Oh the Wonders I have Witnessed

[Spinster]

Oh the Wonders I have Witnessed

I have seen a cabin begin to rise in the wilderness in a short morning, built of pulled up logs and hacked deadfall, by two long legged men with axes.

I have seen a fine Bloodhound find new purpose in life, doing the work God created her to do.

I have stood under a sudden waterfall in a Howling Wilderness, good for bathing and for drinking, tumbling down weathered rocks.

I have heard distant cannon boom through the night, and wild hogs snort and snuffle near by.

I have seen men weep because they had fallen out, unable to go another step, held their hands and told them they were home.

I have seen a yoke of four oxen, a blue wagon, and a grizzeled wagoneer plodding through the deep woods.

I have laid my head against an ox's side and felt his great heart beat.

I have listened to the wagonneer as he told the stories of his service in the 1812 War, and told the stories of the wars his fathers fought before him.

I nodded as the men negotiated a young boy's apprenticeship and watched as the boy walked away behind the wheel ox, to a new life and the responsibilities of a man.

I have seen men who never stopped working to build a home in the wilderness for their families, and who prayed to Heaven the war would not come to their farms.

I have seen a young widow with her baby strapped to her back and her husband's bloody shirt in her arms, dodge betweeen two armies into percieved safety and home, and find no hiding place there.

I have heard the coyotes howl in the night, and seen the chickens huddle closer to the door.

I have seen children go off a fishin', with poles and bait and picnics and such--fishin' though that does not mean catchin'

I have seen a man hungry enough for hot food, and bereft enough of something to take it in, to hold out his hat as a bowl for the food, and eat from it with his hands.

I have seen women cook enough to feed an army in an handfull of pots over broken deadfall, and haul it a half mile over broken terrain at dusky dark to feed that army.

I have heard voices, strong high, and sweet, singing over the washpots as they did the laundry for 19 people, with scrub boards and washpots, with water hauled with buckets and yoke, over fires they built themselves.

I have seen two women who never, ever stopped cooking.

And two more who never, ever stopped nursing.

And another who never ever was at a loss for fine things five children could find to do.

I have seen an army appear in an instant, silent as the grave, and there without warning. Even though I knew they were coming, and from which direction.

And in that dappled sunlit piney woods, one army looks about like another, hard to tell apart--weary, hard, hungry, men------here, gone.

And leaving us in their wake......to rebuild a war torn land.

Banks Grand Retreat.
No Whiners
No Shirkers
No Weaklings

[DougCooper]

All I can think of to say is:

"It was all too real"

The best event I have ever attended, and that did more things, all of which by themselves could have "made the event."

The tone you hear from Terre Lawson, the "Angel of the Howling Wilderness", was exactly how we felt in the ranks.

The organizers - Fred Baker, Tom Yearby and civilian Terre Lawson, among the other folks who worked so hard on this, did an extraordinary job before and during the event. They had it all covered, rain or shine, medical and logistics, loss of key folks, etc. In short, they allowed us to do great things.

This morning, as the preservation raffle was concluded and folks began to drift away on the long drive or flight home, Steve Mayeux, head of
Friends of Fort DeRussy was overcome with the generosity and comradeship of the men and women of BGR and asked me this simple question:

"Doug, you mean you are all now just parting ways, its all over?"

I said - "yes, its what we do - but this band of brothers and sisters will do it again, somewhere else, for a battlefield and a cause always worthy of our best efforts."

I am too tired and too far from home to write more.

[Spinster]

Oh no Doug, its never really over--you always carry it in your heart, and the work we all do is lasting.

Within our ranks was a writer--an Englishman--and you may not have seen him. When the Army's schedule, location, and route changed on Thursday night, we fixed him a bedroll and a bag of food and I 'parachuted' him in between the lines shortly after midnight.

He's written other books about folks who make journeys, but this one is about people like us--living historians who do immersion events, who go on 'adventures' in past times. In the last year he has marched for days with Roman Legions and sailed the ocean in a Viking ship. He moved amoungst us as a "reporter for the London Times".

I saw him move off into the darkness in the wee hours of Friday morning. The next time I saw him, he came into the clearing with the long strides of a runner, calling for a medic and an ambulance for troops some distance away. And, after our medical team went off, he quietly pulled out his journal and began to write.

My last vision of him Sunday as I pulled away from the clearing was that of a long lanky man with a towel and a bar of homemade soap, headed for our lovely waterfall with great anticipation. I imagine he will write about that waterfall too.

Along with all the other things we do.

