Do you really think you're stronger now?

There's an expression that's floated around a lot these days: What doesn't kill me makes me stronger. The quote is the corruption of a line by Fredrich Nietzsche from his book Twilight of the Idols, or, How to Philosophize with a Hammer. The line from the book is actually, "From life's school of war: what does not kill me makes me stronger." To an extent that's true - I get the point of the expression.

Fredrich Nietzsche
I think I would have loved the chance to spend a day with Nietzsche, because I'd certainly have learned a lot. I also know I would have disagreed with almost everything he believed, and especially that little maxim. Nietzsche was plagued with poor health most of his life, and certainly wasn't a poster boy for such a thought. At the very least he was not proof of concept. The reality is that while some people may benefit from a little stress and adversity, too much is usually harmful.

There's a military expression called "The Thousand Yard Stare." It describes a soldier who's had too much of that stress and adversity that Nietzsche thinks would have made him stronger. Thousands of soldiers have come home from war and dealt with the unimaginable. They've used a type of compartmentalization to separate themselves from what they've seen and done, so that they can deal with life moving forward. But they're never the same as they were before.

Marines Call it That 2,000 Yard Stare by Thomas Lea
Last week I was talking with a buddy who was dealing with a lot of personal things in his life, and the duties - for lack of a better word - of Christmas had just overwhelmed him. He had that Thousand Yard Stare, but I don't think he realized it. In fact, as I looked around during the week before Christmas, I saw that emotion - or lack of - in checkout lines, in parking lots, and in the little notes friends were writing on Facebook. More than ever I recognized frustration, despair, and loneliness in people who were trying to do everything, and to be everything. I even saw a couple articles suggesting people abandon social media for a few days, because it's easy to come under the impression that all our friends are living perfect lives - judging from their Facebook posts and Instagram pictures.

Don't put too much pressure on yourself, and don't think you can do it all. The perfect Christmas gift for the kids, that morning run with your buddy, the boss's artificial deadlines, the date for New Year's Eve, the perfectly spotless house for your friends, the Christmas card you needed to send, the call to your mom, that blog with no misspellings or improper use of adverbs. It can be too much, and too many of us suffer, striving for some impossible point of perfection. We're usually our own worst critic.

If it doesn't kill you it will make you stronger? Nope, not true at all. Just do your best, and be satisfied in that.

You should know the true value of time

When I turned 16 my grandmother gave me the pocket watch that had belonged to my grandfather - the man for whom I'm named. It was a gold watch, but didn't have a cover, and wasn't rare or particularly valuable. But it was the most important thing in the world to me, because it had been given to my grandfather by his parents as he turned 21, and he had wanted me to have it. When she gave it to me he was still a distinct memory, having passed just six years earlier. His initials were engraved on the case in the fanciest of scripts - JDH, for James Douglas Holleman - and the quiet but efficient ticking of the gears inside enamored me. I'd never held anything like it.

My grandmother explained that the watch must be kept wound, so that it stayed properly lubricated inside. Yet she also cautioned me on over-winding, and explained to me that the watch was somewhat like life - that there was a fine balance between too much and too little.

About seven years ago I was digging around in my safe, looking for some insurance papers that had disappeared, and was upset and frustrated in general. But in one of the back corners, underneath the kids' birth certificates and my old passport, was that watch. I hadn't wound it in years, but was excited at the opportunity, anticipating that perfect mechanical sound of wheels and gears in motion. Nothing happened. I smacked it gently, and still nothing. I hadn't kept it wound, and though it looked perfect from the outside, it needed help. I took it to a jeweler here in town and they were able to get it lubricated and back in running shape. Then I got that old passport renewed, realizing that I was becoming like that watch - OK on the outside, but lacking on the inside to some things that really mattered.

I count that watch as one of my most prized possessions, along with my first pocketknife and some carvings my grandfather gave me. As I look at it today I'm reminded of the true value of time, and that while time can be measured with a watch, it can also be measured in more important ways. More than ever I feel like that watch, with time ticking, and realizing that time is the most valuable thing I have. There are things in this world that I want to do - and accomplish - and now is the time.

