There are not so many fond memories from my childhood, nor are there from my early adulthood.  I was not a pretty child, not blessed with a lovely voice or lucky enough to have the popular fashions, and I did not grow into beauty, so many of my remembrances are more bitter than sweet.  Outward elements mean everything when you’re young.  One good memory has surprised me in its staying power, and in its ability to move me to tears even just thinking of it now.

My mother was (and is now) somewhat of a Civil War buff.  She is no expert, but she has retained and exercised her interest in the era so long that she has no doubt accumulated an impressive amount of knowledge.  This interest was strong when I was a teen, and I repeatedly scoffed at her choices of reading and viewing.  Imagine my surprise when I first viewed Ken Burns’ The Civil War and found myself drawn in, not just by the haunting, beautiful score, but by the stories and the information.  Where were these stories when I was in history class?

From the whole long series, what left the most enduring impression on me was the letter written by Sullivan Ballou to his wife Sarah.  Written one week before his death at the first battle of Bull Run, it languished for years in a cache of Rhode Island soldiers’ belongings for years before it made it to her.

The content of the letter is moving, to be sure.  Everyone wants to be loved as Sullivan loved Sarah.  The language, however, is what moves me even now.  Not only what he said, but how he said it.

If only such rich use of the English language were commonplace now…

My very dear Sarah:
The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days—perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write again, I feel impelled to write a few lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more . . .

I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American Civilization now leans on the triumph of the Government and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and sufferings of the Revolution. And I am willing—perfectly willing—to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt . . .

Sarah my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me unresistibly on with all these chains to the battle field.

The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them for so long. And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when, God willing, we might still have lived and loved together, and seen our sons grown up to honorable manhood, around us. I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me—perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar, that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battle field, it will whisper your name. Forgive my many faults and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have often times been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness . . .

But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the gladdest days and in the darkest nights . . . always, always, and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath, as the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by. Sarah do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again . . .