"Cast me not off in the time of old age; forsake me not when my strength faileth."
-Psalms 71:9

If you've lived in town all your life, you probably know 'ol Joe. He was born, raised and lived his whole life here. He ran a bicycle shop for 30 years down on Main Street, just across the railroad tracks from what used to be the Jackson County Jail. Maybe he sold you your first bicycle, was your Scoutmaster and coached you in Dixie Youth baseball. Joe was probably on the Chamber of Commerce, the Rotary Club, and every Church committee Mt. Sinai Baptist Church had to offer. Maybe he even ran (but didn't win) for mayor or town council. You played with his kids at his house, where he was always made sure to treat you just as well as his own. (Ok, let's face it, parents always treat neighbor kids a little NICER than their own kids)

He's still a friendly face around the sleepy little town nestled in the gentle rolling hills of the Southern Piedmont. You can find him talking over a cup of coffee at the Waffle House, attending Fall Festivals and still involved in civic affairs. He's proud as a peacock of his service in the Army and raises the slightly larger than regulation U.S. flag at his house every morning with pride. You can still find him every here and there at the VFW, in charge of the 4th of July fundraising cookout, swapping stories with veterans of every war from Vietnam to Afghanistan, though the membership seems fewer and older than when you were a child.

But over the last few years, you’ve noticed little changes in Joe. He’s still the friendly, generous old boy he’s always been, but he’s a bit more quick-tempered, a bit shorter with people he disagrees with than usual. His mood turns to downright sour when subjects like politics or the state of the country come into play. As a child you remember Joe’s booming drawl drowning out everyone’s voice with the confidence of a King as he came up with the solutions for the country’s woes. Now Joe more often than not just shakes his head in frustration and disbelief that this country-his country- could even force him to think of solutions to such mad problems.
Joe and his wife, Evelyn, worked and saved and squeezed every penny out of the business they could so they could send the children to college-give them the chances they never had. Many late nights, if you were walking the Main Street square, you could see a lone light in the window of the shop, and know Joe was working on something big. It was a proud day in Joe and Evelyn's lives the day their son, Taylor went off to college, the first in the family to do it! Again, they beamed with pride two years later when their daughter, Kayla headed off to join her big brother.

It stunned Joe and Evelyn when the kids came home from State college one Thanksgiving and informed Joe that the only reason he was able to build a successful business and pay off the house they grew up in was his "white privilege", and asked an astonished Evelyn how she could have betrayed other women by submitting to Joe's "toxic masculinity" all these years? The meeting ended with both children storming out and swearing they’d never speak to Joe again for supporting “That orange fascist.” Only two tearful phone calls from Evelyn saved the next couple of Holidays.

Joe was on cloud nine the day he became a grandpa for the first time. After the loss of his precious Evelyn the year before, Joe had found a new purpose in life again. He looked forward to taking his new grandson fishing, hunting, camping-all the things he did with his kids and you, but now with more time! Now he's devastated Kayla no longer brings the grandkids around because they don't want Papa's "hate" and "fascism" rubbing off them.

Last Christmas, Joe tried to make peace by inviting them over on Christmas Day. For the first time since Evelyn died, Joe decorated, with multicolored lights in the windows. He even dragged the plastic Santa and reindeer out of the basement and put it in the yard, hoping they would come by, and his Grandkids would love it the way Kayla once had. By 9 that night, Joe was at the Waffle House, drinking a cup of coffee and shaking his head in silence. Maybe next year.

That isn't to say Joe hasn't tried to change with the times. He's been accepting of the recent wave of immigrants to the little town because both his Pastor and the Chamber of Commerce told him it was the right thing to do-even if he had to ignore the fact that he can't leave his door unlocked in the daytime like he used to. Joe resigned his membership in the Sons of Confederate Veterans because a man in his position in the community couldn't be part of a "hate group". Besides, his new Pastor from Poughkeepsie, New York assured him, no one can display the Confederate flag and call themselves a Christian. Even the gentle Piedmont Southern drawl you remember him having as a child has sunk into a low, strained voice which, but for Joe’s pronunciation of certain words, could make you believe he’s a native of the Midwest rather than Dixie.

This morning Joe bristled when Fox News blared out Joe's "conservative" Republican Congressman saying that the January 6 insurrection "wasn't like the Confederacy, who tried to overthrow the U.S. government to preserve slavery" while calling for the acceptance of transgender officers into the Army-his Army- where he enjoyed some of the proudest moments of his life. Though still silent, he deeply resents such betrayals from pretended friends. "Oh well," Joe mumbles into his coffee cup, "at least he's not a Democrat."

