Fruits, Vegetables, and Other Southern Foods

          The Admiral and I went to a buffet lunch. That is a treat, and it being without Princesses who were off doing whatever teenaged Princesses do, it was a time for us adults to relax, and converse.

            Foraging at a buffet is an individual pursuit, thus we went our separate ways leaving me without adult supervision. As we reunited at our chosen table and were settling into our feast, the ever observant and protective Admiral asked, "You do realize that you have two desserts, don't you?"

            "I do not," was my immediate, petulant, little boy defensive reply. It was so automatic that I had not even glanced at my food-laden tray.

            Recognizing a full-blown tantrum in the offing, she tried to soothe my ruffled feathers by offering, "I am concerned for your blood sugar, is all."

            "What two desserts?" I asked, taking a milder tack, recognizing that she had misidentified one of the foods.

            "You have banana pudding, and peach cobbler."

            I couldn't help but laugh at this breech of southern, culinary etiquette. Her stone-cold stare forced me into immediate explanation. "For one thing," I offered, fighting continued mirth, "it ain't 'banana pudding', it's 'nanner puddin', and everybody knows that 'nanner puddin' is a vegetable."

            Realizing her blunder as to all things southern (she was raised in Canada), she said, with no southern warmth, "Bananas are a fruit."

            "Well of course they are…" The Admiral had me, but agreeing gave me time to think of an adequate response, "…but when you put them in a puddin', they become a vegetable."

            Her jaw dropped in disbelief, but I kept a straight face, because not only was I right, but I did not want to make her feel ignorant as I added this pearl to her growing store of near useless southern knowledge.  She was quick to recover. "Then what is peach cobbler?"

            I was ready for her, "Peach cobbler is a bread." Then, because I seldom outwit the Admiral, I had to add, "Didn't you know that?"

            Her glare and stony silence assured me that I would pay for my wit later, but at that moment, it was worth it. We can make our choices, but the consequences are in the hands of others.

            She smiled at me, which put me on my guard, and asked, "What other southern culinary oddities am I missing out on?"

            "You know most of them, but since we've broached the subject," I stabbed a piece of fried okra with my fork and held it up for her to see, "this is fried okra."

            "Yes it is. So…"

            I could see a challenge rising in her eyes, so treading lightly, "The okra you stir about in the pan in some olive oil, and seasonings is delicious," so far, so good, "but it ain't fried okra," brandishing my impaled example before her, "this is fried okra."

            "You mean because is covered in a batter that absorbs twice the oil mine does and delivers it directly to your coronary arteries? Is that what you mean by 'fried'?"

            "Yes," I hurried, recognizing the beginning of the health argument, "battered in cornmeal, or a good beer-batter, deep fried to a tawny gold, that is the way to do it," rushing on, "just like we do pickles, green tomatoes, onion rings, squash, seafood, steak, pork, and anything else that is edible. I am certain I remember as a kid being taken to the Texas State Fair and having a deep fried chocolate bar."

            "What did it taste like?"

            "Chicken-fried chocolate," I said in the most matter-of-fact way I could.

            She ignored that. "Speaking of chicken-fried, what makes a Chicken-fried-steak a Chicken-fried steak?"

            "You fry it like you would a chicken, just like you would ice cream."

            She rolled her eyes, which meant it was time to move on from fried foods. I lowered my head and began the assault on my tray of food. The first fork full was a heap of collard greens, followed by a spoonful of that other vegetable, nanner puddin'.

            As I was delighting in this delicious vegetable, the Admiral asked, "What is your favorite meal?

            This was a trick question. She knows my favorite meal, it has never changed and she prepares it on special occasions, so on the defense, I answer, "Fried chicken," a pause here for emphasis, "rice and gravy," delivered almost as a song. Girding up for an attack, I said, "You know that."

            "There are no vegetables in that meal."

            "Rice is a vegetable."

            "Rice is a grain."

