Major Kong

Diamondback rattlesnake battle at Arthur Pack Golf Course in Tucson. It wasn't much of a battle. The roadrunner went under a prickly pear cactus and came out the other side with a pissed off and writhing rattler.

Who installs new windows on the first snowy day of the year? Well my SO that's who. Danged I'm cold. 🤬🤧 ** Edited by Major Kong at 12/5/2025, 2:05:46 PM

établie.

At 18, Union soldier Dorence Atwater was imprisoned at Andersonville, where 50 prisoners died daily. Assigned to record the deaths, he secretly copied the register. He smuggled it out, risked court-martial, and worked with Clara Barton to identify 13,000 graves. His courage saved thousands of families from never knowing what happened to their sons. Dorence Atwater was 18 years old when he was captured by Confederate forces. He was a Union soldier—young, idealistic, fighting for what he believed was right. Like thousands of other Union prisoners, he was sent to Confederate prison camps. First to Belle Isle in Richmond, Virginia. Then, in early 1864, to a place that would become synonymous with Civil War horror: Andersonville. Camp Sumter—better known as Andersonville—was a Confederate prisoner-of-war camp in Georgia. It was designed to hold 10,000 men. At its peak, it held over 32,000. The conditions were hellish. No shelter. Contaminated water. Insufficient food. Disease was rampant. Men died of dysentery, scurvy, gangrene, starvation. Approximately 50 prisoners died every day. Dorence Atwater, sick himself, was hospitalized at the camp. His captors noticed something: he had excellent handwriting, neat and legible—the result of his pre-war work as a clerk. They gave him a job: maintaining the death register. Recording the name, rank, regiment, and date of death of every Union prisoner who died at Andersonville. It was grim work. Day after day, Atwater wrote down names. Fifty names a day. Sometimes more. Thousands of names over the months he served in this capacity. But Atwater recognized something crucial: this list mattered. These weren't just names. They were sons, brothers, fathers, husbands. Families back home had no idea what happened to them. The Confederacy wasn't systematically reporting Union deaths. Many of these men would simply disappear—listed as missing, with families never knowing their fate. So Atwater made a decision that could have gotten him executed: he secretly created a duplicate copy of the death register. Every name he recorded in the official register, he also copied onto his own hidden list. He kept this list concealed, knowing that if discovered, he'd likely be killed. By the time the war ended in 1865, Atwater had recorded approximately 13,000 deaths. When Andersonville was evacuated and Atwater was liberated, he smuggled his secret list out with him. He returned to Union territory with something invaluable: the only complete, accurate record of who had died at Andersonville. The U.S. Army wanted the list. But Atwater refused to hand it over. He'd seen how military bureaucracy worked. He feared the Army would suppress the list, or lose it, or that it would disappear into some file cabinet where families would never see it. Instead, he took the list to Clara Barton. Clara Barton was already famous as a nurse who'd worked tirelessly during the war. After the war ended, she established an office to help families locate missing soldiers—the Missing Soldiers Office. When Atwater showed her his list, she immediately understood its significance. In 1865, Barton and Atwater traveled to Andersonville together. Using his list, they identified and marked the graves of nearly 13,000 Union soldiers who had died there. They erected headboards with names, creating the first national cemetery on the site where so many had died. It was heroic work. Families who'd spent years wondering what happened to their loved ones finally got answers. But the U.S. Army was furious with Atwater. They claimed he had "stolen" government property—the death register he'd copied. In March 1866, they court-martialed him. The charges were absurd. Atwater had risked his life to preserve information the government had failed to protect. He'd worked with Clara Barton to honor the dead and give families closure. But the Army convicted him anyway, sentencing him to 18 months of hard labor. There was public outcry. Clara Barton defended him vigorously, calling him a hero. Newspapers took up his cause. After serving just two months, Atwater was released. And then he published the list. In February 1866, the New York Tribune published Atwater's complete Andersonville death register. Every name. Every date. Families across the North could finally learn what had happened to their missing sons. Clara Barton wrote the introduction, praising Atwater's "forethought, courage, and perseverance." She called his work a gift—a sad gift, but one offered in the spirit of kindness and truth. Dorence Atwater was 21 years old. He'd survived Andersonville. He'd been court-martialed for doing the right thing. And he'd given thousands of families the closure they desperately needed. But his story doesn't end there. With Clara Barton's support, Atwater was appointed U.S. Consul to the Seychelles Islands, and later to Tahiti. In Tahiti, he thrived. He became a successful businessman. He married a Tahitian woman named Moetia Salmon from a prominent local family. He became deeply integrated into Tahitian society. He befriended Robert Louis Stevenson, the famous author, who visited Tahiti. Stevenson admired Atwater's resilience and adventurous spirit—the young man who'd survived hell and built a new life in paradise. Atwater lived in Tahiti for over 40 years. He was respected, successful, and happy—a remarkable contrast to the horrors of his youth. When he died in February 1910 at age 65, he was buried in Tahiti's royal cemetery in Arue—a significant honor reflecting the esteem in which he was held. His funeral was attended by Tahitian royalty and dignitaries. For a young Union soldier from Connecticut who'd survived Andersonville, it was an extraordinary ending to an extraordinary life. Dorence Atwater's legacy is profound. His secret list saved families from the torture of never knowing. The 13,000 names he preserved represent 13,000 families who got answers, who could grieve properly, who could honor their dead. His courage in defying the Army—risking court-martial to ensure the truth was published—demonstrated remarkable moral conviction. And his later life showed that survival isn't just about enduring trauma—it's about building something meaningful afterward. At 18, Dorence Atwater was a prisoner in hell, recording the deaths of 50 men a day. At 21, he was a convicted criminal for refusing to let those deaths be forgotten. By 65, he was an honored member of Tahitian society, a successful businessman, a man who'd lived fully despite—or perhaps because of—what he'd endured. His story reminds us that even in the darkest circumstances, individual courage matters. One 18-year-old soldier, risking execution to copy names in secret, ultimately gave closure to thousands of families. That's not just heroism. That's the power of one person refusing to let the truth be buried.

is pretty solid, I suggest installing the wishbone offense. Check and see if Bruce Arians has any eligibility left?

and they are shocked right now. The rumors are swirling.

in Independence, VA.