My dad was big on we kids traveling to further our educations. By the time I was in my teens I'd venture to guess I'd seen every roadside historical marker from Sea to Shining Sea.
However, one reaches the age where they're more interested in the latest edition of MAD magazine than they are about tramping through fields of rock where guys they never knew died a gazillion years ago. I was at that age when Dad took us to Gettysburg.
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Maybe if I'd known what was in store for me that day I would've been far more interested in Gettysburg.
It was drizzling and cool that morning we arrived at Gettysburg, which did nothing to improve my mood. I was tired from the night before, swimming in the hotel pool until after 10 p.m. I wanted to be an Olympic swimmer so was far more interested in being in the pool than in Gettysburg.
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We got to Devil's Den. I told my dad to go ahead and I'd catch up in a couple of minutes, I just wanted to rest for a bit. I settled down at the base of a boulder and closed my eyes. Suddenly I sensed I wasn't alone.
I opened my eyes. To my right sat the full manifestation of the ghost of a Confederate soldier.
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"Howdy, Ma'am," he said.
I was eyeing him suspiciously from head to toe. He looked like he hadn't bathed in weeks, his uniform was filthy, his boots scuffed and caked with mud. The front of his shirt was stained in a dark crimson color.
"I'm not a Ma'am, I'm a kid," I informed him.
He threw back his head and laughed before replying "That's what I love about y'all, Patty. Y'all always tell it just like it is."
"I think you're dead, like a ghost or somethin'" I pointed out to him, just in case he'd missed that fact. "And ya look like shit."
He threw back his head and laughed again, slapping his knee as he did.
"Well now, I done went and got myself shot so I imagine I do!" he replied. "And y'all best watch your mouth or your stepmama will wash it out with soap again," he said.
​How did he know my stepmother washed my mouth out with soap when I cussed? I wondered. And how did he know my name?
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​"How do you know my name?" I asked.
"I just do."
"Well, aren't ya gonna tell me yours?"
"Name's Adam," he said, tipping his cap to me.
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He talked funny, like my cousins in "Missoura".
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​I decided I liked Adam and we settled into a comfortable conversation about the war, the wife he'd left behind, how much he missed his mama's peach pie. But soon enough his face turned serious.
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"Y'all have a secret, Patty. A secret y'all don't tell anyone."
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How did he know about my secret? I wasn't comfortable talking about it. I busied myself playing with my shoelaces. Adam sat patiently, saying nothing.
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Finally I said "The kids all call me witch and devil and stuff," in nearly a whisper.
"Y'all don't worry about what those kids say," he instructed. "What ya'll have is a gift and some day y'all will use that gift to help many, many people - including those kids that make fun of you."
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With that, Adam said it was time for him to go. He vanished into thin air.
I ran to catch up with my family, deep in thought. I'd already decided I wouldn't tell anyone about my visit with Adam. Who would believe me even if I did tell?
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Dad was now taking us to some Civil War museum. I felt myself being drawn to a glass display case containing Civil War photographs and one in particular. I stared at the photo. The plaque below it read "Anonymous Confederate soldier killed in battle." The soldier had been shot in the chest, a crimson stain covering the front of his shirt.
He's not anonymous, I thought somewhat incensed. His name was Adam.
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Now that I'm much older and wiser I realize what a master orchestrator Jmmanuel was and is. He dropped many clues in my lap that he knew I'd eventually put together to realize he'd been Adam - especially reminding me to watch my mouth. He's always on me if I cuss, constantly reminding me "Watch your mouth!" "Language, Gracie!"
A weird thing happened after my meeting with Adam. It was as though I could instantly and very accurately "tune in" to the Civil War.
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For example, a woman whose son was a Civil War re-enactor took a photo of him doing a re-enactment. This was in the days before cell phone and digital cameras. When she had the photo developed, the full manifestation of a Union soldier appeared standing directly behind her son. The ghost hadn't been visible when she took the photo.
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She'd heard about me from others I'd helped and asked if I could tell her anything about who the ghost behind her son had been.
I gave her his full name, his home state and town, that he'd been in the infantry and other information.
She got in touch with me later that week and said she and her sister had found the actual records on the ghost soldier - and I'd had everything about him right.
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On another occasion I asked one of the Angelics to show me what the Civil War camps had been like. They responded with an OBE that put me smack in front of an amputation tent, where men who'd been wounded were having their limbs amputated. I was standing right in front of a huge pile of arms and legs around which a black cloud of flies swarmed. The stench was nearly unbearable. The deafening moaning and screaming was even worse as soldiers had their limbs sawed off without anesthetic. It was an incredibly intense experience but it had certainly shown me exactly what the Civil War had been like.​
Civil War hospital/amputation tent
The Angelics compelled me to walk through the hospital tent. What I saw went way beyond ghastly - numerous soldiers with gangrene, drunk surgeons operating and amputating, absolutely filthy conditions, the most badly wounded soldiers left to die. It was appalling.
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How did I know that what I was seeing was accurate? The Angelics know all too well what a skeptic I am so they always give me proof of my experiences with them.
14 GRISLY FACTS ABOUT CIVIL WAR BATTLEFIELD SURGERY