And folks will read about it. And learn something.

[Alamo Guard]

As many of you know I was the Preacher moving about the armies and civilians. When not hauling, grain, hay or water for the troops I would pop up almost anywhere.
I stopped off sometimes to beg food from the armies for the civilians living in the woods. I was amazed by the men who had so little and gave so much. The children sure enjoyed the crackers that you tired men gave. The monies you donated was given to the women for needed supplies as Im sure the men would have spent it all on something wasteful, right?

[Spinster]

I have seen a cabin begin to rise in the wilderness in a short morning, built of pulled up logs and hacked deadfall, by two long legged men with axes.

Nearly three years ago, when this event was envisoned on private land, structures were planned to be built in place. Somewhere along the way, a bargain was struck to move the event a year to accomodate Rich Mountain, and to make a trade--the men of the Texas Ground Hornets made the long journey east for Rich Mountain, and men from the east were to make the long journey west for Banks Grand Retreat.

And somewhere in that year of slide, the private land was lost, the event moved to public land, and civilians moved to the concept of portable structures--a daunting and expensive task.

Some of those structures fell by the way due to lost jobs, family crisis, devasting illness, life-threatening injury, and the simple inability to do the task. I was unwilling to leave anyone behind over something so small as what we used for shelter as we built a community of rural farm folk, so no one was left out because of the lack. The last portable structure fell victim less than two weeks before the event when its hauling vehicle spun and totaled on black ice in Ohio, mercifully leaving that family unhurt.

There is a lot of deadfall in a pine barren. Controlled burns on National Forest Service land clean those barrens and make the wood accessible. While some were setting the main camp on Sunday, others were out in the woods dragging up log and stone, notching them out and beginning to stack. Painted canvas had been brought with us in every size and variety to serve as roof.

Those who arrived later found shelters and homes in those woods , and a source of mucky chinking clay nearby.

And more abuilding.......

[Spinster]

I have seen a fine Bloodhound find new purpose in life, doing the work God created her to do.

Diva was about like any other young bloodhound in a household living on a good-sized city lot. She had a couple of children who loved her, and not really much to do. She'd been educated to search and rescue a bit, but hadn't gotten to use it. Mostly she laid about living history sites on the weekends and tolerated spectator children who kissed her and tugged too hard on her ears.

She was bored. listless, and damn tired of spending life on the end of a leash.

Within a half day in the Kitsachie, she was a new dog, a dog with a job, punching a timeclock and going to work, just as surely as a man gets up and goes joyfully to his carpenter's shop on a Saturday morning.

Leash gone, she established an outer perimeter to be circled and checked regularly for trespassers, and and inner one more for socialble purposes, as she checked both the tent and remote log house camps on a regular basis.

She quickly discerned the difference between civilian dress, military dress, military men who were ill and needed help, Park Service folks in uniform, and just plain old modern folks---and addressed each of them differently, and in accordance with their station and need.

She negotiated a truce with the oxen--after taking a 15 foot flight through the air.

She herded children and guarded chickens.

And she played with a tiny dashhound /terrier named Tad all week, a fine game of Big Dog /Little Dog tag, with no home base, and no off limits---except right there around the oxen.

And when the day was over, she took her bed at dusky dark, first on her on ticking, but eventually in the children's rope bed as the nights grew cold and wet-----but not for long.

Her job was never done, for in the night I would hear her lope through, checking, patrolling, guarding her perimeter and her people.

Dog with a job. Everything created for a purpose, and better for it when it fulfills it.

[Spinster]

I have stood under a sudden waterfall in a Howling Wilderness, good for bathing and for drinking, tumbling down weathered rocks.

Well, alright, I didn't stand under it. Kimberlee said "Now Miss Terre we can get you down there ........." which I knew meant that it was a terribly bad idea, and one that could result in a little helicopter ride for me. Always a bad idea to do something stupid and beyound one's known ability just for the hardcore points. Especially if it causes grief and trouble for others.

Besides, I started the week leaning on my cane only at night when there was no moon, and ended it reaching for my stick or any substitute with every step, except when I was too prideful to do so.

But I could hear it it, cool and tumbling down the rocks to the platform of hewn wood the men placed under it. And one fine day, Miss Bertie helped me down the upper trail for a splashie bath in the shallows as it poured out of the spring and off the ledge.

One rough huck towel, one bar of homemade soap, one pair clean drawers and a rough linen chemise that Racquelle and Sarah had washed and dried. Turn my stockings inside out, shake and smooth my dress and hair, and I was a new woman.

