A Day at Appomattox

     My nephew Daniel, a Staff Sergeant in the Army reserves, was in the Washington DC area for a few weeks while taking a course at Fort Meade. Daniel has already been to Iraq twice and to Afghanistan once and is about to leave for another tour in Afghanistan. Everyone in my sister's family in the Chicago area is in the funeral business and Daniel is also licensed as a funeral director. Through his research into the family history, he determined that his great grandfather, also named Daniel, served in the Civil War with the 20th Maine regiment, the unit made famous in the book Killer Angels for its role at Little Round Top at the Battle of Gettysburg. Daniel's namesake had joined the unit in 1865 and participated in the last battles of the war and was present at Appomattox Court House for the formal surrender ceremony of Lee's Army of Northern Virginia on April 12th, 1865. He survived the war and typhoid fever, but was later buried in a pauper’s grave in the Chicago area. Daniel was determined to give him a proper resting place and went through all the necessary paperwork to have him buried in a military cemetery next to Daniel's brother John, who had also been a Captain in the Army reserves. His quest during his visit was to see where his great grandfather had been, to walk the same battlefield, and to make the connection across the years from one soldier to another. I went with him to share the experience.

     The drive to Appomattox the day after Thanksgiving was a pleasant one. The weather was beautiful - sunny and mild. Most people do not know that Appomattox Court House is the name of the town and that the courthouse (one word) is only a building in that town. They also do not realize that Lee did not surrender his army in the courthouse, but in the home of Wilmer McLean on April 9th. The McLean family had seen the Battle of Manassas (known as the Battle of Bull Run in the north) from their home and decided to move to a quiet area to avoid the war. Ironically, the war came to them.

     The docent who led us on the tour was a Vietnam veteran who was knowledgeable and passionate about the sacrifices made on both sides. As we walked along the Lynchburg stage road we could feel what it was like. Lee's army, worn, but proud marched down the road led by Lieutenant General John B. Gordon. (Both Lee and Grant had already left.) The union forces for the surrender ceremony were under Brigadier General Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain of Gettysburg fame. As the Confederates marched down the road to surrender their arms and colors, Chamberlain ordered his men to come to attention and "carry arms," the soldiers salute. Gordon, at the head of the column, raised his eyes at the sound and instantly understood the significance of this act or respect. Wheeling his horse gracefully, Gordon dropped the point of his sword to his boot tip, and gave a command, at which the Confederate flag following him was dipped and his units, as they reached the Union ranks, responded to the "carry." As Chamberlain recalled later, "All the while on our part not a sound of trumpet or drum, not a cheer, nor a word nor motion of man, but awful stillness as if it were the passing of the dead."

     Daniel and I let it all sink in. It is hard to explain to some people why it is important to experience some things first hand, to make history come alive by walking the very ground where extraordinary events took place. For some of us there is a need to feel connected to the past, for it is part of who we are. I am grateful that Daniel wanted to include me in this very personal journey.

A Thanksgiving To Remember: A Chicago Memory

My Grandma was definitely not your typical American grandmother. Of poor German stock, she had spent the years of World War Two in some part of Yugoslavia. I could only remember the name of her village, Gocova, and had even tried to look it up in an atlas once, but had no earthly idea of how to spell it or even in what region it was. My mother and father had scrimped and saved to bring her over after the war and she eventually settled on the south side of Chicago in a quiet residential neighborhood with my uncle. You could take grandma out of the village, but you couldn't take the village out of grandma. She had that grasping, hungry, selfish way that years of enough to eat and a warm house to sleep in had never overcome. My sisters and I always dreaded making the trip from the north side to spend holidays at grandma’s. To begin with, she didn't let us be children - no running, no noise, no other children around the quiet well manicured neighborhood, nothing to do. Children were expected to sit and be quiet. No watching television, unless it was wrestling, of all things, and the magazines were all in German. But the worst of it was the meals we lived through. Lived through was the way I always thought of meals at grandma’s. Supper was always chicken paprikas, not the delicious and wonderful chicken paprikas I would discover quite by accident later in life, but a mean spirited watery concoction that offered little as food and even less for the soul. The recipe was engraved on my memory. First, she cut up the chicken and put the best parts in the refrigerator for her and my uncle to eat later. Then she took out a big pot, filled it with water and threw in a few pathetic potatoes and perhaps an onion. If any seasonings, such as salt and pepper or even paprika, went in the water it was never so much that anyone might notice or remember. The chicken itself was what I remember most. The backs, necks, and wings were thrown in and boiled until everything was done and what meat there was fell off the bones along with the ghastly pallid chicken skins. The thought of one particular Thanksgiving comes to mind. Our family had usually avoided Thanksgiving at grandma’s, but this one year, when I was ten years old, was an exception. Upon learning that we were going to grandma’s for Thanksgiving, my sisters and I faced the prospect with what could only be described as utter gloom. Then our mother informed us that grandma would be making turkey.

Our grandma? I had asked several times incredulously and was assured each time that it was true. My grandmother was actually going to make a turkey. My sisters and I sat in the back seat of the family car and wondered at that fact the whole trip down to the south side. We had arrived around noon. Shortly afterward, I wandered into the kitchen to see what, if anything, was going on. In the middle of the kitchen table was a rather large, pale, and as yet completely uncooked turkey. It was only after I was an adult that I learned from my mother that she had bought the turkey for grandma. Thinking back again, I remembered that even at ten, I knew a thing or two about cooking turkeys. There were preparations that had to be made. Stuffing, and vegetables, and potatoes, and cranberry jelly, and rolls. And turkeys took hours in the oven and had to be basted while a wonderful aroma would fill the kitchen. I remembered getting hungry and also worried. Then grandma had begun to cut up the turkey. She put the good parts in the refrigerator. Out came the big pot, in went a few potatoes and the back . . . the neck . . . and the wings. Turkey paprikas!

I hope your own family’s Thanksgiving dinner is a traditional one with all the trimmings and one that, perhaps, you might be even more thankful for than usual.

A Brave New World for a Late Bloomer

This is my inaugural post for a medium that I have avoided for quite a while, even though I have always considered myself a writer first and other things second. There are so many things that I am interested in that I don't know where to begin exactly. My hope is that others may find what I write to be of interest and that the process will lead to growth on my part as both a writer and a human being. As I gain experience, and with the help of any readership that might follow my works, my intent is to put more meat on these bare bones.