excerpt from "Reveille!".

One of the prettiest passages I've ever written.

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.

CATHERIN
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 Pope’s Head Road, lit up by the 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.