I've driven past this Civil War Memorial hundreds of times. It is just up the street from me. Each time I would have the same thought, racist redneck. Then a few days ago I got a call from my friend Tina. She let me know that the Confederate Pyre, as we had come to call it, now had an Obama poster in front of it.
Hmmmmm.
My curiosity began to bubble and within a few hours I was on my way over there to take pictures of this juxtaposition. I felt weird taking pictures without leaving my name, so I dropped a note in the mailbox. That is when I noticed that the memorial honoree and the current resident shared a last name: Tatum. Curiouser and curiouser.
David Tatum Jr. called the next day and was open to a visit from me and my camera. During our comfortable hour, David shared precious artifacts such as his great grandfather J.C. Tatum's official release papers granted to him from the capturing Union Army, and an 1845 edition of Howe's Virginia complete with a hand written description of the fall of Richmond. He also explained that his great grandfather, JC Tatum, does not yet have a marked grave because no one knows where he is buried. JC Tatum was a member of the 1st Company Richmond Howitzers.
David's genealogy is fascinating- the first Tatum to come to America was an English orphan, sold as an indentured servant the same year the first African slaves came to American soil: 1619. Once we warmed up on the comfortable subjects, I jumped to the one that brought me here: What's with the Obama support?
"You thought I was a racist redneck, didn't you?"
I didn't deny this. Mr. Tatum expressed what many of my Obama supporting peers do: our country is falling apart and it is time for a change.
"I close my eyes," he said, "and listen to what the candidates have to say. It has nothing to do with color." I wondered out loud if this causes any ripples in his social organizations, Sons of Confederate Veterans in particular.
"There are racists in every organization. That doesn't make the organization racist. Sure, I may get flack from some folks. But I don't care."
He had a startling collection of replica cannons- including one being used as a flower pot. I couldn't understand how that was a cannon. So David, without a moment's hesitation, put out his cigarette, took the flowers out of the cannon, and opened a small chest that contained tins of black powder. 
I was sure we were all going to get blown up when he started tamping it down.
"Don't worry. The tamper is plastic. And if it does blow up, we'll all be in the next life before you even know it."
He stuck in a fuse and announced to his daughter, "Big Boom." She confirmed back, "OK, Big Boom." I was impressed with the safety routine. Walking outside, he rang a loud bell before firing the cannon. I knew it was coming, knew it was going to be loud, even covered my ears. But still could not help screaming in reaction to the Big Boom.
Just as shocking as the Big Boom were some Civil War interpretations I had never heard before: Lincoln was racist and used the Emancipation Proclamation as a political maneuver to prevent France and England from allying with the South; Lincoln wanted to deport all blacks away from American soil and create a white-only nation; Slaves were sold to the Southern states before the Northern states abolished slavery. While I cannot confirm or deny Mr. Tatum's interpretation of history, I resonated very strongly with his sentiments on slavery.
"Slavery was a national sin. It cannot be laid at the feet of the South alone."
The whole experience was liberating for me. I get nervous about living in a hick town. Afraid sometimes, even. So much so that I seriously considered moving just to be in a more "sophisticated" local. Gratitude to David Tutum Jr., my neighbor, for reminding me that there is no place like home.
When I thought Mr. Tatum could not possibly surprise me anymore, he tells me about his Civil War poetry. This is a genre of poetry I had never heard of. Here is a sample of Mr. Tatum's work.
And silent as most of the others - Passing a wasteland of ashes and stone.
For once on that land stood proud “Dixie” a lady that Johnny loved true.
At the station at home waited Heather, A jealous woman, but John loved her too.
In her heart Heather tried to forgive her- But Dixie had ruined her plans.
At her church Heather planned to get Married- Then raise children to play in the yard!
But Dixie stole Johnny for four long years-so finding forgiveness was hard.
With flowers in hand, she’d wait for this man- Then caress those coarse hairs on his chin.
Then through a charred frame, its all that remained- of what once was there small southern town.
Heather looked in his face and saw the cold trace - of four years of fighting through Hell.
As the carriage pulled into the back yard - Johnny still had her locket in hand
Heather smiled and kissed him so Gently - closed the lid - Then she buried her man.
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