Mound Builders and Pueblos

Mound Builders and Pueblos

The first Native-American group to build mounds in what is now the United States often are called the Adenans. They began constructing earthen burial sites and fortifications around 600 B.C. Some mounds from that era are in the shape of birds or serpents; they probably served religious purposes not yet fully understood.

The Adenans appear to have been absorbed or displaced by various groups collectively known as Hopewellians. One of the most important centers of their culture was found in southern Ohio, where the remains of several thousand of these mounds still can be seen. Believed to be great traders, the Hopewellians used and exchanged tools and materials across a wide region of hundreds of kilometers.

 By around 500 A.D., the Hopewellians disappeared, too, gradually giving way to a broad group of tribes generally known as the Mississippians or Temple Mound culture. One city, Cahokia, near Collinsville, Illinois, is thought to have had a population of about 20,000 at its peak in the early 12th century. At the center of the city stood a huge earthen mound, flattened at the top, that was 30 meters high and 37 hectares at the base. Eighty other mounds have been found nearby.

Cities such as Cahokia depended on a combination of hunting, foraging, trading, and agriculture for their food and supplies. Influenced by the thriving societies to the south, they evolved into complex hierarchical societies that took slaves and practiced human sacrifice.

In what is now the southwest United States, the Anasazi, ancestors of the modern Hopi Indians, began building stone and adobe pueblos around the year 900. These unique and amazing apartment-like structures were often built along cliff faces; the most famous, the “cliff palace” of Mesa Verde, Colorado, had more than 200 rooms. Another site, the Pueblo Bonito ruins along New Mexico’s Chaco River, once contained more than 800 rooms.

Perhaps the most affluent of the pre-Columbian Native Americans lived in the Pacific Northwest, where the natural abundance of fish and raw materials made food supplies plentiful and permanent villages possible as early as 1,000 B.C. The opulence of their “potlatch” gatherings remains a standard for extravagance and festivity probably unmatched in early American history.

Directions: Read the passage above, then answer the questions below. 

1.Who were the first mound builders? 

2.Describe the Hopewellians. 

3.What was life like in Cahokia? 

4.Describe how and where the Anasazi lived. 

5.How did Native Americans of the Pacific Northwest live?

THE FIRST AMERICANS

 THE FIRST AMERICANS

At the height of the Ice Age, between 34,000 and 30,000 B.C., much of the world’s water was locked up in vast continental ice sheets. As a result, the Bering Sea was hundreds of meters below its current level, and a land bridge, known as Beringia, emerged between Asia and North America. At its peak, Beringia is thought to have been some 1,500 kilometers wide. A moist and treeless tundra, it was covered with grasses and plant life, attracting the large animals that early humans hunted for their survival.

The first people to reach North America almost certainly did so without knowing they had crossed into a new continent. They would have been following game, as their ancestors had for thousands of years, along the Siberian coast and then across the land bridge.

Once in Alaska, it would take these first North Americans thousands of years more to work their way through the openings in great glaciers south to what is now the United States. Evidence of early life in North America continues to be found. Little of it, however, can be reliably dated before 12,000 B.C.; a recent discovery of a hunting lookout in northern Alaska, for example, may date from almost that time. So too may the finely crafted spear points and items found near Clovis, New Mexico.

Similar artifacts have been found at sites throughout North and South America, indicating that life was probably already well established in much of the Western Hemisphere by some time prior to 10,000 B.C.

Around that time the mammoth began to die out and the bison took its place as a principal source of food and hides for these early North Americans. Over time, as more and more species of large game vanished — whether from overhunting or natural causes — plants, berries, and seeds became an increasingly important part of the early American diet. Gradually, foraging and the first attempts at primitive agriculture appeared. Native Americans in what is now central Mexico led the way, cultivating corn, squash, and beans, perhaps as early as 8,000 B.C. Slowly, this knowledge spread northward.

