History around us: Zion Union Cemetary

On this Memorial Day, we remember the soldiers who never came home — especially those who fought for a freedom they were never promised.

They were the men of the 54th Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry, the first Black regiment recruited in the North during the Civil War. These were fathers, husbands, and sons who left everything behind to fight for a country that still didn’t see them as equals. Their courage at Fort Wagner in 1863 stunned the nation. They charged into a hail of gunfire, knowing the odds were against them, and gave everything they had.

Among them were dozens of men from the small town of Mercersburg, Pennsylvania — a free Black community just above the Mason-Dixon Line. Eighty-eight local men answered the call, with many joining the legendary 54th and 55th Massachusetts. Today, at least thirty-eight Civil War veterans rest in Zion Union Cemetery in Mercersburg, including thirteen from the 54th — the largest known group from that famous regiment buried together in any private cemetery.

These weren’t just soldiers. They were neighbors who chose to risk their lives for a promise that wasn’t guaranteed to them. They fought so their children and grandchildren could grow up free.

This Memorial Day, as we honor all who gave their lives in service, let us especially remember these men. Their sacrifice helped save the Union and helped end slavery. Their blood helped write the next chapter of American freedom.

Freedom was never free — and these men paid the ultimate price for it. Let us never forget them.

Sacred Gound Stay safe Bob 

Fire: The Spark That Made Us Human

About 1.5 million years ago, our ancestors learned to control fire — and the world changed forever.

Cooking food unlocked massive amounts of energy. Our brains grew, our bodies changed, and we had fuel left for more than just staying alive.

Fire gave us warmth through ice ages, protection from predators, stronger tools, and something even deeper — a place to gather at night. Around that shared flame, language, stories, and culture were born.

It reshaped the planet too. We used fire to clear land, create metal, make pottery, and eventually power the industrial world.

One spark didn’t just help us survive. It made us human.

Early humans started with friction — rubbing sticks together, like the bow drill or hand drill, until the wood glowed and an ember formed. Later came percussion: striking flint against iron pyrite or steel to throw sparks into Chaga, charred or natural tinder.

From rubbing two sticks together to striking a modern ferro rod, the spirit is the same — turning nothing into life-giving flame.

Stay safe, Bob

Standing at Nessmuks Grave

​I finally met one of my writing heroes.

George Washington Sears—Nessmuk—was born in 1821, battled lifelong tuberculosis, and at 59 paddled into the Adirondacks in feather-light canoes despite doctors’ grim predictions. He called it “go light,” lived simply in the wild, healed his lungs, and wrote Woodcraft—a book that taught generations how to travel lightly and respect the woods.

He fought clear-cutting and defended the forests he loved. He died in Wellsboro in 1890 at age 68. His grave marker simply reads NESSMUK.

Visiting him reminded me how one small, coughing man refused to let illness steal his dreams. He chased solitude, found peace among the pines, and fought to protect it. 

In shadowed lungs where TB clenched its fist,

Nessmuk broke free with one determined stroke of the paddle.

His birch canoe sliced through black Adirondack waters

while mist-veiled mountains watched a frail man chase his dream.

No sickbed could hold him. In raw, quiet solitude

he found the peace he’d been searching for,

scribbled his hope across mossy pages,

and begged the axe to leave the ancient woods untouched.

One coughing man, one simple blade,

cheated death on his own fierce terms.

We live soft in our comfort, yet still we ache

to find that same wild breath and pass his light along.

If you’re ever near Wellsboro, stop by the cemetery. Stand there. Say thank you. I did.

Stay safe, Bob

Escape

​The moon slips silver across still water,

frogs chant their low, ancient hymn.

A fish rises — one clean splunk —

and the night swallows it whole.

I sit where the ancestors once piled their stones,

their twilight mounds breathing under moss.

No engines, no voices, just the lake

holding the stars like a quiet promise.

Blood under the desk stays far away.

Here the cycle turns without hurry —

birth, hunger, death, and the soft splash of return.

I breathe, and for once the world lets me.

Stay safe, Bob

History around us: The forgotten victim of the Enoch Brown massacre

      Most people only know about the schoolhouse.

They don’t know that the same four Lenape warriors struck the day before, July 25, 1764, in Peters Township near Bridgeport.

      Susan King Cunningham was born about 1735, in what was then Cumberland County, Pennsylvania — which later became Franklin County. She was the daughter of Robert King, a Scotch-Irish settler. By the 1750s, Susan’s family had pushed west into the frontier of Peters Township. Around 1757, she married Hugh Cunningham.             They settled on a homestead near the small settlement of Bridgeport, later known as Marks. Their home stood close to McDowell’s Mill and its stockaded fort. She was 29 years old and pregnant with another child.

    On that July day she was walking through the woods to visit a neighbor when the warriors caught her. They beat her to death and scalped her. The warriors then cut the unborn child from her body and laid the infant on the ground beside her. That’s exactly how her family found her.

    The very next morning those same warriors walked into Enoch Brown’s classroom. They killed the teacher and ten children, scalping every one of them. Only one boy lived.

These two killings — a pregnant mother and a classroom of kids — tore through the Conococheague Valley. Eight months later, that same fear and rage fueled the Black Boys Rebellion, when men from these hills painted their faces black, burned supply wagons, and twice attacked Fort Loudoun.

    Susan has no grave marker. No plaque. No park. Nothing. Just a few forgotten lines in dusty books.

But out here, we remember the ones the history books left behind — because those are the stories that show how hard this land really was.

This is the kind of history we walk past every day out here in the backcountry, quiet ground that still remembers.

Sacred ground 

Test

I’m thinking about blogging again, 

Over the years my life has changed, times have changed. And technology has changed.
I hope you like the future content.
With the advent of AI to do research I hope to bring subjects and history alive and honer our pasts.
Stay safe. Bob