Folks trained for this event in different ways--one of mine was a bit odd. For the last 10 months, I have taken only a "Saturday night bath", washing daily with bowl and basin, and washing my hair every one to two weeks. That change has served to toughen my skin, change the chemistry of it, make it not so thin, delicate, and easy to blister or chafe. And the chill was not a true problem--with various rennovation challenges, we've had only intermittent hot water at my home for the last six months.

That trail to the waterfall also had another fine resource, pointed out by the oxcart driver. Churned mucky clay, just the stuff for hauling out in buckets and making a fine period paint. And, he told me the receipt for it, including how to make it blue just the color of his wagon, with mixtures I already knew from my dyepots.

[Spinster]

I have heard distant cannon boom through the night, and wild hogs snort and snuffle near by.

Now, obviously, our men were not fighting and firing all through the night. And when we first heard the cannon's roar, they weren't even on the place--it was only Sunday, and the civilian contingient was the only portion there.

No, this was another shining example of the excellent choice Fred Baker and Tom Yearby made to use this particular piece of land---we sat at a high point and miles away was the active and working Fort Polk range, where a modern army was on training manuevers this week. One women in our number had hoped to see her brother in the course of the week, as he is stationed there.

Instead, his orders put him out in those same forests, with live munitions, and we heard the war close in around us from the very moment we stepped on the place.

The wild hog were another matter. Primarily noturnal and shy, they are large and can easily kill a man, especially during mating season or when the shoats are young.

We pulled perimeters in accordingly, and made provision for 'bear bags' for some of the food. We had some family units who wished to live more remotely from their neighbors and I scouted sites that would allow that option while still maintaining the wisdom and safe guards that would remove them from discerned hog paths.

Additionally we had two modern weapons in the place, well loaded with hog shot, and hung high--so that we could reach them readily but the obedient children could not.

We required the children to wear emergency whistles--high pitched and loud, to be blown when in danger or lost. If they became disoriented, their instructions were to sit down and blow until someone found them. We recommended them for adults as well.

Living and working in a wilderness area is not something to just be blundered into. It requires a great deal of planning, woodcraft skill, and cooperation within and between family units for the safety of all.

And, I must admit, that first night, when my shelter was set up some distance from the home of my neighbors, and the rest of my 'family' had not yet arrived, when I heard the first hog snort in the darkness, I very nearly went flying barefooted accross that clearing and into the rope bed occupied by 2 children and one large bloodhound.

As I was gathering myself for that run, the blood hound came loping out of the house , circled my place and laid there for awhile. When she commenced to snore, so did I.

[DougCooper]

Nearly three years ago, when this event was envisoned on private land, structures were planned to be built in place. Somewhere along the way, a bargain was struck to move the event a year to accomodate Rich Mountain, and to make a trade--the men of the Texas Ground Hornets made the long journey east for Rich Mountain, and men from the east were to make the long journey west for Banks Grand Retreat.

Decorum prevents my commenting on how this bargain was kept.

And somewhere in that year of slide, the private land was lost, the event moved to public land, and civilians moved to the concept of portable structures--a daunting and expensive task.

Some of those structures fell by the way due to lost jobs, family crisis, devasting illness, life-threatening injury, and the simple inability to do the task. I was unwilling to leave anyone behind over something so small as what we used for shelter as we built a community of rural farm folk, so no one was left out because of the lack. The last portable structure fell victim less than two weeks before the event when its hauling vehicle spun and totaled on black ice in Ohio, mercifully leaving that family unhurt.

There is a lot of deadfall in a pine barren. Controlled burns on National Forest Service land clean those barrens and make the wood accessible. While some were setting the main camp on Sunday, others were out in the woods dragging up log and stone, notching them out and beginning to stack. Painted canvas had been brought with us in every size and variety to serve as roof.

Those who arrived later found shelters and homes in those woods , and a source of mucky chinking clay nearby.

And more abuilding...

Again, the building effort put in by the civilians was astonishing to our eyes. One of the tents even looked to have some floor boards obviously salvaged from a period structure. Floor coverings and as many comforts as could be placed on a wagon by refugees in flight were used. Heck, everything was in use.

I hope somebody took photos before you guys moved on Terre. It was amazing.

[Spinster]

Nearly three years ago, when this event was envisoned on private land, structures were planned to be built in place. Somewhere along the way, a bargain was struck to move the event a year to accomodate Rich Mountain, and to make a trade--the men of the Texas Ground Hornets made the long journey east for Rich Mountain, and men from the east were to make the long journey west for Banks Grand Retreat.

