Franken leads +225 (+21 and +14 of the "Nauen61" the Elections Contest Court has ordered into the "Ready to Count" pile at the the Secretary of State's office; all these voters have indicated they voted for Franken)= +260.
No orders or decisions from the Elections Contest Court as of this morning. Now the 8th day since both sides filed their "proposed Findings of Fact."
The BigE over at MN Progressive Project does a nice analysis on the Fed. Election Comm. ruling that allows both Norm & Al to hit up donors for as much as $30K. Summary? Norm's chances are still melting faster than a snowbank under a 60 degree rainstorm.
http://www.mnprogressiveproject.com/...
The reading room is open, politics welcome, religion always in good taste here in the WineRev diary just past the Orange fold....
Comment from an interested Party
Norm Coleman was in DC yesterday for lunch among the rancid cream of America's elite (h/t to HST for that phrase), otherwise known as congressional Republicans. The Capitol is right across the street from the US Supreme Court. When asked over lunch if he thought how far his ECC case could go, Coleman gestured and said, "I'm not anticipating, at this point, being across the street."
Uh oh! Using the Republican Reverse Projector Ray we can see Norm is saying he IS hoping/planning this whole election court case DOES end up at the US Supreme Court.
Now for once this may be wishful thinking. You need GROUNDS to get across the street to the US Supremes, as well as 4 of them to agree to hear the case. Now there is the stink of the "STAR" line-up of the Reichwing: Scalia and Thomas for sure, Alito damn likely. Roberts? I think there is at least some question whether he would join the first 3, especially the tighter and narrower the decision of both the ECC and any appellate ruling by the MN Supreme Ct.
Make of it what you will in this link to the Minn Independent:
http://minnesotaindependent.com/...
News of the Dumb
My sign off line "from yust southeast of Lake Wobegon" might move out of the blogosphere toward a DUMB reality. MN State Sen. Tarryl Clark (D from St. Cloud; showing in Michele Bachmann's district there are enough Democrats to elect an "anti-American" state senator) has decided economic catastrophe, crumbling health care, deteriorating infrastructure and state support for schools is too short an agenda for the MN Legislature. She has introduced a bill to combine 2 1/2 counties into one for "efficiency" but mostly so it can have a working name of "Lake Wobegon County."
This is silly, and not in a joking way, its just dumb.
http://wcco.com/...
(For tax dollars spent on fun, years ago Reader's Digest noted the state bird of Iowa is the goldfinch. The state flower of Kansas is the sunflower. One lazy summer afternoon the Kansas Legislature passed a resolution declaring the goldfinch to be a "public nuisance" and mailed it to Des Moines. In an equally relaxed mood a few weeks later the Iowa legislature declared the sunflower to be a "noxious weed" and mailed that to Topeka...... Now that makes me smile. Tarryl Clark makes me wince.)
So we wait. I've added another 3 chapters from Encampment to pass the time. If its NOT passing the time and just using up pixels I can take a break from diaries until something breaks. Or if you like the story you can get literary on me and let me know what I'm doing right/ wrong. (I already got put in my place on using "secondly" without a "firstly", so that'll learn me.) (Started back in #108. Click on wineRev at the top right, then on diaries, then down to 108 and "there's more" to pick it up from the beginning.)
Thats the littlest and least-est from yust southeast of Lake Wobegon.
Shalom.
Encampment is copyright in 2007 by WineRev. Except for brief passages cited for review any other use of this material without written permission will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
Chapter 11
Independent Presbyterian filled comfortably without crowding. The Rev. Cavanaugh stepped into the chancel and said, "Thank you fo’ commin’ today to pay yo’ respects with the family and friends of Peyton Colby. Please join in singin’ numbah 309, ‘Rock of Ages.’"
The organist began a verse of introduction. Rev. Cavanaugh walked down the center aisle to the vestibule and joined various members of the Colby clan behind the coffin. The congregation sang, the pallbearers bore their burden, women in the procession and pews wept softly and the funeral began. Cavanaugh preached a tribute.
"Peyton Colby, born March 6, 1830, baptized July 17, 1830, and died June 18, 1912, aged 82 years, 3 months and 12 days. Peyton Colby answered the Lord’s calling as a faithful member of Christ's church. He answered the calling of his state when foes had risen. Like David the shepherd boy called to Saul’s army, Peyton answered the call in 1861 to be a soldier. Proud was he to join with the men of the South in defending the sanctity of his home and Georgia’s rights. Honored was he to serve under General Lee in defense of liberty and a sacred way of life. Stalwart was he in rebuilding his state after invaders had laid waste.
"At the Seven Days, at Manassas, at Gettysburg or in all the glorious fights of the Army of Northern Virginia, Peyton and his comrades went into battle with hope. Hope for victory of course, but also the soldiers’ hope, and the soldiers’ prayer, that they would live through the battle. For Peyton Colby that hope and those fervent prayers were answered, and he lived through the war.
"In his later days Peyton Colby answered a call like the prophet Jeremiah. When ruin had come, Jeremiah gave a word of hope. Peyton Colby spoke hope in his years of honest labor at the Savannah depot. Think about it. Why do folks of all ranks go to a train station? They get on a train with some sort of hope.
"Peyton Colby sold tickets to wealthy folk heading for the highlands, hoping to get away from the summer heat. Peyton sold tickets to ordinary folks hoping to find a job, a new place, or a fresh start at the end of their train ride. He sold tickets to the poor, the no-account, the colored, the country crackers, and even for these, his tickets were some sort of hope.