By 3,000 B.C., a primitive type of corn was being grown in the river valleys of New Mexico and Arizona. Then the first signs of irrigation began to appear, and, by 300 B.C., signs of early village life.

By the first centuries A.D., the Hohokam were living in settlements near what is now Phoenix, Arizona, where they built ball courts and pyramid-like mounds reminiscent of those found in Mexico, as well as a canal and irrigation system.

Directions: Read the text above, then answer the questions below.

1.What is the name of the land bridge which emerged between Asia and North America during the last ice age? 

2.Why did the first people cross into North America from Asia?

3.According to archaeological artifacts, how long have human beings lived in the Western Hemisphere? 

4.What animals were hunted by the earliest Americans?

5.How early was corn planted in what is now Arizona?

6.Describe life for the Hohokam of present-day Arizona.

ODE TO PABLO’S TENNIS SHOES

 ODE TO PABLO’S TENNIS SHOES

They wait under Pablo’s bed,
Rain-beaten, sun-beaten,
A scuff of green
At their tips
From when he fell
In the school yard.
He fell leaping for a football
That sailed his way.
But Pablo fell and got up,
Green on his shoes,
With the football
Out of reach.

Now it’s night.
Pablo is in bed listening
To his mother laughing
To the Mexican novelas on TV.
His shoes, twin pets
That snuggle his toes,
Are under the bed.
He should have bathed,
But he didn’t.
(Dirt rolls from his palm,
Blades of grass
Tumble from his hair.)
He wants to be
Like his shoes,
A little dirty
From the road,
A little worn
From racing to the drinking fountain
A hundred times in one day.
It takes water
To make him go,
And his shoes to get him
There. He loves his shoes,
Cloth like a sail,
Rubber like
A lifeboat on rough sea.
Pablo is tired,
Sinking into the mattress.
His eyes sting from
Grass and long words in books.
He needs eight hours
Of sleep
To cool his shoes,
The tongues hanging
Out, exhausted.

—Gary Soto

from The Freedom Writers Diary Foreword by Zlata Filipovic

 from The Freedom Writers Diary Foreword by Zlata Filipovic

When I was asked to write the foreword to The Freedom Writers Diary, I must say I was extremely honored and proud, but at the same time amazed by how many wonderful things can happen in such a short time.

I met the students of Wilson High School in March 1996, when thanks to their dedication, effort and will, they invited my parents, Mirna (my best friend from Bosnia, who was living with me at the time) and myself to come to the city of Long Beach, California. When I met them, I was touched by their warmth and kindness. They were teenagers just like me, and like all young people all over the world, they have an amazing potential to grow into truly great people, leaders, ones who will inspire others.

These students and their teacher, Erin Gruwell, chose to read Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl, my own book, Zlata’s Diary: A Child’s Life in Sarajevo (and many other books), and were inspired to start writing their own diaries. They had organized themselves and chose to do something different, something memorable, something powerful and humane. They chose to rid themselves of doing things the easy way, the way they’ve always been done, and chose to write, to create, to fight stereotypes and live up to the name of true Freedom Writers. I am immensely proud and happy to have had a chance to meet them and to play some role in their “growth” as human beings.

I started writing my own diary before the war in Bosnia because I wanted to have a place to record my childhood and create something that I could look back on and laugh, cry and reminisce.[1] I wanted to see myself grow through my writing. Some of my older girlfriends had their own diaries, and having read the diaries of Anne Frank and Adrian Mole, I was absolutely certain that writing a diary was the right thing to do. I never imagined that my diary would be published, and certainly didn’t expect it to become a war diary. I also never dreamed that my childhood would be cut short. These things seemed too impossible to think about, because it’s human nature to always believe that “bad” things happen to other people, not us. But when misfortune comes our way, we find ourselves surprised, confused, scared, angry and sad.

