Two boys kneel with cautious anticipation on a ridge above. With his right hand on his friend’s shoulder, the one boy wears the familiar garb- suspenders, blue pants, and the unmistakable red and white checkered shirt that symbolically carries both the purity of his young heart and the red stain of his culture. His friend, left arm extended on a broken down fence, is almost lost in the folds of an oversized white shirt. His striped pants, no doubt drawn with a rope tie, lend almost a chain gang feel. But it does not matter to these two boys- who is right handed, who is left, who is white, who is black? Nor does it matter to the birch trees who peacefully bend among the dark oaks. Here up above is a better view of God’s world- natural, young with age, unadulterated. Only the fence and rock wall belong exclusively to man. And while the fence is breaking down, there are still many fences in the scene below. A stockade fence cramps a solitary barren tree. Even the church has a fence.
The townspeople, on this familiar yet unexpected day, are dressed in their best. Notably, unlike the two boys whose minds are exposed and open, they all wear hats. Even the young woman on the far right side of the scene, clutching her bible in front of the first federal bank, seems compelled to
have her parasol. The man and woman beside her stand with skepticism. Presumably, the southern gentleman will momentarily move aside. By subtle contrast, on the far left side of the road, stand a young woman and man in respectful deference. The old hunchbacked gentleman, perhaps in a second childhood, applauds. His son, perhaps, joins him. In the middle of the road, a middle aged couple assumes leadership positions among this public gathering. Clad in suffering purple, he in stove pipe height beside his diminutive spouse, remind us of a larger leader. But these people are the “survivors.” Even the old man with his back up against the wall, struggles to make sense of the world in which he has lived his life.
All eyes, of course, remain on a faded “old glory.” The commander with his cigar has been a recurrent image of confident escape throughout his war. His regiment behind him swells in number, yet shrinks in size. And so, there is the “music,” military and measured, which all ears can not escape. Still, the painting as a whole, repeatedly calls us back to that ridge above to simply “listen to the children.”