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When I look in the mirror, it’s hard for me to believe
that that good-looking dude is 59-years-old. I’m too sexy for my hat,
for Pete’s sake. In my mind, I feel the same as I did when I was in my 20s,
or when I was 17. I don’t feel all that much different from the guy I
was when I was 5 and fell for my first dame, or when I was 3 and took my
first ride on a train. It all seems like it was just yesterday. In a way. So clear
and vivid and fresh and new and exciting and breathtaking and beautiful.
The days of my youth. And then again, at times, it all seems so far away and my
best memories are as hard to hold on to as the smoke along the track, as
this locomotive continues to race along, clickidy-clack, clickidy-clack. When you’re young and life is out there in front of you,
and big as the whole wide world, you don’t really give a toot how fast
the train is going. In fact, the faster it goes the better, and it never
seems to be going fast enough. The older you get, the faster the train goes and the quicker
the scenery seems to be passing by. And by the time you hit 50, you’re
really flying. At 55, forget about it. Of course this train isn’t
moving a bit faster than it ever was. It’s just a state of mind. When I was a little boy, I didn’t really realize the truth
about where this train was heading. But now it’s beginning to settle
down on me. We passed Daytona Beach a long way back. The only thing I know to do is just to keep living and
enjoying it while I can, and get off at the end with the same attitude I
had when I got on at the beginning. My great-grandfather, F.C. Crow, who lived to be over a
hundred years old, was a man with an attitude like that. I’ve admired
him since I was a little boy listening to the stories that my Paw Crowe
told me about him. He was a Civil War veteran and had blown the bugle for Gen.
Robert E. Lee. He lived for a number of years in Dalton, Ga., where he
would march the few old veterans up and down the streets on patriotic
occasions. One day he created quite a stir when he rode his horse
through a downtown Dalton department store. His son, my grandfather, Andrew Harvey Crowe (who added the
"e" to the end of Crow, so no one would confuse him with the
‘one that flies’), told me that the horse was blind and F.C. was
blind drunk. On his way home, he rode the horse into a pit and couldn’t
get out. So he left the horse in the pit and sent my grandfather back to
get it. Two Dalton police officers showed up at the house that
evening, but F.C., who was about six and a half feet tall, and weighed
about 250 pounds, ran them off with an ax, according to Paw Crowe. A group of police surrounded the house the next morning and
hid in the bushes. They didn’t make a move until F.C. absentmindedly
left his rifle by his rocking chair and walked to the other end of the
porch. They jumped him and took him to the courthouse, but the
judge dismissed the charges when F.C. stood up and threatened to whip
him, Paw Crowe told me. F.C. would not have died so young, except that he took a
chill after riding in the back of an open wagon following an all-night
dance. It turned into pneumonia, which was fatal back then. The secret behind my great-grandfather’s vitality and
longevity, according to Paw Crowe, was cornbread and buttermilk. F.C. had a glass of buttermilk, mixed with cornbread, every
day of his life. Even during the Civil War, he always managed to find a
glass of cornbread and buttermilk. Early one morning while he was out looking for some, he came
across a cabin. Sitting on the steps was a real old man with a long
white beard, crying like a baby. "What’s wrong with you, old-timer?" asked F.C.,
getting down from his big, white horse and walking over to him. "My daddy whupped me," said the old man. "You’re daddy whupped you!" The old man nodded his head and sniffed. "Why did he whup you?" From the doorway came a rusty-hinged reply. "For
sassing my daddy!" The words came from a skinny rail of a man with a long, gray
beard that reached below his waist. "For sassing your daddy!" exclaimed F.C.
"Where is your daddy?" "In the house." "Well, I sure would like to meet him and shake his
hand." The old man led F.C. into the cabin and pointed over to a
cot in a far, dark corner. F.C. walked over to the cot and looked down. All there was, according to Paw Crowe, who claimed he heard
it from F.C. himself, "was a pile of old, gray moss, barely
breathing out and in." And on the table next to it was a glass of cornbread and
buttermilk. Permit me to pause for a moment while I remember my great
grandfather and the blood that flowed through him to paw and then on
down through to my daddy and me. F.C. lived a vigorous life until he caught pneumonia and
died on Christmas night, 1928, in Chattanooga, Tennessee. "F.C. CROW IS DEAD AT THE AGE OF 101," reads the
headline of a news obit published in The Chattanooga Times the next day.
