Susan Ann Farmer is my name, and here I am, standing on the rickety steps of the old log courthouse on the bluff in Fort Worth, Texas. Although I am dressed in my new store-bought shoes and Sunday dress, I have tears just a'streaming down my cheeks. As I wipe away the tears and blow my nose on the hem of my petticoat, I know that Mama would just die if she saw me behaving this way, but this is a sad day for me.
I'm standing in the same spot where I had lived in a tent before Fort Town ever was established. Even before the Brevet Major Ripley Arnold and his Dragoons pranced their horses upon the bluff of what they eventually would name "Fort Worth", this has been my home. The soldiers called it Fort Town for a long time, even though they never did get a fort around the town.
Now I look up at the United States flag waving for the last time from the old wooden flagpole in the chilled November air. The flag's thirteen red and white stripes and twenty-eight stars had been raised in 1849, and now is being replaced by the Confederate flag, and I am very confused.
Being a Confederate state means that Texas will be against President Lincoln, and we'll be in a war. I don't understand that. All I ever wanted was to live here in Fort Worth and go to Dr. Carroll Peak's school. It used to be John Peter Smith's school until teaching wore out the poor man. He decided he would rather get into politics.
Standing here across from the square and listening to the cheers of hundreds of Texans and the clanging of the bell, the ceremony just wrenches my heart. Texans are all riled up about fighting a war with northerners because of them telling us we can't have slaves. I don't understand why anybody would want to own another human being, but Pa says that there are other reasons for the changing times. He is a stubborn man, but a mighty good one, and he always wanted the best for Ma and me, even before Jake and William and all the rest were born.
Standing here, reminiscing about the flag and all, brings back memories of when this town was born. I wasn't but two-years old myself, but my folks have told stories over and over about when we lived in a dugout just down the river a piece. Seems I can remember the wind whistling around our old dugout, the trees on the bank of the Trinity River swaying in rhythm depending on the mood and direction of the wind. Other settlers, located miles away, seldom came around except for supplies Pa had in our trading post. The story I remember most was when Pa had gone for supplies and left Ma and me by ourselves.