I can’t help but think of my great-great-grandfather, Hugh Matthews, during times such as these. You’ve all heard enough about my kayaking adventures, references to bear encounters in the wilderness, and other outdoor exploits, but all of those pale in comparison to what my grandfather had to endure. This sunny, Friday, March 27th, finds me at the dinning room table – my home office away from the studio. When writing here, I have a lit candle and a wee dram of scotch to tickle the creative spirit. After capture at Cold Harbor, Hugh Matthews was a prisoner at Camp Sumter, better known as Andersonville, deep in the bowels of Georgia – and I use that description, purposely. The place was an abyss of flesh. Parceled out over 26.5 acres, upwards of 40,000 prisoners occupied the bare ground. Yes, bare ground. There were no tents, huts, barracks, or shelters. Each Union soldier, using shirts, coats, or rags, had to fashion a swale of dirt into a home for as many months as he could survive, or like 13,000 men, die. There was a creek that was used for water, washing and toileting. Some men would dig with their bare hands to find springs adding to the water supply, only to have them muddied and vilified as more men tried to use them. We grouse and claim hardship for being at home, with food, shelter, a place to sleep, and diversions – understood, some have it better than others, but most have more than the earth beneath their feet. My grandfather survived his many months at Andersonville, and I will survive this episode of history. If you’re able, recount the heroics of your family who built a better life for each generation. I guarantee, at some point in your family’s quest, there were circumstances that challenged the lineage. I toast Grandfather Matthews, and I toast my children as they, too, have learned hardships come and go. Breathe into the moment and care for the human inside you, and the humanity surrounding you.
What a horrible horrible place. I’m amazed that the man in the photo could even still be alive.