Confederate Memorial

We went down to Springwood Cemetery, because Mr Daisy discovered that one of his favorite mystery authors was buried there, John Dickson Carr.



And so, while we were there, we had a look around. It was cloudy and overcast, giving off a perfect Halloween vibe. We saw some interesting tombstones, many very old.

This statue was on a toddler-aged child's tombstone, very poignant:




This being the South, lots of references to heaven:




Springwood Cemetery is well-known as a famous Confederate resting place. There are countless tombstones accompanied by the historic CSA (Confederate States of America) marker. Many are unmarked stones. It is a popular site for genealogical researchers, as well as history buffs.

Memorial to General Robert E Lee:



Interestingly, it is now known as Main Street, and hasn't been called "Dixie Highway" since I have lived here.


And there is a Confederate Memorial with some sobering words on the side. I knew as soon as I read it, I had to share it here.




The monument reads:

All lost, but by the graves
Where martyred heroes rest
He wins the most who honor saves
Success is not the test
The world shall yet decide
In Truth's clear far-off light
that the soldiers
who wore the Gray and died
with Lee, were in the right.


Obviously, speaking from 2013, Truth's clear far-off light has decided the opposite. But see, how utterly certain they were? As certain as today's war-partisans are.

And I often wonder, how will history judge us?

The Real Daisy

... was my grandmother. I have no idea when or where this photo was taken, but it was probably in Pittsburgh.

Her eyes were so black, you couldn't even see the pupils. Her hair was likewise very black, naturally curly and silky.

My grandmother was Melungeon, which I have always intended to blog about, but there is so little known about them, I don't know exactly what to write. Suffice to say, they were very WEIRD backwoods people with all kinds of BIZARRE traditions you never heard of. (I later understood this is why my family was so odd and never fit in with the other nice, Midwestern families on the block.) Her youngest brother (who never left the backwoods) had an indescribable, hard-to-place accent that was nearly indecipherable, as did both of her parents. It went beyond mere Appalachian accents, and it was nice to finally learn the reason why.

When the Melungeons were asked questions by census takers, they told them all kinds of creative stories, claiming to be Portuguese, Arabs, Jews, and whatever else they thought the census-taker wanted to hear. That's why nobody knew for sure what race/ethnicity they were, and historians are still arguing over it. Much has finally been sorted out through DNA: Melungeons were "tri-racial isolates" -- Native American indigenous people (and refugees from colonial encroachment) and free African-Americans, intermarried with white colonists who decided to go off and live in the wilderness for whatever reasons. This accounts for their deep secrecy and suspicion of strangers (and especially the government).

When white colonists eventually migrated to the Cumberland Gap and the New River (where my grandmother was born), they found these strange folks already living there.

I am interested in learning more, as it becomes known. In studying the Melungeons, it is fascinating to note how some people don't mind being one of the first Americans, but twist themselves in knots to deny the African ancestors. My grandmother told me that as a child, she always knew there were Africans in her family tree... but that is not the rude terminology she used, which I will not repeat here. (What is interesting is that she found this amusing and never denied it. In all honesty, she seemed to find the idea of being related to Cherokee more disturbing.) When people snootily remarked that she looked like Lena Horne, she was obviously too thrilled to get mad about the racial thing.

Second photo is of my grandmother and my mother, Betty, on the right. I estimate their ages to be 37 and 21, respectively. (1955 - Parkersburg, WV)

















Third photo is my mother and me, ages 38 and 15. (1973 - Columbus, OH)
Yes, before you ask, I think that IS real fur. She thought fake fur was low class.

I miss them a lot during this time of year.

And now, your turn. Who do you miss?

Tuesday Tunes: Stolen gravestones and other musings

Some Tuesday tunes to bum you out and then pick you back up again.

If you are already bummed out, you can jump to the last two.

~*~

Listen to how these gee-tars all sound like whips. Bloody incredible... especially around the 3:50 mark. This kind of otherworldly guitar-playing inspired people to do bizarre things, like steal Duane Allman's graveyard monuments and headstones in Macon, Georgia.

WHERE would you put such a thing? In your house?

Glad to see that they have replaced them! (see link) I've heard the gravestones were stolen multiple times. For some reason, that strikes me as very southern... it also puts me in mind of the psychology behind Catholic relics, i.e. if you steal the gravestone, maybe you will one day play like that, too? (I own lots of relics, as you probably know, and I won't get rid of them, just in case.)

This is a great song for drinking in excess, so be careful. Especially if incidents in your life are shaping up like the incidents in the song... and believe me, I know what I am talking about!

