Tuesday, November 19, 2013

Four score...

A recent foggy morning lent a pensive attitude to the prison site and national cemetery. 

Today is the 150th anniversary of The Gettysburg Address. Just think, the war still had a year and a half to go and this prison was not even yet built.

Looking south toward some monuments, barely visible left of center.



The fence encloses a large hole in the ground that could be the site of a well that was dug by prisoners, or it could be the beginning of a tunnel, but it dates to the time of the prison. The tree has grown up since the prison closed; the entire prison site was barren of vegetation.



Looking toward the Ohio and Michigan monuments.



On the quarter mile road between the prison site and the cemetery.



The Georgia monument at the entrance to the cemetery, a memorial to all American prisoners of war. This memorial was the last to be placed at Andersonville, dedicated by Governor Jimmy Carter, in 1976.

 
Iowa remembers its dead.








Watch the video Ranger Chris Barr made for this historic anniversary.
 
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Thought of the day:


Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. 

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. 

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate -- we can not consecrate -- we can not hallow -- this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us -- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain -- that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom -- and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth. (Abraham Lincoln)

Friday, November 15, 2013

Two soldiers' stories


My good Washington friend wrote to me not long after I left my home in March to predict I would meet interesting and wonderful people, which I most certainly have. She also predicted I would meet people who would help and prove to be valuable to me in the future.

Because of her unerring views on things I pay attention to what she says, and she was once again right when she said I would meet folks who would help me. The wonderful people at Petrified Forest have already helped me to secure a volunteer spot at a sought-after national park for next summer. I would never have gotten this spot without their help.
 
Even more important than the help I got from Petrified Forest was meeting a man at Andersonville this week who didn't offer advice but merely told me a story. Mr. Larson had two relatives who were on the Bataan death march; both survived. He brought in for donation to the POW museum a photograph of one of them, I. C. Scott, and photocopies of articles about his experiences on and after the march.

Mr. Scott in 1992

Mr. Scott spent 3 1/2 years as a prisoner and said hate for his guards kept him alive but hatred for the entire people was "too debilitating." And it was, ironically, a Japanese soldier who saved his life. 

He endured two forced marches without water, dug graves for the hundred men who died every day, got little sleep, was forced into road building and more grave digging, enslaved in a coal mine 12 hours a day, and was eventually blinded by vitamin A deficiency. 

One day he sat, exhausted, and began humming his mother's favorite aria from Madam Butterfly. A guard who was behind him said, "I know that song." He said he'd worked for an American couple who had been good to him. Then, Mr. Scott said, "Something dropped beside me. I heard him move away. And there was a banana leaf wrapped around something. And it was some of his bento, and it had some meat in it. The guard never spoke to me again. But I would see him. And the next few weeks I was working, he would manage to walk by without anyone seeing him and he would always drop something, food..." The guard also gave up half his quinine ration when Mr. Scott contracted malaria. He is convinced the kindness of this guard saved his life.

Mr. Scott in 1941, left, and 1944, right, after being help prisoner for 3 1/2 years. He was 6'1" and weighed 98 pounds.


The other relative's story began in a similar way but ended differently. He was badly beaten by the Japanese for refusing to relinquish his ring. He was so near death that his friends had to carry him on the march or the Japanese would have killed him. 
1942 photo captured from the Japanese after the end of the war, showing survivors carrying their comrades in improvised stretchers.
 
He survived the march and the subsequent imprisonment but was never able to give up the hatred he had for his captors and all Japanese people. It so consumed him that he died at a relatively young age.

This story was an epiphany to me but it shouldn't have been. I know of the destructive consequences of hate and anger. I know how it saps my energy, extinguishes every spark of pleasure and delight, and sacrifices those precious, irretrievable moments I could have spent living - so I'm not doing it any more. I've come to the realization that if someone who suffered as Mr. Scott did was able to let go of his black heart of hatred, it must also be in my power to do so. No more of the ex-husband couldn't, wouldn't, didn't, or refused. I choose can, will, do, and accept. It is amazing how these two stories have turned me around. I have Mr. Scott to thank for his attitude and grace, and Mr. Larson for bringing me a message I long needed to hear. My friend from Washington was right again.

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Thought of the day:

Acceptance looks like a passive state, but in reality it brings something entirely new into this world. That peace, a sudden energy vibration, is consciousness. (Eckhart Tolle)

Monday, November 11, 2013

The luxury of hope

I knew very little about Andersonville before I came here. I'd worked at a medical museum in Washington, DC that was founded during the Civil War in order to be a repository of, let's say body parts, which furthered the knowledge of medicine immeasurably. Nearly everything I saw there, though, was from the Union perspective, so when I saw the posting for Andersonville I thought it would be a good opportunity to see something of the Civil War from the Confederate side. I was not prepared for the stories of Andersonville. I hope to tell some of them, of the men who came here and who died here.

