Graves and Statues
Grandpa turns up on Sunday, calm as you please, to take me to church. I want to both hug him and strangle him, but I settle for the hug.
After church, we join Chance’s family for a visit to the soldiers’ cemetery, a place more solemn than church.
Unlike our clusters of graves back home, these stones line up in formation like so many soldiers, reminders of those who lie beneath them. Name after name on stone after stone. It saddens me. Sadder still are stones without names. Hundreds with only numbers, and the word Unknown etched into many more.
A thought strikes me. “Grandpa! Could Great-Uncle Fred be buried under one of these nameless stones?”
He shakes his head slowly. “No. These is Yankee graves. Ya won’t find no Confederates here.”
Mr. Redmond agrees. “Confederates were still the enemy when these men were buried. But this Reunion is bringing together those who fought on opposite sides.”
Grandpa nods. “The war is done. No call fer ill will.”
The Grandpa who traipsed off has returned. And seems like the Grandpa I knew, the Grandpa who is proud he fought Confederate, yet proud he’s American. He jokes with Mr. Redmond about endless marches fifty years ago—even though they marched with different armies. It eases my mind to have him back—and back to his usual self.
Virginia Lee Kent
On Monday, Grandpa lights out before breakfast. I have no notion when he’ll return.
I no longer try to keep to myself. Chance and Florence seem almost honor-bound to not let me sit idle. I help with meals as much as Mrs. Grome allows, but she seems honor-bound to do everything herself.
After supper, we sit on the porch, Florence in the rocker, Mr. Redmond and I on straight-backed chairs. Chance sits on the step. The scent of lavender mingles with the smell of pipe tobacco, and voices mingle all manner of topics. I listen, recalling Mama’s words to think before I speak, but the others seem right comfortable speaking their minds. If only I could do that at home without worry how my words will affect Mama.
I have put off writing her a letter, unwilling to say things that will trouble her. What would she say if she knew Grandpa left me with strangers? I can’t let myself imagine what she would say about Gerald.
When Mrs. Grome comes out to the porch, I give her my chair. Chance makes room for me on the step.
Florence mentions Minerva’s thieving boarder, and the ladies’ words chew up the man I know is Gerald. Chance says nothing of my knowing. He lifts his eyebrows at me, and I look away. But I am grateful for his silence.
* * *
I’ve been in Gettysburg two weeks now, and its streets feel more and more familiar, while ever-gone Grandpa is someone I know less and less. My addled mind pines to know what has addled his.
I take walks with Chance and his grandpa. We pass the statue I saw after the incident with Gerald. That day, the bronze soldier seemed to urge me to be strong. I tried, but strength eludes me. Today the bronze face says nothing.
Afternoon sunlight glints on another bronze figure, this one on horseback. General George Gordon Meade. The man who led Yankee forces into battle fifty years ago. His mount stands on a stone pedestal so high I cannot reach the top, even on tiptoe.
The general’s hands hold binoculars, and I ponder on the sights he saw through them that day. I lean my head far back to see the rider’s bearded face. How did those sights make him feel? Did he find them impossible to forget afterward? I know how it is to want to forget.
