Anthony Wayne gave Fort Greene Ville and Fort Recovery their names. They were significant in both his life and mine although the level of significance is severely tilted toward Wayne. Fort Recovery is where the army led by Arthur St. Clair was nearly annihilated in 1791. It got its name when soldiers under Wayne’s command built a small fort there in 1793. Also built in 1793, Fort Greene Ville stood twenty some miles to the south and was Wayne’s home base during the Northwest Indian War. The treaty ending that war was signed there in 1795. The town that developed on the site of the abandoned fort adopted the shortened name Greenville. I grew up near the midpoint between Greenville and Fort Recovery and adopted Anthony Wayne as a hero at a very early age. I eventually figured out that much of the initial attraction was due the the cool bicorne hat he was commonly shown in, but the fact remains that I’ve known of General “Mad” Anthony Wayne nearly all of my life.
When I learned that Mary Stockwell would be discussing her new book about Wayne in nearby Lebanon, I jumped at the chance to attend. At a minimum, I hoped to learn what the word “unlikely” was doing in her book’s title. With what I knew of Wayne, he seemed the most likely of generals to attempt a turn around following St. Clair’s disaster. Turns out there was a lot I didn’t know.
I knew about his time in Ohio with a fair level of detail, but I knew only highlights and generalities about his Revolutionary War days. I knew that he had been successful in several battles and that his biggest claim to fame at that time was taking Stoney Point, New York, from the British. I did not know that his personal life and lack of success in business meant that many of those in power did not have much confidence in the man. There was plenty of opposition to putting him in charge of what was essentially the entire army of the United States, and he was not at all the likely choice for the role I’d long assumed.
Some attending the presentation knew even less than I about Wayne’s pre-Indian War days. It was rather common, Stockwell noted, for people living in the east to know all about his Revolutionary War exploits and little or nothing about his post-revolution accomplishments and for the opposite situation to exist in our part of the country. Her book fills in details from both phases of his military career and the rest of his life as well. In doing that, she also provides glimpses of the birth of the United States of America and of the beginning of its westward expansion.
Much of Stockwell’s information on Wayne comes from reading actual letters written by and to him. This provides insight into his relationship with some of the most prominent figures of the day, such as Washington, Knox, Lafayette, St. Clair, and others, and with his friends and family. That last group, friends and family, was one I previously knew very little about. That personal life I referenced earlier included numerous involvements with women other than his wife, Polly. Correspondence between the two varied from frequent and loving to seldom and formal. His long absences and his womanizing were certainly related but which was the cause of the other isn’t really consistent. There is little doubt that he sometimes used his military activities as an excuse for staying away from home, but there is no doubt that his devotion to the new nation was completely genuine. The United States of America was something he was never anything but faithful to during its birth and infancy.
Stockwell skillfully weaves Wayne’s two wars together. There are some similarities, of course, such as the constant struggle to get government officials to feed and cloth the men they sent off to fight. But there are big differences in Wayne himself. He experienced periods of deep depression in both but during the Revolutionary War he was young, energetic, enthusiastic, and uncommonly handsome. By the time he set out to create the Legion of the United States from virtually nothing, old war wounds and severe gout might incapacitate him for days at a time. During that final campaign, his staff often wrapped his limbs in flannel and lifted him onto his horse out of sight of the troops.
It was probably about sixty-five years ago that I was hooked by that super groovy hat and decided that the dude under it was my hero. It was only a few years later that I saw a painting of a hat-less Wayne and was shocked to learn it was the same person. That painting might even be the same one that appears on the cover of this book. It was at least similar. I recognized that there was more to a man than his hat and Wayne survived as a childhood hero. Inside Unlikely General, Mary Stockwell reveals a lot more than a high forehead. Anthony Wayne was not, as some have interpreted his nickname, insane, but he was a long way from perfect. Perhaps the fact that I’m much older now explains why I was less shocked at learning of the imperfections than I had been at my first sight of Wayne bare-headed.
Anthony Wayne was once the most honored and well known military man in the country. Today, despite being on towns, streets, and other items, his name seems to be be barely recognized outside of Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Indiana. Hopefully this book will make his name a little better known. On the other hand, part of me can’t help but think he might never have fallen from the public consciousness if only he’d kept that hat on.
Unlikely General: “Mad” Anthony Wayne and the Battle for America, Mary Stockwell, Yale University Press, April 24, 2018, 9.2 x 6.1 inches, 376 pages, ISBN 978-0300214758
Available through Amazon.
The question was never if there would be another book, just when and what. The answers are “now” (actually February) and “toll gates”. In my review of Cyndie L. Gerken’s first book, Marking the Miles Along the National Road Through Ohio, I noted that the huge amount of information presented in that book was only a portion of what Gerken has collected and that we would probably someday see “a Gerken penned treatise on bridges or taverns or toll houses or something else” which shows that taking three or four guesses really improves one’s chances of being right. Nailed it!
As she did with her first book, Gerken details her subject in a chapter per county moving east to west. However, before that happens, there is an introduction filled with information about the road and toll gates in general, then chapters on vehicles, toll house architecture, and bridges. Each of these, and the county chapters too, contain numerous photos and stories that color in the detailed information and keep things from becoming boring.