            "Yes," I conceded, "but when you pour white, chicken gravy over it, it becomes a vegetable." Again, I couldn't resist, "Didn't you know that?"

            "What is gravy then?" Her dander was rising. I was going to pay dearly for this, but in for a penny, in for a pound.

            "Gravy is a gift from God with the power to make good things better, and render the inedible, edible."

            "And the power to change a grain to a vegetable?" She asked.

            "To do most anything," was my reply. "There are some southern churches that teach that the Lord poured chicken gravy on the Sea of Galilee before he walked on it."

            I could see her fighting the laughter as she said, "And Peter sank," she began, "because he stepped off the gravy," we finished in unison.

            I nodded my head; she shook hers, and said, pointing to my dual desserts, "Eat your vegetables and bread, little boy."

            I did, thus ending the lesson.

Time Compression Warp Factor

          This past weekend, I attended my oldest son's, third child's graduation from his residency program. He is now a fully-fledged doctor, trained to go out and change the world. He is now the leader, even the teacher. At moments like this, with family and friends gathered around, and my having reached sixty-five only sixteen day previous, I grow reflective about my allotted time, what I have done with it, and what I will do with the rest. It all came crashing in on me, my personal black hole.

            I first heard the term “time compression warp factor” used by a fighter pilot who explained it as flying so fast in a limited space that when you launch your missiles, you have flown ahead of them, they activate, and you become the target. I do not know if it is a real thing, but it sounds cool. The term also has roots in Einstein’s Theory of Relativity. I am not able to explain that concept either, or get past the first chapter of Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time, but I do have my own Time Compression Warp Factor theory that I can explain.

            It is, as you get older, time compresses in on itself with interesting phenomena. The calendar says your birthday is today, but you swear the last one was yesterday. That it is June, but Christmas was just last week. The grass is a foot high, and you wonder that it could grow like that overnight. Children and grandchildren who were toddlers in the morning are teenagers in the afternoon. There are now fifty seconds to a minute, a like number of minutes for an hour, twenty hours to the day, five days to the week, three weeks to the month, ten months to a year, and years are now bundled into seven to the decade, but are what a week used to be. Time is compressed.

            We have all heard, if not used, terms such as “Time flies”, or “They grow up so fast”, or “I need a twenty-five hour day”, and my personal favorite, “Where does all the time go?” I will try to answer by example.

            When I was pre-teen, I couldn’t wait for the teen years and all their coolness. When I lived long enough to be a teen, I yearned for the independence of young adult hood. At nineteen, I was immortal. Time stretched out for me and appeared endless. That is the way it is with immortals.

            About this time, we immortals have someone near us who dies, proving the immortal thing to be bogus. For me, it was other nineteen-year-old immortals in combat. We realized that there was an end, and it gave life a new perspective. We did not have an unlimited amount of time, but observation told us that there were people out there who were old, that it took a long time to get that way, and we would at least achieve that.

            Time marched on and us with it. In any marching group, unless someone is calling cadence, the steps continue to be rhythmic, but become faster, and faster, until we are all out of step and aren’t marching anymore, but running toward what we do not know, but we’re going to get there quick.

            That is how life is, and that is the Time Compression Warp Factor. When we are young, time stretches out to infinity. There is plenty of time for family, career, civic duty, church, etc., but somewhere along the way, our plans get derailed, our bucket list doesn’t get any shorter and when we’re through with the things we have to do, the things we want to do are still undone.

            We wake up some time between fifty and sixty, and realize, “Yeah, I’m mortal, and time is running out. I don’t have an unlimited supply of this stuff. How am I going to spend the rest of it?”

            We are also looking around and wondering where did it all go? Einstein is credited with proposing that time was invented for man so that all things do not happen at once. We are beginning see that as a possibility. All things are squeezing together into the same moment, and we feel we have to squeeze a whole lot of living into what time is left. When this happens, the minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, seasons, decades all seem to run together and bump into each other creating the Time Compression Warp Factor.  The devices we use to measure these amounts of time say that they are the same, but a lifetime of living tells us that they are not. We are now flying so fast that we are the target. 

