As I drove the last few miles, topics to discuss with my nineteenth century visitor were considered and put in order. I felt ready for the day as I crossed the new (ca 1970s) four-lane Elk River Bridge. I looked to my left, west, at the sad remains of the Old Stone Bridge, which was completed in 1861. It was a six-arched wonder for over a century, so significant that neither Rebels nor Yankees destroyed this vital crossing as they moved back and forth over the area in the "War Between the States"-"the late unpleasantness" to the losers, "The American Civil War" to the winners.
Hardnosed fans of the tragedy would like to have the world believe that the righteous, brutal, and numerically superior American Roundheads (North) subdued the misguided, vainglorious, and noble American Cavaliers (South). No great tragedy, most especially that one, is a simple phenomenon to understand. I intended to inquire of Mr. Jones his perspective of those times to help me understand. He saw it all and was a participant from his earliest public service as a local office holder in Lincoln County in the 1830s, to the U.S. Congress (1843-59), the Confederate States of American Congress (1862-64), and finally to post-Reconstruction state politics at the Tennessee State Constitutional Convention in 1870.
My old truck headlights beamed across the south side of the courthouse lawn, illuminating Jones. Dressed as he had been twenty-four hours earlier, he was sitting on the 'whittlers' (or 'liars') bench, under a tall, well-spread, live oak tree on the southwest corner of the courthouse yard. Leaning forward, with both hands, one over the other, on his silver capped cane, he recognized me as I got out of my old truck. He nodded solemnly, touched the brim of his tall well-worn hat with his left hand, and nodded again-deeper the second time. I returned the salute, touching my retro, 1950s, black, soft felt, wide-brimmed fedora.
During my impressionable years in the late 1950s, old men wore fedoras-black, gray, or brown. I always had an aversion to the ubiquitous baseball cap. I also take off my hat indoors. My granddaddies wore good Dobbs and Stetson "Dick Tracy" headgear and so do I. Daddy converted from a baseball cap to an LBJ Stetson style in his early forties. He was an adult then. Men wear hats, boys wear caps, and you take your headgear, no matter what kind, off whenever inside, always. It's called "good raisin'."
With my bulging brief case in one hand, writing tablet and folders under my arm, and fedora on my head, I proceeded to our appointment in the last booth of the pool hall.