My girlfriend Jamie Ball put up a bunch of pictures of our trip to Tennessee. I thought I'd put up a few specifically about one incident that may interest some specific people who know my interest in the Civil War.
In the late '90s, I had the privilege of speaking with author Shelby Foote for a while. We spoke a bit about the craft of writing; about the importance of telling a story rather than just throwing out names and dates. I asked who his favorite general was, and interestingly he said Grant. He pointed out Grant's fascinating personality, and how he is misunderstood as a drunk and a butcher. He pointed out the Vicksburg Campaign as an example of his skills in leadership and strategy.
As we wrapped up, I asked him what battlefield I should visit. I like to joke that he told me to get lost, because he told me to go to Shiloh, to choose any path to walk into the woods. Then, he said I should leave the path and walk deeper into the woods until I don't know where I am. Then I'm exactly where I should be.
Ever since that conversation I have intended to go to Shiloh and follow his advice. I finally got that chance, but it began to rain. Jamie and I had driven across the entire state of Tennessee to get there, (from Chattanooga, another one of Grant's victories,) so we weren't about to give up. We had gotten lost along the way and wound up at the Jack Daniel's distillery, but that wasn't going to count.
We found a path, and waited for a break in the rain. As we wandered down the path, we heard distant roar of thunder in the clouds. We feared being hit by lightning, but yet it was somehow perfect as it resembled the rumbling of cannon. We got to a monument tucked away in some small clearing, and Jamie waited there while I walked into the woods.
I reached a point where I could no longer see a path, and wasn't exactly sure how to get back. So I figured that was it. The thunder was still rolling overhead, and besides that, it was silent, save for a few birds emerging after the rain. I listened for whatever it was I was supposed to gather out there.
I had come to Tennessee to see my dying uncle, but he had passed just before I got there. He was only 60 years old, 14 years older than I am. He was also one of my earliest influences in writing, being a nonfiction author himself. I wrote my very first script when coming back from his wedding in the 1970s. I felt like this had somehow come full circle.
The one thing I felt was the moisture of the air. In Tennessee, after a rainfall, the humidity remains giving a sensation to both body and smell. I closed my eyes and let that moment sink in. The booms continued overhead and I tried to shake the fear of being stricken until I one of the booms was a distant gunshot. Someone was probably hunting, and it added to the historical nostalgia, but I didn't want to be the subject of an accident, so I hurried back.
There was Jamie, wearing a hood whose sharp angles looked like she was hiding horns coming toward me. That's about as much meaning as I'm going to get out of that journey, but it's a journey I had to take, and am glad I did. It had been a perfect time to fulfill the advice I got from one of my literary heroes.
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