Battlefield Images

My travels recently took me to the Gulf Coast on business and I found I had an afternoon off while waiting to fly back to Iowa the next morning.  I decided to take a little side trip to Fort Blakely State Park just outside Mobile, Alabama.  Fort Blakely was the site of the last major battle of the Civil War.  My great-great-grandfather’s 27^th Iowa Infantry Regiment was part of the assault on the fort which occurred on the same day as Lee’s surrender at Appomattox, but later in the afternoon of April 9^th, 1865.

As I entered the park, I was required to stop at a little building at the entrance to pay my three-dollar park fee.  A frail-looking, stooped-over, gray-haired lady came to the car window to take my money, then handed me a map of the park.

I drove slowly down the winding gravel road and soon realized that I seemed to be the only visitor in the park that afternoon.  I came upon a sign that said simply “Battlefield” and stepped out of my car to view the remains of the trenches, rifle pits, and earthen fort walls.  As I walked up to the 140-year-old earthworks, I was amazed at their appearance.  They looked like they could have been built mere weeks before.

I stepped through the piney forest trying to picture in my mind what it must have been like on that warm spring afternoon so long ago—the long lines of Union soldiers sweeping forward in a hailstorm of rifle bullets, along with deadly grape shot and canister fired from the rebel cannon behind the fort walls.  I wandered the old battlefield for an hour or so, my thoughts occasionally interrupted by a rumble of thunder from a distant storm.

I continued to drive toward the river and took a walk along the bottoms—trees draped with Spanish moss, and an ancient diesel dredge boat puttering up river.  It was easy to imagine an old stern-wheeled riverboat in its place, drifting by plantations with white-columned houses.  It was said that rebel soldiers hid in the swampy areas next to the riverbank once the Union soldiers overran the fort that day.  Still standing near the water was one huge tree with a hollow base where Confederate troops supposedly took refuge from their would-be captors.

The old town site of Blakely revealed little of its history except an old cemetery where many of its original settlers were buried, many victims of yellow fever.  One weathered gravestone explained that the boy buried there back in 1818 had died as a result of being “thrown from a horse.”

The sun was sinking low in the sky, and I knew I must return to the car and leave this lonely place.  Just before driving away, I turned to take one last look.  As I scanned the scene before me, I once again heard the rumble of thunder—or was it cannon fire just over the ridge?  As my eyes strained in the fading light, I swear I could see a long line of soldiers in blue making a headlong rush toward the rebel entrenchments with flags flying and bugles blaring.  And I realized once again that history—our history—is not dry and dusty.  It is as alive and relevant and exciting as we are willing to make it.

Fungus Among Us

Spring marks the commencement of a favorite pastime for many Midwesterners—mushroom hunting. About this time of year, hordes of folks grab their plastic bags and pit their wits against that delicacy of delicacies–the illusive morel mushroom. What possesses people to walk around in the woods in search of a pockmarked fungus that lives an all-too-brief life on the forest floor? Well, if you’ve ever participated in a feast of battered and fried morel mushrooms, you already know the answer. Unless you’re like my dad, (who often wonders aloud why anyone would want to eat a parasitic organism that lives off of dead stuff), you probably think that morels are about the tastiest thing this side of the Atlantic Ocean.

Besides the taste, what makes these ‘shrooms so alluring? Ardent fans would probably point to the thrill of the hunt. Mushroom hunting is a lot like any other kind of hunting, except this quarry doesn’t move. The maddening thing about mushroom hunting is that it’s not always predictable when and where they will pop up. The “when” part of the equation is dependent on the weather conditions and moisture content of the soil. And when it comes to “where,” well, that’s always a subject for debate among aficionados. Sure, there are the classic locations like around May Apple plants or dead elm trees, but from year to year, mushrooms seem to move around. Finding where they are is somewhat of an art and regular hunters have their favorite spots just like fishermen have their favorite fishing holes. And these locations are often closely guarded secrets.