"Now Peyton Colby has passed on, struck down in the earthquake this past Tuesday. Yet as a believer in our Lord Jesus Christ he died in hope. ‘So then whether we live or whether we die we are the Lord’s’ wrote St. Paul to the Corinthians and to live or die in the Lord is to live and even to die in hope.
"My friends, we gather today to pay our respects and to offer one another our consolation. That consolation consists of hope, a hope rooted in the Lord. Peyton is gone, but hope is not gone. The hope Peyton Colby lived in and died in is the hope of all believers. It is the hope we are baptized into, the hope we receive in the preachin’ of the Word of God, the hope we receive in the Lord’s Supper. It is the hope of the Christian faith, the end of death, the hope of everlasting life, the hope of glory everlasting.
"Peyton Colby had his share of earthly glory. Serving as a soldier for a righteous cause---that is earthly glory. Now this old soldier rests in the hope our Lord gives us, resting in the glory of a well-lived life of a believer, resting for when the glory of the Lord shall be revealed."
---------------
As the pallbearers carried Peyton’s coffin down the front steps of the church, six members of the Longstreet post, United Confederate Veterans, joined alongside, Zachariah Hampton among them. Age and ailments had weakened the veterans so they could no longer carry the coffin, but they could march, wearing once more the gray and butternut of wearing-out uniforms. Two matching gray horses slowly pulled the hearse flanked by the double set of pallbearers. A band played dirges and hymns for family and friends on the mile walk to Laurel Grove.
About a half hour later coffin and mourners were assembled next to a fresh dug grave. An honor guard of six veterans were waiting with rifles. Rev. Cavanaugh offered final blessings as the morticians assistants lowered Peyton Colby’s earthly remains into the ground. When they finished, the band struck up "Rock of Ages" in a mournful tempo. Then the honor guard came to attention, aimed their rifles up at a 45 degree angle and fired a volley of blanks. Heavy-hearted, Zachariah ran the men through the manual of arms to reload, using the old paper cartridges and black powder. He tried hard not to flinch as a second volley cracked, and, after a decent pause, a third. Then members of Colby’s family (nieces, nephews, cousins and such; Colby had been their bachelor uncle) stepped forward, stooped by the mound of fresh earth and each tossed a handful onto the coffin lid.
People tossed their own handfuls, then moved away and spoke softly. Men exchanged strong handshakes. Women offered each other their sympathy with a two-hand clasp of down-turned palms. The veterans swapped stories about the small-boned man with wistful hazel eyes who had always seemed at home behind his brass-barred window at the depot. He had always seemed tragically out of place behind a log breastwork, his mouth blackened by powder grit from biting off the ends of endless paper cartridges.
By the iron fence enclosing the hallowed ground stood four colored men, leaning on shovels. They averted their eyes and talked in whispers, waiting for the white folks to take their leave so they could fill in the grave they had dug earlier.
Lucius Robinson had an arrangement with the cemetery directors who notified him whenever a veteran was being buried so he could be hired for the day. The gravediggers knew this was a vet’s funeral when they saw Lucius. One man asked him, "Who dat being laid to rest?"
"Don’t know," Lucius answered, his eyes misty and faraway, "but iffn’ they called me to dig, its likely one of the War soldiers."
"Blue or gray?" the man asked curiously.
"Don’t matta."
"But why do you do this if its one o’ the rebels? I can see iffn’ it was a Yankee. But a Johnny?"
"Well son," Lucius said softly to the gangly man who was 34, but truly looked barely out of his teens, "I like to think whatever these men had ‘gainst each other, if its a bluecoat, he fought so we’s could be free. If its a Johnny Reb, he fought to keep us slaves, but he lost. It came out the right way so ain’t no reason to hold a grudge ‘gainst a man who lost a fair fight." He stared off and swallowed the lump in his throat. "Time to shake hands an’ move on. And," in a lower tone, "iffn’ I can hepp some of them ‘Lost Cause’ men move on this way, well that’s OK too."
Dooley Culpepper stood leaning on his rifle and like most of the honor guard chatted awkwardly about small things in a solemn way. He saw Lucius at this moment and growled to the rest, "What them niggas smirkin’ ‘bout anyhow? This is serious bidnis here ‘bout Peyton. Somebody oughta teach ‘em some respect."
Zachariah, Jim Calhoun and the others looked over now, but saw only solemn faces and downcast eyes. "Cool down, Dooley. There's no disrespect bein’ shown. They just’ waitin’ to finish bein’ grave digga niggas." Bald, bush-bearded Turner Hawkins grinned at his own wit.
Dooley was not diverted, but was also in agreement. "Well gravediggin’s fit enough work fo’ an inferior race (tossing off ‘inferior race’ with a certain pride), but still, some o’ Peyton’s kin are payin’ money fo’ ‘em to do it. In the old days they’d just be doin’ it."
The others were unsettled. They shared most of Dooley’s racism, but he was always fiercely serious about pre-War slavery.
"Oh come on, Dooley," Turner said, "let ‘em draw water, hew wood an’ dig graves and suchlike fo’ the pennies they make. Don’t bother most folk iffn’ they buy their own food, water, clothes, even houses, long as white folk can sell it to ‘em and get the pennies back. Some white folks in Chicago got a whole lotta colored folks’ money fo’ that kit house on the wagon Tuesday when Peyton died."
