Civil War

It's a quiet Saturday with nothing much to do. The wife is occupied with her mother for the day. Hmm...I know! I'll ride.

The Killer Angels

It's unbearably hot out today. You can almost see the haze rising from the street. The wind brings no relief as the road simply repels the heat back up through the asphalt. I can feel it through my shoes, on the back of my legs. I pick up speed.

I'm in a pensive mood today. I've been re-reading "The Killer Angels" by Michael Shaara—a novel of the Civil War. It focuses on the battle at Gettysburg. This was the second read in as many weeks after finishing "Widow of the South", another Civil War novel dealing with a battle that took place at Franklin, Tennessee.

The Widow of the South

I'm not a war monger or anything like that, but I've found myself recently attracted to books dealing with war and battle tactics. It seems that almost every day I turn on the news, there is coverage of another terrorist attack or some nut with a gun. Innocent people cut down with no warning. Wars are being waged all around us but I don't feel threatened. It's a strange world we live in.

I pull onto Plandome Road and head towards one of my favorite spots out in Port Washington. The heat is oppressive but the trees on either side of the road provide some shade. A few minutes later I'm pulling into the parking lot down by the boardwalk.

The boardwalk is quiet today, a few strollers seeking relief from the heat. The gulls are carefully eyeing the water for the telltale splash of a finned meal.


I park close to the boardwalk and grab a seat on a bench. Nothing better than a full pipe to stimulate the brain. I think about the battles I've been reading about, the massive loss of life, the courage of men willing to run across an open field into oncoming rifle and artillery fire for a cause they are willing to die for. Do terrorists feel this way? Are they so enflamed that they are willing to risk their life for their cause? I think, "No". They are not running into a hail of bullets. They are attacking innocent people who don't know what's coming. They are in no danger from a commuter going to work, a fan enjoying a concert, an unarmed, unaware victim. This is a different war.

I read about educated, eloquent men who fought against friends because of their conviction to what they believed to be right. I read about how they mourned when an honorable enemy fell in battle. These were men with a job to do. No different from the men on the other side, just conflicting ideologies.

I watch the presidential campaign as it heats up and listen to the ridiculous barbs thrown by either side, at other Americans, at us. Is this the best we can do with respect for those that fought and died for us? Then something catches my eye...

Thrown carelessly by the low surf wall, a small, artificial poppy lies crumpled, discarded. I truly believe that the universe leaves clues for us in times of question. Small markers left in our path as gifts to guide us, if only we are aware of their presence. Call it God, call it Kismet, call it coincidence. They are there for you to see if you can make those connections. In my case, I am pondering war and there it was in front of me; dirty, trampled, cast away. A symbol of honor and respect, carelessly tossed aside, but gleaming against a gray background.

I pick it up and read the tag, "Veterans of Foreign Wars of the United States". I suddenly feel sad. A symbol meant to evoke feelings of patriotism, respect, honor thrown away as a if it were a piece of refuse. Have we become so cynical and disrespectful? I realize I'm from an older generation where we were taught respect: respect for parents, elders, teachers. My ideology is also dying off. It's a strange world we live in.

I brush some of the dust from the poppy and walk over to a string of bushes behind the benches lining the boardwalk and tie the poppy to one of the jutting stems. Call me sentimental, but flowers should bloom. They should be admired for their beauty. I snap a quick picture and think about what I'm going to write. What can I say?

Tomorrow is September 11. I was in NYC when the towers came down. Brave men in uniform ran into burning skyscrapers to save innocent, everyday people. Soldiers were shipped out to foreign countries to fight against an unknown enemy. I am constantly questioning our motives as a country, as a people. It is my right as an American. But I have never questioned the integrity of a man or woman in the line of fire. That's courage. That's conviction. That deserves respect.