On occasion, I have hunted morels on my father-in-law’s ground in Illinois. It never ceases to amaze me how adept my father-in-law is at spotting mushrooms. He has a very practiced eye for seeing partially hidden treasure under dead leaves, May Apples, and other debris in the woods where we hunt. He knows his land well and has years of experience to draw from when it comes to knowing the most likely mushroom hideouts. Being an engineer, I of course want to bring technology into the hunt. It seems to me that a GPS (Global Positioning System) receiver could be used to mark locations where mushrooms are found every year. As data is gathered for several years into a database, a pattern will hopefully emerge that will reveal the most likely places for mushroom hangouts. Some year I plan on trying this. (I know, I know. I’m a geek.)

Perhaps the beauty of mushroom hunting, though, is that no special equipment is needed. Just grab a sack or two and find a likely patch of woods and start looking. Any age group can participate—from toddler to grandparents–and the payoff is fungal gold. (Just one caution: true morels are always hollow. If a mushroom looks like a morel, but is solid inside or partially filled in, don’t eat it. It’s an imposter and it’s poisonous.) Well, the rain has stopped and the ground is damp and there’s a spot of woods I need to check out. Now, let’s see. Where did I put that sack?

Two-Wheeled Pleasures

At least one of the big plusses of moving to my small town (Center Point, Iowa) was the fact that the town is bisected by the Cedar Valley Nature Trail.  In my growing-up years, I had known this 52-mile-by-50-foot nature park by another name–the Waterloo Railroad.  Prior to that, long before I was born, the route hosted an electric interurban railroad; the Waterloo, Cedar Falls, and Northern.  But while I enjoy the “railroad history” aspect of riding the trail, there are other alluring pleasures that bring me back to the trail time after time.

I love God’s creation and there is nothing quite like riding silently along the crushed gravel, (or asphalt in some cases), and seeing, smelling, and hearing all that the trail has to offer.  This is the way to see the countryside–rolling hills carpeted with rows of corn or beans, a canopy of trees providing a virtual tunnel of green, the rivers, ponds, and streams that dot the way.

Now, I know I’m beginning to sound like the narrative for a County Parks Commission brochure, but if you have spent any time walking or riding the trail on a sunny Sunday afternoon in the spring, or a cool, damp summer morning, then you know what I mean.  No two trips are ever the same, and you never know what interesting critters you might encounter (like the time that big 10-point buck jumped directly in front of me as I was cruising down the trail at about 20 MPH.)

I start riding the trail as soon as the frost is out of the ground in the spring and continue to ride throughout the summer and fall–to the tune of about 700 miles a season.  As the season progresses, it is fascinating to see the different types of wildflowers that come, each in their turn, and then relinquish the stage to the next act.  The wonderful fragrance that each batch of flowers brings is priceless.  (Not as priceless is the fragrance that skunks and stagnant backwaters bring along the trail.)

You’re an animal lover, you say?  At various times on the trail, I’ve seen chipmunks, gophers, rabbits, ground hogs, deer, coyotes, geese, ducks, squirrels, snakes, lizards, a couple dozen types of birds, and have been chased by a 100-pound German Shepherd.

One odd thing I have noticed about the trail is how underutilized it is.  While there are people a-plenty out riding or walking on nice weekend afternoons, I might not see one other soul on an entire 15-mile weeknight ride to the next town and back.  I don’t think that most people in our area realize what an asset the trail is.  At one time (and it may still be true) the Cedar Valley Nature Trail was the longest continuous bike trail between two metropolitan areas in the country.  Trail riders from all over know about this trail and many come here to ride it.  And just think, you can enjoy it for free any time you like!  Great entertainment and relaxation doesn’t come any cheaper.

Two-wheeled pleasures, indeed.

The Fever

About the month of March every year I get the fever. No, not “Spring Fever.” I get the “Fishing Fever.” The fact is, I’ve had this malady since I was a small child. Since both my grandfathers were avid fishermen, I suppose this disease is genetic. Whatever the reason, I’ve got it and got it bad.

