and move on with the work at hand. He would have said to build bridges, not entrenchments. He would have said to put duty above self. Now there is truly a lesson for today.

Dianne Salerni's Features

2008-07-29T18:37:00.000-07:00

The talented author of High Spirits: a Tale of Ghostly Rapping and Romance, Dianne Salerni, posts features of various IAG authored books on her web site. It is most interesting and informative. You can check the work of the talented Ms. Salerni and the IAG authors (including this one) at http://www.highspiritsbook.com/Spotlight.htm.

Adios, Minnine Mouse

2008-07-29T18:32:00.000-07:00

It was a sweet kiss
atop my head
the cartoon lips and
the big sounding
smack
as the shutter clicked
and Minnie draped her
warm arm around me
and bizarre does not begin
to describe the feeling
when you are vamped
by a cartoon mouse
impressionist
dressed up
in crinoline
and absurdly large
mouse head
the big bow in front
like an oddly
shaped hat
and the short girl
in the costume
generating heat
from her exertions
impersonating the girl friend
of the iconic mouse.

Then off she goes to the next table
and I marvel at her energy
and her persistent good cheer
in the face of hundreds of
squirming, scrambling, pinching
children
and one grandpa
kneeling for a picture
who was strangely moved
by the silly kiss
and the friendly goodbye.

The King is a Dancer

2008-07-18T16:14:00.000-07:00

Copyright 2008

The necrotic spectre leaps
pale as breasts
in the moonlight
seeking animate creation
from which to suck the breath

Catlike in the cradle
eyes bright gold and slitted
peeking round tomorrow for
his victims of the now

Point to point in circles
uncaged in war to prey
the king is never idle
a dancer midst the fray

Versa, It's Vice

2008-07-13T14:35:00.000-07:00

Copyright 2008

the words are my puppets
i jerk ‘em around
they stand at attention
or lie flat on the ground

my pen is a bullwhip
to lash lazy ones
i brook not one sluggard
keep ‘em under the gun

but as I close watch
the words as they dance
and laugh and sing smartly
of fate and romance

there seems a small problem
befuddled i see
to my consternation
the real puppet’s me

Dianne Salerni's Featured IAG Books

2008-07-02T10:26:00.000-07:00

Author Dianne Salerni is featuring different books each month on her web site, based on various themes.

"I have posted the IAG Spotlight for July on my website, featuring books by Al Past, Marva Dasef, Linda Tuck-Jenkins, Amanda Hamm, Joseph and David Rhea, Robin Reed, Ann Keller, Lee Cross, and Sylvia Engdahl."

Check out these great IAG authors at http://www.highspiritsbook.com/Spotlight.htm.

The Last One

2008-07-01T17:54:00.000-07:00

My Uncle Norman Yelton passed away today. He was the last of his generation in our family, the last of fourteen siblings. I wrote this poem in his honor.

Copyright 2008

His hands shook a little as he lit his cigarette
his gnarled fingers skillfully flipping the lighter
with a click
A smoke cloud blew upward and
he closed his eyes in pleasure
“Been smokin’ sixty two years
and loved every one of ‘em.”

Then he spoke of the past with a look in his eye
that told me he saw seventy years gone
like it was yesterday.
Days when Roosevelt was President
and swing music was new
and folks rallied around
to defeat a primal evil
and save the world.

He told of getting sick on the victory ship
in the North Atlantic
and how the German torpedo missed them
by fifty yards.
Of how the landing at Normandy
took five of his friends
their lifeblood leeched out
on that grim and sandy shore.
And how they fought the Nazi’s
and the plink of a round against his helmet
of twisting his ankle
and then marching fourteen miles
of sleeping in the mud
for eight straight nights
of being spattered by the brains
of his platoon sergeant
in front of a little church in France
when the Germans opened up with their Mausers.
He killed three of them,
said it was the first time he had told anyone.

He was sick with the flu for two weeks in November
confined to his bed in the field hospital
they told him he almost died of exposure
but he went back as soon as he could
caught up with his comrades at a bridge
where one German tank blocked the road
and Sammy Nelon of Huntsville swam across,
climbed on the tank
and shot the driver with the lieutenant’s .45.
Then he slung a satchel charge into the treads
but it went off before he could get clear.
Sammy was nineteen.

A single tear trickled down.

He looked out the window at the blowing leaves
“This’ll be my last winter. Will you see the antifreeze gets changed?”
A practical people, this greatest generation.
The house was quiet, just the old man and me.
I nodded yes and he nodded too.
The last of his family, the rest all gone
and he alone just waiting
for the final reunion.

At Night on Winterstar

2008-06-23T11:15:00.000-07:00

Copyright 2008

There is quietness here
on this pinnacle at six thousand feet
where balsams sway in breezes
from the west
and speak to the weary traveler
in airy tones redolent
with scents of
the mountain forest at night.

The tent puffs and ripples,
the wind insistent now
the storytelling takes on
an urgent air
though the night is long
and we have eternity
here on top of this soaring
granite mound
amidst the forested giants
craggy and old.

Speaking in whispers now the wind
seems resigned
as though just another mortal
has lain here and listened and will
do naught
but listen
it sounds weary
like an old woman slowly sweeping
an endless corridor.

It sighs with
exasperation as it sweeps across
the ridges
and tumbles into the valley
and the rain comes with a soft patter
laughing at the wind
as it has since creation
crying also
for the mortal who lies
wondering at it all
wondering for a moment
only
until his thoughts are stilled
and he lies within the solid earth.

And the wind and the rain and the mountain
continue
until that momentous day
when the rocks melt
and time ceases
and the wind learns
what it means
to be mortal.
and the rain laughs
no more

Canta Libre

2008-06-17T14:18:00.000-07:00

Copyright 2008

by Barry Yelton

Early in the morning when the sun lifts its head
above the blue horizon
and the rooster sings his atonal song,
the spirit is lifted almost absurdly
given life’s circumstance.
Here on this showy crest where blueberries grow
like crabgrass
and a grumbling black bear ambles
through, taking her fill,
I stand, breathing in the vernal air
of the new day.

A Neil Diamond song about freedom and music
runs through the morning
as we explore the high country
like tourists from Mars.

There is no greater freedom than that found in the mountains,
where no alarm intrudes or schedule inhibits.
They are places of solace and hope.
Somewhere deep in tribal memory they reside
those highlands of Scotland
and wooded hills of the Rhineland,
where ancestors fought bloody wars,
lived in caves and ate raw meat.
Even they stood at times on hilltops
far away
and wondered at it all
and even now their dust
fills the valleys
and they rest in their final emancipation,
their song of freedom
forever wafting on ancient winds.

A Mule Named Dawg and a Dog Named Myool

2008-06-07T20:13:00.001-07:00

Round the bend and up the road
lives a farmer name of Micah Joad
Joad’s gotta mule name of dawg
He can plow a row and pull a log

Down the road and around the bend
lives a farmer name of Howard Lend
Lend’s gotta dog name of Myool
Long in the tooth but he ain’t no fool

Lend come around to farmer Joad’s
needin’ a mule to pull some loads
Cuttin’ logs and takin’ ‘em to town
Thought old Dawg could pull ‘em on down

Brought old Myool along for the ride
That dog stayed right by old Lend’s side
Until the minute he spied old Dawg
Joad a plowin’ him out in the fog

Now Myool took out after old Dawg
And Dawg took out into the bog
Dog named Myool chasin’ a mule named Dawg
Peculiar doin’s out here in the fog

Down they went Dawg and Myool
Dawg had the lead but begin to drool
Myool was a catchin’ up real fast
But Dawg refused of bein’ passed

So Dawg sped up and turned the bend
Right behind was Myool and Lend
Lend was a hollerin’ to beat the band
For all this nonsense he wouldn’t stand

Old Joad come along but he was old
He give it his best but begin to fold
Old Myool caught up with the hard runnin’ Dawg
So Dawg just stopped beside a log

Myool was a barkin’ to beat the band
A carryin’ on and a raisin’ sand
Dawg just turned his rump toward Myool
Then Myool went and broke the cardinal rule

He stood a barkin’ at old Dawg’s rump
When Dawg let loose and give him a thump
Myool went a flyin’ across the log
That’s what happens when you’re kicked by Dawg

So the moral of this here story is
Mind what’s yours and him what’s his
Don’t borry a mule, no matter how poor
Cause dogs and mules don’t mix for sure

Gold Mountain

2008-06-02T17:27:00.000-07:00

Copyright 2008

Along the tree strewn ridge on a sparkling fall day
the light glistens on the rocks and the cool breeze
ruffles my hair as I stride the wonderland that is the Blue Ridge.
Now and again I catch a glimpse of distant valleys
bejeweled with lakes, golden in the afternoon sunlight,
beyond them distant ridges of hazy blue which melt into the sky
thirty miles distant.

It is a time and place of revelation,
when the clock means naught and time is held suspended
like a thought in a tired mind at days end,
while I walk these ridges in the warmth of gratitude
and hope in the future of a troubled earth.

It would not be hopeless were Nature in charge
and man but a player in the cosmic game.
But taking to himself the fate of the globe
smashing and staining, his hands drip with
blood drawn from mother earth.