"What you talkin’ ‘bout, Turner?" Dooley asked.
"Well" Turner replied, "a big ol’ dray wagon on Broad St. was piled up with pieces of a kit house when the earthquake came. Spooked the hosses an’ they started rearin’. Peyton came ‘round a corner, staggerin’ 'cause of the quake. He stumbled into the street an’ the right lead hoss was just commin’ down from rearin’ up. Hoof hit Peyton and knocked him into a lamppost head fust." Turner paused, then added, "Colby passed quick."
"You sayin’ the house on the wagon was fo’ a pack-a niggas?"
"Yep, that's what I heard too," beefy Jim Calhoun added through his walrus mustache. "Sears & Roebuck was deliverin’ it to a colored family on the west side."
"Damn!" Dooley snapped and the others recoiled at the rarely used word. "Iffn’ it hadn’t been fo’ niggas Peyton’d still be alive. Damn!" Only a few mourners, along with the honor guard, heard Dooley as he turned and called out, "Damn all a’ you to hell, shiftless, no-good---" Before Dooley could really get rolling, Hampton, Calhoun and the others cut him off and said, "C’mon, Dooley, lets get goin’. They ain’t worth it nohow. Don’t be cussin’ over Peyton’s grave."
Dooley subsided and he moved off with the others. But his eyes still shot malice at the digging crew whose race had now added to their sins.
Chapter 12
Like much of west side Savannah many of the shabby Fahm Street houses had quake damage, especially the lightly built porches. Quake day and the next were a swirl of salvage and clean up. The Savannah Colored Tribune printed extra editions all week heavy with photographs of west side neighbors at funerals, cooking in back yards and sleeping out.
There were signs of normality. Carpenters worked everywhere and glaziers had followed so residents inhaled the odor of fresh caulk around new window panes. Temporary steps let folks get in and out although a week later most folks still preferred sleeping in their yards under soft canvas.
At #305 Fahm the front porch had sheared off cleanly behind the camellia bush, but roof, window and siding damage appeared severe. A large tarp was piled with furniture, clothes, cookware, a wood stove, a bath tub, mattresses and more, all under a second tarp acting as a roof.
Spotted around the yard were six rectangular masses: three were mostly lumber, a square stack of shingles, a cluster of window and door frames, and a gathering of barrels. A growing heap by the curb had broken or rotted bits and pieces of the shakily standing house.
In the middle of all the settling down and pulling together the Sears Roebuck company and the Central of Georgia Railroad decided to finish deliveries. So Thursday Sears & Roebuck Kit Home "Magnolia" model #156, was delivered to 305 Fahm Street. An entire boxcar load of every item needed to build the house, right down to the large, soft-leather bound construction manual, was stacked up around the property.
Lucius, Beulah, Alma, Hannah and Sherman toiled dismantling their old house. Beulah decided early on she was the only one of the five who would do ladder work, but a long skirt was completely impractical. So passersby gawked as a woman in (Rufus’) overalls emerged from the old house the second morning. She left Lucius amazed as well and he chuckled.
"My stars! If my Beulah could see you now---a woman in man’s pants!"
"You don’t think she’d be just as practical?" Beulah jibed back.
Lucius held his smile as he thought back a moment. "You know, to build a house, I believe she-da joined you." A tear popped out of his eye as Beulah took his leathery hand. "No need to be all manly," she whispered. "Let it out Papa."
Lucius gave one gasping sob and then shook his head. "No. No." He looked up at his daughter-in-law. "Its alright somehow. My Beulah died when the Kluxers burned down that rickety shack but she saved Rufus." He gallantly kissed her hand. "Now Rufus and this Beulah get a house for livin’. Squares things up somehow. Beulah and a house gone. New Beulah and a new house."
Rufus helped in the evenings, but the quake’s silver lining was an instant demand for carpenters. Rufus had plenty of paid work and the family insisted he rack up as much money and overtime as he could. "It’s one o’ them ‘seven fat years’ like fo’ Joseph in Egypt, son" Lucius told him one night. "Make hay while the sun shines." Still, Rufus would come home toward sundown and put in a couple hours of hand demolition. By lantern light he would study the manual until he fell asleep.
Hannah and Sherman worked with excitement. Sherman in particular found demolishing an entire house to be a boy’s dream. One morning he woke up and found a new 8 oz. claw hammer next to his pillow. The weight, hickory handle, and the shiny head were just right for his hands and arms. When he got dressed he found a 90 degree stiff leather loop had been expertly stitched onto his belt at the hip. He slipped the handle of the hammer through and strutted like peacock to the breakfast table.
Lucius stopped humming his rather upbeat tune and said to Beulah at the stove, "Bettah give Sherman an extry rasher of bacon today. A junior carpenter needs his strength." Beulah beamed as Sherman hugged her. "Your Daddy an’ I hope you like it. He stopped by the Sears store the other natt on the way home. Grampa did the leather loop fo’ your belt." Lucius got a hug and a double "Thank you."
Hannah looked crestfallen at Sherman’s luck but not for long. Beulah slyly slipped a flat box onto Hannah’s plate and set it in front of her with a flourish. "Time for breakfast," she said laughing while Hannah stared. "Go ahead. Open it." Hannah pulled off the lid to uncover a set of new overalls and a small pair of leather work gloves. "When yo’ Daddy was at Sears for a hammer, he also found a pair o’ lady carpenter overalls and gloves just yo’ size." Hannah squealed with delight as Beulah announced, "We’all gotta have the tools for buildin’ this kit house." After breakfast, passersby noticed an extra energy flowing at 305 Fahm Street.
