by Con Carlyon

I watched Piers Morgan interview an atheist during the week. Piers asked what the atheist thought happened when we die. The atheist asked Piers if he could remember what it was like before he was born. I think he was trying to convey that we could expect it to be the same when we die. I would have replied like that at one time. Now I would simply say that we have always been a part of the universe and always will be. So many seem to have difficulty coming to terms with Einstein’s words that I referred to last week. They are:

A human being is part of a whole, called by us the Universe, a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings, as something separated from the rest– a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circles of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty.

So much of our time on this Earth is spent in the business of human survival that we don’t find time to observe Life from any other standpoint. As I’ve often opined here, I firmly believe that we must step back and look at Life from the Cosmic Perspective in order to better focus on Life from the human perspective.

Yet we seldom see coverage in the media that deals with anything other than the raw material of survival on this Earth. Certainly not from the Murdoch media anyway, which seeks to dumb down the public discourse as a means of furthering the material interests of the rich and powerful. I do wonder how many of his friends really believe in the religions that their conservative foot soldiers preach to the masses. If they don’t, then I have to wonder what they do believe in. Is it only wealth and power? That seems to me to be a waste of a life.

I think the Einsteins and Carl Sagans of this world live a far more fulfilling life. They’ve looked out the window, fascinated with the view, and they speak of it in wonder. When have we ever heard the Murdochs of the planet speak in such terms? In my younger days, when I was in search of meaning, I remember reading Somerset Maugham’s book The Summing Up.  I recall Maugham’s observation that he found conversation with businessmen difficult, as all they seemed to know about was making money.

I think this is probably true of most billionaires, but there are clearly exceptions: Bill Gates, Warren Buffet and George Soros come to mind. These men have demonstrated by their philanthropy that they have values beyond crass materialism. Not so, Murdoch and counterparts. There’s no reference to humanitarianism in his Wiki entry. No, the hounding of the unfortunate is more typical of this man, along with his never-to-be-forgotten endorsement of the invasion of Iraq: “because we’ll get oil at $20 a barrel”. I do wonder how any man with even the smallest bit of conscience could utter such words, words that would result in the destruction of so many hundreds of thousands of lives. And when did any of these supposed men of God, who faithfully preach the materialistic gospel so beloved by and favorable to the wealthy, ever offer a word of criticism of such inhumanity? Yet they all walk with their heads held high, bearing no sense of shame. Such arrogance astounds me.

So that is why I need to seek refuge in the Cosmic Perspective from time to time. There, I can look at Life from Einstein’s perspective. There, I can commune with the universe. There, I can forget the actions of some of my fellow humans who disgrace the privilege of this Life. There, I can Live.

By Susanna Solomon

Photo by Lydia Selk

When my daughter and her young children moved in a few months ago, I was none too pleased. Third house guests in less than a year. Nine months before I’d housed my stepdaughter, which didn’t work out too well, and after that my son moved in, and he could barely talk to me without yelling. So when my daughter proposed to move into my now pristine downstairs, I was not happy at all.

“I’m not good at this,” I begged off. But she was getting a divorce, and who was I to throw her and my grandchildren out into the street?  So away went my sewing room, and in came three beds, mountains and mountains of clothing, toys, dresses, televisions, more clothes, and bicycles, while my son stopped by and dropped off tons of his own stuff. I felt like I was drowning.

My utility bills have gone up. My sewing room has become a tiny corner of the downstairs. My projects are stalled. But me, I’ve come to some new understanding of people, of myself, and of stuff that seems to flow into my house and never go away.

So, now I have smaller bicycles, but more of them. Two small people in the house, two small blond kids, three and five, cute as buttons, who clamber after their mother like puppies needing attention. If I didn’t work at home, I suppose it would be easier. (Nana, let’s go for a walk in the rain. Nana, can you fix the hole in my socks? Nana, can you get me a pen? Oops, I’m sorry I scribbled on your papers, clothes, towels, walls.) I pick up after them all the time.

We have come to some agreement, my daughter Alissa and I. At least she tries, and that is a comfort.

Sometimes she lets me have some of her homemade pie, or gingerbread men. Sometimes she lets me take the kids to school. (Not that entrance, the one by Piper Ave. Can you figure it out or should I come? Mom? Don’t forget his jacket and lunch. Mom? Are you listening to me?) As if I never raised children of my own.

