| Transcript |
HOUSTON VOICE / MAY 31. 1996 13
PLAIN SPEAKING
by Larry Lingle
Remembering Memorial
Days Past
This past Memorial Day, like many before
it, passed with barely a notice except that I
was aware the banks were closed and the
mail was not delivered. Memorial Day is
one of those bottom-tier holidays, so
unrecognizable that they can be placed
on random Mondays and not be affected.
Such was not always the case for me. As a
child, I actually looked forward* to ihis
harbinger of summer not just as an end to
another school year, but as a day of adventure. In my distant youth. Memorial Day
was an occasion when my grandparents
took my brother and I to the cemeteries.
While on the surface of it, hardly an auspicious beginning, such adventure was
but an open door to history—in my case,
family history.
Our little party ventured a mere twenty
miles to the hamlei of Otterville —
which, one supposes, came by its name
from a certain animal in the nearby
Lamine River, although I failed to ever
spot such a creature. From the highway,
we walked down a dirt road, stopping
intermittently for short visits with
assorted relatives, and finally reaching
the town's cemetery. In those remote
years between the Second World War and
the Korean action, veterans groups had
already placed tiny flags, marking the
graves of those who fought in the war that
really mattered-—the Civil War (hardly
civil) or the War for Southern Independence.
Years later during a somewhat brief
teaching career 1 found that the history ol
that war. if taught at all.centered around
causes and effects, battles and generals. Yet the guts of thai conflict was represented by ihe more than six hundred
thousand soldiers who fell in battle.
Based on a percentage of the nation's
population at Ihe time, that would correspond to five million war dead today.
This Otterville grave site was connected io my maiemal grandfather's
family, ihe Langdons of Indiana and
before that, New England. Bul no flags
marked the graves of the male members of
that clan as none had actually had to wear
their nation's uniforms. After a few hours
of surveying the markers and receiving
a refresher course on this family's history, we found our way to an even more
remote dirt road which runs past an almost
hidden small church with accompanying cemetery. Here the Mount Olive Baptist Church silently stands over nearly
overgrown grave markers of perhaps
two hundred mounds. Yet. as a child, this
was the most fascinating place on earth.
This was home to the remains of my maternal grandmother's family, the Steeles
of Kentucky and Virginia. Actually
every one buried there I bore some relation. So remote was tiny Mount Olive thai
by lhat time no veteran group maintained
the usual flag ritual.
Nearly all ihe markers bore dates ending
before or around the turn of the century.
But it was here that I search for the grave of
Uncle Green Sieele so that I could once
more hear Grandma tell me the stories of
Uncle Green's riding with the "irregulars, Southern troops nol always actually in Confederate service. Il was in
thai peaceful selling that I heard the sto
ries of the Seven Years War (1854-1861)
when Missourians fought Kansans over
the extension of slavery lo that more
wesiern state. Missouri was a slave
state, surrounded on three sides by freedom territory, and my part of Missouri,
that central strip which marks the influence of the Missouri River, was the bedrock of slavery in a divided state.
My mother's parents had shouldered
much of the responsibility in raising my
brother and me. And certainly my grandmother's love of family history passed on
to me a broader fascination with history
itself. And. while I learned something of
the toll of our great Civil War, I also
absorbed from my grandparents an
understanding that a person's color was
no longer an issue of conflict. Il was from
my grandfather's experiences in the
union battles with the railroads (my
hometown of Sedalia existed only
because of ihe railroads) early on confirmed my failh in the right of working
people to fair treatment and just wages.
Finally, if we had the time, my grandparents would stop at another small community—this one right on the highway to Jefferson City, the state's capital—Syracuse, the origin of which I would not learn
until college. Here was buried my
father's family. My paternal grandfather—who died the year before I was born—
had the requisite American flag denoting his service in the Spanish-American War, although I have no idea whether he
made it to Cuba or was trained in Texas.
The bulk of my lather's family was buried in Clinton County where they had settled a century and a half ago and generally pursued journalism for several
generations, producing but one noteworthy individual, my cousin. Jake Lingle. whose lasting claim to the history
books is that while a newspaperman in
Chicago, was murdered by Al Capone's
gang after offending that noble soul in
print.
I don't go back to those cemeteries anymore. I don'l go back home anymore. If I
did, I'm not sure they still plant miniature tlags. Certainly there would be fewer
stories to tell. My father and some uncles
and cousins fought in World War II. My
brother served in Korea. Bul considering all the bloody conflicts, the closest
any member of my family came to heroic
sacrifice was an uncle of my paternal
grandmother, a Fry, who was hanged on
the road io Booneville for allegedly
being a spy. Unfortunately, family history failed to recall which side. North or
South, for which he was spying.
At leasi in true family style, 1 served my
time in the Army between Korea and Vietnam, maintaining the family tradition
ol survival and undisiinguished service—which puts me somewhere between
Bob Dole's heroism and Bill Clinton's
dodging the draft—I can appreciate the
position of both without judging either.
In the oft-quoted words of Thomas
Wolfe, "you can't go home again." certainly applies to me. But I can appreciate
the heritage acquired in those early
Memorial Day treks and have no regrets at
the demise of a cherished tradition.
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