Being Here

The first thing I notice as I fly into Norfolk is the green -- everywhere. Green lawns and green trees, all against a gray, gloomy sky. Rain will be a challenge for us all weekend. Four battles are planned, and we shall see what comes down.

I link up with my roommate and comrade-in-arms at the baggage claim, and we're soon in our way to Suffolk in a Suzuki SUV, big enough to reasonably accommodate our war chests of uniforms and civilian clothes and cameras. My comrade's case is as big as mine, and he's only staying for the weekend. Mine is heavy enough to flirt with Delta's weight limits, meaning I've moved a shaving kit from the main bag to the one with my tricorns. Those are for later.

We're soon on I-64, and after navigating through the Hampton Roads rush hour, we arrive in Suffolk. This is where the history reaches out to us, in the brick homes and humble farmsteads, in the mansions and the churches. The past shades nearly everything except the strip malls and gas stations. Even the drive-through banks elicit the spirit of a burgeoning colony with their stately red veneer. No stucco. No faux adobe.


My companion is flashing back to his youth Pennsylvania. We both keep track of the number of flags we pass outside businesses and homes, especially the Virginia state banners.

"They're still pretty proud," he says.

I can feel it. It's in every flag hanging outside the many homes we pass by. This is America, not Suburbia. Submerged in history, they connect with it in a way people like me can only wonder about in Arizona. It's an honor to live in the land where the colonists first set foot 400 years ago.

We're so wrapped up in the greenery and architecture we miss a turn. Or maybe it misses us. It's a problem easily solved with a laptop and wi-fi in a gas station parking lot where we Google our position and make a course correction. Fifteen minutes later, we're at the hotel.

A quick check-in and we're back on the road to the battlefield, making sure we understand the route and checking out our camp. Tents are plentiful, and a few Confederates are there chopping wood and preparing for a soggy first night in camp.

My comrade and I link up with the rest of the 1st Virginia and venture out to Pizza Hut.

"Mr. Francis is in shorts!" our Captain observes.

My roommate and I are the Odd Couple -- his Felix in shirt, slacks and tie with the Confederate flags next to my Oscar in a 1st Virginia polo, those shorts and a kepi with beat-up tennis shoes.

Everybody's in high spirits, even with the rain pounding down outside, but we don't worry. So what if it's muddy. We're here. Welcome to Virginia!

He smells the hay from a barn near the hotel. The childhood memories embrace him once again. For me, it's not the same as my youth in Missouri -- except for the green and the chilly rain.

Back in the room, we watch Gods and Generals and my comrade looks for a place to hang the Bonnie Blue flag. Running it up the Wendy's flagpole is out of the question for tonight, so we'll just have to make do with what we can.