The Appalachian Chronicles: Shades of Gray

by Seneca Fox

  Chapter XXI

  10:30 pm

  On my way back to Owen’s RV, the words spoken by Leland’s son sounded in my ears again and again. “We ain’t prejudiced… We ain’t prejudice…” As I climbed the steps I wondered if Leland was Owen’s former neighbor, the one who had expressed his dislike for blacks. I also realized that the man talking to Leland, Major Squires, had to be Owen’s son – Junior. It occurred to me that Owen probably knew more about reenactments than he let on. But what disturbed me most was what I had not heard – the word that Leland prevented his son from speaking.

  I knocked on the door and heard Max say, “Come in.” I opened the door and he said, “Johnny Reb, how was your little adventure?”

  I sat down in the chair. Max was sitting on the couch watching television.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Max.

  “Nothing, just tired.”

  “I hope not too tired. Anna was here a little while ago. She said she’d come back.”

  “That’s nice,” I said blankly. “Where’s Owen?”

  “Gone to bed. You sure there’s nothing wrong?”

  I didn’t want to answer Max’s question so I asked, “How much more did he drink?”

  “None.”

  I looked across the room at a picture on the wall that I had only glanced at before. It was a portrait of Owen, his late wife and two grown children, a young woman and a young man. I walked over and looked carefully at his son and saw that he resembled Junior, the same man I’d seen inside the large tent talking to Leland.

  Too agitated to be still, I walked over to the stack of papers sitting in the chair next to the dinette. I began to rifle through them wondering what the other articles revealed about Civil War reenactments. Among the titles were, “Is Gettysburg Selling Our Heritage”, “Virginia Senator Tries to Smooth Ruffled Confederate Feathers” and “Georgia Senator Calls Governor Racist”. As I dug through the papers, I was reminded that for some people the Civil War was far more than a simple pass-time – indeed, for many it was an obsession. I set down the stack of papers and began picking them up, one by one, counting the articles. Somewhere in the thirties I lifted a full-page “proclamation” paid for by the Association for Southern Heritage. It was entitled “Confederate History and Heritage Month: A Proclamation.” The page was framed with rows of Confederate battle flags across the top and bottom and partial columns of flags along the sides. A larger, light gray battle flag was printed just above the center of the page; the body of the “proclamation” was superimposed over the larger flag. It began with a “Whereas” statement indicating that April was the month in which the Civil War began and ended. Similar statements followed. One essentially blamed Lincoln for the war; others were a call to honor the Civil War generation that lived in the same county and towns where the paper was printed. The final “Resolved” statement was difficult to comprehend. It was an appeal to “honor and respect the devotion of … soldiers and civilians, both white and black, free and slave, to the cause of Southern Independence…”. Had I read it twenty-four hours before; that is, if I’d bothered to read it at all, I would not have had a second thought about the final statement. Instead, I wondered what was meant by the words “soldiers and civilians, both white and black, free and slave.” I quickly considered possible variations of soldiers and civilians based on the modifiers used in the proclamation – for instance, free white soldier or even free black civilian fit with my understanding of the Civil War South. Other combinations seemed ludicrous. For example, white slave-soldier. Whether plausible or ludicrous, I did not question those derivations; however, I struggled with free black soldier, slave-soldier and slave-civilian. Recalling that Reg had said that some historians deny that blacks fought for the South, it suddenly seemed more likely that the section of the bylaws that Leland had read out loud was aimed at limiting black membership in the Association for Southern Heritage. I concluded that, if I was right, the words black and slave were not inserted with sincerity and goodwill; on the contrary, it appeared to be a lame attempt to be politically correct. I wish Reg or any of his friends from the group of Union soldiers had been there to tell me what they thought of the proclamation. Confused by what I had just read, I dropped the paper on the table and returned to the stack.

  I picked up a few more articles and then an entire section of a newspaper. Beneath the newspaper was a set of tri-folded papers. I unfolded them and saw a note clipped to a document entitled “Catechism for Southern Children: Twenty Questions for Children Ages 9 - 11.” The note was addressed to Junior. It read, “Please see that these are distributed to our ‘Daughters’ in Charleston, Columbia and Savannah. Contact the respective offices to find out how many copies are needed. Leland”. I pulled off the note and started reading.

  Question #1. What was the War Between the States?

  Answer #1. A war fought to defend Southern sovereignty

  Question #2. What is sovereignty?

  Answer #2. The right of a person or people to make their own laws.

  Question #3. When did the War Between the States take place?

  Answer #3. From 1861 to 1865.