But my favorite times, are when she’s in the kitchen, trying to get the kids to eat.

“Do the broccoli dance, Mom,” little M. asks, all of three, her bright blue eyes open wide, the back of her head a rat’s nest of blond hair, stiff and knotted from sleeping.

“I’ll do the dance if you eat some broccoli,” Alissa says, starting the negotiation.

M. looks at her, at the flowerette of broccoli on her plate. A picky eater, she can go through a whole day without a meal.

Alissa says “Okay,” and stands back from the table. My grandson O., at five, chews on his broccoli and watches them carefully.

My daughter, at 37, a hotshot, a CPA, and independent woman on her own since the age of 21, saddled with a soon to be ex-husband, two cranky kids, a nervous stomach and intense headaches, starts to wiggle, her arms over her head.

I watch, sit on the kitchen stool, knowing better than to ever interfere with how she raises her kids.

She turns, waves her arms over hear head, jerks her hips back and forth, and swings.

The broccoli flowerette is lifted from the table. M. studies it.

My daughter stares, stops.

“Keep going, Mom,” M. says and starts chewing.

My daughter dances, a grin across her face, as her hips gyrate. My grandson O. giggles. M. chews her broccoli and down it goes. I sit on the stool, amazed.

One more broccoli flowerette down, one more dance, smiling blondies under a bright kitchen light, sunlight streaming through the window, the sound of a radio soft in the distance, as the sun passes from window to window. An old story, a mother intent on getting her children to eat, a child wanting to be entertained, a reluctant grandmother sharing her home. A day like no other, a day to cherish, a day to dance the broccoli dance.

__________________________________________

Susanna Solomon makes her second appearance in HS Radio with The Broccoli Dance. To read her previous piece for us, click here. She is working on her first novel, “Montana Sky.”

By Con Carlyon

I’ve been looking out the window at my backyard. I live on a typical quarter acre suburban block, in a city of some 100,000 people. I’ve lived here for thirty years, and that backyard has seen many changes. I’ve erected swings and seesaws for my kids to play on. I’ve played football and cricket in it with my sons, and I’ve erected a basketball hoop for my younger son. It’s gone now, as are my kids. They’ve fluttered those tiny wings and have gone off to make their way in this crazy old world. And I still have my backyard and the many precious memories it evokes.

A few years ago I planted some grevilleas, flowering shrubs native to Australia.  The birds love to feed on the nectar in the blossoms, and my neighbor’s cat tries to feed on the birds. I have a birdbath for them. I don’t see much bathing, but they do like to drink there on hot days, and the crows like to dunk their hard bread crusts to soften them. They’re not stupid, there’s speculation that they learned to use tools before humans did, which doesn’t surprise me at all. We humans do tend to overrate ourselves. Then there’s the grass…and weeds. I’ve just mowed them again, and they’ll grow again, and I’ll mow them again. Which is good, as I do need the exercise, and they need to live.

All this activity in one small suburban back yard, all this life just doing what it has to do to live. I understand so little about that great mystery…life. But I do gain a sense of wonder of it, as I view my backyard from my window. And when I tire of the endless bickering of man, something that happens to me increasingly more often these days, it is good to be able to retreat to my backyard. There, my fellow creatures and I can get on with living our lives, and I can savor the richness of it all.

by Sashana Kane Proctor

Photo by Chrissy Maini

Hey! I was eating that cheesecake! Give it back! I wasn’t done eating that!

Who do you think you are anyway? Who let you in here? Who gave you the gate code? You can’t get in here without the code! Oh…

Look! What if I promise not to eat cheesecake anymore? Was that it? Cheesecake isn’t good for me. I can stop. Watch me. I’m done with cheesecake. No more cheesecake for me. I don’t even like cheesecake all that much. See? I’m not even trying to eat the cheesecake. I don’t even care about cheesecake.

Vegetables! I really care about vegetables. I’ll eat lots of vegetables. Just give me some and watch me. Do you know how much I love eggplant? Have you looked at how beautiful an eggplant is? It’s royal purple, for gawd’s sake, voluptuous, velvety, vavoomously mulberry! How can a vegetable be that stunning? Or figs…..I know I said

vegetables, but figs are fruit and that’s in the same category. I’ll eat vegetables, fruits—no cheesecake. Can I have a fig? A fig spread open is the grandest canyon of sumptuous sensuality anyone could ever feast their oglers on! As if that weren’t enough, there’s that savagely honeyed nectar that sticks to your crannies and demands someone lick it off!  And it’s just a fruit! I can’t give this up! One fig?? Please?

