This is one example of graffiti that occupying Union soldiers left upon the walls of Blenheim in Fairfax, Virginia during the War Between the States. This photograph is from the attic, however when wallpaper was recently removed from the main floors of the old Greek Revival farmhouse, graffiti was discovered everywhere. This “Soldier’s Lament” records:

4th Month

No money

No whiskey

No Friends

No Rations

No Peas

No Beans

No Pants

No Patriotism (underlined)

“Blenheim,” located at 3610 Old Lee Highway, Fairfax, Virginia, is a brick home built by REZEN WILLCOXON about 1858, to replace an earlier frame dwelling. This 12-acre former farm, includes a cemetery for several generations of the Willcoxon family who lived here. Blenheim is renown for its outstanding examples of Civil War soldier graffiti. It is currently being restored. The day we were there, a recent tropical storm had left many downed trees, but no damage to the structures.

The image, Soldier Graffiti, was originally uploaded by Edna Barney. It is posted here from Barneykin’s account.

Visit Neddy’s Archives for more of Edna’s writings.

‘WE’ is the word used to steal virtue from the good, to steal strength from the strong and to steal wisdom from the sages.

Ayn Rand in “Anthem:”

For the word “We” must never be spoken, save by one’s choice and as a second thought. This word must never be placed first within man’s soul, else it becomes a monster, the root of all the evils on earth, the root of man’s torture by men, and an unspeakable lie.

The word “We” is as lime poured over men, which sets and hardens to stone, and crushes all beneath it, and that which is white and that which is black are lost equally in the grey of it. It is the word by which the depraved steal the virtue of the good, by which the weak steal the might of the strong, by which the fools steal the wisdom of the sages.

What is my joy if all hands, even the unclean, can reach into it? What is my wisdom, if even the fools can dictate to me? What is my freedom, if all creatures, even the botched and impotent, are my masters? What is my life, if I am but to bow, to agree, and to obey?

But I am done with this creed of corruption.

I am done with the monster of “We,” the word of serfdom, of plunder, of misery, falsehood and shame.

On November 15th, 2009, there will be an historical marker dedication conducted by the Fairfax County Chapter, Daughters of the American Revolution. The marking will honor the Suffragists who were imprisoned at the Occoquan Workhouse 90 years ago, between 1917 and 1918. The HBO movie “Iron Jawed Angels” dramatizes their struggle for women’s voting rights and the cruel and inhumane treatment they received at the hands of the federal government. Those women were imprisoned for wanting to have a voice and representation in their government , only 90 years ago.

Recently the old Occoquan Workhouse and the old Lorton Prison have been transformed into The Workhouse Arts Center, featuring many talented Virginia artists. The image, Occoquan Workhouse, was originally uploaded by Edna Barney. It is posted here from Barneykin’s account.

Visit Neddy’s Archives for more of Edna’s writings.

I am wondering if this Masonic Temple on a hill in Alexandria, Virginia will be featured in the new novel by Dan Brown The Lost Symbol.

George Washington and many of the Founding Fathers were Masons as were founders of Mormonism: Masonry and Mormon Mysteries.

I snapped the picture one day while awaiting the Metro train at the King Street Station in Alexandria. The AmTrak Station is just next to it.

The image, Amtrak Train, was originally uploaded by Edna Barney. It is posted here from Barneykin’s account.

Visit Neddy’s Archives for more of Edna’s writings.

Oh to be in West Virginia, now that summer’s here. Oh, to be dancing on the porch of the old mansion at the top of the mountain in Elkins. Oh to be watching the flatfoot dancers and listening to the old timey musicians. Those were wonderful days and they still a-happening, according to this video.

Bee Kind to Our Earth.

Kara is standing on the bank of Pohick Creek, a tidal tributary stream of the Potomac River. Pohick Creek forms in the vicinity of Burke, Virginia and flows approximately thirteen miles, past Grandma’s house, before emptying into the Potomac River at Pohick Bay at Lorton, Virginia. Pohick Bay empties into Gunston Cove with Accotink Bay.

