Columns & Editorials

Beware the Sweatshirt Bandit
Beware the Sweatshirt Bandit

Beware the Sweatshirt Bandit

My great great great grandfather, Henry Marion Stilwell, was a confederate soldier in the Civil War. At one point, he was captured in Vicksburg, Mississippi and held as a POW. That length of time is debatable, depending on which family elder you’ve cornered at a reunion. It also varies depending on which, if, and how many adult drinks are involved. His capture tale vacillates between a few months and “the entire war.” Everyone agrees on one thing. Henry’s makeshift cell was positioned near the area where the union soldiers kept their horses. Some would see the stench as further punishment, but Henry saw the situation as fortuitous and is said to have survived by eating the horse feed that fell near him as the equines munched. Cancel culture would have us believe speaking about the war between the states is taboo. I say forgetting history means you’re doomed to repeat it. Besides, let us not discredit Henry. After all, there was this thing called a compulsory military draft. Henry was eventually released, thankfully. Thus, I am here entertaining you with such stories. They say he was a scarred man. He winced at the sight of horse feed. A story about war, you say? No. This is a story of how things scar you, mainly bad fashion choices. On the day the war ended, Henry swore he would never wear union blue again as long as he lived. To the knowledge of the Stilwell clan, he upheld that statement.

Saint Nick

Saint Nick

It was one of those big Catholic churches. The chapel was enormous. The spire was tall enough to interfere with air traffic. Nobody builds them like the Catholics.

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