What…….this is it? Let me guess. You don’t need the gate code, do you?

I’m not doin’ this, you old coot! I’m not ready, so back off! Come back in a couple of years. I might be ready by then. Besides, you can’t make me. Oh, now that’s funny! I sound like I’m seven: “You can’t make me!” Ha! It doesn’t matter that I’m ninety-five, wearin’ these crackly ass diapers, crimpin’ down the halls on metal knees and feet that look like Jerusalem artichokes. I’m not done, and don’t you forget it! I’m not done with figs or eggplants or cheesecake! And I’m certainly not done with sore throat sunsets, or emerald fields awash with wind, hawks surfing downdrafts. I haven’t finished that poem yet!

But I’m not in my body. There it is, mug mired in cheesecake. And here I am, lookin’ at the back of my head for the very first time.

Well.

I think I need the new code.

Sashana Kane Proctor is a writer who lives in the beautiful California Wine Country. This is her first time appearing in HS Radio, but we certainly hope it won’t be her last!

By Con Carlyon

'Rosebud in the Blue Light" by Amber Burke

I’ve been thinking some more about Truth, or more particularly, how we come by it. For most of us, I would think we first look to our parents for our truth, then to our teachers, and then to our religious instructors.  And as we enter adolescence, we look to our peers. After that, we’re on our own. There is that constant weighing up of truth as we perceive it, and how it compares with that of others’ versions of ‘truth’. Is it any wonder that following such a haphazard path we become seriously confused? Well, I did, and from what I know, others did too.

As a young adult in the little town in which I grew up, I became seriously depressed. Looking back, it isn’t surprising that I did. My life consisted of work, pub, work, and precious little else. I can remember I used to look to the “Quotable Quotes” in Reader’s Digest for guidance in this world. I used to seize on the thoughts of those whose words were deemed worthy of a quote, and I tried to gain some wisdom from them. I still look to quotes in order to glean some knowledge from the thoughts of those who went before us.  For me, the pursuit of knowledge is the main purpose of this life. I want to know all there is to know. I’ll never learn everything there is to learn of course, but then it’s said “it’s better to travel hopefully than to arrive”, isn’t it? That must have been one of the many quotes I read somewhere in the distant past.

This transfer of knowledge down through the ages is man’s greatest achievement. To me, I can think of no greater trust than to pass on a morsel of truth to those who come after us. And I can think of no greater betrayal of trust than to knowingly pass on an untruth, especially for personal gain.

Lately, some of those quotes that have been the guideposts in my life have had something to say about the manipulation by the media. Men and women in a position of power have deliberately abused the position of trust in order to propagate misinformation for their own benefit. No better illustration of this is the comment by Rupert Murdoch that we should invade Iraq so that we could get oil for $20 a barrel.

Yet, millions of our fellows look to the Murdochs of this world for their information. They take on trust that the information that is passed on to them is the ‘truth’. They are unaware that they are being manipulated and to me, that is a gross betrayal of trust, a betrayal of our precious humanity. I am reminded of the words of John Donne:

“No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main…Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee…”

We are all part of mankind. We can choose to mindlessly follow the self-serving truths of the likes of Murdoch, or we can carve out our own truths, like Thoreau’s did: “I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately, I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, To put to rout all that was not life and not when I had come to die, discover that I had not lived.”

And not when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.

And that’s the challenge to us all.

by Jean Wong

I could no more procrastinate than bungee jump from a bridge. As children, we were taught that life was serious. “Fun” was tolerated as an incidental occurrence in everyday life, but had nothing to do with the main idea. “Study hard, make good grades, save money” was programmed into our minds like red banners emblazoned on a Communist party wall. No one had to remind us to do our homework. Work was the only course offered on the menu and each one of us dutifully proceeded to clean our plates. My dad worked seven days a week, my mom, six; and my brothers and I came home from school, studied, and went to bed. Reports were completed the same day they were assigned.

Quality attention from our parents was reserved for reviewing our grades. Like ants heading straight for a granule of sugar, our antennae revolved around Time. Time was money and must be wisely spent. The words “mistake” or “excuse” were not said lightly, and the universe ran on an unforgiving schedule of zero last chances. Smelling the roses was never an option. Rose plants were there to fertilize, spray, prune, and sell. If there was scent, that was fine—if it added to the value of the flower.

