ImaginationImages

By GEORGE J. BANCROFT
Copyright 1990

In several days, in religious ceremony and by the giving of gifts, we celebrate
Christmas. For many it is a joyous time; others — the homeless, the poor and
those who live alone — live it as just one more day in their lives.
But there is another significance to the day. More than 200 years ago, poorly
fed and poorly clothed men spent Christmas Day marching along the course of the
Delaware River toward Trenton, N.J. Their goal was to engage there the Hessian
troops fighting for the British. They didn’t know that their efforts would be
one of the greatest gifts given to mankind; that their struggle would prove a
key event in establishing a nation of free men.

Most of them crossed the Delaware from what is now Washington Crossing State
Park, Bucks County, where each year a re-enactment of their crossing draws
thousands of spectators from many states. There were some who did not make the
original crossing, however. They lie today in graves along the Delaware in the
upper portion of that park.

There are an unknown number of men there — among America’s first Unknown
Soldiers — and the identity of only one of them is certain. Viewing the graves,
one imagines and wonders what kind of men they were, to confront a superior
enemy again and again, suffering a string of battlefield defeats, and then not
knowing the outcome of the battle for which they’d given their lives in
anonymous heroism while awaiting the call to action.

Imagine you are one of those men, a Captain James Moore from New York, friend
of, and likely commanded by, a young Alexander Hamilton. It is to your grave,
legend has it, that Hamilton later returned to order a tombstone erected.
Imagine it is Christmas 1776, and you are chronicling your days in a letter to
be posted to your parents — Benjamin and Cornelia Moore of New York. Though
just 24 years and 8 months old, you have accompanied Gen. Washington and his
army through a disastrous five months since the signing of the Declaration of
Independence in Philadelphia. Imagine you’re cold, sick, tired and hungry. And
so you write:

******************************************

Dear father,
It is cold here in this sylvan setting … too cold for the men to voice
complaint. Least of all I, quartered in this brownstone home at the base of a
large hill, should bemoan my circumstances.

Many among us, including I, are ill now for some days. It is the camp fever. I
would venture that it is brought on by the unceasing cold, by the lack of
shelter from the sharp sleet, by the scant rations.

The five months since the signing in Philadelphia have gone poorly for us. We’ve
retreated here in near disgrace from defeats on the far side of the Delaware.
General Washington’s July call for an inspired resistance to an unrelenting
enemy, who offers us only perpetual enslavement should we fail, does not now
warm our hearts, fill our bellies nor put shoes upon our feet.

The summer and autumn have treated us cruelly. There was the dreadful loss of
600 dead and 1,000 captured on Long Island.

And the mid-November fall of Fort Washington, with 2,000 men and their arms,
dampened the fires of resolve in many of our hearts.

It was but several days later that Gen. Greene harrowingly escaped capture at Fort Lee upon the
Palisades. He was forced to abandon significant quantities of arms, food, tents
and blankets before joining his forces to our remnant of an army at Hackensack.

Father, the General told us in November that we lost 5,000 of our forces in this
scant time. The discussion turned not on if we should retreat across New
Jersey, but how and to where. I can answer that last question, because I write
to you from the where to which we fled.

We winter on the western shore of the Delaware. The aforementioned hill serves
our lookouts well, giving them a clear view of the Delaware, across which we
know are British forces and their Hessians.

But, to resume this chronicle: We marched from Hackensack to Newark, the rear
guard burning the bridge across which we fled. Our desertions were many, and the
General was most discouraged in his futile attempts to secure reinforcements at
that time. Those who did join us now suffer as greatly as I, or even more, as
most of them are encamped here with neither walls nor roof to shelter them
against the season.

We exited Newark as the British entered at November’s close. The Maryland and
New Jersey militia took their leave of us as scheduled, once we reached New
Brunswick. This loss of hundreds weighed heavily upon the General, but his
dedication did not cease, even when others defected to the better fed and paid
British lines.

I must tell you about our own Captain Alexander Hamilton. He was dispatched by
the General to secure all manner of craft to the western shore of the Delaware.
We argued with the General against this action, but he prevailed, believing that
without the boats in our hands, we’d have little need later for any sustenance.
He also employed Gen. Maxwell in this venture.

I must take my leave of this writing now, as I am greatly wearied by this camp
fever. Others among us have lost their battle against it, so I shall seek some
rest before concluding my letter to you … “
‘Til I write again on Christmas morn, your son James

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Capt. Moore very well may have walked among the troops on Christmas Eve and
Christmas Day, possibly assisted by an aide. Although gravely ill, he might have
felt it his duty to appear, to give encouragement to the enlisted, who were
faring at least as poorly as he.

If you were the captain, and took such a walk, you would have seen fighting men
with no shoes, their feet bound in bloody rags. As they slept, you’d see where
they’d sunk into the snow, their body heat melting the icy surface beneath them.
Camp fires would serve only to cast flickering shadows on the faces and bodies
of men obviously more willing to die than surrender to the British. And perhaps
it would have been you, not they, who would be encouraged by the sight of their
silent, shivering valour.

But your walk probably would have been ended prematurely by your wracking cough,
by the weakness which inhabited your body. Camp fever, which we probably would
call pneumonia today, was a wily and powerful enemy. And so you’d make your way
back to the Thompson-Neely House, at the foot of Bowman’s Hill, where the
debates of the officers had already decided the fate of all these men, and the
generations of children to follow. You’d sleep, maybe, then continue your letter:

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Folks,
‘Tis Christmas Day, and I’ve just wakened. As I resume this letter I fear the
fever was emboldened by last night’s venture through the camp. Sheltered by the
stout walls of this house I am, but my body is not strong enough to make use of
even our meagre rations. A number of the men have passed on during the night,
and they shall be put to rest in the cold, frozen soil above the river. The well
among us will march to Trenton, there to engage the Hessians. I fear I shall
not be among them, as it requires all my will and all my strength just to pen
these lines.

But I hasten too much with my recounting of events for you.
It was our own Alexander Hamilton whose troops covered our withdrawal to
Princeton during our autumn retreat. We now numbered just 3,000, not an imposing
enemy for the British, believed to have fourfold that number of soldiers. The
dearth of wagons in which to carry tents, blankets and other materiel forced us
to abandon and destroy such things. It was an action which is now costing us
dearly in health and morale.

Today there is little wool covering our men, and even what linen there is proves
inadequate. Fever of all sorts, even the typhus, infect us now for lack of
proper and clean clothing. And we have no medical supplies nor wrappings, all
being exhausted weeks ago and local apothecaries being unwilling to accept our
money. Now the officers inhabit this stone building and others like it
downriver, but during the retreat we joined with the men in seeking our rest
upon the ground.

I did not inform you that Thomas Paine has been one of our force. Even without
supplies during our retreat, he was not without pen and paper, and each night
forged words of inspiration for us.

As our withdrawal neared its end upon the Delaware’s Jersey shore, the General
returned to the rear guard at Princeton to supervise the burning of bridges and
felling of trees across highways to impede the British. It was on the 8th of
December that we ferried across the Delaware, while our scouts were reporting
General Howe’s march into Trenton. He did not pursue us. And we learned the
wisdom of our commander when the British later were spied along the eastern
banks of the Delaware from Burlington northward, vainly in search of boats.
Reports came to us of British intentions toward Philadelphia, but we could not
defend that city, and so marched northward. And I have been quartered in this
house since, along with three able companions: Capt. William Washington, Lord
Stirling and Lieutenant James Monroe.

Alas, again I must rest my pen …
‘Til the evening, your loving son, James

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Remember, again, that you are Capt. Moore. Consider your companions during this
time: Thomas Paine, author of ringing words which empowered the spirit of
revolution; James Monroe, just 18, later to become a president of the United
States; George Washington, who would become first president of the United
States; Alexander Hamilton, one of the youngest and most brilliant in the
coterie of brilliant men driven to seek freedom from British rule.

You are just 24, and you unknowingly move among and with men who will define the
history of this nation. It was just the past 23rd day of February, 1776, that
you were recommended to be a Captain Lieutenant of Artillery of the Colony of
New York, an appointment which was fulfilled just five days following the
recommendation. And on the following March 14, Alexander Hamilton, himself not
yet 20, is appointed Captain of the Provincial Company of Artillery of the
Colony of New York, and becomes your commanding officer. He will later
characterize you as a “promising officer.”

And there were others in your company, men whose names later would adorn forts,
counties, streets, buildings, monuments and history books. But now, feeling
rested, you return to your writing:

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Father and mother,
It is the British who have more men bearing arms and who are more warmly clothed
and better-fed, but it is we who have the advantage of an inspiration and
courage the British cannot well-comprehend — inspiration and courage born of
our common hunger for freedom.

Taverns refuse our money, leaving the troops starving with just traces of raw
flour for sustenance. I have little wonder that the General can attract so few
volunteers to our cause.

And even now, this bleak and cold Christmas afternoon, when our troops are
marching south to embark for an engagement with the enemy at Trenton, I lie
bound by this fever to a sickbed, the ropes of illness all the tighter since my
foray among the troops last night. We agreed upon formal plans in this abode
where my illness holds me prisoner. Mrs. Neely has been most gracious toward us,
a willing mother and nurse to men young enough to be her sons and old enough to
be her father. I can hope only that we prevail.

They go, 2,400 in number, vowing to win or die. When darkness strikes, they’ll uncover the boats and land in Jersey. Snow is in the air, a northeast wind carving the faces of the men. I
ache, and I’m weary. Perhaps one more rest before concluding this Christmas
missive.

Lovingly until I can write again,

James

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
And if you were Capt. James Moore, you would never again write a word to your
family, chronicling the beginning of a great adventure for mankind. You died
that Christmas Day. And if you had been writing anything, it was never found. In
truth, you did not write this letter, which was fabricated to guide the readers
of this story through time to experience your travail, and your commitment to a
dream.

You never knew the success that began at Trenton, a turning point in the war, a
feat lauded by the British leaders upon their eventual defeat years later. You
were buried that day on the bank at the river’s edge. A nation and a society
were being given the gift of life, and you were a midwife to the delivery, but
you never saw the child’s moment of birth.

You are one of many buried there, and you are the only soldier with an
identifying headstone. Your comrades there in perpetual sleep are unknown,
dreamers willing to risk that they would sleep forever and never see the
fulfillment of their vision.

And you would never know that despite the privations suffered by your fellows
over the five months before the crossing, when Washington’s troops finally had
the Hessians trapped in Trenton, in a spirit of Christmas humanity seldom
matched, they fired their weapons over the heads of their enemies.

Not a single American was slain in the battle. Only you, and your unknown
brethren. Over the years there has been archaeological work at your grave site,
and flags and wreaths regularly are placed there in your honor. A flagpole
springs from a foundation engraved with the names of the 13 Colonies, decorating
your final resting place. Families picnic there, Scouts camp there, and animals
and wildflowers live in profusion.

We do not know if you had married, or had children. We do not know your
education, trade or profession. We can only guess that it was Hamilton who
provided your gravestone. We do not know where in New York you were raised.
But we do know that on Christmas Day, 1776, you died for our nation’s freedom,
away from home and loved ones.

The flowery script on your tombstone at Washington Crossing State Park along the Delaware is the only record of a soldier who died before George Washington’s march on Trenton, N.J.

We wish you a Merry Christmas, and thank you for the many happy holidays you and
your brethren have gifted to those who followed you.

By GEORGE J. BANCROFT

Copyright 1990

In 1980 I set out to be a Christmas tree farmer. I figured I’d buy some
3-year-old seedlings from a mail-order supplier, spend a day wedging them into
my red-clay slate, which we call soil, sit back, and 10 years later rake in a
harvest of at least $20 per tree on an initial investment of 50 cents per tree. At 2,500 trees per acre, it doesn’t take much to figure out I’d be grossing
$50,000 per acre, and with 10 acres, one planted fresh each year, I’d only have
to work maybe 90 days a year, tops, for my take.

For years I’d been driving past tree plantations, and reading about Carbon
County being one of the top five tree-growing counties in
Pennsylvania, itself one of the top five tree-growing states. It couldn’t be that
difficult to grow trees.

At the end of the first cycle, I had just under 100 trees, planted on
1 acre, most of which are too tall or too small to be saleable, and I still
worked for a living, if working on a newspaper can be called work.

I also had a keen appreciation for Christmas trees — the symmetrical kind you
buy at the local garden/supply shop, at the corner gas station, or, in our case,
on the Christmas tree farms that surround our barren property.

My Christmas trees started out as 8-inch twigs, shipped bare root, with a
guarantee. My first order was for 200 trees. I also bought a planting bar to
poke holes in the ground, a special gelatinous substance said to keep the
roots moist through the ages and special vitamin pills — big ones, to foster strong root growth, good circulatory systems and green needles.

My future fortune arrived via UPS in early June. All my wife
and I had to do was go out in the field in the early summer sun and wedge this bunch of
twigs into the ground.

We plotted our planting pattern with a series of strings, crisscrossed at nearly
4-foot intervals.

Then, over two days — one gray and rainy and other sunny and blistering, we
planted our future. Our ground was so tough we broke one shovel handle, and were
left with just the planting bar. That utensil is a heavy steel wedge welded to
the end of a steel bar. Attached is a footrest to let you add weight to your thrusts into the ground.

After two days we were done, blistered, tired and dirty.
Now all we’d have to do would be to keep the weeds down, spray as needed, and in several years start trimming and shaping. Except that it got hot, and nearly half the trees
died within a month. That was disappointing, but not defeating. I simply sent in
a guarantee claim and got a check back several weeks later for the cost of the
trees that died.

Once established, Christmas trees can be expected to grow up to 1 foot a year.
But it’s those first several years that are the toughest. Careful as I was, I
nipped about 10 trees off at blade height with my tractor. They
weren’t guaranteed against that. Then, while trimming close with a string
weed-trimmer (the kind that leaves nasty inch-long slashes on your shins if you
get too close), once in a while I’d get too close to the trees, either stripping
their bark, or outright cutting them down. About another 10 trees disappeared
that way.

But the nastiest thing of all is the bugs. Every year, I had to spend at
least $30 on pesticides. The culprits are called sawflies, though I’ve never
seen one fly, nor cut through any wood. What they do is congregate in circles,
like collars, around a branch. They’re little green worms, with tiny black
heads. Unless you look closely, you think you’re just looking at needles on the
tree. Give them two days, and the branch they’re working on is dead, its
life-juices sucked out.

The sawflies then take their movable gluttony to another
branch. When a tree is fully colonized, you have about a week to spray it, or
you have one very sick, and probably dying, tree.

The worms die quickly, curling back upon themselves as the poison drowns them. I guess they suck it in through their skin, osmosis-like.

I did this for 10 years, and for the last several years I trimmed and shaped the trees as best I could. But some were too tall to reach their tops and some didn’t have enough body to shape. Those that were suitable for trimming and shaping –well, they were so densely formed that once
they achieved symmetry they couldn’t be decorated.

In 1989, a week before Christmas, with a thin crust of snow on the field and
the air frighteningly cold, we ventured 200 feet from our garage door to fell
our Christmas tree. There were several likely candidates, and we chose the one
closest to the house. I then got out my electric chain saw, 250 feet of
extension cord, and groveled on the ground under the lower branches. Pushing the
button, the saw bit into the frozen wood, while the snow melted beneath me. Finally the tree fell — on me.

I still had one task left — to saw through the stump again, as close to ground
level as possible. I didn’t do that the previous year, when we cut our
first tree, and twice since then I’ve wrecked my tractor on the stump, requiring
new parts and welding costing in excess of $100.

But for $300 worth of chemicals, $100 worth of trees and related planting gear,
10 years of disgusting pest killing, countless slaps in the face from branches
flying back during weed-mowing, and a totally abused tractor that cost nearly
$4,000 new, I got two perfectly symmetrical Christmas trees, so
densely packed that hanging a ball anywhere except on their exterior meant
putting your hand into a pin cushion.

We bought our trees from then on, and now, nearly 30 years later and pushing 61 years old, we’ve got a nice tree we bring up from the basement each year. And we have what can only be described as a humongous thicket to the side of our house, home to deer, rabbits, groundhogs, insects, birds, snakes, mice, many fallen branches and dying trees, stray cats, a fox now and then, and oaks, maples, ash and a variety of other trees replacing my Christmas tree dreams.

