James M. Redwine

moonshine

Dad’s Birthday

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Photo by Peg Redwine

 

Gentle Reader, it is possible you have heard or read some of this Civil War type story before. But Peg and I are going to spend this coming weekend at the re-enactment of the Civil War Battle of Honey Springs which was the largest Civil War battle west of the Mississippi River involving Caucasian, Black, and several Native American tribes in a desperate struggle for the control of Fort Gibson, the main installation that controlled the western supply route along the Texas Road. I do not know if my Grandfather Redwine fought in this battle which occurred July 17, 1863 near what is now Checotah, Oklahoma. If he did, it would have been as a teenager on the side of the Confederacy. However, as he eventually ended up in this particular area immediately after the Civil War, I choose to believe that scenario. Anyway, as with many families, our history wanders through numerous thickets of possibilities. In this regard I am returning to what I choose to believe may be a part of the Redwine lore. Should you have seen or read the story before, I hope you will indulge me.

My father was born in 1905 in Indian Territory, what later became Oklahoma in 1907. My grandfather Redwine was born in Georgia in 1848, 13 years before the Civil War began. After the war he moved to Indian Country, declared himself a minister and sought to save souls among non-United States citizens. At a makeshift church-camp meeting he was preaching from a wagon hitched to a team that bolted. Grandpa was thrown off the wagon, hit his head, died from the fall and was buried by his flock right where he fell. The location of his grave was slowly forgotten by all but a few of his family.

During the Viet Nam War the anti-war protestors raised so much Cain our government sought to ease the pressure by honoring deceased veterans from prior wars. As the great Woke Movement had not yet begun, sometimes “veteran” included Civil War soldiers from both sides. As my paternal grandfather was a Georgia teenager during the war years 1861-1865, he must have been counted as a war veteran. The details of his allegiance were not noted.

However, Gentle Reader, my maternal great, great grandfather who was born in La Grange, Indiana served with the Iron 44th of the Union forces. My family was rather ecumenical. Regardless, Grandfather Redwine was included in the whole class and was deemed entitled to a bronze marker for his grave only 100 or so years after his service.

Therefore, the War Department sent out a representative to Oklahoma but he could not locate Grandpa’s grave. So, he contacted my first Cousin, Pal Gene Redwine in Wilburton, Oklahoma to enlist his help. Pal Gene was an accommodating and friendly guy who had been to our grandfather’s grave. He agreed to help but suggested that our Uncle Henry might be even more knowledgeable and brewed excellent moonshine besides. They proceeded to Uncle Henry’s still.

Uncle Henry was as affable as Pal Gene. He insisted his latest vintage be taste-tested before they went to find Grandpa’s grave. The federal man and Pal Gene felt it impolite to refuse such hospitality so a few hours were spent trying to get directions to Grandpa’s rural resting site. Of course, such mental exercise required chemical assistance.

Eventually, Pal Gene and the Veteran’s Affairs official left Uncle Henry’s with Grandpa’s marker and sought the mysterious grave. They never found it but did manage to lose the marker somewhere along the search. Talk about honor in the breach, or, just desserts if one is not a Rebel.

Photo by Peg Redwine

 

Raise a Parting Glass

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Old Baptist Cemetery, Wilburton, Oklahoma

The old Irish folk ballad, “The Parting Glass”, is a favorite Irish drinking song and is almost always sung, often a cappella, to help the dearly departed on their way. Military veterans are also frequently toasted to honor their service as glasses are raised and the ballad is sung. As you will see that tradition was carried from Ireland to America.

It is Veteran’s Day and as a veteran I have been thinking of all the service members, those who have served before and with me and those who are serving now. The United States Air Force was very good to me even though I gave little more than some of my time during a time my time was not otherwise of much value. While in the Air Force I was sent to Indiana University for one year to study a foreign language. Once honorably discharged I received four years of the G.I. Bill. I still receive VA health benefits. If a balance sheet were kept, I would be much more benefitted than contributing. Fortunately, no such accounting is made. So, thank you America.

And it is not just myself in my family who have been blessed to serve. Both of my brothers and my brother-in-law received honorable discharges and veteran’s benefits from the Army. Our father wanted to serve in World War II but a massive heart attack and his age caused Uncle Sam to say “no thanks.” In my immediate family our son, Jim, got his college education at West Point and now receives disability benefits due to physical health problems caused by his active-duty combat service on the front lines of both the Gulf War and the Iraq War. His son, Nick, our grandson, just graduated from Army Ranger School as Jim did about thirty years ago. Nick also got his college education via an R.O.T.C. scholarship thanks to the Army.

During WWII my mother’s three brothers and one of her sisters served as did my wife’s grandfather and two uncles. Each of these honorably serving family members received post-war benefits from a grateful nation. So, once again, thank you America.

Now going back another generation to my grandfather, Adolphus Cash Redwine, who was born in Georgia in 1848 before he moved to southeastern Oklahoma. With grandpa we find a murkier but perhaps more interesting veteran even if I am not sure which color uniform the Civil War era teenaged soldier wore. All I do know is that a few years ago my first cousin, Paul Redwine, who was the eldest son of one of my father’s numerous brothers living in the Wilburton, Oklahoma area told my sister, Janie, another of our uncles, Henry, received a letter of inquiry from the Veteran’s Administration in regard to our grandfather.

The letter stated grandfather’s military records indicated he was entitled to a military grave marker. Please remember this was at a time all service, Confederate or Yankee, was honored. The VA wanted someone to guide them to grandfather’s burial site. Paul said our Uncle Henry volunteered and the federal man showed up in Wilburton, Oklahoma with a bronze marker for grandpa’s grave.

Uncle Henry was one of the few people who knew the place where granddad was buried as grandfather was a Baptist minister who was preaching from the bed of a buckboard at a camp meeting in the remote hills of southeastern Oklahoma when something spooked the team of mules hitched to the buckboard. The mules took off and grandfather was thrown to the ground and killed. The congregation, at my grandmother’s request, buried grandpa right there with a board to mark the spot. That area grew into the tiny Bug Scuffle Cemetery outside Wilburton. Uncle Henry knew generally where the Bug Scuffle Cemetery was located among the sparsely populated hills. Unfortunately, Uncle Henry also happened to be a local source of moonshine. Uncle Henry made the gentlemanly suggestion that before he and the federal man placed the marker on grandfather’s grave, they should raise a toast in his honor using some of the family’s pride. The federal man, probably not wishing to offend, readily agreed.

My guess is grandfather’s military service, whatever it was, was still honorable even if his marker is not on his grave. For, as you see, Uncle Henry and the federal man raised so many parting Ball fruit jars to granddad’s service they never found his gravesite and lost the marker during their search. However, to grandfather and all veterans I am raising a metaphorical parting glass to say thank you and well done, and thank you to America for allowing us to serve.