In the meantime, in the here and now, the days are getting shorter and the nights much colder. There's often frost on the grass of the wide expanse of the prison site, or fog rising softly from the bottom land. One morning I went out for a walk before work and was rewarded with a lovely sunrise. Seeing it rise so beautifully made me think of the men who were imprisoned here and the horrible conditions in which they lived. How many of them would have had the luxury of admiring the coloring sky? Every one of them was fighting for survival with inadequate food, clothing, shelter, and sanitation, but I hope such a sight would have given the viewer at least a brief moment of escape, a fleeting hope.


The Ohio monument.



Reconstruction of the North gate of the stockade.




The Massachusetts monument.




The Michigan monument.

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Thought of the day:
It is impossible to be both grateful and depressed. Those with a grateful mindset tend to see the message in the mess. And even though life may knock them down, the grateful find reasons, if even small ones, to get up. 
(Steve Maraboli - Life, the Truth, and Being Free)

Friday, November 8, 2013

35 years and nobody's counting anymore

Tomorrow is my anniversary. Do I say it's still my anniversary even though it doesn't count anymore, when the counting officially stopped April 23?

It will be 35 years tomorrow since I married the guy I thought hung the moon. I remember thinking it was the happiest day of my life and here's a sad thought: life with him was never so happy again, but oh, at the time, I was so crazy for him.

Since April 23 his life and mine have both totally changed. He remarried in July, three months to the day since our divorce was final, six months exactly since he filed for divorce. He now has a much younger wife than the one he got rid of, one who actually works and earns an income, a couple of teenage daughters, and a shiny new house near Seattle. I live full time on the road "essentially volunteering [my] services and not lifting a finger to earn any [of the maintenance I get monthly]" as he put it, and my belongings fit in a 10x10 room with plenty of space to spare.

People say, and sometimes I even believe it, how much better off I am now, but is that supposed to erase or even mitigate the hurt of his betrayal? Does it excuse the unending stream of lies I was fed? Tell me why am I so torn apart, still, by the events since December when I finally see what he really is: the kind of person I would never choose to associate with.

I'm better than I was in February or April or August, but I still feel the sting of rejection. I'm still stunned by what happened. I'd still like to see someone hurt him as he hurt me - I would pay to witness that. Some days it's still pretty darned hard. But at the same time I acknowledge I am one lucky woman to be able to live as I do, to not have to scrabble for a living, and to have family and friends who care for me. I am lucky to have found a purpose and lucky to have the means to live the way I do. I am lucky to have not lost my way, at least for long, on my path with heart.


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Thought of the day:

Life is ten percent what happens to you and ninety percent how you respond to it. (Lou Holtz)


Wednesday, November 6, 2013

Andersonville

I've been at Andersonville since Friday, arriving in one heck of a rainstorm. Of course it lasted through hooking up water and electric and oh-so-miraculously stopped once I was soaked and everything was up and running.

Andersonville is separated into a couple of different areas. One is the prison site, the 26 1/2 acres the prison was eventually enlarged to, and the other is the National Cemetery where veterans from too many wars are laid to rest. There is also a National Prisoner of War museum in the visitor center. It's grim, as you might expect.

The prison site at Andersonville reminds me a bit of Gettysburg - it is wide open space dotted with memorials placed by grieving states. It also has reconstructions of a couple walls of the prison stockade, including the north gate through which all prisoners entered. Over the weekend I got out early to walk the grounds as the sun came up. There was frost on the ground and low fog softened the landscape.

This is a reconstruction of the North Gate. Prisoners entered the gate at the right, which closed behind them. Another gate was already closed in front of them so they were unable to see anything of what awaited them. Rising above the top of the stockade at the corner was a "pigeon roost," one of many guard posts or sentry boxes that were positioned at intervals around the perimeter. At ground level to the left of the stockade wall you can see a spindly fence. It is the Dead Line, erected 18 feet from the stockade wall to prevent escape. So much as touching the Dead Line would get a man shot.

This is near the bottomland of the prison site, through which a creek ran. One creek, one source of fresh water for 33000 men who would ultimately be held here at one time.





The structure was erected after the war by Andersonville survivors. It houses a spring which spontaneously burst from the ground after heavy rain, which the men called Providence Spring. The spring was inside the Dead Line but the prisoners found a way to divert its water so they could safely use it.


The obelisk is the Ohio monument. Just over the near horizon the top of the stockade wall can be seen.