I wonder as I hike these ancient hills
if even they will escape that day of reckoning
when mountains smoke and
oceans boil like cauldrons.

I wonder if man will somehow open his jaded eyes
and see.

But then, across the valley there, a hawk glides
on thermals that carry her high on the dusky wings
of this blessed day and I smile
because hope will not go easy.

Anniversary

2008-06-02T17:17:00.001-07:00

Well the one year anniversary of this little experiment in soul baring, self-absorbed bloviating has come - and gone - without my realizing it. It was May 24 of 2007 that I posted the first chapter of Scarecrow in Gray. Time flies, as they say, when you're having fun.

It has been instructive, the way this blog has changed over that year. It has become primarily a place for publishing my little poems and book reviews (both of my work and others). It has also become a place where I can help promote (in a modest way) my friends of the Independent Authors Guild, a collective of self published and small press published authors seeking to gain recognition for their work in the brutal, over-crowded world of book publishing. They have been very helpful to me and I am trying to return the favor by adding their links to the blog as well as featuring a different IAG author each week (look at the column to the left).

I suppose I started with the idea that I should opine and wax eloquent about this subject or that. The fact is that although I am very interested in politics, hiking, and other things, my first love is the writer's art. Therefore, since I do not have legions of publishers clamoring to publish my poems and essays, I publish them here and at authorsden.com. I suppose it is a natural progression.

I hope something here makes you think, inspires you, or just entertains you a bit. After all, you're the reason these words are on this page.

Scarecrow in Gray in Front Street Reviews

2008-05-29T13:05:00.000-07:00

Reviewed by Mary Lydon Simonsen, author of Pemberley Remembered

The title of this novel, Scarecrow in Gray, refers to the soldiers of the Confederacy who are reduced to fighting in uniforms that are little more than rags. Because there is so little food left in the bleak landscape of what was once the Confederate States of America, these undernourished men fight one hopeless battle after another in an unwinnable war, and their lack of food has given them the appearance of the scarecrows guarding their now abandoned farms.

This is the story of Francis Marion Yelton who did not go off to war. The war reached into the distant mountains of North Carolina, carrying him away from his family and farm into the maelstrom of the last desperate months of the Civil War. The author, a descendant of Francis Yelton, a private in a Confederate regiment, has expanded on family lore to tell the story of a man who probably realized the war was lost even before he arrived in training camp. From the filth and tension of an Army camp to the terrors of Petersburg and the long hard road to Appomattox Courthouse, Barry Yelton recreates with measured prose the desperate battles of the closing months before the Confederate surrender in April 1865.

In the midst of unspeakable horrors, he keeps his character tethered to a saner world by frequent references to the natural beauty around him: “The night it was a vast obsidian dome infused with sparkling points of light.” Mr. Yelton has the soul of a poet, but his beautiful prose is not at the expense of detailed and horrific descriptions of the battlefield where brave, but outnumbered, Confederates await the next Yankee onslaught: “Then we heard it, the low roar of the blue ocean, coming out of the woods, then the pounding of thousands of horses’ hooves.”

Scarecrow in Gray is reminiscent of Cold Mountain and The Black Flower and is a compelling tale of one man’s attempt to do his duty while preserving his humanity.

News Flash - The Dead Mule

2008-05-25T17:50:00.000-07:00

Two of my poems have just been published by the online magazine of Southern literature, The Dead Mule. You can find it at www.deadmule.com. If you like quirky, you'll love this site. Happy reading.

Lugoff, by Barry Yelton

2008-05-21T04:38:00.000-07:00

Copyright 2008

in a broke down little place
just off the interstate
west to nowhere
summer heated sidewalks
burn the soles of small
brown feet
stepping quick
in front of mama
into the laundromat

and dark seamed faces
stare blank
from the half shaded porch
of a tumbledown grocery
hands of mill and field
of a thousand tiresome yesterdays
and the smoke from cigarettes
curls upward
and aggravates the flies
buzzing slowly
in the dense summer air

seems distant somehow
he thinks
that long lost past
living in another time and place
when joints didn’t ache
with arthritis
and calloused hands
did hard work all day
and caressed the body
of his woman at night
when energy surged up
and life seemed sweet
distant now
far away in a
wearisome place
a man is too tired to even dream of
a lost place
lost in the haze and the heat
years ago

the cigarette burns slowly down
unnoticed
until the sting causes him to drop it
on the dirty boards of the porch

lordy

over yonder in the shade
of a dusty old oak
a flop-eared hound
sums it all up
with one,
huge,
sigh

The Golfer, by Barry Yelton

2008-05-19T04:22:00.000-07:00

In a long curving arc
it soars
gleaming in the sunlight
racing over the green grass
the towering pines
and lands
with a splash.

He mutters imprecations at the vile thing
the day growing darker
and after two birdies on the front nine
and the fruit of a successful wager
dangling like a golden carrot
He curses again at his fate
Bogey.
Twelve over par for the round.
The tragedy of it all

One can only but weep at the sight
of the golfer
resplendent in his khakis and golf shirt
easing into the soft leather of his Mercedes
defeat and despair etched on his face
The day was a disaster
embarrassed and harassed
a C-note poorer
he slowly drives to his home near the club

The gardener waves cheerily
as he comes up the drive
but he doesn’t see
The seven bedroom colonial
seems to mock him today
the polished marble and hardwood
seem cold
He lost

Wearily he trudges up the winding staircase
the crystal chandelier glowing warmly
fails to lift his spirits.
Booting up one of his five PC’s
his portfolio he eyes
The tragedy continues
down five hundred grand
almost five percent for the year!
To the liquor cabinet for the twelve year old Scotch
succor just a few steps away
the broken man finally
finds relief

Walking to the window, Scotch in hand
seeking comfort in the long expanse of lawn
The azaleas are in bloom
and the songbirds sing sweetly
but alas his gloom is not broken
He watches the gardener
lucky man that he is
What care does he have?
He did not shoot eighty today!
He did not lose 4.7% of his portfolio this year!
Oh the unfairness of it all!
Look at the man
working in the sunlight
cheerful and smiling

Ignacio trims the hedges just so
sweat streaming on his brown, smiling face
unaware of the angry gaze of his employer
from the second floor window
of the brick and stone mansion
He works with a purpose
for six twenty-five each hour
living with eight others
in a ramshackle trailer
so he can send an amazing
one hundred dollars per month,
to his family in Guatemala
so they can buy rice and beans
and will not starve
and perhaps Rosita can buy
for the children
some clothes this year
perhaps even shoes
so their feet don’t get bloody
working in the cane fields
He works even harder
and glances at the sun
growing low to the horizon
Soon to the second job
cleaning garbage trucks for the city
standing shin deep in the muck
for eight more hours
scrubbing and shoveling
but he doesn’t mind
This year perhaps he can buy a new dress
for Rosita
his beloved
and he smiles broader at the thought

But the man sipping Scotch
no such happiness has he
for life has turned dark
he shot eighty today

Valley of Waters

2008-05-11T19:32:00.001-07:00

Copyright 2008
Barry Yelton

In the cool of the evening, by the surging stream
the night wind sings to the canvas of stars
and time slows to an ebony crawl
in the valley where life abounds like raindrops.

I listen to the sounds that come dancing around me like fairies
the flittering bat, the talking water, the mysterious rustle of leaves .
They all tell some tail I don’t quite understand
but know it has been told for an age and more.

And I shiver in delight as the cooling wind ruffles my hair
and caresses me like passion.
The light from the stars dresses the night in elegance
and the animal sounds in the forest seem far away.

I gaze at the canopy of light and darkness and wonder
could this all be by chance?
Or in the wisdom of the great I AM it began with a roar
a burst of cosmic stardust and riotous sound and searing light .

Then settled into this dreamy night on this whispering shore
while a small mortal bound for the earth
marvels at it all and dreams of meeting
the One who brought it all to pass.

A Given

2008-04-28T15:45:00.000-07:00

It seems to me that
light plays games
with aging eyes

when reading a computer screen
or sanding a window sill
or driving on a tree shaded road
when the light strobes
and flickers

and darkness and shadow
intermingle
then disperse
with terrible alacrity

and you can barely
refocus
before the next spatter of
light or shadow

attacks your retina
like a windmill
gone mad.

The counterpoint of aging
is the fascination
of the maudlin retrogression
of the human frame,
creating the continual
daily melodrama
of irresistible decline.

So, fellow traveler,
be you eight or eighty
know this

you will and will
fail and fall
sag and settle
wane and weaken

until the reaper
takes your hand
and you lie still
swaddled in silk

through eternal night

And the soul
yet wings toward starry realms
and purest light
where dwells Hope
and renewal
and reunion

on avenues
where abide
the angels.

and Roll

2008-04-12T04:26:00.000-07:00

pulsing sound burns out the pain

a river of fire
white hot
and
surging through
in a rush

light and movement high
on a painted ridge
swirling like a dancer

now ringing like an enchanted
bell from a distant cathedral

towering

now sad, now bright
always charged

like lightning.

The Passing of Arthur C. Clarke

2008-03-19T06:41:00.000-07:00

Copyright 2008

Gazing at the ebony canvas
stretching unfathomable into nine billion
yesterdays
he stands on the Sri Lankan shore
imagining.

