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Apr 18, 2004 It was just twenty five years ago today, that I made my first visit to the battlefield at Gettysburg. I had heard all sorts of stories about strange happenings and weird lights that hovered above the battlefield. I listened patiently as one friend or another related tales they had heard and presumed to be true, to put me on my guard on what to expect when we arrived at that most ghostly place. I found it all very amusing ….. Then ……. We arrived, at the motel, my wife and I and our six month old son just as the sun was setting, and creating a spectacular scene among the clouds. “Red sky at night, sailors delight,” I said to Penny. She frowned, and adjusted the strap on her oversized milk factories. “Your no sailor,” she grumbled. “And this is the last time your turning me into a tug boat.” I shook my head and heard someone laugh nearby. But when I turned to find out who was enjoying our little banter, no one was there. “Did you hear that?” I asked, more to myself than anyone else. Penny ignored me, continued up the steps and opened the door to our nights lodging. I glanced around checking every shadowed nook and cranny. An uneasy feeling began to familiarize itself with the pit of my stomach. “Grab the bags,” she barked over her shoulder. “Gee, I thought you already had them,” I mumbled. For an answer she kicked the door closed with her heel. Sitting on the steps, I enjoyed the aroma of steaks cooking in the nearby campground. The evening breeze freshened and seemed to be enjoying itself as it played with a lock of my dark hair. These were the times I enjoyed the most. I sometimes sat alone for hours, knowing there was no one within miles, yet felt the presence of someone watching me. I often wondered if it was the ancient ones the Indians sang about over their campfires, or maybe the caring spirits of family members gone before us. I shook my head to clear it, pulled up the collar on my jacket and went for the luggage. As I entered the room, I saw that Penny had put the baby in the portable crib and flopped on the bed like a beached whale. She scratched under her breast and broke wind. Then she stated that she was not going out to eat after such a long drive and that I should do something about her famished condition. So being the wonderful husband that I was, I drove to the local greasy spoon and brought back burgers and fries. We sat around a little table and watched a TV that must have been General Grants favorite. The tube was almost round with beautiful color as long as you liked black and white, with a clicker dial that went all the way up to thirteen. After a couple hours Penny stated that she could take no more of this “fun- time”, stuck Jon on her chest and went to bed. I walked to the window and watched the fog creep out of the woods and consume the bleached skeleton of a long dead Cottonwood tree. It meant nothing to me then, but now I realize it was an omen of what was to come. After my shower I turned the TV to Channel 11 and began to watch a movie. I climbed into bed beside my wife and son, who was still having a snack, and settled down with a fried apple pie I had secreted away earlier, for this occasion. Some time later, during a commercial, I was called to the bathroom by Mother Nature. As I stood looking in the mirror located behind the stool, I heard the TV click twice. “Hey, I’m watching that,” I said. But there was no reply. I shook my head again, I seemed to be doing that a lot lately. Returning to the bedroom, I turned the TV back to my movie and glanced toward the bed. There was Penny, sound asleep with the baby still tugging at her breast. She had not moved. Behind me I heard that familiar laugh I had heard before. The next morning as we departed, an old man who owned the motel came up and inquired about our nights rest. I related the story about the TV and he smiled. “That’s just that Second Lieutenant,” he said. “Does he live here,” I asked, frowning and wondering about this guy’s sanity. “Yep,” he smiled and winked at me. “has for over a hundred years.” ------------ About the author: Will Price lives in rural Mississippi on a chicken farm. He is retired and loves it. Check out his book Willow Creek Showdown: Email: drmkpr@hotmail.com Tell a friend about this site! ------------ |
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