This blog entry will post automatically for me, on a schedule, as they usually do. But this one is a little different. It will post at 1:00 PM on December 22, just as we begin funeral services for one of my favorite uncles. I'm honored to have been asked to serve as a pallbearer for his service, an honor that seems to come too often these days. Johnnie Turner passed yesterday at 90 years of age, and if anyone ever made good use of their years it was him. But I know it went fast for him, as it always seems to for me, and surely does for you. I know that now's the time to do the things I want to, because time is ever-fleeting. If there's anything more valuable to me than my grandfather's pocket watch, these days, it's time. If there's anything important that you're not doing because you "just don't have time", please do your best to find the time for that goal. Don't procrastinate on that trip, that book you're writing, that old friend, that thing that really matters to you. There's an expression that time sneaks up on us, and it's true. Make every minute count, because the true value of time can never be counted. Life is the watch that never stops ticking.

When Santa Claus met General Lee

First appearing in 1867 as part of "Mrs. Louise Clack's Christmas Gift To Her Little Southern Friends", this wartime exchange between General Robert E. Lee and three young girls became a Christmas tradition for Southerners.

Mrs. Clack's children's book contributed quite a bit to the post-war impression of Lee's character, going beyond his already well-known military genius and demeanor. The story was never intended for profit, and all the royalties went to the orphans of the South.

Is it a true story? I believe in Santa Claus and the Christmas Spirit, and I know that it is.

Merry Christmas!

James K. Turner
Franklin, Tennessee

                                                                   General Lee and Santa Claus
                                                                    by Louise Clack

When auntie finished the locomotive song, little Minnie jumped up and said: " Auntie, oh, auntie, I have thought of something we children can do before we give the book to Santa Claus. Let us write to General Lee, and ask him if Santa was our friend; and if he says yes, then we will give him the book, for the little Confederate children. So the auntie sat down and wrote the following funny little letter to General Lee, at the children's dictation:
Dear General Lee:

We think you are the goodest man that ever lived, and our auntie says you will go right straight to heaven when you die; so we want to ask you a question, for we want to know the truth about it, and we know that you always speak the truth.
Please tell us whether Santa Claus loves the little rebel children, for we think he don't; because he did not come to see us for four Christmas Eves. Auntie thinks you would not let him cross the lines, and we don't know how to find out unless we write and ask you. We all love you dearly, and we want to send you something; but we have not any thing nice enough; we lost all our toys in the war. Birdie wants to send you one of our white kittens - the one with black ears; but Auntie thinks maybe you don't like kittens. We say little prayers for you every night, dear General Lee, and ask God to make you ever so happy. Please let us know about Santa Claus as soon as you can; we want to know for something very, very, very particular; but we can't tell even you why until Christmas time, so please to excuse us.

Your little friends,

Lutie, Birdie, and Minnie 

The above letter was sent the following day, and in about a week the answer was received:
My Dear Little Friends:

I was very glad to receive your kind letter, and to know by it that I have the good wishes and prayers of three innocent little girls, named Lutie, Birdie, and Minnie.
I am very glad that you wrote about Santa Claus for I am able to tell you all about him. I can assure you he is one of the best friends that the little Southern girls have. You will understand this when I explain to you the reason of his not coming to see you for four years.
The first Christmas Eve of the war I was walking up and down in the camp ground, when I thought I heard a singular noise above my head; and on looking to find out from whence it came, I saw the queerest, funniest-looking little old fellow riding along in a sleigh through the air. On closer inspection, he proved to be Santa Claus.
Halt! Halt!, I said; but at this the funny fellow laughed, and did not seem inclined to obey, so again I cried Halt!. And he drove down to my side with a sleigh full of toys. I was very sorry for him when I saw the disappointed expression of his face when I told him he could go no further South; and when he exclaimed, Oh, what will my little Southern children do! I felt more sorry, for I love little children to be happy, and especially at Christmas. But of one thing I was certain - I knew my little friends would prefer me to do my duty, rather than have all the toys in the world; so I said: Santa Claus, take every one of the toys you have back as far as Baltimore, sell them, and with the money you get buy medicines, bandages, ointments, and delicacies for our sick and wounded men; do it and do it quickly - it will be all right with the children.
Then Santa Claus sprang into his sleigh, and putting his hand to his hat in true military style, said: I obey orders, General, and away he went. Long before morning he came sweeping down into camp again, with not only every thing I had ordered, but with many other things that our poor soldiers needed. And every Christmas he took the toy money and did the same thing; and the soldiers and I blessed him, for he clothed and fed many a poor soul who otherwise would have been cold and hungry. Now, do you not consider him a good friend. I hold him in high respect, and trust you will always do the same.
I should be pleased to hear from you again, my dear little girls, and I want you ever to consider me,

Your true friend,

General Lee

Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!" cried all the children when their auntie finished the letter; " hurrah! "Santa Claus is a splendid old fellow. And was not General Lee good, to think to do all that for the brave soldiers? Let us call our book 'General Lee and Santa Claus,' and let us say, 'God bless both forever!!'"
                                                                                                                           The End

My subject is War, and the pity of War

War has always brought forth some of the most intriguing works of art, and I would argue that World War I gave us the most significant poetry. In Poet's Corner in Westminster Abbey is a memorial to 16 Great War poets with the inscription, "My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the Pity."

