Dying in battle gives you a new perspective on life

Who knew dying could be so much fun!

I died twice last weekend, along with several of my friends. As I wrote about a couple weeks ago, I joined the Texas Army, the state’s ceremonial 1836 re-enactment group. Last weekend was the annual re-enactment of the Goliad Massacre, held at Presidio La Bahia. Of all the re-enactments of the Texas Revolution, this is one is the best. I’ve observed it for several years as a spectator and photographer. This time I was a participant.

Being on the inside looking out gave me a much different perspective on life, death, and human interaction when facing both.

First, let’s set the scene and begin with a very brief historical perspective. Presidio La Bahia is located just south of Gonzales. It was held by Texian forces under the command of Col. James Fannin. After the fall of the Alamo, Gen. Sam Houston ordered Fannin to remove his force to Victoria. Just a few miles away from the mission, which Fannin renamed Fort Defiant, the Mexican Army caught them and they fought day and night. Hopelessly surrounded and the Mexican forces bolstered by reinforcements, the Texians surrendered the next morning and were marched back to the fort, this time as prisoners.

A week later, the Mexicans informed their captives that they were being paroled. They would march to the coast and take a ship to New Orleans and freedom. The Texians were divided into three groups and marched out on different roads. A short distance from the fort, a halt was ordered. The troops then loaded their weapons and fired on the defenseless prisoners. A small handful managed to escape, but more than 400 men were executed. Col. Fannin and others who were too wounded to march were executed outside the chapel in the presidio.

The anniversary of the massacre is commemorated each year at Presidio La Bahia. The original chapel still stands and the rest of the compound has been reconstructed to be as historically accurate as possible. The Catholic Diocese holds services in the chapel and has done so since 1853. The rest of the site serves as a museum.

The beauty of the two-day re-enactment is that not only does it take place at the exact historical site, but it is also in a rural setting and you do not have to contend with crowded and noisy city conditions. The location lends itself to being one of the best-attended Texas Revolution re-enactments because it is in reasonable distance for re-enactment groups from San Antonio to Houston. It is graciously hosed by the Crossroads of Texas Living History Association.

Saturday is the big day for spectators. They can visit the different camps and get a taste of what life was like in 1836. There are three battle re-enactments held that day. The first and third are full battles with artillery (cannons), infantry, and cavalry. I participated in both of those as an infantryman in the Kentucky Mustangs. The middle battle is cavalry only and gives those on horseback the chance to show off a little more than they can when surrounded by infantrymen and cannons.

The third battle is the Battle of Coleto Creek, which ends with the surrender of the Texian forces and a march back into the presidio. This is where I died the first time. As the battle was nearing an end, I just fell to the ground a played dead until we were given the order to resurrect and march out.

The battles are entertaining for the crowds and even more fun for us on the field “burning powder.” Once we’re captured, that’s where the fun ends and the solemnity takes over. In the evening the re-enactors hold a candlelight tour, where different scenes are acted out for groups to see. This is very poignant and at times can be difficult for small children to witness. They get to see the brutality of the Mexican forces and the suffering and death of the sick and wounded Texians. They also get to witness the humanity of the Mexicans as they struggled with the order from Santa Anna to kill all the captives when they would have preferred to set them free.

I was part of the group in the chapel, which is where the sick and injured were kept in crowded and very unsanitary conditions. We were lying on the floor, decorated with bloody bandages, where we moaned and cried out to visitors for food, water, and mercy. The poor guests were sternly instructed before entering to give nothing to the prisoners and to take nothing from them. The guests were paraded past us into a side room where a surgical scene was played out.

I don’t know if it was the sternness of the warning or the way we played our parts, but I observed a lot that evening as I watched hundreds of people from my spot on the cold and very hard floor. Almost all of them had solemn and dreadful looks on their faces. Very few would make eye contact with us, and if they did it was very brief. The average person just walked by with their head down and only stealing quick glances at us.
The very few that did look our way seemed honestly apologetic. The would mouth “I’m sorry” and shrug their shoulders indicating they wanted to help but couldn’t. I imagine that is how the homeless who beg on city streets must feel – seen but unseen, pitied but not sympathized.

