Reflections of a Camp Counselor and First Time At Findlay

Reenacting as a hobby could not have come at a better time for me. And six years removed I can see the poetry of the thing. I finished my sophomore year of college a loser. I tried several times to end the semester on a high note. To withdraw as a student, with barely passing grades, and go home, work for a summer and get some perspective on the world that I essentially knew nothing about.
Outside of wee F-town (stands for Freddy, not what you might think) my idea of the world was shaped primarily by television. I am only grateful I didn't grow up in a suburb. Reenacting had been my first glimpse of the outside world and I knew I needed more of that before I made decisions like what I was going to spend years in college for, or what I was going to be. Or if I was going to be. After all, I grew up convinced I wouldn't see 21.
My mother refused to let me withdraw, convinced that if I quit in the middle of the semester I would never go back to school. Dad would support me either way. Every student advisor and teacher that I talked to refused to accept that quitting was the best plan. I knew better. I knew I wasn't going to be able to resurrect the semester and I stopped trying. My roommate told me later that she was concerned for me, but was too self-focused and inexperienced at the time to know how to help me. How she got in the mix was yet another story.
I had started sophomore year with another roommate, who can best and most aptly be described as nice. In fact we talked often about how that was what most people would say about her and how sometimes she got tired of being described as such. Gem was nice, though; it was who she was. She had had some heartaches in the past and she and I got along with that quiet understanding of what it is to be used and thrown out, if only once. When Gem started dating the man that would be her husband, and then decided they should marry, I had an empty room and every intention of keeping it empty. A few weeks after the new semester began the resident assistant (RA) came to me to tell me of a young lady that desperately needed to get away from her apartment mates. She needed a room and mine was the only empty one available. I knew God was telling me to let her in, I knew it was the right and Christian thing to do. I didn't want to do it. Regretfully and bitterly, but doing my best not to show it, I allowed Anna to move in for the remainder of the semester.
I hated her immediately.
She was younger, pretty, skinny, long hair, lovely eyes, immediately popular with every guy on campus (it was a small, Nazarene, private university) and she spent every minute she could either talking to me, or talking to her family in Dutch/English on the phone. Ugh...I was as subtly nasty towards her as I could be, giving harsh advice whenever she asked for it. Despite myself, towards the end of the semester I had a grudging liking for her. Why?
Moral: If you love unconditionally you can move mountains!
But none of that mattered when sophomore year ended because I was certain it would take a miracle for me to have passed. None the less I had a new hobby, at which I was not a loser, and I had a job for the summer, working again for the camp that I had worked for last summer. I also now had my own car, which had gotten me into more trouble than not.
After East Harbor I worked with my employer to turn part of a break into the three day weekend of Findlay, so that I could hit at least one reenactment in the middle of the season. There were plenty of other events in the fall but I wanted to make that one effort. Besides after only two events, I missed it already.
Before I left for camp I picked up a few books from my mother's public library written by Owen Parry. Fiction, set in the midst of the Civil War, you follow the 4A hero around as he investigates crimes for the Union Army.
This particular summer I was head counselor of Mountain Top (each of the cabins have names that sorta correspond with their topographical position, MT is of course at the top of the hill). I had six other counselors under me and a revolving teenage counselor that would change every week. We would have up to 40 eight- to nine-year-old girls each week, for the eight weeks of summer camp.
I made one major mistake when I became lead counselor. I thought I could keep myself separated personally from my counselors. While I was working I would be available sure, but my break time was mine. No sharing, no doing girl things with the other counselors, I would hide in my bunk with a book and ignore them, period.
On occasion I would hang out with the staff after the evening's work was done but most of my time was spent hiding out. I needed the alone time about as much as I wanted it. After all my life was becoming complicated. I had started a relationship with someone in the unit that felt like trouble even before I knew it was trouble, I was struggling with a self-destructive habit that I didn't think I had the ability to ever kick, and there was the very real possibility that I might be kicked out of school. That's fine for some I guess, but being the daughter of a respected professor who taught at the same university that I attended made a problem. Ultimately I knew that my problems were more than my counselors could handle. I knew they didn't have the training or psychological knowledge to understand what was wrong with me, let alone give me good advice. I didn't feel like listening to their self-important drivel so I kept it to myself.
Besides I had Findlay to look forward to. All I had to do was survive long enough to make it to Findlay weekend, smack in the middle of the eight weeks, and everything else could hang itself. The night before I left I was packed and ready long before I needed to be. I barely slept and got up around five. I took a shower I didn't need then decided that my Bonneville and I would prefer to travel in the cool of the morning and I left with all that I would need for the weekend and the break.
There was a glorious, chemical-free high as I turned the Bonneville up to the long, winding road that would take me away from the camp and across northern Ohio to Findlay. I had music going over the speakers, all the windows that would roll down (the driver's side back window never budged from the moment I bought the car from my brother to the day it was scrapped) were down and I was free to enjoy the most blissful past time I had yet encountered.
There was a tiny worry in the back of my mind that for some unforeseeable reason the Findlay event would have been cancelled while I was ensconced in the cocoon of camp, but I didn't know any better at the time. I know now, if a reenactor is hard core and dedicated, rain, shine, snow, sleet or hail, extreme heat, or anything like it; will not keep us from showing up and burning powder. We pay for the gas so we can play when we get to the event, and those of us that aren't too old to enjoy it anymore, will play!
Three events into my first year, I was pretty gungho.
Findlay happens every year at Riverbend Park near the largest permanent structure in the park. The building is air conditioned, there is a small pond nearby, a pagoda and lots of open field that is as good as marsh land. There is also a large playground nearby. And it's not one of those everything-is-four-foot-high-padded-and-toddler-safe playgrounds. Big kids can play on this playground just as good as little kids.

