Simply A List

Tonight, I am starting to finalize the 150 Journal Project in order to complete the collage portion of this exhibit. I have reviewed the journal entries, thus far, to find the references to nature that should be pictured in my collages. I had no idea how extensive it was, so I am listing it here to help me keep a record of what still must be completed in this project.

The list:
squirrels scurry
hemlock
a flutter of sparrows
the soft whisper of wind
the warm white sun
the hornets’ nest
downy woodpecker
red-tailed hawk
common crow
a call of vireos
stallions
field mice
white pine
the weary redbud
maple
oak
cattle
mourning dove
cricket
black walnut
scent of sassafras
red-winged blackbird
a fine stable of Morgan horses
the furrowed field
codling moth
thoroughbred
raven
the scent of a mulberry tree
spring freshet
early morning mockingbirds
winter snow
rabbit
the tree line
white-tailed deer
a covey of quail
the rising seedtime sun
vulture
the dark before next dawn
foal
calf
pup
bees
Quarter horse
wild-eyed horses
chicken
cow
growing grain
breeze through the bare branches
chatter of the winter wren
the mourning dove’s crying call
shoreline ice
snow on the hills
the farm fields
the morning fog  
a naïve sapling
the smell of morning campfires
aurora borealis
the purl and trickle of the creek
the trill of the unseen junco
the river turns like a slithering snake
the slightest zephyr
the big dipper
the North Star
dark, iron thunderclouds
the pear tree leaf in autumn
pine sapling
chittering of chipmunks
the basso profundo of bullfrogs
an even thunderstorm
the scent of wild blossoms and rain
seeds from my pocket
Johnny Appleseed
the smell of honeysuckle in the breeze
moonlight
Colony collapse has finally hit the hive
an assembling gaggle of geese
the winter sky
the sun rising sky
the spring rain
a fallen leaf from the autumn tree
the budding oak beside the well

I wish I had another year to work on this sesquicentennial project; it has taken a year to see its circle and get back to the beginning.

I am finishing up the CSA project: http://bit.ly/hl6cnH and now will immerse myself in the sesquicentennial project for the next 148 days.

There are still a couple journal entries to post before this story, or perhaps, this segment, ends. You have my deepest thanks for your encouragement along this journey. I appreciate your comments, and please, if you find some historical detail that doesn’t ring true, let me know; I am not a historical expert by any stretch of the imagination; I am simply a pilgrim, as you are, on a journey that seemingly never ends.

The Warring Season

Journal Entry; March 12, 1865; Five Forks, Virginia


The air is altered this morning, lush with life, full of sound and sway.


Two squirrels scurry through the trees, each mouth full of leaves for fresh dreys. We wait, while winter leaves. The crow caws, sending out the news, as if we didn’t know that change is in the altered air. The crow’s cousin, in a treetop ninety feet north, answers the caws, a coarse duet, until a call of vireos joins in like piccolos; a welcome spring symphony as winter leaves. I close my eyes; letting the warm sun wash my face; I listen a bit before a wagon’s rumble overrides the song.


When I listen alone to the rustic world, everything is as it was, forever, before this. Spring is budding and simple creatures are mating, making nests, singing in celebration. I was of that world before the war, but now I am between two worlds. One world dances, coupled with life; the other marches alongside death. Winter leaves and war commences, as it has each spring for three years. This will surely be the last season of war; Virginia is a wasteland with nothing left to sustain the armies in this siege. The high north punishes the deep south on Virginia soil and her children will be left lacking when the armies go home.

When I go home; if I go home, how will it be; who will I be; being from these two worlds. I am like the red-tailed hawk and common crow sitting in the oak together; should not be so; mortal enemies so close; what will Marianna make of this pairing, this man of two minds.


Yesterday, a hawk swooped down to within five feet of my face, before lifting into a hemlock ten yards past me. Surely a sign. Or simply an obstacle on his way towards a flutter of sparrows distracted by spring’s promise.


Hawk is pure and perfect spirit; he is never distracted; he has one course and stays to it. Hawk is who I am in the midst of battle alongside Death, who gives no quarter. I have seen Death’s hollow face and no longer hold its fear.


Crow knows he lives in an imperfect world, so he adapts to the daily changes in that world. Crow is who I am when the battle is done, coupled with life, charting its changes. I have seen that everything is change and no longer hold its fear.


We shall soon be released from this warring season. Who will lead me home; which do I follow; Hawk or Crow? Will we wander between the pure and the imperfect, never finding home, or can we walk in both worlds and no longer hold fear?

Xwhiteoakroad600feetfrom5forksdoublestumpsouthside

Furious Wind

Journal Entry:
December 10, 1864;
Jarratt's Station, Virginia.

At dawn, the soft whisper of wind rose, awakening the restless among us; winter coming on, a new season of whispers, new voices from the north. By mid-morning, it had blown every cloud from the sky, leaving a beautiful blue vault of heaven and the warm white sun. And then, the wind picked up.