My mom’s favorite expression, “This is survival, man!” is still the title of my to-do list. Referring to the fact that he hadn’t been able to give me some figures needed to file my taxes, Dad’s final words to me right before he died were, “Jean, I failed you.”

Not being a procrastinator is good when there’s a famine and you have saved enough bags of rice for seven years; or for my job as administrator when payroll and fundraisers deadlines fill the work calendar. I love to lean back smugly and watch my husband, a legendary procrastinator, have trouble sorting his mail. Instead of immediately filing or discarding, he struggles with little stacks that seem to clone themselves as they lie around his desk for weeks. For me, it’s the cat’s meow to finish my taxes in February. He tackles his return on the evening of April 14th. (When I asked him to help me proof this very work on procrastination he said, “Can’t we put it off until tomorrow?”)

But my relentless productivity has an underbelly, silently asserting itself in re-occurring nightmares. I dream of failing chemistry, having never opened the textbook or attended a single class. Or I need to catch a plane and I’m stuck in a room with stuff that couldn’t possibly fit in my suitcases and nothing I try to wear fits.

Good work habits border on obsession when you’re trying to spend precious time with your grandchildren. They visit only twice a year, yet all you can think of is what to serve for dinner, or when the laundry and vacuuming can get done. Rather than wonder what time it is, I’d like to be able to take a walk like the people in a Sierra Club magazine and renew my spirits with the sky’s splendor.

Although I’ve practiced meditation for the last thirty years, it’s done little to clog the holes in my mental sieve and stem the constant flow of plans, out lines, and schedules. My brain is like one of those circular chore charts for kids. “Thinking Mind” is in the middle, commanding the ring of practical activities that spins endlessly into the void. Taming this mind to settle simply on “being” is like getting the powdered paint you’ve just mixed with water to sift back into its jar.

But Goethe says “the goal of life is the road through it,” and I’m determined to work on savoring the sights. Considering my starting point, practice may never be perfect for me, but I still have hopes for my laborious progress. In my final moments on earth, perhaps instead of saying, “I failed you,” I’ll whisper, “Remember the roses.”

Jean Wong was born in Honolulu, and many of her works resonate with the traditions and culture of the Chinese in Hawaii. She has been a contributor to Vintage Voices and Synchonized Chaos, and has forthcoming works in The Reading Room Anthology, Short, Fast, & Deadly, and Tiny Lights. Jean’s blog is at: www.sonic.net/~marcjean/jean

Miles Ranno ~ www.milesofphotos.net/home

I’ve been thinking a lot about happiness. After all, that’s what we are all supposed to be pursuing, isn’t it? But what is happiness? Perhaps the formula for it is in the words below:

“Grant to us the serenity of mind to accept that which cannot be changed; courage to change that which can be changed, and wisdom to know the one from the other.”

As everyone knows, the quote above comes from The Serenity Prayer.

“The wisdom to know the one from the other”. So much is conveyed in those few words. How often do we allow ourselves to become frustrated and unhappy because we don’t have that wisdom?

Happiness, for many, is ascending the rungs of the Maslow Hierarchy of Needs . I personally think self-actualisation goes beyond mere happiness, and is more about being in tune with the universe. But ‘self-actualisation’ means different things to different people.

And then, there’s Karma:

“The self-controlled person, moving among objects, with his senses free from attachment and malevolence and brought under his own control, attains tranquility.”

Recently, Austrian Karl Rabeder gave away his seven million dollar fortune, because he said it was making him unhappy. While many of us are unhappy because we think we don’t have enough money, he has decided that money is the cause of his unhappiness, and therefore, decided to give it all away.

In his pursuit of happiness, he has the found “the courage to change that which can be changed”. But it took him several years before he acted on it, as he admitted he was not “brave” enough to give up all the trappings of his comfortable existence instantly.

Then for him, money is not a requirement for attaining the self-actualisation layer of Maslow’s hierarchy. Indeed, for the man who plans to give his millions away, it is an impediment. But it remains to be seen whether he attains his goal of happiness.

And then, there’s the fellow in the video below. He knows only too well the difference between that which can be changed and that which cannot. And he says he is “happy”.

Let’s watch:

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wpDtdLve30o&feature=player_embedded

So, there we have it. One man who most would think had nothing, but who says he is happy, and another who says he won’t be happy until he has nothing. But just as self-actualisation is defined differently to different people, so is the definition of ‘nothing.’

