Monumental Decisions

By Barbara A. Falletta

Monumental Decisions is a fictional narrative based on factual events from American history. Beginning in the final days of the American Civil War, the drama chronicles the lives of two Southern American families and their descendants. One is a product of early European migration, and the other is rooted in slavery. Throughout the narrative, the characters are forced to encounter prevailing attitudes, beliefs, and prejudices, as well as the evolution of the American family.
As time passes, issues that fueled the Civil War come back to
haunt the two families. Confederate monuments built for public spaces remain a constant reminder of the conflict that divided the country. Events that occur in the lives of the characters and the decisions they make in their wake begin to threaten their very survival. Well over a century after the end of the Civil War, the controversy over the display of Confederate monuments among the general public escalates into violence and even murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9798823021319

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© 2024 Barbara A. Falletta. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  04/09/2024

ISBN: 979-8-8230-2132-6 (sc)

ISBN: 979-8-8230-2131-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2024902893

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are

models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

MONUMENTS ARE FALLING...

WHAT SHOULD RISE IN THEIR PLACE?

Rachel L. Harris and Lisa Tarchak

CONTENTS

Preface

Prologue

Part 1:  The Jagged Teeth Of Memory

Chapter 1:  If The Creek Don’t Rise

Chapter 2:  Livin’ In High Cotton

Part 2:  Crosses And Crossroads

Chapter 3:  Rubbing Salt In The Wound

Chapter 4:  Taste Of Victory, Sounds Of Freedom

Part 3:  The Changing Face Of America

Chapter 5:  Coming Up From Nothing

Chapter 6:  Chasing The American Dream

Part 4:  Happy 200th Birthday

Chapter 7:  The Haves And The Have-Nots

Chapter 8:  Written In Stone

Part 5:  The Divided States Of America

PREFACE

Simply put, a monument is a cherished moment in time which has been memorialized. This broad definition allows us to include a wide variety of events and the media in which they’re constructed.

One could argue that a dog-eared photograph of a great-grandfather proudly dressed in military attire could be classified as a monument. But generally speaking, most monuments are imposing in size and recognized more universally. In the United States, statues honoring famous figures in history were once placed in cemeteries where only a few people could appreciate them. But when they began to be erected in public spaces such as parks and in front of municipal buildings, their function expanded. Rather than simply illuminating the story of American history, these works of art became objects of propaganda.

Eventually, the political and social climate in the United States would bring under consideration the appropriateness of many long treasured monuments. It will also challenge the country’s concept of what it means to be human. And so two questions remain:

Can these monuments survive the twenty-first century?

Can the American people of the twenty-first century survive each other?

PROLOGUE

It was a bloody war. Thousands died in combat, as prisoners of war, and of disease. But those who fought on the battlefield and were able to escape death were only some of the survivors. There were parents who lost sons, wives lost husbands, and children lost fathers. Initiated in 1775 by the thirteen British American colonies, it was a fight for freedom from the oppressive power of the British Empire. It would become known as the American War of Independence.

In the war’s aftermath, monuments were erected to celebrate the victories of Americans and serve as a place to remind them that they were now safe from the tyranny they fought to escape. Statues were modeled of ‘minutemen’, young civilian colonists who were ready ‘at any minute’ to leave their crops in the fields and answer the call of patriotism. These monuments would also become a quiet place for survivors to mourn and, in time, begin to heal.

The war would unite the states, and it would be unimaginable that such a bond could be broken. Sadly, in less than eighty years, Americans would be pitted against Americans resulting in the bloodiest conflict in the country’s history - the Civil War.

PART ONE

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The Jagged Teeth Of Memory

INTRODUCTION

The fighting between the Union and Confederate armies dragged on for almost four years. Confederate General Robert E. Lee surrendered at Appomattox Courthouse in April of 1865, but the formal declaration of the war ending would not be made until sixteen months later. The intense combat had taken thousands of lives, and the country wasn’t prepared for the carnage that would take place.

Approximately one in four soldiers who left home to fight with neighbors and kin never returned. There were no national cemeteries and no way to inform families of their losses. At Gettysburg, seven thousand corpses were found in the fields and around the town itself. It was left to the families to go to the battleground, wade through a sea of massacred men, and hope that unrecognizable bodies were not their sons, brothers, or fathers. But they went. They had to find their loved ones to lay them to rest in a place where a stone marker would testify to their existence, their bravery. And, it could give those left behind a place to mourn.

Of those soldiers lucky enough to survive battle after battle, many returned home wounded, some missing one or more limbs. The Confederate veterans could no longer work their farms, and their Yankee counterparts were unable to return to their jobs in the factories. The effects of the war set in motion a domino effect of devastation. Tens of thousands of families on both sides of the conflict became destitute.

CHAPTER ONE

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If The Creek Don’t Rise

The Nolans were American Southerners to the core, but their roots reached way back to Ireland. In the 1840s, The Great Potato Famine devastated the Irish people, especially the poor. Rather than face starvation, many farmers and their families chose to flee their homeland for the shores of the New World - America. The fertile land of the Carolinas was an ideal place for some of them to begin a new life.

