That’s all I know about everything; I guess it isn’t much. As for my parents, they seemed to get on better today than I’ve ever seen them, holding hands and all. Maybe something happened yesterday, but I can’t imagine what. Anyway, I try not to worry about it. I don’t think I’m hard or anything, but it’s really their problem and I haven’t got anything to say about it. Either they figure it out and stay together or they don’t and split up. That’s the whole point; at least I think that’s what Bethrah was saying although it’s difficult to accept. I mean it seems horrible that the most you can do for people you love is leave them alone.

Dewey Willson III

WE WERE STANDING on the Ridge looking down into the sheer cut called Harmon’s Draw. The General was a few steps away from us, barely old enough to be my father, in gray pants with yellow piping, his shirt sleeves rolled up past his elbows. His hair was white and long.

We watched the Yankees advance under a canopy of dust, coming down the paved Highway, passing the statue of the General, down the main street through Sutton, past Mister Thomason’s store and then up the hill toward us. Sweating horses pulled cannon; the men marched in order and even at this distance, I could see the faces of each man shaded under his blue visor. The General stood quietly watching them. “Hold your fire until you’re sure you can’t miss,” he kept saying.

The Yankees saw us and charged, rushing up the hill, yelling. As we shot them they broke into little pieces—they were made of blue ice—and the pieces melted, changing from blue to red blood, flowing down the hill in many rivers.

At the bottom of the hill the blood collected into the gulleys in the soil, forming pools, scabbed over, grew hard, and before my eyes, the shapes of men began to grow up, fully uniformed, fully armed, broke loose their roots, and began to charge once more up the hill toward us.