Stats, Facts and Disease

          Statistics tell you information. They tell you simple facts that can frequently be bent to your will to win an argument or be used the same way to prove you wrong. They tell you something but they don’t tell you a story.

          When you read that three quarters of all Civil War deaths were due to disease, it tells you what happened but it does not tell you the story. In today’s antiseptic world, the idea of that many deaths of young and previously healthy people to the ravages of disease seems preposterous. But it happened and the dead piled up. If you accept the death toll of the Civil War as 600,000 soldiers, then roughly 450,000 men died of disease during that conflict.

          Hilliard’s Legion was an Alabama outfit that was raised by Henry Washington Hilliard, a famous politician of antebellum Alabama. The Legion originally included five battalions of soldiers, one of which was an artillery unit and another a cavalry unit. The cavalry battalion was transferred and merged with a Georgia outfit to become the 10^th Confederate Cavalry Regiment and is thus removed from this discussion.

          The rest of the Legion was raised between March and July of 1862, roughly 3,000 men split into four battalions. A part of the artillery battalion became an independent command but the remainder of the artillery battalion fought as infantry.

          And as soon as they came together in Montgomery, Alabama in the summer of 1862, the Legionaires started dying.

          A sample from the Third Battalion, one of the Legion’s three original infantry battalions: Private of Company B Miles Thrower enlisted April 7, 1862 and died just more than two months later on June 12. Irwin Raley, a private in the same company as Thrower, enlisted the same day as Thrower but died earlier, on June 7.

          Jones Roberts was a Private in Company C, enlisting April 5, 1862. He died October 20. Jesse Smith was a 23-year-old when he enlisted on May 3 of that year and was placed in Company C. He died October 25.

          Hilliard’s Legion did not see combat until September 20, 1863 at Chickamauga, about 18 months after the Legion was formed. Plenty of its members died during the attack on Horseshoe Ridge at Chickamauga but those deaths were different. The Legion’s dead at Horseshoe Ridge were the result of rifle fire.

          The diseases that thinned the ranks of the Legion and Civil War armies on both sides were due to poor sanitary conditions and other like issues that we have mostly eradicated today. The leading killer in Civil War camps was dysentery and it is difficult to think of a more miserable killer. But there were other maladies that killed.

          Still in the Third Battalion, Privates James B. Cox, James M. Graves and Raley all died of the measles. Private Green B. Knowles’ cause of death is listed as Brain Fever.

          We don’t have the exact enlistment date for Van B. Tomme, a Private in Company B, but he enlisted that spring and died the following June 12. John H. Townsend, a private in C Company, enlisted in May and died in December.

          Your Loyal Blogger has bolded the names of the soldiers to emphasize the point that this is a human story. We do not like the Rebel cause today, and for good reason. But the men on the other side of the Civil War, the soldiers in the Union army, suffered the same hardships and died of the same diseases.

          The American Civil War was fought over the issue of slavery. The war and the resulting amendments to our Constitution ended slavery in our part of North America, thank Goodness. Slavery and the end of slavery were the primary cause and effect of the war. A less-discussed result of the Civil War was a better understanding of the importance of mass sanitation. Society benefitted from what we learned about getting rid of sewage and human waste.

          It is true that statistics are facts, but not all facts are statistics. Some facts are human stories.

          Thanks for reading.

Upcoming Civil War Institute

          The schedule for the 2017 Civil War Institute at Gettysburg College is online at http://www.gettysburg.edu/cwi/conference/schedule.dot and next year’s program will be a great one. Your Loyal Blogger is irritated that the event is still better than half a year away.

          Readers can view the program through the link above so there is no point in reprinting the sked here but there isn’t much point to writing a blog without expressing an opinion. Thus, a few points are offered.

          James Ogden, the National Park Service Historian at the Chickamauga/Chattanooga National Military Park and a favorite of this blogger, will speak about the siege of Chattanooga following the Battle of Chickamauga. This is going to be a great talk. Few historians, if there are any at all, have mastered their subject as well as Ogden has his.

          Penn State University’s Carol Reardon, whose book Pickett’s Charge in History and Memory stands among the finest books YLB has read, regardless of subject, will lead a tour of Antietam and serve on a panel that will discuss myths about Civil War battle tactics.

          Every once in a while historians need a new idea to write about. The reputations of historic figures ebb and flow because of that. This could become true for Confederate General Braxton Bragg, who has been a punch line for an endless number of  one-liners (or cheap shots, depending upon your view point) through the years. YLB sees Bragg’s tenure as commander of the Army of Tennessee as a failure of leadership style, but also believes many of Bragg’s problems stemmed from having officers in his army who frequently didn’t feel like following orders. Thus, Earl Hess’ presentation, Rethinking Braxton Bragg, promises to be fascinating.

