When we are in Lewisburg, we like to do runs and walks on the Buffalo Valley Rail Trail—a long, paved walking/biking trail that follows the path of old rail lines no longer in use. Lewisburg is home to the Bucknell Bison, and the logo is a charging buffalo. A sign along the trail refers to the history of Buffalo Valley, and all of these points call to mind picturesque pre-Industrial times of bison herds thundering across the valley and drinking from the Susquehanna. The story goes that vengeful white settlers wiped out the last herd on New Year’s Eve, 1799.
Except. Archaeologists have found no evidence of buffalo in the valley—no bones, teeth, hooves, and so forth. It’s almost impossible to prove a negative, and as the placard says, “The story is there.”
When Grant was eight, Santa brought him the Red Rider Official Carbine-Action Range Model Air Rifle. I taught all the kids how to shoot. A few years ago, the kids wanted to do a shooting contest, so I set up animal targets on cardboard boxes, and the kids took five-shot turns. Early rounds were pretty bad, but the kids generally got better. Except for Graham. His target was a crow, and not only did he never hit its head or heart, he hit no part of it. Worse, he didn’t even hit the paper, and judging by the ricochets we heard in the woods, I’m not sure he ever hit the cardboard.
When we finished up, we pulled the targets together, and if I remember right, I judged Lucia the winner. But the older kids quickly noticed Graham had hit nothing, and the jokes started rolling.
“Um, did the gun misfire every time, Graham?” Lindsay said.
“Graham, you didn’t even hit the paper,” said Lu. “Think you could hit the shed if we stand you three feet away from it?”
“Gonna have to get your eyes checked,” said Lindsay.
As we started inside, Graham appeared crestfallen, then seemed to rally. Suddenly, he declared, “No! I hit a headshot so amazing none of you could see it!”
Ah, yes. The old BB gun invisible sniper shot! For a couple of minutes, Graham had been unraveling, but he had rebounded resoundingly, and his sense of self was fully restored.
As it happens, a year or two later, we learned that Graham has terrible vision and should wear glasses or contacts (if you see him, ask him where his glasses are). But that’s hardly relevant because the story is there.
When we go to Gettysburg, I think frequently of my ancestor Sadie Bushman. She was nine years old at the time of the battle; her family lived on Baltimore Street at the base of Cemetery Hill in a red brick home that is now a UPMC office.
In her seventies, Sadie told newspapers different stories of her experiences. In one, she walked all night to the south end of the battlefield to stay with her grandmother. She led her younger brother by the hand. In another, she dodged a cannonball then was put to work by a surgeon where she helped with amputations. She was stuck without her parents for a week. In yet another, after she left her home for her grandmother’s, her pregnant mother gave birth in the basement of their house as shells exploded around their house.
These stories have been cited in books and repeated in family histories online. At best, they are highly embellished. Sadie’s mother recalled sending the three older children down to Grandma’s house, not Sadie. Sadie alleged she walked all night. Grandma’s house was three miles away—about an hour walk at a moderate pace. She alleged she almost got hit by a cannonball. The guns had mostly fallen silent by the time of this journey and mostly would not resume until four pm the next day. Sadie’s mother recounted that Sadie spent the next two weeks collecting lint from residents and taking those bundles to the field hospitals, thus earning the moniker “the littlest nurse of Gettysburg.” No mention of amputations, though. And the basement baby? Born in 1865, two full years after the battle.
But you have to be careful if you start digging up this stuff. I noted yesterday my Confederate ancestors. I was researching them and digging into their slave holding. I posted on a family Facebook page some evidence I had and noted I was looking for descendants, black and white. The first reply was, “I don’t give a shit about what happened 160 years ago.” Okay, dude. You probably want to take the Alexander Hamilton quote off your profile picture then.
In the podcast I referenced yesterday, the family had been raised on the fabulous stories of their patriarch, John Dancy. The legend goes that John was nearly murdered with his wife but ducked a bullet from his brother in law who then died by suicide. John was a well-regarded doctor who was also a renaissance man—educated at Cambridge, a poet, a writer of several top ten songs, a former Mi6 operative, and so forth. He left a legacy of refinement and education that spawned actor Hugh Dancy, noted philosopher and professor John Dancy, and a host of successful executives and academics.
Except. Well, Cambridge has no record of him. His spy exploits in his memoirs are partially plagiarized from other sources, his top ten hit songs were actually written by others. And worst of all, modern experts largely agree he would be the prime suspect in his wife’s murder. Does that undo the legacy and the accomplishments of his family? Well, the story is there.
How does this relate to the Laws? I’m mostly not going to tell you the stories of Lauren and me fighting, the different issues the kids have with me, the tensions and anxieties that sweep me periodically. I’m leaving behind a record that would cause El Guapo to exclaim, “I like this guy! This guy’s a funny guy!”
And if you scratch the surface a bit, I might be obligated to tell you that I actually hit a headshot so amazing you couldn’t see it. And if you dig further, well, good luck. My story is always there.
His Smile Lit Up a Room and Other Things to Say at My Funeral 