In 2014, I had the pleasure and privilege to visit several cemeteries on the East Coast. My son lived in Fayetteville, North Carolina, at the time and I wanted to visit Bonaventure Cemetery because it was featured in some novel we passed around at work and I was fascinated. Since we were in Savannah, Georgia, we also visited the downtown area where the Colonial Park Cemetery is located. After I left my son’s family, I traveled to Richmond, Virginia, where I met up with two friends and we toured Oakwood Cemetery.
Bonaventure Cemetery lived up to the hype: it truly is a beautiful place. There are tombs, crypts, statues, and ever so much more. I took a lot of photographs with my DSLR and held the hands of my grandchildren as they wondered at all the headstones, crosses, and more. Over 500 Confederate dead rest there including some notable officers. A lot of war dead, period: we temporarily lost my son when he wandered into the World War dead section.
Colonial Park was a surprise and a bonus with its above-ground crypts. It was closed to burials before the Civil War but many heroes of the American Revolution are interred there.
Oakwood in Richmond has the richest Civil war history. One of my friends is a genealogist whose family fought on the Confederate side of the conflict (mine fought opposite hers). It is a pretty cemetery overlooking the James River, but it is also an oppressive place: the sheer numbers of men who lost their lives in that bloody conflict between the states is overwhelming, and I feel there’s a spiritual heaviness that comes with that kind of sacrifice.
It is hard for me to verbalize what I sense when I read about or visit a Civil war memorial, a cemetery, or just rote history. In 2023, my brother and I drove across the country (he drove, I bummed a ride with). One of our stops was the Vicksburg National Military Park. The trenches between North and South were so close together that you could well imagine the words of one of my ancestors in a letter to his mother:
Camp near Vicksburg, June 23, 1863
“We have a new battery, five light 12-pounders and one 10 pound parrot gun. They will carry further than our old battery; our men are at work making approaches. They are within a few feet of the enemy’s ditch in several spaces, but there has got to be a parallel ditch dug to hold many men before they can storm it. Our pickets are in one ditch while theirs are in another. They used to talk a great deal, but that has been forbidden, so they write on pieces of paper and pass backward and forward. One of our boys threw over a part of a loaf of bread and they threw back a biscuit. You can talk to them quite easy from the guns where Thomas stays, when they are on their breastworks. ~ Willard Wilcox”*
I did not recall at the time that letter was written from the very same site where Terry and I stood in 2023, 160 years and one month later, but you could feel the tension and almost hear the cannons and smell the blood. It was an eerie place, not in the sense that it was frightening, threatening, or even scary, but you could feel the death still hanging in the air. The air was heavy and we didn’t breathe easily until we were back on the road and away from that pivotal and bloody battle site. I write this to explain ahead of time: writing about the American Civil War is a truly heavy undertaking and I have forty pages of that history as it relates to the Wilcox sons of Sarah Lord Wilcox.
*Willard was the brother of my great-great grandfather, William Orson Wilcox.
Jaci Dawn 