Great War memorial - Ypres, Belgium
That inscription was taken from a poem by Wilfred Owen, probably the finest of the war's poets, and one of its last casualties. Known primarily for Dulce et Decorum est and Anthem for Doomed Youth, Owen was greatly influenced by Siegfried Sassoon, who is probably my favorite writer from this time - as regards his entire body of work. A quick read of How to Die and Counter-Attack evoke strong feelings even today. Both Owen and Sassoon displayed their bravery on the battlefield, but their works reflected a curve toward pacifism as the battles continued on the Western Front.

The famous names continue: Rupert Brooke, Robert Graves, Charles Sorley, Edward Thomas, et al. But the most famous Great War poem, at least to the general public, is likely In Flanders Fields. A personal favorite of mine, In Flanders Fields was written by Dr. John McRae, a Canadian physician.

Essex Farm Cemetery
In Flanders Fields was written just behind the lines of battle, a couple miles north of Ypres, Belgium. McRae originally threw the poem away, thinking it lacking. Thankfully it was picked up by a compatriot, and was eventually submitted to Punch magazine. Published on this date in 1915, the poem took hold among the British public, and eventually found fame across the world. Mourning the loss of a friend on the battlefield, McRae wrote of the tendency for poppies to spring up where the ground had been disturbed, and his opening stanza became one of the verses that schoolchildren would memorize for decades.

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place: and in the sky
The larks still bravely singing fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead: Short days ago,
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved: and now we lie
In Flanders fields!

Take up our quarrel with the foe
To you, from failing hands, we throw
The torch: be yours to hold it high
If ye break faith with us who die,
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Battlefield poppies
McRae composed the poem at a spot called Essex Farm Cemetery, and today it's one of the most visited places on the Western Front. It's not uncommon to see double-decker buses lined up at the small cemetery, with school children traipsing down to see the spot where the poem was composed. They also visit the grave of Private Valentine Joe Strudwick, famous for joining the British army at 14 years of age and being killed in action a month before turning 16. So many come to see the grave of the boy their same age that artificial grass has been installed at that part of the cemetery. They pause for a moment, take a few pictures, then climb back on the bus for a quick drive back toward Ypres - perhaps to visit the In Flanders Field museum in the rebuilt cloth hall.

Cloth Hall - Ypres, Belgium
McRae's poem is still significant today, and just as poignant and lovely. But to balance it, lest war seem too glorious, I would suggest the last stanza from the Wilfred Owen classic.

"My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori."

(Translated from Latin - The old Lie: Sweet and honorable it is to die for one's country.)

There is nothing more that I can add. My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the Pity.

Control your rage, control your life

I was driving home on Thanksgiving to spend the day with my parents and friends. My kids were with me, and as we exited the highway we pulled into one of those behemoth gas stations to fuel up and let our old Beagle stretch his legs.

I filled my gas tank and pulled over to the edge of the parking lot, where my daughter was finishing up her walk with our dog. On the street just in front of us horns started blaring, and I looked up to see a pickup attempting to exit a parking lot, and an RV – parking illegally on the street – somewhat blocking the truck’s access. The men in the vehicles were gesturing madly at each other, and obviously screaming, though thankfully my kids couldn’t hear what they were saying. After five seconds I realized, even though the RV was in the wrong here, that the pickup actually had plenty of room to go on. But it took him at least another 30 seconds to do so – he had to stare down the other driver.