Decorum prevents my commenting on how this bargain was kept.]

Oh Doug, I know full and well how that bargain was kept. That I why I mentioned it. Fred is too much of a gentleman to do so. I am not. That bargain cost us a good two dozen static civilians, and two large traveling families, traded off for an event style that is increasingly the case----"no civilians", as we reenact a war fought on civilian land with civilian goods and civilian casualties.

Lives change in a year, but a word given should be kept when at all possible. In our small community we've seen cancer, stroke, large scale unemployment, cross country transfers, military call up, divorce and child custody cases----you know, all the really important things in life. Still and all----well, you saw it.


There is a lot of deadfall in a pine barren. Controlled burns on National Forest Service land clean those barrens and make the wood accessible. While some were setting the main camp on Sunday, others were out in the woods dragging up log and stone, notching them out and beginning to stack. Painted canvas had been brought with us in every size and variety to serve as roof.

Those who arrived later found shelters and homes in those woods , and a source of mucky chinking clay nearby.

And more abuilding...

Again, the building effort put in by the civilians was astonishing to our eyes. One of the tents even looked to have some floor boards obviously salvaged from a period structure. Floor coverings and as many comforts as could be placed on a wagon by refugees in flight were used. Heck, everything was in use.

I hope somebody took photos before you guys moved on Terre. It was amazing.

:D You noticed our Imported Eye-talian Parquet Floors did you? :D

Had all gone according to time table, those would have gone up in a blaze of glory to give you Confeds even more eye candy to fight about.

Danny Burns works for a company that gets transmissions from Italy in big wooden crates. The large cupboard in the front room was one of those crates whole and intact, while the floors in that room, the back kitchen, and the two side rooms were also made of those broken down crates.

Danny Burns and Mark Simpson put a lot of time into those floor panels. The crates themselves were free. Hauling them from Lexington, Kentucky on a flatbed trailer at eight miles to a gallon was not.

And when we got about 4 inches of rain they were priceless.

Oh, and that trailer started 'walking' about 30 miles into that journey--which means the Burns and Simpsons, with five children and 2 dogs, unloaded that trailer in vacant parking lot in central Kentucky on Friday night, then reloaded it to balance the walking problem-------all the while fending off folks who wanted to know "How much you want for that barrel, chair, rope bed, table, stove, ........

It was about 2 am Saturday morning when they rolled into Tuscaloosa.

[Spinster]

I have seen men weep because they had fallen out, unable to go another step, held their hands and told them they were home.

Many men kept going on this event because they loved those men they were marching with. The bonding of men in such circumstances is deep and abiding---yet another reason I do not hold with women in and around military camps---it interferes with a process that forms and makes men, in a society that increasingly does not allow that vital process to occur.

Knowing that, we had prepared in certain ways for those who simply could not sustain any longer. We wanted to to provide excellence in medical care, to offer a period experience within the scope and level of the injured man's ability to perform, to enable those who were fit to return to the ranks, and to keep one man's injury from taking out a whole carpool.

Accordingly, our medical team consisted of long time reenactors with professional medical experience. Kimberlee Bruce is a Certified Nurse Practitioner, an RN with a Master's in Nursing---her special training allows her to work under a doctor's broad supervision to write prescriptions, suture wounds, and perform a variety of emergency medical services. Jim Bruce is MedTech with service in the Vietnam War, and a continuing career in emergency rooms. Diana Myers is an RN with specialty training in OB and pediatric work in addition to emergency medicine.

With no idea as to the weather, or numbers of fall outs to be reasonably expected, we packed a number of extra things.

My big 12 X 12 A tent, and a stack of painted cloth, in case the nights were unseasonably cold and wet.

I purchased a new 16 x 16 Tentsmiths tarp--a shelter designed with multiple loops on the brown canvas that would allow arrangment into any form from a free-standing fly, to a shebang, to another tent.

Six blankets, two feather beds, a bearskin, several gallons of molassas and vinegar, and Kimberlee's fully stocked medical box.

All saw heavy use--and proved one of my maxims that there is no such thing as too many blankets or oilcloths. I started the event with two feather ticks under me and three blankets around me---about my usual load as I chill easily. We ended it with Amy and I on one tick with blanket and baby.

Most injuries were the normal things----heat and muscular, though there were two serious medical evacuations for heart and cramping problems. One man who presented as simple exhaustion and dehydration was actually far more serious, and required monitoring for the next 24 hours as he also had a medication imbalance that was exacerbated by the hydration problem.