It all started when I was very young. My paternal grandfather would bring home catfish that he had caught in the Cedar River in a galvanized bucket. There is nothing so fascinating to a five-year-old than a close-up view of five pounds of slippery, silvery, whiskered channel cat. Better yet was when Grandpa would bring home extra minnows that had been given a reprieve from becoming a crappie’s lunch. Grandma would take a few minnows and put them in the bird bath. She would then tie some string to a couple of twigs for myself and my sister and voila’, the fever in me began to flicker.

A few years further into my childhood, an event occurred that fanned my fever into an irreversable inferno. The occasion responsible was my first fishing trip. I was spending time with my maternal grandparents in Victor, Iowa, near Interstate 80. I don’t remember for sure, but either they thought it was time to give me a proper initiation into the angling fraternity, or else I just bugged them to death until they finally gave in–most likely the latter.

That magic morning, they loaded up the gear and me and drove the short distance to Lake Iowa. After teaching me the basic operation of the old rod and reel, they set me to it. The fish were nibbling that morning, but must have been too small to hook and besides, I hadn’t mastered the art of setting the hook yet. This fact, combined with the typical impatience of a 10-year-old boy, led to much frustration. The fever might have died right there had my grandparents not gone to Plan “B.” It seemed they knew of a roadside pond along old Highway 6 east of town. It was not much more than a mudhole set between the road and the railroad tracks, but it would turn out to be fishing Nirvana for a my 10-year-old self. I would catch bullhead after bullhead that afternoon along with a few nice-size carp for good measure. I would insist on taking them home to my parents to show my best neighborhood buddy. The fact that he turned out to be an elite purist who proclaimed that bullheads and carp were trash fish and that he only fished for trout in the Colorado mountains didn’t dim my enthusiasm in the least.

By the time we got them home, my prize fish were getting a little ripe in the July sun, so, in the Indian tradition, they became fertilizer in my parents’ garden. These days, I’m a little more sophisticated in my fishing equipment and a little more discriminating in what I fish for, but I have never lost that joy. The joy of the little tug at the end of the line or the dance of the bobber on a warm July evening. The fever rages, but I don’t want to be cured.

Maps

I know what you’re thinking.  Maps?  Do you really think the topic of “maps” is worth writing about?  Yes, I know.  Maps are not an especially exciting subject for most people.  At the very best, a map is a tool for helping people to get from point “A” to point “B.”  But maps, exciting?

I’ve collected maps ever since I was a kid.  For me, maps are more than just a large piece of paper (that you can’t figure out how to fold back up) or a dusty atlas on the bookshelf.  Maps represent a piece of earth, the mystery of distant, exotic places, and the excitement of exploration.  Maps can take you places you’ve never been, or hope to go some day.

As they became more popular, personal computers added a whole new dimension to mapping.  Street atlases on compact disk allow you to search for any location in the United States and find it in seconds.  Topographical maps let you view the “lay of the land” without leaving your house.  Trying to find an old friend?  No problem.  Hop on the information superhighway, locate an address, and off you go.  Want to see what your neighborhood looks like from an airplane or satellite?  That, too, can be found on the Internet.

One of the most amazing technologies to come along in recent years is GPS—the “Global Positioning System.”  (The company I work for—Rockwell Collins—helped pioneer GPS technology.)  The GPS system uses a network of satellites stationed above the earth to locate the exact position of individuals on the earth’s surface.  To use the system, one needs a GPS receiver.  The good news is that these little handheld units can be had for under $100.  I spent a little more and bought a GPS receiver that has full mapping capability—that is, I can download fully detailed maps to the unit and use it to navigate wherever I desire in North America.  (Theoretically, I’ll never be lost again.  I hope.)

The advent of inexpensive GPS receivers has spawned a sort of subculture—the hobby of “geocaching.”  In short, geocaching is a high-tech treasure hunt.  Thousands of individuals around the globe have hidden small containers called “caches” so others can find them.  The idea is to get the coordinates of a particular cache off the Internet, punch them into your GPS, and try to find the cache’s hiding place.  It’s not as easy as it sounds.  Once you do locate it, you take the small prize hidden inside, replace it with a small prize that you brought with you, and sign the log book in the container to record your visit.  There are probably dozens of caches hidden just in your local area.  I, for one, am going to check a few of these out when the weather warms a little.

