It was our anniversary — Oct. 12, 2002 — and Susan and I wandered down a trail to the Burnside Bridge, one of the most significant sites on the Antietam battlefield.
They don’t call me “Mr. Romance” for nothing.
Actually, I should give her a world of credit. She’s lived with a man fascinated with the Civil War for nearly five decades now, and she had no qualms about traipsing across the Maryland landscape to see things related to the 1862 campaign that resulted in 23,000 killed, wounded, or missing on the bloodiest single day in American military history — Sept. 17, 1862.
She and I walked to the Burnside Bridge, named after Union Gen. Ambrose Burnside, the Union commander of that particular battle. The Federals tried to storm the bridge, but the Confederates held the high ground and had target practice until they were finally outnumbered and outgunned and withdrew.
The walk to the bridge took us senior citizens a while, which was enough time to contemplate things of great import. For instance: What would the men who fought there 150 years earlier think of a couple doing some sightseeing on a pleasant Wednesday afternoon?
I was not formally dressed — in fact, far from it — but I was respectful. Hundreds of men took their last breath at that site. Do we speak for them? Are their deeds enough? Are the words of the historians enough?
A day later, we were at the Flight 93 memorial near Shanksville, Pa. When we pulled up, we noticed that the car next to us was from Indiana — and, as it turned out, the people who owned the car were getting ready to leave as we were arriving. They were from Carmel.
After a bit of small talk, I asked them: “We’re going in. You’ve been there. What do you think?”
They were quiet for a moment, and then the woman spoke up. “Well, I’m sad now,” she said.
A couple of hours later, we were sad, too. A tragic loss of life. A group of passengers killed — murdered, actually — for no good reason at all. (The wall with the passengers’ names on it memorializes a person, Lauren Catuzzi Grandcolas, and her unborn child. As a father of three and a grandfather of three, I mourned a little more intensely there.)
I have never been one for traveling just for traveling’s sake. I’ll probably never cross an ocean. I saw a fair share of what I will ever want to see on my trip earlier this month — the Baseball Hall of Fame, Antietam, Flight 93, Harper’s Ferry, and Fort McHenry. We’ll probably head back to Gettysburg sometime; I’ve been there, but Susan hasn’t. Our 50th anniversary is coming up in a couple of years; as perpetual honeymooners, maybe we should visit Niagara Falls.
However, the thought of those people whose lives were snuffed out — be it at Antietam or in a Pennsylvania field — sticks with me, giving me a burden that time can’t erase.
If you’re an American, you should experience that feeling as well, sometime, voluntarily.
daves@news-banner.com