            Time Compression Warp Factor, it is a real thing; coming soon to a life near you. 

Rules to Date By

          We are going on vacation. It is a much needed one. We all have worked so hard the past few months that we have decided to take a break by working ten times harder to go have fun. That is the logic of a vacation. In my absence, this column is a much requested re-run.

            It seems that from the first time it ran, many parents have seen the wisdom of my words. They laughed at the first printing, but as their daughters have gotten older, they are now not laughing, but seeing the merit. This is how the rules came about.

            I was walking by the Princesses’ rooms and heard, “He’s so hot!” Oh dear. 

            These are not my first teenage daughters to show interest in the opposite sex. I have been through this three other times and have learned a few things along the way. This “hot” situation needed to be addressed and the law laid down. It is just better to clear things up early, like at birth.

            Me, “Knock, knock.”

            Princesses, “Come in.”

            As stern as I could, I looked them in the eye until I saw the fear. I had their attention and spoke, “Boys are not hot until they have graduated from college.”

            “What?”

            “You cannot think boys are hot until they are out of school, and come to think of it, not until you are graduated too.”

            There was stunned silence and a very soft-spoken, “Dad?”

            I did a crisp about face and exited the room. I had made my point. Score one for the Daddy-man. Yeah.

            Years ago, I formulated a set of rules for dating. Up until now, they have been verbal, but the time has come to write them down. It makes them solid, like stone. Here they are. 

            To all my daughters, natural, and those who are “adopted” by me by virtue of your being super cool, brilliant, and my loving you, and that pretty much includes all of you, I have formulated rules for your dating experience. Please remember that I am a guy, and know what I am talking about when I say guys are to be avoided. In fact, guys are pretty much worthless until Rule Four below is met.

            Rule One: See the above conversation. Boys are not hot until Rule Four, then, maybe, but only maybe.

            Rule Two: You cannot talk to boys until you are sixteen, and then in only one-word sentences. At seventeen, you may use two words, and at eighteen, none.

            Rule Three: You may be alone with a boy when you have achieved all the requirements outlined hereafter in Rule Four. Until then, you are to have at least one adult standing between you and any boy. One is the minimum. There is no maximum. The more adults present, the better. If these adults are carrying firearms openly, that is better still.

            Rule Four: You may date when you are finished with your first college degree and are accepted into graduate school. Any boy you choose to date has to have graduated from college, (he’ll be hot then...maybe) provide to me, or your parents as substitutes, his financial statements showing a strong investment portfolio, and at least a six figure income. He should be debt free with the exception of one luxury car, and a house. You may date him once a month, but you can talk all you want. The "adults present" and firearms requirements are now optional depending on the parent.

            Rule Five: You must be twenty-eight (28) years old to be eligible for Rule Four freedoms.

            Rule Six: You must date this chosen young man for ten years, then you may marry at thirty-eight. Forty is better, but if you cannot wait, you may marry early if all the adults in your life meet the young man and agree to his worthiness. If any of us, including the checker at the grocery store do not approve, he is out, O-U-T. No arguments or you are grounded for life. I don’t care how hot he is.

            Rule Seven: If you are ever in a situation where none of the above rules apply, call me.  I will make one up.  

            Should you have any questions, don't ask them. The Ten Commandments are written in stone, so are these rules. Remember the fifth commandment of the Big Ten; "Honor thy father and thy mother...and thy writing teacher..."  Cool your jets boys; you are not hot...yet.

            A word to fathers of daughters going through this dating thing; I suggest you take your latest target from the firing range showing a tight grouping center mass, and another in the head and post it on your front door. If you don't have one, you can borrow mine. Across it, use a line from comedian Bill Engval, and write, "I ain't afraid to go back to prison". It won't stop them, but it may slow them down enough for you to read them the rules. 