I realized as I lay there that I responded the same way when I was a tourist. Between tour groups I would look around and try to imagine what it was really like back then. My wife’s fourth-great uncle was one of those captured and executed at Goliad. Was he one of the wounded in the chapel? If so, where in this tiny place was he? Who occupied the spot where I sat slouched on the floor? I was miserable after two hours on the floor. What must it have been like for hundreds of wounded, starving, thirsty, dirty, and smelly men who were crammed in there for nearly a week with almost nothing to eat or drink?
On Sunday morning came the re-enactment of the massacre. The Mexican forces marched us out of the fort under the pretence of taking us to our freedom. A short ways out in an open field we stopped. As the soldados (soldiers) loaded their weapons, it dawned on us what was happening. As we turned to run, they fired. Most of us fell. A few survived and ran. They were gunned down. I fell in the first volley. It was my second death of the weekend.

My wife and son were among the spectators and Sandy told me she overheard a child asking his mother why we didn’t get up when everyone else left to return to the fort. Eventually we did, but I think the re-enactment brought the history to life in a meaningful and memorable way. The weekend was fun, poignant, sad, thrilling, and many other unspoken feelings wrapped up in one emotional package.
You have an opportunity to see the next re-enactment in our own back yard as the Runaway Scrape takes place at George Ranch Historical Park in Richmond on April 7. Two weeks later is the finale at San Jacinto on April 21. If you have not seen these events before, I encourage you to come out and experience Texas history in a way you can’t get in a classroom or on TV.

Finding inspiration in God, Garth, and the Denver Broncos

God, Garth, and the Denver Broncos.

That was my private little mantra that helped keep me motivated when things were going terribly wrong for me back in the mid 1990s.

A Colorado boy living in northeastern North Carolina, I was working for a small daily newspaper that was slowly killing me and, unbeknownst to me at the time, my first marriage. I was working 60-80 hours a week and becoming a zombified, miserable wretch. I had bosses that I hated, an unrealistic workload, and the stresses of being a new father and having purchased a new home. I spent a couple years trying to get by on an average of four hours of sleep at night, and a lot of that was interrupted by a crying baby.

I felt that I was losing my identity. I was experiencing very little of the things that made me happy. Don’t get me wrong, I love my little girl and I loved her mother, but we were sinking roots in a place I didn’t want to be and I was slaving away at a job that gave me little personal satisfaction. I felt I had to work long and hard to be a good provider for my family and employee for my employer.

I eventually learned to take my guilty pleasures wherever I could find them. I steadfastly went to church and kept my quiet time for Bible reading and prayer. (Although, I often fell asleep in church, but shh, we won’t tell the pastor – it’ll be our little secret.) The Denver Broncos were my favorite team, but it was very hard to get them on television on the East Coast. They were also at a down time between a string of Super Bowl losses and their upcoming back-to-back championships, so even when I could follow them, it was often disappointing.

That brings me to Garth – as in Garth Brooks. I grew up listening to country music and hating rock and roll. In high school, that changed, and I learned to love ’80s rock. Throughout that decade I rarely listened to country music. When I moved to North Carolina, however, country music started making a rebound, led by this pied piper in a big ol’ cowboy hat. Brooks brought an arena rock feel to country music and forever changed the genre. I loved it! His music made me feel alive again and brought me back to my country roots.

When it was announced that he was going to perform three nights nearby at the Hampton Coliseum in October of 1993, I knew I just had to go. I couldn’t afford tickets and the shows sold out quickly, so that meant trying to get in as a member of the press. I made some phone calls to the agency that handled him and not only did I get a pair of tickets to the opening night show, but I was invited to his press conference. There, I got to ask him a question. He answered and asked me my name. I told him, but I did not say whom I worked for. I was too angry and ashamed.