Winstead Hill - Franklin, TN

As the pickup drove off, the man in the RV took one more opportunity to flail his arms in the air as an insult. My daughter asked me, “What was all that about?” So I used it as a teachable moment, and explained that the RV driver was in the wrong when he parked on the side of that particular road, but that the truck driver should have just gone on. And then, as we were able to leave the parking lot and drive away, we discussed road rage. Those hand gestures seemed to be just a step away from something that could have turned violent.
General Cleburne memorial

It was hard for me to comprehend and explain the rage that I saw in those men, and over something so insignificant. It made no sense. My guess is that they were both traveling for the holiday, and the pressures they were feeling just boiled over. I have several friends who hate Thanksgiving because of all the rushed visiting and cooking and entertaining. It can be overwhelming. Still, that madness baffles me.
Now it's a few days later, and as I write this it's the anniversary of the Battle of Franklin. On that day General John Bell Hood sent forward the Confederate Army of Tennessee into well defended works, and into almost certain annihilation. In an event that still defies explanation, the Union Army had loosed itself from the trap that Hood had set, and somehow made its way through Spring Hill and into Franklin. Hood was furious, and let his rage overwhelm him. His blind decision to deploy and advance cost thousands of casualties.   

Carter House - Franklin, TN
General Hood was a good strategist, and he had seen the results of such advances at Gettysburg and elsewhere. There was no way that his charge into the Union works would carry the day, but he gave the order, regardless. He didn't wait for his artillery to come forward, he didn't heed the advice of his subordinates to attempt a flank attack, and he didn't wait for the next day - choosing to advance just an hour before sundown.
The great military strategist Sun Tzu wrote, "There are roads which must not be followed, armies which must not be attacked, towns which must not be besieged, positions which must not be contested, and commands of the sovereign which must not be obeyed." Franklin is a prime example of that maxim, and is a lesson that we must be able to control the rage that sometimes hits us all.

McGavock Cemetery - Georgia section
The November 30 date is the one memorialized and remembered, but I think there should be equal attention paid to December 1. That's the day the sun rose on the devastation that had consumed the Army of Tennessee - the day Hood should have realized the true cost of his rage. That's the day that truly teaches us a lesson.

The Never Ending Battles of the Sioux

The protests against the Dakota Access Pipeline continued this week, with Native Americans making a stand in North Dakota, and several being arrested. Their protest stems from their dismay that the pipeline is being routed through lands that are sacred to them, and that it will destroy graves and native artifacts. Further, they are concerned with environmental issues, especially concerning water sources in the area. According to news reports, law enforcement has been using pepper spray, rubber bullets, and - incredibly - water cannons in freezing temperatures. A spokesman for the Standing Rock Sioux tribe calls this an escalation of violence that could seriously hurt someone. Reading the articles and watching the accompanying videos, I was reminded of the nearby battle of 150 years ago when the forefathers of these same Sioux stood against the United States government.

While the 1860s are more commonly associated with U.S. troops in the Confederate States, federal troops were also out west, subduing the native tribes in an effort to clear land for white settlers and keeping open trade routes. Undoubtedly, the Indians were not equipped to fight the U.S. troops. 

The largest expedition ever carried out against the Indians was the one in which Brigadier General Alfred Sully led U.S. Army troops against the Sioux in July 1864. This expedition included 4,000 troopers - well-armed with repeating rifles, pistols, and cannons - marching against warriors armed primarily with bow and arrow. Worse for the Indians, their group also included women and children. As you'd expect, things went terribly for the natives, and they were overrun and chased from their land at the Battle of Killdeer Mountain. With a terrible touch of vengeance the U.S. troops destroyed tipis and jerky needed for the winter, and then killed thousands of dogs. Worse, they allowed the killing of Sioux children by a rival tribe.

A couple years ago I took the opportunity to visit that battleground, which is as distant and remote as it is sad. From Bismarck it's about a two and a half hour drive to the northwest, and is situated among oil fields and farmland. The actual battle was a push toward Killdeer Mountain, with the Sioux abandoning the fight, and escaping to the badlands. My video is raw, but does give you an idea of the terrain, and of the hopelessness that they must have felt as they ran. Today there's an acre plot of land that officially recognizes the battlefield, a gift to North Dakota from a local farmer in the 1930s. That plot includes the graves of two soldiers killed during the battle. 

One of the saddest things regarding this expedition is that the U.S. Army was chasing and killing Sioux who had done nothing to them. They were after the wrong people. I'm not informed well enough to make a decision as to who's right in the pipeline fight that's happening today, but I admit that I hope some consideration will be given before this type of response to the Sioux continues to escalate. They deserve that much.