Sitting at the table
creating worlds within worlds
the end of childhood
the rendezvous
the odyssey
geosynchronous visions.

Grasping the ungraspable
thinking the inexplicable
dreaming
learning
living in a quiet place
on a small planet
in an obscure solar system
in galaxy number nine billion and one.

The gift of new clarity,
was laid at our feet and
the hope of tomorrow
by
the majestic seer.

May he rest in peace
with supernova
illuminating his path
to brighter worlds
beyond.

Featured IAG Author

2008-03-12T03:14:00.000-07:00

Each week this blog will feature a different author from the Independent Authors Guild group, of which this writer is a member. The people in this group have been extraordinarily supportive of my work and have provided extensive reviews, links on web sites, and other kindnesses. I wanted to return the favor in a small way.

I have read the work of many of these writers and reviewed some of them as well. Many have considerable talent and have not yet been recognized by the mainstream traditional publishers. Some are self published, like myself. Others are published by small presses without the clout of the major houses. All that I have encountered have been sincere and serious about their work.

I trust this new feature will inure to the benefit of both the featured authors as well as the readers of this blog. You may discover hidden literary gems and exciting new talent among this group.

The first featured author is Dianne K. Salerni. Ms. Salerni started a forum on Amazon.com for self published and small press authors of historical fiction. I joined in the discussion and it evolved into the Independent Authors Guild. Ms. Salerni deserves a lion's share of the credit for bringing this group together. Many have become friends. I believe all have benefited from the information, comraderie and sometimes commiseration this group has facilitated.

Like independent films, or indies, independent authors and publishers have to scramble for attention, respect and, yes, sales of their work. It does not come easy. 100,000 books are published each year in the U.S. Only a small handful become best sellers. Only a relatively small minority sell more than 1,000 copies. There are many fine books that never see the shelf of a bookstore.

Conversely, famous authors can put out almost anything and find a broad audience. They don't even have to be writers. They just have to be famous. Witness all the books published for people like talk show hosts, sports figures, celebrities, etc. Few have much value. Even fewer are written above an eighth grade level.

Good writing is an art. It is often referred to as a "craft," as though it is akin to basket weaving. Excellent writing is far more involved, subtle, and creative than craft. It is truly art, because the work, if it is fiction, is created from whole cloth. At its best, it is not regurgitated nor recycled. It is new and fresh and it takes the reader to another time and place.

Independent Authors Guild is an effort to support and encourage the efforts of fledgling writers who too often are ignored by the traditional publishing industry, which struggles for sales in a shrinking pool of readers, and therefore has to ruthlessly select what it thinks will sell enough books to cover the cost of production, printing, and publicity and generate a profit.

They also guarantee the bookstores that they will take back any unsold books. This is very risky and very expensive. That is why traditionals must be so selective. Many receive literally hundreds of manuscripts each month, while publishing only a small handful at best. The rest find the slush pile, otherwise known as file 13. Unfortunately the baby is often tossed out with the bath water. It is not quality the publishers seek, it is broad appeal and salability. And their judgement is obviously far from infalable. It is a terrible dilemma for unknown writers seeking an audience for their work.

Kudos to all those who write, because it is what they must do.

Speak Softly

2008-03-08T19:23:00.000-08:00

Barry Yelton

Please don’t shout
the night is still
day is over
and hope.

Now is the time
for quietness
for peace,
time.

She lies so still there
swaddled in silk
with flowers
and family

“The wind passes over it
and remembers it
no more.”

And yet I remember so much
days of hopeful youth
when she sang to me
talked with me
loved me

like no other ever will.

Speak softly now, the angels come
upon clouds of startling light
to take my mother
home.

This is No Boy Scout Trail

2008-03-05T17:39:00.000-08:00

Barry Yelton

From the moment we start up the forty degree gradient
our feet slipping on the wet leaves and rolling twigs

I know this hike was planned by Satan

We struggle up the steeps for three hundred yards
then the trail moderates for a quarter of a mile before the switchbacks

More fun to be had on the switching, rock climbing, root grabbing
seep laced trail. Am I sure I want to do this?

The first backpack is always the toughest. They say it gets easier.
Today seems to go on forever, until I walk 100 feet then stop and pant
and lean over, hands on my thighs, my thousand pound pack
shoving me forward, my heart pounding jack hammer strokes
not good for a man of 54, who’s eaten too many Big Macs
and sat behind a desk for too many years.

My more fit companion is patient. He stops, takes pictures and smiles knowingly.
We aim for a summit seven miles and 3,000 vertical feet distant
We are not going to make it. Let me rephrase...I am not going to make it.

So we stop and drop our packs on some conveniently placed boulders
An outcropping on the mountain side made for an exhausted hiker.
My partner scouts ahead and leaves me in the bear infested forest
(Was that something moving down the trail?)

He returns after what seems three hours with good and bad news
A good campsite for the night, but a steep scramble off the trail
We take it.

I feel better. Night falls, we eat potatoes and onions, grilled on a camp stove
The dark envelops us enfolding our universe
The air gets cold, early April at 5,000 feet in the Blue Ridge
We watch a blazing illegal campfire a half mile down the mountain side
and though tempted, we don’t build one

Settling in to the tent for the night, the wind whispers up the mountain side
singing a post modern melody as old as the moon
the bag is warm, the leaves underneath are soft
quiet conversation ebbs, as sleep comes on the final tide

Feeling Like Adolph Menjou Redux

2008-03-05T17:33:00.000-08:00

Barry Yelton

I like the snags.

Did I tell you that?

I saw a light at the summit of the mountain
when clouds tagged the ridges
and sunlight played silly games
on the slopes

The light was bright, moving slightly
A star? Maybe but it seemed too close
A hiker? With a 10 Million candlepower lantern if so

No the light did not come from this side
of the divide...
Far over, it came, far over where
fairies fly in formations like bombers

And dreams are more commonplace than here
And people speak well of one another
and hope is not a four letter word
that rhymes with dope.

I walk toward the light, my legs burning
my heart burning
the incline is steep, the rocks impede my path
but still, I must touch it

The light on the mountain
that comes for over there

Then again, maybe I won’t, yes I will
The light can’t avoid me
forever...

Hypocrisy in America

2008-02-21T05:07:00.000-08:00

There has been a great deal of discussion in the media in recent years about the celebration of Christmas in the public domain. Some have asserted that displays of the Nativity scene and symbols such as the cross are religious and therefore have no place on public property because of the Establishment Clause of the First Amendment to the Constitution.

The Establishment/Free Exercise clause of the First Amendment to the Constitution states, “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof.” It is a two pronged statement that prohibits an official state religion, like the Church of England, while clearly upholding the right to religious practice and expression. The anti-religionists give the broadest interpretation to the Establishment Clause, while the Free Exercise component is viewed in the narrowest possible way.

If federal, state or local governments were setting up churches or other places of worship and encouraging or mandating people to worship at the state church a religion would have been established. However allowing private groups or individuals, including churches, temples or mosques, to utilize public spaces for gatherings or religious displays should be no more considered the establishment of religion than permitting a fifth grade art exhibit depicting “Mother Earth” on Earth Day.

To believe that such exhibits violate the Establishment Clause is to take such a broad interpretation of it as to strain credulity. The intent of the framers relative to the scope of the clause is evident since the same First Congress that proposed the Bill of Rights also opened its legislative day with prayer and voted to apportion federal dollars to establish Christian missions in the Indian lands.

In my opinion, those earnest worshipers of the Establishment Clause, who on other issues often look upon the Constitution as a “living, breathing document,” are less concerned with the government establishing a religion than they are with marginalizing those who actually have one.

The ACLU, which was established by a Marxist, amazingly seems to battle even the most benign expressions of faith in the public square, such as The Boy Scouts use of a public park, while at the same time vigorously defending the rights of organizations such as NAMBLA, which advocates and promotes the vilest crimes imaginable, citing “free speech.” I suppose the warm waters of free speech end at the shoreline of religious expression. Hypocrisy never had a more shining avatar.

There is not simply a “War on Christmas” taking place in our country. There is a more fundamental conflict of values in progress with underlying agendas on both sides. The groups and individuals that TV commentator Bill O’Reilly refers to as “secular progressives” are aggressively trying to remove all expressions of faith from all public venues.

They want “under God” removed from the Pledge of Allegiance. They want “In God We Trust” removed from our currency. They want crèches, the Ten Commandments, and Christian crosses removed from every public space. In short they want any evidence of religious faith confined strictly to private property.

Why should we care about this “culture war?” We should care because by marginalizing Christianity in particular, the secular progressives will move a step closer to their dream of an America without God, Who demands certain behavioral norms that inconveniently conflict with the laissez faire moral attitudes of 21st century America. The ACLU and other radical “progressive” organizations want to manipulate what America sees and hears while maintaining their imagined status as defenders of “free speech.”

They know that if you marginalize God by confining religious expression to private property you limit and diminish the message. By limiting the message, your secular progressive message has less competition in the public marketplace of ideas. They don’t want children to see a Nativity scene on a courthouse lawn and be curious about the Child in the manger.

Once you limit religion to the private sector, then you have less resistance to your goal of a Godless, faithless, libertine America where the only behavior not tolerated is the expression of faith in God. Nothing else explains the rabidity with which the secular agenda is being pursued today, after over two hundred years of mostly peaceful coexistence of government and religion in our country.

