Madison, Wisconsin’s Mayor Paul Soglin orders the removal of Confederate monuments at Forest Hill Cemetery . The 140 people buried there as “valiant Confederate soldiers” and “unsung heroes.” The privately funded plaque, which rested on a granite structure, said the soldiers were buried in the Union state after surrendering in a battle and dying at Camp Randall as prisoners of war. Soglin said an “appropriate monument or plaque with the names of the deceased” would be installed, but added that it won’t give “reverence for the Confederate insurrection and treason against the United States.” For years, people were allowed to display Confederate flags in that section of Forest Hill Cemetery. The Confederacy’s “Stars and Bars” would hang on a flagpole at the burial site only on Memorial Day, but the pole was removed last September.

Volunteers had also placed small Confederate battle flags at each headstone for the holiday. A change to cemetery rules in May, however, only allows the flags of the United States, Wisconsin, and Madison, branches of the U.S. Armed Forces and United Nations

Madison receive roughly 1,000 of these southern prisoners. They were held at Camp Randall, then a training grounds and barracks established by Wisconsin Gov. Alexander Randall the year before; one statement of a Union soldier about the Confederate soldier was…
“They die off like rotten sheep. There was 11 die off yesterday and today, and there ain’t a day but what there is from two to nine dies.”


Union Monument. One of thousands across southern towns and land.

Barely a month after their arrival, President Abraham Lincoln’s call for a larger fighting force drew the 19th Wisconsin Regiment back to battle, rendering Camp Randall unsuitable for securely holding prisoners. On May 31, 1862, the majority of the Camp Randall inmates left for Camp Douglas, a larger encampment in Chicago.
By June, the last of the Camp Randall prisoners had left. The only ones who remain in Madison were 140 Confederate soldiers who died during their stay at Camp Randall, now interred at Confederate Rest. Dead Confederate prisoners were buried at Forest Hill Cemetery. Initially grouped into a mass grave, the dead were later given their own headstones and a more formally organized plot, now known as Confederate Rest. The plot is well shaded and removed from the more populated areas of the cemetery, a quiet and somber reminder of an unsung chapter of Madison history.
No one has discussed the grave marker of Belle “Star” Boyd. Belle as she was known to most was a Confederate spy from 1855-1865. Belle died on June 11, 1900 in Wisconsin Dells, Wisconsin. Belle went by many names, Cleopatra of the Secession, Siren of the Shenandoah. Belles spying career began by chance. According to her 1866 account, on July 4, 1861, a band of Union army soldiers heard she had Confederate flags in her room, and they came to investigate. They hung a Union flag outside her home. This made herangry enough, but when one of them cursed at her mother, she was enraged. Belle pulled out a pistol and shot and killed the man.
Belle has published a fictionalized narrative of her war experiences in a two-volume book titled Bell Boyd in Camp and Prison. While touring the United States), she died of a heart attack in Kilbourn City (now known as Wisconsin Dells), Wisconsin, on June 11, 1900. She was 56 years old. She was buried in the Spring Grove Cemetery in Wisconsin Dells, with members of the Local GAR as her pallbearers.[15] For years, her grave simply read:

stones stood draped with Yankee blue cloths.One by one, the new gravestones were revea


There are literally thousands. I’m not going to make you a super long list, but take Vicksburg National Military Park for example. Every single state that contributed troops during the Civil War has a monument to their soldiers within the park.
Union Soldiers buried in the South
A Union Army historian named Bruce Frail undertook the research in Washington and turned up more than 300 pages of research on the five dead soldiers, including their names.”This really amounts to a homecoming of sorts for the families who lost their ancestors and for those of us here who looked after these graves for so long,” Cadieu said as he sttching the color guard load their rifles. “In the larger scheme of things, it not a very big thing, I suppose, but to me it’s a powerful commentary on human kindness and brotherhood – how one man ended a war and honored his enemies by giving them a proper resting place, a home.”After to a clearing in the pines, where five new grave
Five soldiers who probably pined for the same thing died anonymously far from home but found peace – an unexpected home – in an enemy’s pasture.