I got to shoot pictures from the front of the stage during the first three songs. I then found me seat, which was on the side but level with the stage, so I continued to take pictures throughout the concert. It was the best show I had ever seen. I can count on my fingers the number of times in my life I’ve experienced pure ecstasy (excluding sex) and that night was one of them.

That was the impact he and his music had on me and it sustained me for a long time. Three years later, my marriage in shambles, I returned to Colorado only to find he was going to be in concert at Denver’s McNichols Sports Arena. I got tickets and went to the show. It just made my triumphal return to Colorado that much more exhilarating. On top of that, the Broncos were winning again and I was discovering this organization called Promise Keepers, which pushed my faith in God to a whole new level.

God, Garth, and the Denver Broncos – man, life was good! As the years progressed, my faith grew stronger, as did my football fandom. My interest in Garth, however, waned. He put out a couple of lame albums and then retired. He was such a staunch family man that I respected him for wanting to stay home and raise his daughters. Unfortunately his first marriage ended and he later married Trisha Yearwood.

There were more than a few rumors at the time that Yearwood was at the heart of the failure of Brooks’ first marriage. I don’t know that, but I believed it and it soured me on the man. As much as I like his music, it just doesn’t have the same feeling to me anymore.

Flash forward to now and Garth Brooks is out of retirement, recording music and touring again. He did the opening and closing shows at the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo. On Sunday I used my press tickets to take my wife to the closing concert. It was my third time to see him live and Sandy’s first. We had a great time and enjoyed the show. He brought Yearwood out for a duet and she sang one of her songs. As we watched the show, I had a ton of mixed feelings. I enjoyed seeing Garth again but I no longer have the same awe that struck me 25 years ago. He also lacks the energy and pizzazz he had back then, but then who doesn’t? No more running around the stage or swinging over the audience on a rope. There was very little interaction with the audience. He mostly stayed on stage and sang.

Although it’s of little consequence, Brooks has become a control freak. He did not allow any press photography and had the rodeo send out an email telling us that the only picture we could use was the single press photo they included. Yeah, right …

There is a lot more to the back-story on this, but I’m not going to get into that right now. For the moment I’m going to enjoy the memories of a great show and make plans for more wonderful events coming up this year. And while God will always be first and foremost, the rest of my plans have little to do with Garth and the Denver Broncos. I find better motivation in a great wife, super kids, a good job, and life in Texas.

Career day opens doors to opportunity and eyes to a changing world

Fort Bend Star Editor Joe Southern talks about
his journalism career to a class at Stafford 
Intermediate School during career 
day Friday. (Photo by Michael Sudhalter)

I went to school last Friday and boy, did I ever learn a lesson!

Friday was career day at Stafford Intermediate School. I was invited with several other professionals to come and visit the fifth and sixth grade classes and in the span of less than 15 minutes tell them about what I do for a living. Speaking to classes is something I’ve done many times in many places where I’ve worked. This time, however, it was different. I really had my work cut out for me.

When I asked if the children knew what the Fort Bend Star was, most couldn’t answer. Several guessed it was the state tests they’re required to take (STAAR). Some thought I worked for an observatory. Only a few knew it was a newspaper. In some of the classes I asked if they knew what a newspaper was. I got far more blank stares than hands in the air. I quite naively assumed that everyone knows what a newspaper is. The longer I spoke the more I could sense my hair turning whiter and whiter. I felt old – really, really old.

If there was ever a proverbial line in the sand where printed newspapers would come to an end, we have reached it. I looked at a generation of young people who will never know what it’s like to pick up a print edition of the news, get ink on their fingers, and enjoy turning the pages where they could read news, sports, features, opinions, comics, and more in one simple package. They won’t know what it’s like to cut out articles and pictures of family and friends and stick them to the refrigerator with magnets or paste them in a scrapbook.

