Mr. and Mrs. Poe have maintained their dignity, their marriage, and a good measure of faith. Most everything else is worn-out, busted, or missing. Mr. Poe was born here on the home place. He and the Misses have raised three sons and a daughter. The daughter’s back east and all three sons are dead. Mr. Poe’s Grandpa fought in the revolutionary war. He’s proud of his country, its cherished heritage, the grand ol’ flag, and all she represents. He’s been a proud American all his life; his loyalties lie with the Union, and patriotism still smolders in his china blue eyes. His three sons loved their daddy, his traditions, and their home, and they joined the confederacy to support his way of life. They too served the cause of freedom, and the America of their dreams, and they served it with the last full measure of their devotion. They’d given their lives to preserve the land their forefathers fought to till; now they joined it ashes to ashes, and dust to dust. Mr. Poe had been a Bible believing Christian all his life. He’d fought the fight, run the race, and faithfully passed the torch to his three grown sons. They were the reward for his years of faith, the fruit of devoted service, his reason for living, and the seeds of the family line. All that heritage was torn asunder now; the family tree was finished, reduced to broken branches and a smoldering stump.
The Poe’s joined some of the Yanks and us, there on their porch that evening. The Yankees lit a fire as dusk approached. The sounds of battle grew silent, the western skies went crimson, and we stood by the campfire and gazed into the coals. Frank Reed stood silent with head bowed for a moment, silhouetted against sky, and then he raised his bugle and passionately sounded taps. Both the Poe’s stood there hand in hand, in the battle scared yard of their families’ ancestral home. The light from the campfire reflected in their spectacles and danced in the cavernous wrinkles of their worry worn faces. Now in the winter of their lives, falls fairest memories faded, summer was passed and spring would come no more. They say that scar tissue is the strongest tissue in the body. If that’s the case, the south is made of iron! “Obie’s Quest” (Photo is actually of my great Grandma & Grandpa Daniels)