See what I mean! There are swings near it too. Any kid that loved playgrounds once, then grew up and still loves them, is going to want to play on this thing. So is it any wonder that when I arrived around noon, far too early for anyone to be there yet, that I gravitated towards this lovely little playground. I tried to read a book, but it was super hot and being outside for any lengthy period of time was ridiculous. I had already unloaded my stuff near where I figured we would be set up, and I had determined, intelligently, that I would wait until it had cooled a bit before putting on the wool uniform. You put on the uniform when it's comfortable to put it on, then you get used to the discomfort. Rule # 3467 of reenacting - Don't fight your uniform.
I explored the small park area where we would be camped. There was a small set of bathrooms opposite the main building that stunk to high heaven. There would be porter johns I knew but the best bet for the weekend were the bathrooms inside the air conditioned building. Around five or so more people arrived, beginning with Hoj.
Hoj is a very important character.
Every unit has a Hoj. He is a questionable character who smokes and drinks constantly despite the fact that he is pale and sweating and out of breath after a mile of marching. He coughs like he's got TB but doesn't see the connection between his coughing and his smoking, at least not to the degree that he makes an effort to quit. He always has the appearance of being just a little too interested in the females around him and doesn't take subtle hints when the females are uncomfortable with his attention. He gets a little too angry when things go wrong, but ultimately he's a body, and he shows up. He constantly invites himself to eat out, then doesn't have the money to pay for his meal. He'll show up at an event on his rims and gas fumes with no money to make it back home, relying on the kindness of the unit to get him back. Worse yet he lives with his mother, spends all his money on guns that he legally should not have and probably lies about his age.
But for all his short comings, he's a part of the unit, and he's a human being. He has the worst end of the stick and it's not likely to get better so there's a fine line of pity and tough love that anyone with compassion must walk.
I'm nice on first meetings, most of the time, and unfortunately to someone like Hoj, that means they immediately take interest. I collect guys like Hoj, everywhere I go.
Hoj was one of the first to arrive so I had to find ways to busy myself without being in his constant presence. As the hot, sweaty day turned to night I changed into my uniform and discovered the peculiarity that we would deal with at Findlay. Mosquitoes. By the hoards, by the millions, in waves they came as the sun went down. Twice Friday night a guy came through with a mosquito fogger and all of us huddled close to the camp fires and the citronella candles. It was hot still, too hot even to wear the full uniform but all of us slept under blankets that night to avoid being sucked dry before morning.
Of course after one has beverage-ed one's self most of the annoyances of sleeping outside fade into the background. That night my relationship deepened a little as he and I went to play on the swings, getting to know each other better. He wanted to spend time with me, and I was captivated by his personality so it worked out rather well.
Saturday dawned early. I got up and fulfilled the routine that became normal for me. Kick up the coals and get the breakfast fire going. Troupe to where ever the bathrooms are, take care of the morning's physical needs, pull yourself together, make sure your hair will fit under your hat and be dressed and period correct before you reenter camp.
Hungover? Drink lots of water before you get any coffee in you, consider some Tylenol if it's bad and if you must expunge fluids do so as far out of the public eye as possible.
Once in camp I dug out the Captain's mucket and the unit coffee pot, filled both with water and coffee grounds and set them up to boil.
The site where I got the picture called it a Billie cup, and if you want to know why, ask a reenactor the next time you see one. Most of us call it a mucket.

See. It's a bucket (wire handle, cover) and can be suspended from a fire hook or hung from your pack while marching, and it's a mug (full handle, big enough to hold much beverage or coffee or what have you). Stick it right in the coals if you like, or set it on the grate over the fire. It's versatile and, for most reenactors, a must have. The Captain's mucket, however, needed its own coffee because the Captain is the first to have coffee in the morning. Whether he's up or not.
Breakfast is usually fend for yourself on Saturday and often provided by the event on Sunday. I knew the Captain had some kind of plan and cooking it at five in the morning (that's when the sun is up, that's when I am up) before anyone else is up is not really a good idea. I had other things to do, fixing up bits of my uniform, etc. so I puttered around the rest of the morning while the others woke. This particular weekend we had another newby, the father of one of the regulars, Garrison. He was thin, gray, had a fun sense of humor and he and I got along rather well. We were both newbies, which helped, and I usually ended up next to him in the ranks because our heights were so similar. In fact being a bigger, taller girl, worked out well for me in this hobby.
By eight in the morning it was already a warm day. The officers were talking about doing the battles without jackets, about the hazards that a battle field full of prickers and tall weeds presented and about holding the ball inside the air conditioned building.
The mosquitoes were retreating blessedly from the heat and all we had to worry about was sweating to death during the battles and other activities.

