“Some days the bear will eat you; Some days you eat the bear”
--Joan Armatrading, “Eating the Bear,” from Walk Under Ladders, 1981
Earlier this fall, within a few days’ time, I received communications from out of state that reminded me of a favorite song, Joan Armatrading’s “Eating the Bear,” a fast-tempo number whose refrain acknowledges that life is about both gains and losses but ends with the narrator’s jubilant “but now, I’m eating the bear, eating the bear!…”
What’s the “bear” for history? There are many possible nominees for this dubious distinction, but for today I would point to the process of erosion: that is, the diminution, a little at a time, of the community of history and with it the record itself. This is erasure by attrition: little wounds, little disappearances which when viewed from a distance seem insignificant but add up to something worth noting.
A case in point is a letter from the Polk County Genealogical Society which arrived at the Archives back in October, bearing sad news. In the lead paragraph, Society president Shirley Manning minced no words as she informed members that as of December 31 of this year, the Polk County Genealogical Society would cease operations. The reason was clearly set out. The Society has operated for years as a 501c3 charity or nonprofit organization; as such, it has been required to maintain a fill slate of officers, as well as to maintain records and file reports with the IRS and the State of Arkansas.
This will no longer be possible. A combination of the effects of the COVID epidemic and other factors caused the active membership to shrink in recent years from regularly having over 20 members at meetings to less than 10 in recent months. Manning notes that membership has started to recover, but not necessarily active membership (that is, members who live close to Mena and who attend regularly). The Society’s bylaws restrict voting and office holding to such active members and as of this fall, Manning states, “we still don’t have anyone willing to assume office. Therefore, there is no choice: we must dissolve our organization.”
What this means for family historians in Southwest Arkansas is in full extent unclear. The Society’s assets, such as books, office machines and even existing cash, will be given to the Polk County Library in Mena, which has provided a seat for the Society. Other things will be harder to transfer: the shared knowledge of the membership, which doubtless extended beyond the bounds of Polk County, will not be lost but will be harder to tap. I do not have first-hand knowledge of this society, but I know, based on acquaintance with others, that the connections formed by being part of such a group made and make it possible for beginner genealogists to tap the knowledge of the most experienced, and for even “old hands” to learn something new. Historical and genealogical societies do more than pool information, though: they can be mainstays of encouragement, even inspiration. They help members pool both information and their enthusiasm for making sense of the past, often through sorting out the details of their own families’ paths.
Thus, societies like the one just about to turn out its lights over in Mena help build constituencies for the study of history and for institutions—like the Arkansas State Archives—which do their best to preserve documentation of the historical record. Thus, the dissolution of (or, maybe, a temporary hiatus for) the Polk County Genealogical Society matters to me and should to anyone who loves history and practices it as a professional or amateur, major leaguer or farm-team rookie. Despite history’s general, if ill-defined, popularity (how many times have you heard someone say that they’ve “always loved history”?), the actual fraction of people who really care about the past and want to understand it is relatively small. Societies like the PCGS serve not only to help make connections, but also to attract and inspire others to take an interest in what we find interesting, even vital: They are missionaries for history. Every time our numbers erode, even by a few, the whole is diminished—so the missionary work of others must go on. Happily, though the PCGS may be disbanding, its members can stay in touch: connections formed through years of membership and shared interests should be hard to break.
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“The bear” may have claimed one victim, but another was snatched from its jaws this fall. At stake was a Civil War-commemorative monument unlike any other in the state, one with very few peers across the region. It was struck but it stood, damaged; the wound has since been put right and the monument will live to tell its tale for some time to come.
The monument in question stands at the intersection of Arkansas Street and Broadway in the heart of the Arkansas County town of St. Charles. St. Charles is small, with a current population of about 230. It stands on a bluff overlooking the White River. It is a quiet place today, but in June of 1862 St. Charles was the scene of a sharp battle as Confederate forces sought to block the Federal advance up the White River.
On June 17, four Union naval vessels, including the ironclad USS Mound City, plus a number of smaller craft, advanced upriver toward Confederate positions at St. Charles. As the flotilla rounded a bend in the White, about 10 in the morning, Confederate artillerists opened fire with a variety of pieces including two thirty-two pounder guns, each firing 6 ½-inch diameter projectiles. A shot, presumably from one of these large guns, pierced the upper deck of Mound City and the ship’s steam drum, a reservoir at the upper end of the engine’s boiler’s water pipes. The rupture filled Mound City with scalding steam to terrible effect: many sailors were roasted in the steam, while others drowned or were shot as they abandoned their stricken gunship. This was dubbed the “most deadly shot” of the war, and justly so: Of the roughly 175 crew, 105 died, and forty-four were injured. Mound City’s casualties made up the greatest part of the 160 Union casualties in the engagement, while Confederate losses were in the low single digit range.
Time passed and St. Charles became a small backwater: railroads passed it by, and river traffic dwindled. But it was not forgotten. In 1916, the son of William Harte, one of the Union sailors killed in the battle came to St. Charles to visit the site of his father’s death. He found a warm welcome, even meeting former county judge J.W. Kirkpatrick, who as a young man had tended to his dying father.
The younger Harte resolved to erect a monument in St. Charles to his father and the others who died—both Federal and Confederate--in the battle. The monument was dedicated on April 26, 1919. It is elegant and simple: a granite shaft rises from a stepped base. One side bears a memorial to the Union dead; the reverse bears the names of three Confederate infantrymen killed in the action. Atop the shaft is a stylized representation of the breech end of an inverted cannon, probably a reminder of the artillery shot that cost so many lives. The monument stands in the middle of an intersection, near the town’s fire station and the municipal building, which also serves as the local museum. In front of the fire station rests a cannon tube.
In August of this year, I received an email from Ms. Naomi Mitchell, city clerk of St. Charles, notifying me that the monument had been damaged in a traffic incident: a motorist in a truck ran into the monument’s stepped base at an estimated speed of about 45 MPH, dislodging several of the stone slabs of the monument base. Happily, the motorist’s insurance would cover the costs of repairing the memorial, and Ms. Mitchell kept me informed as the work progressed. Finally, on Oct. 21, Ms. Mitchell reported that the repair had been completed: a contractor from nearby Marvell had maneuvered the stone steps back into position and all was well; she wrote, “I am so pleased with the care (the contractors) took with handling the job. It looks great. God willing, it will be there for another 102 years.”
Ms. Mitchell and St. Charles Police Chief Jamie Irons also sent along photographs showing the repaired monument base. Visible in one was a large stone flake, possibly from the edge of one of the steps. Ms. Mitchell confirmed this. Her reply put the flake, and what had caused it, in historic context:
"I kept the flake here in the Museum. (There) must have other small flakes…chipped off at the time of the accident because the piece you see does not exactly fit….There are some little nicks (from) over the years. Some I can remember: when my 5th grade teacher ran into it on her way to our school…(Another) one I can remember: when we had a man to come to court for DWI and he looked away just as he was coming upon the monument and he ran into it. Some things have more than one history to tell. That flake does not deface the monument, just another one of its stories to tell."
It has been several years since I last was though St. Charles, but I hope to revisit the town in months to come. When I was last there, I knew only about the battle but the next time around, I will have more to appreciate: a singular monument, rare in its type, which not only helps tell a sad story from the history of both the community and the nation, but also has its own good stories—its own history. And, just as important, it is in the middle of a community that watches out for it and keeps the bears away.