The farther we got from the south, the more evident the season became. It was fall once again, the landscape now quite colorful outside the windows of our old-fashioned train car. The year we’d leapt to was indeed 1865, I discovered for certain, as other passengers around us discussed the somber state of a nation still mourning the loss of their president, Abraham Lincoln, assassinated in April. Calvin also fretted for the many slaves around the nation who were still not free, despite legal decree. “And what of those who are but have no means to live?” he asked.
Jefferson offered comfort. “I have no doubt you will work your entire life to make things better for all people,” he said.
Hand in hand with Patrick, though I peered through shimmying glass with wonder at the unfamiliar terrain s