If you've ever been to Gettysburg you may know what I'm talking about when I say hallowed ground. The same feeling comes from this place where 45000 men passed through in one way or another in its 14 months of operation, and where nearly 13000 men, 29% of its population, died. It's a sad, ugly part of our history.

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Thought of the day:

I have read in my earlier years about prisoners in the revolutionary war, and other wars. It sounded noble and heroic to be a prisoner of war, and accounts of their adventures were quite romantic; but the romance has been knocked out of the prisoner of war business, higher than a kite. It's a fraud. (John L. Ransom, from his diary)

Sunday, November 3, 2013

Tuskegee

After leaving the Natchez Trace Parkway near Jackson, Alabama I headed east with a couple of days to make it to Andersonville. It's not many miles and a detour on day two to Tuskegee Institute, now Tuskegee University, seemed like a good idea. It was.

The Institute is a National Historic Site (another one crossed off the list) and the Booker T. Washington home on campus, called The Oaks, was open for a tour. Washington was the first teacher and the principal of the Institute from its founding in 1881, as a Normal (teachers' school), until his death in 1915.



University students made the bricks and built the house. It was too dark inside to take more than a couple of pictures, but this is from the floor of his bedroom. Students did all this work, including making the nails that fasten down the boards.
 

He had a sauna in his bathroom, the likes of which I've never seen before. Light bulbs reflected off the mirrors and built up heat. That's the two whole pictures I was able to get of the inside of the house.


The Ranger (the house is part of the Historic Site) heard I was an archivist in another life (it was not me who told her), and called the University archivist, who said to come on over. I got a tour of their very nice facilities and an itch to open boxes and see what was in them. It was Homecoming weekend, though, and his time was short so no box-opening for me.

On the way over to the archives I passed the cemetery, right in the middle of campus,


where Washington and George Washington Carver are buried.


I admit to knowing next to nothing about either of these men but they have been added to the list of biographies I want to read. They were both born into slavery yet went on to  remarkable achievements.

The campus chapel has a gorgeous stained glass window that is based on old Spiritual hymns. It was my final stop before getting back on the road to Andersonville.






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Thought of the day:

I have observed that those who have accomplished the greatest results are those...who never grow excited, or lose self-control, but are always calm, self-possessed, patient, and polite... (Booker T. Washington - Up from Slavery)

 

Thursday, October 31, 2013

Watah bugs

Graceland, Graceland, in Memphis, Tennessee. I'm going to Graceland. 

After leaving Louisville, I plotted a slightly off-course trip to Graceland. A few hours out of my way to visit Elvis seemed a small price to pay.

But in looking at the atlas a little closer, I saw a dotted road, my favorite kind to travel, heading south from Nashville into the heart of Dixie. It was the Natchez Trace Parkway, a 444-mile-long national park that begins in Tennessee and ends in Mississippi, or the other way around. Sorry, Elvis, not this trip, because I decided to drive the Trace.

I have more pictures that I'm still working on, but processed these four tonight and was blown away by these bugs. Little skittery things that move across the surface of a stream more smoothly than I move through air caught my attention and I clicked the shutter with the hope of getting something. Well, here's what I got.

Look how it doesn't break the surface of the water.


 Six points resting on the surface.


I think this one shows really well the dip in the surface at the points of contact.


This is my favorite. I never saw the reflection of the trees overhead until I blew this image up.  See the right rear leg of the bug on the right? Amazing! Isn't nature grand?



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Thought of the day:

Away, away from men and towns,
To the wild wood and the downs -
To the silent wilderness
Where the soul need not repress
Its music lest it should not find
An echo in another's mind.

(Percy Bysshe Shelley, "To Jane: the Invitation")
Away, away, from men and towns,
To the wild wood and the downs —
To the silent wilderness
Where the soul need not repress
Its music lest it should not find
An echo in another’s mind.

Read more at http://www.notable-quotes.com/n/nature_quotes_iii.html#C2d2JZRk2YoToDiI.99
Away, away, from men and towns,
To the wild wood and the downs —
To the silent wilderness
Where the soul need not repress
Its music lest it should not find
An echo in another’s mind.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, "To Jane: The Invitation"

Read more at http://www.notable-quotes.com/n/nature_quotes_iii.html#C2d2JZRk2YoToDiI.99

Away, away, from men and towns,
To the wild wood and the downs —
To the silent wilderness
Where the soul need not repress
Its music lest it should not find
An echo in another’s mind.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, "To Jane: The Invitation"

Read more at http://www.notable-quotes.com/n/nature_quotes_iii.html#C2d2JZRk2YoToDiI.99