The imaginary “wall of separation” between religion and government does not mandate that religion be shoved out of public life. It simply means what Jefferson and the other framers intended and that is the prohibition of formal state religion - nothing more.

The soothing words of those who see no problem banishing God from public life, whether it is a cross on public property or the act of wishing someone Merry Christmas at the mall, are calculated to make the average American believe that all is well and that there is really no problem with keeping religious expression strictly in the private arena.

They even try to foist upon us the canard that somehow public expression of religious faith “cheapens and demeans” that faith. Institutions like the ACLU and their fellow travelers, such as George Soros, don’t spend tens of millions of dollars every year fighting public religious expression and traditional values for nothing. They are cleverly hiding their true intent, hoping that the apathetic majority won’t notice – until it is too late.

Across the Space, by Barry Yelton, 2007

2008-02-20T15:20:00.000-08:00

now in lasting twilight
your mind sight seeks renewal
reaching upward toward the pinpoints
on the hoary head of night

toward never worlds seen only
in your visionary dreams
with ostentious variations
on your planetary theme

the third stone marks exception
to the universal rule
of mindful, random glories
and oppressive, lifeless orb

On that great day of speaking
when the vastness whirled to being
It was known that you’d come seeking
and perhaps known what you’ll find

Reunion!

2008-01-27T18:14:00.000-08:00

A national Yelton reunion is being planned for October 18 & 19, 2008 in Rutherford County, NC. All the Yelton's who are descended from James and Isabel Hinson Yelton of Overwharton Parrish, Stafford County, Virginia, circa 1722, are invited. Others who may be from other lines, unknown to our family genealogist are welcome as well.

There will be cemetery and historical site tours on Saturday the 18th and a covered dish luncheon and reunion events at the Cliffside Baptist Church Fellowship Hall in Cliffside, NC. on Sunday, October 19.

Email me at yelton18nc at aol dot com if you want more information.

Time and Again

2008-01-17T06:26:00.000-08:00

Here it is, second half of the first month of the New Year. 2008 somehow has a ring of unreality to it. I had just settled into 2007 when all of a sudden, it's over!

Everything changes and yet nothing does. The world and its woes are like a broken record, forever repeating the same mistakes, crimes, and other perfidies. Warms the heart; it does.

I laugh when I hear people talk about how this is the 21st century and the old mores are as passe as hoop skirts and gingham. As if somehow we have transmogrified into another species in the past few years and none of the verities of the past applies anymore. This is the thinking of the shallow minded and the callow.

If you think the law of gravity has been suspended; just take a step off a tall building and see. The same with basic mores. A brave new world is neither new nor brave, just morally convenient for those who can't see beyond their noses.

And there you have it, more musings from temporally challenged. You can pay attention or not. Free will hasn't been suspended either.

Year End Musings

2007-12-31T17:37:00.000-08:00

As I ponder the further direction of my new novel, The Season of the Crow, I struggle to come up with fresh ideas for plot direction. I know where the book is going. I am just not quite sure of all the side roads it is going to take to get there.

Anyone who has written a work of fiction can tell you that it is a challenge to bring to life characters, action, and story in a new and fresh way. It is indeed difficult to do what no one else has ever done. The old saw "there is nothing new under the sun" is especially true of literature.

At the same time, I believe I am making solid headway with this book, which will have several plot lines woven through it. A family of slaves struggles to find a new life in western North Carolina. Former Confederates deal with the realities of the reconstruction era. Duty to former compatriots impinges on the effort to return to a normal life. Nightriders wreak havoc on blacks and whites alike.

The book will doubtless be better written than the first, with greater depth, more involved plotting, and (believe it or not) even more excruciating and extreme violence. Even as I write it, I cannot help but wonder if the real facts of that place and time were much worse than my story would indicate.

The South after the Civil War was a harsh, embittered and impoverished place. Western North Carolina was no different. While spared from the worst depredations of the likes of Sherman, Sheridan and their ilk, it was nonetheless battered by the economic hardships of the war compounded by the burden of the thousands of dead and wounded. The former burdened the land with grief; the latter burdened it with wrecked bodies and minds. Maimed and scarred, they tried to return to life at home, but it would never be the same.

I hope to complete the book in 2008. As this year draws to a close, I would like to wish you, dear reader, a very Happy and Peaceful New Year.

The History Bookshop

2007-12-10T18:13:00.001-08:00

The History Bookshop web site has posted a link to this site with a blurb about my book, Scarecrow in Gray. It is a fascinating site. Here is what the webmaster says:

"Embracing both fiction and non-fiction, our goal is provide a one stop place to find the best history books and the best history writers. At the moment, the site is very much in its infancy. But the building is happening and we have our first book reviews and author interviews here for you to read and enjoy!"

You can reach it at www.thehistorybookshop.org

What's Great About America?

2007-11-25T17:56:00.000-08:00

Dinesh D'souza, a news blogger and immigrant from India, just re-posted a column he wrote a few months back. I highly recommend it for its positive viewpoint on the value and values of the United States.

You can find it here - http://news.aol.com/newsbloggers/2007/11/21/thank-god-for-america/

I think the man hits the nail on the head.

Happy reading.

The Pict, by Jack Dixon, A Review

2007-11-21T04:37:00.000-08:00

by Barry Yelton

Jack Dixon has done an impressive job of writing an historical fiction piece that is highly readable, action filled, and evocative. The book was particularly meaningful for me, because of my Scottish heritage. The book begins with the background story of the Picts, a mysterious people who lived in what is today Scotland. From the distant mists of the past they come fleeing the barbaric hordes from Eastern Europe, which invade ancient Scythia, on the European continent, homeland of the Picts. They make their way across the North Sea, to the British Isles, are befriended by the Scoti of Ireland and settle in the highlands in the north of Brittania.

The book’s hero, Calach, leads his people in a heroic David versus Goliath campaign against the invading Romans, with the love of his life, Fiona, at his side. The battle scenes are powerfully drawn (definitely not for the squeamish). Mr. Dixon creates plenty of righteous outrage at the depredations of the Romans against defenseless Pict villagers, which impels his hero to wage merciless war against the invaders.

There is romance, though it is secondary to the primary action, the life and death struggle against the mighty Roman Empire. The writing in the book gets better as it goes along. The last half of the book truly is a page turner, with enough surprises along the way to keep the book from being totally formulaic. Anyone who enjoys ancient history should find this an interesting, informative and entertaining work. Congratulations to Mr. Dixon on a fine first novel.

The book is available at Amazon.com, BarnesandNoble.com, iUniverse.com, and at bookstores everywhere by special order.

The Independent Authors Guild

2007-10-30T17:27:00.000-07:00

My enterprising friends from the Amazon Historical Novel Discussion group have formed a guild for self published authors and authors from independent presses. The touchstone for the group is a new Yahoo discussion board - IAG-members@yahoogroups.com.

The statement of purpose is produced here in whole, along with a list of the charter board members, which include (amazingly) one Barry D. Yelton...

A proposal to create the Independent Authors’ Guild (IAG)
As a project partner of Community Partners

Introduction

In the past decade, electronic ‘print on demand’ (POD) publishing has revolutionized the printing industry, just as independent music production did to the music industry in the last decade of the twentieth century. Distribution and inventory control problems, ‘ship backs’ and production costs have been dramatically reduced or eliminated, and Internet book sellers such as Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble and others give every author at least theoretical access to the market.

With this new publishing structure came new pricing structures as well. Print on demand authors are required to participate in initial production costs. These up-front costs are offset by royalties from book sales, of course, and in almost every case are less than agent fees charged in ‘traditional’ publishing ventures. But the very fact that authors can now by-pass the ‘platinum nozzle’ of an ever-shrinking number of literary agents and mass-market publishers makes some believe that quality-control issues are being skirted. The Authors’ Guild, which is looking more and more like a room full of generals making plans to fight the last war, refuses membership to any independently-published author, for example.

Some independently published books are god-awful; some are brilliant. But the authors of each of these books merit the respect and fostering that their months, often years, of artistic endeavor engenders.

They deserve the Independent Authors’ Guild.

The Independent Authors’ Guild

The Independent Authors’ Guild, whose initial board of authors is in formation (see attached), will be an Internet-based educational institution open to any independently-published author.

The IAG’s initial programs will include a web-based and print periodical called ‘Declaration of Independents’; guides to best marketing and promotion practices; recognition of outstanding independent books through contests, ‘best seller’ lists, etc.; and the general promotion of the field. The IAG will also work with the burgeoning number of independent book publishers, such as Book Surge, Bookstar, ExLibris, iUniverse and others to create standards in pricing, production values and marketing.

The establishment of the Independent Authors’ Guild as a tax-exempt nonprofit organization under Community Partners is essential to the Guild’s ability to serve its membership, secure grants where appropriate, and maintain proper administrative and reporting functions.