And pay attention to Berry Oakley's fabulous rumbly bass line that begins the song... in live performances, people would start screaming and hollering even before the killer-whip-riffs start... the rumbly bass signaled the beginning of a southern-drinking-man's symphony...

Allman Brothers Band - Whipping Post



~*~

This song is for my stepfather, Elliott Horn, full name George Elliott Horn, a multi-talented guitarist and singer (also played mandolin, steel guitar, banjo, bass). Born in Logan, West Virginia to Cherokee parents, Arminda and George, July 1933. Death in Canton, Ohio, 1968. (leaving this info for the genealogists among you!)

He was once a lover of Jackie DeShannon, which made my mother mad. We were not allowed to mention her name or play her records. (But when she came on the radio or TV, my mother would always listen to/watch her carefully.) He was also briefly in Billy Joe Royal's band, called The Royal Crowns. That riff you hear on "Down in the Boondocks" which makes the whole song? Is my stepfather. Interestingly, hearing the song always comforts me and brings me Elliott's presence, whereas the following song is difficult for me to get through, at least on most occasions. Luckily it is now somewhat obscure, although there is also a lyrical reference to it in my favorite movie, Taxi Driver.

I loved Elliott very much; far, far more than my biological father.

This song is about him.

So much so, I can only listen to it maybe twice a year, and this is one of those days.

Kris Kristofferson - The Pilgrim, Chapter 33



~*~

Okay, who knew that Tommy Boyce committed suicide? I just wrote (up there) that you should jump to the last two songs, but that was before I checked Wikipedia. Well, damn, another rock and roll suicide (deliberate David Bowie reference). That is sad. :(

How could anybody who writes happy songs for the Monkees get depressed? That seems to go against the fundamental laws of the universe or something.

Tommy Boyce and Bobby Hart wrote over 300 songs; their songs sold over 42 million records.

I just wrote about my stepfather who died in 1968, which was the year of this tune, which is why I thought of it. The song and the duo were also featured on an old episode of "I Dream of Jeannie" for some inexplicable reason. (If I hadn't seen it, more than once, I wouldn't believe it either.)

I am a big sucker for the Hup Hup! (or whatever he is hiccuping there, at about 1:28 and 2:13) right before they sing the chorus, which I think made the upcoming-chorus somehow more exciting. Pop music genius!

Rest in Peace, Tommy.

Tommy Boyce and Bobby Hart - I wonder what she's doing tonight



~*~

I love the Perry-Masonish horn arrangement in this song, which made it sound like a melodramatic 50s drive-in B-Movie. It is actually the theme to an A-movie with Kirk Douglas, surprisingly enough. (1961)

It comes on LOUD, so turn it down a wee bit first.

Town Without Pity - Gene Pitney



~*~

Perry Mason?--say the kids... huh?

Yes, this is one of the best noir numbers you will EVER hear... I associate it with very early, almost unconscious childhood. The brassy blast at the end of "Town Without Pity" makes me think of the brassy blast at the end of this TV theme song.

I watched the dopey reruns for years, just so I could hear the music. I also love the late 50s/early 60s aesthetic of the show: gigantic Buicks and coffee-tables, and men wearing hats during the day. (The clothes were the GREATEST, as regular readers know, I love that era of fashion.)

Raymond Burr was gay, which as a world-class scandalmonger, I already knew... but who else did? What would my grandmother have said, if she'd known? She worshiped Erle Stanley Gardner, and by extension, Raymond Burr.

I could only find a short clip, which apparently is from German TV...there is a longer version of this that closed the show--it ran more than a minute. Can't find that one. Poo! :( This will have to do.

Old Perry Mason TV theme



~*~

Speaking of the south (which I mentioned way up there)... only someone living here could have written this. I've been thinking of it a LOT lately.

For my friends in the Occupy movement!