When the Bosnian war started with all its horrors and disrupted my happy and carefree childhood, my diary became more than a place to record daily events. It became a friend, the paper that it was made of was ready and willing to accept anything and everything I had to say; it could handle my fear, my questions, my sadness. I discovered the beauty of writing—when one can pour oneself onto a great white emptiness and fill it with emotions and thoughts and leave them there forever. And I kept on writing during almost two years of war; it became a type of therapy for dealing with everything that was going on.

I see a parallel between the Freedom Writers and myself because we’ve all been subjected to things in our surroundings that could have made us feel like victims. Life brings good things and bad things, it makes people sad and happy in their own homes, within their families, in school and on the street. Sometimes we suffer because of many things over which we have no control: the color of our skin, poverty, our religion, our family situation, war. It would be easy to become a victim of our circumstances and continue feeling sad, scared or angry; or instead, we could choose to deal with injustice humanely and break the chains of negative thoughts and energies, and not let ourselves sink into it. Writing about the things that happen to us allows us to look objectively at what’s going on around us and turn a negative experience into something positive and useful. This process requires a lot of work, effort and greatness, but it is possible, and the Freedom Writers have proved it—they’ve chosen a difficult, but powerful, path.

After I left Bosnia, the war continued, and as we’ve recently seen, a similar thing happened in Kosovo. People have asked me what I think about this, and all I can say is that it makes me terribly sad. Now, almost all of the young former Yugoslavians know what a bomb sounds like, what a cellar is and what the absence of water, electricity or home feels like. And again, these children and young people had nothing to do with the situation they found themselves in. I just hope that the anger, hate and sadness they have experienced will not remain inside them, and that they will be able to rise above their experiences. Because if they grow up holding on to such terrible feelings, it could lead to another war sometime in the future when the fate of the country is in their hands. This is why I believe that everything the Freedom Writers have overcome and accomplished is very important and must be respected. If they had chosen to stay encapsulated[2] in the anger and hate that surrounded them in their neighborhoods, the seeds of hatred and fear would have grown with them and history would repeat itself with their children in the future. The Freedom Writers chose to break this cycle and make their positive experiences a lesson for generations to come.

And, of course, I will always very highly respect and admire the Freedom Writers’ mentor, their friend and teacher, Erin Gruwell, who is also my friend. She never wants to be congratulated or held responsible for the great things that came out of Room 203 at Wilson High School, but she must be. She was (and still is) much more than a teacher to the Freedom Writers. She was a parent to those who did not have, or could not communicate with, their own; she was an older friend who was fun to be around; but she was also very loyal, someone who cared and fought for each one of her “kids.” She shared her education, tenacity[3] and love with them and made a huge difference in her students’ lives. They could have remained the “underachievers” they’d been labeled before they arrived in her classroom. But in just several years, she made a tremendous difference and created a safe place for them to grow and blossom into amazing people. She made authors and, I dare say, historical figures out of them. Many teachers consider their after-school time to be precious, but Erin gave herself over to her work. She was dedicated to helping her students learn, opening their eyes to injustice and guiding them to the weapons (in this case a pen, knowledge, a measure of faith, and an unyielding determination) with which to fight intolerance. Finally, she taught them how to assume their rightful place in the world. I know her students will remember her the rest of their lives, as well they should. I wish that teachers everywhere were like her—because the world would be a much better place. I always say that the young people are the future of the world, and if we start with them first, if we educate and develop a sense of tolerance among them, our future, the future of this world, will be in good hands for generations to come.

How many good things can come out of a bad situation? I’m a perfect example. I was a small happy Sarajevan girl whose country was struck by war. Suddenly I was put in the position of having some say and possible influence in the world. I did not want that responsibility, and I wish that my diary had never been published; if not for the war, there would have been no reason to share it with the world. But nonetheless, some good has come out of it.

Anne Frank’s diary inspired the world, and good has come out of her tragedy. Her strength kept her going for as long as it could, and subsequently has been recognized by millions of people, young and old. The greatness of those who are no longer with us fortunately remains to lead and inspire those left behind.

