My grandparents lived in a small frame house on the
outskirts of a little farming community.
They didn’t have indoor plumbing until around 1953, and they finally got
a small, portable, black and white TV when their kids gave it to them in 1958,
or so. After supper, they would read,
play board games, do picture puzzles, and talk.
Around
8:00 PM, it was time to go to bed. Grandma wouldn’t let anybody sleep past 7:00
AM because that was “glakit.”
From time to time, my grandfather would recite the poem “Barbara
Frietchie” by John Greenleaf Whittier from memory. His family was Society of Friends (Quaker),
but he was not a pacifist. He always
said he was too young for the Spanish American War, and too old for WW I. He loved our country, nonetheless.
My mother died in 2012, after a long struggle with osteoporosis. Before she passed, she asked me to read the
poem to her in her room at the nursing home.
I started it, but I got all choked up and couldn’t finish it. I seldom get “emotional,” but I looked over
at her with tears in my eyes and said, “I can’t Momma. They are ruining it (the
country) … for money.” She replied simply, “I know.”
Barbara Frietchie
By John Greenleaf
Whittier
Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,
The clustered spires of Frederick stand
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.
Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple- and peach-tree fruited deep,
Fair as a garden of the Lord
To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,
On that pleasant morn of the early fall
When Lee marched over the mountain wall,—
Over the mountains winding down,
Horse and foot, into Frederick town.
Forty flags with their silver stars,
Forty flags with their crimson bars,
Flapped in the morning wind: the sun
Of noon looked down, and saw not one.
Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;
Bravest of all in Frederick town,
She took up the flag the men hauled down;
In her attic window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet.
Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.
Under his slouched hat left and right
He glanced: the old flag met his sight.
“Halt!”— the dust-brown ranks stood fast.
“Fire!”— out blazed the rifle-blast.
It shivered the window, pane and sash;
It rent the banner with seam and gash.
Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;
She leaned far out on the window-sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.
“Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,
But spare your country’s flag,” she said.
A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
Over the face of the leader came;
The nobler nature within him stirred
To life at that woman’s deed and word:
“Who touches a hair of yon gray head
Dies like a dog! March on!” he said.
All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet:
All day long that free flag tost
Over the heads of the rebel host.
Ever its torn folds rose and fell
On the loyal winds that loved it well;
And through the hill-gaps sunset light
Shone over it with a warm good-night.
Barbara Frietchie’s work is o’er,
And the Rebel rides on his raids no more.
Honor to her! and let a tear
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall’s bier.
Over Barbara Frietchie’s grave
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!
Peace and order and beauty draw
Round thy symbol of light and law;
And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars
below in Frederick town!
