Lives Well Lived

A couple of weeks ago my husband and I traveled to Upstate New York to inter three of our parents’ ashes.  On the way back to Oklahoma we stopped in Washington, D.C. to visit my son, who is stationed at Ft. Myer, VA with the Old Guard (Army).  While there, we had the opportunity to watch as his company transferred someone from one grave site to another in Arlington.  It was done with great pomp and respect.  I know nothing about the person whose body lay in the casket.  I don’t know if they were male or female, old or young, whether they gave their life for their country or died of other causes.  It didn’t matter.  He or she was a veteran and thus, given a hero’s interment. 

While in D.C. we spent a couple of days seeing the sights.  The one monument that impressed and touched me the most was the Jefferson Memorial.  Inside the memorial stands a statue of Jefferson; the words “"I have sworn upon the altar of God eternal, hostility against every form of tyranny over the mind of man” are inscribed around the walls inside the edifice.  It made me think about the sacrifice that our founding fathers made to secure freedom for all. 

They were patriots to one cause and traitors to another.  If caught, these men would have been subject to execution King George III style (not a pretty sight.)  Yet they chose to put their very lives on the line to do what they thought was right.  William Ellery, the delegate from Rhode Island at the signing of the Declaration of Independence said, “I was determined to see how they all looked as they signed what might be their death warrant.  I placed myself beside the secretary Charles Thomson and eyed each closely as he affixed his name to the document.  Undaunted resolution was displayed in every countenance.”¹ 

These men pledged “their lives, their fortunes and their sacred honor”² to birth our country.  Many men and women, since, have given their lives defending it.  Countless others have served  both at home and abroad.  Both of our fathers served during the Korean conflict—my dad in the Army, and my father-in-law in the Air Force.  I had an uncle who was stationed in Pearl Harbor when the Japanese attacked at the beginning of World War II.  Another uncle flew bombing missions over Germany.  All were veterans and devoted fathers.  Their lives mattered.  As we head into this holiday weekend, let us reflect on those who went before us and resolve, in like fashion to lead lives well lived, and do what is right, in whatever circumstances God places us.

Happy Independence Day to all of my readers!   

¹Kurnan, Denise and Joseph E’Agnese, Signing Their Lives Away. Philadelphia: Quirk Books, 2009.

² The Declaration of Independence.

Fortitude and Perseverance

I learned a lesson last weekend—a lesson about fortitude and perseverance.  These are qualities needed to survive the 19^th century experience.  As our captain, Cleon Plunk, stated, “We really got a small taste of what it was like to live back then.”

Vaunda and I made the 6 hour drive to Booneville, MO for their 150^th anniversary reenactment.  We arrived Thursday evening and set up our tent, a process that takes about 8 hours total.  We finished sometime around noon on Friday. 

The weekend was hot.  We kept cool by misting ourselves with water, and drinking.  Lots of drinking.  I had taken my bathtub, so we were able to cool off with a bath at night.  The event coordinators had set up a water hose at the entrance to the site, so we had to carry our bath water a distance in a bucket, much like our predecessors had to carry it from a nearby stream.  The bucket that we had was a canvas bucket which works, but water also seeps through the canvas so my skirts were soaked before I got back to camp.  Two baths, two trips.

We dropped into bed Friday night (we sleep on an air mattress on the ground), and slept the sleep of the exhausted—until about 3 a.m.   The people in the next tent woke us to warn us that a prairie storm was rolling in with wind speeds of up to 75 miles an hour.  Shortly thereafter, one of the EMS trucks went through the camps with a bull horn, waking people and telling them that they had 10 minutes to batten down the hatches and get to their cars.  I appreciated the warning.  Often we don’t have that luxury. 

The sutler coordinator organized the sutlers to pull their trucks and trailers in front of their tents to serve as a wind block.  Because I had parked at the bottom of a hill, and it was dark and the terrain rough, I knew that I would probably have trouble getting my truck out, so I opted to leave it.  Vaunda and I headed for the coordinator’s tent and got a lesson in what to do to prepare for a storm.  We stayed there during the worst of the first storm.  When the wind died down we went back to our tent to prepare for the next storm.  We pounded the 2 foot stakes in further, moved displays and merchandise, and then, amid thunder and lightning, lay down to get some much needed sleep.

It stormed most of the night, and by morning, we had a nice, steady but gentle rain.  The wind picked up a bit and whipped our tent, causing the sides to drop in spots.  I set about fixing them.  Vaunda joined me.  Unbeknownst to us, the end of the storm was near, and with it, a strong gust front.  We were trying to shore up a sagging side when it hit.  I was at the corner pole, Vaunda at a side pole.  I put my weight into it, and struggled to keep the tent upright, as did she.  We struggled, and wondered how long the winds would last and how long we could continue to fight, and whether or not our tent would remain erect. 

Finally, the wind died down.  We dressed quickly and went out to survey the damage.  Some tents were down.  Their owners set about to re-pitch them and put their contents aright.  I spent the day re-setting stakes, ropes and poles.  We kept our eyes on the weather forecast, a luxury that the 19^th century settlers didn’t have.  Another night of storms was predicted. 

I pulled my truck out of the hollow during the day, after the ground had a chance to dry.  Right before night fall, all of the sutlers, again, pulled their trucks and trailers in front of their tents.  All I could think of was that it was the 21^st century equivalent of circling the wagons.  And that we were sitting ducks.  We had no place to go.  No shelter, save our vehicles.  Again, I went to bed amid the thunder and lightning.   Fortunately, the storms were not severe.  I slept until day break, when the rain finally stopped. 

