On May 28th, 1864, Lt. Philip Henry Hutchinson of the Charleston Light Dragoons was shot in the thigh by a Yankee cavalryman at the battle of Haw’s Shop in Virginia. Philip had been fighting in various Confederate units since South Carolina seceded in 1860. As he later wrote, this would be his “first and last wound during the War.” At war’s end, when his unit surrendered outside Durham, North Carolina, Philip reportedly, “burst into tears, threw his hat passionately on the ground, and spoke wild words.”
Philip returned home to South Carolina where he went into the phosphate business, retiring in 1896. He is buried at St. Paul’s Anglican Church in Summerville, South Carolina with the following epitaph:
PHILIP H. HUTCHINSON
BORN NOV. 4, 1839
DIED OCT. 1, 1910
HERE LIES A CONFEDERATE VETERAN
WITH AN UNTARNISHED RECORD
My father was buried in the same graveyard on August 14, 2021. The night before the service, the family gathered at the Summerville Country Club. After dinner, Uncle Stevie - whom I adore - stood up to give a speech about my father and our family. At the end, he held up a small, crumpled piece of metal and announced that this was the bullet that had lodged in Philip’s thigh. He was now passing it along to the next generation, one of Dad’s five grandchildren. He gave it Joseph, the youngest, but the only male in the bunch and thus, as my uncle explained, the most fitting guardian of the heirloom. I don’t think it bothered any of the girls too much, who last I checked, do not have strong Confederate sympathies. Joseph took the bullet with a gentle nod and quiet smile, the new bearer of the family legacy.
Did Dad leave me any keepsakes or heirlooms? Not really, none that I can think of. He wasn’t really like that. After he passed away, I rifled through his stuff and found some memorabilia that I took home with me, like a booklet of vintage Army post cards from Dad’s New Deal era childhood. I love the graphic design of the time, with its bold colors and strong lines; naive and optimistic to a fault. Posters shout out, “Can do!” even as the world plunged into war.
I took a few of Dad’s old clothes, being sure to give a pass to his 1970s white leather belt and wide ties. Dad was a handsome man, but fashion for him was always an afterthought. I took the gray Clemson hat we got him when Geneva was a student. Eventually I will leave it a soccer game or at Jimmy John’s or some other random place. It’s inevitable; it’s what I do with hats. Kirstan would prefer I not wear the green sweater with the rust stains on the front, but it reminds me of Dad, so I’ve kept it.
But what I most cherish is the collection of letters I found in an old file cabinet up in the attic. Dad kept files on all three kids. I had no idea. He stuffed large accordion folders with old keepsakes, not from him to us, but from us to him. Kindergarten tissue paper art; essays in big, winding cursive handwriting; and certificates for all manner of minor achievements.
But most of all, I found letters. My letters to him and his letters to me, which Dad had made copies of before sending. He wasn’t messing around. All of these keepsakes he put in a file for me to find on my own after he passed, things I had long forgotten about.
Did Dad leave me any keepsakes? What a question.
I have not had the courage to erase Dad’s last message to me on my cell phone. It is from sometime in May, 2020, right after an appointment at the oncologist. I play it often to hear his lilting low-country accent and chipper tone: “Oh, this is Dad calling, 12:20. We’re heading home now, we didn’t get any questions answered… but talk to you, talk to you later. Love ya.”
It’s been four years and I still have not found the courage to erase that message. We said good-bye to Dad, we memorialized him, and we buried him. And still, I cannot bear to no longer hear his voice. I know I will one day accidentally hit 7 instead of 9 on my keypad, erasing his voice from my phone forever. I will wince, regret it, and then I will go on. What else can I do? Our lives here are a mist that appear for a little while and then vanish.
Do I have a keepsake from my father? I do, better than any letter, better than any hat I will eventually lose, and better than any Yankee bullet. I have his memory and I have his love, and nothing can ever erase that.
In the meantime, I have it on good authority that heaven is real, and it is beautiful. Wild words. Words to live by.
Thanks. Thanks a lot. For making me cry.
Thank you Chris, what a wonderful tribute to your dad. I can see your own character and decency in your description of him. Perhaps that's the most that we can aspire to give our descendants, not a material keepsake like a bullet (though that is a cool story), but a model of decency and character for those who come after to emulate. Blessed be his memory. Cheers from Canada, Michael