Beulah eyed Lucius as he worked. He looked satisfied and the sad cloud that usually clung to his shoulder was gone. "Silver lining," she thought to herself, hearing him hum as he cleaned nails from boards pulled from the house.
Sherman had just dragged several bad boards to the curb when he looked up into the bearded face of an old white man staring at him. The man was watching the activity up and down the street, but took an interest in the extra work happening at 305. "Say boy," he rasped to Sherman, who had dropped his eyes. He was trying to be friendly but lack of practice gave him an edgy tone. "You fixin’ up or tearin’ down or what?"
Sherman gulped. "Well suh, a bit o’ both. We’s tearin’ down, but savin’ the better bits. Makin’ way fo’ our new house."
Under the canvas fly in the yard Beulah looked up from the manual and saw Sherman and the old man. She tucked the book under her arm and walked over.
"Sherman, you run ‘long now. May I hepp you suh?" she asked the stranger.
He saw the name and logo on the cover of the manual and shook his head. "Nope. Just passin’ by, seein’ how ever’body’s gettin’ on after the quake." He moved off in a bandy-legged, mincing way. Beulah looked after him, not liking his air or manner. Lucius noticed her breaking loose plaster and lath in the front bedroom with real zeal.
Chapter 13
Savannah’s July 4th parade formed along the River on Factors’ Walk, a conglomeration of wharves, warehouses and an old slave auction building sharing a open-air space for freight handling. Busybody parade marshals struggled with an ever-growing mass of paraders, motorcars, floats, bands and horses.
White spectators spread along both sides of Bryant St. before 8:00am. Street car benches filled quickly. Many outdoor wooden folding chairs and ladderback chairs fresh from breakfast duty filled the sidewalks while boys squatted somewhat uncomfortably on the curbstones.
In Reynolds Square, the statue to Confederate Vice-President Alexander Stephens was a thicket of Stars and Bars, Georgia state flags, and the same annual cluster of rough-voiced young men. They gibbered devotion to the Lost Cause with Rebel yells and read out the words on the plaque at the tops of their voices:
Our new government is founded upon exactly the opposite idea; its foundations are laid, its cornerstone rests upon the great truth, that the negro is not equal to the white man; that slavery -- subordination to the superior race -- is his natural and normal condition.......
The parade display of white supremacy meant colored attendance was thin. Those who came typically gathered on the west side of Franklin Square where the parade turned from Montgomery onto Bryant. Despite the blatant display of mounted police power (on constant patrol at the "black corner" but nowhere else) the Robinsons took the day off from house building. Lucius insisted, "This is our country an’ its our day of celebratin’ too."
In each Square along Bryant the city built temporary wooden viewing stands. Admission to these was by ticket and municipal officials of all ranks did a brisk barter trade at Franklin, Johnson, Reynolds and Warren Squares, west to east as the parade would pass. Assistant city engineer Lee Thompson had such an excellent seat, but this year he sat alone in the Johnson Square bleachers. Not only would his father-in-law march by, but Emily too. She had been happy but secretive about details, but she confirmed the United Daughters of the Confederacy (UDC) had a second float in this year’s parade. The float and some Forsyth Park events commenced the UDC fund-raising for Gettysburg.
At exactly 9:00am a cannon boomed from atop the Cotton Exchange building and the parade stepped off down Montgomery to Franklin Square. A fife squealed "Yankee Doodle" as three men appeared: the fifer, a young drummer boy, and a gaunt older man carrying a flag. They all sported ragged uniforms and the three-cornered hats of Washington’s soldiers, a living representation of Archibald Willard’s popular painting, "Spirit of ‘76". The tattered flag with the circle of 13 stars was the real thing, kept at Ft. Pulaski and brought out for such occasions.
All the colored folk rose as this flag passed, and all wearing hats uncovered. A few new members of Savannah’s mounted police and their horses were startled when the whole mass rose suddenly. For an instant some thought this was a racial revolt they had been raised to fear and trained to crush. But the hats coming off and the reverent stares at the old Colonial flag calmed them. As the "Spirit of ‘76" passed down the street the black spectators sat back down while the first wave of white folk rose and uncovered respectfully.
A marching band of Navy sailors was followed by a team of horses pulling the day’s first float. A group of white men dressed in Colonial garb and wearing obviously itchy powdered wigs were using large quill pens to "sign" a large. pale yellow paper curling off a desk. Then they smiled, shook hands, slapped each other on the back, or pointed out something on the paper. Applause rose at the old-fashioned lettering on the back wall:
The Constitution
125 Years
1787-1912
Next came a single file of men, each carrying one of the "Flags over Georgia." The 7th color bearer carried the Confederate "Stars and Bars" battle flag and he shook the flag staff at the silent colored folk as he passed. Beginning with the Franklin Square bleachers an enormous roar welcomed the colors of Davis, Lee and Longstreet.
The next float’s rear wall read, "Cotton, Georgia’s White Gold." The deck was knee deep in gleaming cotton surrounding a cotton gin. Four barefoot white men dressed in rags were made up in blackface. They beamed with pretended joy as one turned the gin’s crank and cotton bolls fell out. Another man filled a basket with these, hoisted it on his shoulder and circled the deck rim back to reload the gin. The quartet alternated between singing the opening lines of "Dixie" ("I wish I wuz in de land ob cotton" they bawled) and choruses of "Da Camptown Races." One of them pitched a few bolls at the crowd near Lucius shouting, "Remembah? Remembah?"