By GEORGE J. BANCROFT

Copyright 2009

Phew!!!

I say that emphatically and mean it literally, having just survived a three-day
test of wits with a skunk family. I escaped unsprayed, happily, but I have to
say my slight hope that I might be able to catch one of the couple went
unfulfilled. I’ve wanted one as a pet ever since seeing that phenomenon at
camp as a 12-year-old, some time back in another lifetime.

This adventure began a few weeks ago when my son and I got back to our rural
home outside of Richlandtown, in Upper Bucks, at about 9:15 p.m.
We’re used to seeing deer in our field across from a woods, and pheasants,
Canada geese, and sometimes a loose cow or two belonging to our neighbor. Garden
snakes, toads, turtles, hawks, great horned owls — these all have entertained
us. They’ve either been looking in our windows, or we’ve
been looking at them in boxes, or had them flying around our basement at one
time or another.

But a handshaking relationship with a couple of wild skunks had never occurred,
nor did I want it to.

When the car’s headlights panned our yard, there was a black hunk of fur in the
middle of the grass, not far from our front door. The car jolted to a stop and I
felt a shot of adrenalin jolt my body. Pinned in the headlights, the white
stripe along the skunk’s back shone. My first thought was, “It’s a skunk,” but
my second thought was “Nah, it’s just one of the farmer’s cats.” But I knew
better than to believe the second thought.

My son, meanwhile, gave me one of his wondrous questions: “What are you going to
do, Dad?” I wondered what made him think I knew what I was going to do.

We sat in the driveway, me closing the car vents and asking myself: “How are we
going to get past him and into the house?” I had once run over a dead skunk at 3
a.m. on the way home from a late shift at the newspaper, driving a Volkswagen
Beetle. I didn’t go home. Instead I drove directly to a self-service carwash and
spent a half-hour shooting high-pressure soap and water up at the bottom of my
car.

We could have sat there all night, but that was pretty senseless, so I opted for
slowly coasting up the driveway and then making a stealthy run from the garage
to the house. We didn’t get the chance to do that. Our fair-sighted adversary made his own run
for it while we crept up to the garage.

The next day my son was out front kicking a football around when he found
himself standing next to a pile of evidence of the skunk’s visit. The following
night I discovered another fresh calling card on our porch, right in front of
the door.

Sunday we didn’t get home until twilight. I’d bought some mothballs to
scatter among the bushes, hoping to offend the skunk’s olfactory sense enough
that he’d go away. My son took one box of mothballs, I took the other and we set
forth into the darkness. When we got outside, there was a skunk, right in the
middle of the yard. We launched a few mothballs toward it. About a half-minute
later, it turned tail and ran down toward the road and the woods.

We went about scattering the remaining mothballs into our shrubbery. My son
turned the corner of the house to drop some into the window well. In the next
instant he burst back around the corner of the house like a rocket, clearing the
lower branches of a dogwood tree, not touching the ground until he’d cleared
the flower bed, and yelling “Whoa! There’s one in there!”

“There’s what?” was my only response.

“There’s one in there! There’s one in the window well!”

After several rounds of this banter, his words excited and mine nervously
hopeful he was wrong, I just stopped and asked the night: “Now what?” We had two
skunks, probably mates, and they might be finding our home a hospitable place.

It was best to look at this creature from a safe place; since it was in the
window well I realized I had a perfect viewing spot in the cellar. Sure enough,
there was a skunk nosing the ground and eyeing me as I eyed it. The skunk was
obviously trapped, unable to scale the wall it had fallen down. But it wasn’t
trapped in the way I would have liked.

I was trapped too, not knowing how to safely remove it. It also was obvious that
the skunks probably were mates, and the one in the grass wouldn’t leave without
the one in the window well.

But first, what an opportunity for a picture. Of course I couldn’t take it from
the cellar because a flash would just bounce light back from the window into the
camera. But I could take it from outside, if I was foolhardy enough.

I was.

Sneaking along the front of the house to the corner, I put my head around the
edge. There he was, looking up at me. No movement, no fright, just an unblinking
stare of shiny eyes. I raised the camera, got the animal into the viewer, and
popped the flash. Then I popped back around the house and down onto the lawn, in
case the skunk got mad at the camera and decided to “shoot” it.