We went without jackets for the battles. All but for the Captain of course. At the time I hadn't yet been shown, nor developed, the habit of dressing as the Captain does. I went with the rest of the troops and went jacket-less. I also did not have a vest at the time.
Since then, thanks to my buddy Private Parts (a nickname I gave her. I'm Private Area. Get it...?), I learned that it is morally and socially advisable to dress according to how the Captain is dressed. If it's rediculously hot out and the Captain is wearing his full uniform, suffer with him and wear your full uniform. That way you all look ridiculous sweating in the heat instead of just the Captain. In some ways reenactors are professional gluttons for punishment.

One of the things I learned from the beginning was that complaining is not a good past time. Any reenactor will happily tell you horror stories about the worst events they ever survived. Even as recent as the last sesquicentennial events you'll run into no porter johns, no water, not enough ice, being miles away from battles and food and sutlers and on and on. But it's only worth complaining about after the fact. Complaining while its happening gets old fast, and it doesn't really fix the problem either. Pitch in and keep your mouth shut or else leave, and save the complaints for the fire circle at another event.
So though it was hot nobody complained about how hot it was. Instead we would make comments like, "Gosh it's freezing out. Wish it would heat up a little."
After all the heat drove the bugs away. Heat is preferable to the whine of mosquitoes hands down.
We battled hard core all day Saturday and as soon as it was reasonable I took off to dig my dress out of the car and change into it in the glorious cool of the air conditioned building. From several layers of cotton and wool into one layer of pink and black lace and silk was a wonderful change. I cleaned as much black powder as I could out of my face, hair and hands and went and bought myself a pair of black lace gloves before returning to camp.
As shown above we were camped against a line of pine trees that provided lovely shade in the morning, but not so much in the late afternoon. When I got back to camp I was dismayed to find no one around. I knew nothing else was happening on the schedule but I got a jolt of regret and shame when I thought that maybe something fun had happened while I was getting all girl-i-fied. After all there isn't much at all that one can do in a dress, but look pretty. Then I heard voices and sniggering coming from the pine trees.
The boys, smart or otherwise, had decided that shade was important for the long afternoon hours and had taken to hiding out inside the dense tree line. I burst out laughing once I realized where they were and giggled my way into their midst, hoop and all. The dress didn't like the pine trees, but I didn't much care.
At the ball I danced with my relationship again. This was always the best part. He was a violent dancer, like watching a line backer try to waltz. I had just about as much vim and verve as he did and we got more enjoyment out of a two hour Civil War Ball than some might get out of a traditional date on the town. It was a work out! And worth it too.
I also found it interesting how much of a relief it was getting back into the uniform. For how hot it had been you wouldn't think it would be more comfortable, but my personality changed entirely when I put on the uniform or the dress. Of the many personalities hanging out in my body, at least two of them emerge while I'm in period clothing.
Sunday morning we had a tactical planned that involved going into dense woods surrounding the camp area. It was a struggle to interpret hand signals with all the mosqitoes around, and I swear there were more than a dozen cans of OFF! in our unit alone,  most of which were emptied that morning. That afternoon I discovered just how much trouble I was in with my relationship. He...was not as free as I had presumed him to be. I saw the woman with the little one from far off, watched him go to greet her, and realized with a sinking feeling that I had to be careful with him.
Nothing had happened yet, but I had seen the writing on the wall.
I left the event feeling more confused then ever, and worse yet, knowing that I had nothing left to look forward to for the rest of the summer. The thrill that had kept me going up until Findlay was gone, leaving a giant cavern of nothing in it's wake. The final four weeks would be awful, and worse.

The Pink Dress and East Harbor

I was psyched when I got home. I had to get a uniform and cooters (accoutrement), sell forty raffle tickets for the unit, make a ball gown for the next event on the schedule and pack and prepare for another summer as a counselor at the summer camp I worked for each year.

