Since moving up to the pacific northwest about 7 months ago, I have come to notice many of the differences in the cultures and traditions between back home in the South and here. Aside from their peculiar way of naming all of their east west streets after Northern Generals and Presidents, one seemingly simple bit of manners or etiquette that has struck me the most is the handshake, or lack thereof. I was raised, by both my mother and father that when meeting another male, the handshake was the most important aspect of that encounter.

Since settling in to our new home in Washington state, I have been meeting and being introduced to many new people, and I have been surprised by the lack of handshakes at many of those first encounters. Being raised in the southern traditions, I always extend my hand, I don’t even think about it, I just do it. But quite frequently, I extend my hand to the other person who has his hand in his pocket, and his reaction seems surprised. Now, for the most part, the older men I meet typically offer their hands for the meeting, but most of the men my age or slightly older, they never raise their hand first. This struck me odd, and has made me feel uncomfortable in some instances. There are other aspects and subtleties of the handshake, like firmness etc., but I won’t go into those.

I began to think about what the handshake is, and where it may have originated. From my search, there are several possibilities as to how the handshake became to being. From spending quite some time in Scotland several years ago, and my own personal studies of Scottish customs and traditions, I think I have a pretty good idea as to the nature of the handshake. There is a tradition in the highlands of Scotland, which developed over centuries, of passing the quaich.

The quaich was and is a traditional vessel for drinking whiskey, reserved for a specific ritual. Historically, in the highlands if a stranger or traveler came to your door, that person was invited in and offered food and shelter. One of the first customs was to pass the quaich to the newcomer. The quaich is a cup from which opposite sides extend a small tab or handle. The person offering the quaich would sip of the whiskey using his right hand to drink with ( the right hand usually being the sword wielding hand) and with his right hand pass the quaich to the newcomer, In turn the newcomer accepts the quaich with his right hand and takes a sip. This assured both home owner and visitor, that they were safe from agression and would not harm each other.

For me, this highland custom was very similar to our handshake. Both parties greeting would offer their right hand, again the hand that would wield a weapon, to assure each other no aggression, and a verbal greeting would be spoken. It also offered a simple way of making human contact. It was a way of establishing peace and friendship, and assuring that that agreement would be kept. I am sure that for the vast majority of readers here, the handshake is a normal and common part of their daily lives, but where I am living now, it seems not to be so. In this day where more of our relationships extend across the cyber-sphere, it seems the age old traditions and manners when it comes to polite a civilized interaction are beginning to wane. Call me old fashioned, but I can’t imagine this simple ritual of greeting not being a part of my way of living, and would encourage others to keep this important greeting a part of their lives.

Brian Standerfer

My great great Grandfather, John Newton Standerfer, was born in October of 1842 near Jonesville in Lee County, Virginia. He was the son of a farmer and Grist Mill owner. John was 19, in 1861 when he enlisted in the Army of Western Virginia. His military records list him as a Private in Company B, 15 Regiment, Virginia Infantry. John shared with his grandchildren many stories from his time in the war. About fighting under General Joseph E. Johnston until his wounding in 1862, then under General Robert E. Lee, and General Thomas J. Jackson, in the “Foot Cavalry” until his wounding and death at Chancellorsville, finally, again under General Robert E. Lee at Gettysburg.

John told about when en route to his first command post in 1861, he and others paid 50 cents to see a live show of patriotic music. For the first time in his life, John recalled, he heard a real life band play “Dixie.” John remembered being so moved and so proud. He related the fighting at Chancellorsville as the bloodiest he had been involved in and how he remembered seeing General Jackson shortly after his wounding. He described that day as the saddest day in the life of General Jackson’s men.

John Newton Standerfer

He was captured 3 times during the war. The first time while in the prison camp he and other confederates dug 14 tunnels under fences and walls and made their escape under the hail of bullets. He and many others made it to the safety of a nearby river and finally freedom. The second time he recalled being held near the front lines and at some point seeing a fellow prisoner, a “big Irishman,” move slowly toward freedom. John kept his eyes on him, very casually and very scared they walked right out of the enemy camp, and escaped to their lines.

The last time he was captured at Snicker’s Gap, Virginia. It appears he was involved in the Battle of Cool Spring, one of many contests for control of the gap. On July 18, 1864 he was captured and sent to the Old Capitol Prison in Washington, DC. He was transfered to Elmira Prison on Aug 12, 1864 where he spent almost an entire year. John remembered the living situation at Elmira being a sad state. Often times food was so scarce that at one point his food was limited to 9 grains of parched corn for each meal. John was released from Elmira Prison on July 30, 1865. His oldest grandson described John’s view of his service in the war. “Pa was never sure he killed a man. He never wanted to kill anyone, but there was a war to be fought and did what he felt was his obligation.”

Upon his release from Elmira Prison in 1865, John returned home to farm with his father Joseph. He married in 1866 to a neighbor girl. It was upon returning home from the war John felt God calling him and he made his profession of Faith in Lee County, Virginia. He was baptized in the winter in the ice covered Powell River. He was ordained as a Deacon and served as Deacon until he and his family moved to Texas in 1875. To my knowledge there are no written accounts of the family’s life during Reconstruction. But I would imagine life during reconstruction helped lead to a decision to move west. But that is only my speculation.

In 1875, the family cut timber from their land and made rafts, packed all their belongings and some animals and floated down the rivers to somewhere near Memphis or Nashville. They moved with several other large families that were related by marriage. There they sold the timber and bought wagons and travelled overland to settle in North Texas. Present day McKinney, Texas.

While settling in John realized that there were no churches in the area, and proceeded to hold Sunday services in his home. His wife taught sunday school. Over time all of the families joined them on Sunday until the group became so large that they had to hold the Sunday services outside, in “Brush Arbor” meetings. As life moved forward, John felt the Lord calling him deeper into serving his community. At the age of 48, John was ordained as a Baptist Preacher and commenced traveling by horseback throughout the surrounding counties to preach and organize churches.

During his time in Texas, John felt the Lord turning his attention Towards the Indian Territory north of the Red River. It is said that John made a vow that if God would take his mistakes and make them right, he would go to Indian Territory as a missionary. He saw the opportunity open for him in 1894, and made preparations to move in to Oklahoma. It was not until 1896, when more land was opened for settlement that the family made the move. John was part of a “land run” in 1896 and obtained 160 acres of land.

The families traveled 160 miles from Texas to Oklahoma to settle, running into hostile indians along the route, but faith lead them on. It is said that John was a first rate carpenter, and that the first dwelling built on the new homestead was a one room, half dug-out built from green cottonwood lumber hauled from El Reno, OK, the closest railroad station. Later he built a two story farmhouse on the 160 acre farm and built a two story house for his son Jim. He also helped build the house for the Rudd family who were related by marriage.

John commenced his work for the Lord as a circuit preacher. He would organize churches and serve as their preacher until the congregation would vote someone as pastor. He was known to be pastor of more than one church at a time and in 1903 was pastor of three churches at one time. He established over a dozen churches in Kiowa and Custer counties and preached on Saturday, Saturday nights, Sunday and Sunday nights all year round. He would take a buggy in good weather, but in inclement or freezing weather he rode his horse, often times having to lead his horse on foot.

He drove many miles to a school house, church, or home to deliver a sermon, perform baptisms in a creek or lake, perform weddings or to officiate a death and burial, and it is said that he always knelt to pray before preaching God’s word. He did all of this while still being a devoted husband and father of 11 children and grandfather to many grandchildren. He was not only a preacher, but he was a farmer as well. John planted and harvested cotton and cut and sold wood by the cord. John and his family were certainly not wealthy folk, and farmed to provide what income they could.

From his daughter-in-law, my great Grandmother, a paper was found among her things with this written account of John’s death.

“On August 2, 1920, Rev. J.N. Standerfer passed away, so far as we can judge, instantly, and according to his expressed wish. With his passing the world lost an upright citizen; Christianity lost a faithful upholder, and his family lost a kindly counselor.

