June 1968. Newly signed on as a summer ranger at Gettysburg – 11 guys and me, we appeared in our brand-new Hart Schaffner and Marx green gabardine uniforms. Veteran ranger and summer supervisor Nick and the savvy locals—Nora and Mary and Colonel Sheads—provided our training. Lots of history. Lots of charts and maps and lists. Lots of jokes. Lots of protocols. One of which has lingered forever in my consciousness:
Never never indulge in ridiculing visitors even after they’ve left the Information Desk. The moment that newly-arrived tourists catch knowing smiles or overhear pointed gossip their visit to the Park will be tainted. If—as staff—we can mock one set of folks, we’ll likely subject the next set to the same cynicism or criticism.
Dennis and I even managed to keep it together when a joker of a visitor came up to the Desk and said: I am a descendant of Father Corby (the Irish Brigade’s priest) and Jennie Wade (the only civilian killed in Gettysburg.) We said, “Sure, here’s where you’ll find Father Corby’s statue.” The long, sloping sidewalk into the Cyclorama Building gave us ample opportunity to size up each family, each busload of visitors. To consider but keep our considerations private.
If my life depended on it now, I could not spiel out the order of military groupings: company, regiment, brigade, division, corps, army. Or officer rankings. But that little tidbit about public courtesy—at least public caution—stays with me. And forewarns and forearms me.
In the end, it isn’t about who’s in earshot. Embarrassing others or myself. It’s seeing the humanity in everyone around us. It’s believing that they are doing the best they can in their circumstances, with their dreams and fears.
It’s a lesson that I’ve needed to learn repeatedly. Made all the more real and pointed as I grow older, slower, less certain, more awkward.
And I’m thinking now of the people I saw as I traveled to and from the UK this month—the hundreds on planes and in airports. Recalling the internal critiques I allowed myself. And then—when I smiled at a person I’d disparaged in my mind—I saw life and joy and anxiety and realness. And myself. ©