It states that he passed away at the home of a daughter at
2116 South Buckley, and lists the names of his six surviving daughters
and two sons. The article doesn’t mention that he was preceded in
death by his wife, Martha Dunn, a Cherokee, and the mother of his
children. He is listed on the roster of Joseph E. Johnston Camp,
United Confederate Veterans, Dalton, Ga., "the first camp ever
organized in the South," as "Crow, F.C…..Bugler Calloway’s
Battery." My most cherished document concerning F.C. is an undated
information form filled out in his own hand and turned over to the camp
historian of Joseph E. Johnston Camp. He states that his full name is Frederick Columbus Crow and
that his address at the time is Rossville, Ga. He was born in Habersham
County, Ga., on March 14, 1827, the son of Silas and Ruth Crow, and was
married to Martha Dunn for 25 years. He writes that he served with the 1st Georgia
Regiment, Company A, which formed into Hamilton’s Battery. Asked to state where he was at the time of "the
Surrender," he wrote "Appomattox." Asked to mention some
of the battles he participated in, he listed "Gettysburg, both
battles of Fredericksburg, Sharpsburg, 7 Pines, Malvern Hill and Cold
Harbor." On the line where he was asked to name a living comrade who
served with him, he wrote, "McClaus Camp – Savannah, Ga." At
the bottom of the page, he is given two lines for "remarks,"
and writes, "We were not whipped, nor overpowered. I still believe
we were right. I am ready again." But as for his belief that the South was right, who can tell
what he meant exactly? It’s always been my feeling that he wasn’t
talking about slavery. I believe he was talking about his homeland, his nation, the
South and her right to defend herself, in his opinion, against an
invading army bent on destroying her homes and livestock and burning her
crops to the ground, and firing canon balls into her cities where the
people lived. The most amazing thing to me about his life was that he was
able to live through so many of the bloodiest battles fought in the
Civil War. If he had been killed, which could have so easily happened so many times, I wouldn’t be
here. I owe him a certain amount of respect for that, regardless of
whatever faults he may have had or what his political opinions may have
been. The fact is he volunteered for his country and fought all
the way to the end with a Southern army that never was defeated, nor
overpowered, but elected on its own to surrender and go out of
existence, still believing that its cause had been just, but that
victory was no longer possible and that a continuance of the struggle
between the two nations was not worth the shedding of any more blood. I don’t think that’s anything to be ashamed of. F.C.
Crow wasn’t ashamed of it and neither was Robert E. Lee. And I’m not
either. Before closing, let me mention another thing those two
gentlemen had in common, according to Paw Crowe. Cornbread and
buttermilk. There were so many extraordinary tales that Paw Crowe told
me about his poppa, that I was never quite sure which ones needed to be
taken with a grain of salt and which ones needed to be put over the
shoulder and burped. I’m sure paw’s poppa probably told him some whoppers
too, like the old men and the moss. But I think there may be a stitch of truth about his
poppa’s daily quest for buttermilk. I asked Paw Crowe once, how was a
common bugler like F.C. able to ride around the countryside looking for
cornbread and buttermilk? By whose authority was he able to do that? "By the authority of Gen. Robert E. Lee," said
paw. "But why would Robert E. Lee want to do that? That
doesn’t make any sense." "He liked buttermilk." "What do you mean?" "I mean he liked buttermilk and poppa always shared it
with him. Poppa told me that that was how he was able to get the
cornbread. Robert E. Lee had a colored cook who paid poppa off with a
little cornmeal every time he brought in some buttermilk. "Poppa said that both he and General Lee loved the
taste and believed that buttermilk had great healing powers and warded
off all kinds of diseases and sicknesses. Poppa said that the only
difference between them was that he liked his with cornbread and General
Lee preferred his straight." I don’t believe for a second that F.C. was able to come up
with a mess of cornbread and buttermilk every day, or every week, or
even every month. But I believe paw’s account about why F.C. was able
to ride out in search of it. But whether it’s true or not, every time I think of Robert
E. Lee and my great-grandfather, F.C. Crow, together, a crazy craving
sets in on me for buttermilk and cornbread. It’s not a real strong craving, like for a smoke or
something like that, but it’s enough to make me lick my dry lips and
stare off for a few seconds into an imaginary campfire, with my ears
pricked, trying to pick up on their conversation.
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