Hmmm. Maybe I need to think about that one some more.

Last 5 posts by Con Carlyon

• Murdoch, Einstein and Me - October 19th, 2011
• The People on the Banks - March 15th, 2011
• My Backyard - March 15th, 2011
• Truth - December 17th, 2010
• The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Being a Dickhead - March 4th, 2010

Henry woke up to the smell of dirt and pine needles, his face partially buried in a mixture of both. Slowly, consciousness crept back, and he became aware of a sharp, throbbing pain in his head. He suddenly remembered the battle and jumped to his feet. His eyes revolted at the sudden movement by releasing a swarm of small, angry lights that left him both dizzy and nauseated. He tried to take a step, but was unable to find his footing and fell backwards again onto the carpet of pine needles. This time he stayed there.

“Are you alright?”

The deep, unfamiliar voice sounded as though in came traveling down from a long tunnel. Henry stirred on the ground, still feeling the effects of the dizziness.

That voice came again, “Hey! Are you alright?”

This time, When Henry opened up his eyes, he was startled to find a large black man leaning over him. Everything about him was big, even his face, which was beaded in sweat; large drops of it forming across his forehead and dripping down his cheeks onto his chin. Henry noticed the man’s Union jacket and could see that the left shoulder of the uniform was covered in blood. Henry couldn’t move or speak. He lay there motionless, expecting the worst. Then, he spotted his rifle lying on the ground a few feet away.

Following his eyes the dark stranger said, “You don’t need the gun. I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

Though trembling with fear, Henry spoke bravely, “Why don’t you go ahead and kill me?”

The man pulled his big face closer to Henry’s and said, “If I wanted you to die, I would have let you fall into those rocks. Besides, I seen enough killin’ today.” With much difficulty, he sat down on the ground across from Henry.

Henry’s head was still spinning slightly, but he was slowly regaining his senses. He propped himself up on one arm to watch the man, surprised by what he had just heard. “You…kept me from hitting the rocks? Why?”

“Because you could have been killed!”

“But we’re at war!”

“I told you, I seen enough killin’ today.”

The answer wasn’t what Henry expected, but in a peculiar way he understood. Why were they trying to kill one another, anyway? Because they had different skin colors? He thought about the war, and tried to remember why it had even begun. When it first started, everything seemed so clear, but now the reasons seemed blurred and unimportant. A big part of him wanted it to be over so he could go home to his family.

Henry looked out onto the battlefield. From where they sat, he could see hundreds of dead soldiers, many so badly shot up that they were horrifically disfigured. Cannon balls had ripped through the trees, and large branches were scattered about, some still giving off wisps of gray smoke. A heavy thump caught his attention, and he looked toward the other man. He was lying on his back and there was a large blood stain on his trousers just above his left knee. It was clear that he was badly injured, and Henry thought about the gun. He could easily reach it and finish the man off, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he said to him, “What’s your name?”

The man sat up painfully, and said, “James.”

A movement caught Henry’s eye. Their position in the woods wasn’t too far from the railroad tracks, and through the trees, he saw three men walking down the tracks toward them. From the jubilant sounds of their voices, he realized it would be the first of the Confederate troops on their way back from the chase. A decision had to be made quickly. James was badly wounded, and it would be easy to jump and run to the other men. But Henry couldn’t escape the fact that the man had saved his life. James heard the voices, too, and an uneasy look came over his face. Henry could think of only one thing to do. He whispered, “You got to hide.”

There was a large patch of palmetto bushes nearby, and Henry motioned toward them. He went in first and helped James crawl across the rough trunks and through the noisy fronds to the center of the largest bush. It didn’t offer a lot of cover, but at least it was on the outer edge of the battlefield. He looked at James; his huge body twisted to fit in the tight area and said, “Stay here. I’ll be back soon.” Then he turned and exited the makeshift hideout.

James whispered out, “Wait! I don’t know your name.”

Without slowing down to look back he answered, “Henry.”

By now, the other men were drawing closer, and one of them heard the noise coming in the bushes. He pulled his rifle up to his shoulder and yelled, “Who goes there?”
Henry called out, “Don’t shoot! I’m on your side.” Then, in order to keep them away from James he rubbed his stomach and said, “I wouldn’t go that way if I were you. Breakfast didn’t set well.” The three soldiers laughed, the one lowering the gun, and they walked on.

