Canals and Eggs

When I was in my elementary school choir in the fifth grade, I remember singing:

 

Low bridge, everybody down,

Low bridge, ‘cause we’re coming to a town,

You’ll always know your neighbor, you’ll always know your pal

If you’ve ever navigated on the Erie Canal.

 

Little did I know back in 1957 that on a sunny Sunday afternoon in 2015 I’d be researching on a tiny magical TV screen, learning about canals and canal boats in the Shenandoah region of Virginia, and digging around to learn if an egg can be cooked in water that doesn’t reach boiling temperature.

 

Here in central Texas, canals are not even a dim historical memory. But in Virginia, I’ve learned that George Washington himself surveyed key canal routes. I learned that Washington and Lee College in Lexington changed its original name to “Washington College” in appreciation of a large financial donation Washington made to the school, funds that were profits from his investment in the canal industry.

 

Canals, up until about 1880, were the liquid “train tracks” for much of eastern America. Canal boats were first powered by men with long poles or oars, then much larger freight and passenger boats called packets were pulled by a team of mules or horses that walked the canal path next to the waterway.

 

The tie-in to my novel is again the town of Lexington, the place to which my characters in the McBee saga keep returning for one reason or another as the Civil War continues being fought across Virginia.

 

I’m reading the new biography of Stonewall Jackson, who was truly a fascinating man. I knew he had been a teacher at the Virginia Military Institute in Lexington before the Civil War, and I’ve even visited his grave at the city cemetery in Lexington. The day my brother and I were there, half a dozen lemons had been tossed over the wrought iron fence surrounding his tombstone and lay scattered as bright yellow tributes to one of Jackson’s health and nutrition quirks.

 

What I didn’t know was that Jackson’s remains had been conveyed by train from Richmond to Lynchburg, south of Lexington, then loaded onto the ninety foot long, fourteen foot wide, iron-hulled “packet boat,” named the Marshall, and towed via canal to Lexington for Jackson’s second funeral and only internment. The Marshall was not a shabby freight boat, but carried passengers in its crafted mahogany cabin, as well as tons of cargo.

 

I’m learning as a fledgling novelist that half the challenge to a good plot is credibly getting your opposing characters into the same place where they can joust with each other, verbally or physically. I recognized that while Stonewall Jackson is not a living character in the McBee saga, his corpse’s ride on the canal boat could be just what I needed. What better than the crowded funeral procession of a famous man for my two primary antagonists, both testosterone laden characters who really, really don’t like each other, to cross paths in Lexington once again.  So, I’m thanking General Jackson for his unintended service to my plot, as I hum the tune to the Low Bridge song from my childhood.

 

As to the egg boiling research, I found a website that detailed a French (where else?) cooking method called something indecipherable, that over a period of forty minutes will soft-cook an egg in water of 130 degrees.

 

Why in the world does egg cooking matter to my Civil War plot? I can’t tell you yet. It’s a secret. And maybe I’m being too clever, but you’ll remember this forewarning when you read the scene in Redeeming Honor, the current McBee saga book in progress.