Funeral for the Unknown

My sister’s house sits across the road from Washington Crossing State Park. You walk through her horse pasture, cross a road and you see the great Delaware River, warm and gentle in summer, but during this ice storm, a brown torrent with a steady flow of chunks of ice rushing south. The day the big storm hit, all the kids and I took a cold, slippery walk along the tow path that runs aside the canal. Alex tossed in a heavy branch and cracked the ice that had started to form. It’s a 60-mile path from Yardley to Easton that I want to walk some spring. Wouldn't that be a great adventure? Even with McMansions going up along the river, even with cars whooshing by at some points, you can feel the history in every step. I loved the Canadian geese – those bossy crotchety cranks of the bird world -- that quacked at our intrusion in their domain.
Not far from my sister’s house along the path, there’s a memorial and graveyard with a line of identical tombstones. Unknown soldier, Unknown soldier, Unknown soldier, Unknown soldier. 22 Unknowns, only one stone with a name. No gold here, no carefully chosen wooden coffin, only a line of small white markers like giant Chiclets in the snow. I so hope that some shabtis were buried along with these forgotten men. Buried on Christmas Day 1776, victims of sickness and exposure before the Battle of Trenton.

My kids and nieces and nephew ran along the line of graves, trying to get out energy before the brunt of the storm hit and we would be housebound for the next 24 hours. Even with L.L. Bean down parkas and snow boots and hats and gloves, our fingers tingled with the cold, our toes and noses in serious danger of going numb.