Right after Oregon my mother informed me that she, my step-sisters and step-father were planning on going to Boston to attend a family reunion and that I was invited to go with them. Seeing any part of my mother's side of the family was rare so I agreed. Between Mom and Dad, I had worked out a way to get the $200 fresh fish package that would include a kepi (hat), cotton shirt, sack coat, trousers, braces (suspenders), haversack, and leathers. Other than a gun, and a tent, this package would set me up for my reenacting career. While at my mother's house, waiting to head up to Boston, I called in my order. Immediately after divining that I was a female the person receiving my call asked how big the gentlemen was that I was calling the order in for. I let them believe what they liked, chuckling idly when they commented, "He's a big boy isn't he?"
My order would arrive at home before the next event on the schedule, I was told. We headed up to Boston, spent a few days visiting with family and friends and had a brief encounter with the eastern shore. On the way back I asked Mom if she thought she could help me come up with a ball gown. We talked and I doodled finally deciding that if I could find Mom's hot pink, formal with a full skirt, we could probably alter it to fit the plan. Mom also had some black lacy cloth with velvet red roses embroidered on it hanging around, that we both thought would work well.
In the car I doodled the following:

If we sewed boning into the skirt, I thought, we could help my pathetic excuse for a hoop skirt a little. Then use the majority of the black lacy cloth to form several loops or panels that we could attach at the waist with hook and eyes. If we split the short sleeves I could line the outsides with black lace and we could use what remained of the cloth to make bell sleeves underneath. We could fill the open (and deep) neckline with black cloth and form a high collar to make it more appropriate to the period. After the fact I decided to do away with the buttons and line the bodice, double-breasted style, with black lace. I also discovered, after the fact, that the dress had rosettes on it that I snipped and replaced to cover the hook and eyes. 

Worn (badly) several years later here is the final result. Unfortunately I have no frontal view. One of the downsides to reenacting is that you never carry a camera around yourself, unless it's on a tri-pod and you are a professional 1800s photographer. Most events I don't even take my cell phone into camp, so it's rare that I get a photo of myself, or anyone else. This particular picture was taken by a good friend of mine as part of the cast photos for the first play I directed. The play was called "Gettysburg Canon", hence my wearing the gown.

After I got home from Mom's my uniform et al had arrived. I tried it all on and was delighted! I worked on the little bits and pieces of my gown while I counted the days to the weekend in East Harbor. On Wednesdays in our little town, regular as clockwork, there is a huge auction just up the street. The week before I wandered up that way and asked if I wouldn't be able to set up a table and sell my raffle tickets to the influx of people. Most of them are appreciators of history so I figured I would get a good audience.

A week later I marched the quarter mile up to the auction house in my uniform and sold all forty tickets in the span of an hour. It helped that I was set up right by the front door. The auction people did more for me than even they realized.

By the time Friday rolled around I had sold the tickets I had been given, created a ball gown with the help of my Mom, I had a uniform and everything I needed, my swimsuit in the back of the car just in case the chance to swim arrived, and was about to make the longest trip I had yet made in my Pontiac Bonneville to Lake Erie. Big body of water and reenacting together, in the same weekend! Heart attack of happiness anyone?

I drove up, getting more and more excited as the stretches of water shed areas grew around me. I drove into the park, followed the signs to the area where the camps were located and easily found where the 9th FL was. A man named Arnold, and Bert (the president), were there and I made myself Arnold's assistant almost immediately. I helped set up tents, move equipment. I rode around with him while he arranged meals for Saturday night and Sunday morning. Arnold had a crate of peaches near his tent that were hard, and bitter. After trying one I decided that I would avoid the peaches for the event, but Arnold thanked me for my help by buying me a fast food sandwich. I ate it, set up my own crap in a borrowed tent and then was told that most of the rest of the group wasn't likely to arrive til late evening so I should take advantage of the heat and the nearby lake.

I drove off in the Bonneville, got into my swim suit and swam for a few hours. For me...hours in the water is nothing. I love to swim. While there I met up with a small family, two granddaughters and a grandmother. I'm fond of kids and the granddaughters and I had fun playing in the water together. Their grandmother liked me and didn't mind my helping her keep an eye on the girls. At one point Bert and Arnold apparently came looking for me. They hadn't expected me to be gone as long as I was and they were concerned that I might have drowned or washed out to...well Canada, I guess.

I breifly saw two men on the beach, at one point, talking to the grandmother, and later found out that it was Bert and Arnold. After the day drew to a close the grandmother, who was grateful as I said, and friendly, and intrigued that a 19 year old girl would be on her own at a reenactment playing as a soldier, invited me to go with her and her granddaughters out to eat.

After I dropped my Bonneville at camp and told Bert where I was going, (asking permission if I could go, and being told that I didn't need to ask for permission), we went off to a local pizza joint.

Now for those of you who think that I might be a creep, or think I might have been taking a chance, or wonder why I would make instant friends with total strangers like that, lemme explain. I love people. I spend a great deal of time alone because that is where I am most comfortable, so when I'm tried of being alone I go all out to meet people. This period may last as long as an hour or a day, but however long it lasts I make friends easily and quickly. Some of them are for the day, some for a life time. I'm good at reading people and knowing the type that will put up with me and the type that simply won't understand me. And I can take them or leave them as I will.

These folks were fun, and worth getting to know, and hey! I got free pizza out of the deal.

The grandmother was good enough to drive me back to camp and I invited her and her granddaughters to come back the next day for the festivities. I don't know if they did or not because I never saw them again.

That evening most of the folks were pulling in and setting up camp. There was a buzz about what was going to happen in the next few days.

