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.