Literary Sampler: Essays, Book Reviews, and More...
Monthly Column by Charity Gingerich

Author’s note:
While I wrote this story so that it could stand on its own, I also wrote it as a companion piece to “The River My Witness,” listed in the archives under my column. Readers may find it helpful to peruse this earlier piece first, or even possibly go back and read it after “Stone River” to explore any connections. Either way, I hope it is an enjoyable read!

It was as if the steady-gazed infantryman knew why I had come from the moment I’d stepped into his circle of vision. Hat pulled low, he leaned watchfully on his rifle atop his tall stone post. I could feel his curious eyes following the small, erratic scrawl covering the pages of the notebook I carried close to my face despite the showers of a sullen May morning. At first I tried to lose him in fountains of flowery prose, and when that didn’t work I decided to aim some of my remarks at him. Snoopers could be brought to shame once they realized their covers had been blown.

This mister must have been a decent spy in his day. I bring him flowers and all he’s interested in is my research journal. Got the facts all memorized yet up there? I’ll bet you were a lady’s man in your day too. All that swaggering manhood of yours.

There was no shaming this snooper. He continued to ignore my humble daisy bouquet with the In Memory Of tag laid at the base of his pedestal. By the time I left, after several hours of pacing in the too-brilliant after-shower heat, I’d had a full-fledged argument with him about why it was a waste of time and gas to drive all the way to redneck territory just so I could pay my respects to a soldier—a relative—I wasn’t even sure had existed. But he had won. The right side of his hard mouth twitched upward ever so slightly as I turned away from his all-pervading presence. My near-religious pilgrimage to the 51st Ohio Volunteer Infantry Memorial in Tuscarawas County, Ohio, had proved insufficient – both for him and for me.

Now driving cautiously along the Old Nashville Highway, I glanced again at the photograph of the immortalized infantryman fixed firmly between my dashboard and windshield. I had named him Tom, and, over the five hundred and some miles from Stark County, Ohio, to Murfreesboro, Tennessee, imagined that his stony facial expression had changed to serene piousity with a hint of amusement. He had become more than just my mascot for this crazy research trip, follow-up pilgrimage –whatever-- to the Stone River battlefield: he was my psychic sidekick/guardian angel, though I still resented him slightly for this self-imposed role.

“We’re here old boy. You ready for this? I hope I can count on your continued support after two days of coffee, bananas and no sleep. Oh, and no air-conditioning, let’s not forget.” I was suspicious that he tipped his hat to me after these mini rants, though I’d never actually caught him in the act. “Now that I think of it though, you can support me from the car. I don’t need you to interfere in this little quest for—“ I trailed off, unsure of how to finish, or even why I felt the need to explain. Nosing the car into what little shade could be found in the parking lot I looked around, surprised by the absolute stillness. The place seemed dead. There were no other visitors in sight. Glancing at the handful of brochures on the passenger’s seat I’d picked up at a Speedway, I realized ruefully that I was indeed playing the foolish tourist. “Except there’ll be no comfy hotels with indoor swimming pools and ice-sweated cokes this trip. Where’s the hot-water bottle again?” Locating the plastic container amidst a stack of un-listened to CDs, I found it so hot it burned my fingers and I couldn’t bring myself to swig the tepid liquid inside. I had wanted to avoid any and all visitor’s centers on this journey if humanly possible, but a drinking fountain appeared more and more like a necessary evil. “But, enough complaining, right Tom? We’re not here to prop up our feet and get comfortable, I know.” Grabbing the brochures and my notebook (fat with several recent intrepid attempts at nonfiction), I relented and snatched Tom off of the dashboard, stuffing him into my purse along with these other necessities for a productive stroll.

