Plus Ҫa Change

Michigan Avenue Bridge, by Errol Jacobson

About fifty years ago, my father (who resembled Dr Gibbs in this respect) piled the four youngest children -- aged eight to sixteen -- into our station wagon with my poor mother and headed for Alabama.

Ostensibly we were going to see my oldest sister graduate from boot camp at then-Ft. McClellan, but the real reasons for the trip were Chickamauga, Chattanooga, and any other Civil War site that could reasonably be sandwiched in along the way.

In front of a six-pounder perched high on Missionary Ridge, a young Park Service guide began asking questions of the small crowd of tourists.  Little did he know what he was in for...it went something like this.

He: Does anyone here know how many shots per minute this cannon could fire?

Me:  Two rounds per minute, with an experienced crew.

He:  Very good!  Who knows what these cannons were made of?

Next Youngest Brother:  They were cast out of bronze except for some Confederate cannons that used to blow up.

He:  Mmm..okay.  Now, in order to use a cannon, the crew needed to haul ammunition and other equipment around.  Does anyone know what this was called?

Youngest Brother: Limber.

He:  Ah...yes.  Moving right along, can anyone tell me what made these cannons so much more accurate than they were in the past?

Youngest Sister: They had rifled barrels.

And so it went for the rest of that poor man's spiel.  The four of us answered every single question, while my father grinned behind his moustache and my mother looked resigned.

Last Friday my sisters and I went on an architecture tour up the Chicago River (yes, it was snowing.  Took two hours for my feet to thaw out).  As soon as we were underway the guide began quizzing the dozen or so hardy souls aboard.

It was Missionary Ridge all over again.