All my life in the Philippines, I would listen to the stories my Daddy told me about Georgia. He left the South as a young man with my mother, two babies and one on the way. He moved his young family to California where the discriminatory marriage laws had faded into history. A few years later we were in the Philippines, and as soon as I could sit and listen, he started talking.
I think talking about the South was a way that he could process the incredible bond and incredible conflicts he had about his birthplace.
Against the first backdrop of those mountains in the Philippines, he told me about Sherman’s March to the sea, and the wake of utter destruction left behind.
Mary Elisabeth was strong. John Michael died in a skirmish on the South Newport River at the end of the war. A little more time, just a little more, and the war would have been over.
They were yeoman farmers, not slave holders. They farmed the same land that came to them after the American Revolution a little inland from Savannah. John Michael left a handprint on the wall of his log cabin.
Mary Elisabeth won in a war of will against Sherman’s soldiers.
The dialog was one I heard more times than I can count.
Mary Elisabeth’s brothers were the bane of the Union Army. They were known for beheading enemy soldiers while riding at full gallop on mules, not horses. They were wanted men.
The Union soldiers came to the farm. John Michael had been killed just days before this. He was shot while on picket duty on the river. His body was brought home in an ox cart and buried under an old oak tree.
“Tell us where your brother is,” they said. Mary Elisabeth said nothing. I suppose she glared at them.
One solder took a step closer to her. He pointed at a tree with an overhanging branch. “We’re going to catch your brothers and hang them from that tree.”
“I hear it’s catchin’ before hangin’”, said Mary Elisabeth.
“We’re going to take your boy,” said the Union soldier.
My great-grandfather, George Vernon, only seven years old, froze.
“Go ahead,” said Mary Elisabeth calmly, “you haven’t left me anything to feed him with.”
The Union soldiers picked up George Vernon and put him on the back of a horse. They rode to the end of the lane and set him down. Forever after, he had a fear of guns. His son, my grandfather, Dr. John Felton Burkhalter, didn’t.
They all survived the war, and the family came back, with scars and stories. The old farm was bought by the government and became part of Fort Stewart. When the time came to move, they dug up the bones of John Michael and moved them to their present resting place, Antioch Cemetery, where the family awaits the Second Coming of the Lord.
There was another family story, of a portrait Mary Elisabeth and John Michael and visitors who came to see family members. There was excitement in the air, back in the 1950′s, the picture had never been seen by our branch of the family.
There was an argument, (my family is not known for self-control) and the guests packed up and left and the breach was never fixed.
On visits to Georgia, I would sit with my dear aunt and wish out loud for the picture. She would soothe me and tell me that it was a pity the argument sent the relatives with the picture packing. There had been accusations of altered headstones in the cemetery.
I had my children and the stories were passed down to my children.
Then there was the internet, and Ancestry.com. Time passed and anger died, and people died and the picture was uploaded a year and a day ago. It took us moments to find it.
What a wonderful full circle moment, to see their faces, and see the resemblance. The story is still being told. My Daddy used to tell me when I would say that I couldn’t take the stress of a tribulation, “Remember who you come from. Remember Mary Elisabeth.”
And so, dear Mary Elisabeth, we finally meet. I see your face and see John Michael’s face and feel the years compress and fall away. My son and my daughter bear your names and now I can show them your faces. This is a great day.
yeyyy!! at last!!