We look forwards to becoming a project partner of Community Partners

Independent Authors’ Guild Board of Governors 2007-2008

Jack Shakely, chair
Rancho Mirage, California

Nan Hawthorn, executive director
Bothell, Washington

Julia Hayden
San Antonio, Texas

Michael S. Katz
Ardsley, Pennsylvania

Stuart W. Mirsky
Belle Harbor, New York

Dianne K. Salerni
Lincoln University, Pennsylvania

Barry Yelton
Mooresboro, North Carolina

The Pict

2007-10-22T05:38:00.000-07:00

My internet friend, Jack Dixon, author of The Pict, was kind enough to write a review of Scarecrow in Gray, which I found to be very perceptive (as well as very generous).

He has a great blog at http://www.thepict.blogspot.com/ where the review can be found along with information about his fine writing.

Thanks, Jack!

Epitaph of the Miscreant Scribe

2007-10-10T18:35:00.000-07:00

To write he liked a lot
but couldn’t develop a plot
so he stole from others
who had other druthers
and look at what he has got!

A fine book about a 19th century wagon train journey

2007-10-08T18:44:00.000-07:00

BOOK REVIEW:

To Truckee's Trail, by Celia Hayes is a partially fictional account of pioneers making a journey by wagon train across the western American plains and mountains in search of a better life. Drawing on the journal of an energetic and multi-talented doctor and from interviews with some of the participants done in later years, Ms. Hayes paints a portrait of the extremely difficult struggles pioneers of the early 1800's experienced.

Her prose is measured and the characterizations are true to life. Her descriptions are often colorful and at times poetic such as when she describes a night sky: "The sky had entirely darkened now, pricked by a brilliant spangle of stars."

Her attention to detail and her obviously thorough research of the era make this book a solid, believable account, richly textured and with wonderful historical detail. As I got further into the book, I became increasingly engrossed, wanting to know what was around the next bend, or over the next mountain.

Ms. Hayes brings the characters vividly to life and and in so doing illuminates for us something of the 19th century mindset. I recommend To Truckee's Trail because it is entertaining and educational. A fine work and a worthy read. The book is available at Amazon.com and other booksellers.

A Writer's Site Posts Review of Scarecrow in Gray

2007-10-05T17:34:00.000-07:00

Brian Catherman, a friend of my friend, Marva Dasef, has posted her review of Scarecrow on his web site. Please check it out:

http://www.bryancatherman.com/2007/10/05/guest-review-scarecrow-in-gray/

Still Another Review of Scarecrow in Gray

2007-10-04T16:18:00.000-07:00

A fine writer of historical fiction and non-fiction, Ms. Marva Dasef, has written a review of Scarecrow in Gray and posted it on her blog at http://mgddasef.blogspot.com/2007/10/review-scarecrow-in-gray.html.

Please check out her book, Tales of a Texas Boy on Amazon.com. Fascinating stories of a young boy growing up on a farm in Texas. Good reading for anyone interested in true-to-life stories of real people. Here is the URL - http://www.amazon.com/Tales-Texas-Boy-Marva-Dasef/dp/0615148964/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1/103-2104435-4120630?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1191540381&sr=8-1

I want to thank Marva again here for going to all the trouble of reading the book, writing the extensive review, and posting it in a number of places. She went above and beyond the call of duty. Thank you, Marva!

A UK Review of Scarecrow in Gray!

2007-09-21T15:37:00.000-07:00

The brilliant historical fiction writer from Cornwall, UK, F.J. Warren, (author of Archelaus Hosken's Dilemma, Broken Bonds and two other novels) recently posted a review of Scarecrow in Gray on www.reviewscout.co.uk. Here it is:

The Heart of War (Rating 5 av 5) » F J Warren (not my real name) Barry Yelton has produced a wonderful story depicting the history of his ancestor, Francis Yelton, who fought for the Confederates during the American Civil War.I have read this book and I loved it! I didn't expect to but I did. What would I, one who knows little of the American Civil War, find to enjoy in such a work? Well, Mr Yelton is a beautiful writer and he manages to bring home the horror and futility of the struggle that his hero/ancestor finds himself in. It is such an engrossing tale that you find yourself immersed in the personal struggle that Francis Yelton has to go through. You want him to succeed even when you know that defeat is staring him in the face. The characters in the book come to life on every page. In the past I've read so many books with two-dimensional characterization in them that I almost despair of ever finding a 'human being' leading me through a novel. I had my reward with this book - what a splendid work.

A New Author Friend, David Blixt

2007-09-07T09:14:00.000-07:00

I met an author (who is also a Shakespearean actor) on the Amazon.com forum I frequent, "Calling all self-published authors..." and he has written an intriguing book, The Master of Verona, which may be of interest to many. Here is a quote from the Amazon site as quoted in Publishers Weekly (did I leave anyone out?):

"From Publishers Weekly. Upon the death of his elder brother in 1314, Pietro Alaghieri, 17, is thrust headlong into the post of scion to his father, the famous poet Dante, in this rollicking historical debut from Shakespearean actor Blixt. In trying to keep up with his razor-sharp father and their new patron, the scintillating and brilliant Francesco della Scalla (known as "Cangrande"), Pietro finds qualities in himself that surprise him. Cangrande may or may not be the prophesied "Greyhound" who is to cast out evil and usher in a new world under God—many seek the role. Meanwhile, Pietro's two best friends, Mariotto and Antonio, are pushed to the edge of rekindling an ancient blood feud by their joint love of a woman, which stretches Pietro's loyalties to their limits. The precipitous ending, marked with dizzying revelations by the protagonists, do nothing to mar a novel of intricate plot, taut narrative, sharp period detail and beautifully realized characters. (July) Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. "

Sounds like a great book from a talented new author! Congratulations, David.

Randomness

2007-09-04T15:35:00.000-07:00

Perfect title for a blog like this that is often random. A friend recently nicknamed me Beau Rambles. I guess it fits.

Whatever the case, I do wonder about a lot of things, more now that I am north of sixty summers than ever before.

Hae you ever stopped to think about what happens when you reach the edge of the universe? Some theorize that it curves back on itself. I keep thinking, what's outside the curve? Does the physical universe stretch on for infinity or does it just taper out? If it does, what lies beyond.

No doubt questions for far greater minds, but no one has to my knowledge come up with even a decent theory about this. It may be a question that our minds are simply not capable of comprehending. Even the most brilliant of us has a finite mind, with finite capabilities. How can the finite comprehend the infinite?

These things sometimes give me a severe headache (figuratively speaking). But once you hold that thought in mind, about that place that is beyond what we call the universe, how can you again be content with contemplating your navel so to speak? If beyond the edge of the universe is more universe then does it stretch on to infinity? How can physical matter or the place it resides be infinite?

I hope this keeps you up at night once in a while. It makes the problems of our little world seem awfully small.

Civil War Reflections

2007-08-26T19:20:00.000-07:00

I have stated and written in other places that I write in order to produce good quality work and to inform and to move people in a positive way. I like to make people think and to consider such things as their heritage and the sacrifice of their ancestors.

Civil War Novels often concentrate on the blood and battle, a romance back home, or the brother against brother theme. In Scarecrow in Gray, I tried to create a book that first of all honors the sacrifice of my ancestors, but secondly tries to inform the reader of just how desperate and full of poignancy was the America's holocaust.

I used a few thematic devices, especially the imagery of the crow and the owl, both harbingers of death. The image of the Scarecrow is seen as one who seeks to somehow defeat or delay death.

I tried to elevate the common man not to the stature of super hero, but to a plain where dwells honor and basic fidelity. I wanted my primary characters to behave in honorable ways while facing the most intolerable of circumstances. I hope by doing so I elevate both the memory of our forebears as well as the outlook of the reader. Doing the right and honorable thing is always the best path.

A Delightful Dilemma

2007-08-24T18:20:00.000-07:00

I finished FJ Warren's book, Archelaus Hoskens' Dilemma. Ms. Warren is the "Shy Cornish Lady" I spoke of in a recent post. She is modest in the extreme and after reading her book I am quite convinced she is so for no good reason. She is a very fine writer.

Here is the review I just posted to Amazon, which should show up in a few days:

A young pick pocket finds himself in jail after being caught in the act and then is bailed out by a young lady who has plans for him that change his life in a dramatic way. This is a hilarious tale of scheming and subterfuge, of marriage and romance (in that order). The author brings to life a number of enchanting characters and has the reader smiling from the very first pages.

The book is written as though by an author from the early 19th century. So immersed did I become that I began to feel I was reading a book published in 1810 rather than one of recent vintage. The author has done a masterful job of weaving a clever tale using local color and the language of antiquity to remove the reader to another time and place.

The book is very brief at 109 pages, but is well worth the read. The author manages what very few do and that is to engross the modern reader without gimmickry, sex, or violence. Kudos to Ms. Warren for a fine piece of work.

The Shy Cornish Lady

2007-08-18T08:56:00.000-07:00

Another friend I have had the pleasure to meet through Amazon.com's discussion board is F.J. Warren, a young lady from Cornwall, England who has written four books, one of which I just ordered, Archelaus Hosken's Dilemma. I look forward to reading Ms. Warren's work and I will offer up my own humble critique of it on Amazon as well as here.

She is so shy that in her Amazon photograph, there is a scarf wrapped about her face. I told her that if I could show my not-so-Robert-Redford face, she surely could show hers. She is obviously talented and assuredly a very kind and gentle person.

Check out her work on Amazon. Perhaps someday they will mention her name in the same sentence with Rowling.