So you see, maps can be fun and exciting.  Just think of the map located in your car’s glove box or on your bookshelf as little pieces of the world, just waiting to be explored.  Who knows what kind of treasures you may find? 

Why History?

I confess I have a great love for history, especially American history.  Important dates from the past rattle around my head like marbles in a jar.  (So that’s what that noise is when I shake my head…)  Sometimes the most seemingly mundane things fascinate me, like tracking down old railroad beds, or digging around in some old, musty courthouse records.  History for me is of great interest, and is great fun.

However, it seems that many people today do not see the relevance of studying history.  What’s so interesting about dusty old history books, anyway?  What could we possibly learn from previous generations?

On a recent television drama, a young man and his girl friend were sitting at a kitchen table studying their homework.  The boy lamented, “Aw, why do we have to study history anyway?”  Astutely, his girlfriend replied, “So we don’t make the same mistakes over and over again!”  George Santayana put the same thought more eloquently many years ago when he stated, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”  The value of studying history is learning from the mistakes of the past and hopefully avoid blundering down the same dead ends as our forebears.

But this reason alone is not why history fascinates me so.  It is the human stories that, to me, are so compelling.  Those long-dead men and women from the distant past were once living, breathing, loving, laughing, and sorrowing human beings just like us.  I wonder, why did they make the decisions they did?  What made them do what they did?  How did they feel?  What made soldiers charge into the face of certain death, or why did pioneer families trek west into an uncertain future.  What gave Rosa Parks the courage to resist an unjust society, or how did Lindbergh manage to fly solo across the Atlantic?  To me, this is what makes history come alive.  It is not just facts, figures, and dates that tell history’s story.  It is the people.

My wife enjoys watching reality TV shows that display the interplay between people and how they react to their surroundings.  I personally have no use for reality television, but as I think about it, what draws my wife to these shows and what draws me to the study of history is not really very different.  In each case, it is the fascination of studying how people interact with each other, how they react to their environment, and why they do what they do under difficult circumstances.  Ultimately, in either case, it is the study of us, of human nature.

So, think about it.  If you view history as uninteresting or irrelevant, think again.  Try taking in a special event at your local historical society or tour a well-known (or not so well-known) historical location.  Try to envision what it might have been like to ride a streetcar through town, or build a prairie homestead with a few simple tools and your own wits.  Who knows?  You might learn something.  And if you’re not real careful, you might even enjoy it.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some old railroad beds to track down.

Silver and Gray

Every time I look in the mirror, it seems as though I have a few more gray hairs.  Every time I get my hair cut, it seems as though I have a lot more gray hairs.  Though I like to blame this phenomenon on having two kids in college or job stress, I suppose the true culprit is being over forty.  (Besides, if someone comments about my gray hair, I just retort that I’d rather have gray hair than no hair at all.)

Not that having graying hair bothers me all that much—at least not as much as it bothers my family.  They continually try to coax me into dying my hair and have even threatened to hold me down and do it by force, but, so far, they haven’t succeeded.  While I don’t criticize other men for covering up their gray hair, it’s just not for me.

I guess the real issue here is that I don’t mind getting older.  Oh, sure, my knees can’t take the pounding up and down the basketball court anymore, and I have my share of aches and pains, but I can still do most of the things I enjoy.  I’ve been able to experience things later in life that I never had the opportunity to enjoy as a younger person.

Many people wish they could go back and relive some happier time in their life, like their high school years.  (When I think about it, my high school years weren’t all that great.)  I can honestly say that I wouldn’t want to live in any other time period of my life than right now.  Life at this age holds a lot of responsibilities, but I’m still having fun and am even able to indulge my “inner 18-year-old” once in a while.  I’ve concluded that as long as you’re able to keep trying and learning new things, getting older is not that big a deal (so far).