Cpl. Reed Alcorn served in the eighth Indiana Calvary.
Pvt. Matthew Ross was from the same unit. He hailed from Carroll County, Indiana
Pvt. David Woods He came from Cumberland County, Pennsylvania
Pvt. Henry Stennett was from Carlisle, Pennsylvania, and enlisted at Harrisburg
The story goes that Daniel Lassiter returned home to learn of five fresh graves on his property just weeks after the guns fell silent. He learned the bodies in the graves belonged to Union troops who’d been on a foraging mission on horseback and wagon when they evidently encountered remnants of the Richmond Home Guard. Records show that more than 35 Union Army deaths occurred from running skirmishes and scattered house-to-house fighting that took place in Richmond County during the closing days of the war.

After hearing the story, it’s believed Lassiter expressed sympathy for the deaths of his former enemies and their families, citing the need for the nation to heal its wounds. He pledged that the graves of his former enemies would be marked and never disturbed as long as his family owned the farm.
Lassiter’s promise passed through several generations of his family. In 1974, a man named Roy Moss purchased the property, and he agreed to honor the graves of the unknown soldiers by leaving them undisturbed as well.
On Murphree land in Alabama a Union solder is buried, a fence was put around the grave and a slab covered it. The reason, so no one could defile the grave. Flowers were placed there on every holiday. The soldier was unknown, but we cared for the grave as if it was our own.
The “peculiar institution” loomed large over the first few decades of American presidential history. Not only did slave laborers help build the White House all of the earliest presidents (except for John Adams and his son John Quincy Adams) were slave owners. George Washington kept some 300 bondsmen at his Mount Vernon plantation. Thomas Jefferson—despite once calling slavery an “assemblage of horrors”—owned around 175 servants. James Madison, James Monroe and Andrew Jackson each kept several dozen slaves, and Martin Van Buren owned one during his early career.
Even in my home state of Alabama, arguably portrayed as racist, backwards, and forever confederate, we have over 1,000 Northern Monuments that honor the Northern troops. I understand the uprising in wanting to tear down all of the Confederate Monuments, I understand what the flag represented to the north, but it is our history and we honored both North and South.
I have not heard any plans to remove those 1,000 Union Monuments.
The homes of my ancestors was violated, burned, stole horses, mules, chickens, pigs and cows… and all contents placed in a confederate wagon, pull by confederate mules. All of these items were taken North. On the Vest plantation, Union Soldiers raped the women of all color. My great-great grandparents did not own slaves. Their workers were given their freedom years before the “War” begin.
My great-great grandmother walked the Trail of Tears, moved off their land to barren land. Those caught running away by the Union Soldiers were shot, my great-great grandparents ran off during the night making their way back home.
The southerners that march with swastikas, flags, wore hoods is not my people. The removal of monuments is wrong.
I guess my thought tonight is that my Chickasaw heritage was taken from me forcefully as was my plantation home, animals, and such Trump. My ancestors were raped and left with nothing. I am certain after this  State of the Union Address soaks in…we may want that which was stolen from us. We want our land back.

No, all I want is world peace.




19.charlotte winter






Bits and Pieces of Love…


Bits and Pieces of Love…
The box of Christmas ornaments hidden away spilled onto the floor; memories flooded back, two children taken from their mother. Frozen in time, she picked up the handmade treasures; paper, ribbon, bits and pieces of love formed into special ornaments that her children had made for her.
Tonight she sat a wounded soul and wrote a letter that she had not written since she was a child.


Dear Santa Clause,
There are just a few wishes on my list this year. Leave me a sign that my children know how much they are missed. Leave me a box of magic needles and thread to mend my heart. Maybe a bag of Christmas Spirit filled with love to ease the pain of what I lost. Do you still remember me Santa after all of these years; do you remember how your gifts could wipe away my childhood tears? I know that I have ask for a lot, but can I have a reason to live tied up in a shiny new box; seven years…a long time to grieve, please Santa with all my heart in Heaven I want to believe.
Love, Ann




Books at by Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree



Happy Thanksgiving America…


Recently in researching information for my own life story, I ran across a term called FPP or Fantasy Prone Personality. A personality trait in which a person experiences a lifelong extensive and deep involvement in fantasy. This disposition is an attempt, at least in part, to better describe “overactive imagination”. Does this apply to those of us who are writers? Yet, I believe that I can tell the difference in the fantasy world and that of reality.

