(These are the Chaplains of the Civil War Union Army’s Irish Brigade. It is an image courtesy of Alexander Gardner through the Library of Congress).

This is a special day. No, I am not referring to the global tensions that could slide us all abruptly sideways into personal and international horrors It is a collective madness similar to that of the late 1930s. But there is enough conversation of that for now, and doubtless more to come tomorrow.

So, let us take a respite. Instead, on this day we honor a Saint with a series of bacchanals celebrated around the globe. It honors Patrick, of course, a man imbued with the Spirit of God to drive serpents arrayed before him into the sea. But this is not a religious holiday in exclusivity. For us, shown a bit of the old Church passion, it has become a story about the Diaspora of a homeland. Ireland was wracked by famine and ill-fortune. We will leave it at that. Those sad years produced our Grandfather’s line of Irish here in America., and our annual inclination to raise a glass to those who came before us across the sea.

It being Irish, of course there is a long and colorful story associated with it. We won’t bore you with that, since the travails of the 72nd Ohio Volunteer Infantry do not directly impact this farm. Our line of service is marred by a minor misunderstanding. GGG-Grandfather completed his three-year enlistment in 1864 after proudly signing up to serve his new State and Country at the beginning of it in 1861. He took advantage of a thirty-day leave upon completion of that tour to return home. That distance from the ranks led to an affair of the heart with a lovely young lady fresh from the Olde Sod.

Her brother, Uncle Patrick, was a hero of the 10th Tennessee Irish of the other side in the war. Our Grandfather’s grandfather failed to return to duty at the conclusion of his leave, preferring the comfort of gentle arms to the more severe one in the arms of war.

Noted local historian Cark B. Hall has some stories about what happened right here in Culpeper during that conflict and on this day. It is worth considering, since the signs dot the pull-off lanes on our smooth roads commemorating some quite remarkable events in brief raised letters cast in iron. On this annual celebration of a Saint, it is worth a brief recounting of some of them. We do not have the same ironic levity of the signs across much of land that proclaim “Nothing Ever Happened Here. Whew!”

We had plenty. G-G-Grandfather’s father swung a hammer right here, near Refuge Farm, building the Orange and Alexandria railroad in 1858. The engines sound their whistles from those rails each morning, echoing over our peaceful pastures. Clark Hall recounts it in a more powerful manner.

There was an event just upstream from here at Kelly’s Ford on this day, Irish fighting other Irish in America on a river crossing named for another Irishman.
No disrespect intended to the young men from all the other lands who walked these fields. They all crossed the same sea to get here.

Clark Hall does a remarkable job in bringing those days on these rolling green hills to life. He recounts the events that made our County one of the most fought-over in that bloody and brutal struggle. The times are interesting, since the press to develop our rural farmlands is growing. A more civil conflict is unfolding with applications to build “data centers” at the foot of Hansbrough’s Ridge, where the famed Irish Brigade camped for five months between campaigning seasons.

Imagine this for a moment. My college’s “Big House” football stadium is advertised as the largest stadium in North America, capable of holding 110,000 inebriated fans. Imagine that full-up crowd camping on your slopes for 150 days, with 10,000 more still tailgating out in the parking lot. That was the size of the visiting Union Army who rested here for five months during the winter encampment of the Army of the Potomac, from December 6, 1863 until they moved out again for Richmond on May 4, 1864.

There is still talk here about what that was like, and particularly after General Lee’s troops stayed with us the winter before, preparing for their march toward a little town in Pennsylvania called “Gettysburg.”

But rather than dwell on the horrors of yesterday’s war today, let us instead recall the Irish kids who rested on these hills briefly. And let us not forget those in peril today, far away or not.

For now, “Happy Saint Patrick’s Day!” seems appropriate. Splash claims he is going to take the F150 truck over to Belmont Farms Distillery later to look up at the Ridge where 8,000 Union soldiers spent a winter camped out.

And the other thing to remember, as Splash did: “If possible, take your Attorney with the group. Someone should be the designated driver.”

Copyright 2022 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com