Most black folks looked down in the approved manner, but this year Lucius bobbed his head with a scowl and a few of the young men muttered curses. But before these attracted the horse police, Lucius covered his mouth, deflecting his voice down and behind him. "Let it go. Look what's commin’ next. Let it go."
Coming next were several ranks of soldiers in blue tunics over khaki trousers with slouch hats. A wide banner across their front rank proclaimed "Spanish-American War" and "Veterans of ‘98." Their gaitered boots crunched together, sounding like one very large, very loud set of footsteps.
Further down Bryant after the "Vets of ‘98" and the Wesley Monumental Church choir float Lee Thompson craned his neck at a flock of white-clad suffragettes. Under a banner, "The Vote for Women," and hats festooned with silk, lace, feathers, ribbons and fruit, perhaps 80 women were clapping in rhythm and chanting "Give us the vote" and "Women should vote." A couple elderly women stumped along on canes while several younger ones walked showing the free-swinging, uncorseted Gibson girl look. A few "Gibsons" were apparently mail order customers of immigrant Estee Lauder as certain cheeks, eyebrows and lips had color beyond the exertion of walking.
Lee looked carefully but Emily was not among these women, and he sighed in relief. The suffragettes were receiving white-gloved applause and soprano and alto calls of "Yes, the vote!" but many more offered catcalls, scattered boos and hisses, and matronly tossing heads. A few men along the route uncovered politely, but many more kept their hats on their politics.
The suffragettes were frequently drowned out by the following two parade units. The Savannah Fire Department came with its pumper and ladder trucks behind the walking women. Their banner "The first fully motorized Fire Department in America" brought cheers of civic pride. Their engine clatter and howling hand-cranked sirens drew ear-covered shrieks of delight from boys and girls. Behind the creeping, chain-driven emergency trucks came the combined musical forces of the Savannah Police and Fire Departments. Lee looked past the band for Zachariah or Emily.
Back at "black corner" West Savannahians had seen these units, followed by a small group of khaki-clad boys in broad-brimmed campaign hats ("The Boy Scouts of Savannah".) Two floats were coldly received, one showing "Confederates" pointing bayonetted rifles at surrendering "Yankees". The float listed the Golden anniversary of victories from 1862 from Stonewall’s Valley Campaign to Chickasaw Bluffs.
The next float urged "Vote Wilson", "Vote Democratic" and "Follow Virginia again" (referring to Woodrow Wilson’s home state, rather than his recent life as president of Princeton University.) A walking escort of well-dressed men carrying buckets full of campaign buttons had few takers at "black corner." One little boy scampered delightedly to his family crying "Lookie what I got," but the adults were glum.
As the next float approached Franklin Square Savannah’s mounted police formed up. Long-handled billy clubs were unsnapped from their holsters and a police lieutenant made a show of checking his revolver. Lucius was just turning his head from saying something to Beulah when a police mount passed broadside. The policeman randomly flicked the end of his long stick toward the crowd and caught Lucius on his right ear. As he yelped and the crowd around him looked over a following police sergeant called down from the saddle, "Let that be a lesson to all you niggas!" Lucius’ kerchief sopped up the blood from his ear as the float swung by.
The float was a giant’s staircase rising five levels from front to back, drenched in flowers. Benches on each step held several elegantly dressed, beautiful young white women. The back wall held three huge letters: "UDC", and below, "Protect us" "Save Us" "Remember the South". Each beauty held a bouquet on her lap while she waved to the left; to the right was a wall of the Savannah Mounted.
The policemen inwardly congratulated themselves on their show of force. The young women behind them called out sweetly, "Thank you, officers. Thank you." The street expressions were a mix of scorn and exaggerated boredom, just beyond police earshot: "Hope they get sunburned." "Nuthin’ to see here." "We don’t have to look at horse rumps." The float passed and the mounted men dispersed, believing they had saved white womanhood from a possible rush of sex-crazed black rapists.
Now a middle-aged woman marched at the right end of a thin line of nervous teenaged girls. The woman’s skirt was flared at the hem and loose-flowing, so short that every step her entire shoe was visible. The girls’ "health" skirts matched the free flowing movement (and exposed shoes) of their leader. They wore matching, long-sleeved blouses with v-collars buttoned at their collarbone notch. Two slightly younger girls led them, carrying a banner reading "Mrs. Juliette Low and the Girl Guides."
The girls were in a wavering line, looking to their smiling leader on their right. Their shy smiles warmed the crowd. "Hurray for the Girl Guides" came Beulah’s voice as she rose clapping. Another female voice chimed in, "Amen! Hurray Girl Guides!" Children took their cue and began applauding and merrymaking. The marchers were surprised but delighted. All at once the men at "black corner" stood, tipped their hats and cheered heartily. Juliette kept marching but she beamed, saying repeatedly, "Thank you kindly." The mounted police were alert, but things looked far too friendly for them to stay concerned.
In the Johnson Square viewing stand Lee overheard very mixed reactions to the Girl Guides troop, with most of the negatives pitched in feminine tones. "Well I nevah!" "That is not lady-like." "That Juliette Low is lookin’ to make more Gibson girls." "Makin’ more suffragettes."