At work, engineers with gray hair are often accorded a measure of respect and are relied on heavily for their experience and expertise.  One of my fellow workers calls these older engineers “silverbacks.”  You who watch one of the nature channels on cable know that a silverback is an old male gorilla whose hairs on his back are turning silver-gray.  I’m still trying to figure out if being compared to a large, hairy primate is a good thing, but I think my friend means the term in a good way.

Another term I’ve heard at work which describes older engineers who have been around for a long time is “gray beards.”  In my mind, this conjures up either a pirate or a wise old man on top of a mountain, but I suppose it’s meant to be a compliment to the veteran engineers.  I’m just not sure they feel that way about it.

In any case, even though I’m turning gray, it will be a little while before I reach the gorilla or pirate stage.  In the meantime, even though life has its ups and downs, I’m enjoying myself more now than at any other time in my life.  I’ll think I’ll just keep having fun, gray hair and all.

The “Knack”

There is an opening scene in an episode of the “Dilbert” animated television series that fans of the comic strip (you know who you are) will instantly recognize.  In it, the mother of young Dilbert is speaking with the doctor about her son’s astounding ability to fix everything he touches.  As she finishes describing her son’s “malady,” the doctor shakes his head gravely and states that her son has a condition called “the Knack.”  “Oh no!” the woman shrieks, “Is it serious?!”  “I’m afraid so,” the doctor replies.  “He’ll be an engineer…”

Ask most engineers why they chose engineering as a vocation and they will answer something like, “I liked to take things apart when I was a kid.”  (What most won’t tell you is how many times they couldn’t figure out how to put things back together.  Even now, I consider it a good day if I can reassemble something with no parts left over.)  We engineers seem to be cursed with the driving desire to know how things work, and then to try to make things work better.

Most (non-engineering) people conjure up a stereotype when they hear the word “engineer.”  You know, white short-sleeve dress shirt complete with a plastic pocket protector containing a dozen different writing utensils, high-water dress slacks, white socks with black shoes, and nerdy glasses.  You’ll be happy to know, however, that most of us engineers look almost completely normal.  In fact, I haven’t worn a white short-sleeve dress shirt for some time now.  (Now let’s see, where did I put my pocket protector?)

It takes a special woman to be married to an engineer-type.  Most of us tend to be packrats with boxes of stuff “we might need someday” scattered all over the garage and basement.  My wife often decries the fact that she never gets to buy anything new because her husband keeps fixing everything that breaks (vacuum cleaner, televisions, clothes iron, mixer, VCRs, computers, dishwasher…)  “Just think of all the money I’m saving you by fixing it myself,” I say in self-defense.  (Sometimes I think she breaks some things beyond repairing just so she can get a new one, but I haven’t been able to prove it—yet.)

Engineers (male or female) generally aren’t flashy or up-front people.  In fact, most of us are more the retiring, shy types who like to avoid the spotlight.  But, stop to think about all the ways engineers have made life better, easier, safer, and more convenient for you.  Would we have any of the modern items that we take for granted—like cell phones, microwaves, or even automobiles—if it weren’t for us engineering types?  (Of course, if we engineers had our way, most inventions wouldn’t ever make it to the marketplace.  We would forever be trying to perfect every new gadget we design.  “It’s not quite ready yet,” we invariably say.  There’s a sign I’ve seen hanging in a cubicle at work.  It says something like:  “There’s a time in the life of every project when you must shoot the engineers and get it into production.)

So, the next time you make fun of that guy with the pocket protector who looks like he’s expecting the 100-year flood, just remember that he helps to make your life easier.  After all, he’s got “the Knack.”

On Writing

It will come as no surprise to regular readers of this blog that I enjoy writing.  I hope to do more and more of it as time permits in the coming years.  There is something soul-satisfying about expressing myself.  Since I can’t sing or paint or sculpt, I write.  And hopefully, I’m fairly good at it.  (I guess you readers can be the judge of that.)

From the time I was young, I liked to write.  Even as a teenager, I would go through a typical day in my mind, mentally writing a script for each little event or conversation that occurred, carefully wording and then editing the story in my mind.  Sounds odd?  I’ve heard other authors confess they sub-consciously do the same thing without even realizing it.  There is a drive for those of us who aspire to write to take the words forming in our minds and express them by putting pen to paper, (or, these days, fingers to keyboard).

