My bedroom window overlooks a cemetery. Half a century ago, when I was troubled by Monsters Under The Bed and other assorted nighttime horrors, that thought might have disturbed me. Now, I find the view pretty serene except for those early summer mornings when city workers roll out lawn mowers and weed eaters at first light.
General James Smith and family rest in pace in perhaps the most-seen and least-noticed cemetery in town. Surrounding streets hustle us daily to town and to Lowe’s and to Kroger, but the little park in the crook of one of Henderson’s truly monumental intersections is generally unheeded and forgotten, much, I’m afraid, like those who rest there.
That’s rather sad. Even a shallow surf of the www brings waves of info about General Smith. He cut something of a figure in early Texas. He was a veteran of both the War of 1812 and the Texas Revolution, the donor of land for the city of Henderson, and a Rusk County delegate to the Texas House. His Fellow Founders thought enough of him to name our neighboring county in his honor, and it’s possible that a design on his coat button inspired the Lone Star itself. That’s quite a resume.
Urban legend once held that grateful Hendersonites buried Smith standing up, facing the downtown square a mile away. As far as I know, snopes.com has never investigated, but I think I can debunk that rumor on my own. Up close, the tomb is only about chest high. If the general is upright, he was a short man indeed. It’s a cool story, but discountable. That’s a good thing; poor ol Gen’l Smith deserves a comfortable repose after all that soldiering and representing and namesaking and logo designing and all.
So General Smith and I sleep snoring distance apart. His rest is horizontal (hopefully) and eternal; mine, not so much. I haven’t worried about Monsters Under The Bed in a very long time, but different thoughts sometimes bump my nights and disturb my slumber. The general’s world is not mine. I doubt he ever spent a night wondering if his online bank account would be hacked, or if his central air unit would hang on through one more summer, or if his students would survive the latest high-stakes, state-mandated standardized assessment. Surely those nineteenth century Texians had it easy. On the other hand, though, I can’t say that I’ve ever lost much sleep over uprooted and hostile Native Americans, or a marauding Santa Ana, or wondering whether or not I could make a midnight run to the privy without stepping on a rattlesnake. Sufficient unto each generation is the evil thereof, I guess.
Rounding the Square 