Or, 150 Years Is a Long, Long Time
As a five year old, I met a ninety-nine year old man who enthralled me with stories about his days as a boy drummer in the Confederate army.
He was born and lived his life in a hand-hewn log cabin where he claimed to have hidden gunpowder and ammunition stolen from the Union soldiers underneath the gray, weathered porch boards. There may be some literary license in that tale, I caution you.
The old man reminded me of Popeye the Sailor with his long, jutting, stubbly chin and crooked toothless smile. I was also mesmerized with the little snuff dipping stick lodged in the corner of his mouth floating up and down against gravity with his every spoken syllable.
I have to come to realize that my life stands squarely between two extremes. Behind me I can reach back to the year 1853, or so, through the remembrances of an old man, and before me is a seven year old child who could live to be ninety-nine, too, carrying with him these same stories: crossing a 150 year time span.
I was among the last people to hear Uncle Elijah tell his stories before he died sitting in his rocking chair, creaking across those same gray porch boards of his childhood home.
#civilwar #conferedatearmy #drummer
Note: While I am waiting for my nueropathways to re-map, I am recycling some very old blog posts from the past.