These bastards stole their power from the victims of the Us v. Them years,
Wrecking all things virtuous and true
The undermining social democratic downhill slide into abysmal
Lost lamb off the precipice into the trickle down runoff pool
They hypnotised the summer, 1979
Marched into the capital brooding duplicitous, wicked and able, media-ready,
Heartless, and labeled
Super US citizen, super achiever,
Mega ultra power doesn't relax.
Defense, defense, defense, defense. Yeah, yeah, yeah
Yeah, yeah, yeah, ignoreland. Yeah, yeah, yeah, ignoreland
Yeah, yeah, yeah

The information nation took their clues from all the sound-bite gluttons
1980, 84, 88, 92 too, too
How to be what you can be, junk, damn junk in your energy
How to walk in dignity with throw up on your shoes
They amplified the autumn, 1979
Calculate the capital, up the republic my skinny ass
TV tells a million lies
The paper's terrified to report
Anything that isn't handed on a presidential spoon,
I'm just profoundly frustrated by all this.
So, fuck you, man (fuck 'em)
Yeah, yeah, yeah, ignoreland. Yeah, yeah, yeah, ignoreland
If they wasn't there we would have created them
Maybe, it's true,
But I'm resentful all the same
Someone's got to take the blame
I know that this is vitriol
No solution, spleen venting,
But I feel better having screamed--don't you?
They desecrate the winter, 1979
Capital collateral

Brooding duplicitous, wicked and able, media-ready,
Heartless, and labeled
Super US citizen, super achiever,
Mega ultra power doesn't relax.
Defense, defense, defense, defense. Yeah, yeah, yeah
Yeah, yeah, yeah, ignoreland. Yeah, yeah, yeah, ignoreland
Yeah, yeah, yeah, ignoreland. Yeah, yeah, yeah

I did not do the revolution
Thank you

I know exactly what he means.

R.E.M. - Ignoreland

Rosy red and electric blue: I bought you a paddle for your paper canoe

Deadhead peace symbol at left is a lovely metal design from Mountain Metal Arts.



An eventful weekend, during which our plucky heroine studied Shantideva like a fiend, and nonetheless failed miserably at all her spiritual assignments. Deja Vu all over again!

Alas, Jesus, Mary and Joseph shake their collective heads at me, as I extend my various temperamental shortcomings and personality disorders to Buddhism. For his part, Buddha wonders (understandably) why HE is left holding the bag, and handed me off to Shantideva, which at first, I didn't readily comprehend. Now I do. Shantideva's Bodhicaryāvatāra is the fire-and-brimstone version; "Shape up or be reborn as a moth, you ridiculous, unenlightened fool!" (It actually reads like the Gospel of Mark, in segments.)

I'm trying, really, but moth-rebirth remains a distinct possibility, if not inevitability, at this point.

Especially when I deal with ... (dramatic pause) sexual harassment.

What?--say my regular readers. "Aren't you a fat redneck grandma? You sure do talk like one!"

Yes, sports fans, Daisy is a short, dumpy redneck grandma... but still, the men keep coming, you should pardon expression. I am currently dealing with a stalker. A weird one, a left-wing stalker who doesn't like what I say. And left-wing men often feel entitled to harass women in misogynist ways, since they think their pro-feminist politics put them beyond the pale and place them above criticism. (Considering the tepid response to this person, maybe they're right.)

Since I fancy myself "the Anti Ann Coulter" (particularly after I learned she was a Deadhead), this made me wonder what kind of misogynist harassment is directed at Coulter, Michelle Malkin, Laura Ingraham and other popular right-wing female commentators. The idea makes me cringe, since many left-wing men clearly feel no hesitations about such behavior. By contrast, many right-wing males will not openly sexually-harass women (under their own names; they will troll anonymously, of course), since it isn't Christian and makes them look lustful (that is to say, their reticence isn't about feminism or women, but about Christianity).

But you know, as long as this makes them act decently, I don't care about the reasons for it.

It is therefore ironic that the net result might be: Right-wing men do not sexually harass the women in their midst with the same regularity left-wing men do. Or if they do, it's in secret, not openly, all while making a "joke" out of it. As is currently happening to me.

No wonder Coulter gets nastier with each passing year, and obviously despises liberals more and more with every book she writes. Considering what has been directed at me lately, I can only imagine the filth she has read from left-wing men, and it makes me ashamed.

~*~


At left: Daisy speaks at Occupy Columbia, South Carolina Statehouse. (As I told my Facebook friends, I didn't realize I was pointing my finger.)


Right after my radio broadcast, went to Occupy Columbia (see Saturday photos), where I rabble-roused right after the amazing Tzima.... talk about a hard act to follow! She is talented and incredible, and I am ready to vote for her if she ever runs for anything. As it is, I will simply link to her radio broadcast, EVOLVE WITH TZIMA, which is on WOIC-AM in Columbia. You can listen from the link, too!

~*~

Nobody has any money, but if you do: my radio show needs advertising, I need a job and so on and so forth. (Deadhead voice: Hey mister, got any spare change?) The unemployment-benefits clock is winding down. I am nervous about this, as of course, millions of other Americans are also. I feel their pain and they feel mine.