Assorted dignitaries came by riding in a flotilla of motorcars. Model Ts, Stanley Steamers, Thomases, Underslungs, a couple of Cadillacs and even a French Renault all chuffed and clattered (although the ghost-quiet Rauch & Lang electric only honked) as drivers grinned and waved. As the cars passed Lee smiled. Male voices talked roadsters but female voices still commented about "a woman’s place" and "shamefully short skirts" while the Monitor and the Merrimack float slid by. But the comments faded as an enthusiastic band and a cavorting group of singers drew up.
The band was playing the jaunty, Irish-tinged strains of "The Bonnie Blue Flag" and sure enough in the last rank was a color bearer holding an enormous blue flag, fringed in gold, and sporting a huge white star. The singers massed in front of the viewing stand and sang out the first verse as the crowd clapped in rhythm:
We are a band of brothers,
Native to the soil
Fighting for the property
We gained by honest toil.
And when our rights were threatened,
The cry rose near and far;
Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag
That bears a single star!
When they came to the chorus the singers urged the crowd, "Now you sing!" "Join the chorus" and they did so eagerly. The band continued passing as the singers serenaded the stands with the next verse.
As long as the Union
Was faithful to her trust,
Like friends and brethren,
kind were we, and just;
But now, when Northern treachery
Attempts our rights to mar,
We hoist on high the Bonnie Blue flag
That bears a single star.
A huge banner carried by a half dozen young men stretched curb to curb. "Veterans of the War Between the States" in letters over six feet high floated a good fifteen feet in the air. Cheers, roars and Rebel yells arose as the spectators came to their feet in prolonged greeting. Women’s handkerchiefs waved furiously. A mass of old Confederate veterans tramped along, nearly all bearded, and often bulging out of their tired but patched uniforms of gray and butternut. A few marched in a tiptoed bounce, trying to match rhythm to one of the South’s great marching tunes. Most carried their old long-barrelled rifles with fearsome-looking bayonets. Some in the ranks like Dooley Culpepper had the butt of a revolver sticking out from his belt while others like Turner Hawkins displayed serrated bowie knives. Captain Robert Bidwell wore his dress sword.
Zachariah was on the right end of the 8th Georgia, sergeant stripes gleaming, calling cadence. His eyes caught Lee’s in the stands and he grinned broadly. Lee almost didn’t recognize this hearty, zealous sergeant as his father-in-law. Lee grinned back, standing and waving his hat.
The singers were reaching the end of a verse. The leader cupped his hands into a megaphone and called, "Sing them the chorus." So as the first ranks passed the Johnny Rebs were nearly bowled over by hundreds of voices belting out Harry Macarthy’s roaring chorus.
Hurrah! Hurrah!
For Southern rights, Hurrah!
Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag
That bears a single star!
The cheers mingled with called out names and shouts of "Daddy" and "Hi, Grandpa". Then came 2 ranks of veterans in wheelchairs being pushed along by some of the smartly dressed Boy Scouts. The crowd choked as the amputees rolled by, then redoubled their volume. Admiring eyes followed the old men and many handkerchiefs (from both genders) ceased waving and went on tear duty. With full hearts the watchers turned to the following unit, and the spectators’ pride now blossomed into gale force nostalgia.
A double length float approached, hinged in the middle. Its rear wall was a 2 story plantation mansion, with white columns, a deep porch and a second floor balcony, draped with a large Confederate flag. Huge letters at the top "roof line" spelled "UDC." In the "front yard" under potted trees a handsome man dressed in the antebellum suit of a wealthy planter and wearing riding boots was sitting in a rocking chair enjoying conversation with several men in gray perched on benches. (These were some of the elderly veterans who were unable to march.) A woman in plantation finery was upon the "grass" in the shade of one of the trees, with several younger girls similarly dressed and equally posed.
On front half of the float a half dozen white men made up in black face and dressed in slave rags were smiling as they pretended to hoe in a "field" of cotton plants while singing plantation songs. One man was not only in black face but also dressed as a woman. "She" had a bandanna tied on her head and a water pitcher in her hand. She moved barefooted from field to planter to veterans to lady and back again, "filling" cups and glasses. Occasionally "she" would flutter a hand fan by a white face.
On either side of the float walked a dozen or so women, their hair done up in the vertical curls of War days and each dressed in a hoop skirt. These were a dazzling collage of colors, styles and fabrics that had been lovingly kept for years. Each lady twirled a parasol over her inside shoulder and carried a flat basket in her curbside arm. They smiled sweetly calling "Help send a veteran to the Encampment." After a basket filled with various coins and the odd bill the lady would sashay to the float and empty the contents into a horse trough in the "plantation's" front yard.
Emily floated up to the Johnson Square viewing stand. She was in a deep maroon dress with a black lace bodice and bows knotted at intervals about a foot up from the hem. She saw Lee staring in amazement a few rows up. She called out in her best Southern Belle voice, "How about you suh? Would you be so kahnd as to help the Cause?" She smiled coyly, flashed her eyes and extended her basket. Several folks now recognized Emily and laughed, both at her fine air and at Lee’s astonishment. Lee had enough presence of mind to dig out a silver dollar from his vest pocket. His coin toss landed square in her basket. She pretended to be taken aback (although it was a generous amount), and then curtseyed dramatically. "Thank you, suh. Yo’ kindness is most becoming." She smiled at him again, this time not play acting but with real warmth. Lee caught the emotion and blushed as Emily strolled away.
