Heavy rain is forecast so I decide to
spend an extra day in this small town in rural Tennessee. The motel
is clean and there are three different restaurants available within
easy walking distance. Dinner last night was at Monroe's. I'm
starting to get used to catfish. It often seems to be a headliner in
this part of the country.
Breakfast this morning was at Duke's
Diner. Almost a caricature, it is like walking into a movie set.
People are friendly and with the chatter going on there is no doubt
that I am venturing further into the southern U.S. The drawl is
unmistakable. I'm just waiting for Jed Clampett to walk in.
It doesn't take long before I am
engaged in conversation. At first I think he is the proprietor, but
he quickly corrects that misconception. “Just here to he'p ma wife.
It's ma day off.” he tells me as he slowly moves about clearing the
odd table while flashing me an easy relaxed grin.
When I let it be known that I am
cyclist passing through staying an extra day at the motel up the road
the chatting starts in earnest. Others from adjacent tables are
drawn in. “What have you seen so far?” I am asked. When I
mention a couple of the civil war battle sites, the stories begin to
flow. Everyone has something to say about their connection to the
history of the area.
“My five times great grand-dad was
murdered after the civil war. The soldiers was leavin' but they
killed him on his farm.” I am told. “One of his sons had his new
saddle stolen by them retreating Union soldiers.” he continues.
“It was a terrible, terrible time. It wasn't all about slavery. It
was about taxes on cotton. The slaves you know, around here, they
lived in their own houses, and were free to go about as they pleased.
Some of the things that happened after the war were just terrible.
My grandma told me some of the stories.”
A fellow at an adjacent table nodded in
agreement. “Everybody was wrong.” I am told. “But them Union
soldiers shouldn'ta done what they did. They was stealin' just to
make money, not because they needed what they took.” As the talk
continues I hear The Band singing “The Night They Drove Old Dixie
Down” in the back of my mind.
I don't detect anger as I am told these
stories. I do pick up on the sadness however. My new friend makes
it clear that this is an oral history, that has been passed down to
him through generations. He tells me quietly, at times with a smile,
but often slowly shaking his head, as if he is reliving the tale told
to him by his grandmother. His ancestors experienced the horror of
that war, and the story continues to be told, and re-told.
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