More importantly, I fear they will no longer be able to decipher truth from fiction, or “fake news.” The blending of honest, real reporting with click bait and other digital garbage on everything from legitimate news websites to social media sites is making it much harder for the fourth estate to carry out its First Amendment job.

I fear that we will soon have a populace that neither knows nor cares about what its government is doing or about issues that impact their lives. Even if they do care, finding the truth is becoming increasingly difficult. Just look at the debate surrounding global warming or climate change. There are “facts” that support and debunk both sides of the issue. This kind of convolution of the news is spreading as well. If you need an example, look no further than President Donald Trump and Russia.

Getting back to school, I tried to make the kids get excited about journalism by talking about all the really cool things I get to do. I told them how I’ve met governors, senators, congressmen, mayors and many other elected officials. Then I told them about a handful of the celebrities I’ve met or covered. They got excited when I mentioned names like J.J. Watt, Deshaun Watson, Jose Altuve and George Springer. Most were clueless about Garth Brooks. Mostly they wanted to know if I had met various rappers and professional basketball players. I don’t like basketball very much and I absolutely hate rap and hip-hop, so there was an obvious generational disconnect.

I tried to get the students to understand how exciting my job is because, in addition to getting to cover celebrities, I get to be where all the action is. I’m in places where things happen, decisions are made, and lives are changed. I’m a witness to history and what I write serves as a first draft of history. What I do matters and is lasting.

While it is undeniably true that print editions will go away within our lifetimes, the written word will not. The world will always need reporters – the storytellers of our day. We will always be needed to keep our government in check and to ferret out the truth wherever it may hide.

In an era where anyone with a cell phone and a website can pretend to do what I do and be what I am, there will always be the need for honest, trained and educated professionals to take up the mantle when my generation is gone.

One of the things I asked most of the classes was whether or not they read a newspaper. With very few exceptions, most said they did not. When I explained to them that a lot of the real news they saw in their social media feeds comes from newspapers and other legitimate journalists, they quickly understood that they were in fact newspaper readers, even though many had never turned the page of a print product.

Finally, I felt like I was making a connection. Not only were they able to relate to me, but I was able to relate to the reality of where journalism is heading. This is a noble profession and vital to the survival of democracy in a free republic. The generation that walks in the shoes of my colleagues and me will have much more to worry about than press schedules, deadlines and page designs. The ability to decipher and effectively communicate the truth in a convincing way is going to be a much bigger challenge than it is today. Finding ways to monetize future news products – and thus make a living – is going to present huge hurdles to overcome. These challenges can be overcome and I trust they will be.

I have no way of knowing if what I had to say to these youngsters made a difference or even planted a seed that will someday blossom into a career for someone, but I can always hope. I love what I do and I want to keep doing it as long as I am able. I hope someday that these kids will make a living doing what they love and accomplish something meaningful that makes a difference and changes the world. Journalism offers that. No matter how high on a pedestal we perch or how low on the career ladder we linger, journalists are important and do make a difference.
Whether it’s print, broadcast, digital or some other future format, we’re the storytellers who are recording history and influencing the future. I’m honored to be on this ride through this profession.

I’m now a buck private in the Texas Army

Joe Southern signs his application to join the Texas Army
inside Independence Hall Saturday at Washington-on-the-Brazos
State Historic Park. Observing are, from the left,
Ron Schrotter, Tony Emmitte, and Steve Roberts.
(Photo by Sandy Southern)