[1] reminisce — recall the past
[2] encapsulated — encased; enclosed
[3] tenacity — persistence; stubbornness

Observing Mars from Mars and the Search for Life by Elaine Scott

 Observing Mars from Mars and the Search for Life by Elaine Scott

From the beginning of history, Mars, the small red planet that is fourth from the Sun, has always fascinated—even frightened—those who have watched it move from east to west across the night sky. Ages ago, people may have looked at Mars’s reddish color and thought of all the blood that is spilled during war. Perhaps that is why the ancient Assyrians called Mars the “Shedder of Blood,” and the Greeks, Romans, and, later, the Vikings named the planet after their gods of war. Mars was ancient Rome’s god of war, and that is the name that has endured.

Our earliest ancestors used stories and myths to explain the mysteries of nature. They knew little about science, as we think of it today. Nevertheless, astronomy, the study of the universe beyond Earth, is one of the world’s oldest sciences. The earliest astronomers, like Ptolemy (tole-uh-me) (approximately a.d. 100–179), who lived in Roman Egypt, didn’t have telescopes or other instruments to help them study the moon and the stars. They had to rely on their own eyesight. Then, in 1608, the telescope was invented by a Dutch optician, Hans Lippershey (lip-er-shy), who lived from 1570 to 1619. Lippershey’s invention had two lenses at either end of a tube. One, called a convex lens, curved outward. It made objects appear bigger than they were, but blurry. The smaller lens, called a concave lens, curved inward. It made objects look smaller, but clearer. When light passed through both lenses, objects appeared three to four times larger and closer than they were. Just a year later, in 1609, the Italian Galileo Galilei (ga-luh-lay-oh ga-luh-lay-ee) (1564–1642) made improvements to the instrument that enabled it to make objects appear 20 times larger than their true size.

Telescopes continued to improve. Galileo’s was five to six feet in length, but by the middle of the 17th century, telescopes had grown. In 1656, a telescope made by Dutch mathematician Christiaan Huygens (hoy-gehns) (1629–1695) was 23 feet long and could magnify 100 times.

The telescope changed astronomy forever. Knowledge of the universe grew, and ancient ideas gave way to new ones. The belief that Earth was at the center of our solar system gave way to the theory that the Sun was at the center.

Astronomers continued to observe the planets and stars and make notes about what they saw. In 1877, an Italian astronomer, Giovanni Schiaparelli (joh-von-ne skyah-puhrel-lee) (1835–1910) trained his telescope on Mars and made a surprising discovery. He announced that the planet seemed to be crisscrossed by a series of channels—or, in Italian, canali. Unfortunately, when Schiaparelli’s work was translated into English, a mistake was made. The word canali was translated as the word “canals.” Though both are waterways, a canal is built by people, while a channel is created by nature. Debate raged among the astronomers of the day: Had the waterways on Mars been created by intelligent beings, or were they natural Martian formations? Throughout his life, Schiaparelli remained neutral on the question. However, many of those who read Schiaparelli’s papers in English believed they were reading about constructed canals, and they drew the conclusion that these canals had been made by a civilization living on Mars. The American astronomer Percival Lowell (1855–1916) was among the biggest believers.

In 1894, Percival Lowell established the Lowell Observatory on top of Mars Hill in Flagstaff, Arizona. For 23 years, Lowell worked at his observatory, studying Mars and making drawings of the features he saw through his telescope. As he observed Schiaparelli’s “canals,” he became convinced they had been built by intelligent beings. Lowell promoted his views in three books: Mars, published in 1895, Mars and Its Canals (1906), and Mars as the Abode of Life (1908). In Mars, Lowell wrote, “Certainly what we see hints at the existence of beings who are in advance of, not behind us, in the journey of life.” Though we know now that he was incorrect, Percival Lowell was relying upon scientific “evidence” to formulate a hypothesis, or prediction, about what Martian life might be like.

