I can load a musket.
I learned the art through my father's meandering tutorial. The lesson was punctuated with old stories and hunting tips. That time he and Charlie got lost in the hollow and had to hitchhike back to camp. Ram the ball in like this. The time Uncle Lefty got pissed about some drunk prank. Stay calm when the flint lights. Don't jerk. And so on.
My father never came to terms with his son not being a hunter, but there I was several years later going hunting up north with some friends. Just like he did, back in the old days.
With the gun on my lap, I thought of the Civil War. Modern muzzleloaders are different from muskets used back then. But in a world of semi-automatic weapons and bolt-action rifles, loading one feels antiquated.
I picture myself nervously ramming a ball into the barrel atop some hill in Gettysburg. When are the rebels going to find me? What the hell am I going to do after firing off this ball? Were soldiers really reloading these damn things, just like this, as balls whizzed past their ears and the possibility of a bayonet thrusting towards them at any moment?
My father loved reading about the Civil War. He took us to Gettysburg when I was young. I was bored out of my mind. I must've deliberately avoided retaining any knowledge about the Civil War growing up. Out of spite. Only a few years ago I couldn't have told you which side Grant and Lee were on.
Yet decades later, the Civil War fascinates me. There is a jolt of pride knowing one of the most consequential battles in our history happened a couple hours from where we grew up. My father did little to hide this pride.
The battles with those closest to home are naturally the most fierce. Brothers against brothers. Fathers against sons.
Civil wars are personal.
Civil wars are messy.
Confused souls struggling to reconcile the seemingly irreconcilable.
Becoming a father casts a different light on the battles I've had with mine. I am reckoning with how much influence I will have over my boys' lives. This weight can become overbearing at times, especially when I inadvertently cause them grief. Overreacting to one of them wetting the bed. Losing my cool during one of their meltdowns. Saying things I don't mean.
Under this weight I realize my own father did the best he could. It's easy to pin my faults on my upbringing. But what if my sons did the same to me? What if they only emphasized the negatives?
We are all imperfect in our own ways. Even with best intentions, we still hurt others. And maybe it is natural to hold grudges against those who have hurt you in the past.
Forgiveness is not a switch you can flip. Uttering the words may be painful, but they are just words. Words will not bring you peace.
Instead, forgiveness is a process. Maybe you can never fully forgive someone. Maybe that spark of anger at being wronged lives within us forever, however muted it becomes over time.
The muzzleloader in my hands may not resemble the muskets used to mow down so many Americans during the Civil War. But it is heavy.