It didn’t take long before more men filtered back in, filling the woods with Confederate soldiers. Henry tried not to draw attention to himself or run into anyone from his company. He listened closely to the conversations around him, trying to learn what direction the Union troops were headed.

When dusk finally started to settle in, Henry breathed a sigh of relief as the troops started lining up to head back to Olustee Station. He managed to gather some supplies and creep into the woods without being noticed. The air was turning cold when he came back to the palmetto bushes. He called out quietly as he drew near, “James, are you still here?”

A deep voice answered back, “Yes.”

Henry made his way through palmetto bushes as quietly as possible. It was almost eight o’clock, and the crescent moon barely gave off enough light to see by. He crouched in front of James and handed him a canteen and a few pieces of salt pork. James took the food and water greedily and ate and drank as Henry laid out the plan, “After you finish eating, we’re going to crawl out of these bushes. When I’m sure it’s clear, I’m going to help you down to the railroad tracks. From there, we’re going to walk along the tracks at the edge of the trees until we find your camp.”

James responded with a pained look on his face, “I don’t know if I can make it. I’m hurt pretty bad.”

Henry assured him, “Yes you can. I’ll help you.”

After a few seconds of silence, James asked solemnly, “Why are you doing this?”

Henry’s answer was hesitant, but sure, “I owe you for saving my life, and I always pay my debts.”

The pain in James’s leg and shoulder was starting to get worse, and he knew he could never make it back to the camp alone. After a moment, he answered with a simple, “Okay”.

They sat quietly as James finished his meal. When he was done, they crawled out of the palmetto bushes, and Henry said, “If you need to, put your weight on my shoulder.”

Then, with the battlefield to their backs, the two men slipped out into the darkness.

________________________________________

Editors’ Note: This short fiction was in four parts, and author Tom Hames gave us this background information, which was so interesting we decided to print it along with his work:

Henry Shaw was my great-great-grandfather. His biography starts out, “A short history of my life written April 27th, 1927, for my children and grandchildren.” In it, he writes of his service during the Civil War, and makes a very short mention of the Battle of Olustee, which sparked my interest in the battle, so I began to research it. I found out that his company had been positioned directly across from the “8th Colored” during the battle, which meant that he had to fight against them. Armed with this information, I proceeded to create my story, using as much of Henry’s character as I knew.

James Lyons, however, is a completely fictional character, though I did get his name from another great-great-great grandfather who served in the Civil War. He was from Florida, but enlisted in the Union Army. In order to keep from embarrassing his family over his choice of sides, he enlisted under the alias ‘George Lyons’. I’d thought about creating a story where these two meet in battle, but changed my mind to go with the racial aspect instead. Still, it made me think that if one of them had killed the other, then I might not be here today. The photo above is of the real Henry Shaw, and his wife, many years after the American Civil War.

Last 5 posts by Tom Hames

• A Parent's View of Cutting - March 15th, 2011
• Lunar Eclipse - December 1st, 2009
• The Battle of Olustee: A Tale of the United States Civil War, Part III - September 12th, 2009
• A Lesson From the Garden - August 17th, 2009
• The Battle of Olustee: A Tale of the United States Civil War, Part II - April 23rd, 2009

"Bridge" by Amber Burke

“Imagination will often carry us to worlds that never were. But without it we go nowhere. “ – Carl Sagan

Books are my drug of choice. If I go days without reading, I get jittery and weird…er than normal. My sense of well-being gets slurry. So it’s lucky that I have my own library of about 1000 books, where I can go to in order to get my fix – of mysteries, random fiction, random non-fiction, fantasy, and, of course, science fiction.

When I started reading science fiction around age 10, I’d been going through all the usual reading phases: books about horses, books about dogs, fairy tales, ‘tweeny’ mysteries, starter fantasies, etc. But when I hit upon sci-fi, it felt like I’d found my own personal secret cave of delights – my place to go to escape to worlds which did not remotely resemble my world, which at that time, had turned tumultuous with my parents’ divorce. The only thing I wanted to do was run away and have grand adventures.

And after discovering space operas, those grand adventures were preferably set in outer space, on a space ship, hob-nobbing with every species of alien imaginable. The best part was, by putting in very little book-finding effort, I unearthed all sort of otherworldly adventures in which girls, young women and grown women were the main protagonists. Characters who got to do everything the boys and men did in the usual books, who were fully flushed out emotionally, and were absolutely capable of anything and everything. I love science fiction and it is my top genre of choice to this day.