The spectators were awash in swords-and-roses memories. The final unit of the parade brought back to 1912. People stared in wonder at a long wagon holding a 36 foot wide modern apparition. Two parallel canvas beams connected to each other by a maze of rods and struts seemed to float from curb to curb. The canvases were stiffened into a delicate curve that ran their length, bowed up toward the sky. A pair of wood beams, sculpted in a delicately twisted shape, hung vertically behind and between the upper and lower canvases.
A man dressed in a high-collared white jacket, wearing a skull-hugging leather helmet and what looked like massive, oversize spectacles sat on the contraption’s front end. A short boom stretched ahead of his feet while a long boom ran back behind him, overhanging the rear of the wagon by several feet.
The crowds buzzed with excitement as the words "flying machine" leaped from mouth to ear. The buzzing turned to applause as watchers read the sandwich boards of several men walking alongside the wings of the Wright Flyer: "Exhibition Today" and "See a man take to the skies!"
"Where will it be?" people asked. "All over Savannah" came the answer. "Keep your eyes on the sky!" Applause, waving handkerchiefs and cheers followed, and the sound washed over the Savannah Mounted Police that came in a line of horseflesh about 12 riders wide. The lieutenants at either end of the line kept saying to the crowds, "Thank y’all fo’ commin’. Have a great Fourth o’ July!" The spectators headed home and on to various parks around town for picnics and games.
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Lee made his way among the happy crowd of picnickers at Forsyth Park looking for Zachariah and Emily. Lemonade, popcorn and pretzel carts were everywhere, along with the snap and pop of small firecrackers set off by young boys. The occasional constable strolled by while sack races, firemen’s tug-of-wars and a carnival air prevailed. Indeed there was a bit of a carnival going on with a ring-the-bell concession, a pie eating contest and a kissing booth.
Lee found Zachariah with Bob Bidwell and other vets at the tail of the line for the kissing booth. A table here held a petition to the Secretary of the Army to keep the Gettysburg Encampment an all white affair. The men chatted casually about their mutual honor and the dastardly idea of putting freed slaves in the military in the first place.
"An insult to any man who evah wore a uniform," Turner Hawkins proclaimed as the others nodded along.
"The Yankees have no pride as men even askin’ to have the USCI at Gettysburg," Bob Bidwell chimed in as Lee joined the booth line and nodded to Zachariah.
"C’mon Zach," Lee called over, "come get a kiss from Emily."
Zachariah first pretended he hadn’t heard. When the others looked at him expectantly he said awkwardly, "Oh, she wouldn’t think that’d be proper." Bob tried too but Zack hung his head. "I don’t want to embarrass her." After a bit they all drifted away, leaving him alone on a bench.
The booth was a gazebo hung with Confederate colors and trim. Two of the antebellum parade ladies were perched on chairs with hand fans fluttering and eyes flashing invitingly. Libby Pocklington and Rachel Collins held baskets and stood by neatly painted signs proclaiming "UDC Kissing Booth, 5 cents a smooch" "Veterans free" and "Help send the boys in gray to the National Encampment."
At the head of the line, Dooley Culpepper puckered up, leaning his grizzled chin toward Emily. She gritted a smile as the liver-spotted face with the mole northwest of the upper lip drew close. A mix of scents tapped her nose and stung her eyes: tobacco juice, the sweaty tang of unwashed skin, and an alcohol whiff that could be medical, rotgut or hair pomade, but in any case cheap. As soon as she felt the wet smack on her cheek she drew back, grinned and exclaimed, "Oh mah! A kiss from a genuine Confed’rit soljah. How ever shall I get over it?" She fanned herself in mock passion but in real discomfort.
Dooley grinned and winked. "You never git over bein’ kissed by the best." He made a lunge across the counter to peck her again but Emily was too quick for him. Side-stepping she called out to the line of civilians behind Dooley, "Gentlemen! Help---send a Confederate to Gettysburg. Kisses 5 cents apiece. Step right up, won’t you please?" This last was said earnestly, misted with desperation. Lee said a quick, "Pardon me" to the two men ahead of him, stepped to the counter, produced a nickel and said gallantly, "For the South!" He pecked Emily on her left cheek as she eyed Dooley through her slitted right eye.
"Why thank you sir," she said, smiling warmly and carefully moving another step away from Dooley. A middle-aged man under a bowler sporting a sandy, handlebar moustache had also seen Emily’s distress. He stepped up smoothly, nickel in hand. He stood so as to pin the string-tied Lee to the counter, thereby forming a human blockade against Dooley. Emily thanked him with her eyes and submitted to his bay-rum scented buss.
As he pulled back he could see Emily still concerned about Dooley. He turned to the seedy veteran and said loudly, "Sir, would you do me the honor of a tale or two of yo’ service in the War?" He walked over to Dooley and gently steered him away from the kissing booth toward a vacant bench. "Did you serve under General Lee, suh?" came the gentleman’s fading voice.
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"Are you sure, Calvin?" Eleanor peered at him closely. "Anna Louise and I will be just fine going by ourselves." Normally she’d have just have urged they all stay home and pretend she actually didn’t want to go, but having Anna Louise around nerved Eleanor’s courage, even going out without a man.