In all of my 52 years I never would have thought there would come a day when I would proudly proclaim that I’ve enlisted in the Army.
On Saturday I did just that. I enlisted in the Texas Army. The Texas Army is the state’s official 1836 ceremonial and reenactment group dedicated to preserving the history of the Texas Revolution and the Republic of Texas era. Getting to this point has been quite a journey.
Unlike the popular saying “I wasn’t born in Texas but I got here as quick as I could,” I was dragged to Texas kicking and screaming. I was born in Colorado and grew up despising all things Texas. Let’s just say that the old Texas braggadocio doesn’t sit well with people outside of Texas. As luck would have it, I ended up marrying a native Houstonian and got lured here. Having my fortunes going sour in Colorado, Texas was for me like it was for many original settlers – a chance to start anew.
I figured I’d be here a short while, rebound, and return home. That was just over 12 years ago. Now I’m pretty well entrenched and loving life as a Texan. Sandy and I are big history buffs, so when we moved to the Houston area nine years ago it was only natural that we would go to the reenactments at historic sites. One year, after doing research at Goliad, Sandy learned that her fourth-great-uncle was 4th Sgt. Zachariah H. Short of Capt. Jack Shackelford’s company of Alabama Red Rovers. He was captured and killed in the Goliad Massacre.
Learning about that only fueled our interest in Texas history. We made annual treks to Washington-on-the-Brazos, Goliad, San Jacinto and, on occasion, the Alamo. About four years ago I got a brainstorm to write a book about the dedicated souls who do all the Texas Revolution reenactments. There are many books written about the revolution, but none through the eyes of the men and women who re-live it each year.
I planned to make one of those coffee table picture books and let my camera do most of the talking. I figured if I could follow them for a year and photograph the five or six major events, do a few interviews and throw in some Texas history, I’d have a quick, easy book. That was four years and several thousand photographs ago. I’m still compiling and transcribing interviews. Finding the time to work on the book is difficult. I’ll squeeze in an hour or two on a weekend or maybe the rare weekday, but mostly it just gets pushed aside for the more urgent matters of the day.
Each year as I got to know these folks a little better they’d try to cajole me into joining. I kept putting them off, saying I’ll join next year after the book is done. The proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back came last fall when J.R. Thomas Jr. of George Ranch Historical Park suggested that a first-person experience would give me a better perspective for my book. He said that everything is different when people are shooting back at you. He put out word on Facebook and several people volunteered to let me borrow outfits and equipment.
That was all I needed. To see so many people trying so hard to get me involved, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to participate. That’s where Col. Steve Roberts comes into the picture.
Steve is from Kingwood and he took me under his wing, providing me with one of his extra outfits and black powder rifle. I still have a hat and moccasins from my days as a mountain man at a Boy Scout camp, so I was set. I decided as long as I’m in for a penny, I just as well be in for a pound. I agreed to join the Texas Army.
So last Saturday we went to Washington-on-the-Brazos for the annual Texas Independence Day celebration. To make the event even more special, I signed my application inside Independence Hall, the replica of the original building on the spot where the Texas Declaration of Independence was signed.
I also participated in three salutes. The rifle Steve loaned me was a bit finicky and only fired two out of eight attempts. I didn’t mind. I was having a grand old time out there. The hardest part for me was resisting the urge to photograph the firing demonstrations so I could participate in them. Sandy and our middle son Luke handled the photography. They did an excellent job. Still, it’s surreal to look at the pictures and see me in them. I look kinda funny because I let my hair grow out and I’ve sprouted a mustache and goatee for the reenactment season. I also noticed that my belly is swelling a bit. I guess it’s time to hit the gym, or practice my marching, which, apparently, I need to do. There was more than just a little bit of laughter when, at the command of right face, I abruptly turned left.
Anyway, the next major event is Goliad on March 24-25, followed by the Runaway Scrape at George Ranch Historical Park on April 7 and San Jacinto on April 21. I hope you’ll come out with us to some of these events and help us keep Texas history alive.
So yeah, I may have come to Texas a kickin’ and a screamin’ but that’s the way I’ll leave it if, God forbid, that time ever comes.

Flame finally flies out from Joe Southern’s gun during a salute to Texas heroes last Saturday at Washington-on-the-Brazos State Historic Park. (Photo by Sandy Southern)