I noted quickly that the invalids would not avail themselves of the comforts of a closed floored tent unless ordered to, and that order was not given unless a medical necessity prevailed. The ranged them selves around that open tarp, kept the bake fires moving, drug up dead fall and chopped it, hauled water with bucket and yoke.

It was a fine thing to hear an Old Soldiers Home begin to take form outside my door, and a comfort to hear their voices long in the night.

While they did not finish the march in quite the same way, they were in place to welcome the troops home. They too made an adventure in the wilderness, pulled their own weight, and added to the strength of the community. I am thankful to them.

I am equally sorry that there were whole carpools who fell out when only one man in the group had a minor injury. Provisions had been made for the comfort and safety of all, while maintaining a period experience. I am not sure where the line of communication failed on that availablity, and would like to know it for future reference.

[Rob Murray]

Mrs. Lawson, I would like to thank you and the citizens for their help during the long march. Thanks to their kind hands, five men of Co. B, 81st Ill. were able to complete the march a little more comfortably. Many thanks.

Rob Murray
Capt.
Co. B, 81st, Ill

[Spinster]

I have seen a yoke of four oxen, a blue wagon, and a grizzeled wagoneer plodding through the deep woods.

I'd heard of Gerry and his oxen, named for the four kings of England he hates the most, through Darling Daughter and her work at Fort Defiance, North Carolina We'd had the joy of meeting him in the crisp cold Christmas at Mansker's Station, riding in the great cart under the blazing stars.

When I saw those great red horned heads coming out of their trailer in the Kitsachie, I nearly burst into tears with the sheer joy of having such a grand thing move through our lives. I'd known it coming, and kept it secret from the others.

These oxen are trained to voice command--great shaggy vest pocket animals who will do anything for their daddy. They come up to yoke and water by name, turn and tiptoe delicately as 2000 pounds of sheer muscle can be said to do. Gerry tells us they are paired and herd animals--that it is not unusual for one ox to follow its yoke mate shortly if the first one dies, or for all to die if the wagoneer dies.

Miss Bertie and I followed them, flashers on, for the first few miles, in low gear, and often riding the brakes, to hold far back and provide a guard for the wagon moving at 4 to 6 miles per hour down the paved road. We marveled at the meandering path taken to get the wagon down the hill, and the mark the brake wheel of the wagon left on the road--a path that later proved valuable and readable as we hunted the army.

Gerry and Tim walked beside the wagon rumbling down that road, and others took up escort as the day went on. Some hours later they walked into our little clearing, and I noted that Gerry was barefooted---just as Daughter said he always was.

Chawls has asked elsewhere the breed of the oxen. The proper name escapes me, other than they were imported from England, and were of the sort that a prosperous and forward looking man would have purchased in the early 1700's--if he will go over and ask on the BGR military board, Gerry wanders through every now and again.

The blue wagon itself was painted with a period paint, mixed from local clay, turpentine, and linseed oil, as well as some coloring known to me from my dyepots. Its interior held the period tools common to its use at the time, along with quilts and buffalo robes.

Gerry had used its cotton cover over the bows, knowing that the deep woods would tear the expensive linen cover, but grumbling that the cotton cover lets in the rain, while the linen one does not.

He and Tim were glad for the shelter I had built for injured soldiers, as it provided a night of relatively dry sleep.

Gerry takes longer treks than we have dreamed---three to six months, and has traveled the great wagon roads of this country, along with a family group of 18th century reenactors.

Gerry and those fine oxen are also the ones who built another little home in the woods that we have come to love---one we know as Brown's Stand.

Folks will be adventuring there next weekend. I hope they have as fine a time as we did.

[Charles Heath]

Terre,

I mentioned to Joe and Steve that they looked much like Red Durham, but didn't get a chance to ask the oxhandler. They were very well kept animals, and I understand Gerry's language is as colorful as any muleskinner's. They were very special, and it is rare these days to see a four-up of oxen. Phil would have enjoyed seeing that operation as much as I did, or even more.

[Spinster]

Gerry's in my email box right now, exhausted from a 17 hour drive, and says the boys are happy and sound asleep.

And yes, seeing Gerry seize Charles :D (the ox most prone to 'issues') by the yoke and give him a good eye to eye talking to is another great joy not to be missed.

He also want to know when we are getting up to go again. Since Jack King has been making noises for about a year now, I better get my good walking shoes resoled. Whatever got on them down below New Orleans last year ate them right up.

[Spinster]

I have laid my head against an ox's side and felt his great heart beat.