By noon, I knew this furious wind was working to blow these two armies away from the banks of the James River. This has gone on long enough, said our natural mother; war is at a standstill, something must move, so the gust blew harder from the north.


It is one o’clock and men who have walked headlong into the hornets’ nest hold their collars and beg mercy from the blast. What tents they had are tattered; the spikes tossed into the air, the cots scattered, tumbling down the embankment. What hats they had, are pulled down and tied like Sunday bonnets. The infantrymen hunker down in the trenches, the gunners cling to the south side of the battery wagons, but even the heaviest wagons rock and creak, the panels lift and slam; the tarps shiver, as though they are alive and afraid.


The fury rips at the regimental colors; flags of every stripe pop like whips in the wind. It claws at the scars of every battle, at every hole from shot and shell. Our identity, our flags, so painstakingly mended with horsehair by the coarse hands of the color bearer, who sews with the care of a Charleston seamstress. The north wind returns the scars, the holes, the rips and it then blows harder.


Herds of horses huddle in the makeshift corrals, except for a few stallions that stand, head up high; their manes and tails appear as if in full gallop, though they are standing still. They face the wind as they would the battle; they know no other way.

The winter wind rises, the white pine gives, the weary redbud breaks, but the maples are dancing in a hands held high hallelujah to the sky. Brown leaves tumble and blow by, like field mice scurrying for shelter from this red hawk wind.


This moment takes me back to hurricanes of my youth; the gales so hard that the strongest oaks behind the blacksmith shop swayed like saplings and my mother whispered - keep together - it will pass in time. And it did.


I tuck my papers in my pocket and stand, eyes closed, arms outstretched, face front to the wind, and wish; wish to be blown away from here; wish to lift in the sky and fly to my home. It feels like flying; flying on this fast current, barely off the ground, but fast, faster than I‘ve ever ridden, right on to my home.


The whispers have returned in the air, lifting me; the whispers of Fredericksburg are calling, becoming more urgent here, crying, even wailing, so loud that I forget my flight, and falling, open my eyes. I am still south of Petersburg; still in this hell beneath the vault of heaven. But for a moment, I could handle it; for a moment, I was high on the wind and home. If I hold that moment for each moment hereafter, for each moment that I have; I could handle hell, and it could be my home.

Xjarrattsstationdepotruinsnortheastcorner

Morning’s Doves

Journal Entry: Sept 23, 1864; Cat Tail Creek, Virginia
The siege is set, yet the 9th Cavalry is always in the saddle, riding in reconnaissance; we slip in and out of the Federal lines like a grey wind; the bluecoats pull their collars up tight around their faces to fend against our certain chill. They know we are there, somewhere close, but they shield their eyes, that we might pass in peace, for they have previously felt the wrath of our veterans. Just last week, we rode around the left of Grant’s army and up alongside his rear lines into Coggins’ Point on the James River to capture 2400 cattle, 300 horses and 11 wagons, with no loss of our troopers. This week, we eat well; next week, maybe not.


This entire region from The Wilderness to Richmond has become a lawless landscape of deserters, raiders, and ne’er-do-wells. At sunrise, we follow the smoke, over a ridge, to find burning homes where soldiers and looters are leaving with as much as they can muster. I have seen so many mothers starving; left with only the clothes they carry, holding hungry babies on their hips. Mornings find them foraging along the roads, like mourning doves, sorrowful in their song, scratching in the soil for bits of seed and sustenance. We give what small rations we have in our haversacks, but cannot give them the peace they seek. They do not cry or complain; their eyes hold no tears for themselves. If they hold hope at all, it is for the future of the children.


I tell them that soon life will be better, but my eyes betray me, having seen the life leaving from too many children of other mothers.


It will be better, morning dove, it will be.

Final Threads

Journal Entry: Sept 14, 1864; Cat Tail Creek, Virginia
Camping alone tonight near Petersburg; crickets stand picket at the perimeter to protect me. Their rhythm will stop with any unfamiliar movement; I trust in the nature I know. The nature of man; I am not as sure of that. Thousands of tattered men now stand in a death stare across the lines, waiting, watching as more and more Federal troops cross the James River in the last deadlock of this war; no final feint to slip away, this is the endgame that could last months.


This is a new way of war; not a battle and then a respite. General Grant does not rest; he fights and moves, still fighting; the battles have different names, but it is one continuous fight. It has been this way since May, and our lines are pulled as thin as twine, unable to stretch any tighter. Once Grant finds the frayed threads; the cut may be quick, but it will not be clean, and that day will end it all.


Letter: Sept 17, 1864; Cabin Point, Virginia
Dearest Marianna,
I have not heard from you since I returned to my duty; I know the postal system at this point is less effective than a message in a bottle sent down the Rappahannock. I trust you have moved westward to join Cousin Betty at Lexington and not returned to the hospitals in Fredericksburg.