          You can read the schedule yourself and see that the Institute will be another winner next year. Interested? The contact info is available through the link. Hope to see you there.

          Thanks for reading.

Jim Bowie, a soldering iron and a finger in the eye: My day with docs

          The question is pretty much always the same but you don’t like to ask it of yourself. You wait until the question is right in front of you, asking itself in loud, belligerent terms: Can you handle it?

          When you’re young, loud and ignorant, the answer is that of course you can handle it. Head a little further down the road, maybe reaching your thirties, and you answer, “Yeah, sure, I guess so.” And when your hair has more grey than any other color, your answer is always, “What choice do I have? I’ll handle it.”

          In the case of Your Loyal Blogger the answer is usually a little different: The answer is usually, “I don’t want to handle it.” Unfortunately for YLB, this is not a legitimate answer and that’s the bad news.

          The good news is that Mrs. Leeway usually says something like, “You idiot, go see a doctor,” and then the whole question of dealing with it comes into play.

          Yesterday, in the final moments before my surgeon began sticking, carving and, yes, burning my nose, I told her that I am not good with needles or knives. She immediately jammed a needle into my face and said, “Little pinch.” She moved from spot to spot, leaving some finger or other jammed into my right eye as she numbed the targeted area with needles and some kind of buzz juice, which medical professionals term a, “numbing agent.”

          Then the three docs all walked out for a while, probably to double-check on our insurance company, which nobody in the office had ever heard of. Back came the Doctoral Trio and, I have to assume, out came the knives. Truth be told, you don’t feel much if the buzz juice has done its job. A little pressure where the carving is under way and the standard finger in the eyeball, but not much else.

          Once the carving was done, the burning was next and that seemed odd. In the kitchen, I usually burn things before I start carving them. Not so in this case. The boss doctor pulled out a soldering iron, or what looked like one, and started cauterizing (med-speak for burning) the open wound in order to stem the flow of blood.

          You know you’ve lived a full life when you hear and smell your own flesh sizzle. I commented on the matter at about the time the cook-off reached its zenith, but got no reaction at all from the three medical professionals in the room. The women to whom I had entrusted my health and well-being. The surgeons.

          Geez, one fake laugh at that moment might have been nice.

          They slapped some gauze and tape across the offended nose and sent me out to sit with Mrs. Leeway while they inspected and detected the piece of my flesh they had removed, then called me back for more needles, knives and soldering irons. More jabbing, cutting and, of course, burning.

This time they were not fooling around. They gave me so much buzz juice that my upper teeth went numb. “Too bad none of you are dentists,” I said. “My teeth are numb.” In response, they dropped a bigger piece of paper over my face, jammed a finger in my eye and resumed the Jim Bowie treatment to my face.

“We’re going to move closer to your eye this time,” the boss surgeon said. I was confident my eye would be safe. Her finger was still planted smack on top of it. To damage the eye, she’d have to cut her own finger.

More digging, more burning. At one point I felt something and mentioned it, generating a brief, “Um hum,” from the boss doc. It seemed like a breakthrough after the humorless silent treatment I’d been getting.

They sent me out to the lobby a second time while they turned my flesh into another science project. I reread the six-month old edition of Sports Illustrated I’d gone through the last time they sent me out. It was still full of old news.

Finally they called me back with the good news that they had gotten all the bad stuff out of my face and that it was now time for the sewing. I asked how many stiches I’d need and they told me that it was really just one because they were going to sew me up like a baseball, one continuous string. Some would be under the skin, some visible. The stuff would dissolve in time and there would be minimal scaring.

Now, Your Loyal Blogger has had stitches before, but this was the first time the old baseball stitch has been used. None of the educated professionals in the room (other than me) were aware that Vin Scully is retiring or what that means. They were somehow aware that the Cleveland Indians had clinched a playoff berth. But they did not seem to link these comments with their own comment about the baseball stitch they were about to perform on Your Loyal Blogger’s face.

By that time, I didn’t care. They’d put the soldering iron down and that was good enough for me. On the way home, I regaled Mrs. Leeway with tales of the operating room and she said, “I think I hear a blog coming.” She was right, as usual.

Thanks for reading and, please do yourself a favor: Use lots of sunscreen and wear a hat when outdoors.

A book review

Review of The 1966 Green Bay Packers: Profiles of Vince Lombardi’s Super Bowl I Champions

Edited by George Bozeka

McFarland & Company, Inc

          This book goes deeper in depth than any I’ve seen on the Packers of that era. Any sports fan will enjoy the close up look at each player and coach that George Bozeka and his team of researchers have jammed into this book.