How well I remember my last visit with him the latter part of January 1920. The children and I spent several days in his home where I so often sat and listened to him recount his past; his Civil War days and pioneer days in Texas. Also he talked much of his old home in Lee County, Virginia. His Grandfather was one of 20 children, 10 boys and 10 girls. On the last evening there with him, I played on the pump organ “The Rock That Is Higher Than I” and he joined in singing.

I can see how he looked sitting in his chair between the stove and the window in their living room when I went to tell him goodby. His manner told me that he knew his time with us was short, tho at that time he was enjoying very good health and he said, “Goodby, I wish you well,” and I felt him for the last time.”

Personal accounts of friends and relatives reveal how they all remembered John’s shining eyes which sparkled when he looked at you. He is described by his grandchildren and grandchildren of his neighbors as being patient, kindly, honest, pleasant, neat, strong, quiet, gentle, soft-spoken, stalwart, fatherly and grandfatherly, and always immaculate including his long white beard, which no one ever remembers being unkempt and shaggy.

Each year from 1945, the descendants of John Newton Standerfer held large annual reunions in Oklahoma the weekend following Thanksgiving. In the 1960’s consistently attendance was well over 100 people. Over time, since the 1980’s attendance dwindled as the families moved away again, in search for better careers and lives.

John Newton Standerfer’s desire to provide a good life for his family, is example of his duty to ones home and hearth. His Faith in God, love for his friends, family, neighbors, and greater community speak volumes of who he was. All of those attributes help me to see that his life, although interrupted by a bloody war, was ultimately strengthened by it. And that he established those family traditions, morals, and devout faith in God, to be a way of life that influenced his family all the way down the line to myself, some 144 years later.

-Thanks go to Ruby L. Ledbetter, author of “HE STANDS EVER,” THE STANDERFER FAMILY. With her research, John Newton’s life story has been kept alive.

I remember those two large books having a place on the hearth of our fireplace for many years growing up. There for me to pick up when those inevitable childhood questions were too much to keep in. I recall carefully thumbing through the hundreds of pages full of text with great men’s names and black and white photographs of distant casualties of war. But this was no ordinary war, this was a war between the States that made up our country. I remember how I felt a reverence and respect for those unknown men laying in contorted positions upon the dusty ground, motionless, forever frozen in time. They it seemed would never forget what they had experienced. To me, a child not ever having a personal experience with death, those figures on the pages I imagined were just sleeping, and were just about to wake up as the sun rose. In my young imagination, it was almost as if I was looking out through a window on something that was happening right outside my house.

Those images from the books and names I would read about stuck with me all of my life. Growing up in many different locations throughout the South, I remembered seeing and visiting some of the monuments honoring the memory of those men from that city or county, that made the ultimate sacrifice for home and hearth. I began to realize that I had stepped through that window from my childhood home and into the reality of that war. Those bodies, those men in the pages of those ancient books had become real. They were not simply black and white images of some other place so long ago. They were a wife’s husband, a parent’s child, a child’s father, a brother. They were my ancestors.

As the years have passed I have gained an understanding as to why these somber and solemn monuments to fallen comrades and loved ones were commissioned and erected on so many Southern town squares, cemeteries and public greens. They were placed in these places so that we never forget them. Those who won the war and those that disagree with the causes of the war, taut racism and hatred, bigotry and violence, and will stop at nothing to eradicate all that we, the descendants of those brave citizen soldiers, have to remember them by. The lone Confederate soldier silently standing watch over their fallen brothers.

Why is it sacred and right to have monuments to other fallen heroes, other causes, but not for our ancestors? They by birthright were Americans! Their ancestors fought for the freedom from a tyrannical government but a short generation prior. The reasons for the constant onslaught of accusations and eradication of all things Southern are many. Our reason for keeping our sacred monuments and symbols are but one, to keep their memory alive. To remember is to honor. Are these monuments unlike a gravestone or tombstone? Would you demand the removal of some persons gravestone simply because you did not agree with what the deceased may have done? I think not, that would be preposterous. Are there not great monuments to the fallen Northerners as well in many places across the North? We do not demand them to be removed because they remind us of the coercion and atrocities wrought upon the Southern people. Those monuments, like ours stand for something, and we understand and respect that.