Another gift I received from my love of science fiction was an enthusiasm of all things space related. Growing up, I devoured books about astronomy. I listened raptly in science class when, for instance, the teacher would show the inevitable documentary by Carl Sagan – who is one of my heroes. I blue-tacked glow-in-the-dark plastic stars on every bedroom ceiling and wall I had, and in the night, I would lie there for hours imagining flying around the galaxy at faster-than-light speed. My rational brain always knew I would never live to see life as described in my books, or even if life existed at all remotely like any of my books. But, I always thought it important to imagine and keep imagining. It kept me dreaming. It kept me hoping. It kept me surviving.

Today, I am neither scientist, nor astronaut. I am a writer, and therefore, the ultimate dreamer. I continue to explore such things within the recesses of my mind, and perhaps endeavor to light a fuse of possibilities in another’s mind. While I write and dream of space exploration, other people have done it. But, as I keep reading, there are those who believe that humans should not be out there, getting entangled in space – that funding scientific research to this end is a waste of time and money. I disagree. The human race is not made to sit still. It is in our history. It is in our literature. We are wonderers. We are wanderers. We are innovators. We are explorers.

“Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known.” — Carl Sagan

But we have to be there in order to discover it.

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Union soldiers guarding the Potomac River in 1861. Behind them is the old Aqueduct bridge and Georgetown University on top of the hill

A February chill rushed through the air as Henry watched two regiments of men mount their horses and ride off. If the plan worked, they would make contact with the Union army and draw them back to the fortified battle line where the remaining Confederate soldiers waited. With Ocean Pond to the north, heavy swampland to the south, and thousands of troops scattered throughout the tree line, victory was almost certain. The plan made perfect sense, however, after contact had been made, the enemy failed to advance toward the trap that had been so carefully set. When word came that heavy fighting was taking place less than two miles away, more troops were sent as reinforcements. Henry stood firm at his post in the trees, but grew more anxious as he watched the other men leave. Finally, the order was given to move forward, and Henry hesitantly joined the others, his heart pounding heavily as “Company G” marched in double time toward the front lines.

Cannon fire rumbled in the distance as the Sixth Florida Battalion made their way to the battlefield. It wasn’t long before shouting and heavy gunfire could be heard all around. They came up to a place where the doctor was busy treating some of the wounded men. The moans of the suffering soldiers only added to Henry’s anxiety. He closed his eyes as the doctors rushed by, the bloody images of badly wounded soldiers etched themselves in his memory.

By the time Henry got to the battlefield, the fighting had been going on for over two hours. They were quickly moved up to the front lines and told to scatter along a large embankment. Henry crawled to the top of the large hill on his belly, passing two or three dead soldiers along the way. He pushed himself along numbly, trying hard not to look into their faces. The smell of gunpowder filled the air while gun fire, cannon blasts and the shouts of fighting and dying men rang out everywhere. There was no escaping the sounds of war.

When Henry reached the top of the hill and looked out on the battlefield he couldn’t believe what he saw. Bodies were scattered about, and the Union troops seemed to be in disarray. One particular body that lay grossly disfigured on the ground caught his attention. Staring at the dead man’s face, it took a few moments before Henry realized he the dead man had black skin. He squinted, trying to see the other fallen soldiers and noticed suddenly that almost all of them were black. His mind was still trying to take that in when the desperate troops tried to rally around a cannon. It was clear they were trying to make a final stand, but man after man was shot down. At last, when it was clear they didn’t have a chance, someone grabbed the colors and they all made a hasty retreat, leaving the cannon behind. Shots rang out after them and more men fell to the ground as they tried to get away from the relentless Confederate gunfire.

A sound to charge was given and the Rebels took chase. Hundreds of men rushed after the retreating Union troops and Henry jumped to his feet. With adrenaline pumping he took off down the hill, but when he was almost to the bottom he stepped on a small pine branch and it rolled out from underneath his foot. In the split second that he was falling he saw a large pile of rocks and knew instinctively that he was going to hit them head on. He closed his eyes to brace for the impact and then felt something slam into his side. He missed the rocks by two feet, but his head crashed onto the hard ground causing him to pass out.

Last 5 posts by Tom Hames

• A Parent's View of Cutting - March 15th, 2011
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