The Irony of Austerlitz

The 1805 Battle of Austerlitz was Napoleon's finest victory. His 70,000 troops fought and defeated 90,000 Russian and Austrians, led respectively by Tsar Alexander I and Holy Roman Emperor Francis II. Their battlefield maneuvers eventually encompassed several square miles, while casualties numbered in the thousands. Soldiers from both sides were buried in mass graves. The citizen population of the area was also affected, first by the battle and then by disease brought in with the troops. Then the armies and time marched on.

 A hundred years after the battle the locals decided that there should be a monument to those who fell there, and in the spirit of healing they would raise that monument as a peace memorial dedicated to the soldiers of France, Russia, and Austria, as well as the citizens of Moravia.

The monument was placed atop Pratzen Plateau, a significant location during the battle, and one that figured prominently in the battle plans of all three emperors. The view from atop Pratzen Plateau was the reason it was coveted by the men in 1805, and the monument could be seen from miles away when it was finally completed.
There was other important business. In the aftermath of the battle thousands of the dead had been hastily buried in mass graves, and there were 20 of those scattered around the countryside. The Moravians felt that those men were being forgotten, and that they deserved remembrance. So the peace monument was built with a chapel inside, and below that was an ossuary to hold the bones of those buried in the mass graves. But World War I came before the monument could be dedicated, and before the graves could be exhumed.

The interwar period was one of recovery, and the monument was finally dedicated in 1923. During World War II the area still held its military value, and the monument was damaged as retreating Germans attempted to use it as a shield during a firefight.

Today the battlefield exists much as it did in 1805, as a rural landscape with small villages dotted about. Inside the chapel there is a strange effect of the walls that virtually requires whispers when you speak. And there's an irony that whispers back. The memorial exists so that we will remember the death and destruction that war brings, yet its practical purpose was to serve as the final resting place of the men buried in those mass graves. Sadly, during WWII the file with the location and details of the 20 mass graves was lost or destroyed, with only 1 of 20 having been discovered as of today - and that being by accident. The ossuary was built to hold the bones of thousands of men as a reminder of the devastation of war. Instead, it holds just a few, perhaps as a more absolute reminder.

California seceding? It wouldn't be the first time.

Donald Trump just made history as the first man in the history of our republic to be elected president without ever having served in public office or the military. He will step into the office having won in an upset, and as one of the most galvanizing presidential candidates since Abraham Lincoln. In the presidential election of 1860 Lincoln won the office without even appearing on the ballot of any Southern state, which quickly prompted the secession of South Carolina and six other states.

Lincoln - Douglas Debate
In the spirit of 1860, today we have some disgruntled Californians talking about seceding from the United States because of an incoming president. But if Californians were to seriously explore setting themselves up as an independent republic, it wouldn't be the first time.

The concept of secession is as old as America. In 1814 the New England Federalist Party began holding a series of meetings called the Hartford Convention, in which they discussed secession because of their disagreements with circumstances of the War of 1812. The Republic of Texas was a result of the same style of thinking and existed for a decade, beginning in 1836. The American Revolution was nothing more than secession from Great Britain. Certainly the most famous act of secession was the one that gave us the Confederate States of America. Abraham Lincoln, himself, during his famous debates with Stephen Douglas, argued that any group of people should be able to throw off their old government for one that suits them better.

But one of the most obscure acts of secession is that of California in 1846 in which a small band of rebels, led by United States Captain John C. Fremont and others, stood militarily against the Mexican government. California at that time was undoubtedly Mexican, but was of an almost fluid status, due to local governing conflicts, disputes regarding promises made to immigrants, and the never-ending thought that Mexico and the United States would go to war.

To put it simply, Americans near Sonoma began to assemble with the thought of creating their own republic. They armed themselves, created battle flags, issued proclamations, and challenged authority. The revolt lasted just a month, and there was only one pitched battle - more a skirmish, to be honest.

But the small revolt wasn't quelled. It was simply replaced with a larger one. The United States did declare war on Mexico, and the battle flags of the rebels were replaced with the flags of the United States. The United States won that war, and California became the 31st state in 1850.

Alcatraz - Photo courtesy of D. Ramey Logan
Personally speaking, I'm in general agreement with the concept of secession, and admit that there are places in California I love to visit. But I can barely imagine what it would be like to show a passport if I wanted to visit Alcatraz in San Francisco, go on a wine tour of the Napa Valley, or head down to San Diego for the International Comic-Con.

