Pickett's Charge - the most-useful metaphor of All Time

I've been to Gettysburg only twice, although for seven years I lived in Baltimore and could have driven there most any weekend.  

The first was around 1957 on a family trip to DC.  I remember two things vividly. Above all, the Electric Map, where lights flashed on and off, marking the different phases of the battle.  Second, I remember staring at a display case in the museum, that had a tray of fused bullets - that is, two minie balls that had met in mid-air from opposite directions.  There was not just one - there were many, and I think I tried to understand how thick the air must have been with shot.

The second was somewhere in the mid-to-late 2000's, when The Nature Conservancy, with whom I was doing contract database work, sent me to Harrisburg, PA for some long-forgotten purpose.  I flew in to Baltimore, saw a couple of friends, then drove up to Gettysburg on my way to Harrisburg (which, come to think of it, was exactly Lee's target of his invasion of the North).  It was winter, and the ground was cold and frosty, so unlike those hot July days in 1863.  I had Little Round Top mostly to myself.  Not sure if the Electric Map was still there.

I stood at "The Angle", at the stone wall at the top of the ridge, looking down from the Union line toward the woods to the west, where the grim boys and their seasoned officers waited, in the brutal early afternoon heat, for the horrible Confederate artillery storm to cease and the Forward March order to sound.

There are the famous lines from Faulkner:  "For every Southern boy, it’s always in his reach to imagine it being 1:00 on an early July day in 1863. The guns are laid. The troops are lined up. The flags are already out of their cases and ready to be unfurled. But it hasn’t happened yet. And he can go back to the time before the war was going to be lost. And he can always have that moment for himself."

In retrospect, it was doomed.

But some of them made it up to and over the wall, including Lo Armistead, who lead his troops forward, knowing that his great good friend Hancock was up there, commanding the men of his Enemy.

But thousands of Union reserves poured into the breach, and that was that.  

Armistead was mortally wounded, and died two days later, never having that last meeting with Hancock (who later ran for President, but that's another story).

But the point of Pickett's Charge as metaphor is that of a forceful wave, focused on a tangible goal, just about reaching that goal and maybe on the verge of achieving it, but, in the end, wavering, halting, and then withdrawing, in the face of an overwhelming opposing force.

I fear that's what we are witnessing, with the Biden presidency.  With the election of Warnock and Ossoff, a new hope (sic) was kindled and a vision of the Possible formed.  A progressive, ambitious agenda is the goal and the troops moved out, focused on the top of the hill.  We are nearing the crest, but two pig-headed Democratic Senators are urging restraint, while the army on the heights, confidently following General McConnell, fires with all guns and, instead of chanting "Fredericksburg, Fredericksburg," is yelling "Trump, Trump".

There are going to be few chances to get this right if the big, revolutionary reconciliation bill fails.  The shame of it, is that Greed, the lust for Power, and proud Ignorance, as it has so many times in the human past, may win the field.

After Gettysburg, the war ground on for two more horrible years.  It appears that, in our day, we only have a little more than one year to get up and over the ridge-line, break thru the defensive line, and drive on to capture Washington, and some of our officers, who should be supporting the Cause, have, for some reason, left the fight.

It's all so sad, at the moment (September, 2021).

 

The Letter that Didn't Change my Life

Now that I am approaching 70, and recovering (I hope) from a back injury that has limited my mobility, Karen suggested that, rather than lying on the couch feeling sorry for myself, I should take this opportunity to go thru many boxes of miscellaneous stuff that I had, for some reason, saved and forgotten about.  In other words: time to commence The Purge.

Amid all the old photos, letters, receipts, documents and assorted memorabilia (some of which I did not simply recycle), I encountered one letter that I was amazed to have saved, since it represents My Alternative Life That Didn't Happen.  Here's the tale.

In 1982, a multi-year relationship had ended, as she returned to her east-coast life and family, and I remained in Portland - 30 years old, unattached, and drinking cheap wine.

My father died in 1983.  I had spent many weeks that summer, sitting with him in a hot hospital room in our home-town, listening to the horrifying sound of bubbling liquid with each labored breath.  He never spoke, but only moaned when the staff had to turn him, or pump out his lungs.  It was gruesome and, after it was over, I was a shell of a person.

By early 1984, I was ready to feel like a human being again.  At my local REI, I saw an advertisement for a small-group bicycle tour to New Zealand, and that sounded right.  I requested and was granted a month leave-of-absence from my programming job, and that trip, in April 1984, was very good.  In my files, I found a batch of memorabilia and photos (including a postcard I had written and mailed to myself from Picton, New Zealand, that said "Hi guy.  You had a great time and I'm here now.", which I had not seen all these years).  It was a watershed trip.

Back in Portland, I was ready to embrace Big Change.  

One day, while scanning ads in Computerworld, I saw my chance.  It was a notice from the Hopi Nation, seeking a programmer to move to Arizona and live with them, and help with their data-processing needs.  I wrote to them, explaining that I was the Perfect candidate: I had lots of programming experience, no attachments to Portland, and, above all, great respect for their history and their ways.  

The only hitch was that they sought someone experienced in the C language.  I carefully explained that I was not genuinely experienced, but I had taken a C class, and had done the basic exercises.  I further explained that I was very good at learning new programming languages (this was true), and had total confidence that I could be quickly productive for them.

Subsequently, they wrote back saying that they really did require C experience, and had offered the position to someone else.  With that door closed, I proceeded to work on changes in Portland.

By the beginning of August, change had happened.

I had quit my job, and accepted my first assignment as a Contract Programmer.

I put a personal ad in the local 'alternative' weekly, and received several responses from interesting women (one of whom turned out to be my companion for the next 3+ decades - that's a "whole 'nother story", as they say).  

I was on a new journey.

Then, postmarked August 17, 1984, was a follow-up letter from the Hopi Nation.  The gist of it was (as you no doubt suspect), "the guy we accepted for the position decided he didn't want to move to Arizona - are you still interested?"

So, one day in 1984, I took that letter, shoved it into a file cabinet with other papers, and mostly forgot about it, until this morning.

Life is all about timing.