I was happy to pack up and head home Sunday evening.  We were tired of battling wind, storms and heat.  After we came home we had a severe thunderstorm and I didn’t even care.  I was safe in my home, surrounded by strong walls and a roof over my head.  I slept right through it, in fact.

This experience gave me a deep awareness and appreciation for those who lived and struggled with the elements 150 years ago.  Nature can be very unkind.  Without the characteristics of fortitude and perseverance none would have survived long on the prairie.  For the weekend, at least, we followed in their footsteps, doing what needed to be done in the face of adversity, and persevering until the end of the weekend.

The camp at dawn

*My sincere thanks to the event organizers, the Missouri Civil War Reenactors Association, Dell and Jean Warren of James Country Mercantile and the EMS personnel who did such a fine job of hosting this event.*

Classical Clothing—Costume or Couture?

“I like your costume.” 

I hear this frequently, and every time I do, I cringe.  Costumes, in my mind, conjure up images of Halloween and cheap costumes worn over clothing and fastened with ties or Velcro.  The clothing that I wear is more than just a costume.  My wardrobe is carefully researched, and the fabrics and buttons chosen to be in keeping with original period-appropriate clothing.

My Civil War dresses are collar-less and have dropped sleeves. My camp dresses, which date to an earlier era, have collars, and are shapeless.  I also have a bloomer outfit which was sewn from a picture of Mary Edwards Walker.

Under my dresses are period type undergarments.  My petticoats are muslin, reinforced with rope.  I may, or may not be wearing a hoop skirt.  In the winter I wear a double flannel petticoat, which keeps my lower half toasty warm.  My chemise serves a couple of different purposes.  It is long enough to keep me modest if I should fall with a hoop skirt on, and it provides comfort underneath my corset.  My corset is a working corset.  It is comfortable (except in hot weather) and provides good back support.  Last, but not least, are my pantalettes, mid-calf length with lace and eyelet trim.  If I dress as a 19^th century woman I want to make sure that I am as accurate as possible so that I can experience the time period fully, right down to my skivies.

My shoes have been hand-made to fit my feet.  Black in color with square toes, they are made of leather with nailed on soles.  My stockings are standard sutler issue: striped and thigh high.  I wear my hair parted down the middle and pulled back in a bun.  The bun is covered by a black beaded, crocheted hair piece.  My watch is a pin-on type, which hangs from a chatelaine.  Depending on the season, I might be wearing a shawl or a peletot coat.  A bonnet or hat may also be worn.

 Some period items are hard to find.  It was much easier 150 years ago.  Today you consider yourself lucky to find someone who makes reproduction items.  The alternative is to scour auctions, yard sales and on-line websites to find originals in good shape.  Either way it is time consuming and costly. 

Costume?  Living historians don’t play dress up.  We take it very seriously, sometimes to the point of wearing our hair or facial hair (for the men) or spectacles in 19^th century styles all of the time.  We pay attention to the details that no one else sees.  When we are at events (reenactments) the spectators are the ones who are dressed funny.  I think the next time someone tells me that they like my costume I will reply with, “Thanks.  I like your costume, too!”

Tents, Twisters, and Trains

Tents, Twisters and Trains

Several years ago we went to a reenactment in Atoka, OK.  As we pulled in and set up camp we looked at the sky and saw this:

The sky was beautiful, but also sinister-looking.  We knew that a storm was brewing. It was quite breezy, as it often is on the Oklahoma plains.   When you live in Tornado Alley you tend to keep your eyes on the sky. 

Vaunda, Brenda, and I pitched our tent in the civilian area, and expecting a storm, we lay plastic on the ground to protect us from the torrential rain that we knew would come. The idea was to have the plastic cover the gap between the bottom of the tent and the ground so that any water would have to go under or around us, thus keeping us dry. 

Needing to visit the port-a-johns, Vaunda and I headed in that direction, fighting the wind every inch of the way.  Once inside I shut the door and set about taking care of business.  The port-a-john shook like a paint mixer at the hardware store. 

“Has anyone ever been killed in one of these things?” I shouted to Vaunda, who was waiting outside.  Then we both began giggling. 

We went to bed at nightfall, just as the storm moved in.  It rained; it thundered; and the wind gripped our tent and shook it like a dog shakes its prey.  I lay there and prayed.  Hard.  I prayed for God’s protection for everyone there, and then fell asleep.  I was presently awakened by the sound of a train.  I had never been in a tornado before, but I had heard that the sound was like that of a freight train.  I listened.  The train sound came closer and closer.  Subsequently, the sound of a whistle pierced the night.

“Do tornados have whistles?” I asked Vaunda.  Then we both laughed. 

We were still laughing the next morning when we got up.  Everyone was fine.  Some were wet, but reenactors are “all-season” kind of people.  We began to inspect for damage.  We found it amusing that Brenda’s sleeping bag was wet.  The plastic that was meant to keep us dry had poked its way out from underneath the tent and acted as a funnel, channeling water inside the tent.  We hung her sleeping bag out to dry, then went to get something to eat. 

The event coordinators provided breakfast for the reenactors:  sausage, biscuits and gravy.  We tramped through the mud to get to the mess tent and stand in line.  What a hunger a storm can produce! 

The sun came out and began the task of drying things out.  The rest of the event went without a hitch.  We left happy but tired.  My son, Scott even fell asleep with his head in my dresses on the way home.  What a picture!