I want to again thank Dianne Salerni, author of High Spirits; A Tale of Ghostly Rapping and Romance, for starting the discussion group for self-published writers of historical fiction on Amazon. It has been both very enlightening and very gratifying to read of the trials and tribulations of self-published writers, as well as to share a few experiences with them. I believe this is now one of the bigger discussion groups I have seen on Amazon and many have benefited from it. Thank you, Dianne. You did a very good thing in starting this.

Great New Books

2007-08-12T18:55:00.000-07:00

I just read a couple of fine books that I believe will be of interest to some.

The first is High Spirits, a Tale of Ghostly Rapping and Romance by Dianne Salerni. It is the story of the Fox sisters, who in the mid nineteenth century began perpetrating a fraud in which they pretended to be communicating with the dead.

They were able to fool a great many people and survive skeptical inquiries, until one sister fell in love with a worldly traveler. Well written with meticulous detail, this book will appeal to teenagers, women readers, and any who are interested in the spiritualist movement of the nineteenth century.

The second is Tales of a Texas Boy, by Marva Dasef. Ms. Dasef puts on paper the stories told to her by her father of his growing up in the Texas panhandle in the thirties. The stories are real, fresh and heartwarming.

The book is a very quick read and I would recommend it to anyone who appreciates reading about the real America in a much simpler time and place. The people are genuine and the stories are touching.

Stay tuned. As I read other interesting books, particularly from self-published authors or authors published by small presses, I will let you know.

Happy reading,

Barry

A Twice Self Published Author

2007-08-06T11:52:00.000-07:00

A self-published author, Timothy Fish, dropped by and as promised I am adding him to the blog. Here is what he says about his books and self publishing...

"I am the author of two self published books. The first is Church Website Design: A step by step approach. The second is Search for Mom, a novel about a young girl who has never had a mother, but decides to do what it takes to find one. I think you are right that self published authors need to help each other. In many ways, it is an uphill battle for any self published author. Still, it is hard to know how best to help each other. I am hesitant to support authors and books that I have not read, but there are too many for me to read. "

Anna makes my day!

2007-07-16T04:48:00.000-07:00

A reader named Anna dropped by and made a very kind comment about my Impromptu Poem. In gratitude here is a poem for Anna...

Anna

By Barry Yelton

In the early morning,
from a gilded dream,
where sunlight sparkles in the watchful air,
walks Anna
bringing light into the gloom
and joy into the heart.
Walk hopefully, Anna,
through this blessed day,
and may peace
be your nearest companion.

Friends at Amazon

2007-07-10T04:10:00.000-07:00

I have recently communicated with some people on one of Amazon's discussion boards about self published novels. One of the people, Dianne Salerni, was kind enough to add a mention of Scarecrow in Gray to her web page, so I herewith return the favor. Here is what she says about her book:

"My name is Dianne K. Salerni, and I have recently published a novel for young adults and (ahem) not-so-young adults about the Fox Sisters. Maggie and Kate Fox were two teenagers who accidentally founded the Spiritualist Movement in the 1850's when they claimed to be spirit mediums with the ability to contact the dead. My novel follows the story of Maggie Fox's life as she first learns to make a living as a fraud, then becomes a national celebrity, and finally falls in love with a man who tries to extricate her from a life of deception.I am published with iUniverse. My book is High Spirits: A Tale of Ghostly Rapping and Romance. It is listed here with Amazon and also with B&N. I have a website: www.highspiritsbook.com."

We self published authors have to help each other in order to get noticed and hopefully sell some books. If you are self-published, please contact me here by posting a reply and I will be happy to give you a mention. Surely can't hurt.

The Civil War Novel

2007-07-08T18:27:00.001-07:00

My first book, a Civil War novel, Scarecrow in Gray, was an exercise in patience, diligence, and fidelity. Patience came into play when I struggled with the elements of the story. I knew the basic outline from the beginning, since the story is based on the Civil War service of my great-grandfather, Francis Marion Yelton. However, writing the book and putting together believable and consistent episodes was a challenge.

I wrote at night. I have a demanding day job. As a consequence of this part time approach, I found myself at the keyboard many nights at 11 PM struggling the make the story make sense. Patience, my child, as my kindly muse might say, if I had had one. Patience is not a virtue of mine and I had to learn a lot of it during the nine years or so I struggled to write my book.

Diligence was even tougher. Consistently writing, then re-writing and then editing (since my book is self published and therefore bereft of the noble talents of an editor). I had to grind it out many nights when tired, distracted, unmotivated, etc. Diligence may be a more valuable trait than Patience.

Finally, fidelity must be acknowledged as a guiding principle for any work of historical fiction. You must be true to the period, the cultural background, and (in my case) the military facts including troop movements, battlefield locations, weaponry, equipment, and the mindset of the troops.

For a 218 page book, I probably took longer than a Doctorow, Hemingway, or Faulkner would take to write 500 pages. Forget about Asimov. He could write 218 pages a day (without too much exaggeration on my part). Anyway, perhaps this gives you some sense of the process and how we authors suffer for our art (that's supposed to be funny).

I am in the raw beginnings of doing it again. Look for the sequel for Scarecrow sometime about 2020 AD.

Humility, by Barry Yelton

2007-07-07T18:10:00.000-07:00

The politicians and the pundits are forever declaiming as to what America needs - more healthcare, immigration reform, a new strategy in Iraq, etc. I would propose that of all the things America needs, corporately and individually, the greatest is good old fashioned humility.
Humility is so important as to be the very key to reaching a solution for the many ills that afflict our nation and our world, if we can but see the obvious. I am not speaking of that sort of humility equated with an inferiority complex or false modesty, rather the kind of humility referred to in the Bible, which implies a modest unpretentiousness.
I believe the achievement of personal humility to be the result of true emotional maturity. Humility’s opposite arrogance and its cousin pride are on the other hand indicative of a kind of emotional immaturity. This sort of arrogance is vividly on display daily in the mugging, preening videos of popular musicians of virtually every type. They possess the emotional maturity of two year olds who have successfully gone to the potty.
As musicians and celebrities mug for the camera, they declare, “Look at me. I am the greatest thing since sliced bread.” Likewise, some of the demonstrations performed in the end zone after a touchdown are equally absurd, arrogant, and juvenile.
The examples are numerous and they do not end with popular music and sports, though in the areas of serious endeavor, they are both more subtle and more troubling. Politicians, for example, universally believe they have all the answers, while their opponents are hopelessly misguided or malicious. The fast trackers in the business world look down on the plodders, wielding their Wharton MBA’s like avatars. The rich often disdain the poor.
Arrogance is often seen as a virtue in modern America, a sort of autocratic platform from which to view the world. When and where this came to be, I am not sure. I am sure it is in simply the preening of the emotionally immature.
Humility, on the other hand, practiced by such luminaries as Mother Teresa, Gandhi, Robert E. Lee, and most dramatically, Jesus Christ, has an amazing palliative effect on relationships among individuals as well as groups. Humble people do not push and prod, but instead accommodate and defer. Humility offers a “soft answer which turns away wrath.”
I believe possessing an unassuming attitude while achieving great things may well be the single highest attainment of which human kind is capable. At the very least, it is clearly one of the most endearing qualities a person can possess and something to be highly valued.

The Scribe indeed has readers!

2007-06-29T12:27:00.000-07:00

Well two very nice people visited my blog and said kind things. So I am renewed and reinvigorated and ready to post more stuff. Herewith is an:

Impromptu Poem

Light has faded, the shadows stretch
across the leaf strewn yard
and across that hill yonder
the Blue Ridge rises,
giants of old,
their haze creating an impressionist
covering for the crags and the blue spruce
dressing them like brides of the morning.

And I turn to my screen
and try to tell you, dear friend,
that life resides in the dew of that moment
when the heart is open to the beauty
the world lavishes on us between acts of savage fury
and life is lived in the margins amid the folds of the mind
on an afternoon when sunlight washes
the leaves and the crows lumber
across the sky and you breathe
the precious air and cling tightly to
almighty hope.

The Sound of a Tree Falling...

2007-06-27T17:00:00.000-07:00

Well, I guess the question is answered. There IS nobody out there. It has been over a week since I asked that apparently rhetorical question and still no comments. I wonder how many blogs are on Blogger. Probably millions, 95% of which are read only by friends and family. Ces la vies or whatever the heck it is that those benighted Frenchies say.

I am wasting my time...or am I? If someone eventually reads this, then the time will not have been wasted. If no one reads this but I get something off my chest, the time will not have been wasted. Either way, I am a winner. Now, I feel much better!

Is ANYBODY out there?

2007-06-19T19:10:00.000-07:00

Well it has been a few weeks now that this remarkable little web log has been up and running and guess what; there have been -0-, nada, zilch, bupkus comments!

Are you out there dear reader, somewhere on that vast information highway, trudging through blogs about dogs and blogs about nothing? Am I too old and quaint for your taste?

I know most of you are young and probably much too hip (do they still use that word?) for me.

Well here's some news...I saw Jimi Hendrix live in 1969. How about that? That ain't all...I have seen The Who, Led Zeppelin, Iron Butterfly, Grand Funk Railroad, Santana, Chicago, and many others live in the late sixties. Still think I'm not cool?

