We went to Pennsylvania for the weekend to see Lindsay at a wrestling tournament and Grant at his football banquet. On the way we listened to the podcast Ghost Story, which focused on the long-ago murder of Naomi Dancy and the alleged suicide of her brother Morris. A historian who had researched Naomi’s husband John observed something like the following: Whether we know the accurate history or not, we are its result. Hence, we always live with it.
So many reminders of that this week. Six years ago, Grant played at Gillette in the Super Bowl against a pre-NFL Everett team (two guys from that team are already in the League and Mike Sainristil will be next year). Xaverian had not been to the Super Bowl since, despite some excellent seasons.
While I was fending off unwanted touching on a plane, Lauren was at the game with Graham. Graham goes to Silver Lake not Xaverian, but as soon as they walked in, Graham ditched Lauren for the student section, and by the time the final seconds ticked off, Graham had a bunch of Xaverian buddies who were convinced they would see him the next day at school (“No, I didn’t give them my Snap or anything because then they would know I didn’t go to X”).
Meanwhile, Lauren sat by herself for a while trying to find familiar faces from the past … until the father of one of Grant’s old teammates called to her. She wound up sitting with several of Grant’s old buddies (one of them being a groom’s man at his wedding) and some of their parents. The has-beens predicted play calls based on formations, then yelled out their former coach’s favorite sayings and aphorisms. I was on airplane WiFi and Lauren sent me updates throughout. I stared at my phone, pulse pounding, while waiting for these, as though I had a kid involved. In the end, Xaverian prevailed in a classic, 31-25.
Today, Lindsay and Grant both had class, so Lauren and I took Dobby to Gettysburg. Of course, Gettysburg is a living, breathing past-as-present town. It was an ordinary American farm town until 120,000 men descended on it and clashed for three days; its place in history was etched when a certain president went to help dedicate a cemetery and deliver “a few appropriate remarks.” Growing up in Texas, I used to say to my mother that I wanted to visit Gettysburg and all the historical sites around Washington, DC, and my mom always said, “You’ve already seen all of them.” Cheeky response. I was born in McLean, Virginia, and my parents went to all those sites on weekends, bringing with them an infant me. But Mom’s enthusiasm to return wasn’t that high because, “Your father had to stop to read Every. Damn. Plaque. on every inch of the battlefield. In fact, just driving there, we would sometimes see a brown government sign on the road that said, ‘Historical Marker Next Right,’ and your father would take that turn and I would say, ‘What in hell are you doing?’ and he would say, ‘We have to see this marker. It’ll just be a minute.’ Now imagine there are five hundred markers and each is ‘just a minute.’”
Well, forty-five years later, I was back in Gettysburg for probably the twentieth time, and this time we went to East Cavalry field, where I had never been and casual visitors don’t go. We did not stop for every sign but for a lot of them.
You may not know Hampton’s Brigade, which comprised Cobb’s Legion (Ashley Wilkes was a member) and Hampton’s Legion (Scarlett O’Hara’s first husband, Charles Hamilton, was a member), and three of the fictional Tarleton brothers were killed at Gettysburg, meaning near this sign (if you have to ask what novel or movie, this might not be the right place for you). Do these not ring a bell? Okay, millennials, ever heard of Alex Murdaugh? Yeah? He’s from Hampton County, which was named for Wade Hampton who organized a legion that got rolled into a brigade whose members included the fictional characters in Gone with the Wind, which, if you still don’t know, is name-checked in the rap song “Fonk.” If rappers know GWTW, you should too. So read some signs now and again.
Of course, the town lives the battle every day forever and ever. To many locals, that reality is miserable, but there’s no escaping it. Gettysburg’s number one industry by far is battlefield tourism and has been since July 4, 1863.
Like most millennials, Dobby was not impressed.
Don’t @ me, United Daughters of the Confederacy or Sons of Confederate Veterans. One of my cousins was colonel of the 19th Alabama, and besides that, if you’re unclear on Civil War waste practices, well, educate yourself.
We headed over to the Sweeney Tavern at the Farnsworth House for lunch. I ordered a crab cake sandwich, and as the waitress placed it in front of me, I remembered going to Furr’s Cafeteria in Corpus Christi when I was a kid. Dinner was something like $5.95, and when we would walk in, seniors would be leaving. They had just finished the $3 early bird senior special and were clearing out as younger types moved in. “Just take me out and shoot me if I ever sit down for dinner at 4:30 pm,” I used to say.
Well, we weren’t at dinner—it was lunch, but I remember Lauren saying a few days ago, “I have to have dinner early enough that I don’t get heartburn,” and as I looked at my sandwich and chips, I was pleased that it was a modest size, not some stupidly big portion that might cause me to overeat and/or get heartburn. I even said to Lauren, “This is great. It’s like old people portion sizes here.”
Meanwhile, Lauren complained that her back had been hurting for days, and she needed Advil. She didn’t want to walk Dobby because his pulling was aggravating her back—he’s thirteen pounds. I was tired and felt like a nap. But I also wanted to go to the Antique Center to see if they had any good soldiers’ Bibles or old letters.
Good lord—I am forty-six, but I am already almost all the things I could not imagine becoming when I was younger. What’s more, I’m basically my parents and my grandparents and so forth.
So to my kids, for better or worse, you might go away as far as possible. I won’t live forever. But I know your future. Read a plaque now and again and you will too.
His Smile Lit Up a Room and Other Things to Say at My Funeral 