I heard talk about gaurd duty and pay roll and battles and a ball and another chance to swim. We sat around the camp fire that evening setting up night guard. We were told what to expect and I and the other new, young ones, quickly volunteered for guard duty. We were shown the procedure for changing guard and I was told that I would I was supposed to take the second to last shift that night. For the most part we were staying awake so that someone could be alert in case a modern camper or otherwise interloper stumbled into camp and tried to steal something just laying out.

By the time I was on guard duty (arranged by the First Sergeant) I didn't have to worry about interlopers, I had to worry about the relationship. While I was very seriously marching back and forth in front of the camp flags and the commanders tent he was bugging me with questions. While I was shifting my gun to my other shoulder so that the gun was always opposite the flags he was asking me if I liked to dance. And if I had a dress. I fired back more snide comments than I ever had in my life, but he was persistent. I was finally released from my duty by the Captain after only a half-an-hour, the Captain declaring that an all night guard was superfluous. I turned in, or tried to.

That next morning I discoverd yet another a curious thing about reenactments. Every event has it's own 'thing'. A characteristic, a flaw, or a delightful benefit that is particular to the area, the people, the size or the scope of the weekend. And it's only something you can notice after doing an event more than once. East Harbor had mayflies. Giant, inch and half long, mayflies. They invaded the tents, covered the lawn, rose in sheets when you marched through open fields, would roost like pigeons if you stood still long enough. Lake Erie was flavored with them.

We had two battles Saturday, both of which took place out in a large field. On one end was a small rounded hill, a large weeping willow and a stagnate pond. The rest of the field was surrounded by trees with a few paths cutting through the forest. The first battle we came around from behind the hill, the second battle we came from the woods. We marched and fired and died and ressurrected and had a jolly good time. Up until the majority of the unit died and the only person left standing was the oldest member, who hadn't heard the Captain's order that all of us should die on the next round of canon fire, so was left standing with the flag in his hands while all the dead people giggled on the ground.



One of the fellas that hangs out with us is Shamus, pictured here with his buddies on the little hill loading the canon.

That afternoon we had a pay call that almost ended before it began when the Yankees stole our pay box. Never mind what they were intending to do with Confederate script that couldn't be exchanged for Yankee money, they stole it and we cootered up and ran after them to get it back. Of course the Captain, who is forever getting into trouble, was more curious about the execution that followed than he was pay call. Of course all of his pay immediately went to the lady playing "Katie" of cat house fame, so he had nothing coming his way anyway. Except for, of course, the pay slips he confiscated, which were duly returned to the rightful owners.

Anyway, the Yankee scoundrels had been lined up opposite a wagon with a tall pile of hay bales to get what was coming to them, and the Captain was peering over top of the hay bales, and lost his hat to friendly fire as a result.

The 'hat flying off' trick was one of many that our dramatically inclined Captain pulled for the sake of the viewing public. He is the Stan Laurel of the 1860s.

Most of the officers, and a majority of the privates, lost some if not all of their pay checks to either Katie, their wives who were ever present, or to the army itself for losing parts of their issued uniforms or arms. I was the only private that got his full 13 dollars and I have gaurded those photo copied bills zealously ever since. It was the first and last time that I recieved my full pay.

That afternoon I discovered, also, that the peaches that had been green the night before were perfectly ripe that afternoon and I ate far too many of them, such that by the time everyone else trouped off to swim I was sick to my stomach in my tent. That evening I was back on my feet and heading to the Bonneville to get out and put on my pink gown. I drew a great deal of attention from the gentlemen, about which I was blushing.

The ball turned out to be a bit of a flop. We had no band, only a handful of CDs and a boom box. No one really to call the dance, just the relationship and a few others that knew how to do dances of the period, and the Captain was there to call the dance. But towards the end of it I taught a few of them how to swing and waltz and do a few more modern steps. Challenging in a full hoop skirt but ultimately tons of fun.

That evening, while enjoying the fire side, we heard the curious call of a wild animal. I and a few of the other younger members shared looks and noted that the call seemed to be coming from the general area of the First Sergeant's tent. One of our privates decided that it was the call of the wild turkey and as they were known to be violent creatures when disturbed, it was best we left it alone.

That next morning we were giggling about the wild turkeys much to the embarrassment of the First Sergeant's wife. She was so perturbed that when she found out who the ring leader was she declared that she wanted revenge.

So it was that after our battle Sunday we marched said private to the stagnate lake where we were fully prepared to execute him. Of course Mrs. First Sergeant wanted the first shot, despite knowing nothing about firing guns and her first attempt involving supporting the gun by the barrel and not the stock or the grip. The offending private was duly shot, twice, then hung himself (he was talented at hanging by one hand from a tree limb in a manner that made him look as though he had been hung, it was convincing!) by the tree. He refused, however, to allow himself to be plunged into the stagnate lake. Pansy.