          It is true that every team is the sum of its parts but this book breaks down each part that made up the Packers organization that Lombardi led. From the stadiums where the Packers played home games to the reporters that covered the team, every part of that first Super season is covered in real detail.

          I was especially taken by the section covering The Press. Sports journalism was different in those days and the men who wrote the words, shot the pictures and called the games had different relationships with the Packers than the men and women who do the same jobs for professional sports teams today. In that sense, this book is a look back at an era in sports when things were different.

          Don’t get the idea that this is a book of nostalgia with longing for a bygone era. Instead, this is a text book for the study of one of professional football’s greatest champions.

Words

                Language can be a tricky thing. Words that can mean the same thing sometimes do not and the user can innocently stir up all kinds of trouble with a word used without care. You can cause great consternation with a minor word substitution.

Put another way, if you mix insult with innuendo you can be tossed out the window. That’s a wordy way of saying you can get defenestrated, but it has no bearing on our topic. We’re talking about, uh, words.

In the 1850 United States Census, three families who were likely related through the husbands, lived in Montgomery County, Alabama. At least two of the sons of these men served in the Confederate Army.

James B. Merawether was 44 at the time the census counter came to the house to get the population information. James’ wife, whose name appears to have been spelled Sopiah, had given birth to eight children. The family’s real estate had a value of $9,000. That was a very fine sum in 1850.

Thomas Merawether was 38 when the information was collected. His wife, Matilda, had given birth to six children, all of which were under the age of 10 when the census statistician noted the family’s names. This family’s real estate was valued at $6,000. Less than the value of the land held by James and Sopiah, but still a considerable holding for the era.

William Merawether and his wife Tabitha were just getting started in 1850. William was 25. He and Tabitha had three children, all under the age of four years at the time of the census visit. Still, the family real estate was valued at $5,000.

Here come those words to make their point.

James and Sopiah were the eldest of the three couples and their land value was the highest. James was listed as a “planter.” Next in both age and land value came Thomas and Matilda. Thomas was categorized as a “planter.”

William and Tabitha, the youngest couple, had the fewest children. Their land was valued slightly less than either of the other Merawether families. William was classified as a “farmer.”

Nothing wrong with farmers. If we had more farmers and fewer politicians, we’d be better off as a society. But, do you see it? The $6,000 land holder was a planter and the $5,000 owner was a farmer. A subtle difference in language use shades the reader’s understanding of the text and the view of the individuals involved.

Young writers have a tendency to use too many words. In today’s world of unlimited word space, developing writers can really crank up the vocabulary and spew words at a frantic rate. But, like the boxer who can hit the hardest with the shortest punch, the writer’s short passage can generate the best impact. Thus, each word in a short passage becomes more important.

Even in the case of a census sheet, words tell a story. Their use is important.

Thanks for reading.

Timothy Morgan: Believe it or not ...

          Private Timothy F. Morgan is an answer to a trivia question. Many people will refuse to believe you but Morgan’s story, so average for the most part, has a surprise ending.

          When we’re done, feel free to check it out yourself.

          Morgan was an Alabama resident when the Civil War broke out. We find his cause repellant today, but he felt the need to volunteer as a soldier in the Confederate States Army. That’s an important point. He was a soldier in the CSA.

          Specifically, Morgan (who was a resident of Randolph County) joined Hilliard’s Legion sometime in the spring of 1862. He is shown on the Record Roll at Montgomery, Alabama on April 5, of that year as a member of the Legion’s Second Battalion, Company A. At the time of that recording, Morgan was on sick furlough.

          A Private, Morgan became a soldier in the 59^th Alabama Infantry in November of 1863 when the Legion was split into two regiments and a smaller battalion. The Legion’s first action, at Chickamauga, was so costly that its surviving members were grouped into the 59^th and 60^th regiments, plus the smaller 23^rd Battalion, Alabama Sharpshooters. The three units fought together in a brigade commanded by Brigadier General Archibald Gracie.

          Gracie’s command served in General James Longstreet’s detachment that saw action in Tennessee before eventually moving with Longstreet to serve in the Army of Northern Virginia. 1864 was a long, drawn out struggle for the AoNV and 1865 did not start out any better.

          Morgan survived, somehow, until he was seriously wounded. It appears he suffered his wound at the battle of Hatcher’s Run, March 25, 1865. There is a graphic description of the nature of Morgan’s injury available on line, but I’ll spare the details. Suffice is to say that Morgan died, apparently at Lincoln Hospital in Richmond, Virginia, on April 5, 1865.

          Average so far, but hold on. The kicker is coming.