If California did secede from the United States, there's one thing they wouldn't have to worry about. You see, the California insurgents of 1846 were called Los Osos - The Bears - and their uprising was called the Bear Flag Revolt because of their flags. That's right. The current California state flag, with its grizzly bear, red star, and bold "CALIFORNIA REPUBLIC" is based on the secessionist Bear Flag of 1846. Simply put, California already flies the flag of an independent republic. Long may it wave.

International Comic-Con

The Odd Story Before the Canterbury Tales

The Canterbury Tales, authored by Geoffrey Chaucer in the 14th century, is one of the most important works of English literature, and most of us will recall bits and pieces from our high school or college days. Written in Middle English, this collection of stories ranges from the gallant combatants of The Knight's Tale to the bawdy story we find in The Wife of Bath's Tale.

The setting of The Canterbury Tales is England, and the story features a group of pilgrims traveling from London to Canterbury to visit the shrine of Saint Thomas Becket. As you likely recall, Thomas Becket had been Archbishop of Canterbury, and was murdered inside his church. His death was an outrage, and in just a few years he became a saint, and was revered across Britain and the continent.

In college I had an advanced English class that had a strong focus on stories such as The Canterbury Tales, Gawain and the Green Knight, Beowulf, and that type of tale. My professor was an expert on Middle English, and required us to memorize the prologue to The Canterbury Tales. I loved that class, and even today remember quite a bit of what I learned.

A few weeks ago I found an opportunity to reacquaint myself with the story of Thomas Becket, and in the oddest fashion. While buying a ticket to tour Lewes Castle, the lady asked if I was interested in a combination ticket that would let me visit the Ann of Cleves House, which is also in Lewes. She explained that the house was part of the divorce settlement between Henry VIII and Anne of Cleves, but that Anne may have never even visited there. I was interested, but wasn't sure I had time, and told her so. Then she mentioned something else, something inside the house, that I might really want to see. And that sold me.

Thomas Becket had been murdered by four knights, thinking that they were fulfilling a wish of King Henry II, who had disagreements with Becket. The murder was particularly brutal, it happened inside the cathedral, and there were witnesses. The knights immediately understood the gravity of their crime, and fled to a house near Lewes. Upon entering the home they placed their swords and trappings on a heavy table made of Sussex marble, and then began warming themselves by the fire. There was a sudden crash and a terrible noise, and they discovered that the table had apparently rocked itself until their arms had been thrown to the floor. The attendants replaced the knights' swords, but the table rocked itself again, and once again everything was cast off. There was no earthly explanation for what had happened, and the knights knew that their swords had done such sacrilege, that not even this table would allow them to touch it.

Today that table stands in Anne of Cleves house, and it was the thing that sold me on the ticket - the one thing that I just had to see. I stood there and marveled at what was ostensibly the table that refused the swords of the murderous knights. The four men fled England and were excommunicated by Pope Alexander, but were given forgiveness after serving as knights in the Holy Lands for 14 years. They had done penance for their deeds.

But that day I stood there in disbelief, and I tried to lift that table. It's so heavy that I couldn't make it budge, and I just had to wonder. Is it possible that this table once refused to play a part in one of the most famous murders of all time? I'm not sure, but I know that the story of the recalcitrant table is good enough to have been told by one of Chaucer's pilgrims on the way to Canterbury. Why not?

Our Politicians are on the Wrong Side of History

I travel a lot, and this past week I was in Louisville, Kentucky. As I was catching up on the news, a small tag line scrolled along the bottom of the screen, telling viewers that the Mayor of Louisville had prevailed in a lawsuit, and had gained the right to pull down a monument to the Confederate army. The monument is located on a bit of an island, near a traffic intersection, bordering the University of Louisville. The president of the university had also advocated moving the monument. The reason? That it might offend someone. Since 1895 this beautiful piece of art, dedicated to "Our Confederate Dead", has represented that - as a people - we remember those who came before us.

Louisville, Kentucky 
I was incredulous, and as I drove over to take a look at the monument, it occurred to me that - in just this past year - I've been in too many places where these works of art are being assaulted. Austin, Texas; New Orleans, Louisiana; Birmingham, Alabama; Memphis, Tennessee; Richmond, Virginia; and now Louisville. I've watched politicians bend to pressure, and buckle under threats. The American Civil War was fought over a myriad of reasons: taxes, exports, slavery, states' rights, home defense, patriotism, party politics, and sectional hatred - for a short list. Yet the ignorant and hateful step forward and declare that anyone who admires - at all - the Confederate soldier, is wrong to do so. And they use expressions such as: "It's time to do the right thing."; "The South was on the wrong side of history."; "We need to move forward." They proclaim they favor diversity, while removing that very thing - an incredible act of doublespeak. Sometimes they reference the point that the South lost, as if that should hold some significance.

