Gettysburg
Still miles from Gettysburg, dusk wraps its cloak around us. The historic town will be hidden in darkness when we arrive.
Grandpa dozes beside me. Earlier, he was talky as a blue jay, visiting with the brothers going to Philadelphia and a man across the aisle heading to Baltimore.
With only blackness outside the window, my ears notice sounds. Young’uns fuss, mamas hum lullabies, and the conductor sings out, “Cham-bers-burg!” Every town’s name comes from his mouth like a song.
Folks talk loud to be heard over the train’s constant chug-chug. Some speak with accents I never heard before.
When the conductor sings out, “Get-tys-burg,” I break out in chill bumps. We’re in the town where the terrible battle happened, the town that gave Grandpa haints that have lasted fifty years, the town that drew him back after all this time.
We step down from the car and gather our belongings. As we leave the noise of the train and the station, a cemetery-like quiet surrounds us. I almost expect a haint to appear.
This is Gettysburg, I remind myself. Haints seem likely here. In three days of fighting, thousands of men died here—including Grandpa’s brother.
Gaslights line the street and join lighted windows to chase off the dark. The nearby hotel resembles the one in Morgantown, with electric lights and hot water. The water closet is next to our room, and the splash of water sounds in my dreams, a mite like Rebecca’s Branch.
A voice visits my dreams, too. A frog-like voice. And a wagging finger. I wake up shivering. Do I have my own haint now?
I’m in Gettysburg, I think to myself. History changed course in this town. Will I change, too?
I refuse to let haints keep me awake, but I don’t sleep sound-like either. The screech of a train wakes me full. Easing from bed, I peek out the window. The sun hasn’t cleared the horizon, but I pine to see Gettysburg.
Grandpa snores, as I slide into yesterday’s dress. The high heels make my toes cringe, so I dig out my old shoes.
After I use the water closet, Grandpa shows no sign of waking. Likely he won’t mind if I step outside just long enough to breathe Gettysburg air.
I emerge into early-morning sounds. A horse-drawn milk truck combines the clip-clop of hooves with the clink of bottles, and a man with tongs gives a loud grunt as he hefts a block of ice from his truck. I hear railroad noises and want to see the station in the daylight.
The sun escapes the earth’s hold and commences its trek into the sky. Gettysburg calls me.
I round the corner and head to the depot. A train sits at the platform. Men unload stacks of lumber and pile it on wagons.
Mama’s warning to be wary of strangers fusses in my head, so I walk away from the men. I follow the railroad bed, where tracks stretch clean out of sight. The tops of the track are shiny, not covered with dust and cinders as I expected.
I expected something different from Gettysburg, too. More than everyday houses and shops. A sign of history. I think on Mama’s lessons. The first day’s battle was fought near a railroad cut. Where tracks run now. I take a deep breath as I realize I stand where soldiers stood—maybe where they died. I bow my head in respect.