          Morgan, a Confederate veteran of three years’ experience, was buried April 6, 1865. Morgan had fought at Chickamauga, Knoxville, Drury’s Bluff and Petersburg before his luck ran out. Read it again: Morgan was a part of the blood-stained Confederate victory at Chickamauga and as a member of the 59^th he played a role in the violent Confed win at Bean’s Station. Morgan survived the meat-grinding months in the trenches in front of Petersburg before finally suffering a terrible wound at Hatcher’s Run.

          The Union burial service did not waste much time. Morgan was interred April 6, the day after he passed away. You can visit him today. His grave marker is easily found and, from the image I have seen, the marker is in good condition.

          You can find the grave of CSA Private Timothy F. Morgan in the Arlington National Cemetery.

          Thanks for reading.

A year to the day...

            Hard to believe, but it has been a full year now. A dozen months, to the day.

          A year ago this morning, I woke up alone in a hotel room, knowing I would not be going to the racetrack. I’d skip the elimination rounds at the drag race and drive home instead. I had to figure out a way to manage the pain, balance the need for pain relief meds with the need for a clear head while driving in order to get home safely.

          One year ago Amy met me at the door and asked if I was going to let her handle things. If not, she said, she would take the dog and live in a local hotel. Exhausted and unable to stand up straight, I acquiesced.

          It was the start of a long road. I was on my back for the next three weeks and only walked with the aid of crutches for three weeks more. Luckily for me, the next race on my schedule was during the Labor Day Weekend and I didn’t have to miss any work.

          It took seven months of physical rehab before the docs pronounced that I was good to go. Seven months of listening to that damn Ohio State music the personnel at the rehab joint loved to listen to. They sure shut up when Alabama won the national championship football game, I’ll tell you that. I wore my Alabama shirts for several sessions in order to drive the point home, too.

          Two days before I woke up in that hotel room, I felt something odd in my back when I pulled my computer bag out of the trunk of the car. Shrugged it off, you know, like we all do when there is work to be done. But my leg started hurting a bit and that night I was unable to sleep. I tried ice on the leg and on the back, took whatever over-the-counter pain stuff I had with me and tried to sleep but the discomfort did not get better.

          I had to skip my normal trackside activities the next day in order to conserve my steps. It hurt too much to walk. I even left my camera at the hotel because I couldn’t carry it. Finally, late in the afternoon I reached the point where I couldn’t deal with the pain and asked for directions to the nearest hospital. I hitched a ride to my car in a golf cart.

          Naturally, I’d driven my own car to the event because it was roughly an hour away from home. I mention this because the Mustang has a manual transmission. The left leg, the sore one, had to work the heavy clutch. Ow.

          The hospital ER operated very efficiently, I have to say. They were geared up to deal with fireworks accidents but I was whisked in very quickly because nobody in the area had blown their fingers off yet. I was x-rayed, diagnosed (close but not quite exactly right, as it turned out) and sent off with a mild pain killer. They couldn’t give me anything real good because I admitted that I had to drive myself back to the hotel. Got a prescription, which I filled the next morning before the drive home.

          Couldn’t see the doctor until Tuesday, by which time I was just about screaming. Got some more meds and a recommendation that I start physical therapy. But the doc’s office staff didn’t see the need to worry about PT and I finally, two days later, had to chew them fairly well in order to get them to call and set up an appointment. It had to be done that way in order to appease the insurance company.

          Ended up in the local ER before I ever got to the PT appointment because the pain just kept getting worse. Not sure how many people actually get relief at that ER. I didn’t. They gave me some morphine, which didn’t work. But I did get a real nice bill for the visit.

          We learned a lot about insurance during this whole thing.

          Between the two doctor visits and the second trip to the ER, I finally got meds that allowed me relief from the pain roughly half the day. I knew that all I was really doing was masking whatever the real problem was and that it would take therapy to undo whatever it was I’d done.

          Eventually, the therapy started working and I made it to the Labor Day race, where the media center was on the fourth floor of a building that had no elevator. Once, while slowly lumbering my way down the stairs, a wiseacre started singing the theme from the old TV show Petticoat Junction: “There’s Uncle Joe, he’s movin’ kinda slow at the Junction,” this guy intoned.

          All I could do was laugh and, believe me, laughing felt good.

          The PT folks got me better but it was my wonderful wife Amy who got me through this whole mess. I took a chunk out of her retirement because she had to work as a nurse, driver, cook and psychologist to get me through it all, especially those first few weeks. I guess all those years of teaching second graders came in handy, huh? So, a big thanks to my Sweetie.

          I also need to thank everyone who sent an email or called while I went through all this stuff. It was a difficult time for a while and the notes and calls helped. I’m not too sure I ever said thanks to all of you and that’s why I’ve written this dull blog.

          Thanks!

          And now, on to the next emergency.