Our original call for participants for the civilian portion of this event called for folks to organize themselves into families, and included the following line :

Since the site cannot support a large number of civilian participants, these applications will be used to construct a community comparable to those in the area. In other words--you get extra points for children, old folks, period trades, animals and such like in your household.

Along with age ranges and a male and female mix, animals were considered a vital part that application---just as they were in everyday life in the 1860's.

Children carried the primary responsibility for care of the animals for the event, under the broad supervision of the adults. In addition to Gerry's four oxen, there were two dogs, a flock of chickens, and several horses. Milks goats were planned as a substitute for milk cows, but we were unable to obtain them for local sources (there's that land and date change again), and unable to transport them.

Folks wonder what we do all day------with animals to feed, water to haul, meals to prepare, school to hold, spinning, knitting, mending, fires to tend, structures to build.

The reality is, we never stop.

But every great once in awhile, old bones rise in the cold night, walk down under blazing stars and speak softly to the oxen. And the great red beast allows the liberty of a warm embrace, and the strong sound of another beating heart.

[Moose]

Mrs. Lawson -
The civilian camp was one of the highlights for me. You all did a fantastic job. As one of the "wandering few" we had a unique experiance with the civilians, really "living" amoung you for a day and watching all of your day-to-day activities. The civilains were very kind to us, but always kept a watchful eye out for the"Yankee boys." Walking into your camp, sharing in your food and some chores really made my event. Thank you.

Joseph Caridi
77th Ill. - "Stragglers Mess"

[Spinster]

I have listened to the wagonneer as he told the stories of his service in the 1812 War, and told the stories of the wars his fathers fought before him.

Chawls has mentioned in another place my quiet notice to him that we had stepped down from all the first person fol-de-rol we'd planned, and his commentary is noted here

"Terre had warned me the camp had migrated out of first person immersion mode a day or so earlier, but I'll attest to the fact the camp had more immersion going on than most immersion events.

As a group, we tend do our characters more 'on the fly'--they are well prepared, and a good deal of time had been spent by the various families, adult and child alike. Still and all, there are those that look down there noses at this style, hold themselves to be more authentic, whether they have learned a thing about survival on a frontier, or not.

We departed quickly from those prepared activities as soon as I realized the depth of resource we had available in Gerry, whose stories and tales of Cracker history added more to our lives and knowledge than a semester in college, and stretched back into the mists of time.

He explained to me many of the roots of things I had insisted upon for this trip out of sheer instinct--that no one was allowed to be helpless or useless in protraying the farming familes of the Cane River area--no parlour queens or drawing room men allowed here, but folks with skills able to care for themselves in rough land.

Four years ago now, Sister and I reset our reenacting ages, changed our wardrobes, and drew our baseline characters from folks recorded in Pickett's 1851 A History of Alabama. Those baseline characters serve us well, poor white in three time periods.

And, Gerry tells me that the 'family structure' concept I required for the event, that seemed so onerous to a number of applicants, is a given in some other time periods, required for the safety of the participants and the growth of skill and interaction of those reenacting the time period.

So, soon enough, once the clothes are shook out, breaths drawn, and pocketbooks replenished, Gerry tells me we'll be poor white in four time periods.

[Spinster]

I nodded as the men negotiated a young boy's apprenticeship and watched as the boy walked away behind the wheel ox, to a new life and the responsibilities of a man

I have not yet seen an image come rolling in of young Travis Simpson. He left us rather early in the game, so I hope one will. He is the image of a boy/man--standing on the brink of leaving childhood, too old for the other children, too young for the men, originally detailed to aid in taking care of a family group that would need aid with wood, water, and fire in a remote location--- but they never checked in.

So when Gerry asked if I had a boy about, quiet discussions took place behind hands, then a longer and very real one after dinner in the front room. Gerry negotiated with Mark Simpson the terms of the boy's apprenticeship as a wagoneer's lad, the duties required, and the opportunities available for a young man with such a trade. He also explained that while he himself had started at a younger age, the boy was still of a fine age to learn.

The boy bowed up a bit when he realized that all pay for such work went to his father, as it did by rights to aid the household, and then settled down. Papers signed, money changed hands, and the next day the boy went to work, hauling hay and water, learning commands and duties

As the day's shawdows lengthened, they departed, old man, oxen, boy and wagon, off to an unknown future.

When they returned to us in later days, Gerry said quietly "I'll take this fine boy anywhere, on any length of trek you will let him go"

I swear, Travis was a foot taller than when I'd seen him last.

[Spinster]

I have seen men who never stopped working to build a home in the wilderness for their families, and who prayed to Heaven the war would not come to their farms.

In choosing how we would shelter family units for this event, our plans went through a number of permutations.

Our original plans on original site called for houses built in place. When we moved to public land, we moved to the concept of prefab houseing.

Those prefab houses fell like grain before the scythe, to unemployment, life-threatening illness, court cases--with the last one falling out days before the event when its transport vehicle wrecked.

I've never been one to leave anyone behind over something so small as shelter, and thus we arrived with enough canvas to rig a clipper ship.

And even before we'd got even part of it set, men were down in the woods, dragging up deadfall, hewing notches, and shelters were rising, to be chinked with mud and topped with weathered painted canvas as we scattered out into the woods.

We had opted for a 'split camp' design---putting tentage in the Forest Service designated primitive camping area, allowing room for medical care, for heavy cooking needed to support certain interactive scenarios, and for large scale water supply in wood barrels. This area also enabled us to better establish fire breaks and care for large animals as they became unable to proceed with the wagons. This area was agreed upon as 'off limits' to military looting.

More remote locations provided an authentic and realistic atmosphere, were fair game for looting, and required a lot of work and travel to build and maintain.

Accomplishing this task were Roger Adams ( Echelberger?), Brandon "Happy" Carpenter, Mark Simpson, Danny Burns, and while Jim Bruce was not suppossed to be swinging an axe, I imagine he did.

The recent controlled burns in the area proved invaluable in clearing brush and freeing dead trees to build these structure. As with all National Forest Service Areas, the cutting of live trees was prohibited, and that rule was followed.

[Spinster]

I have seen a young widow with her baby strapped to her back and her husband's bloody shirt in her arms, dodge betweeen two armies into percieved safety and home, and find no hiding place there.

Amie Clark was my boots on the ground with the first site and date for this event--life changes left her unable to make the second date and site, and we did not expect her at all.

Lest any rumours run wild, Amie is not a young widow. James remain a fine example of an Irish Yank, fresh off the boat, profane and riled because someone has handed him a gun and made him fight off the cost of his passage over.

The story could have been much different though, and therein lies the tale of the bloody shirt in Amie's arms, the one that Gunny Hicks might have gotten himself stabbed over, if he had not let go.

I do not know all the circumstances of James' accident--but the sound that Aime heard over the telephone was of paramedics saying "We're going to give you some morphine now Mr. Clark", and James roaring "Don't cut it off, don't cut it off........Don't cut my shirt off, its handsewn!"

James' shirt was filleted in a perfect T--the better to remove it from him since the bones in his arms had stuck through it when they broke. Those long cuts are carefully sewn, but the jagged bloody holes are still there.

He was unable to work for months, only recently back to it, with long twisted scars on his arms. We did not expect to see them at all for the event, much to our loss.

But as we came through Vicksburg, little Ashland, just past two, surveyed all the trailers full of plunder, swapped slobber with the hound dog, and crawled up into the open door of my van. Seated, he looked at me expectantly and said "Want my Dress!"

Thus at the end of the week, Amie rose in the night, donned wrapper and bonnet, drove the width of Louisiana, and dodged in just in front of the Federal army, with a toddling boy strapped to her back, a bloody shirt in her arms, and a butcher knife slid beside her corset busk.

Gunny Hicks now knows how close he came...........

[Spinster]

I have heard the coyotes howl in the night, and seen the chickens huddle closer to the door.

The period breeds of chickens and turkeys for this event were raised to the purpose, in the yards of participants. About the time we were making arrangements for my wooden chicken cage to move from Alabama to Kentucky so that they could ride in style, Mrs. Simpson discovered recent changes in regulations would severely limit the legal movement of the barnyard stock. They had to have an expensive blood test before being moved across state lines, even though their fate was the dinner pot.

Since we had no refrigeration, and cared little to serve salt beef or pork in that many ways to children, we had to find another way to acquire a flock of chickens. Not just any chickens would do, as many modern chickens are raised in enclosures, never seeing the earth, or the bugs that crawl upon it. We needed real chickens that could fend for themselves with a small amount of protection and supervision.

And found them by searching for a rancher of 'free-range' chickens.

We picked up the flock near Nachitoches early in the week, and brought them to the site. Knowing that we had two dogs on the place, a gradual introduction was in order, and we simply let down the tailgate and placed the cage upon it, well out of reach. After a few hours with no incident, the cage was lowered to the ground. Diva the Bloodhound snuffled around, and wrapped her frame around the cage, taking up the guard of her chickens against all dangers, spending the night curled around them.

