Find Encounters of the Sacred Kind
Who would be crazy enough to pick the last weekend in unofficial summer to come to the most toured town in our area to see the very popular, recently reconstructed visitor center? Yep, that’s me. But what an experience I had this past Labor Day weekend, though things did not appear to be so promising upon arrival at the Gettysburg National Military Park Museum and Visitor Center. First, all the parking lots were brimmed full except for the farthermost which afforded a couple spots near some gravel piles.
The first positive sign was the day itself which was one of those perfect late mornings that inspired the famous, “It’s a beautiful day in Pennsylvania!” We all know these kinds of days. But I’ve be lulled by that false sense of complacency before, having such a day spoiled when I then encounter a throng of humanity shoulder to shoulder jockeying for viewing positions at other museums in both big and small cities where popular exhibits exist.
The biggest surprise was that inside things were so orderly and non-chaotic, so smoothly run and invitingly presented that all my consternation melted away as I surrendered to the moments, one at a time, to have one of the most enjoyable times of my out-and-about life.
Ever since my youth when I lived four plus years in Texas, I have been fascinated with the Civil War. Even as I teach American Literature this week where my students and I have been reading and discussing a book dealing with the major economic cause of the war, the institution of slavery, entitled The Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave, I remain enthralled by every aspect of this time in our history that changed the direction of our nation forever, in the direction of renewed commitment to possibility and to what freedom and equality can become as we attain our potential as a country.
What I discovered in the words inscribed and preserved throughout the museum, especially of the men and women who actually lived through the five years of horrific turmoil and upheaval in their lives, was so overpowering as to nearly overwhelm my sense of empathy and compassion, even a hundred a fifty years removed. Their words gave a sense of immediacy and relevance to every thought and feeling stimulated.
To give myself a chance to come back to the mundane, I traipsed into the gift shop where instead of a momentary escape from sensory overload, I discovered another gem of intellectual and emotional stimulation. I thought I would retreat into a book of poetry available in the shop and lose myself for a while; however, I only found myself exposed more rawly to the experiences of our ancestors.
Here, in a book on Walt Whitman, who was also a nurse during the Civil War, I found a poem of his that I had not read before. Having first read dozens of journal entries and letters written home to his mother, the poem had a greater impact. He had written especially about how young the boys were who fought in this terrible conflict, how many of them he encountered losing limbs and lives, many with such innocent hopes still remaining amidst such desperation.
In the following poem Whitman celebrates such heroism and elevates the sacrifice made, to equate it with a most divine act rather than relegate such a sense of loss to despair and chaos.
A Sight in Camp in the Daybreak Gray and Dim
A sight in camp in the daybreak gray and dim,
As from my tent I emerge so early sleepless,
As slow I walk in the cool fresh air the path near the hospital tent,
Three forms I see on the stretchers lying, brought out there untended lying,
Over each the blanket spread, ample brownish woolen blanket,
Gray and heavy blanket, folding, covering all.
Curious I halt and silent stand,
Then with light fingers I from the face of the nearest the first just lift the blanket;
Who are you elderly man so gaunt and grim, with well-gray’d hair,
and flesh all sunken about the eyes?
Who are you my dear comrade?
Then to the second I step—and who are you my child and darling?
Who are you sweet boy with cheeks yet blooming?
Then to the third—a face nor child nor old, very calm,
as of beautiful yellow-white ivory;
Young man I think I know you—I think this face is the face of the Christ himself;
Dead and divine and brother of all, and here again he lies.
Please send comments and poems to michaeljhoover@gmail.com. Archived columns can be found at hooverpoet.com or at eveningsun.com. I will feature at the Frederick Coffee House Wed. 9/10 at 7:30.
Who would be crazy enough to pick the last weekend in unofficial summer to come to the most toured town in our area to see the very popular, recently reconstructed visitor center? Yep, that’s me. But what an experience I had this past Labor Day weekend, though things did not appear to be so promising upon arrival at the Gettysburg National Military Park Museum and Visitor Center. First, all the parking lots were brimmed full except for the farthermost which afforded a couple spots near some gravel piles.
The first positive sign was the day itself which was one of those perfect late mornings that inspired the famous, “It’s a beautiful day in Pennsylvania!” We all know these kinds of days. But I’ve be lulled by that false sense of complacency before, having such a day spoiled when I then encounter a throng of humanity shoulder to shoulder jockeying for viewing positions at other museums in both big and small cities where popular exhibits exist.
The biggest surprise was that inside things were so orderly and non-chaotic, so smoothly run and invitingly presented that all my consternation melted away as I surrendered to the moments, one at a time, to have one of the most enjoyable times of my out-and-about life.
Ever since my youth when I lived four plus years in Texas, I have been fascinated with the Civil War. Even as I teach American Literature this week where my students and I have been reading and discussing a book dealing with the major economic cause of the war, the institution of slavery, entitled The Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave, I remain enthralled by every aspect of this time in our history that changed the direction of our nation forever, in the direction of renewed commitment to possibility and to what freedom and equality can become as we attain our potential as a country.
What I discovered in the words inscribed and preserved throughout the museum, especially of the men and women who actually lived through the five years of horrific turmoil and upheaval in their lives, was so overpowering as to nearly overwhelm my sense of empathy and compassion, even a hundred a fifty years removed. Their words gave a sense of immediacy and relevance to every thought and feeling stimulated.
To give myself a chance to come back to the mundane, I traipsed into the gift shop where instead of a momentary escape from sensory overload, I discovered another gem of intellectual and emotional stimulation. I thought I would retreat into a book of poetry available in the shop and lose myself for a while; however, I only found myself exposed more rawly to the experiences of our ancestors.
Here, in a book on Walt Whitman, who was also a nurse during the Civil War, I found a poem of his that I had not read before. Having first read dozens of journal entries and letters written home to his mother, the poem had a greater impact. He had written especially about how young the boys were who fought in this terrible conflict, how many of them he encountered losing limbs and lives, many with such innocent hopes still remaining amidst such desperation.
In the following poem Whitman celebrates such heroism and elevates the sacrifice made, to equate it with a most divine act rather than relegate such a sense of loss to despair and chaos.
A Sight in Camp in the Daybreak Gray and Dim
A sight in camp in the daybreak gray and dim,
As from my tent I emerge so early sleepless,
As slow I walk in the cool fresh air the path near the hospital tent,
Three forms I see on the stretchers lying, brought out there untended lying,
Over each the blanket spread, ample brownish woolen blanket,
Gray and heavy blanket, folding, covering all.
Curious I halt and silent stand,
Then with light fingers I from the face of the nearest the first just lift the blanket;
Who are you elderly man so gaunt and grim, with well-gray’d hair,
and flesh all sunken about the eyes?
Who are you my dear comrade?
Then to the second I step—and who are you my child and darling?
Who are you sweet boy with cheeks yet blooming?
Then to the third—a face nor child nor old, very calm,
as of beautiful yellow-white ivory;
Young man I think I know you—I think this face is the face of the Christ himself;
Dead and divine and brother of all, and here again he lies.
Please send comments and poems to michaeljhoover@gmail.com. Archived columns can be found at hooverpoet.com or at eveningsun.com. I will feature at the Frederick Coffee House Wed. 9/10 at 7:30.