The Toilet Paper Roll War

          I am certain that this strikes you as a strange subject to write about, but I assure you, it has become an issue in our home. Am I the only person in this house that can change out a roll of toilet paper? Along with the first question comes a second, how do three sheets left on the roll constitute a reason to not change it?

            I have asked the question once a week for the past fifteen years. What is so hard about it?  If you see three sheets left on the roll, change it. What can you do with three sheets? Nothing, so why leave the roll?

            When this is presented in the calmest voice imaginable to the Admiral and Princesses, I’m greeted with silence, blank stares, maybe even a roll of the eyes, and then, “Why are you yelling at me?” I swear, I did not yell. I am convinced that this is a ploy women use to divert a man’s focus. It works.

            The Admiral did answer once, saying, “I don’t want to see them (the last three sheets) go to waste.” Okay, I'm down with that, save a tree, go green, there’s value in that, so why not take the last three otherwise useless sheets off the tube, change the roll, and place the sheets on top of the new roll to be used by the next person? Her response, see paragraph three.

            I have begun to think that the women I cohabit with do not know how to change the roll, but this cannot be true. The facility downstairs, the most often used, has a decoratively painted dowel notched on either end, which sits in corresponding grooves to hold it. You pick it up, no springs to collapse, or anything else mechanical, slide the empty or nearly empty roll off, put on a full one and set in back. “How can that be so hard?” I ask. 

            See paragraph three.

            The Princesses' bathroom is upstairs between their two rooms. I seldom journey up there unless I want to hunt wild beasts lurking in the piles of worn-ten-minutes-then-discarded-to-the-corner clothes, but seeing that this issue needed investigating, I ventured forth.

            What I suspected was true, but with a twist. There was a roll with three sheets hanging on the dispenser and on the floor were two other rolls in varying stages of use. “Maybe they really don’t know how to change the roll,” I told myself.

            With the best of intentions, I called the ladies upstairs for the express purpose of demonstrating the task. When gathered, I begin my instruction and demonstration. The results were fearfully predictable. See paragraph three.

            I don’t get it. Why is this so difficult? Is it just me? Of course, I am the one out of step, the faulty part. Maybe I’ll just take the holders off the wall and use that space for…I can’t think of anything.  I would ask the Admiral and Princesses for ideas, but I’m afraid of paragraph three.

            Since I have broached the toilet paper subject, I might as well explore another point of contention between the Admiral and me. Which is the proper placement of the roll on the spindle, the tailing sheet against the wall, or rudely intruding into the space of the room? Can you guess my preference? I try not to show bias here.

            “Doesn’t it make more sense,” I say, “and isn’t it more aesthetically (I throw in big words on occasions during “discussions” to have my point taken seriously) pleasing to have the tailing end of the roll against the wall? It doesn’t protrude into the room waving its little hand as if to say, ‘Here I am, use me’.” 

            I cringe, fearing a paragraph three response, but receive, “It’s easier to use when it points toward you and you pull from the top. You have to hunt for the end when it hangs against the wall.”

            There is weakness in her argument, but as I am about to exploit it, I see her eyes start to roll, and by now, I know when to quit. As you can see, we are at an impasse, aesthetically pleasing vs. utilitarian availability.

            To solve this dilemma, I thought I would allow the Princesses to have a say, thinking they would see the clear side of the argument. I did not get the results for which I held hope. 

            The sixteen-year-old, who I interrupted while obsessing over her Facebook page, looked at me and said, “Whatever”.  The fifteen-year-olds’ response was a brilliant rendition of the dreaded paragraph three. She is a student of the Admiral. You would think I would have learned.

            I know I should give up. This is a battle of the sexes, and being outnumbered, I know I cannot win. I ask myself, “Is this the hill I want to die on?”

            The answer is, “Yes”.

            I will not stop my efforts to show my way is superior. I just need to change tactics. Sun Tuz says in his ancient and famous treatise, "The Art of War", that all warfare is based on deception. When I get the opportunity to change the roll, I will continue to lay the tailing end against the wall, and if the Admiral or Princesses ever change a roll, they will do the opposite, but as Confucius says, "Persistence furthers." From now on, silent protests will be my way, stealth roll-changing the tactic. 

