Let me begin with Mort Rainey's immortal words to his soon-to-be-pushing-up-daisies pooch, Chico:
I didn't steal it.
Because I didn't. But I know who did.
And my mom won't care if I reveal her the identity of said pilferer.
She's cool that way.
Anyway I've no room to judge since I came perilously, dangerously close to doing the very same thing, and it wasn't all that long ago.
Allow me to elaborate.
One extremely hot day last summer found me reporting a deposition in a small South Carolina town.
I forget which one.
Naturally I had my camera with me in case I saw an interesting cemetery on the way home.
And naturally, I did.
So I pulled over and parked my car and got out. The place was deserted.
Stopping every so often in order to stand, pelican-like, scratching first one ankle and then the other with the toes of the opposite foot, on account of millions of gnats were lurking in the grass just waiting to pounce upon said part of my anatomy (insects love me), I tramped around a peaceful old church cemetery for half an hour or more.
Now, perhaps before we proceed I should give you some backstory.
All over the South there are graves of Confederate soldiers.
A stunning accessory to many of these graves is the cast-iron Southern Cross of Honor.
Photo Jennifer Weber 2010I love those things.
And I cannot explain it but on this particular day when I was in that church cemetery alone, I had an overwhelming desire to ...
... well, take one.
There's no other way to put it. I wanted to pull one of those crosses out of the earth, stow it in my car, and drive away.
In my defense, I wasn't tempted to remove a Southern Cross of Honor out of the ground from in front of an actual tombstone. In some cemeteries the crosses don't even seem to be attached to any particular grave; they just stick up here and there, randomly.
I had my eye on one of those. It wasn't standing all the way at attention but leaned back, tired. Tired of marking the sad spot.
And my reasoning was, who would miss it if I took it?
I went so far as to touch and wiggle the hot heaviness of the iron, in order to determine how willing it might be to come along.
But in the end I couldn't do it. My conscience's inner volume had escalated from a nag to a shout. The cross didn't belong to me. What would I do with it anyway?
I left carrying only my camera and about eighty-five bug bites.
Eventually I related that whole story to my mother, who also lives in South Carolina.
"I stole one. I gave it to Dodie," she said without even blushing.
I was speechless for at least thirty seconds. That may be a record.
I guess the apple does fall somewhat far from the tree. At least in some ways.
Now, Dodie is my beloved uncle. I was born when he was only ten years old and we've always been friends.
He is a stellar artist who paints and sculpts professionally as Dody Sandifer.
I am proud to say he reads this blog.
My mother is the eldest of the four Sandifer children and Dodie is the youngest.
Brother and sister are possessed of an identical offbeat joie de vivre, if you know what I mean. Partners in good Louisiana cooking, strong-coffee drinking, funny-story telling and Southern-style reminiscing, plus various and sundry crimes of the quasi-innocent sort.
Including cemetery theft and transporting stolen goods across state lines, apparently.
Anyway, to my mother I expressed no small amount of envy for the Southern Cross of Honor she had been so bold as to purloin and haul down to Louisiana for Dodie.
She just laughed. "You should have gotten your own," she said.
Okay Mom. I'll remember that for next time.
Fast forward and back up a few days to last Friday. I was in Greenville for a job and I tooled over to Mom's place afterward for a cup of Joe.
As I walked up the front steps I noticed a Southern Cross of Honor propped against the porch railing.
Hmmm, I thought.
My mother met me at the door. "Did you see your cross?" she asked without preamble.
"My cross?" I said.
Turns out Mom and her sister went to Louisiana a few weeks ago to visit their brothers.
And in a conversation with Dodie it came up that I coveted his stolen Southern Cross of Honor.
So he went and got it and told my mother to give it to me.
Now it's mine.
Yee hah!
The cross measures twenty inches tall by nearly twelve inches wide and weighs twelve pounds.
On the front side are the letters CSA (for Confederate States of America) and the Confederate flag.
On the back are cast the dates 1861 and 1865, and the Latin phrase Deo Vindice.
God will vindicate.
That's what I'm talking about, y'all.
*insert Rebel yell*
The perfect ending is, I now have my very own cast-iron Southern Cross of Honor. Which I promise to cherish.
Even if I admit to having come by it somewhat ... er, dishonorably.
I'm not sorry.
Deo Vindice.
