As every good Confederate knows, Mathew Brady was the famed Civil War Photographer whose pictures were all made (nearly all) from the Union side. Brady was a New Yorker and, it turned out, a businessman.
He’d figured that after the war he’d sell the government $100,000 worth of photos and negatives but that didn’t work out. The government handed over 25K and Brady went broke, or nearly so. After his death, a descendant kept the company alive in its New York studio.
But before his death, Bob’s grandfather, also a New Yorker, was fascinated by this new photography deal. Brady was capturing images on glass negatives, one of which at one time could be seen in D. C.’s Smithsonian. It was a life-sized glass negative.
The Brady studio took the young Killheffer (the name of Bob’s granddad) on. He studied photography with them while feeding his appetite for music with New York’s Metropolitan Opera where he was a member of the men’s chorus. Not a big deal, but he was paid for attending every operatic performance.
This all was well after the Civil War where Brady established his reputation as a photographer.
Chattanooga, a struggling young city (we must figure that all post-war Southern cities struggled) contacted the Brady studio about sending them a photographer . . . and for a price Brady sent Killheffer. The city meant to sell itself through photographs of its beauty.
Bob’s information on how well his father did on selling the city to the rest of the nation was thin. More personal information he knew well.
“Grandad attended an Episcopal church. The family always has been Episcopalian.” At the church he soon became choir director after they heard of his background in opera.
“The priest there felt it was the best choir in the area.”
Eventually the priest asked if he, Killheffer, would like to study for the priesthood. Killheffer thought he would and with his church’s help went to Sewanee seminary.
“When he graduated, he took one position then another but I know he was at the Franklin, Tennessee downtown Episcopal church for a number of years.”
I told Bob that when he visited we’d go over to see the church. He did and we did and found Tiffany glass, we believe, in the stained glass windows.
During War I, Bob’s father worked in a munitions plant in Nashville, riding a train from Franklin each day. Bob graduated from college and like so many classmates married quickly and divorced slowly.
An alcoholic, Bob was dry for years then in the ‘70s went to Europe on company business. “Things were going great. I met with our people in London and then on to Paris where I had dinner on one of those Seine river barges. The waiter didn’t ask, just as he walked by he put a glass and a bottle of wine on the table.
“I was drunk for the next nine years.”
But he straightened this out with AA’s help. And he married a good woman and continued to live as what he’d always been: a gentleman of estimable intelligence.
During War II, Bob was an army medic. Once in Europe his over-worked doctor/officer said, “I gotta sleep. I don’t care what emergency you got, do not wake me.” Thus when a woman came to their tent marked with a big red cross, Bob delivered her baby. It was a girl. “Only baby I ever delivered,” he said.
Bob was on the opposite side of our nation’s political fence, but he was a gentleman and I cherished his friendship and personal brilliance until the day he suddenly died nine years ago.
I miss him.
And him a Republican Yankee.
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