            Please don’t think me cowardly. I am not afraid of paragraph three, well, maybe a little, but, I swear, I’m just changing my approach. I am not giving up. I wonder if tackling the toothpaste squeezing issue would be easier. 

Memorial Day and Ribs

          It will be Memorial Day on Monday. Our family will put on our annual celebration. We will deck ourselves out in our homemade, red-while-and-blue t-shirts that we made years ago, decorate the house with patriotic banners, ribbons and bunting, and even lights along the driveway. It is a big deal for us and for many of our friends, but whereas we observe the day for its intended purpose, to honor our nation's fallen heroes who have sacrificed all for our safety and freedom, I suspect some of our guests are wanting to come over for another reason, the ribs.

            I have friends who love my ribs. These friends hint at various times of the year that it is time to do ribs and to invite them over.  I have friends who are only friends because I do ribs. They are the ones who, when the ribs are late coming off the grill, pace the floor drooling. They are the first to say, “We hate to eat and run, but…” 

            All want my recipe and I will tell them, as I am about to tell you, the recipe and the method, but nobody believes me because it is not magic, or complicated. It is so simple people think I am withholding some dark secret. Secrets take effort, and if cooking ribs took effort, I wouldn't do them. If it leans toward work, I am not doing it. Lazy describes my culinary work ethic. So, like myself, my recipe has to be simple and easy.

            The number of askers has grown to a demanding mob, well; a large group, maybe ten or so, and I acquiesce.  I shall reveal all…most all. You won't accept it, but here we go:

            Rub down the slab of ribs on both sides with a dry rub the night before you are going to cook them and keep them refrigerated. "Slap Ya’ Mama" is good stuff, if you can find it, as are many others on the grocer’s shelf, or you can make your own.  Guess which way I go…lazy.  Don’t overdo the rub, most go a long way. I guess I should used a culinary phrase such as, “season to taste”, but I ain’t no gourmet, or for that matter, a cook. 

            Build a small fire in such a way that you can feed it as the day wears on. My grill allows for indirect heat, and that is the only way go. Direct heat and flames are big no-nos. Your fire should be between two hunert, and two hunert and fity degrees. Maybe that’s “hunnert”. I am never sure.  The key is to cook the ribs s – l – o – w.  That is to say, not fast. If you do not have a goodly portion of the day to dedicate to this task, do not insult the ribs by trying.

            You place the ribs on the grill bowl side up, or for you scientific types, the concave side up, and you don’t turn them…ever…remember, lazy.  If you break a sweat doing this, you are doing something wrong.

            You now make a trip to the grill every half-hour, which figures to be about every other commercial if you are watching a ball game. This is when you add charcoal and smoke. Smoke is the key. You need lots of smoke, little heat, and did I mention s – l – o – w?

            The ribs are done when the meat pulls away from the ends of the bones. Depending on your grill, this could be anywhere from two-and-a-half to three hours on up to four to six hours, or even longer. You should consult a cookbook about cooking pork and use a meat thermometer, or do as my daddy taught me, put your fingers on the meat and count, “one Mississippi, two Mississippi”…  If you get to five Mississippi, they ain’t done.  I get to ten Mississippi these days.  It has something to do with the scar tissue on my fingertips.

            Oh yeah, I almost forgot, the smoke! That is the real secret. Let me tell you about it.  Smoke comes from wood. You burn it…slow. You burn it slow by getting it wet before it goes on the coals. I use a mixture of woods. They are…oops, running out of space here. Told ya’ I’d reveal all…most.

            As you are enjoying your ribs or whatever this Memorial Day, please, at some point in your festivities stop and remember. There are families who are hurting as they miss loved ones who are not here to celebrate. Take a moment, be silent, and offer up a "thank you" for their sacrifice. They did it for you, to protect your right to cook ribs on a holiday. Take just a moment. I know they will appreciate it. Besides, you've got thirty minutes before you have to check the ribs again. Enjoy.