At the same time, another man, the English writer H. G. Wells (1866–1946), was using his imagination to form a very different picture of life on Mars. In 1898, Wells’s science fiction novel The War of the Worlds—which was later used as the basis for the famous radio broadcast—was published. It was one of the first books to describe an alien invasion from another planet.

Thanks to the scientific efforts of Lowell and others, and the creative effort of H. G. Wells, the idea of a habitable world somewhere else in our solar system began to capture the world’s imagination.

More About Mars

• Mars is the fourth planet from the Sun.
• Mars orbits the Sun at an average distance of 141.5 million miles.
• Mars’s distance from Earth varies, according to the orbits of both planets. At its closest, Mars is 33.9 million miles away. At its farthest, it is 249 million miles away.
• Mars is about half the size of Earth, though its land area is about the same. This is because our planet is covered with oceans, and Mars is not.
• Because it is smaller than Earth, Mars’s gravity is only 38 percent as strong as Earth’s. A human weighing 160 pounds on Earth would weigh only about 60 pounds on Mars.
• Mars has two tiny moons—Phobos and Deimos. Phobos means “fear,” and Deimos means “panic.” In mythology, Phobos and Deimos were the offspring of Mars. The moons were discovered in 1877 by Asaph Hall, working at the U.S. Naval Observatory.
• The month of March takes its name from Mars.
• One Martian day, or “sol,” lasts 24 hours, 39 minutes, and 35 seconds.
• Traveling at an average speed of 53,979 mph, it takes Mars 687 Earth days to make one orbit around the Sun.
• Mars boasts both the largest volcano and the largest canyon system in the solar system.
• The average temperature on Mars is –64 degrees Fahrenheit, but at its poles the temperature can dip to –225°F and at the equator it can rise to 80°F.
• Martian wind can blow at hurricane force—more than 75 miles per hour.

from Turtle in Paradise by Jennifer L. Holm

 from Turtle in Paradise by Jennifer L. Holm

We’re walking out the front door to go to the matinee[1] when Aunt Minnie calls to us from where she’s ironing in the parlor.

“I’m sorry,” she says, wiping a hand on her forehead. “But one of you kids is going to have to go over to Nana Philly’s and give her lunch. I’ve just got too much laundry to do today.”

“Not me,” Beans says quickly.

“Me neither!” says Kermit.

“No way, no how, Ma!” Buddy says.

Aunt Minnie looks up at the ceiling as if she’s praying for patience. She’s going to be praying a long time at this rate.

“I’ll do it,” I say. Nana Philly can’t be any worse than Shirley Temple.[2]

Aunt Minnie gives me a long look. “Thank you, Turtle,” she says. She sounds surprised. “You’re a good girl.”

“Course I am,” I say. “You’re just used to rotten boys.”

“Why, Turtle!” Miss Bea says with a confused smile when she opens the door. “How lovely to see you! But I was expecting your aunt.”

“Aunt Minnie’s got laundry. I’ll give Nana Philly her lunch,” I say.

“Aren’t you a dear,” she says. “Well, whatever you make her, just be sure it’s soft.” She lowers her voice a notch. “Her teeth aren’t very good.”

“All right,” I say.

“I won’t be long,” she says, walking down the steps. “You’re so sweet to do this!”

But I’m not sweet—I’m curious. It’s not every day you find out you have a grandmother you didn’t even know was alive. And despite what everyone says about Nana Philly being terrible, I’ve been wanting to see if she’ll be different with me. After all, I’m a girl. Maybe she just hates boys. Wouldn’t blame her if she did.

I walk into the house with fresh eyes. This is where Mama grew up. A thousand questions flash through my mind: Which bedroom did she sleep in? Did she run up and down the hallway? Did she sit at the piano? I hope not. That stool doesn’t look too sturdy.

