A letter from the front

My Dearest Susan,

It is with the greatest pride that I accept this writing assignment. I have been marching along side general Sherman since we left Atlanta on the fifteenth of November in the year eighteen-hundred and sixty-four. My desires to impart my opinions and speculations upon your gentle ear stem from the incomparable fine letter writing classes we were all required to take upon our joining of the service, and my hideous, albeit humble appearance. You see, a distinguished gentleman such as myself, with a diminished physical appearance, at times finds it difficult to find the beaux that he so desires. It is truly my sincerest wish that you take no offense to my Christening of yourself, the humble reader, as Susan, but you see the other soldiers, good men as they may be, have a tendency to lampoon my, well lets just say my misfortunes with the fairer sex.

It is with the greatest honor that I accept you into this war torn and ragged mind. You get a new prospective on life when you are standing on the front lines with a rifle pointed at your nose. Most notably when that front line is a literal line in which you are standing , and the gun you are staring at is nearly close enough to touch. I reach out my frail palm and touch the cold barrel, and it's just as cold as you might suppose it to be. Its as cold as this this frozen heart of mine. Colder than Lake Corn back home. No matter how hot it was outside, you could count on Lake Corn to be cooler than a pie cooling on the window sill in January. Also, the window is open enough to let cold air and sometimes snow into the house. That's a lot of cold on account of a pie.

Now, I'm a simple man with simple needs. I like my fields tilled and my hoes clean. But there comes a time when a man questions what is absolutely necessary in life. Sometimes a man can benefit greatly from taking a step back and rationalizing the idea that maybe he can do without an expensive gold pocket watch that plays selections from Mozart and Bach. Maybe he doesn't need to load his musket with bullets made only of silver in case he were to meet some sort of man wolf. Ohh, I suppose these are the things one realizes with age.

I hate to do you the disservice of cutting this letter short, but General Sherman says we're approaching a town, and you know when we approach a town, well, there's torches to be lit.

Yours for all eternity,

Edgar J. Harper

Civil War Soldier