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Tomorrow, in 1861, the Civil War will begin. there won't be any shots fired--not many, at least--and nearly all of the boys of 1861 are civilians tonight, but every ballot cast is one step closer.
If you portray the same person often, what was she or he doing on the eve of the election? Was there anyone at home who would march off next spring and not come back? Was he politically active? Was she working somewhere, and if so, would she, or the workplace, be there when the war ended?
It's the end of the world as we knew it, but we didn't know it at the time. For all the big talk about secession and putting down rebels, most people have no clue what it's going to cost or how long it will take. The young man flirting with that pretty girl will make it home to marry her, but without an arm. That newspaper office will be a burnt shell after Sherman's army passes through in four years. That lady watching her boys at the rally from her window will lose both of them by the time the lilacs bloom in 1865. Six hundred and thirty thousand young men waiting for election results won't be around to see Appomattox.
Tonight a nation stood waiting. There would be a long moment of held breath after the polls closed and before the election board wrote the results on those big sheets to hang in the windows. Newspapers waited, typesetters ready while the editors went down to the telegraph office. How fast did the word get to your person's town? Did it fly on wires or have to slog through November mud behind oxen? Who could get to the depot to wait for the first word to come in? What happened then?
If you portray the same person often, what was she or he doing on the eve of the election? Was there anyone at home who would march off next spring and not come back? Was he politically active? Was she working somewhere, and if so, would she, or the workplace, be there when the war ended?
It's the end of the world as we knew it, but we didn't know it at the time. For all the big talk about secession and putting down rebels, most people have no clue what it's going to cost or how long it will take. The young man flirting with that pretty girl will make it home to marry her, but without an arm. That newspaper office will be a burnt shell after Sherman's army passes through in four years. That lady watching her boys at the rally from her window will lose both of them by the time the lilacs bloom in 1865. Six hundred and thirty thousand young men waiting for election results won't be around to see Appomattox.
Tonight a nation stood waiting. There would be a long moment of held breath after the polls closed and before the election board wrote the results on those big sheets to hang in the windows. Newspapers waited, typesetters ready while the editors went down to the telegraph office. How fast did the word get to your person's town? Did it fly on wires or have to slog through November mud behind oxen? Who could get to the depot to wait for the first word to come in? What happened then?