Pictures of gate houses and gate keepers are to be expected, but they are not the only photo subjects presented. This might be the only book available with pictures of the world’s longest bar, grave robbers, a two-headed calf, a Spanish dime, Hopalong Cassidy, and the author’s mother riding in a goat cart. And every one of them belongs.
It’s a familiar story I’d never heard before. In no way is use of the word “familiar” meant to be dismissive. It’s just my way of acknowledging that many aspects of Malcolm Fletcher’s story are to be found in the stories of thousands of other World War II soldiers. Of course, each of those stories is also unique in ways both small and large. Large happenings that make Fletcher’s story unique include the actions that earned him a bronze star and the day he watched his brother get shot and captured. Getting coffee and doughnuts from the Red Cross in February and washing clothes and shaving in May are among the not-so-large pieces of the story that make it real. Numerous photographs, maps, and drawings — many by Fletcher himself — really fill things out.
It’s a great story and well told, but there’s no denying that the mere fact that it is being shared plays a big role in setting this story apart from most of the others. The majority of those soldiers never told their story to anyone. A relative few did write it down or record it but not many saw an audience beyond family, friends, or a veterans organization. That Malcolm Fletcher wanted to share his story is obvious. He expanded his wartime notes and produced a “diary”. The title is his. Not For Morbidity’s Sake came from the fact that, as his son Michael says in the foreword, “…he took no pleasure in telling most of this story”. Malcolm Fletcher died in 1994, and Michael, with help from his brother Mark, made publication of the diary a reality. To a large degree, this meant editing their father’s writings, but they also augmented the story with information gathered from other family members, friends, and even some of the men who served with Malcolm.
Those observations also fed some slightly philosophical thinking on the horrors of war and the brotherhood of man. He had personal experience with both. Whether the deeper of Fletcher’s thoughts came during his time in Europe or while he subsequently transcribed his notes in safety in the USA is unclear and unimportant. He was in the midst of battles where men destroyed each other with cannons, bombs, rifles, bayonets, and flame-throwers. He saw many and met a few French, Belgian, and German civilians whose world was ravaged beyond comprehension. And he was there at the end of the conflict, interacting with German and Russian soldiers to learn that “These Russies are just like us.”
It would be nearly impossible to spend any time at all around Cincinnati and not notice that its mural population has been increasing. I’ve noticed but I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand that ArtWorks Cincinnati, a name I sometimes noticed being associated with a new mural, wasn’t just a company hired to paint some pictures on some walls. I started to understand that aspect of Cincinnati’s murals just a little when ads for Transforming Cincinnati started to appear that included pieces of the back story. At that point I thought I understood the book’s title but, as I learned when I attended the big premier nearly two weeks ago, that was probably what I understood the least. The official launch took place on November 18 at a “Book Premier & Artist Signing” hosted by Joseph-Beth Booksellers. I attended with the idea of getting a copy with a few autographs in it. I got so much more.
Wow! This is one of the most captivating books I have ever held in my hands. It is the product of one of the most determined woman I have ever met on one of the most exciting adventures I can imagine. Claiming to have met Anna Grechishkina is actually something of a stretch. At the 2014 Route 66 Festival in Kingman, Arizona, she joined some festival attendees for dinner. Our “meeting” consisted of a second or so of eye contact and a group hello. But I learned of her dream and her plans to fulfill it and I have followed her journey from that point on.
This could be the charm associated with third attempts, or it could be the out associated with third strikes. Seriously, though, I doubt it is either. Neither of my first two books, 
I wish I had $6 or even 6¢ for every time I’ve stood by an old motel or diner and wished that the aging walls could talk. There are no talking walls here but 2 for $6 on Route 66 does contain the memories of someone who spent a whole lot of time with some very interesting walls. Author Debra Whittington married into the motel business; The man she married was born into it.
You can’t judge a book by looking at the cover. Or, sometimes, by reading the title. That was the case for me with Onramps and Overpasses and the impression I got from the title and cover pretty much explains why it stayed on the unread pile so long that I don’t remember where it came from or why I have it. The cover is a nicely done long exposure photo of cars on a divided four-lane highway passing through what looks to be a rather scenic area. The title reinforces the image of high-speed limited-access roadways. The subtitle, “A Cultural History of Interstate Travel” does a better job of describing what’s inside but the preconception created by the cover and title led me to overlook the word “cultural” and misinterpret the word “interstate”. In my opinion, Perrier goofed on the cover and even more so on the title. Those are, however, virtually the only mistakes she makes here.
I’ve not read a lot of fiction lately. I used to. There was a time when I sucked down a fair amount of science fiction and historical fiction along with a smattering of aged classics. Sorry’s Run is none of those. It is, however, just about everything else. If pressed to place it under a single heading, I guess I’d call it a mystery. It’s a mystery where learning what was done is at least as much fun as learning who done it. Beneath the book’s central plot is an intriguing layer of occult, a tolerable touch of romance, and frequent and appreciative glimpses of the Ohio River and the country it flows through. It is set in the real world of today although it’s a world whose edges are not always crisply defined.