Others claim that the monuments instill fear and stand for slavery, and that these monuments offend them. If we all were constantly demanding the removal of all things that offended each and everyone of us, there would be nothing left of any so called American heritage and culture. Why can they not choose to commission and erect monuments to their ancestors? I think that monuments to freed slaves would be fitting to honor them and their descendants. What is stopping them? Are they not proud of their ancestors achievements? Do they not want to honor their fallen as well? Or do they just simply want to complain, and spew forth more hatred and racism and more false accusations? It seems that this long passed war did not end at Appomattox and Palmetto Ranch. The battlefields are still much the same. The war was mostly fought in the south from 1861-1865 and is still being waged here today.

It is my heartfelt desire that some understanding can be had by all those who still want to dictate to the South what we can and cannot do. We’re not constantly trying to persuade anyone that we are right. We simply desire the war to end so that we can let our dead lay at peace, and that we may respectfully honor and remember them, just as their sons and daughters, wives and mothers and comrades did when they chose to place those monuments on the soil.

Those two big books with worn gray covers have aged some since coming into my home. Their dust jackets, have some tears and tatters, but the pages of those books are just as crisp as the day that I first put my hands on them. They, for a long time have had a place upon my bookshelves silently guarding their valiant history. Those volumes will remain there quietly, waiting for those little hands of the next generation, to tell their stories.

Today, my hurt turned to disbelief and then next to anger.  It would appear that we are being lied to by British Petroleum and by the Federal Government about the nature and scope of the leak at the ocean floor.  I have been reading some headlines across the spectrum of news media on the internet, read some disturbing articles, and watched some very disturbing news videos relating to what is going on down on our beloved coastline and out into the Gulf itself.  There hasn’t been much coverage of the environmental impact that is happening on the coast, and it would appear the BP or someone is censoring what can be shown on television and print.

After reading the article about the small Alabama community that is taking things into their own hands to protect their shoreline from the oil, I began to wonder why there are not more Southerners rising up?  Why aren’t the good people of the South storming their state houses, demanding swift and immediate action.  Why is the Governor of Mississippi more concerned about about news stories affecting tourism, than taking action to protect his state’s coastline?  Why aren’t we demanding action?  Why aren’t WE taking action?  Where are our leaders?  I don’t mean our political leaders…I’m talking about Southern people, that know when it’s time to stand up, and take action!  Why is there not a call to arms, no rally cry and a march to the shoreline?!  Do we not quite fully understand the ramifications of this disaster?  What it is going to do to the water, the wetlands, the beaches, the marine life, the economy, the livelihood of countless people along the coast?

As of June 11, 2010 the estimates are as follows:

• 840,000 gallons/day      (Best case scenario)
• 1,050,000 gallons/day
• 2,252,000 gallons/day   (BP’s worst case)
• 4,200,000 gallons/day  (Expert’s worst case)

Flowing unimpeded into the waters of the Gulf so far:

• 39,000,000+ gallons (Best case)
• 219,000,000+ gallons (Worst case)

Either way you wash it, it’s millions of gallons too much!

Now the experts are saying that it appears that the well casing has been damaged. This means that oil is escaping outside of the well casing and flowing at tremendous pressures into “formations” or fissures in the sea floor, which has resulted in more places that the oil is escaping.

MAGNOLIA SPRINGS, Ala. — James Hinton looked over a barge jutting into the mouth of a 6,000-acre estuary last weekend and said, “If we can make this work, if the oil don’t get in here, 1,275 miles of bay and river coastline will be protected.”

A day later, Mr. Hinton said: “I could go to jail for going against unified command. Now, I don’t mind going to jail, I just need to make sure it’s for doing the right thing.”

Read more here from the New York Times

(The article below may contain spelling or grammatical errors, it is reproduced in its original format)

The Vanishing Gentleman

BY LOUISE COLLIER WILLCOX

AUTHOR OF “THE HUMAN WAY,” “THE ROAD TO JOY”

HE passed very quietly and quickly. One might almost assert that it was accomplished in one generation. The fathers still held a tradition of which the sons were unaware. There was no pomp and circumstance about the end; there was very little lamentation.