Nana Philly is sitting in the rocking chair in her bedroom reading a new magazine. She’s dressed the same way as when I first saw her.

“I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Turtle,” I say. “Your granddaughter.”

She looks up.

“Sadiebelle’s girl.”

And blinks.

“Mama’s in New Jersey,” I explain. “She got a job as a housekeeper to a rich lady.”

Nana Philly stares at me.

“I’m supposed to make you lunch. You hungry?” I ask.

The old lady doesn’t say anything; she just looks back down at her magazine. It’s not exactly the tearful reunion I was imagining, although maybe that blink was her way of saying she was happy to see me. Then again, maybe she has dust in her eye.

I go into the kitchen and look around. Mama’s always making fancy lunches for the ladies she works for. You wouldn’t even know people were standing in breadlines[3] if you walked in and saw what they were eating: iced cantaloupe, shrimp aspic, caviar sandwiches with cream cheese, hearts of lettuce with French dressing, meringue cookies.

There’s no caviar or cream cheese in sight, but there is bread on the table and milk in the icebox,[4] so I decide to make milk toast. I toast up some bread, stick it in a bowl, and pour milk over it. It’s tasty, and it’s mushy.

Nana Philly eyes the bowl suspiciously when I place it on the little table in front of her.

“It’s milk toast,” I say. “We eat it all the time.” Strange as it seems, I want her to like it.

She doesn’t move and then I realize why.

“Oh, no! I forgot your spoon,” I say, and rush back into the kitchen. I hear a thump, and when I return, the bowl is lying facedown on the floor, milk splattered everywhere.

“What happened?” I ask.

Nana Philly doesn’t say anything. Not that I really expect her to.

“I must have put it too close to the edge,” I say, and clean up the mess. Then I set about making another bowl of milk toast. I bring it out—with a spoon this time—and place it in front of her on the little table.

“Here you go,” I say. “I hope you like it.”

She looks at the bowl for a moment and then her hand whips out and knocks it right off the table and onto the floor.

I’m so shocked, I just stand there. I didn’t really believe what the boys said about her before, but I do now.

“You did that on purpose,” I say. “Why? I’m your granddaughter!”

Her mouth twitches as if this amuses her.

Something hopeful in me hardens. She reminds me of all the rotten kids I’ve ever lived with.

“You don’t scare me,” I say.

I clean up the mess again and make another bowl of milk toast. But this time I don’t give it to the mean old lady who’s my grandmother; instead, I sit down in a chair and start eating. She stares at me, her eyes following every spoonful.

“This is delicious,” I say, and smile. “Shame you spilled yours.”

I swear I can see her mouth watering.

When Miss Bea returns, Nana Philly and I are sitting in the parlor.

 “Did you two have a nice lunch?”

“We had a lovely time,” I say.

“Would you like to come again tomorrow? Give your poor aunt a break?” Miss Bea asks.

“Sure,” I say, and smile sweetly at Nana Philly. “I’m looking forward to getting to know my grandmother.”

Miss Bea’s waiting for me on the front porch with her shopping basket when I arrive the next afternoon.

“There’s grits-and-grunts-and-gravy on the stove and guava duff for dessert. There’s plenty for both of you,” Miss Bea says. “I’ve got shopping to do, so I might be a while.”

“Take your time,” I say.

“Thank you, Turtle,” she says. “You’re a dear.”

Nana Philly’s in her room looking at her magazine as usual. I notice it’s upside down.

“Must be some real interesting reading you got there,” I say.

The old woman ignores me, so I go into the kitchen. I spoon out two bowls of gritsand-grunts-and-gravy. Folks here eat this all the time. Grunts are little fish and grits are like porridge. That’s the one good thing about Key West: there’s food everywhere—hanging from trees, in the ocean—and it’s all free.