It is believed by some psychologists that these traits can begin in childhood and likely to have laid the basis for fantasy proneness later in life. Yes, I was encouraged by my Aunt Vina to read when I was a child, and on most any subject that I wanted. Yes, I treated my animal friends as if they were human friends…I grew up alone. I was left alone from the time I was about three years old to fend for myself. I roamed the woods surrounding the house we lived in; and climbed the bluffs to check out the caves by the time I was six years old.
I played alone when I begin school, hiding among the tall grasses that grew around the little Priceville School. When the bell rang, I ran to class like all the other students. My childhood was one that no one would have wanted, a mother that was emotionally detached from anything or anyone other than getting ahead in life and her only child my sister. I learn to live alone and I became an expert paracosm. My childhood fantasy was very detailed and became real to me at times. There were places I would go and stay until my mother brought me back to the world of the living, the controlled living.


This life of fantasy when needed served me well; I lived many lives from child to teenager and right into a marriage arranged by my mother, to someone I had only known six weeks; my daddy had no say into anyone’s life including his own. My sister ran and never looked back! I was left to live with the fallout of her actions.
I was never much of a “daydreamer”; I am one who can create allowing me to leave a bad situation to a more calming atmosphere, such as storytelling. In checking further, I am told that I have an Avoidant personality; I suffer from anxiety but not to the extreme. I fear rejection, but I rationalize then avoid them when possible. I would like to live in a social world; nonetheless, I chose to live in my own world alone. I am frequently depressed, but I have a great sense of confidence.

I guess I would fall under all of the negative and the positive things that give me the ability to create a story, a poem; or paint a beautiful landscape. When all is said and done, I am just me, an artist, and a writer, now go enjoy your Holiday and leave me in my own fantasy world.




Books at by Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree

The Cost of Freedom…



The Cost of Freedom


Standing in what looked like a sea of white as a warm afternoon breeze touched their bronzed faces three young men rode home in an old wagon through fields of cotton unaware that their youth would soon be forgotten.

There was a time when they were three babies crawling at their mothers feet waiting patiently for warm sweet milk and tea cakes luxuries in their world, a poor man’s’ treat.

Their mother insisted they go to school and discover their own dreams she vowed at their birth that her children would not break their backs or sell their souls working as poor farmers in the cotton fields planting, hoeing and picking the South’ white gold.

Eighteen, nineteen and twenty years old, they had never known anything but working the red southern soil day after day sacrificing their mothers’ dream for very little pay.

Threadbare overalls shirtless and shoeless they stopped at the dirt road leading to the farm they called home, knowing that this way of life was quickly to end their decisions saddened their father. broke their mothers’ heart leaving it so crushed that it would never mend.

They reached a nearby creek at setting sun sipped on moonshine laughed had one last day of fun then left for home. It was no more than a shack but supper always a feast for kings then they crawled into cornhusk beds it was a hard life but a life where they knew that they belonged.

Then one winter day it all changed as proud Americans that wore their pride like armor there was no question they would answer the call, not only for them but for us all.

It was early morning when their father stood quietly drawing on his old pipe under the old oak tree thinking of the warmth of the coming spring while their mother sat in her rocking chair afraid of what the future would bring.

One by one they walk out the door childish faces broad smiles, shinny shoes, starched uniforms. Three young men proudly walked down the old dirt road that day no one knew when or if they would ever return but these young men knew it was to defend freedom an endowment blessed the day they were born.

Mother and father held each other as they slowly walked into their home and closed the door, while their three young sons walked away straight and tall ready to fight a war in a land they did not know, on a faraway shore.