The Season of Moving On

          It is the time of year when fledglings leave the nest and parents wonder where the time went, clinging to what was, knowing they have to let go. Their children are wondering how it took so long and are struggling to be free, not knowing what is over the next hill, but confident in the zeal and innocence of youth that whatever it is, they can conquer it. It is graduation season, and another generation moves on.

            It is a bittersweet time for parents and graduates. The graduate has spent roughly two-thirds of their lives preparing for high school graduation, and are now, at 17 to 19, beginning to realize that the near terminal case of total knowledge they were so sure of at the age of 14 to 16, may not be as iron clad as they thought. The parents have been through this before, and have spent approximately one-third of their lives getting the fledgling to the edge of the nest. They know the graduate, so full of confidence, pomp and circumstance as they strut their stuff across the stage for their piece of paper, has now gained only the right to begin to learn.

            That is the irony of graduation in anything, at any level. You work years to master a program, a situation, to become the big fish in the pond, and just as you become proficient, someone hands you a piece of paper declaring your mastery, says, "Congratulations," smiles, pats you on the back, and with malice aforethought, kicks you into the bigger pond where you become the little fish again. We call that growth, and I suppose it is, but it would be nice to be the big fish for a while and just swim around as lord of that particular pond, but that is stagnation, not good for you or the pond. 

            I reflect on past graduations. For me, high school was a biggie. No one in my family thought I would make it, but I did, without repeating a grade or a class. I became a big fish, ready to jump into a bigger pond.

            My high school pond was so big that it took three hours for my 984 co-fish to walk. Because my name begins with the letter "A", my glory was over within the first quarter hour, and I had to sit watching as the rest had their moment. I saw people cross that stage that I had never seen before. I was stunned to realize that I had been swimming in a very isolated area of the pond. I am certain that the size and number of my graduation is why I have an aversion to these types of ceremonies. That, and the fact that I was greeted by my family after the interminable display with the question, "When are you leaving?"

            I did leave, and after busting out of college joined the Marine Corps. That was a graduation to see. I don't know how many passed in review that day and earned the title of Marine, but I and my platoon did. I still remember our drill instructor's final words to us; "You think you know something, but you don't. All you have now is enough knowledge to be dangerous to yourself and others. That can get you and them killed. You also know enough to start learning. Don't waste it. That will save your life." I was a big fish going into a bigger pond, but this one had sharks in it.

            I survived that pond, went back to school for what seemed like forever, but did not graduate. After swimming in the shark pond, the rest of it seemed rather pointless to me, so I never had that experience, but I had seen enough.

               I reflect on my children's graduations, and my grandchildren's, and the graduations of students that I have taught, as well as those that have honored me by asking me to deliver key note addresses, and I see something in common to them all, something that is a pleasant surprise to me to overshadow my aversion.

            I sit and watch, or speak, and I am amazed at the feeling of satisfaction I get as I look at the graduates and a warmth flows over me. I am sure in that moment that the world is in good hands. These young people marching in the line behind us are better trained, better prepared, and made of better stuff.

            There are some in this year's class that can, and will solve some of the world's most demanding and perplexing problems. Some will grace the world with art, music, story, and poetry. They have been raised up for this purpose, and are ready to meet the challenge. As long as they believe they can, who are we to think otherwise and limit them in any way? We need what they have, and that is the joy of graduations. It is like spring. As flowers bloom, so do our children. In them are the seeds of hope for the future. Lead on graduates, and welcome to the pond. 

We Are Losing Who We Are

          We are losing it. That which makes us unique, we are losing it, our heritage, our history. It is sad, and sorry, but we are losing it.

            May 1, 1863, my great-great-grandfather stood on a battlefield in Port Gibson, Mississippi with 6,000 others, and faced off Grant's 20,000 invading Federal troops. The Confederates were attempting to prevent his eventual taking of Vicksburg, the Gibraltar of the South.

