So, There I was… making a lightning fast raid on the state of Texas. Sixty hours in and out. I was on roads
new to me, in an unfamiliar car, late at night. My compadre and navigator was an 89 year old blind man. But that
was alright, because his grandparents were buried nearby, and he was directing me with a memory sharp as a
Bowie knife, and by an alignment with the spirits of his ancestors.
Our stated purpose was a two-day singing. Sacred Harp -Shapenotes, that is. The heavy metal of the antebellum
era. Songs of death and resurrection, sung acapella in four parts, at deafening decibels. The parts face each other
around a hollow square. Every singer takes a turn calling their tune and leading from the middle. If the Basses
outnumber the Trebles, you can get blown sideways. The Sing, with mid-day suppers on the grounds, was being
hosted by worthy locals from a Primitive Baptist Church, out past the Plum Creek bottomland of my buddy’s
uncle’s farm - where he caught his first catfish at the age of 6. He put it back for insufficient size.
When we crossed that crick, we waved at the descendants of the catfish.
We were 30 miles south and 10 miles east of Austin. Daybreak revealed rolling hills, lush and green with the
refulgence of Spring. Also, wildflowers: primrose, paintbrush, and mustard. And Bluebonnets, vast waves
of fragrant purple as far as the eye could see. Any God that invented Bluebonnets can’t be all bad.
Later that day, I stood in a hilltop burial ground. Something about the music, and the ancestors, and the catfish,
and the smell of the bluebonnets made time all loosey goosey. I got to thinking about a spring nearly 200 years
ago. The Mexican army of Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna was rolling north through the countryside. The town of
Gonzales sent most of their men south to join Davey Crockett and company at the Alamo. Those men never
came home. Santa Anna let a woman with a babe in arms flee north with 2 slaves to warn the hamlets and villages,
hoping they would surrender. When she reached Gonzales with her report of every brave soul lost - they wailed.
If you listen to the wind you can still hear the lament. They did not have much time for tears. They did not
surrender. But they did run - burning their own homes behind them. They fled east through night and day and
night. Pity the old, and blind, and the fully pregnant. Some did not make it, and were hastily buried where they
fell. This country is called the Runaway Scrape - and it is good they ran, because behind them at Goliad
Santa Anna massacred over 400 surrendered prisoners of war. The Runaways didn’t slow down until
Sam Houston got his volunteer army across the Brazos River and passed them by - heading south to what would
be a victorious battle. So much blood, so many tears. I hope there were bluebonnets.
At my next turn, I called #543 - Consecration:
"This one goin’ out to the 1836 runaways and their beloved perished."
There then to Thee, thine own I leave
Mold as Thou will my passive clay.
But let me all Thy stamp receive,
And let me all Thy words obey.
SERVE WITH A SINGLE HEART AND EYE
AND TO THY GLORY LIVE OR DIE!
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