The rumble of the railcars, the rattle of the battery wagons, and the noise of war keeps a man from thinking beyond the battle ahead. That is why we camp together, to keep the comradery. I am not cut from that cloth; I am reclusive and my search for silence has brought me to the river once more to hear the calming rush and roll of water; that is the only way I can collect my thoughts, which are always of you. Here, by the water, under the black walnut, with the scent of sassafras, I can find brief passage to another time, a September, ages ago, when you would simply seduce every sense I possess.


This fight is nearly over, and soon, you and I will gather up our loose threads to sew our life back together; as beautiful a double ring quilt as has ever been seen.


Until then, I remain
yours beyond the ages.


.

Time

Journal Entry: Nance’s Shop, Virginia; June 23, 1864
I am becoming more and more aware of time; the days, the months, now years spent away from home. Soon, I will turn twenty-four, but I feel as tired and worn as a hobbled greybeard, as though my life has passed; I should be home. I should have lived life, as it was promised. While this war has dragged on and on, approaching its fourth year, there are so many opportunities I have missed. I should have lived a quiet life, instead of riding with the firebrands. I should have watched the red-winged blackbird near the river run, instead of watching red blood turn black on the banks of the Antietam. I should have shared an ale at the Wilderness Tavern with my friends, not buried them there. I should have farmed with my brothers, instead of fighting my other brothers from the northern states. I should have lived by now.


By now, I should have taken on my role as adult, to take care of my mother and father, as they cared for me. I should have built my own home, a small cottage down near the run. By now, I should have married, and danced many a Virginia Reel in the parlor with my dearest Marianna. I should have started a family; the tiny tickle of babies laughing should have filled my rooms, filled my heart.


I should have built a red bank barn and raised a fine stable of Morgan horses by now. In the three years that I have lost, I should have planted and harvested, planted and harvested, and then, planted once more. I should have seen the seasons, the spring growing, the winter resting; all that, I should have lived it.


My list of should could go on and on, but I should not dwell upon it. I will have my time to live that life of simple treasures; I will take note and honor every moment. It is a time that hundreds of thousands of boys will now never have; hundreds of thousands buried far from the life they should have lived.

I should live; I could have died.

A Poet of the Past

Journal Entry. Ashland, Virginia; June 6, 1864

Many evenings, when I am able to visit my journal, it is a calming experience; an old friend to share the joy and sorrow of this journey. I try to find balance by revisiting letters from family or remembering the old way of the world before war. Today, though, I keep returning to a letter given to me when I was last home. It came from a boy that apprenticed in the blacksmith shop with me several summers ago. A man now, he lives in Pennsylvania, a blacksmith with his own prosperous shop. I had written him a year ago to explain that I had joined the cavalry to protect my farm and family; I bore no animosity toward the North and hoped he was safe from the horrors of this war. These are his words that he wrote in return:
~Someday, my old friend,
Someday, your life could be better. You sit there with your pencil, and your paper, and your pitiful candle scribbling some nonsense about nature. Nature won’t help you, it won’t hold you up. Your precious sun quits halfway through the day and leaves you cold in the dark. But some day; some day soon, we will have sun all day, all night. We are on the threshold and there is a door; behind that door is the solution; a powerful solution in the iron that makes the steam engine, the iron that forges the cannon. We will wield that iron, as a hammer, and batter that door to bits. The steam engine that drives the railroad will drive everything. Someday, there will be prosperity for all that follow, and mark my words, everyone will follow. Who would want to stay behind; who would want to stand behind a plow and horse. Steam will power an engine to plow the fields of plenty; fields so large that one farm could be the size of ten, of a hundred. Let me tell you, many people make this war out to be about ending slavery, but, I know, the future promises more slaves than you can imagine. Men and women of every stripe will flock to our shores, begging to be among us, begging to purchase a portion, however small, of our prosperity. They will work their fingers to bone for the promise of a future here, and they will do so without force or fetters. They will be slaves to the idea of an easier life.

You are a poet of the past; you have been on the land too long. Grand ideas are rising up from the ashes of this war. The old agrarian society is being burned away, and industry will rise in your fields. When this war is over, there will still be slavery; we would not call it that, for every man will be legally free, but this new chattel will embrace their position, because of the promise that each and all have an equal chance to rise and prosper. Whole families will rush to share in the crops they harvest, share in the industries they work. This is America; we do not need to hold men down by force; men can be held down by fortune’s promise.

So, you may sit in the dim light of your candle writing in your journal; your pencil will become a stub; your candle will burn out, but the forge that is the future will burn forever and there is no limit to land’s resource or the power of the fire.

I believe you have talents that can take you further than the fields of Virginia; I am enclosing a rail pass. Come to the city and join us.~

I keep his letter in my journal and think, how a man could be so wrong, and then hope that it is he that is wrong, not me.



None are more hopelessly enslaved than those who falsely believe they are free. ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe