Super Boo (our Ella)

I was so anxious for our youngest daughter Ella to start kindergarten. I thought, Yay! No more driving to two different schools at four different times. No more half-day scramble. No longer siblings at home to try to keep quiet and entertained during Daniel's nap time.

That was at the beginning of summer. Yes, there was some constriction in the chest during the last Mother's Day tea at preschool and on her very last day there, but otherwise it was pretty smooth, and I felt so ready.

And she was so ready - is ready.

When she was three-and-a-half, she used to scream in carline every morning as we dropped her big brother and sister off at school, "I want to go there, too. I want to go THERE!" And then as we took the turn toward home every day I knew to expect a cry of, "No, not this way. Not home!" Home was boring. She wanted to go to the grocery store, to the library, to the mall. She wanted to see people, do things. We put her in preschool before she turned four, and she loved it. She cried if she had to miss, because she got sick. She asked me often, "Is today my preschool day?" Signed up for three days a week, she wished she could go all five.

And now she is going there at last: real, big-kid school.

She has her Batman backpack, her Justice League lunch bag, her Batman high tops, her Batman go-get-em attitude, and her Avengers pjs to curl up in at the end of the day.

And I'm feeling sad, counting the hours. I'm wondering how tired she's going to be each afternoon. I'm wondering what she'll think when she sees me crying as she marches to her classroom tomorrow, hoping my big smile and energetic wave reassure her Mama will do just fine without her Booey. I'm worried about Daniel missing his buddy badly, feeling like an abandoned sidekick, and hoping she doesn't try to boss around the whole classroom as his replacement. This mama, two already in school, is anxious about how I'm going to feel not having her home all that first long day.

I'm going to feel lonely during Daniel's naptime; I just know it.

My heart has been swelling for the past week, filling up with memories and the knowledge of letting go. Every time I hear her go up to somebody and say matter-of-factly, "Five plus five equals 10." Every time she tells her siblings, "Did you know 20 plus 20 equals 40?", and Berto responds, "Alright! Yes, we know," with exasperation at the constant reciting of math facts, I feel proud and nostalgic. She's been counting on her fingers, preparing herself for the big day when she can raise her hand proudly in class and let everyone know how smart she is.

I've smiled at my special little girl every time she comes and asks me softly, "Mama, what is Batman's real name again?" Then she turns to a family friend and pronounces, "I know Batman's real name!" And she whispers, "Bruce Wayne," in their ear with an admonition, "Don't tell the others! It's a secret."

They respond to her chronic cuteness with a big grin and reply, "Oh, I won't. I won't tell anyone!"

She learned how to traverse the monkey bars and ride her bike this May. The first time she traveled the monkey bars with no support was during one of her brother's football games, and she wanted to run and get her Papa, assistant coach, off the field, to show him. She waited impatiently until the end of the game, because Mama said she must, before dragging him to the playground. When the training wheels came off her bike, it took her no time at all to control it. A few trips across the back yard under her papa's or my supervision, she was good, and she still tells people with great pride, "I can ride my bike and do the monkey bars all by myself!"

Ella Boo's a superhero. Bruce Wayne has nothing on her. She's got bouncy curls and constant energy and a sassy attitude. She can boss around her big sis all the live long day if I let her, and she'll try to boss around her 10-year-old brother, never giving up no matter how many times he puts her back in her place. The girl's got personality, and smarts, and beautiful almond-shaped brown eyes with an adorable beauty mark at the corner of her right one. She could do a 100 piece puzzle at four years of age like it was nothing, beat us all at Memory at age three. On a hike she can out hoof or out run or out climb anyone, even the adults. When we walk the dog, she's scooting, cycling, or running several yards ahead of us all, and we routinely shout, "Ella, stop! Wait up!", because she's flying.

She has more loose teeth, and I know she'll be bringing them home from school, dislodged by an apple, in little plastic baggies. She'll be growing up away from me half the day now.

But she still wants bedtime stories and monkey hugs and still gives her daddy and me loud, slobbery smooches. She still begs Daddy to help her sound out Hop on Pop by Dr. Seuss, jumping up by his side in the recliner. And it would break her heart if Mama didn't carry her to bed, close the closet, tuck her in and kiss her goodnight before she snuggles her teddy bear, Oonie, and falls asleep.

My super kindergartener is only taking a step on the path, not a flying leap across tall buildings, toward independence. She'll be just as happy to see me as I her when I pick her up each afternoon. I can already see her skipping toward the car, curls a flutter, in her Batman shoes.

Super Boo.

Bungle in the Jungle

My husband, Matthew, could not wait to go to work the other morning. The caterwauling, shouts, and war whoops, typical tribal noises of his children, were too much for him. When asked what he wanted to take for breakfast, he replied curtly, "Just give me whatever, so I can get out the door."

Yesterday I was the one who couldn't hack it, couldn't look the demands of the day in the face. By afternoon I had hurled a hamburger patty on the floor and demanded to know why I had to put up with so much drama. There was yelling, grabbing, crying, fights over blackberries. Blackberries! I eventually retrieved the hamburger, safe in its Ziploc bag, to prepare for my calm child, Ana.

You see, I'll tell you a wee secret. God gives every large family that one child, the dependable, even-tempered one, to guard their parents' sanity. Because He knows; oh, He knows.

As I was recounting my day to my husband last evening, detailing an argument-at-the-swimming-pool scene, the blackberries-and-hamburger incident, a hokey-pokey tragedy of immense proportion, a dog-tried-to-eat-hamster debacle, and a Danny-slap-Booey in the face mockery, I began to giggle, hands pressed into my glasses, releasing the day's stress with God's natural remedy.

"It's bad. It's...just...sooo bad," I gasped.

By golly, you have to have a since of humor in this business or you won't survive. You'll crack, and be the one that flew over the cuckoo's nest. I can't count the number of times my husband has been in a serious stare-off with one of the kids, boring his displeasure into their craniums, and I've broken just watching them, had to hide my face and snicker into my arm. The many, many times, when the level of bad behavior in this house was so ludicrous, so incredibly high that a volcano of naughtiness could have erupted and flooded the neighborhood, and I've stood in the middle of my home in a fit of mirthless, unbelieving laughter. Or the time, much nicer, when Booey (Ella) started knock-knock jokes at the dinner table, and they all joined in, the go-to punch line of the evening being "apple-lapple-orange juice". I burst out in real fits when Matthew cried out at last, "No more knock-knock jokes!", and Danny turned to him, sweet as pie, and said, "Papa? Ding-dong."

Ding-dong - Ha! Haha!

My husband thinks the craziness is too much, gets fed up, has to take a break, retreat and plan new tactical maneuvers.

The poor man called one day at lunchtime as I was cleaning a stream of juice off my dining room wall. While I was talking and cleaning, Danny just happened to push his leg through the slats of a dining room chair. His siblings and I attempted to maneuver his leg down or back or any way we could to gently pull it free. With every failed attempt Danny's panic and wails of woe escalated, and my cajoling voice increased in pitch. I finally cried into the phone, "I'm going to have to call the Fire Department!"

My brain had momentarily died from an overload of steadily increasing aggravation and distraction. When it finally hyperventilated back to life, I grabbed Vaseline and had my son's leg released in a moment. When I got back on the line, Matthew could barely speak to me; he was so disgusted by the mayhem. I cried, "What are you talking about? This is every day. This is life! That boy has got his elbow stuck in that chair at least a dozen times this week!"

I start singing at my kids when things get too bad, when I start seeing the cuckoo's nest on the horizon. I sing my frustration, my disappointment, my conditions for peace, my orders to be obeyed right now. Most of my songs are operatic songs of acute lamentation, more tragic than any aria.

The kids know what it means when Mama sings. Not being a qualified opera singer, I don't care about form or pitch, and it hurts the ears; they'll do anything to make it stop. Even behave. Even do what I asked them to do 15 minutes ago.

Sometimes it's so bad around here - so noisy, so theatrical, so tantrum and spat invested - that I worry about the neighbors and their uninformed opinions. I wish I had a megaphone that I could wedge out a bathroom window sometimes to alert them to the situation:

"We're alright...we're allriiiight! Listen: Danny - the golden-haired angel? - is pitching a ferocious fit in time-out...howling should die down in about, oh, twenty minutes. I am not beating him, really, though I'm sorely tempted! There's also a minor scuffle between the older ones. No broken bones, just hurt egos! The one keening like an old witch is me, trying to keep them all from leaping off the furniture. But don't worry! No need to call an ambulance, the police or fire department at this time. Uh...please stand by for further notifications, though. And thank you for your cooperation and your wonderful nonjudgmentalism!"

School will start soon, and thank heavens, because what I'll hear from their teachers I hear every year, applied like balm to my soul.  It goes something like this:

"Berto/Ana/Ella is such a joy to have in our classroom! They're so helpful and respectful. So well-behaved! I know I never have to worry about him/her. Thank you for all you do to raise such wonderful kids."

I'll just nod, grin and say, "That's so great to hear. You know, I just keep at them, the little...uh, angels. They're like sugar on sugar fluffer, you know what I mean? But you can't let them get away with a thing. Not a blasted thing, the, uh, sweeties. It's battle, constant battle, but so darn rewarding, huh? Yes?"

And I'll walk away with a skip in my weary step and a twinkle in my eye above the permanent dark circles, resting proudly in the knowledge that they behave beautifully for other people and knowing full well that my husband and I get all the exhausting work and glorious credit in making sure of that.

Ignacia's Kitchen: Homemade Pizza…or should I say artisan pizza or a fancy named rustic pizza?

I love cooking but there are only two dishes where I like my version more than anyone else’s. Sounds egocentric, but I think it is not a big enough “portfolio” for a career as a chef.

I am happy my friend Hillary is having me as a guest again, so if you like my simple pizza, I would love for you to post the link and share…so she invites me again J.

Anyway, all of that to say that this is one of those two recipes:

Quantities for one round 13 inches or 12x10 inches pizza

·        Mix ¾ cup lukewarm water with

·        3 Tb olive oil

·        1 tsp salt

·        Right after mixing (before the water and oil separate)

·        Add 2 cups flour

·        Mix and knead for a couple of minutes

·        Add more water or flour to get a soft dough

·        Roll dough into desired shape

·        Pinch with a fork

·        Bake it at 400F until golden, for about 10 minutes

Meanwhile, grab you favorites toppings…or the one you actually have…tomato sauce and cheese are highly recommended but actually you do not need them.

·        When the dough is ready, add the toppings and bake for about 7 minutes

Sit, eat and enjoy!

YUM! Cheesy goodness

 

Tips:

·        Add more I like to mix extra ingredients for the kids to play and make fun shapes, then we bake it with the rest of the dough.

·        Add about ½ teaspoon of  dry seasoning to the water, oregano, basil, etc.

·        Use parchment paper if you do not feel like scraping the countertop and do not have a fancy knelling thingy

·        Bake the dough longer if you like the dough crunchier or less if you prefer it softer


My dear friend Ignacia is likely moving back to Chile soon. I am bummed, but I am also happy for her family, that they get to return to their home and family. Their friends in the US will miss them badly, but it is times such as these when you truly thank God for the Internet in all its modern wonder. It is so much easier to keep in touch across continents, and I trust that we will. I hope that we will - always.

As well as some wonderful memories and a scarlet rose plant, she has given me (and you) some excellent, not-too-complicated recipes. She is always generous like that. :-) May her family always be blessed!

 

A Post in Pictures: Monuments to Independence

I've only been to the Mall in Washington D.C. twice. My brother Nate worked at the Pentagon during his Air Force years, and he took me around the nation's capitol when I was 19. I wore high, spiky heels. My brother told everyone, "She's just like my mother - wears heels everywhere!" But I was cursing those shoes with some salty language in my head, smiling through the pain as I ogled park benches. I went again this year with my sister Vinca's family, 15 years after my last visit. I wore wedge heels, which apparently men hate, but they were a lot more comfortable. Eight hours walking did them in, though, and a strap snapped the next day in protest of the excessive labor.

D.C. is really quite pretty and pristine (well...not the politics). Around the Mall, all these impressive, blocky federal buildings house various departments of state. We passed the Holocaust Museum. Vinca and I wished to go in...but not with the younger kids. When they're older we'll go, I hope.

Feet hitting the green in my sexy wedge heels, the first thing I saw was the Capitol Building and all the various museums in the Smithsonian metropolis. After paying a sack of gold and several greenbacks for a meal of hot dogs, fries and chips, we entered what I thought was the Museum of Natural History. I was a bit down in the mouth when I discovered I was in The Museum of American History. Imagine, then, the thrill that my sis Vinca, Matthew and I got when we entered a dark corridor and saw in the soft lighting behind protective glass the very American flag that inspired Francis Scot Key to write the Star-Spangled Banner. If that will not make your patriotic heart swell, I don't know what will. (Sorry, pictures were prohibited, so just imagine. Oh, say can you see!)

There was this, too, in the History of the American Presidency room, and I just could not believe my eyes or my luck. It is the trunk in which George Washington preserved the papers from the Constitutional Convention:

And this drum and black crepe used during Lincoln's funeral:

In another room we discovered the USS Philadelphia, a gunboat built and sunk in 1776 during the Revolutionary War:

We spent too long in that museum, everyone telling me to STOP trying to read every single sign and to forego the temptation of beating appreciation of wonders into my children's  heads. Someone mentioned the Civil War room on the way out, and I cried, "Oohh, where was that?!" They all replied, "Come along, come along," being anxious to scurry toward Natural History, because, well, there's dinosaurs and gemstones in them there halls, you know.

The dinosaurs are impressive, and the gemstones shiny. The crowds around Hope Diamond are insane; everyone wants a peek at a legend that's mostly invented. And just when you think you're ready to leave, down the hall you find the mummies and their treasures. Then, after a long, long foray in the gift shop, you finally escape into the fresh, humid air.

Just across the way is the Smithsonian Castle, the oldest Museum that houses the crypt of British scientist James Smithson whose wealth was bequeathed to the US at Washington for the "increase and diffusion of knowledge among men". It's a mystery why he did this, having never been to the United States (except posthumously). Perhaps he thought we were a bunch of uncouth hardheads in need of some culture. At any rate, we're grateful.

After the men took the kids into the Air and Space Museum, and Vinca and I enjoyed some sisterly bonding time in a rainy garden, it was time to see the monuments.

The Washington Memorial has been closed both times I've visited the Mall. I don't remember what the deal was 15 years ago, but this June it was obscured by scaffolding again. It's marble was damaged during the East Coast earthquake in 2011, creating chinks in the structure. It still manages to be beautiful with its geometric trappings, that great obelisk erected in memory of our first great president. Maybe someday I'll be able to go up its height.

The WWII memorial, finally built but long overdue, is expansive. The states each have their own column between the magnificent sculptures for the Pacific and Atlantic campaigns:

 On our way to the Lincoln Memorial, we saw this sly creature:

A fox on the Washington Mall? Crazy! We paused in amazement, but just after we left this young fella caught a fat squirrel and flipped it up into the air a few times before my sensitive daughter's innocent eyes. I had already deserted the area, and so my sister was left the task of consoling Ana and reminding her of the circle of life.

Finally, we walked toward the man I had waited all day to see. I was thrilled to approach his incredible, Ancient-Greece inspired monument once more, but sick of the hike in strange territory, Ella and Danny, my youngest two, opted to spend time with Uncle Dave at the bottom of the steep and numerous steps instead of seeing Lincoln.

I am ashamed to say that in that temple I forgot what my brother had taught me all those years ago. Like any obnoxious tourist, I called across the space for my kids and their cousins to smile for the camera, recalling too late what was due out of respect when I saw the sign pleading for hushed voices. Lincoln seemed unperturbed, but I will remember next time that silence is sacred and possible in this raucous, over-stimulated world. After all, my sister Vinca did not forget.

Maybe it was magic of the day. Maybe it was the company of family I see too seldom (my own fault). Maybe it was the creeping fatigue and the gnawing hunger not quite satisfied by pricey hot dogs eaten hours before, or my insane and specific craving for chocolate and cookie, but outside the Lincoln Memorial, I had the best chocolate chip cookie I have ever eaten in my entire life. My husband purchased savories and sweets across the road at a snack rotunda for us all, dodging tourist buses. The cookies were in little sealed plastic packages, so I am quite sure that if I knew the brand I could find them again, but I am also certain that they could never taste the same as they did that day in D.C.. They were blissfully delicious. I do not exaggerate.

Mindful of my earlier mistake, however, I gathered everyone's snacks back into the bag as we headed down the trail to the Vietnam War Memorial. Vinca and I talked to the kids about the importance of silence in such a place. 15 years ago, my brother had done the same for me.

"Be quiet, Hillary!" he had said. "You don't talk here."

As we walked quietly my niece Danni and daughter Ana began to pick the clover off the path and place it gently by the wall. What should I do? I wasn't sure it was appropriate, but they were doing it with such sincerity - wanting to do something, to leave a little of their love at a memorial of which they could not fully understand the significance. I let them do it. (Later, my sister Vinca would tell a good friend of hers, a Vietnam vet, about their gesture. He teared up, so I cannot feel it was wrong to show that love even if it was not proper etiquette.)

It's a long black wall, and at its base are pictures, flags and mementos. There are coins, too, each with meaning. The significance is this, my brother-in-law Dave believes: a penny if you knew the person, a nickel if you served with them, and a quarter if you were there when they died. After we left the wall, Dave and Matthew spoke in awe of how they had seen lying against the black surface a picture of two young service men. In front of it was a quarter.

A Post in pictures: Gettysburg, 150th anniversary

I cannot believe that little over a week ago I was standing on the Gettysburg Battlefield, feeling overwhelmed by all the markers and monuments, struggling to align the layout of the land before me with the battle scenes I'd seen portrayed in a movie starring Martin Sheen and Jeff Daniels. 150 years after the defeat of Robert E. Lee's Army of Northern Virginia at that site during the Civil War, my family and I were looking across hallowed ground. The only thing that was lacking was the presence of Dad. Both my sister Vinca and I had looked forward to Dad being there. I cried bitterly when I found out he couldn't come. A great admirer of Robert E. Lee and hugely knowledgeable about that war, he would have had no problem seeing the events of those early July days of 1863 play out in his mind's eye against the backdrop.

Thanks to Vinca and my brother-in-law Dave, also a Civil War buff, and to my forbearing husband Matthew, the children and I got to be there for the 150th anniversary. I had dreamed about it, never thinking it would happen. Considering that I kept all the adults, and the dog, up late the night before with my typical once-a-month-crazy blowout, and that we spent eight hours walking D.C. just two days earlier, it's a miracle it came to pass.

Blurry-eyed and irritable in the morning, lugging food for an army - albeit a pampered one, we herded seven children into two vehicles later than hoped and made the drive to Pennsylvania from where? Northern Virginia. Three hours later, we ate our picnic lunch in the parking lot and hiked up to the Visitor's Center.

Now please understand: my youngest child, Danny, believes he is still a baby AND my indispensable third arm. So....failing to bring a stroller from Arizona to my sis' home and having learnt a painful lesson from hauling my miraculous appendage around in D.C., Vinca and I negotiated with a park ranger to haul my whining preschooler around in a wheelchair. Being a true gentleman, he was open to our strange plan as long as one of us rode with him (yeah!). I just had to leave my driver's license as collateral to prevent my wild retreat from the Center with the chair as loot. As I was making sure of the terms of what the friendly park ranger called a "red-neck solution, ma'am", my man walked up and squashed the transaction, calling it ridiculous. I groaned.

The park ranger asked my husband, "Which one is yours? Which ones are yours?" pointing between me and Vinca and our entourage of children.

"Do I have to claim any of them?" responded Matthew, and the ranger, Vinca and I just laughed it up, seeing the wisdom of that reply. Ah, love and family!

Disappointed but determined and deciding to come back to the Museum later, we hiked a trail through beautiful greenery to Cemetery Ridge, the Union position. The smell of honeysuckle accosted us, and my nephew PJ and I were just about to snag some and suck the juice out when Dave reminded us that we could be fined a few hundred bucks for messing around with nature in a National Park. Damn! It was like my childhood was floating on the air, teasing me. Even the little purple flowers by the path reminded me of my home in Tennessee. But soon we were out of the trees and crossing a busy road and the memorials began to spring up everywhere.

Everyone has the moment when it hits them, just where they are, just what happened there. My moment came on Cemetery Ridge after trying but mostly failing to interpret the signs about Confederate and Union positions and encounters. I began to wander behind my brother Dave amid the cannon, and he pointed this out to me:

It's a memorial to mark where Confederate General Lewis Armistead fell on July 3rd. Part of Pickett's charge, his brigade got farther than any other into Union lines. Before the war he had been great friends with Union General Winfield Scott Hancock, who was also at Gettysburg. Both were wounded. Armistead died.

We had to return to the car, make the good hike back down, because you can't walk the whole park in one day. If you're like me, you'd like to try, and if you could, you would read each and every monument, memorial and marker along the way. But your friends and family would probably desert you, and you'd have to break federal rules and live off National Park land for a week or so.