The Nolan family decided to settle on a small stretch of land just outside Old Brunswick Town, North Carolina.

It was now the Seventeenth of August, 1865.

A curled cheese rind left from lunch lies on the kitchen table. A scatter of cornbread crumbs on the floor. In spite of the suffocating late summer heat, the window was cracked open. Some fresh air often killed the stench of chicken blood and singed pinfeathers that had escaped from beneath the basement door. In the corner, a dead roach. This was no antebellum mansion.

Slumped to one side, Jennie stood staring into the sink. A few yams, some turnips, a handful of greens, and a lone, singed chicken carcass rested in a strainer. She wondered how she could possibly turn this into a supper, one that would be enough to fill herself and her three younger brothers. Josiah was the youngest, just turned six. Then Jeb, only three years older. And Jesse was sixteen, just two years shy of his sister.

As Jennie sliced the vegetables, her mind wandered to the war. The needs of wounded war veterans were inspiring many women to form groups to come to their aid. Jennie had heard of one in Virginia, Sally Louisa Tompkins. After serving as a nurse during the war, Tomkins used her own money to turn an old Richmond mansion into a hospital.

Its purpose was to administer care to soldiers of the Confederate Army. Her selfless deeds inspired Jennie. She wanted to join the ranks of those who were ministering to the horrific physical and psychological wounds of her fellow countrymen. She learned of a place nearby where wounded veterans were being treated. An abandoned smokehouse, it sat near the shore of the Cape Fear River, and it was within walking distance of her farmhouse. Still early in the day, she could make it there by noon.

Jennie quickly slipped on the best of her two dresses. The yellow one. A tiny floral print, faded by now. She hoped no one would notice it was made from feed sacks. But, it had no holes. It was clean. She started down the narrow dirt road past the site of Saint Phillip Church brought to ruins by the British in 1776. It served as a stark reminder of the first Americans whose lives were lost in their fight for independence. Just ahead, Jennie saw the remnants of Fort Anderson built by those same patriots. Finally, she reached the river. A few yards from the water stood a small, wooden building. It had been whitewashed in an attempt to freshen its worn exterior. Above the front door hung a hand-painted sign that read, simply, Veterans Aid.

The heavy door creaked as Jennie pulled it open. Inside, an elderly woman sat at a desk. Her gray hair was loosely tied back with a frayed, blue ribbon. Sweat streamed down the back of her neck. As she rolled strips of gauze into neat little parcels, she slowly looked up.

May I be of assistance, young lady? she said in a low voice.

"My name is Jennie Nolan, and I’m not a nurse."

Stunned by her own words, Jennie stopped speaking. Her freckled face flushed pink with embarrassment. She quickly sat down in the closest chair. Then, she began to speak once again.

What I mean to say is, not really, but I’ve nursed my brothers from the time they were tots.

Most of us here have little more experience, but we’re learnin’, the woman replied. Can you cook?

Simple stuff, but filling.

Good enough! the woman exclaimed as she pointed to the back of the room. Get an apron. You can start now, right?

Caught off guard, Jennie said, Uh ... sure. I can do that.

As she began to walk toward a small anti-room in the rear, she passed a woman who looked much like herself. She was feeding a young man from a small bowl. His entire chest was wrapped in bandages. The next woman was writing a letter for a veteran who looked to be no more than a boy. He stared up at the ceiling. Quiet. Motionless. The woman softly uttered words as she wrote. It seemed like she was making up the text as she went along. The last woman Jennie passed was reading from a bible, her hands clenched together in prayer.

Jennie grabbed an apron and walked out to the back porch. Due to the extreme summer heat and the risk of fire, cooking was done outside. Lined up on a long table sat jars of pickled pigs’ feet, bags of white rice, and a roasted wild turkey waiting to be sliced. A woman was filling pudding bags with pork blood to make ready for the boiling pot. Sitting at the bottom of the porch steps was a full corn crib. Burlap bags of sweet peas were still in their shells. No words were needed, there was plenty to do. Jennie got to work.

And so Jennie’s personal call to duty began. Days were filled with whatever was needed to be done the most at the time. One morning, she stood inside the front door, startled by the sound of a noise on the other side. Slowly, she cracked the door open. The figure of a tall man was visible in the shadows. He stood still, not making a sound.

Do you need help? Jennie said in a soft, hesitant voice.

Uh, yeah ... I guess. I’m lookin’ for a friend. Heard he’s here.

Come in. What’s his name? Jennie asked.

Thomas Tillman. Is he here?

Yes, I believe he just arrived, she said, motioning for the man to enter. Finally, he stepped into the light. He was younger than she thought. Thin, but rugged. The two walked slowly to a bed around a corner. Alone, a man lay half asleep.

Tom, Jennie said slowly, ...you have a visitor.

With a half-focused gaze, the