Because there’d been no time to peruse the glossy brochures, I had no clear idea of what was here to be seen, or where I should be headed, though a part of me realized it didn’t matter. All I really wanted was to lose myself somewhere in the hushed green expanses of these rolling meadows and old cotton fields fringed sporadically with lush, towering forest. I wanted to put my ear to the earth and feel the pulse of the past. Toward that end I set off across the parking lot, the bottoms of my flip-flops smacking against the steaming stickiness of melting black tar, reading as I went. “Oh—fabulous: ‘self-guided tour’ available. Good thing I picked up this info so I don’t have to dawdle in the museum and be forced to look at cases of rusty bullets. ‘Hazen’s Brigade Monument. Oldest (intact) surviving monument in the nation.’ Interesting. Now if one of us is good with maps…”

As we walked, I tried to let the trees, sky, birds, grasses, and outcrops of rocks remind me of why I’d come. It seemed to me they were holding a conversation of which I was faintly, but distrustfully aware. To feel less like an intruder, I brought out my notebook and stuck Tom companionably in the pocket of my skirt, preparing to ingest peace by jotting random things down as we explored:

We’ve heard (been told) places like Gettysburg and Auschwitz are “inhabited” instead of “haunted.” I don’t buy it. You’re telling me Reynolds and the Iron Brigade are cursed to run up and down the same hill like some freakish eternal puppets? Instead of their spirits being free to wander where they will? Talk about disrespecting the dead. Nope. Until the Discovery Channel (et. al) can make a documentary on this and prove something, I’ll stick to ‘the dead are dead’ theory and save the bed sheets for campfire pranks.

From this one-sided argument I’d been moving on to imagine events that must have swept civilians and soldiers into tangled masses of misery those fateful days following December 31, 1862. Rounding a bend in the trail, the now poignant words on the page disappeared as I found myself nearly blinded by a juggernaut-like shaft of sunlight blazing a path through thick, venerable trees. As I squinted upwards, trying to angle my way back into kinder, dappled light, my eyes snagged on a slight, shabby blue figure sitting mere yards from me on a fallen log. He was busily whittling what appeared to be a penny-whistle, but in the meantime was employing his lips to produce an uncanny rendition of….the Blue Danube Waltz? It was an ‘I’ll blink and this will surely be gone’ moment. But before I could close my eyes to check, he looked up, saw my fish-face, and grinned hesitantly.

“Startle you?” He stood as I approached cautiously, and I noted with some surprise the long-snouted barrel of a beat-up gun cradled in the crook of his elbow.

“Not much. I was just writing while I walked, till the sunlight hit me coming around that last turn and gave me a little start. I pointed to the gun. “Is that an antique?”

“Nope. Just a battle trophy.” He rubbed his nose self-consciously, and let out a burst of seemingly pent-up laughter. “You must be from the city if light can scare you here in the woods.” I smiled dubiously. ‘Battle trophy?’

“Actually, I live in the country now and have my own cow.”

“Smart girl. We had a Daisy once. Mean old thing. She could kick like a bull.”

Was he serious? Who named their cows ‘daisy’ anymore?

“Uh, that’s nice. But, can I ask, do you guys do a lot of reenacting around here, and if so, do they provide the catsup?” I now pointed to the fake-looking bandage wrapped around his right arm. The red smear on it looked suspiciously like it was derived from tomatoes.

Grinning quizzically, he proceeded to tug at the sandy colored, unkempt locks spilling out from beneath his faded cap. “It’s skirmishes mostly. Wasp play. Still, I don’t like it, and say so when I get the chance.” He tapped his wrapped arm lightly and paled, gesturing behind him. “Just today I saw some Rebs sneaking around in these woods. You’d think they’d respect a man’s rightful peace when he’s earned it.”

“How much of the season do you work here?”

“Hey?”

“You know. Reenacting. Do you do certain battles during certain seasons, or all year ‘round?”

He gave me a strange look. After a moment he gestured off-handedly toward the surrounding trees. “I live here. So I guess you could say the work is year ‘round.”

I shifted uneasily, feeling my frown deepen. Was this guy touched in his topnotch? And why did he seem so familiar? Unconsciously I reached down to finger the photo in my pocket, wishing, I suppose, that Tom would chime in about now. He’d been all too happy to earlier.

Read Part 2

Copyright © 2008 by Charity Gingerich.

About the Author: Charity graduated from Kent State University with a BA in English, as well as minors in writing and history in 2006. This fall (2008) she will be entering the MFA in Creative Writing program at West Virginia University where she will be specializing in poetry. Charity always welcomes any questions/suggestions about this column. Click Here to send her an email.