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Field of Dreams, Franklin Style
http://reviewappeal.midsouthnews.com...yPrinter=25000
By STEVE HINESLEY
I should have been off the course earlier. Just a while longer, I thought, content with the evening summer breeze, the full moon and a leisurely walk around the County Club of Franklin golf course. Stopping after 18 would be more sensible with twilight approaching, family waiting at home and church early tomorrow. But no, just one or two more holes to enjoy the refreshing walk, hit an extra ball here and there, and savor the peaceful solitude. No other golfers but me, and even the club staff long gone.
That’s when I saw him. I wasn’t fearful, even though I don’t prescribe to the supernatural. It wasn’t even entirely surprising, since there had been so much heatedly written and argued about in the past few weeks about the country club. Someone being raised from the dead seemed entirely within the realm of possibility, expected even, given the passion of the parties involved. He didn’t come out from the cornstalks since, for now, it was still a golf course. Rather, he ever so grandly trotted up on horseback from the direction of the railroad tracks. Wearing full Civil War regalia, he carried himself as a man of authority and decisiveness. In my rumbled khakis, old CCF shirt and Footjoy golf sandals, I felt woefully inadequate for this ethereal encounter.
“Good evening, sir. … The name’s Adams, Brig. Gen. John Adams to be particular. Part of Stewart’s corps in Hood’s Army of Tennessee.” For a man dead nearly 140 years, he looked surprisingly alert and polished.
Speechless initially, I decided that some questions where certainly in order. “What brings you back, Gen. Adams?” knowing full well that his agenda likely did not include playing a round of golf. “Well,” he said, “it’s been all but impossible to rest in peace what with all the ruckus ’bout this here piece of land. Heck, folks even been evoking my name in order to make their point. Ah ain’t seen this much arguing, cursing and yelling since Hood let Schofield slip past ’em in Spring Hill back in November 1864. Ah thought we was excitable until this whole golf course controversy got going.
“Ah reckon ah wanted to find some feller like yerself in a nice, quiet place so ah could say my piece. Fact is, with just one of ya’ll, I’ll actually get a word in edgewise. Ah considered attending a city council meeting, but you know how that is … too much jawboning ’bout this development or that one. And with that whole parliamentary procedure bidness, ah figured it was just too durn much trouble.”
“General,” I said, “just where do you stand on having this land changed into a battlefield park? It’s pretty darn controversial, you know.”
“Well,” he said, “you know us Southerners never shy away from a fight. But still, ah kin see both sides of the debate. Course, a nice peaceful park like what them boys got down at Shiloh or Chickamauga would have been preferred. It’s nice to be remembered and all, but I thought the same thing back when all them pizza eatin’ places was built. And ah reckon that since they already built everything right on the spot where the fightin’ took place, might as well include something like a library. Maybe that way folks will take the time to learn ’bout the battle.”
Relieved to encounter a practical, contemplative ghost and not some hell’s-a-poppin’ version of John Bell Hood or Nathan Bedford Forrest, I asked him, “General, weren’t you wounded somewhere around here?”
“Well,” he said, “ah reckon that’s a good question. No doubt, ah was killed on the right flank of Hood’s army, but that was up ’round them pizza eatin’ places. Where ah was wounded ah don’t rightly recall, what with the ‘fog of war’ and all that. Yep, there was a slew of cannon fire comin’ in hard and fast from Fort Grainger, and it could have wounded me somewhere around here, or maybe back South a piece. They might even of got me right around the corner of what you call Mack Hatcher and the Lewisburg Pike. Course, I heard that Mr. Jay Franks was lookin’ to build some ‘duplex’ houses there, so I reckon they don’t rightly figure that was part of the ‘battlefield.’
“Course, bein’ a Southerner, ah reckon you rightly wanna know what I believe ’bout states’ rights. Why, we even had a general in the battle who went by that name. Well, right up there with states’ rights, in my book, is property rights. I reckon Mr. Heller can do with his land what he durn well pleases. Course, you modern folk got a word for it, ‘ironic’ I believe it is, that this here land could one day go to the federal government. Some folks say that’s what the fightin’ was all about in the first place. But, I reckon, looking back now, ‘states’ rights’ was just another way of saying ‘slavery.’
“Truth is, our cause, when you git right down to it, wasn’t too durn noble. Yep, it’s true that most our boys was farmers and didn’t own slaves, but I guess if you figure that there was slavery before the war, and no slavery after the war, it rightly stands to reason that that’s what the whole business was about. Mr. Lincoln said as much in his second inaugural address.
“Noble? I learned the hard way, it wasn’t. Heck, half the generals on both sides was drunk before the battle started, and only a durn fool would have charged them breastworks as dug in as them Federals was. Course, J.B. Hood could well fit that description, fer sure. With his drinkin’ and takin’ that pain medicine, what with already missing one arm and one leg, I reckon he wasn’t thinking too clearly that November day. Pride got the best of him, that’s fer sure.