After what happened yesterday at lunch, I figured Nana Philly would have wised up. But I guess you can’t teach a mean old lady new tricks, because the bowl hasn’t been in front of her for more than a moment when her hand knocks it off the table. It falls to the floor in a splatter.

“You know, there sure are a lot of hungry folks who would have liked to eat that,” I say, but all she does is stare at the upside-down magazine a little harder.

I clean up the mess and eat my own lunch with her watching the whole time. It’s uncomfortable, but it’s just like dealing with a rotten kid: if you back down in front of them, they’ll never leave you be.

When I’m finished, I carry a bowl of guava duff out and place it in front of her. She lifts her hand to smack it, but I snatch it away just in time.

“You’re not wasting dessert,” I say. “I’ll eat it.”

I sit down and take a bite. It’s delicious. It tastes a little like plum pudding.

“Miss Bea sure is a good cook.”

Nana Philly pretends to ignore me, but I can tell she’s watching. She reminds me of a lobster, with her beady eyes peeking out at me from under her red hat.

“Mama’s a good cook, too. She makes the best caramel custard. One of our old employers, Mr. Hearn, couldn’t get enough of it. He had her make it four nights a week.”

I study Nana Philly closely. “You know, Mama told me you were dead.”

She glances down quickly, and it comes to me.

“You were mean to her, too, weren’t you?” I ask. “Is that why she hasn’t come back to Key West?”

My grandmother doesn’t look up, and I know the answer to my own question.

“Poor Mama,” I whisper. Chased off by her own mother. No wonder she’s such a wreck.

A shadow crosses Nana Philly’s face and, for a brief moment, I see something like regret in her blue eyes, but then it’s gone.

It happens just like in the Bible: on the third day, there’s a miracle.

“I can tell the old girl’s really looking forward to seeing you today,” Miss Bea says.

I doubt that, but say, “Really?”

“Even had me get out her best hat,” Miss Bea says.

I’m not impressed. I didn’t even want to come here today after what I learned yesterday, but Aunt Minnie got used to me helping out, so I don’t have any choice now. This is what I get for being a good girl.

When I walk into the bedroom, Nana Philly puts down her magazine and looks at me. She’s wearing a royal blue hat with a peacock feather.

“You expecting the queen?” I ask.

Miss Bea has made conch chowder, and it’s simmering on the stove. I fill two bowls and carry them out, placing one in front of Nana Philly. I sit down with my bowl and start eating, waiting to hear her bowl hit the floor. But when I look up, she’s holding the spoon. She brings it to her mouth with her good hand and swallows the chowder.

 She takes another spoonful. And another.

Soon her bowl is empty.

“You know,” I say, “I missed seeing a matinee the first day when I came here to give you lunch. It was a Shirley Temple picture.”

Her eyes fly to my face.

“Which is fine by me, because I hate Shirley Temple,” I say.

A corner of my grandmother’s mouth turns up in a crooked smile, and her eyes shine.

“Me thoo,” she says. 

[1] matinee — an afternoon movie
[2] Shirley Temple — a child movie star of the time
[3] breadlines — lines of people waiting to receive free food given by the government in the 1930s
[4] icebox — refrigerator

Drumbeats and Bullets from The Boys’ War by Jim Murphy

 Drumbeats and Bullets from The Boys’ War by Jim Murphy

The groggy soldier woke up to a persistent, brain-rattling drumming noise. Thrump. Thrump. Thrump. He rolled over in an attempt to ignore the sound and pulled his blanket up over his head. The drumming went on and intensified as drummers all over camp signaled the call to muster.[1] There was no escaping it, and eventually—and usually with a grumble—the soldier got up to start another day.

Soldiers probably came to hate the sound of the drums, especially when they heard them on a drizzly, cold morning. Yet drummer boys who served during the Civil War provided valuable service to the armies of both sides, although some didn’t realize it at first.