            May 1, 2013, the oldest Princess and I stood on that same battlefield, now silenced by the passing of 150 years. We were there to observe the sesquicentennial of our ancestor's capture by Federal forces, and the changing of our family history. We were there alone. My first emotion was disappointment followed by sadness. Of over 26,000 families represented on that field 150 years ago, only one was there on the day. Sad, we are losing it.

            Granted, May 1 this year was on a Wednesday, and it had been raining, with the threat of rain all day. The field is a long way off the beaten path down a dirt road, but we were there. Where were the rest? The question gnawed at me, but we were there to observe, and we did.

            Evans Atwood was captured about 10:00 AM in a ravine where he was attempting to aid an unnamed comrade to the makeshift hospital. He was allowed to continue there under guard where he became a prisoner. His life, our heritage, our history changed in those dreadful moments.

            I have visited this battlefield twice before, but this time was much different. The Princess and I located a likely ravine where Lieutenant Atwood first experienced the terror of being in enemy hands. At that moment, he knew that the best he would hope for was captivity, but he had to be anticipating the worse, him and his comrade's deaths. The battlefield was silent for us, but for him it was thunderous with the sound of cannon and rifle fire, men shouting in battle, and the cries of the wounded mixed with the silence of the dead. I felt his horror; I felt his fear, all of which have become part of who I am.

            We went to the preserved and open Shaifer House that served that day as a hospital for both Union and Confederate troops. We stood in the empty yard and could see and hear the milling of troops from both sides, the moans of the wounded laid out on the porches and benches as they were triaged for treatment. We envisioned the blanket covered dead laid out in the yard near the garden. We watched in our mind's eyes as our ancestor turned his wounded burden over to the hands of medical men, and turned himself to his captors, resigning himself to an unknown, and terrifying fate. It is a horrible moment in our family history, but it shapes us.

            We left the battlefield full of wonder and awe, still feeling the fear of battle, as well as the terror of imprisonment in the hands of a hated enemy. As we drove, we imagined the troops in blue fighting their way through the brambles, vines, and ravines pursuing the troops in gray retreating toward the town, the direction we were driving. I had questions that needed answers, and the town is where we would search for them.

            Port Gibson is an unusual town using for its slogan words attributed to Grant saying to leave the town, because it was, "Too pretty to burn". It is pretty in its own way with the unique Presbyterian Church's gold hand atop its steeple with the index finger pointing skyward, and its antebellum homes, but it is ugly in the poverty of small town, rural Mississippi.

            We stopped at the visitor's center on Church Street where I asked if the sesquicentennial of the battle had been observed, or if there were any activities planned on this, the anniversary day. The docent told us that yes, it was observed over the previous weekend, but there was nothing planned for the day.

            I asked, "Was the observance well attended?"

            "Yes," she replied, "we had about 100 people turn out". She spoke it with a mixture of pride and a little trepidation as to how I would receive it.

            I reserved my judgment of the town and its people until later and simply said, "That's nice," but it was not.

            We left the town headed home with mixed feelings of satisfaction that we had honored our ancestor who had been willing to sacrifice so much for the freedom of his new country, and pride at his courage in facing prison for over two years, and the feeling that this history was fading from our grasp. It is felt, and voiced by too many that the war is over, forget it, but I can't, and more importantly, I won't, it is too much of who I am.

            As we drove, I wondered as to other wars. Have we forgotten the Revolutionary War, the War of 1812, the Spanish-American War, the Mexican-American War that gave the soldiers on both sides of the Civil War their experience, World Wars I and II? Over the next ten to twenty years, we will lose those who fought in WWII. Not far behind them, those of us who were in Korea and Vietnam will be gone. Those wars are being actively forgotten how.

            There is danger in forgetting, but time does that to us. That is why history is studied, so we don't forget, and for the hope that just maybe we wont' be that stupid again. Let us work harder at remembering. We do not want to lose it all, and we are dangerously close.