I sit here today and think about what's happening in America. We are setting a precedent that monuments can be destroyed, purely depending on the opinions of a few who don't understand history - or art - for that matter. They believe themselves to be enlightened, when the fact is that they are uneducated on the realities of history. I can think of no other country that allows its historic monuments to be torn down and carried away, due to mere whims of the moment.

We watch in horror as ISIS chips away historic monuments, yet we say nothing when the same sort of thing is happening 50 miles down the road. It's time we stop this madness.

New Orleans
The world is filled with monuments to losers. Would you tear down the cross in Rouen to Joan of Arc? Should we pull down the monument to King John of Bohemia at Crecy? Shall we blast the name Montcalm off the obelisk in Quebec City? Why keep the artistry that is the monument to Los Ninos Heroes in Mexico City? What about the statue to Napoleon at Place Vendome, or Vercingetorix on the hilltop in Alise-Sainte-Reine? Are you ready to turn the Alamo into a boutique hotel?

Finally, let me ask what happens when the politicans come for the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, containing the names of 58,000 Americans who gave their lives in a losing cause? When will that happen? How many years - after the last one dies - will the cries come for its removal? Have no doubt, they will come, and we've set the standard that that's OK in America.
Louisville - 2016
The mayor of Louisville says he's going to wait to topple the monument, and is cushioning the blowback against his decision by asking a committee for a recommendation as to what to do with it.

The mayor of New Orleans is doing something very similar, as he prepares to pull down three incredible pieces of art down there. The Louisville monument currently is fenced in, as if the statuary of soldiers on it might suddenly spring to life and fix bayonets to their Enfields, or ram home a shell into their Parrott guns. Common sense might yet prevail, but I hold no real hope. The Louisville mayor and the University of Louisville president have shown themselves to be men of no character and, when we look back, we'll see that America was at its worst when we allowed the destruction of our past - of our heritage. We have to step up. We have to stop it. We have to tell the politicians no more. We, by allowing this sickening destruction, are on the wrong side of history.

The Battle of Culloden

It’s easy to look back on the events of 270 years ago (April 16, 1746) as a romantic - almost Shakespearean - epilogue to the story of the Scottish Highlanders. It was on that date, on Drumossie Moor, that history witnessed the last of the great Highland Charges. Known today as the Battle of Culloden, two cousins steered their armies into the last pitched battle on British soil. Intent on restoring his family to the throne, Charles Edward Stuart (Bonnie Prince Charlie) had landed in Scotland with little more than a hope, but had gained success beyond imagination. Facing him on that cold, wintry day was William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland, who had marched north with a plan to stop the Young Pretender.

The Battle of Culloden was the culmination of months of daring maneuvers and - to be straightforwardly honest - one of the unlikeliest combinations of bravado and luck in military history. The story of Scotland would be incomplete without a healthy discussion of Culloden, and the battle on that barren, Scottish moor has been featured in everything from pure history books, to an overwhelming number of romance novels. Even today, in 2016, the Outlander television series, involving time travel, partially revolves around the event.

There is still relevance to this battle, and I offer five items of interest as my contribution to the remembrance of those who fought and died at Culloden.

1. The Battle of Culloden was the final battle of the last Jacobite Uprising (those who supported James Stuart as king). The uprising was a convoluted event, and was equal parts religious war, civil war, internecine war, and with a dose of vendetta thrown in. The Jacobite Army was primarily Highland Scots, but also had Englishmen, and Irishmen in the service of France, alongside them. The Jacobites were primarily Catholic, though Bonnie Prince Charlie seemed not to make an issue of that, and gladly accepted Protestants into his army. In fact, Flora MacDonald, who would later become famous because of her assistance to Charles, was a lifelong Presbyterian. The men under the Duke of Cumberland were primarily English, but also consisted of Scots, both Highland and Lowland. As with any civil war, the potential for irony was alway present, and this was no exception. Lady Anne MacKintosh raised men to fight for the Prince, while her husband belonged to a pro-government group. Earlier in the uprising, her husband, Captain Angus MacKintosh, was captured and paroled to her, proclaiming her a colonel. William Boyd, the Earl of Kilmarnock, had “gone for the Prince”, while his son had remained loyal to King George. Captured at Culloden, the Earl was spotted by his son, who noticed that his father had lost his hat. He stepped forward to offer him his own, though it was not long used, the earl being beheaded for treason at the Tower of London later that year.