The window of their house proudly displayed three gold stars, the days gradually turned into years their mothers’ heart had stopped beating, death had finally stopped her tears. Their father grew old as he walked fallow land alone, with his life consumed by his many fears.

Then one day as he stood beneath the oak tree drawing in the smoke from his old pipe while thoughts begin to drift back on his life. He wondered where it had gone but knowing that their mother at last is happy that her young sons were finally coming home.

He stared down the road as three shadowy figures grew closer, would he recognize them, he could not even remember how long it had been. Their youth was gone their smiles were drawn, the war returned his sons now three broken and scarred old men.





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The Lady and Her Mandolin


The Lady and Her Mandolin

The mandolin played softly from the room beneath my bed, the melody matched the moonlight dancing on the prisms hanging in my window, yellows, blues and reds. The lady plays over and over, thrumming aimlessly, as the night breeze takes the harmony over the cliff falling gently into the sea.

In her room decorated with blue butterflies cascading along tawny silk, lying upon sheets white as milk. her skin glistening, motionless, her eyes like a cobalt sky, she never leaves her room, I always wonder why.

When the crimson sky grows darker and there is nothing left but time, I go sit down beside her pouring Brandywine. Soon the stars will shatter, rockets will soar; I lay in a sea of saffron scent, my hunger spent, and then she will slowly begin her aimlessly thrumming once more.


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Last updated: June 03, 2017 The information contained on website (the “BLOG”) is for blogging general information FACT AND/OR FICTION purposes only. ELIZABETH ANN JOHNSON MURPHREE.






The Heroine’s Journey of Lindy Michaels

One of my favorites, follow Lindy she will never disappoint you with her writing. E.

The Heroine's Journey

What’s the best thing I love about my work? So many jobs, so little time. As a writer, a comedy writer, for the most part, I do love putting my funny sensibilities into my characters, as I let them live in the plots I’ve come up with. As a script/book analyst, I love helping writers with their musings, putting them on the right track for their characters to live within their imaginary lives. Having owned LA’s first children’s bookshop, OF BOOKS AND SUCH, (1972-1987) I am also the children’s person at BookStar, in Studio City, CA, still trying to inspire young minds. The movie, You’ve Got Mail was based on my life, really, except for two things… no email in the 70’s and I didn’t marry Tom Hanks!

What is my idea of perfect happiness? At my age, waking up in the morning!

What is my greatest fear? Not exactly…

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The Chickasaw – Part 4


Continue – The Chickasaw

They all spoke softly among themselves about what was happening and of the strange land, they were taking them too.  What use to be a proud people, they were now faltering under degrading conditions. Many elders, young children and babies died as all were herded like cattle on a dusty path.   Many years later, this action by the white man against the Indians would be called “The Trail of Tears”.

Ma’s grandparents died before reaching Arkansas …


There were many fires at night when they were allowed to stop; all Nations were represented, the most were the Cherokee.  Ma was told that many young men spoke of escaping, Hawk agreed with them.  She remembered her father saying that he had rather be dead than living like animals herded into circles by the soldiers.  One of the Over-Town elders a Shaman, “married” them, giving them many spiritual blessings.  Hawk would not leave without Sipsee.  During the darkness of night, they slipped away; Hawk did not tell Sipsee, he knew that their parents would pay for their freedom with their own lives.


Hawk found a way to cross the Mississippi River into Northern Alabama.  They made their home on the Eastern side of Alabama.  They lived among a few Indians that were not forced to leave.  Hawk knew that if they did not live like the “white man” they would be forced to leave or killed.  Sipsee learned the language and would walk to the nearest settlement to work; they wanted to build a cabin.  Sipsee knew that they must change with the times, Hawk kept to himself and his own dreams.



To be continued…

Resource – Storyteller – Jane Over-Town “Overton”
1848-1954 at the age of 106 her mind was
Like a steel trap, she never forgot anything,
It was her body that was ready for death; she lay
down for an afternoon nap and woke only to
say goodbye to the grandson she raised, my father

Post Writer – Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree
Great granddaughter