“I wanted to fight the Rebs,”[2] a twelve-year-old boy wrote, “but I was very small and they would not give me a musket. The next day I went back and the man behind the desk said I looked as if I could hold a drum and if I wanted I could join that way. I did, but I was not happy to change a musket for a stick.”

This boy was disappointed at being assigned a “nonfighting” and, to him, dull job. Most likely, he saw himself always drumming in parades or in the safety of camp. He would soon learn differently.

The beat of the drum was one of the most important means of communicating orders to soldiers in the Civil War. Drummers did find themselves in camp sounding the routine calls to muster or meals and providing the beat for marching drills. But more often than not, they were with the troops in the field, not just marching to the site of the battle but in the middle of the fighting. It was the drumbeat that told the soldiers how and when to maneuver as smoke poured over the battlefield. And the sight of a drummer boy showed soldiers where their unit was located, helping to keep them close together.

Drummers were such a vital part of battle communication that they often found themselves the target of enemy fire. “A ball[3] hit my drum and bounced off and I fell over,” a Confederate drummer at the Battle of Cedar Creek recalled. “When I got up, another ball tore a hole in the drum and another came so close to my ear that I heard it sing.”

Naturally, such killing fire alarmed many drummer boys at first. But like their counterparts with rifles, they soon learned how to face enemy shells without flinching.[4] Fourteen-year-old Orion Howe was struck by several Confederate bullets during the Battle of Vicksburg in 1863. Despite his wounds, he maintained his position and relayed the orders given him. For his bravery, Howe would later receive the Medal of Honor.

Drumming wasn’t the only thing these boys did, either. While in camp, they would carry water, rub down horses, gather wood, or cook for the soldiers. There is even evidence that one was a barber for the troops when he wasn’t drumming. After a battle, most drummers helped carry wounded soldiers off the field or assisted in burial details. And many drummer boys even got their wish to fight the enemy.

Fighting in the Civil War was particularly bloody. Of the 900 men in the First Maine Heavy Artillery, 635 became casualties in just seven minutes of fighting at the Battle of Petersburg. A North Carolina regiment saw 714 of its 800 soldiers killed at Gettysburg. At such a time, these boys put down their drums and took up whatever rifle was handy. One such drummer was Johnny Clem.

Clem ran away from home in 1861 when he was eleven years old. He enlisted, and the Twenty-second Michigan Regiment took him in as their drummer, paying him thirteen dollars a month for his services. Several months later, at the Battle of Shiloh, Clem earned the nickname of “Johnny Shiloh” when a piece of cannon shell bounced off a tree stump and destroyed his drum. When another drum was shattered in battle, Clem found a musket and fought bravely for the rest of the war, becoming a sergeant in the fall of 1863.

The Civil War would be the last time drummer boys would be used in battle. The roar of big cannons and mortars, the rapid firing of thousands of rifles, and the shouts of tens of thousands of men made hearing a drumbeat difficult. More and more, bugles were being used to pass along orders. Military tactics were changing, too. Improved weapons made it impractical to have precise lines of soldiers face their enemy at close range. Instead, smaller, fast-moving units and trench warfare, neither of which required drummers, became popular.

Even as their role in the fighting was changing, Civil War drummers stayed at their positions signaling orders to the troops. Hundreds were killed and thousands more wounded. “A cannon ball came bouncing across the corn field,” a drummer boy recalled, “kicking up dirt and dust each time it struck the earth. Many of the men in our company took shelter behind a stone wall, but I stood where I was and never stopped drumming. An officer came by on horseback and chastised the men, saying ‘this boy puts you all to shame. Get up and move forward.’ We all began moving across the corn field. . . . Even when the fighting was at its fiercest and I was frightened, I stood straight and did as I was ordered. . . . I felt I had to be a good example for the others.”

[1] muster — to assemble troops
[2] Rebs — a nickname given to soldiers in the Confederate army
[3] ball — a lead ball fired from a gun
[4] flinching — drawing away; falling back