It started when I was very young, during the war's centennial, and my grandfather, whom I adored, gave me a (facsimile) confederate kepi and from that day forward, never called me by my name. Henceforward, I was always "Reb" right on to the day he died decades later. All those years later, I continue to struggle to put distance between my self and the southern soldier and try to view him more objectively.
The pull continued, growing more and more...
...discovering R.E. Lee, whom I still view as an inspirational model for personal character.
...reading Abe Lincoln's speeches and wondering how and where did that amazing poetic stuff come from.
...setting foot on Shiloh battlefield and tingling the entire day, feeling I was on deeply holy ground (haven't felt that anywhere else.
...standing on the shore of Lake Erie, peering through a blinding snow toward the island that was a POW camp and wondering how a southern boy could survive such a winter.
...holding Gen. Sterling Price's sword in my hands and literally touching the past.
...stumbling upon a hidden away cemetary right around the corner that was the site of a freedmen's village...and my head spinning at the thought that people were enslaved right where I lived.
...and every single time I hear old "negro spirituals" and feeling the utter pain and powerlessness that give those songs a beauty like none other.