The image, Poster Child, was originally uploaded by barneykin. It is posted here from Barneykin’s account.

Visit Neddy’s Archives for more of Edna’s writings.

This is my very first panorama photograph ever! I was not sure which size focal length to use, as my images were recorded as 5mm focal length. 5mm was not one of the choices for the Canon software, so I used the shortest available – 24mm. Then I went to Picnik and made a poster from it.

My neighbor Jeff was my inspiration. He posted one of his creations of the Lincoln Memorial at Facebook. Of course, Jeff is a professional photographer for the AP, so it was quite a photo. I hope this photograph will be inspiration for my Red Hats ladies, as I shot it from the very same hotel that they are planning on staying in next Spring when we all descend with our Red Hats on Salt Lake City to do some genealogy.

The image, Salt Lake City Skyline Poster, was originally uploaded by barneykin. It is posted here from Barneykin’s account.

Visit Neddy’s Archives for more of Edna’s writings.

Come, come, come …
Let us ponder the America of our memories:
We sang like the birds of the field; we sang of freedom;
When we sought opportunity, we found it awaiting us.
America was a dream, a vision of seekers;
America was a dream that lasted ten score and thirty years.
The dream that was America encountered the anarchy of liberty;
And was felled by the anarchy of immorality.
We beg forgiveness of our founders, our fathers;
We weep for the blood they shed for us.
The America that was their dream is now our master.
Freemen no longer, we are serfs to toil land that is not ours.
We live the lives of the slaves of old, lives of quiet desperation;
We beat our breasts in despair knowing we sold our posterity into bondage.
We still pray, but not to God; We still sing, but not of freedom.
We tell tales to our children and they laugh,
For, as we recollect our remembrances,
Our children hear fairy tales of long, long ago.
We talk to those who sacrificed for freedom,
And they ask: “Did we win or did we lose?
Was God with us or were we against God, in those days?
Was freedom worth the blood we spilt?
Or was freedom but a mysterious nothing,
A mere longing of our souls?”
We will soon go away too, we who have the memories.
When we are gone, will seekers ever dream that dream again?

Oh Poor Lady Caroline …

Try as she may to be snooty and dismissive to others, her bewitching beauty and lovely voice betrayed her true feelings. The more she tried to be rude and cold to acquaintances. the more they were enchanted by her natural charms and they loved her even more. Oh, to be so cursed as was Lady Caroline!

So she ignored Mrs. Arbuthnot’s remark and raised forefinger, and said with marked coldness–at least, she tried to make it sound marked–that she supposed they would be going to breakfast, and that she had had hers; but it was her fate that however coldly she sent forth her words they came out sounding quite warm and agreeable. That was because she had a sympathetic and delightful voice, due entirely to some special formation of her throat and the roof of her mouth, and having nothing whatever to do with what she was feeling. Nobody in consequence ever believed they were being snubbed. It was most tiresome. And if she stared icily it did not look icy at all, because her eyes, lovely to begin with, had the added loveliness of very long, soft, dark eyelashes. No icy stare could come out of eyes like that; it got caught and lost in the soft eyelashes, and the persons stared at merely thought they were being regarded with a flattering and exquisite attentiveness. And if ever she was out of humour or definitely cross–and who would not be sometimes in such a world?—she only looked so pathetic that people all rushed to comfort her, if possible by means of kissing. It was more than tiresome, it was maddening. Nature was determined that she should look and sound angelic. She could never be disagreeable or rude without being completely misunderstood.

‘I had my breakfast in my room,’ she said, trying her utmost to sound curt. ‘Perhaps I’ll see you later.’

And she nodded, and went back to where she had been sitting on the wall, with the lilies being nice and cool round her feet.”

“The Enchanted April,” by Elizabeth von Arnim, at the end of Chapter 6.

Perhaps I’ll see you later.