Mrs. Comer proclaimed loudly and eagerly the vanishing lady. She raised a pean of praise to the housed, headachy, hampered mid-Victorian type and she saw no good in the candid, athletic, open air, open minded creature who replaced her. But has anyone spoken of the vanishing gentleman? It is said that the bustle and hurry of modern life is the cause of his passing and one must admit that it is in the mart, in the centers of commercialism that one meets his successor. I have conversed with him in his office with his hat on and a cigar in his mouth. I have met him and lunched with him, when he was a representative in Congress, and winked across the table at a confrere when anything amused him. He is short and incisive of speech and definitely prefers bad grammar. In certain localities and grievous to state, from one university, he is capable of sitting in the presence of ladies, with his feet higher than his head. Yes, he even spits! He is the apotheosis of the lowbrow in manners. His speech is wrecked on a false ideal of freedom and ease; his traditions are huddled up under aggression and haste; his manners are sacrificed to a false democracy.

Since the days of Confucius, men have been outlining and defining the gentleman. We have been told that it takes three generations at least to make one. But I have seen two generations of perfect gentlemen produce the up-to-date hoodlum.

There are varying theories as to where a gentleman begins. It used to be the theory that if the heart was right, the manners followed. If I read William James aright, he says that we begin to cry and then are sorry and I know the New-thought prophets say that if you will but persistently smile, you will become happy; ergo, perhaps if you make the manners, the heart will grow right.

There are certain schools, one, at least, in this country and two in England who still lay stress upon all their graduates being gentlemen. Winchester has carven all over it “Manners maketh man.” And of a certain school, in our land, it is said that you can always recognize a representative by the way he apologizes for a mistake or an inadvertency.

Some one asked a Southern gentleman to define the difference between a Northern and a Southern gentleman, “Well,” he said, “the difference is this, one is born in the North and in a different environment, with different traditions, but whatever his thinking and his trappings, the gentleman part of him is just the same as the Southerner’s.” For after all being a gentleman is having a trained heart, just as being a scholar is having a trained mind. There is a hero of fiction whose life maxim was tristem neminem fecit. This type of gentleman may be found in every walk of life. He may load coal or collect pictures for a profession and live in an attic or a palace, but he is trained not to sadden or insult his fellow-sojourner. He may be a college professor or a butler, but at heart he is courtly and selfrestrained. He may be a gentleman because he owes it to other people, or because he feels that he owes it to himself, but he has learned somehow to “go softly.” He is thoughtful because thoughtlessness may do injuries; he is gentle because he knows that he is not alone in the world and that each person in it has a claim to consideration. He has been trained to believe that the world must be kept lovely as well as vigorous. Lafcadio Hearn speaks somewhere of someone who “never did anything which is not—I will not say right, that is commonplace—but beautiful.” This then is the aim of manners, to make life beautiful.

When one unexpectedly runs across a gentleman in an unexpected spot, it comes over one with a rush of pleasure, that a gentleman was after all nearly as wonderful a thing as a lady. Life is more fluid, more colored, freer in his presence. He is not listening for an inadvertence; he is taking his hearer on trust and for granted and he sets him at ease. He wants no advantage and he refrains from bullying or browbeating.

Oddly enough, this definition of a gentleman is some two thousand years old.

“A gentleman has nine aims: to see clearly; to understand what he hears; to be gentle in manner; dignified in bearing; faithful in speech; painstaking at work; to ask when in doubt; in anger to remember difficulties ; in sight of gain to remember right. His modesty escapes insult; his truth gains trust; his earnestness brings success; his kindness is a key to open men’s hearts.”

Tho the species is vanishing, there are still gentlemen in the world, and if the ideal were held aloft and waved there would still be many who would enroll themselves in the order of those who believe in the value of fine manners.

Paul Elmer More has recently made an eloquent plea that there should be a conscious solidarity at the core of the aristocratical class; that class which is capable of finer discriminations into grades of taste and character than exist in untutored nature. Tho he speaks for scholarship and moral and political standards, the result would include the manners also of the Vanishing Gentleman.

Norfolk, Virginia