Oh well, I probably became not cool somewhere north of thirty years ago. My question still rings across the vastness of the world wide web like the squeak of a mouse across the Grand Canyon.

Is anybody out there?

General Musings

2007-06-05T18:02:00.000-07:00

This is dangerous. I am writing this as I post or posting this as I write, unsure which is correct.

I worry for America. We seem to have lost not only our morality and conscience, but our cohesion as a people. Not to overplay it, but I remember an America of the fifties and early sixties where most of us danced to the same beat, or at least condescended to each other's beat.

I was just on an AOL blog about Obama's reckless statements about blacks and a "quiet riot." The talk was mostly hateful, to a large degree banal and of an ignorant bent.

The blacks were shouting (rhetorically speaking) at the whites and the whites were shouting at the blacks, dredging up all the old racial stereotypes. They were like children furiously screaming at each other on the playground, spittle flying, faces red. It was discouraging to say the least.

After all these years, we are still at the point where the slightest thing brings out the racist in many of us. I grew up in a racist environment, where blacks were viewed as third class citizens at best. I never attended school with a black person until I was in college (definitely dates me). And I must confess when I see certain behaviors my knee jerk reaction is to attribute it to race, then I always think of an example just as deplorable in my own race, and I seem to gain a level of perspective about it.

Somehow, someway, we have to get beyond all that. We all have to take responsibility for our own actions, something I believe more whites than blacks believe in. However, whites have no exclusivity to responsible behavior and blacks are certainly not predominantly irresponsible. In any case, a little humility and some simple humanity will go a long way toward healing and reconciliation. Jesus Christ had it right. Too bad the vast majority of us pay no more than lip service to his teaching.

Scarecrow in Gray, the First Chapter, by Barry Yelton

2007-05-24T18:30:00.000-07:00

Scarecrow in Gray
Copyright 2005
By Barry D. Yelton

CHAPTER ONE

A soldier who fights
in a war not his own,
bears the burden
of manifold tragedy.

I am not a soldier. I have been a farmer for most of my thirty-one years. I come from the hills of western North Carolina, from a county called Rutherford, a land of hills and hollows. It is a place where the evening mist tints the ridges blue as they roll toward the far horizon, each layer of hills becoming ever lighter in hue until the sky appears to be joined to the land. The ancient mountains and lush river valleys pulse with life planted by God and watered by the very lifeblood of my forebears. Since before the Revolution our family has lived here, farmed the land, and left our earthly remains in this good soil.

I confess that I did begin thinking about joining the Southern Army shortly after the war began, but I had a family and there was no one else to provide for them. My brothers had their own families to look after and some of them had already made their plans to go to war. Foolish plans they were in a foolish time.

As strange as it may seem now, in the beginning many thought it a great adventure, lots of fun marching, and parading and shooting at Yankees. I think most learned pretty quick that the fun is mighty scarce on a battlefield. I never had any illusions about that.

I am a fair hand with a musket. I hunt a little, mostly deer, rabbits and ‘coons, sometimes bear. I never shot at a man before the war. That’s an entirely different matter than hunting game. You shoot a deer and look in that black shining eye and you can see there’s nothing there but flesh and blood. You look into the eyes of your fellow man, no matter how debased he may be, and you know there is a soul, a being of a higher order, not just an animal.

I thought about this a lot before I went to war and it kept me from marching off to join I must tell you, along with the fact that I had my family to feed. I couldn’t grow crops in Camp Creek from an army post in Virginia or Tennessee. And even if I went, could I really bring myself to kill my fellow man? Would I have the courage to fight and to die? These questions burned in my mind as I watched men leave, go to war, and die. Those who did manage to come home were often maimed or scarred so badly, the folks at home treated them like pariahs. They were damaged people who often could no longer work. The presumption was that somehow they did something wrong to get shot or lose a leg or an arm or an eye. I wondered if I could deal with that if it were my lot.

Anyhow, I never owned any slaves, none of our family did. We often jested about how we worked like slaves ourselves, we just didn’t have any master to feed and clothe us. All we had was what we could grow on a few acres, which were sharecropped, or bought on credit from some parsimonious banker or maybe purchased from a hard up farmer who needed money more than land.

Where I come from, we don’t take freedom lightly. Mountain folks have always been of freedom loving, independent mind. Our people fought like demons against the British and Tories in our War for Independence. My grandfather, James Yelton, was one of those who pledged his all to fight for our new country.

I suppose that hill country folks’ love of independence came from having to rely on your own wit and will to survive when money was scarce and life was hard. When winter howled into the hill country and hunger sniffed at your door like a bear out of hibernation, you had to be strong of will and body just to survive. Heeling and toeing to a tyrant was never something we cottoned to whether it was a British tyrant or an American one. We bowed to neither foreign kings nor slaveholders from down east. We always went our own way, paying allegiance only to God Almighty. We believed that if you settled for anything other than freedom you might as well be a dumb animal.

Our folks had no quarrel with the Yankees about whether whites could own slaves or not. What reason did I have to go off to Virginia or somewhere and shoot at men with whom I had no quarrel? The recruiters sometimes came around telling me I needed to do my patriotic duty and I told them I was, by growing crops to feed my family and others. I sold what I could to the Confederate quartermasters and the home guards and I trust it went to help feed the soldiers fighting in Virginia, as well as those hometown heroes whose primary combatants were colored bottles on fence posts. They paid me in Confederate script in amounts which seemed large at the time, but when I went to buy something, I found I had sold too cheap. It seemed to me it would take a wheel barrow full of Confederate script to buy a shoat. It also seemed to me like I was doing my duty and then some, working my body into old age and selling my produce to the government for a song.

I served for a while as a lieutenant with the North Carolina Militia, but then folks began to accuse me of dodging the war. I pondered joining the regular army because I did not want my reputation to suffer by being considered a dodger. Fact was the recruiters were always preaching that General Robert E. Lee needed men like me; that the Yankees were coming in hordes. I usually replied that if the Yankees were coming in hordes one more farmer with a musket wasn’t going to make much difference, but I might try my hand anyway if it upheld my good name to do so.

Things came to a head one Friday morning in late July of ‘64 when I was in the bottom plowing weeds and early crops under. I got up about four thirty because daylight comes early in July and I wanted to get the bottom plowed, so I could move on to the west slope. I walked out to the barn to get “Moses.” That’s what I called the old black mule I bought from Silas Freeman over by Gilbert Town.

Moses was more than a little bit stubborn and he wasn’t a big mule, about fourteen and a half hands, but he was well muscled and bull strong and once you got him going he’d plow all day, long as you stopped and gave him water once in a while. He needed to be talked to, like he was something more than a tool to be used, like he was important, which he was. He was a smart animal. I treated him well and he knew it. Animals may be dumb, but certain things they perceive better than we of two legs. Moses liked sorghum a lot, so I dropped an armload at his feet, and then I walked on down to bring him some water from the creek, our aged hound Samson trotting at my heels.

As I walked to the creek I glanced up at the house and saw my sweet wife, Harriett, looking at me through the kitchen window. Her honey colored hair wreathed her face, which today wore a weary smile. She didn’t have much reason to smile these days. She lost a brother in the war and her Pa was bad sick, but most of the time when she looked at me she smiled anyway, like she did when we were courting ten years ago.

I don’t know how she kept looking so good, when I couldn’t afford to buy her nice dresses and other female fixings. But somehow she always seemed to look fresh, with the warmest glow about her. A few lines showed on her face, but I counted her the prettiest girl in these parts. Her penetrating hazel eyes were like water in a mountain spring. As she looked out the window that morning, I saw something in her face that bothered me somehow; a shadow and a foreboding. I tried not to think about it. I just smiled back at her and waved and walked on down to the creek to get Moses his water.

The dawn glowed softly behind the dark bulk of the mountain, mysterious in the early morning gloom. A few high clouds streaked pink and purple across the deep blue. Samson sniffed at the creek bank. An old ‘coon dipped in the creek for crawdads until he saw Samson and me and shuffled off, flicking his ringed tail as he scurried into the brush. Samson woofed and then went back to inspecting the creek bank. He was too old to give chase and he knew it. The leaves on the trees along the creek rustled softly. An owl called mournfully, which always seemed to me to be the saddest sound on God’s earth, like he was lost and alone in a desolate place. It was a dreadfully lonesome sound. It always made me uneasy, like I was the lost one. I sometimes wondered about that in my darker moments.

Sometimes on Sunday morning, when I didn’t have to rise early to work, I would lie in my bed listening to a hoot owl off in the distance. To me his refrain was a mournful reminder of the passing of things. The Indians say that an owl calls your name when it’s your time to die. I can understand why they would say that. The sad call of an owl is not quite like any sound I ever heard, maybe not like any sound on earth.

I shook off my gloomy thoughts and dipped the bucket in the cold, rushing water, then sat it down and dipped some for myself with my hands. The water was cold and clear. The creek came from a gushing spring up on the side of the mountain. I’d been there many times, usually hunting deer and squirrels. The water gets a thorough cleansing coming through that blue granite rock in the mountain and the creek water has the purest, cleanest taste. It was a true blessing.

