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.