Stonewall and the Lemons
In Lexington, Virginia, at the Stonewall Jackson Memorial Cemetery—now simply known as Oak Grove Cemetery—there stands the grave of Thomas Jonathan “Stonewall” Jackson, Confederate general, military tactician, and one of the most mythologized figures of the Civil War. Like many figures of the Lost Cause, his legacy is tangled in the roots of history, twisted and knotted by the hands of those who came after him. But amidst the grand discussions of battlefield strategy and historical morality, a simpler, stranger tradition lingers at his final resting place: lemons.
I had heard of it before, of course. The tradition of leaving stones on graves is well-known, particularly in Jewish tradition, and pennies on the tombstone of Lincoln or Jim Morrison's grave littered with bottles of whiskey are familiar customs. But lemons? That one felt odd, even for a figure as enigmatic as Stonewall Jackson.
The origin of this tradition, like many, is muddled in a mix of fact and folklore. Jackson, a deeply religious and eccentric man, was known for his peculiar health obsessions. He believed that one arm was longer than the other and often held it aloft to improve circulation. He avoided pepper because he thought it made his left leg ache. And then there were the lemons.
Jackson had an unusual fondness for them, reportedly sucking on them during battle. Soldiers and officers alike noted his habit, with some suggesting he believed they had medicinal benefits. Others speculated he simply enjoyed the tart, refreshing taste. In an era where citrus was a rare luxury in the South, the sight of a general on horseback, calmly sucking on a lemon while commanding troops, must have seemed both absurd and, in its own way, commanding.
As I stood by his grave, I saw them—bright yellow offerings resting atop the monument, some fresh, others beginning to wither. I wondered if those who left them did so out of reverence, amusement, or simply as participants in a tradition that has outlived its original meaning. Did they believe, in some small way, that Jackson would appreciate the gesture? That even in death, the tart bite of citrus might bring some kind of pleasure to his restless spirit?
History is a complicated thing. A grave is a silent place, but the objects left behind speak volumes. Lemons, of all things, tie us back to a man whose life and actions shaped the course of history. Whether left in admiration or in the name of an odd bit of Civil War lore, they remain—a quiet, absurd, and strangely human reminder of the man they called Stonewall.