Monologue from "Reveille!".

(June, 1863. On a modest farm in the Shenandoah Valley in Northern Virginia, CATHERIN and AMANDA cope with a life now turned upside down by war. They are discussing Amanda's essay she's submitting to Godey's Ladies Book.)

AMANDA
Then why don’t you submit your own story?

(Once she has finished cleaning the strawberries, CATHERIN begins ironing.)

CATHERIN
The world is an unhappy place, Amanda. My demeanor would have to be on a higher plain to even consider the task of sitting down to write – Godey’s or otherwise.

AMANDA
Well if your demeanor were on a higher plain, what would you write about?

(Silence.)

Oh, come now, Catherin. Don’t be such a sour puss. Say something.

CATHERIN
(Wondering.)
I don’t know.

(Reflecting.)

I suppose I’d write about living here in the valley – before the war - when even the faintest of breezes blows in the smell of sassafras blossoms from a mile away and the mockingbirds swoop down on anyone who gets within a hundred yards of their nests.
(Beat)

I’d write about how that dog of yours slouches around so much so you’d think she were dead to the world except for when she nips at the honey bees flying about her head.

AMANDA
Don’t you dare say one unkind word about Molly. She’d sooner chew off her leg than hurt a flea.
(Searching.)

Now where did that dog go anyways? Molly? Come here, Molly!
(Beat)
I’m sorry...were you through?

CATHERIN
I was not.

(Beat)

I’d write about our farm, and how you’re scared of feeding the chickens and how one day –

AMANDA
That ain’t true!

CATHERIN
“That’s not true” and you are too. And how one day you proposed we eat the Rhode Island Red and Plymouth Rock chickens as they were most certainly Yankee-bred and would do irreparable harm to a Southerner’s palate. I’d tell of midnight walks along 4¼ Mile Road, lit up by the slightest sliver of a moon – like a postcard...
(She stops ironing.)

...where you can hear the rippling and splashing of Little Mountain Run in the dark as she snakes down and around through the Shenandoah Valley, and the horned owl joins the bullfrog and the crickets in a symphony that only God could compose. Or the lonesome whistle of the Blue Ridge Railway...clickety-clackety – reminding me there’s a whole
nuther world to explore beyond this valley.
(Beat)

To drink that all in - now the world’s filled with nothing but suffering because of some men’s war and I fear I may wake to a rifle barrel stuck in my gut – or worse. Oh I still smell sassafras occasionally but it’s –

(Beat)

– everything I cherish here has been smothered by war. The trains bring men into town, filling our streets with blue troops and gray troops marching off to kill one another. The air is filled with smoke and fire. The Yankees’ blockade stopped Little Mountain Run from rippling and splashing. How many people have we known moved away or killed? This simple life of ours which I derived so much joy, is no more.

(Beat)

I used to take pleasure in the rain – a steady, long, slow rain. It washed the earth clean and made everything smell reborn, like fresh laundry brought in outta the wind. The only rain that falls now brings with it the stench of death and the streets run with the blood of young men who are lost forever. And I’m afraid that everything will change and I’ll forget what it was like.
(She goes back to ironing. Embarrassed.)

I’m rambling.

- excerpt from "Reveille!" by Jeffrey James Ircink. © Copyright 2007