You saw Joe a couple of months ago at the town's yearly Apple Festival. He was in good spirits, talking about needing some rain for his garden, the evenings getting cooler, the high school football game the night before-"we might go to State this year!", he beamed with pride. But his mood turned sour when the subject of politics came up. Suddenly gone was the Midwestern business voice and out came the Piedmont Cracker. "They're letting the country go down the toilet!" he exclaimed, his face becoming flush with anger. They've got trannies running the military, they've left the borders wide open, their teaching the kids that they're bad for being white! Pretty soon the money won’t even be worth anything! How can we keep going on?"

It was at this moment you saw your opportunity. Not wanting to overplay your hand, you half-jokingly suggested "maybe it's time we seceded and let them go on by themselves".
Joe's face changes as quick as you can flip a switch. He gives you a quick, astonished look, as though you just suggested going to Mars- then a brief glance around to make sure no one else is looking. Finally, a stern glare at you, as a father scolding a child just caught stealing. In a low, serious voice he instructs "Get a grip, son. What you're talking about was tried a long time ago and the War settled it. We are one Nation under God and proud of it. Me and the boys over at the VFW, we’ve fought all over the world under the Stars and Stripes to keep America safe and free. The fact that you can even stand here and talk this foolishness without getting locked up is because we live in a nation that lets you!”

Again, being cautious, you simply state the obvious to you "well, clearly the system's broken beyond repair, we can't vote our way out, and the Government the Founding Fathers left us more closely resembles Sodom of the Bible than Philadelphia 1776. If a married couple got along the way Americans do, they'd get a divorce citing irreconcilable differences. Maybe we should consider doing the same".

The low voice is giving way to a louder and more indignant tone. “Son, you used to lead the Pledge of Allegiance when I was your Scoutmaster. We learned God, Duty and Country, just like I learned in the service. The day after 9/11 you and me stood next to each other singing the “Battle Hymn of the Republic”, both of us fixin’ to cry. I was disappointed when you didn’t go off to serve your country like me and your Daddy did, but I wrote it off as you needin’ an education. Now I see some time in the service was about what you needed. You’da learned more important things- being willing to die for your country, loving it no matter what, and knowin’ better than to go for some half-baked notion from a hundred years ago!”

Then, catching himself, Joe returns to the fatherly tone and says "You're just overreacting to these things. Keep a cool head like we learned in the Scouts. We’re a nation under God, and a nation that blesses Israel. God will save us; all we gotta do is turn out harder for the Republicans next year and He’ll set it right”.

It's now that you feel obligated to point out the blatant South-bashing by the GOP-at the national and State level. The failure to defend flags, monuments and the Confederate monument at Arlington all the while proudly proclaiming themselves the "Party of Lincoln and Grant."
Joe again bristles, and says sternly, "We're all Americans now son. That's all in the past."

A thousand thoughts, facts and figures race through your head in a matter of seconds. You want badly to convince your mentor of the rightness of your position, and the deep sincerity it came from. You know Joe’s arguments are mostly slogans, symbols and government fluff. But you can also see that these are things Joe holds just as deeply as you hold your secessionist beliefs-and now in the twilight of his life, he can’t imagine questioning them.

Just then, a cold gust of wind sweeps through the valley and hit the tiny Apple Festival, triggering a memory. Suddenly you’re looking at Joe through different eyes- the same eyes you did on that chilly April night years ago, when your Dixie Youth team was down 14-0 in the 3rd inning. In spite of the 40-degree temperature and the mercy rule about to be in effect, Coach Joe was still standing on the steps of the dugout, the gentle Southern drawl still cheering you on to finish and do your best. Neither of you wants to end such a deep friendship of four decades like this, so you casually say you hope his tomatoes fare better next year.

Already knowing the answer, you invited Joe to eat Christmas dinner with you and the family.
“I appreciate it bud, but I reckon I’ll stay close to the house in case the young’uns come by.”
He thanks you and tells you to your kids hello and Merry Christmas “maybe I can tell it to mine soon” Joe says wistfully as he ambles toward his old ’92 Silverado.
Joe went home that evening and watched FoxNews till dusk, lowered the Stars and Stripes another time, and one by one the windows with the multicolored lights gave way to a dark, cold December night.
Alone with your own thoughts, your mind wanders back to Joe. You're disappointed at his response, but never in him. You hate what's been done to him, not just being trained to abandon the South, but for the fact that the world he abandoned it for to be a "Good American" could treat him like this. A footnote, just an old white man barely worth mentioning in "our Democracy".

Alone in the darkness, all you could do was raise your glass of bourbon and drink a toast to him. “Merry Christmas, Joe. Hope this one treats you right.”

Joe may never see eye to eye with you on Southern culture and independence. He may eventually quit talking to you, almost like an alcoholic avoiding a family intervention. But you're fighting for Joe and generations of Southerners like him. Somewhere Joe's ancestors are smiling down on you-and someday so will he. After all, men like him made you who you are today.


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