I listened to the sounds of the morning; the owl, a soft wind in the tree tops, the cheerful murmur of the rushing stream. I breathed deeply of the fragrance of the summer morning. As I looked across the fields and my eye traced the rustling rows of corn and traveled up the slope toward my house, I had to smile to myself at the beauty of it all and I thanked God for giving me such a place to live and work. I thought of my ancestors who had farmed this land, fought the Indians and the British, suffered disease and want and backbreaking toil, all so we could live in this peaceful and verdant country. The thought made me humble, thankful and very proud.

As I walked back to the barn, I looked at our little house again, sitting there at the foot of the mountain on a gentle rise, bathed in morning mist. The wood of the house had turned dark after eight years. I couldn’t afford to paint it. But that old forest pine aged well and it would last many a year. A tendril of cook smoke rose from the chimney, spread low across the corn crib and mingled with the mist. The old oak, hickory and sweet gum trees framed the house like a picture. It was how I knew it would look when I built it eight years ago.

I had worked nights and any other spare time as a pitman at Whit Whitaker’s sawmill. I stood in that pit at the lower end of the two man saw, covered with saw dust, for days on end. It wasn’t bad. The sawdust that peppered my face had a sweet redolence about it. He paid me with lumber to build the house, much of which I helped saw myself. My brothers helped me, just as I helped them with their houses. I split the shingles for the roof myself. It took me many months. I worked on the house whenever I wasn’t farming. The house wasn’t big or fancy, but it was home and Harriett did love it so.

The air was sweet to breathe so I stood for just a minute, savoring the hallowed morning that would soon be transformed into another commonplace day. Old Moses was stirring, getting impatient and he let out a little “eeee-haw.” He wanted his exercise. He couldn’t wait to get going, but by six he couldn’t wait to get back to the barn. Foolish old mule he was. I walked up past the field to the barn and gave him his water. I stroked his muzzle as I put on the bridle and traces. He huffed and flicked his ears. Then I led him down to the bottom to hook up the plow. Samson stood watching me. After I bent down and scratched his ears, he waddled back up to the porch to maintain his constant and somnolent vigil.

“Mule! Hup! Mule!” I let the plow settle into the steaming brown soil. The shares spoke in a whisper, with an occasional clink of stone, as they cut through the soft loam, the smell rising up like new birth. Moses lumbered along in his steady gait while I gripped the plow and we turned the weeds under and rolled the damp soil upward. The plowed vegetation smelled pungent in the heavy air.

It was about as pleasant a job as any man ever had. Don’t misunderstand me; it was sure enough work. A long day of plowing will make a strong man tired. You had to keep the plow straight and steady, especially when you were laying off rows, and you had to keep pace with the animal, slogging through soft soil for ten to twelve hours, sometimes more. It worked on your legs, your shoulders and your back. But at the end of the day, you could see what you had accomplished. Making things grow from God’s good earth made a man feel part of the natural order of things, something you could never get working in some manufactory or general store.

About mid-morning I saw two fellows riding up the road, one on a chestnut gelding and the other a fine roan mare. They stopped the horses at the edge of the field, two hundred yards away, and waved down at me. I whoa’d old Moses, tied the lines to the plow handles and walked up to see what they wanted. They were fairly well dressed fellows and I didn’t recognize them, so I figured it was official business of some kind. I hollered out “good mornin’” and they nodded real solemn like.

“Mr. Francis Yelton?” the taller one said like he was asking. I said I was he. The taller fellow smiled a little and said, “Mr. Yelton, I’m Wallace McIntyre and this here is Joe Deck, we’re recruitment officers.” They had my attention.

“Mr. Deck, Mr. McIntyre,” I replied with a nod.

The tall man looked even more serious, “I don’t know if you heard, but things ain’t goin’ so well for us in Virginia. Lee’s been backed almost all the way to Richmond and the Yankees is gettin’ stronger every day. They keep comin’ faster than we can kill ‘em. We need men like you to join the fight to stop those Yankee devils. I hate to say it but looks like it might be now or never. We know you’ve served well in the state militia, but we’d like for you to join up with the volunteers. Some of the North Carolina regiments has got purty small and they need help. What do you think?” I furrowed my brow and studied the men. My mind was divided and there was no getting around it.

I looked from one to the other of the men and said, “Gentlemen, I want to go but I joined the militia so I could keep on workin’ the farm at least part of the time. I’m a farmer and all I got is what you can see from your saddle. If I leave, I am afraid my family will starve. There’s nobody else to take care of them, what with my brothers all dead or off to war.” They looked at each other like they had heard the tale a thousand times.

Mr. Deck said, “Look Francis, we need you in the army. The situation is desperate and people like you are needed more on the lines than here at home.” Again I looked from one to the other of them from under the brim of my slouch hat. We were all silent.

The horses shifted and huffed, their withers glistening in the heat. One flicked his ears at a bothersome fly. The saddle leather creaked as the horses moved. There was a dull clink of metalwork. The sun beat down on the fields, the men and me. They looked at me hard, as if expecting me to say something.

I sighed deeply, looked at the fields and back at the men. “Gentlemen, I have much work to do and I can’t leave just now,” I said as I swept my arm toward the fields. “I’ve got crops in the ground that will need harvestin’ before long and I have a family to feed. Could I maybe join up after the harvest?”

Mr. McIntyre looked off across the fields and said, with a trace of irritation in his voice, “The need is urgent. If the Yankees reach Rutherford, your family will starve and your farm will probably be gone anyway. They’ll come into this valley burnin’ and takin’ everything that they can. Ask the folks up in the Shenandoah.”

Mr. Deck added in a flat, matter of fact voice, “And sometimes it’s been said some of them boys ain’t above takin’ liberties with the women folk. Ain’t that worth fightin’ for? We’re down to recruitin’ old men and boys and to conscriptin’ those that refuse. We need you bad and we need you now. Here’s an enlistment form. Take it to Camp Vance in Morganton within thirty days time. If you can talk any of your neighbors into coming, bring them too. We need every man.”
Mr. McIntyre’s lowered his voice. “We know you have brothers that have served and have died in the war. We respect that. Come on to Camp Vance and join up within the next four weeks. General Lee and his boys have fought long and hard. They’s been a lot of losses in the ranks and the army needs men real bad. Your country needs you real bad. Don’t let us down.” They both looked at me with hard eyes. McIntyre touched his hat, smiled slightly, and then they wheeled their horses and rode off down the road at a canter. The horses’ hooves kicked up little clouds of dust. The men disappeared around the bend, the clop of the hooves fading.

I looked up at the bright sun beating down, pulled out my bandana and wiped my brow. My gaze turned to my house. I thought I saw Harriett’s face in the window, but I wasn’t sure from where I stood. My eyes turned toward the fields, the woods and the mountains beyond. I looked at my barn, corn crib and chicken coop. They all seemed somehow diminished. Everything suddenly seemed temporary; like it was passing away. I looked down at old Moses, patiently waiting in the shade near the creek. I looked back at the house, slowly took a deep breath and then walked on back down to take up the plow again.

With my hands on the plow, the blades once again cut deep into the earth. The rhythmic movements of the animal and the soft sound of the plow seemed somehow comforting. I was about half done by one o’clock, so I stopped to get a bite to eat. I got Moses some water, tied him in the shade near the creek and went on up to the house. I knew Harriett would have something cooked.

As I walked in, she was standing by the stove looking at me with the most distressed look I ever saw on her face. Twisting a cloth in her hand, she said in a soft voice, “Who were those people?” I told her who they were and what they said. Her eyes dropped and a tear ran down her cheek. “I knew this day would come,” she said quietly.

I walked to her and lifted her face toward mine and said, “I have to go darlin’. It won’t be for long; surely the war can’t last much longer. Folks are sayin’ I’m a dodger and I can’t have that. I’ve got to do my duty.”

I’ll never forget the look that came upon her face. It seemed to crumple and a look of desolation took the place of her warm, loving expression. Her shoulders slumped. Her lips trembled as she said, “I am so afraid you won’t come back. Mary Hollis’s husband left for Virginia five months ago and three months later she got a letter saying he was dead. Two of your own brothers are dead and God knows what’s become of the others. I can’t stand the thought of living life without you.”

I held her close and said, “I will come back, don’t you worry. The Good Lord will watch after me.” My words of comfort didn’t seem to help very much. We stood in silence for some time holding each other. Our two little ones, Jane who was nine and our baby, six year old Susan, came in from the yard where they had been playing and we sat down at the table to eat.

I got as much done as I could in the next few days. My girls helped more than usual. Harriett went about her work solemnly and earnestly. She read her Bible more and she prayed a lot. We spent as much time with each other as we could. She cooked my favorite foods and sang my favorite hymns.

We sat on the porch in the evening after the girls went to bed and she would rock and sing “Amazing Grace” and all the great hymns we sang in church as the stars sparkled in the vast blackness above us and the whippoorwills persisted in their plaintive refrain. Then we would retire and I would lie awake for hours it seemed holding her in my arms, smelling her sweet, soft skin, dreading the day we would part. I kept telling myself it would not be for long, surely could not be for long, somehow.

Author's Note: I wanted to post this first chapter of my book in the hope that you might read it and want to read the entire book. It is available at Amazon.com, BarnesandNoble.com and by order from bookstores.