The Confederate Flag in the Hallway

Comanche, Texas, October 1932

It’s early afternoon, sunny and about 70 degrees. I’m standing outside a large, Victorian home. It’s limestone, with two stories, and a steeply-gabled roof with a turret above the front entry. I think about the Russells’ tiny home in St. Mary’s, and marvel at how Lyman’s lifestyle has changed since then. And I didn’t see the even smaller and more primitive house in Helena, where Lyman grew up as Charley and Emeline’s oldest son.

My second-great aunt Alice opens the door, smiles widely, and immediately brings me in for a bear hug. She releases me and motions inside. “C’mon in, honey. We’ve got sweet tea and lemonade ready. I can make some coffee if you want it. I’ve only been here for a bit, but Uncle Lyman’s already gotten himself into storytelling mode, so your timing is pretty good.”

I can’t help but return the smile. “Yes, Ma’am. Thank you very much.” Alice, 43 years old, is wearing a modest floral dress with a mid-calf hemline. She’s tall and broad-shouldered, with gentle eyes that twinkle in a way that reminds me immediately of Happy.