“I guess there might have been a park made back about 100 years ago, but nobody could blame them locals. With thousands of wounded and dying fellers all around, lying in your yard and whatnot after the battle, I reckon I would want to move ahead and forget the whole, tragic affair if I was a townsperson who lived through it.”
He had a wistful, faraway look in his eyes, as though contemplating his very reason for ever existing. The look of a man made wiser beyond his 180 years, as though he had deeply contemplated “The Cause,” the heated rhetoric and passion of the times, and the tragic consequences of that long-ago November day, time and time again. I knew not to ruin the moment with any more questions.
“You know,” he said, “a feller smarter than me once said, ‘Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it.’ That may be, but on the other hand, there’s a fine line between respectful rememberin’ and keepin’ a wrong-headed zealotry alive. Ah seen the Carnton Mansion, the Carter House and the cemetery. We are sure glad to have that here and happy there were folks to preserve it. And there ain’t no doubt that a green space is better ’an a bunch more houses, ’less yer the one looking for a place to live.” At this he chuckled to himself before continuing.
“Fact is, this here golfin’ wasn’t such a bad thing to have here for the past 35 years. Sure, there’s some cussing here and again, maybe even throwing these here clubs they use on occasion, but mostly they where having a durn good time, and keepin’ the land green and open.
“It seems to me that a man’s leisure and social activities, anything to help him relax and take his mind off his worries, is generally a good thing. Heck, maybe if we had games like this back in them days, we might have taken ourselves less seriously. We was maybe too worried ’bout commerce, slave labor, protecting an aristocracy, and those such things.”
With this he gave his horse’s reins a quick turn back toward the railroad tracks. As he turned to go, he said, “I reckon they can fix this here place up as a museum, grow corn and tobacco in the field, take the swimmin’ hole from the kids and all that, but it still don’t make it the real battlefield. Fact is, the battleground site is gone with the wind.”
“General,” I called out after him, “where will you go now? What will you do?”
“Well,” he said looking pensively back toward me, and giving a quiet sigh, “thanks to Old Tom Miller and the good taxpayers of Franklin, I reckon a ghost general and his horse are always welcome over at Harlinsdale Farms. Take care, sir, and thanks fer lettin’ me say my piece!”
(Steven Hinesley is a resident of Franklin.)
http://reviewappeal.midsouthnews.com...yPrinter=25000
By STEVE HINESLEY
I should have been off the course earlier. Just a while longer, I thought, content with the evening summer breeze, the full moon and a leisurely walk around the County Club of Franklin golf course. Stopping after 18 would be more sensible with twilight approaching, family waiting at home and church early tomorrow. But no, just one or two more holes to enjoy the refreshing walk, hit an extra ball here and there, and savor the peaceful solitude. No other golfers but me, and even the club staff long gone.
That’s when I saw him. I wasn’t fearful, even though I don’t prescribe to the supernatural. It wasn’t even entirely surprising, since there had been so much heatedly written and argued about in the past few weeks about the country club. Someone being raised from the dead seemed entirely within the realm of possibility, expected even, given the passion of the parties involved. He didn’t come out from the cornstalks since, for now, it was still a golf course. Rather, he ever so grandly trotted up on horseback from the direction of the railroad tracks. Wearing full Civil War regalia, he carried himself as a man of authority and decisiveness. In my rumbled khakis, old CCF shirt and Footjoy golf sandals, I felt woefully inadequate for this ethereal encounter.
“Good evening, sir. … The name’s Adams, Brig. Gen. John Adams to be particular. Part of Stewart’s corps in Hood’s Army of Tennessee.” For a man dead nearly 140 years, he looked surprisingly alert and polished.
Speechless initially, I decided that some questions where certainly in order. “What brings you back, Gen. Adams?” knowing full well that his agenda likely did not include playing a round of golf. “Well,” he said, “it’s been all but impossible to rest in peace what with all the ruckus ’bout this here piece of land. Heck, folks even been evoking my name in order to make their point. Ah ain’t seen this much arguing, cursing and yelling since Hood let Schofield slip past ’em in Spring Hill back in November 1864. Ah thought we was excitable until this whole golf course controversy got going.
“Ah reckon ah wanted to find some feller like yerself in a nice, quiet place so ah could say my piece. Fact is, with just one of ya’ll, I’ll actually get a word in edgewise. Ah considered attending a city council meeting, but you know how that is … too much jawboning ’bout this development or that one. And with that whole parliamentary procedure bidness, ah figured it was just too durn much trouble.”
“General,” I said, “just where do you stand on having this land changed into a battlefield park? It’s pretty darn controversial, you know.”