In the car we stopped first at the Pennsylvania Monument. It is gorgeous and enormous:

I thought I lost most of my kids there, because I lost my head and didn't keep track of them. Berto was filming and narrating the sights on the camera for his Paca (my dad), and it turns out my man had taken the younger ones up the precarious, tightly winding stairs to the top as I bellowed for my family all around statues of Lincoln and Union generals. We finally reunited, and I took my turn up to the parapet. Here's one of the views of the battlefield from the top:

Later as we all made pilgrimages to and from the restrooms, I caught my nephew PJ drawing a scale model of the monument. I was amazed! It was beautifully detailed and to my eyes looked perfect. I wanted to ask him if I could have it, but it seemed wrong to covet his hard work. Still, if he felt like giving me such a thing for Christmas, I wouldn't say no. I'd frame it for my home and point out his signature to visitors.

We later made a stop at the farm of a free black man whose fences and other property were dismantled by federal forces to use for defenses. He filed for damages in excess of $1,000. He was compensated 10 bucks or so - a lucky one. Most farmers got nothing in compensation from the government.

Here are some of the many monuments to bravery and sacrifice on the Union side of the enormous field:


Major General George Meade

We drove through the still small town of Gettysburg to get to the Confederate side. And this is where Matthew and Dave had their moments.


You drive down a paved road through pretty, serene landscape. It is so quiet, the gentle whisper of the leaves so peaceful, it is hard to imagine anxious men waiting beneath those trees to march toward their fate.

When we got out of the cars to wander and found ourselves staring back over the field to Cemetery Ridge and all the Union monuments, Matthew said, "It just hit me. This is eerie."

It was.

I waited a while beside the Volunteer State's monument for my sister so that we, a couple gals raised in the green hills of Tennessee, could pose by it:

Here are a couple others, each to commemorate the actions and loss of men in those days of July 1863:

North Carolina's

Finally, we drove up the road to the one monument you can see clearly from Cemetery Ridge, and my brother Dave had his moment. Only he did what none of the rest of us had thought to do: he called Dad to tell him where he was and to share the moment before the memorial to General Robert E. Lee and the Army of Northern Virginia:

Just down a trail from it is the spot where Lee rode before his weary men after their defeat and declared, "It is all my fault."

Afterward, we passed marker after marker, out of time, and I wished I could have spent a moment - or several minutes - with each of them. I tried to read the state's names and the general's positions as we headed up the hill to Little Round Top where brutal fighting took place, where the 20th Maine under Col. Chamberlain held their ground at all costs, becoming instrumental in the Union victory:

Then we realized Vinca had left her backpack somewhere, and I was shocked, because I'm supposed to do stuff like that. Still, it was my fault; she forgot it while posing with me in front of Tennessee's memorial.

While the men went looking for it, Vinca and I took the kids to the Museum. I had several moments there, mostly angry, irritated ones, because I was trying to look at every single object and read every single placard, but my five-year-old was scared by the dim lighting, images and weaponry. The museum zig-zagged forever, each new corner bringing something you know you can't leave without seeing - even if you're child is telling you how she hates it.

But Vinca in that museum still managed to have her moment. I found her in tears after coming back from scouting a restroom for my five-year-old. I thought my kids had really done it then! I tried to pry what was wrong from her, but Vinca just wanted everyone to leave her alone for a bit.

Later she told me about it. She found a display in which there was a small personal Bible. An infantry soldier had it in his pocket during the battle, and a bullet or shattered shell went plum through it, leaving a gaping hole. The soldier died, and the museum had the Bible along with many of his personal effects on display. It suddenly hit her, she said, the sheer number of deaths and the ramifications of that immense loss of life.

A wise man, one who many of us greatly admire, gave a speech at Gettysburg after the battle. Abraham Lincoln said it was far beyond our ability to hallow that ground. The men who died there did that. All those monuments and memorials we had the great privilege to see, though beautiful and appropriate, don't add to what those men did 150 years ago, but hopefully they make us ponder their sacrifice and heighten our appreciation for the sacrifice of every single man and woman in service since.

That's what it is all about. We should all be blessed with moments.


If you ever visit Gettysburg, plan to spend a couple days. It is far bigger than you think it is. Camp in the campgrounds nearby or stay in the town after all the anniversary crowds have cleared. I plan on a backpacking trip through it myself someday, reading every single little marker throughout. Anyone want to come along? Matthew? Vinca? Dave? Kids? Anybody? :-)