The smug Republican element who joyfully-yelled at us to "Get a job!" on Sunday (as we marched through Fall for Greenville), are simply cruel. What do you think brought people to the streets, at long last? Losing homes, losing jobs, losing faith in the system.

If you still have faith in capitalism, this means you must still have money, so ante up. Pay pal button is at right! :)

~*~

Those Ancestry.com TV commercials just kill me... I have done a good bit of genealogy, and so I imagined an alternative version:

I knew when I started hunting for my ancestors, I might find some wild characters... so when I got to Ancestry.com, I found this little leaf and it took me to ANOTHER leaf and well... I found out that one of my great-great grandfathers went to prison for holding a man's feet to the fire! And you thought that was just an expression!

Daisy beams at the camera for emphasis: "You don't have to know what you're looking for, you just have to start looking!"

~*~

Half of the internet entries are spelled Charley and the other half Charlie. I confess, I forget which is correct. Regardless of spelling, courtesy of lyricist Robert Hunter, it's where we get today's blog post title.

Little bit quicker and we might have time
to say 'how do you do?" before we're left behind


Cosmic Charlie - Grateful Dead (studio version!)

A way down south in Dixie

At left: Alexander Gardner's famous historical photo of the hanging of co-conspirators Mary Surratt, Lewis Powell, David Herold and George Atzerodt, 1865.



Locally, the 150th Anniversary of the Civil War has brought them all out of the woodwork to dress up like rebel soldiers. (As I've said here before, I think a crucial aspect of this is the long-suppressed desire of grown men to play dress-up.) Before any of the rebels yell at me [1], let me present my credentials: I have an ancestor who risked his life to run away, and I qualify for this discussion. (And in my genealogy, there are a few more where he came from, on both the Union and CSA side. But great-great-great-granddaddy Hatcher is my pacifist DNA and my favorite confederate ancestor.)

I have never bought into the whole southern glamour of the Civil War, although I like Vivien Leigh as much as the next person. But getting starry-eyed and romantic over lost causes is not something I was raised to do. However, I have been paying attention, and I have figured out that much of this Civil War Nostalgia is bluntly nationalist in origin. White southerners still feel dissed by the mass culture, and this is a way of honoring those who feel continuously insulted. Just as there is a secessionist vibe all over Texas that has never quite abated, there is a similar tone running through discussions of the vanquished Confederate States of America. This is why so many of them protest that "It isn't about slavery!"--since for them, it isn't. It's about where they live NOW. It's about southern pride, about place, about the mass culture employing actors with bad southern accents to be the butt of sitcom jokes and commercials. It's about people making fun of rednecks for being uneducated. It's about global capitalism colonizing old neighborhoods, old folkways and rearranging everything so that it is unrecognizable to the people who grew up here. It's about yankees not understanding WHO DIED in the Civil War and/or who decided to swim across the river like Thomas Hatcher: poor white people. Not Stonewall Jackson.

We were used as cannon fodder, as always. [2] That is something to MOURN, not celebrate, and that is where I get off the bus. WE WAS HAD, WE WAS USED, a buncha rich planters USED us to jab at Abraham Lincoln. That should make you angry, not make you want to organize a charity costume ball.

I'm glad the Civil War anniversary has at least produced an interesting film; I do want to see the new movie The Conspirator. Lots of people do not know who Mary Suratt was, and that she was the first woman executed in the USA. Nice to see some of this history brought out in movie-form, where people will actually see it... those of you who think all southern white women were Melanie Hamilton Wilkes, you should have a look. I don't know if the movie takes the position that Suratt was guilty or innocent, but she was likely guilty. Death by hanging, of course, is rather harsh.

But you know, you kill Abraham Lincoln, people are going to be pissed.

~*~

How SHOULD we commemorate this awful, violent period of American history? Is there a way to honor the dead (including dead slaves) in a respectful way that includes everyone? Or is this simply impossible?

Discuss amongst yourselves.

~*~


1) I knew if I tried hard enough, I could work "rebel yell" into the post, so congratulate me. That's as close as I could get.

2) We are being used as cannon fodder right now too, but they don't seem too worried about that. (((Daisy scowls in disapproval)))

Confederate Memorial Day

CSA Battle Flag image from The Palmetto Scoop.



Today is officially Confederate Memorial Day. This day in history marks the capture of Jefferson Davis. From the Greenville News:

COLUMBIA — All state agencies, 10 counties and one school district in South Carolina are observing Confederate Memorial Day.

The state holiday is officially May 10, but employees get Monday off.

