History Buffed (eBook)

“Hi Ya, Ed!”

William and Mary and their cohort had let their caps fly into the sky as they bade goodbye to high school at country-wide graduation ceremonies. For those set on taking the next step on their academic journey, the choices were numerous. There was Bryn Mawr, along with the other six Sisters, to provide finishing for young ladies, and Emory to smooth the rough edges of the young men, matter of coarse. For some, Yale was a lock; for others, Tufts. Both guys and gals headed to Cedar Rapids, Iowa, for their Coe education. The last institution Mary considered before deciding on Vassar was Furman. The citadel of higher learning dubbed Duke was William’s choice after his designs on MIT went south.

The summer vacation between high school and college included a graduation present of a two-week trip to Hawaii. While there, I met some nice folks who were also college-bound; unfortunately, none to my school. Russ decided to attend a college closer to home.

Even though having a day between classes suits me to a tee, I strive to complete assignments without delay. This provides a certain amount of freedom to pursue distractions that pop up from time to time.

I was quite impressed with the library, which provided such amenities as newspapers from major cities, the Wall Street Journal (a must-have for econ classes), and various magazines and periodicals.

My assignment for American history class was to do a report on significant battles of the Civil War. After giving due consideration to Bull Run, Gettysburg, and Shiloh, I imagined some small-scale encounters.

“Buff it up, Ginny! Buff It!”

A small contingent of Confederate soldiers were taking care of their wounded after a skirmish with a band of Yankees. The captain had been felled by a shot to his leg and was pulled to safety by Corporal Purvis, who was now being recognized for his bravery and given an eight-day leave to visit home.

While he did not begrudge Purvis his reward, Lem felt that he, too, should receive some consideration for providing cover fire to keep the Yanks pinned down. He was dying to see his girl, Daisy, who he hadn’t seen for more than a year.

Purvis had been back from his leave for about two weeks when the captain asked for five volunteers for an important, but risky mission. They were cautioned that no one could back out after having been briefed on the objective.

Both Purvis and Lem volunteered; they felt their familiarity with the area would be helpful, whatever the mission. Sergeant Rudd would lead and two soldiers from Kentucky made up the five-man squad. The mission was to capture General Sherman alive. Deadly force was to be used only as a last resort.

They arrived at Sherman’s encampment while the light was still sufficient to enable identification of their target, but close enough to nightfall so that the Yanks would not give chase into the dense, dark woods. They planned to enter Sherman’s tent from the rear, without being detected.

As they were crawling through the thicket, using a count-off to effect alternating movements, Purvis saw a large rat scurry across the route and, as he was about to announce his next move, he heard the bloodcurdling rattle, and then he saw it: about twenty inches from his face was the biggest diamondback rattler he had ever seen—coiled and ready to strike. His terror intensified when Purvis realized he was between the rattler and the rat it had been chasing for its supper.

Lem, in the next position over, had also heard the chilling rattle, and when Purvis failed to count off, correctly assessed the dire situation they were in. He advised Purvis that his one move was to hurl himself up and away from the rattler and, since this would get the attention of the Yanks, they would have to abandon the mission and make a beeline across the creek and into the woods.

They made it back to camp without suffering any casualties—mission unaccomplished, of course. There was talk around the camp that Sherman was intended to be part of an officer prisoner-of-war swap.

Purvis survived the war and returned home. Shortly after the war’s end, he read an article in the local paper by a Major Sanders, recounting his Civil War experiences. The article alleged that he served as General Lee’s personal chef, that he was captured in the summer of 1862 when he visited a chicken farm to procure provisions and spent the remainder of the war in a Yankee prison camp.

Revenir

(return to normal)

I finished my econ assignment and took TIME to LOOK at LIFE magazine before heading home to catch the ten o’clock news on TV. I held the exit door for a young lady who had approached at the same time. She said a lilting, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I replied.

Joining her just felt like the most natural thing to do, and as we walked she said, “So, they didn’t have to kick you out at closing time tonight.”

After recovering from my surprise at having been noticed, I replied, “I finished early this evening.”

“You’re usually still settled in around this time. I have the feeling you wouldn’t mind being locked in overnight,” she said.

“You’re evidently a regular, but I don’t recall seeing you,” I said.

“Most of my library time is spent in the music wing—I’m a music major. My name is Audrey,” she added.

“I’m Penn—written with two Ns. I had no idea there was a separate wing for music.”

“The lawyers have their own building, but we poor music people get only a wing. But it’s nice—no complaints. It’s obviously well-situated, since you were unaware of its existence.”

“Well, this is me,” she said, as we arrived at her residence hall. “Are you nearby?”

“No, I go back in the direction from which we came,” I replied.

“Nice meeting you—I’ll give you a whisper next time I see you at the library,” she said.

“Nice meeting you—that would be music to my ears.”

Art history, one of my more interesting classes, covered the cool cave drawings from the Alley Oop era, up through the pop art of green Coca-Cola bottles. It would not be illogical to assume that a lot of art of the Oop era was lost due to the predilection of Ooola and her fellow cavewomen to change wall décor from time to time. Most of the library compilations of great artworks are truly impressive. Some are in glossy coffee table-books; others are pocket-sized. These volumes have the capacity to enhance our understanding of and appreciation for the different art forms: oils on canvas, watercolors on paper, Japanese woodblock painting, and sculptures of stone and metal. We have a Whistler, The Scream, The Twittering Machine; through it all, The Thinker remains unperturbed.

In the middle of these thoughts, I felt a hand on my shoulder, and there, true to her word, was Audrey.

“Hope I didn’t startle you,” she said. “At least my timing is good—you’re not looking at dirty pictures,” she added.

“No such luck,” I replied. “They probably keep PENTHOUSE in a vault in the basement, under lock and key.”

We left the library and headed for the snack bar in the Student Union. Audrey had had very little for dinner and was now having an attack of the munchies. The place was crowded, but we managed to find a couple of seats. She ordered a green salad and a chocolate milkshake; I got fries and an iced tea. After sprinkling some condiments on the salad, she went at it with gusto. After a while, she looked up and asked, “What are you majoring in?”

At that moment, I felt for the first time the full discomposing effect of those large, luminous Bette Davis eyes. I recovered after a few seconds, had a sip of tea, and managed to say “Economics, minor in history. Do you have a minor with your music?”

“I hope to get a degree in education. My folks strongly urge it, and I don’t disagree. How do you like art history? I’m thinking of taking it next semester.”

“The teacher spices up lessons with anecdotes about the artists and how events of various periods affected certain works; I like it. But I have no idea what the final exam will be. If we’re required to create an original work, I’m in big trouble.”

“This salad is too much for me to finish—like some?”

“No, thanks—like some fries?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” she said as she had a few.

The place was rather noisy, so we finished our drinks and ventured outside.

“When did you decide that music was your calling?”

“I’ve been interested in music of some form for as long as I can recall. My folks paid for violin lessons, but never encouraged me to pursue music as a career. I was very interested in chemistry for a short while in high school and did a paper on the life of Marie and Pierre Curie.”

“I had a...