05/26/2026
*On Wi******er’s Ground*
I walked on hallowed ground at Wi******er, stopping by each marker.
Three battles carved into these fields. A town claimed seventy times.
Each cannon a memorial of struggle.
Each acre a measure of courage from Kernstown to Rutherford’s Farm to the Middle Field.
Every battlefield here a living, breathing museum.
Every echo a picture in the mind of every soldier who marched the Valley Pike.
Every General leading his men to battle, whilst not he knows what he will give.
Jackson. Banks. Early. Sheridan. None knew the cost when the order came.
Yet so many men charged forward across Redbud Run, across fields we now call quiet.
Each step a promise to his brothers.
Every bullet a desperate plea for victory, for freedom, for home.
September 19, 1864 — nine thousand fell in hours, and the Valley changed.
Hollowed the ground, somber the memories, silent the voices.
We must speak loudly for those that fallen they have,
by silently honoring the battlegrounds we preserve.
Because Wi******er remembers every time it bled, so we don’t have to.