It may also come as no surprise that I am a voracious reader.  I read lots of different things, but my passion is history—both fiction and non-fiction.  They say good writers are usually passionate readers and I think there is truth to this.  Perhaps the best way to become a good writer is to read other authors’ quality writing.

I’ve particularly enjoyed reading good historical fiction in the past few years.  One of my favorite authors of this genre is Jeff Shaara.  Mr. Shaara has written such best-sellers as “Gods and Generals,” “Last Full Measure,” and “The Glorious Cause.”  Some time back, he visited Prairie Lights Book Store in Iowa City, Iowa as part of a book-signing tour and I had a chance to meet him and hear him speak about writing and his interesting journey on the way to becoming an author.  Shaara stated that he, like his late father (Pulitzer Prize-winning author Michael Shaara) chafes at being called a “novelist.”  Instead, he refers to himself as a “story-teller.”  He feels if he can tell a good story with his books (though based on real historical facts), then he has done his job as an author.

And that’s really the essence of writing or reading for pleasure—is it a good story?  One that you have a hard time putting down?  One that causes you to love or hate or cheer the characters?  Like anyone who’s taken composition classes in high school or college, I know the mechanics of good writing.  But can I tell a good story?  In the coming years I intend to find out.  I have no illusions about becoming a best-selling author, and I’m not quitting my day job anytime soon.  The best advice on becoming an author I’ve heard is this:  “Don’t ever expect other people to care about your book as much as you do.”  That bit of wisdom tends to keep me down to earth about my writing.  But, who knows?  Maybe, just maybe, I can be the one signing books for fans at a bookstore some day.  Hey, I can dream, can’t I?

Genealogical Journey

A person with no sense of his or her own history is like a ship without an anchor, a tree without roots.  There is nothing to hold fast to, nothing to keep you centered.  When we are young, we think ourselves immortal.  We have no use for the past, only a bright future to look toward.

As we age, though, we begin the struggle to grasp an identity, a sense of who we are.  For most of us, that journey begins in our teenage years, perhaps peaking in High School, then wains as other interests take hold.  In our adulthood, we make peace with our identities based on who we are today, but give very little thought to where we came from and how we came to be.

I have always had a great interest in history, particularly American history.  But I never gave much thought to how I or my ancestors fit into that history.  When the Internet came to our home back in 1998, I found a wealth of information on genealogy in general and the Carman family line specifically.  As I dug deeper, I began to make the first tentative steps toward a personal connection with the past.

The path to that connection has wandered through libraries, research centers, the National Archives, and little cemeteries.  The documents and pictures I’ve found have started building links to the past–my past.  Through the lens of musty yellowed documents that have not seen the light of day for 100 years, I have witnessed births, deaths, marriages, Civil War battles, suicides, marital unfaithfulness, personal triumphs, and personal tragedies.  All of these events, good and bad, shining and shameful, have contributed to what I am today in a very direct way.  Where I would be born, how I look, my choice of vocation, and my personality are a result of choices made by ancestors who lived generations ago.

     Yes, I have had a lifelong interest in history.  But history took on a whole new dimension as I began to see how the lives of my ancestors–my own flesh and blood–are inextricably linked with great events of the past.

     The Civil War has always held great interest for many including myself.  But finding out that my Great-great-grandfather Alpheus served for 3 years in the Union Army and fought in the largest battle west of the Mississippi River made the Civil War personal for me.  How did he feel?  What drove him to enlist?  What were his thoughts as he waited for the enemy to attack across that field in northern Louisiana?  Suddenly, history is not a dusty textbook.  It is living and breathing and embodied in people who loved, hurt, cried, laughed, and endured.

     I have realized, am still realizing, that the ancestors who lived and died so long ago live on in me.  I am the culmination of all their decisions, their actions, their accomplishments, their failures.  They are my connection with the past.  It seems like the least I can do is to get to know them better.