Yesterday, we went to visit a man I’ve been wanting to meet. The man is D. Hoskins, an investor, genealogy expert and historian. Having read some of his work and enjoyed it immensely, I talked to him on the phone Thursday and asked if we might possibly visit him. He immediately invited us to visit, and his wife got on the phone to give me directions.
We arose before dawn Saturday morning and set out for the four-hour trip north into the Shenandoah Valley region. Much of the way was fog-draped, but we made good time and – except for a couple of wrong turns, thanks to MapQuest! – had an enjoyable drive.
As we neared the house, we were looking for the landmarks Mrs. Hoskins had described on the phone…and there they were: an iron dragon in the front yard, and a vibrant Confederate battle flag hanging from the front porch. We pulled into the drive way and got out, stretching and looking the house over. MeeMaw said, “It looks like a cottage from the British Isles,” and she was right.
As we approached the front door, it opened and a short woman with a pleasant, open face greeted us. In a sparkling Tidewater accent, she said, “Y’all caught me watering a plant. Come on in!” She showed us into the sitting room, well-appointed in subdued lighting revealing antiques and a baby grand piano, and we took our seats while she went to fetch Mr. Hoskins from his office. In a few moments, we heard a strong voice say, “Thank you, sugah. Are they in here?” And in walked Mr. Hoskins.
After having spoken with him on the phone, I was not prepared for the physical presence of the man. About my height, Mr. Hoskins was sturdy and powerful for a man of 80 years. His face was almost unlined, he had snow-white hair and beard, and eyes of the bluest ice either of us had ever seen. He wore a navy blazer adorned with a Confederate flag (not a battle flag) pin. A very handsome man, regal and massive in bearing. He crushed my hand and asked us to sit down. Mrs. Hopkins joined us in a minute, and we began getting to know each other.
He asked us several questions, and we both noticed how carefully he listened to us. This close attention was confirmed later as he recited back to us the things we’d told him earlier, things most people would have forgotten as soon as they heard them. An incurable storyteller, Mr. Hoskins told us several hilarious and incredible tales of his days as a boy, as a young man, as a warrior, as a fencer and knife fighter, as a family man.
The old man was not only gracious and warm to us, but also to his wife of fifty-something years. He clearly adores her, and addressed her as “Sugar” (pronounced “shu-gah”). He thanked her every time she did anything for him or for us. In the course of one of his riveting stories, he mentioned a man whom he disliked. He gave the main reason, and then he added, “This fellow also had a habit of speaking roughly to his wife. I won’t abide that. I won’t abide it.” Clearly, Mrs. Hoskins has never had to experience such rough speaking from her husband.
Mrs. Hoskins served fresh apple cider, and when Mr. Hoskins began to show signs of tiring, I indicated that we would be leaving soon. Before we said our good-byes, Mr. Hoskins insisted on giving us a tour of the house (accompanied by their three very large Rottweillers). When we stood up from the sofa, Mr. Hoskins said, “All right, now. Look across into that mirror (an enormous, ancient mirror hanging across the fireplace). Are you looking into it? Good. Then you’re looking into the same mirror looked into by Robert E. Lee. By Jefferson Davis. By Stonewall Jackson. By J.E.B. Stuart. And yes, by Abraham Lincoln. This mirror hung in the family home at Kelly’s Ford, and it was there when the Confederacy fell.”
I walked over and touched the frame. I touched the bookcase he had restored from being riddled with Yankee bullet holes. I thought about the eyes that had peered into the smoky glass decades ago. He showed us the maple box his great grandfather had carried in his wartime campaigns, packed with pistol and pipe and tobacco and Bible. He showed us the andirons, more than two centuries old, from an old Virginia family plantation. When we walked into the front foyer, he showed us the wooden targe on which were mounted a dozen authentic Confederate and Scottish sabers. “In case you need to take care of something going on in the front yard,” Mr. Hoskins noted wryly. And next to the blades was a brown, framed document. We read the signature and stopped breathing for a moment. It was Robert E. Lee’s signature. Mr. Hoskins explained that this was the original copy of his farewell address that Lee had given to General Early, after the surrender. Each general under Lee had received one, and this one was now resting in the home of a man who loves his people and knows their history.
He showed us more furniture that he’s restored over the years, and the massive dining room table he fashioned himself. Then we went to the small library in the back of the house, and he pointed out the family tree (with photographs!) of his bloodline, and he explained how we could trace our own lineage back with the assistance of some of his writings.
Before we left, Mr. Hoskins posed for photographs. I presented him with a collection of my poems and short stories which MeeMaw had insisted I bring along with me. He thanked me in his customary courtly way, and then helped guide us out of the serpentine driveway and back onto the busy road. As we pulled away, waving, Mr. Hoskins stood in front of his house, heels together, regal as ever. He was saluting.
When we arrived home, the phone was ringing as we came in the door. It was Mrs. Hoskins. She said, “I want you to know that I have been sick last week, and I was tired after you and Susan left. I went upstairs to take a nap, but I carried the writings you gave my husband with me. I want you to know that I never got my nap. I laid there and read every word of the works you gave him. And then I read some of them aloud to him. You are an incredible writer. And my husband wants to talk to you about it.” She called him to the phone, and that warm Virginia accent filled my ear. “Good to talk to you again, sir,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. He went on to say some very complimentary things about my poetry, including one that caught me off-guard. He said, “You are a Kipling. I recognize the thing that courses through everything you write. You are highly gifted, sir.” I thanked him and told him that MeeMaw and I had talked about them all the way home. I told him that I had told my beloved wife, “I think, and I hope, that we made two new friends today.” After I told him this, Mr. Hoskins said with great intensity, “You and I are friends, sir.”
The mountains are beginning to dress for their long sleep, and they are in the process of putting on their glorious pajamas. This morning, just before first light, I went up to the woods to pray. When I finished and opened my eyes, the mountains in the east were haloed in pink, except for the large one in the center; it was ringed in gold. The sun was about to come up. So I remained where I was, motionless, and watched. It was coming…it was coming…and there it was. Sudden and full, like music, the sun came up from behind the mountains, up from the night, up from yesterday. My cold face was immediately warmed by its light, and I thought, “I just watched a day being born. And now the day is here, and nothing can stop its progress.” As I write these words, the sun has just slipped behind the western horizon, below the gravestones and the remains of those who lie resting and waiting. A day has just passed into shadow, into memory, into night.
On my morning walk, I scooped up a fistful of the new sileage Mr. Davidson has cut for his cattle. He's dozing it into massive piles in the pits adjacent to the cemetary, where it will winter under a tarp and be used to feed the Black Angus in the fields. If you look closely, you can see the corn and the chopped-up stalks.
And at breakfast, MeeMaw finally used the toast tongs I made for her. She is being kind to her teeny fingers...
After morning worship - the lady of Possum Cough.
Rest well, loved ones.