When I left East Harbor I knew it would be to go, almost immediately, off to camp for a few months but I promised the unit that I would see them again at Findlay. I packed up the Bonneville and trooped home smelling wonderfully of wood smoke and sun, with the greasy feel of black powder on my hands and feeling the peculiar, bone tiredness that comes from every event. Nothing better in the world.

Oregon, Ohio

For me the event in Oregon, Ohio was my first taste of heaven. I rode with Noel, excitedly, heading north to the small town near Lake Erie. I asked a lot of questions and he gave me some good advice. I was only 19 at the time and I got the impression that he was trying to protect me. He told me what to expect, what was likely to happen after the sun went down, etc. I was determined to be the opposite of who I had been since childhood. I would work twice as hard, offer my hand every chance I could, learn as much as possible. I didn't know if I could do it, and yet I knew for a fact that I could.
We pulled into a grassy field behind a K-Mart where a group of guys were pitching tents, digging a fire pit and setting up a pair of canons. To my eyes there were hundreds of soldiers, guns and tons of supplies. Whole battalions of soldiers had chosen to camp here and I was just a small part of it.
In truth it was just the 9th Virginia, infantry and artillery, plus a few sharpshooters (here to for known as treefrogs) and me. I didn't know any better.
I was quickly put on tent raising duty and learned how to put one up inside out, then the right way. I was given a uniform and changed, was handed my 'cooters' which for the layman are the leather belts and shoulder straps that hold the cartridge pouch (Where the black powder and paper ladies go), the cap pouch (where the caps go, duh, little brass cups that have explosive in them), and the sheath that holds the bayonet (the sharp pointy thing that can be fixed to the top of the gun).

For those of you who have taken offense to my detailed explanations, I have had to explain these things, in this manner, plenty of times before. There are a great many folk out there that are entirely clueless as to the war that changed our nation the most, and a great many that would rather pretend as though it never happened at all. After the camp had been set up and I had a chance to settle Noel took me to the side, told me to put my cooters on and took my picture in front of the camp banners. I am eternally grateful that he did.

That afternoon I learned how to roll rounds; from making the paper ladies to filling them with black powder and folding them, or tying, or gluing, or taping. Folding works best, trust me. But I've seen all manner of ways to keep them together, including crazy glue.



Noel was good enough to take photos of me. One of the things I was in a hurry to learn was how to roll my own rounds. Here some of the other guys learn me the ropes.



  I went through about an hour or so of drill with the other fresh fish of the year, learning manual of arms, marching drill, and so on.






A - Cartridge Pouch, B - You can hardly see it but, Cap Pouch, C - My 1863 Springfield, D - Bayonet, E - Canteen, a must for battles!, F - The strap for my haversack.

 I discovered that I was going to develop a bruise, or a callous, on my left shoulder that summer, and every summer, from the constant weight and impact of my gun.
That night we did dinner over the fire and I discovered the hobby within a hobby that is practiced by the majority of reenactors. Beveraging. There is always beverage. Beverage of many kinds as well. There is potato juice, grape juice, apple juice, barley juice...even blueberry juice, all of which has been accidentally left in a cool, dark place for too long and since reenactors are conscientious about wasting things, they bring these over ripe juices with them to share.
While reenactors are free with beverage and with their woven leaves of choice, they are law abiding citizens as much as they can be and I have never seen an adult giving overripe juices to an under aged person knowingly.
Reenactors are caring, loving and law abiding. Most of them are anyway. But with all manner of life and with all other hobbies there are rotten apples. We'll get to those in a bit. And those apples, by the way, usually aren't the kind that ripen into beverage.
 If you have never slept outside over night and woken up to the sun rising, the smell of fresh dew on the grass, the sound of birds and wind and everything fresh and new, do it! I dare you. Summer, winter, spring and fall, pick a morning that you can stand and sleep out overnight. Every season has its pleasures.
Even better are the nights that host tornadoes, wind storms, thunder and lightning storms, drowning rain, twenty below wind shear, hoards of mosquitoes in extreme heat and any other weather condition you can imagine. Somehow the morning always brings a reprieve.
My first night as a reenactor was mild, I woke with the sun and went out to the fire dreading waiting for hours while the others decided to wake. To my surprise and delight there was someone already out by the fire, feeding the coals and putting the day's first cup of coffee on. My first reason for loving this hobby. When I'm sleeping out I wake with the sun. Once the sun is up, I am up. And I hate sitting through the first few hours of awakeness, alone, slowly getting tired again, so that I'm grumpy and ignored for the rest of the day. I hate that! You will always find more than a handful of early risers in the reenacting community.
The other thing I learned was the vast importance of the porter johns, and the importance of their proximity to your tent. You don't want them too close, especially on a warm day. You don't want them miles away, especially at a bigger event where they are in more use. If you can get a flushy toilet, you're a king!
I've been sick in a porter john, boiling in a porter john while I change into a ball gown, freezing to the death in a porter john while I regret getting out of my blankets because I desperately had to pee, even used porter johns for cover in the heat of battle (outside, not inside). Very important, those porter johns. And even more important are the honey dippers...those wonderful maintenance trucks and the fine workers that drive and operate them, making the toilets clean and sparkling and sweet smelling after a day (or worse, two days!) of use. I have never been forced to dig a hole in the ground for the sake of ablutions, and I hope never to.
The event was only a two day-er. We had a few battles to do Saturday and then we could wander around the car show that was the reason for our being there. I can't remember if we had much of an audience or not, but I didn't care.
It's called seeing the elephant when a soldier goes into his/her first battle. We call it the same as reenactors for two reasons;
One - We're re-enacting battles...that means re-doing, re-being, re-existing. In the midst of the thing with explosions all around and people shouting and the real danger that something might explode unexpectedly and take off a limb, you get to a point where you sink or swim. You panic, or you find that curious calm. To all the war torn veterans out there, at least with reenacting, I've never been shot at, but I have been in a life or death struggle, and the way I reacted to reenacting (I guess) contributed to the way I reacted when my true battle did come.
Two -It's an easy qualifier that marks you as no longer 'fresh-fish'.
I remember being excited about the battle, learning quickly how to load as fast as I could, while running; and at one point having the Captain reach back and lift my gun barrel up away from the ground, telling me not to turn it down that way because all the powder will roll out the end. Afterwards I glowed when the Captain told me I was a good soldier. I had never wanted so great a compliment, so badly, in my life.
On my way home I excitedly called my father, told him how much I had loved every minute, and proposed that he spend $200, which I promised to pay back, to buy me a uniform and cooters. I had been told that I could use the gun I had used at Oregon since it was the Captain's gun and he wouldn't need it. I was going to be a reenactor!!





How the Reenacting Thing Got Started

While I was still in high school my sister spent a lot of her time at the home of her best friend. Our parents were divorced and she didn't want to be at the house and her way of dealing, I guess, was to run off and pretend to be someone else's child. These friends were long time French and Indian War Reenactors. If you don't know what a reenactor is get a dictionary and look it up. Reenactors are regular every day people who like history and for some reason or other are drawn into the curious hobby of pretending to be a historical person. From making and wearing period correct clothing, making and using period correct guns, or other items, making and eating period correct dishes...there are any number of reasons for a reenactor to become what he or she becomes. It would make a lovely book some day I'm sure.
I was always fascinated by the reenactors in the museums. Go into any well rated museum and there should be a section somewhere that has a period looking building and a costumed reenactor there to take you briefly into the past and give you a hands-on first person look at the period in question. At the Cincinnati History Museum in Ohio there are several sections where a person can be lost in a time period. There is a pre-civil war log cabin, an early 20th century mock up of a river town with a paddle boat, and a few pieces of machinery from the famous steel plant. No matter which section you end up in, or really which museum, there is a peculiar smell that permeates the air. I've never been able to identify it. But if you get fake buildings, cobblestone and stagnate water together you might come close. I love that smell...and I'm also kind of intimidated by it.
But since the first day I saw a costumed reenactor kneading bread while telling us all about the curious life of a turn of the century house wife I've been in love with living history.
Fast forward again to high school and you'll understand why I was flabbergasted to hear the invitation to go to an F&I event in my little town.
It would be held on the private property of a man known only as Doc out in the boonies, and since the woman inviting me was an accomplished seamstress, she would provide me with the appropriate dress. There would be only reenactors at this event and as it was an end-of-the-season get together it was going to be cold. I didn't care! I was going to a reenactment!

I've begun to realize that when I was in my teens I looked a whole heck of a lot older than I was. Which would explain some of the trouble I got myself into.

