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Showing 1 - 14 of
14 matches in All Departments
Summer wheat, heavy with grain, waved in the July wind, and when
touched by the afternoon sun, cast a golden glow on the rocks of
Cemetery Ridge. Jonathan stood with his countrymen, rifle drawn,
wiping sweat from his eyes with the sleeve of a ragged Confederate
uniform. Then the nod, Longstreet to Pickett, whose men charged
screaming the blood-curdling Rebel yell. Brave soldiers, strength
pressed to the breach, fell like autumn leaves. Blood ran freely
down the hill. Gettysburg was a trough. Jonathan could see with
horrifying clarity from the hillside that Kemper, Armistead, and
Semmes were dead. Garnett, already wounded in the leg, gallantly
rode his horse in the charge facing certain death, and it was so.
Jonathan reached the crest of the hill, slashing Union soldiers
with every move, the grotesqueness of the hour searing his
consciousness. He took a saber slash through the leg, grabbed the
rogue Yank, and pulled him from his horse. With his bowie knife, he
put an end to the savagery. But Jonathan was a savage himself. Both
countries had gone mad and, in madness, had taken along every
southern gentleman.
Jane Bennett Gaddy has captured in her third installment of the
Payne family, JOAB, a piece of the history for Faulkner's "little
postage stamp of native soil" with a combination of history and
fiction. She places Joab in Oxford, known as Jefferson in the
Faulkner novels, at a time when this town was at its lowest.
History and fiction sometimes come together and Gaddy has given us
something, as Oxonians, to think about in our "little postage stamp
of native soil." -Jack Lamar Mayfield, Columnist, "The Oxford
Eagle"
I was born in the flat fertile Mississippi Delta in 1940. I grew up
in a white clapboard plantation house, on the heels of the Great
Depression, when cotton was still running the show in the south,
and well before the Civil Rights Movement. Love took me out of the
Delta, and it was love that brought me back, for there are some
things that cannot be forgotten or left behind. So, here it is.
After all the years that have come and gone, here is a Delta girl
seeing the grand old South through a window, all but closed now.
There were days hot enough to melt lead, and bitter winters that
tested and forged the human spirit. And in a way, that's how I felt
looking back on it. There we all were, scratching at the ground for
our white gold and imagining the world beyond the cotton rows. It's
my life and a heritage of pride in my homeland, my view of America,
of family, of love, and ultimately of the "House Not Made With
Hands."
Jane Bennett Gaddy has captured in her third installment of the
Payne family, JOAB, a piece of the history for Faulkner's "little
postage stamp of native soil" with a combination of history and
fiction. She places Joab in Oxford, known as Jefferson in the
Faulkner novels, at a time when this town was at its lowest.
History and fiction sometimes come together and Gaddy has given us
something, as Oxonians, to think about in our "little postage stamp
of native soil." -Jack Lamar Mayfield, Columnist, "The Oxford
Eagle"
Summer wheat, heavy with grain, waved in the July wind, and when
touched by the afternoon sun, cast a golden glow on the rocks of
Cemetery Ridge. Jonathan stood with his countrymen, rifle drawn,
wiping sweat from his eyes with the sleeve of a ragged Confederate
uniform. Then the nod, Longstreet to Pickett, whose men charged
screaming the blood-curdling Rebel yell. Brave soldiers, strength
pressed to the breach, fell like autumn leaves. Blood ran freely
down the hill. Gettysburg was a trough. Jonathan could see with
horrifying clarity from the hillside that Kemper, Armistead, and
Semmes were dead. Garnett, already wounded in the leg, gallantly
rode his horse in the charge facing certain death, and it was so.
Jonathan reached the crest of the hill, slashing Union soldiers
with every move, the grotesqueness of the hour searing his
consciousness. He took a saber slash through the leg, grabbed the
rogue Yank, and pulled him from his horse. With his bowie knife, he
put an end to the savagery. But Jonathan was a savage himself. Both
countries had gone mad and, in madness, had taken along every
southern gentleman.
I was born in the flat fertile Mississippi Delta in 1940. I grew up
in a white clapboard plantation house, on the heels of the Great
Depression, when cotton was still running the show in the south,
and well before the Civil Rights Movement. Love took me out of the
Delta, and it was love that brought me back, for there are some
things that cannot be forgotten or left behind. So, here it is.
After all the years that have come and gone, here is a Delta girl
seeing the grand old South through a window, all but closed now.
There were days hot enough to melt lead, and bitter winters that
tested and forged the human spirit. And in a way, that's how I felt
looking back on it. There we all were, scratching at the ground for
our white gold and imagining the world beyond the cotton rows. It's
my life and a heritage of pride in my homeland, my view of America,
of family, of love, and ultimately of the "House Not Made With
Hands."
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