Kings Mountain

I am a history buff. I like history. It tells us so much about ourselves.

But why do I like it?

I think because I wish I were part of it. What hero would not have wanted to land at Omaha Beach? Joined in Pickett's Charge? Dogged the Redcoats from Concord Bridge back to Charles Town? Crossed the Rubicon?

History is magical. It is magical in part because it is known and the numinous has cast its shadow. It appeals to our inner being. It appeals to our selves.

It appealed to a small child who in mid-1964 was carried on his father's shoulders across the Kings Mountain battlefield in North Carolina. His father, a man who himself appreciated history, told me later that he vividly remembered carrying his son across that mountainside.

I remember it quite clearly too.