“Well,” he said, “you know us Southerners never shy away from a fight. But still, ah kin see both sides of the debate. Course, a nice peaceful park like what them boys got down at Shiloh or Chickamauga would have been preferred. It’s nice to be remembered and all, but I thought the same thing back when all them pizza eatin’ places was built. And ah reckon that since they already built everything right on the spot where the fightin’ took place, might as well include something like a library. Maybe that way folks will take the time to learn ’bout the battle.”
Relieved to encounter a practical, contemplative ghost and not some hell’s-a-poppin’ version of John Bell Hood or Nathan Bedford Forrest, I asked him, “General, weren’t you wounded somewhere around here?”
“Well,” he said, “ah reckon that’s a good question. No doubt, ah was killed on the right flank of Hood’s army, but that was up ’round them pizza eatin’ places. Where ah was wounded ah don’t rightly recall, what with the ‘fog of war’ and all that. Yep, there was a slew of cannon fire comin’ in hard and fast from Fort Grainger, and it could have wounded me somewhere around here, or maybe back South a piece. They might even of got me right around the corner of what you call Mack Hatcher and the Lewisburg Pike. Course, I heard that Mr. Jay Franks was lookin’ to build some ‘duplex’ houses there, so I reckon they don’t rightly figure that was part of the ‘battlefield.’
“Course, bein’ a Southerner, ah reckon you rightly wanna know what I believe ’bout states’ rights. Why, we even had a general in the battle who went by that name. Well, right up there with states’ rights, in my book, is property rights. I reckon Mr. Heller can do with his land what he durn well pleases. Course, you modern folk got a word for it, ‘ironic’ I believe it is, that this here land could one day go to the federal government. Some folks say that’s what the fightin’ was all about in the first place. But, I reckon, looking back now, ‘states’ rights’ was just another way of saying ‘slavery.’
“Truth is, our cause, when you git right down to it, wasn’t too durn noble. Yep, it’s true that most our boys was farmers and didn’t own slaves, but I guess if you figure that there was slavery before the war, and no slavery after the war, it rightly stands to reason that that’s what the whole business was about. Mr. Lincoln said as much in his second inaugural address.
“Noble? I learned the hard way, it wasn’t. Heck, half the generals on both sides was drunk before the battle started, and only a durn fool would have charged them breastworks as dug in as them Federals was. Course, J.B. Hood could well fit that description, fer sure. With his drinkin’ and takin’ that pain medicine, what with already missing one arm and one leg, I reckon he wasn’t thinking too clearly that November day. Pride got the best of him, that’s fer sure.
“I guess there might have been a park made back about 100 years ago, but nobody could blame them locals. With thousands of wounded and dying fellers all around, lying in your yard and whatnot after the battle, I reckon I would want to move ahead and forget the whole, tragic affair if I was a townsperson who lived through it.”
He had a wistful, faraway look in his eyes, as though contemplating his very reason for ever existing. The look of a man made wiser beyond his 180 years, as though he had deeply contemplated “The Cause,” the heated rhetoric and passion of the times, and the tragic consequences of that long-ago November day, time and time again. I knew not to ruin the moment with any more questions.
“You know,” he said, “a feller smarter than me once said, ‘Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it.’ That may be, but on the other hand, there’s a fine line between respectful rememberin’ and keepin’ a wrong-headed zealotry alive. Ah seen the Carnton Mansion, the Carter House and the cemetery. We are sure glad to have that here and happy there were folks to preserve it. And there ain’t no doubt that a green space is better ’an a bunch more houses, ’less yer the one looking for a place to live.” At this he chuckled to himself before continuing.
“Fact is, this here golfin’ wasn’t such a bad thing to have here for the past 35 years. Sure, there’s some cussing here and again, maybe even throwing these here clubs they use on occasion, but mostly they where having a durn good time, and keepin’ the land green and open.
“It seems to me that a man’s leisure and social activities, anything to help him relax and take his mind off his worries, is generally a good thing. Heck, maybe if we had games like this back in them days, we might have taken ourselves less seriously. We was maybe too worried ’bout commerce, slave labor, protecting an aristocracy, and those such things.”
With this he gave his horse’s reins a quick turn back toward the railroad tracks. As he turned to go, he said, “I reckon they can fix this here place up as a museum, grow corn and tobacco in the field, take the swimmin’ hole from the kids and all that, but it still don’t make it the real battlefield. Fact is, the battleground site is gone with the wind.”
“General,” I called out after him, “where will you go now? What will you do?”
“Well,” he said looking pensively back toward me, and giving a quiet sigh, “thanks to Old Tom Miller and the good taxpayers of Franklin, I reckon a ghost general and his horse are always welcome over at Harlinsdale Farms. Take care, sir, and thanks fer lettin’ me say my piece!”
(Steven Hinesley is a resident of Franklin.)