An Imaginary Conversation in the Family Graveyard

Out to Pastoral

by John Idol

BURLINGTON North Carolina—(Weekly Hubris)—1/16/12–My great grandfather, John Nicholson Idol, returned to his native North Carolina from Appomattox, having served in the Army of Northern Virginia under General Lee as a Tar Heel Sharpshooter.

He found no suitable work near his home in The Piedmont and so headed to the Blue Ridge to visit a kinsman. He liked what he found in the mountains, a job as a factor for a country store—and a bride, Thirza Greene.

Some few years after their marriage, he scraped together enough money to buy a small farm in what was then called Vergil (now, Deep Gap). In clearing part of his mountainous acreage for tillage, he felled several trees, one of which cracked apart as it fell and slammed into him. The injury proved fatal.

As he lay dying, he told Thirza he wanted to be buried on the highest point of their farm. She and their six children honored his wishes, choosing a plot some 3,400 feet in altitude and marking off about a fourth of an acre for the future burial of family members.

His remains rested there alone for but a few years, for Thirza soon came to lie by his right hand, their burial spots marked by two slabs of sandstone found on the farm and placed as headstones, both bearing in crudely carved words and numbers their names and dates. The carving was done by a daughter.

Well over 70 years after Thirza’s death, and 20 or more after their second son, Rufus, my grandfather, died, I stood in the family graveyard, both amazed and saddened by how quickly nature was reclaiming it after Rufus no longer attended to its upkeep. From side to side, top to bottom, saplings of white pine, locusts, and birches provided cover for dew-and blackberries, a few sprigs of red clover, and a multitude of yucca plants stemming from the one Aunt Snow had planted at her infant daughter’s grave. I worked days clearing out the vegetation and putting up granite headstones for my great grandparents.

Then, as I wiped away, swept, and stood admiring my handiwork, I seemed to hear a voice. It was not one I knew, but whoever was speaking clearly knew me.

“So, you’re the one who took away those lovingly carved slabs of sandstone and put granite markers with ‘CSA’ beneath my name?”

“Yes, I did that because I wanted to have the family remember your days as a soldier. As a child, I pictured you as my hero after Rufus passed along a story you told him about how you came home from Appomattox. I tried turning the story into a poem. Would you like to hear it?”

“Yes, but not before you tell me about my second boy, Rufus. I don’t see a stone for him here.”

“He died during the great snow storm of 1960 and could not be driven up here. Along with his wife, Nancy, he’s among neighbors and with one sister, Martha, at Laurel Springs Baptist Church graveyard. I mean to put a memorial stone for them beside your grave.”

“Good, I approve. Now for that poem.”

“Appomattox”

 

Your sharpshooting ended here,

your Whitworth stashed stock down

in Virginia’s soil.

But those quick grey eyes must have been still on watch,

your trigger finger still curled and ready

as you surrendered your gun and cartridges.

I see you today as you begin your trudge home,

one leg stiff from a stashed ax.

“Not much of a poem, My Boy, but Rufus did tell you right. I smuggled an ax out of camp to cut wood for a camp fire or perhaps kill a hog for food. We’d been cold and hungry for days as the war drew to an end. The clash at Petersburg had just about done us in. There was no sense going on fightin’.”

“You no doubt know that I’m a buff of ‘The War Between the States’—notice I didn’t say ‘Civil War,’ and would like to have your account of the fierce battles at Gettysburg, Antietam, and Malvern Hills, but I sense you wouldn’t like to relive those horrible bloodbaths.”

“You’re indeed right. Such horrendous images as a retelling would bring forth have no place on this peaceful mountain top. I’m not disturbed here until your dad’s pack of fox hounds come by yelping their tongues out. He loves to hear them sing, I’m told.”

“Yes, yes, absolutely addicted to hearing them. You might be interested in listening to a poem I wrote about one of his singers.”

“I’d like to hear it, since I’m always on the lookout for tidbits about my offspring, but I hope it’s better than the one about me.”

“Well, judge for yourself. Here it is, as I recall it.”

“The Missing Alto”

for Lane Idol

The rest of the pack now safely kenneled

back to his campsite slowly he drives,

eyes scanning fields, front yards, and porches,

food fixed in bowls in back of his truck,

water jug filled, leash placed beside him.

Campsite reached: “Here, Mamie, here,”

sung in high tenor, meant in his heart.

“Here, Girl, here!” But there’s no answer,

no weary, torn bitch who gave it her all.

“I’m leaving you food and water, Sweet Woman,

and tomorrow, Old Girl, I’ll be here again.”

 

Nights come and go, come and go, come and go.

Great races and music from Ike and the pack

give him real joy—but still it’s not right:

that low alto part is lacking its leader.

 

Many weeks later comes a telephone call:

“She’s awful poor, but your bitch come in here.”

Now there’s rejoicing in whistle and step

as he heads for his pick-up to go claim his alto.

“Well, your poem has some details that help me understand all that ear-splitting yelping, and I can’t say I find music in their baying. I prefer to hear Doc Watson’s ancestors pick and sing. Now that’s real music.”

“I can’t nay-say that, I’m sure, for Doc has rich musical bloodlines. I’ll want to hear more about what you heard them sing later. Just now my belly’s growling and I must head off the mountain to find some belly-timber, a supposedly obsolete term that Lane sometimes uses for ‘food.’ Did it pass down to him from you? Whether it did or not, you’ll be proud to hear that it’s attributed to Lane in the Dictionary of American Dialects. That’s another tidbit for you. Your surviving letters reveal a man with a feel for words.

“But we’ll talk again, if you’re willing. I have all sorts of questions. For one: Did you really say to Rufus and his brother when they were younguns that you’d go ahead and choke them if you knew they’d ever vote for a Republican?”

“You bet I said it, and meant it. You would have said the same thing if you had lived during Reconstruction under Republicans. Greedy, revengeful scoundrels!”

With that political jab, the voice faded beyond hearing, and now I heard only the distant yelping of Lane’s hounds as they begged to be turned loose for yet another chase. But that jab now fully explained my family’s history as Yellow-Dog Democrats.

I hastened, then, from the mountain top to take a seat at Lane’s table and enjoy some of my mom’s belly-timber.