Something Slight and Beautiful

For the South

By Neal Bowers

I hate your hills white with dogwood

or pink with redbud in spring

as if you invented hope, as if

in the middle of red clay,

limestone outcroppings,

and oak trees dead with fungus

something slight and beautiful

should make us smile.

I hate the way honeysuckle drapes

fences, blooms in the ditch   

where everyone dumps garbage;

the evening air sweet with cedar

and fields of burley;

the way irises and buttercups

mark the old dimensions of a house

destroyed a hundred years ago;

how a span of Queen Anne’s lace

rocks the whole moon, and the sumac

runs dark against the hill.

I hate the drawl, the lazy voice

saying I’ve been away so long

I sound like I’m from nowhere;

the old hand gathering snowballs or peonies

or forking up an extra dish of greens,

bitter, just the way I like them.

Still Here

For the South

by Neal Bowers

I hate your hills white with dogwood
or pink with redbud in spring
as if you invented hope, as if
in the middle of red clay,

limestone outcroppings,

and oak trees dead with fungus
something slight and beautiful

should make us smile.

I hate the way honeysuckle drapes

fences, blooms in the ditch   

where everyone dumps garbage;

the evening air sweet with cedar
and fields of burley;
the way irises and buttercups
mark the old dimensions of a house
destroyed a hundred years ago;
how a span of Queen Anne’s lace
rocks the whole moon, and the sumac
runs dark against the hill.

I hate the drawl, the lazy voice

saying I’ve been away so long
I sound like I’m from nowhere;
the old hand gathering snowballs or peonies
or forking up an extra dish of greens,
bitter, just the way I like them.

What Lasts

I
The Lost Cause.
(If you're from the South, you know what "The Lost Cause" is. If you're not, you'll have to ask a Southerner, but . . . be careful when you do so. Ask someone who's not flying a Confederate battle flag or wearing one.)

February 13, 2014

II
Sewanee's Devotion to Rebel's Rest.
(If you're an alum, you know what I mean. If you're not, you'll have to ask, but be careful: avoid controversy when you find out who the "rebel" is and what the name of the University is. Tread lightly.)

February 14, 2015

III
Wisteria.
("Wisteria is an extremely hardy plant that is considered an invasive species in many parts of the U.S., especially the Southeast, due to its ability to overtake and choke out other native plant species." Wikipedia.

IV
The Infinite Pleasures of Irony.
(No explanation necessary.)

Personal History

William Faulkner was right: "The past is never dead. It's not even dead."

I grew up on tales of my grandmother's family's escape northward into South Carolina as Sherman stormed into Atlanta. The one family member left behind, my great-something grandfather, continued doctoring and served as the model for Dr. Meade in cousin-something-removed Margaret Mitchell's Gone with the Wind, a book my mother made me read (reluctantly) and which I hated.

Even as a child, I knew the novel's history wasn't history.

My grandmother's inherited bespoke secretary, now my brother's, bears the doctor forebear's name, stamped into the wood by the maker, and I could join as she did the Colonial Dames, the first Families of Maryland, the Daughters of the American Revolution, and the Daughters of the Confederacy, if I wanted to.

The South is in my blood -- on her side (my mother's side) from the 17th century on, and on my father's side from 18th century on.

So it's natural I sang Dixie as a child and sunbathed on a battle flag towel. My father even jokingly dressed in a rebel costume, complete with spirit-gummed goatee, and presented himself as Colonel Billy Hood at national paint conventions. His northern friends loved the fake money he handed out with his own picture in the middle and the company's name and logo.

One Christmas, Daddy gave us each a book he had written: the front cover said The War Between the States and, flipped over, the back cover said The Civil War. Inside all the pages were blank.

Today, I remembered these tidbits and others when I read Gary Leva's "Gone with the Wind & My Southern Education" in The Bitter Southerner. You might wish to read it too, especially if you're one of us who know the past isn't even past.

selfie in the cemetery of the University of the South

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