The holiday marks the death of Confederate commander Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson and the capture of Confederate President Jefferson Davis.

South Carolina is among several Southern states that designate a state holiday to honor Confederate soldiers, although they do so on different days. Alabama, Georgia and Mississippi observed Confederate Memorial Day on April 27th. Texas honors Gen. Robert E. Lee's birthday, Jan. 19, as Confederate Heroes Day.

May 10 was renewed as an official holiday in South Carolina in 2000 as part of a compromise that also made Martin Luther King Day a permanent holiday.

I have my issues with "Confederate Memorial Day" and its questionable political genesis, but then again, I figure I can use this day any way I like.

I'd like to take this day to honor one of my ancestors, a CSA Army deserter named (by most accounts) Thomas Hatcher. A native of Virginia, he deserted the Confederate army at about the Civil War's mid-point, and swam across the Ohio River, eventually taking up residence in Pittsburgh. He was variously known as TA Hatcher and TJ Hatcher, as well as several other names; I don't know anything else about him, except that he appeared to stay on the move, even after the war's end.

One might presume that deserting the CSA was some risky business, and that is why he moved around a lot and changed his name. Was he proud or ashamed? What made him do it? Whatever his reasons, I am extremely proud of him. This decision cost him his family and his former life. He stayed in the north, and from all I have been able to discern, never went back to the south.

As I have written here before, I don't know if he was sick, injured or just fed up and disgusted. I like to think it was the latter, and he had seen enough. I trace a direct line from great-great-great grandfather Hatcher to my own anti-war sentiments that have sustained me throughout a lifetime. I enjoy believing that pacifist convictions are encoded in my DNA.

On this day, I honor you, Thomas Hatcher, for having the courage to lay down your arms and beat swords into plowshares. I am lighting a candle to honor your great decision not to continue fighting in a racist war.

Far between sundown's finish and midnight's broken toll
We ducked inside the doorway, thunder crashing
As majestic bells of bolts struck shadows in the sounds
Seeming to be the chimes of freedom flashing

Flashing for the warriors whose strength is not to fight
Flashing for the refugees on the unarmed road of flight
And for each and every underdog, soldier in the night
And we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.

(Bob Dylan, Chimes of Freedom)

John Updike 1932-2009

The amazing writer John Updike has passed on. He was sexist (like most men of his era) but he was also quite wonderful. Still, he specialized in lines like: Men are all heart and Women are all body. I don't know who has the brains. God maybe.

We also had a common ancestor, which made us something like 9th cousins. The ancestor was named Opdycke, from the Netherlands. Apparently, I was doing genealogy at the same time Updike was, and I read of our common ancestor in one of his essays. I was delighted to learn we were related.

There is a harrowing sequence in Rabbit Run (1960), wherein Janice accidentally drowns her infant child while she is drunk. It has stayed with me most of my life. (Updike wrote this long before anyone talked seriously about postpartum depression or female alcoholism.) Actually, several of his colorful passages have stayed with me, their magical prose magnifying my own life.

For instance, in Rabbit is Rich (1981), Harry Angstrom is thinking about aging:

The cars sell themselves, is his philosophy. The Toyota commercials on television are out there all the time, preying on people's minds. He likes being part of all that; he likes the nod he gets from the community that had overlooked him like dirt ever since high school. The other men in Rotary and Chamber turn out to be the guys he played ball with back then, or their ugly younger brothers. He likes having money to float in, a big bland good guy is how he sees himself, six-three and around two fifteen by now, with a forty-two waist the suit salesman at Kroll's tried to tell him until he sucked his gut in and the man's thumb grudgingly inched the tape tighter. He avoids mirrors, when he used to love them. The face far in his past, crew-cut and thin-jawed with sleepy predatory teenage eyes in the glossy team portraits, exists in his present face like the chrome bones of a grille within the full front view of a car and its fenders. His nose is still small and straight, his eyes maybe less sleepy. An ample, blown-dry-looking businessman's haircut masks his eartips and fills in where his temples are receding. He didn't much like the counterculture with all its drugs and draft-dodging but he does like being allowed within limits to let your hair grow longer than those old Marine cuts and to have it naturally fluff out. In the shaving mirror a chaos of wattles and slack cords blooms beneath his chin in a way that doesn't bear study. Still, life is sweet. That's what old people used to say and when he was young he wondered how they could mean it.

I find myself wondering: Who else will talk about mundane middle/working-class America now? Bruce Springsteen?

Goodbye, cousin. May your soul rest in peace.