Of course, I’d probably blinded the poor animal. There was no spray, so I
decided two pictures are always better than one, and thus emboldened repeated my
skunk attack. Having gotten two pictures, I now had to seriously consider how
to remove this animal.

So, I called the local game protector. He wasn’t available but his wife gave me
a quick lesson in handling skunks. To my disbelief, she told me the skunk probably wouldn’t spray me. I asked what would make it spray. She said they usually let loose when they felt cornered or
threatened. Well, that’s exactly how I would feel if I was trapped in a window
well with some giant appearing out of the darkness to pop flashbulbs in my face
while a smaller version of that giant dropped odoriferous white things in front
of my face. Sounds like a good time for a dose of musk to me.

Well, my counselor on the phone agreed that the skunk in the yard probably
wouldn’t leave without its mate. And I just couldn’t find it in my heart to
invite these weasels to spend the winter with us. So, I had to follow her advice
on how to free the skunk. She reassured me that she and her husband had trapped
skunks, put the traps in the back of their truck, driven them to a new location
and released them, with the skunks running right by their legs, without the
least release of pungent odor.

Not having the thick branch she recommended, I found a solid board to ease into
the window well for the skunk’s ramp to freedom. This hopefully would be my last
encounter with the creature. Following in my earlier photography-venture
footsteps, I eased up to the window well and reached the board out over it. I
rested it on the edge of the well and began sliding it down to the skunk.
Immediately the skunk was on its feet, tensed at this new intruder, even closer
to it than the previous ones. I wasn’t breathing and my eyes remained focused on
the polecat, especially its tail end.

As the board slid down, the skunk moved backward, right into the window well
wall. Suddenly the tail sprung up — bushy and threatening. Even though it was
pointing away from me, I was out of the flower bed and in the front yard before
the now unguided board hit the bottom of the well.

That was the end. I went inside, closed the door, and hoped the skunk would take
the hint. I went down into the cellar with high hopes, but there was the skunk,
ignoring the board and curled up like a cat asleep. It didn’t even care that it
could now be free.

Monday morning brought an empty window well, and lots of jibes from my
co-workers:

“You should have put little footholds on the board so it would be easier to go
up and down.”

“You should put up one of those plastic window well covers and put a little
swinging door in it.”

Okay. I still think it would be fun for some people to have a skunk for a pet,
following them around, as I remember from when I was a boy at summer camp. But
the next time there’s one looking into my cellar, anybody out there want to
offer it a branch to freedom, while taking a chance you’ll have to take a bath
in tomato juice to get rid of the stench that suddenly overwhelms you?

And no, the pictures didn’t turn out.

Author(s) unknown

Your fences need to be horse-high, pig-tight and bull-strong.

Keep skunks and bankers at a distance.

Life is simpler when you plow around the stump.

A bumble bee is considerably faster than a John Deere tractor.

Words that soak into your ears are whispered…not yelled.

Meanness don’t jes’ happen overnight.

Forgive your enemies. It messes up their heads.

Do not corner something that you know is meaner than you.

It don’t take a very big person to carry a grudge.

You cannot unsay a cruel word.

Every path has a few puddles.

When you wallow with pigs, expect to get dirty.

The best sermons are lived, not preached.

Most of the stuff people worry about ain’t never gonna happen anyway.

Don’t judge folks by their relatives.

Remember that silence is sometimes the best answer.

Live a good, honorable life. Then when you get older and think back, you’ll enjoy it a second time.

Don’t interfere with somethin’ that ain’t bothering you none.

Timing has a lot to do with the outcome of a Rain Dance.

If you find yourself in a hole, the first thing to do is stop diggin’.

Sometimes you get, and sometimes you get got.

The biggest troublemaker you’ll probably ever have to deal with, watches you from the mirror every mornin’.

Always drink upstream from the herd.

Good judgment comes from experience, and a lotta that comes from bad judgment.

Lettin’ the cat outta the bag is a whole lot easier than puttin’ it back in.

If you get to thinkin’ you’re a person of some influence, try orderin’ somebody else’s dog around.

Live simply. Love generously. Care deeply. Speak kindly. Leave the rest to God.

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