  The first few questions seemed innocent enough, even if the answer to question number one reflected a perspective similar to that articulated by the reenactors inside the circle of tents. If the concern is about sovereignty, I thought, then why didn’t these people give more attention to the American Revolution – wasn’t that war also about the issue of sovereignty; and, wasn’t if fought on American soil? I thumbed through the pages to see if the remaining questions were similar. After the first ten questions the emphasis seemed to change.

  Question #12. Where and when was the first slave ship built?

  Answer #12. In the northern state of Massachusetts in 1636.

  Question #15. How did the slaves feel about their masters?

  Answer #15. They were faithful and devoted and were always ready and willing to serve them.2

  As I read the final questions the insidious nature of the document seemed evident. I stood there thinking about the catechism and the exchange between Leland and Junior, and Leland’s son. I envisioned a thriving network of men and women working hard to seamlessly ease their offspring and perhaps even other children into a world of one sided beliefs and ideals.

  Suddenly feeling angry, I wanted to escape the realization that I now confronted. I folded the paper and tucked it into my waistband. “Excuse me,” I said to Max and walked down the short hallway to the bathroom.

  Owen was snoring loudly behind the closed door to his bedroom. I stepped into the bathroom and switched on the light, closed the door and turned the knob marked “cold” on the faucet over the sink. I splashed the water on my face, looked in the mirror and repeated the question, “How can people do that to children?” I sat on the toilet seat and dropped my head into my hands, covered my nose and mouth with my hands and cursed. “Those bastards,” I said.

  A few minutes later I was still angry but had regained my composure. I looked in the mirror again and saw that the flesh around the lids was red. If I walked back into the living area Max would realize that something was bothering me, so I looked aimlessly around the bathroom.

  Inside a cabinet I found a pair of scissors, a razor and a can of shaving cream. When I looked at my beard I was reminded of the reenactors calling me “hardcore.” While their comments were made in jest, the feeling of camaraderie was gone. I no longer wanted to be a “hardcore”. I decided to shave.

  I began to cut my beard, dropping each clump of hair into the trash can. After almost three months without shaving my beard extended more than a couple of inches beneath my chin. I cut slowly, getting the scissors close to my skin, more flesh from my face showing with each swipe. Although the activity was distracting, I could not shake the visions of Junior delivering hundreds of catechisms to some obscure meeting place in Charleston or Columbia. I imagined him knocking on a door and patiently waiting for some elderly “daughter of the Co
nfederacy” to answer. “Why Mr. Squires, how nice to see you,” she begins. “Won't you please come in?” she says as she steps aside and curtsies slightly as he walks inside. They chat for a minute, perhaps they have tea, and he explains why he is there. When he leaves, she says, “My friends and I will see that your information is properly distributed. And please, Mr. Squires, do come again soon. Why it’s always such a pleasure to see you.” I snickered a bit at my willingness to accept the stereotype.

  I finished cutting with the scissors and spread shaving cream around my face. I touched the blade to the top of my jaw and pulled down, all the way to my chin. The razor pulled my beard and I winced. I continued on the opposite side. Then I shaved around my cheeks and under my nose. Having finished most of my face, I rotated the razor in my hand and began shaving my neck. The need to concentrate on shaving momentarily prevented me from thinking about anything else.

  When I was done, my face was speckled with blood. I washed it with cold water, tore little pieces of toilet paper and placed one on each spot of blood. After I cleaned the sink I picked up the trash can, opened the door and walked toward the living area. Max was watching me.

  “Cut yourself?” he asked.

  “Hope Owen doesn’t mind that I took liberties with his razor and shaving cream.”

  “He won’t.”

  “I cleaned up after myself as best I could,” I said as walked past Max and into the kitchen.

  “So what happened out there? Something’s obviously got you worked up.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  I was standing in the dark, dumping the bathroom trash into the garbage can when the door to the RV opened. It was Junior. He said to Max, “You’re still here. Where’s my father?”

  Max stood up. “Your father’s in bed. He invited us,” Max gestured toward me, “to stay tonight.”

  “I need another blanket; it’s getting cold out there.” Junior looked at me. I was still wearing the Confederate uniform. I expected him to say something; instead he turned toward Max and simply said, “Excuse me,” then he disappeared into the back of the RV. I was relieved that he didn’t seem to be too curious about us; and, since I did not want to introduce myself to him, I said, “I’m going to take out the garbage.”

  Max looked down the hall, then turned and whispered, “You don’t want to meet Junior – he’s a real reenactor.”

  “Real reenactors don’t need extra blankets,” I said sarcastically. I tied the top of the bag, went out the door and walked swiftly toward a dumpster that was setting at the edge of the camping area. I disposed of the garbage and turned to wait for Junior to leave.