2. While Bonnie Prince Charlie ordered the men in his army to wear their plaids for the Battle of Culloden, many struggle with the misconception that one might have identified the clans of the soldiers by the patterns of their tartans. In fact, the assignation of particular patterns with specific family names is a relatively modern invention, and was not in place in 1746. The men would, no doubt, sometimes wear similar plaids, but only because they purchased their cloth in the same geographical area, and often from the same manufacturer. After the battle, the wearing of plaid was banned for anyone not serving with a British military unit, such as the Black Watch. The wearing of the plaid once again became popular because of the romance that grew from the story of the Scots, and the ban was finally lifted about 35 years after the battle.
Bonnie Prince Charlie

3. The flags on the Scottish side were varied, with many containing Latin inscriptions, and others readily identifiable only as to particular clans. While a considerable number carried the Saint Andrews Cross with blue and a white or yellow saltires, others were distinct enough to have been confusing on the battlefield. The flag initially raised by Bonnie Prince Charlie was red, with a white square inside it, and there was at least one instance of a white flag with a red saltire. Other flags on the field likely had other differences from what we typically think of, when we think of Scotland’s Saltire. Sadly, after the battle, most captured Scottish flags were sent to Edinburgh, where they were burned by the hangman. Descriptions were recorded, thankfully, but they were usually brief and incomplete, or implied a knowledge of someone who had seen them in person. Only a few Scottish flags remain in existence from that day.

Jacobite Flag
4. Before Culloden, the Prince and his Highlanders had raked up a series of victories, including Prestonpans and Falkirk, and had marched as far south as Derby, in England. Historians still debate whether the Jacobites might have been able to take London. But Prince Charles was not a military mind, and his success is largely attributable to boldness and determination, and the fierceness and audacity of the Highlanders in his ranks. William Augustus, the Duke of Cumberland, was a military man, and had actually been recalled from France, as the rebellion back home kept progressing. His intense planning was a large part of his success at Culloden, as it meant that he stepped onto that field with superior cannon, cavalry, and well-fed men with superior numbers. Sadly, for the Scots, Drumossie Moor was a terrible choice for the Highland way of fighting, and the end result was almost a given, even before the battle started. But, once again, there is an irony. Culloden was the only battle that Prince Charlie ever lost, and it was the only battle that the Duke of Cumberland ever won.

5. Losing a war is always misery for the defeated, but Culloden spelled disaster that might not have been imagined. In fact, immediate and intense action was taken against the Highlanders, to the extent that even those Scots who had fought for the government were negatively affected. Plaids were banned, lands were seized, the clan legal system was broken, and government troops were stationed throughout Scotland. The Highland Clearances would later follow, and over decades they effected a substantial destruction of the clan system. Note, though, that as soon as the battle had ended, the vitriol began. Men and children were reportedly killed by rampaging British troops, and the prisoners in Inverness were released, and replaced with Scots. Scottish royals were carried to London, and ordinary Scots were subject to death for treason, and often were sent away to British colonies. It’s said that in the aftermath of the battle, that the Duke of Cumberland ordered Lieutenant Colonel James Wolfe to shoot an injured Highlander, an order which Wolfe would not obey. Another soldier did kill the man, and Wolfe went forward with a better reputation among the Scotsmen. Thirteen years later, Wolfe, as a commanding British general, would lie dying on the Plains of Abraham in Quebec, with Scotsmen fighting alongside him. William Augustus, through a mixture of politics and propaganda, was soon to see his name carried from that of a hero, to a common sobriquet: Butcher Cumberland.

The battlefield at Culloden is well preserved, and today is covered by heather and shrubs, in a contrast to that day in 1746. One is still able to stand on the field, and imagine the Highlanders awaiting the signal to charge: Claymore! While many visit Inverness for the quaint town and a chance to search Loch Ness for the monster, many more would do well to travel a few miles to discover that the more poignant story lies upon Drumossie Moor. There, the stones mark the death of the clans, and of a spirit that may never be seen again.