We started at her house, putting on a chemise and layers of skirts and long stockings and a pretty satin coat, then the lacy cap over my hair as it was too short to put up, proper earrings, moccasins on my feet, a long cape to keep out the chill. I'm the one in yellow. My sister stands to the left. Because of her long hair and lovely features we decided that she was the Indian servant of the family and braided her hair in one long single plait.
We got to the event late in the evening hours. There was a French fort...yes...a fort, in this guy's back yard. Inside were half a dozen buildings including a working (and popular) tavern, guard house, chapel, etc. It smelled wonderfully of fall and rain and cool air and drifting smoke from hundreds of camp fires. There was an Indian village back in the woods somewhere with several standing structures including a long house. And in a field on the other side of a patch of woods the British and the Highlanders had camped in tents. If you're anything like me you should be hyperventilating by now. This is paradise! We started out at the French fort, met some friends of the family and met Mr. Footlander. Because of my red and curly hair there began a joke that I was the long lost, illegitimate daughter of Footlander and I was introduced as such much to the chagrin of his current girlfriend. Footlander thought it a hoot though and because of my new, special status, being the reunited daughter of the commander, I was given a special escort for the evening who deserted me shortly after I was guided to the British side.
We explored, we met and talked with anyone we could, we politely refused to drink the alcohol that was prevalent to my surprise, and ended the evening with the Indians listening to their stories and songs. One of them said that during the week he would say, "I'm an American Indian, who plays a white guy on weekdays."
I attended that event three times. During one evening I was captured by Indians while trying to return to the fort, which was entirely intentional. Dressing up pretty and being treated like a queen by all the men was nice, a pleasant change even, from my everyday existence. But I realized that my heart truly lay with the fighting men. I wanted to be where the guns were, where the fighting was, where the drama was!
Enter sophomore year of college. After graduating high school I day dreamed about getting a job as a living history persona. I tried to get a job at Roscoe Village in Ohio but they weren't hiring and who wanted a high school kid with a poor GPA and no experience? By sophomore year of college everything was falling apart anyway. I had been sick and depressed most of spring semester. I had no money and other than my summer job that would start in June I had no real future either. I stopped going to class and did as much as I could to avoid the responsibilities weighing down on me. After I spent spring break in bed unable to move I was desperate to get out and do something.
Somehow I heard about a Civil War Gun Show in Mansfield at the fairgrounds and decided that I wanted to go. On a bright, warm Saturday afternoon I found myself wandering around the fair grounds surrounded once again by the wonderful sights, smells and sounds of the past. Somewhere a fife and drum band was beating out Dixie and Bonnie Blue Flag and Glory, Glory Hallelujah. There were camp fires everywhere sending smoke into the wind and in the center of the concrete courtyard a Yankee Sergeant was shouting for strapping young men to join the cause, fight for the union, and announcing that each man would earn $13 dollars a month for joining. All the buildings were full to the brim with collectors and their collections, there were a few WWII reenactors but they were dwarfed by the collection of Civil War tents and men. At first all I saw were Yankees. But I had seen the movie Gettysburg, and I knew enough about the Civil War to know that these were the good guys. I quickly learned an important lesson.
If you are in modern in clothing you are as good as invisible to some reenactors. I wandered around the tents, shy and curious and excited and afraid, wearing shorts and a t-shirt, and not a one of them invited me to learn about their hobby, or the historical period they represented. Yankee after Yankee saw right through me, sitting under their tent flies or around the fire, entirely engrossed in themselves and ignoring the public that had paid $5 a head to come see them.
As a reenactor I know this is easy to do. When you aren't required to be on your feet in the uncomfortable brogans and the warmth of the sun, or cleaning something, or cooking something, you want to sit and enjoy the peace and the laid back nature that the hobby provides. But...without the public there is no reenactment.
Anyway, I got fed up with being ignored, so I wondered over to where the Confederates had camped. Immediately I was addressed. "Come on into camp! Do you have any questions? Would you like to join?" (Pause....me? A girl? Join? And like in a uniform? Are you crazy? Heck Yes!) "Do you have a boyfriend who would also like to join?" (No, but I do have male friends that are interested in this sort of thing.) "Have you any reenacting experience?" (Sure, I did F&I.) "Have you ever handled a musket?" (Sure. Never mind the fact that it was only once, on a firing range, at a 4H camp that I wasn't even attending. But...I have marching experience, I did marching band for four years...) "Come back tomorrow and you can meet the Captain."
I went home buzzing like I'd had nothing but caffeine and sugar to eat for days. I had one thought in mind, fix up the blue dress!

Since attending the Red, White and Boom in Columbus the previous 4th of July, I begged my mother to make me a Civil War Day Dress. It was mostly wrong though. It had been made with the skirt too narrow at the bottom and since I had no corset or hoop I had been forced to get creative. I turned a three tiered skirt into a hoop skirt by sewing bent hangers into each tier, then bending and forcing and cramming until the hoop fit the confines of the skirt. It looked funny...

At the time I had short hair, which turned out to be great for playing a soldier but not so great when I put a dress on. Eventually I gave up on trying to be a girl and a boy at reenactments.

But hey I tried!

Other than the day that Dad took this photo I hadn't had the chance to wear the dress, so when I thought I saw an opportunity to impress the guys on Sunday I worked through the night hours making it work. I showed up Sunday afternoon with my bag and my dress, having driven myself to the event in the gray Pontiac Bonneville I owned (that's where the Bonneville applies to the story.) I payed my $5 bucks and proudly walked toward the Confederate camp through the sea of Yankees. Suddenly I had their attention. I got nods and tipped hats and after politely asking the Yankees if I could leave my purse in their camp I trotted over to the confederate camp.

I stood around proudly explaining where the day dress had come from, got more details on what to expect from the next event and met Noel, who lived near by and would be happy to offer me a ride to the small town on Lake Erie. I was essentially told, "If you bring a sleeping bag and a pair of shoes with you we'll give you a uniform, a tent, a gun and we'll see how you like it!"

(FAINT!) A get in free card for a one time chance at doing the thing I never thought I could do!! Be a Civil War Reenactor...and not as a female, but as a soldier! I knew enough about the era to know that there had been females hiding out in the ranks and serving, and I also knew the chance these guys were taking in offering me this deal. I took it.

A week or so later I drove the Bonneville up to Noel's house, briefly met his lovely wife and his dogs, then piled into his car and we were off.