Anna Louise McCloud, Eleanor’s great friend from Montpelier, had come up by train yesterday. Like Eleanor, Anna Louise had a heart-shaped face, but her hair was still salt-and-pepper despite her years. The pepper streaks matched her lively, chestnut-brown eyes. Defying fashion, Anna wore her hair down, shoulder-length, and often with a wide-brimmed, pale bolero hat that gave her a Southwest look. ("Practical and comfortable," she would state, "two concepts lost to women’s fashion.") She was taller than Eleanor and had a poised, muscular way about her, like a dancer or even an acrobat.
"Yes I’m sure," Calvin said, putting away the last dish after supper and hanging up the towel. "I’d like to see them this year. Why don’t we head down now and take in some music and desserts?"
"Sounds tasty," Anna agreed. "I’ll buy the first round of lemonades."
"Oh Anna, don’t be silly," Eleanor said. "Calvin will treat."
"If you’re going to give me bed and board for a few days its the least I can do. I insist," she said with a warm smile and a glint in her eye. Both Eleanor and Calvin smiled back. They knew that glint.
Calvin shook his head in mock despair. "Once again I’m sold down the river, the poor, hen-pecked man being led around by the apron strings of two headstrong women, force-fed lemonade, custard, chocolate......"
"Oh go get your hat," Eleanor mock scolded, waving him toward the front hall. "At least that way you can actually talk through it. Apron strings indeed."
A few minutes later they walked down Burnham to Main and caught a southbound streetcar. The sun would be up for about another 90 minutes but it was blocked occasionally by some thunderheads building up toward the New York line. As they got off at Park Street and started toward the State Fairgrounds, Anna’s "frontier" look set off much female comment, which she ignored. A bearded version of Benjamin Franklin emerged from the crowd.
"Sam!" Calvin and Eleanor exclaimed together. "How are you?" Eleanor added.
"Fine thanks," Sam said, all smiles but his eyes to Eleanor’s right.
"Sam, you remember my friend Anna Louis McCloud from Montpelier? She visiting us for a few days and...." her voice trailed off as she watched both Sam and Anna’s eyes light up.
"Umm, why yes," Sam stammered. "I do remember Miss McCloud."
"And I remember you Mr. Wentworth," Anna said sweetly. "But please, call me Anna."
Sam gulped. "Of course. Will you call me Sam?"
So as dusk came on and the sound of the calliope drifted from the carousel the four went about the fairgrounds, one pair a small-boned couple married over a half century. The other pair strolled too, the lifelong bachelor and the vigorous, sprightly woman who most men found fascinating and who no man had found the courage to court, let alone wed. As promised, Anna bought lemonade, but Calvin and Anna decided to have theirs differently. That half-frozen, lemon-and-sugar wonder called "Italian Ice" was the rage this year, and Eleanor and Sam both agreed (after tastes) that the other two had picked a winner. As the sun met the landline they all climbed into the veteran’s reserved seats in the grandstand and waited for nightfall.
"Hello Calvin. Sam." Both looked to see Ashton Melo standing in the aisle with a handsome, middle-aged couple. Both men popped to their feet and Calvin reached over for a handshake. Sam lifted his hat from beyond Eleanor and Anna.
"Ashton!" Calvin said with pleasure. "You’re looking well and you made it in time." Looking at the couple he asked, "Are these some of your relations?"
"No sir. Actually this the Rev. Homer Stanton, pastor of my church over in West Rutland, and his wife Dahlia."
"Delighted." "My pleasure" and other pleasantries filled the introductions all around. "Calvin?" Ashton asked, "Could we’all get past you to those empty spots?"
"Of course, of course," and the four stood to let the three pass into mid-bleachers. As he sat back down Calvin pondered the similar glint in the eye of Eleanor and Anna and now Mrs. Stanton. Was it really the same look? He was staring off for a moment when his eyes focused on a familiar but frowning face. Josiah Trimble from the row ahead across the aisle glared disgust toward Calvin. Eleanor noticed Abigail Trimble staring over her shoulder at them and shaking her head while she said something to Josiah with a scornful look on her face.
Suddenly came an enormous boom. All heads turned to see the second firework orange trail rising in the air ending in a brilliant flash and an immediate boom. Eleanor sat close to Calvin and held his hand tightly, but after the first two bangers he did well, even seemed to enjoy it. The display and the crowd’s delight went on a good half hour. When the black powder aroma drifted over the stands the veterans had grim memories stir under the civilians’ cheers. Once in a while to the west nature added her own glitter with lightning bolts flashing inside the thunderclouds slowly approaching from Albany. Vermonters told each other their thunder was "just New Yorkers arguing."
The quartet all made it on the fourth jammed streetcar leaving up Main Street from Park. Sam bade Anna a gallant, hand-kissing goodbye at West Street as he changed lines for home. Calvin, Eleanor and Anna rode up to Burnham and all turned in while the weather was still mostly distant rumbles and heat lightning.
It was after midnight when a thundering crack woke Eleanor. She sat up and gasped "oh." She looked over to Calvin, but his side of the bed was empty. Rain drummed the bay window and lightning flashed again. In the ghastly glare Eleanor saw Calvin sitting rigidly in a chair, his knuckles white, gripping the armrests, his eyes shut and tears streaming down. She hauled back the sheet, moved over to him and stood holding his head in her arms.
She could feel him trembling and knew he was back in the War, feeling the fear he couldn’t show at Gettysburg, at Spotsylvania. But now, decades later, still the cannon boomed, the wounded screamed and Eleanor could only hold him until one storm or the other spent itself or passed over.