The next morning, each chicken was tied by the leg on a long string and allowed to run tethered to an overhead line. Diva stood guard, and the chickens whomped up on the little terrier Tad every time he ventured a nose in their direction. By days end, they had proved their ability to stay together and were released from their strings.

Like all the other livestock, the children had charge of feeding and watering the chickens, with corn and fresh spring water. The chickens did an excellent job of ridding the area of all sorts of small vermin, a triumphant cackle following each tasty morsel down the gullet. As a rule they were well mannered, though occassionally one had to be evicted from the house.

Some chickens were destined for our own meals, some had been contracted by the Lazy Jacks, and some were meant for the plundering army at large. Those in charge of dressing them took them some distance in order that no wild animals be attracted, and the older children learned to dress chickens if they requested to do so.

The girls sold some to various soldiers and were well pleased with their period money and trades. One man offered Cami $5 in modern money not to kill the chicken, but she turned him down, knowing that all were destined for one pot or another.

When the smoke settled and the armies passed, not all the chickens were gone. We had a surplus that could not be eaten in the time remaining. We could not leave them there to the mercy of coyotes, nor would we waste them, for they were good laying hens, as those who enjoyed a hard boiled egg can attest. We could not even give them away to various locals who came through.

So, Sunday morning, a few chickens got a goodly amount of corn, and final stretch of the legs, and were hustled in the the chicken crate, with water aplenty and even more corn, braced in the trailer with rolls of canvas for shade and windbreak, and started the long ride to Kentucky, regulations be danged. Likely they will make an appearance at Perryville on the Farm.

Some feller owes Cami $5 for saving those chickens. :D Each, I would think.

[Emily Burns]

Dearest Aunt Beth,

We thought we had found ourselves in a god-forsaken wilderness in our makeshift homes here in the Kisatchie. One glance at the brilliant stars in the night sky and we were assured of God’s omnipresent love and protection. We will need His strength and guidance. Word of General Banks activities has been spreading, homes and buildings in Mansfield are being burned to the ground. Good Christian people are left with nothing at all.

Before we had been here long, our quiet little community began to bustle with comings and goings. Preacher came often. We soon learned that we would value his conversation and his smiling countenance far more than the ginger snaps he brought to the children or the foodstuffs and monies he pressed on us for “hard times.” I have to admit, I mistrusted the clergyman when he first came upon our doorstep. In time, I have learned that he is truly a man of God. Sometimes he brings us packages or letters from home; sometimes he brings news of the armies. Thank you for the pencils and the candies for the children. They were so pleased that you thought of them.

I remember one night we had preacher, the wagon master and an English journalist stop in for supper. After the meal, we sat for hours in the front room, listening to readings and conversations. The journalist read a passage from one of Shakespeare’s martial plays that was truly befitting the times before us. Preacher quizzed us on the Bible. Thank goodness for Miz Lawson at her spinning wheel in the corner. She knew every answer. I remember Preacher then read the saddest letter. It had been written from a young wife to her soldier husband. Knowing that the young man had perished in battle, before he even had a chance to read his letter, brought tears to my eyes.
One afternoon, a group of our ladies in the settlement walked down a forest trail to the creek. My hair surely needed a good washing. As we left our dresses, petticoats and stockings hanging from some lower limbs we thought about the nearby armies. We wondered where they were and hoped earnestly that they were not headed in our direction. The thought sent a shiver through us all.

There was a small waterfall at the bottom of a sharp bank at the creek. It may have been a foolish act to climb down there in chemise and drawers, but the water was so cool and refreshing. When Uncle John finds out I slipped off with the others—well, old as I am, he’ll surely whip me. It was worth it to wash my hair.

Preacher visited later. He brought us a cabbage and a wounded, federal private. Poor fellow, suffering from exhaustion and probably malnourished, we took him in. Men are men and we hope that way up North some Christian woman is tending to our brothers and sons.

Young Travis leaves soon with the wagon master. The deal was made last night. Travis will work with the old man for a year to learn his trade. We’ve been bustling around getting the boy’s bed-roll ready. Packing a sack with some extra food: hard-boiled eggs, ginger snaps, dried apples, and whatever else we found laying loose that we could pack in.

More soldiers have come. Broken down, limping, shaking, used up men on our doorstep. One man isn’t well enough to take broth. Sarah has been sitting by his side most of the afternoon. We will endeavor to send him back to his family restored and well.

We hear both armies are closer. Preacher thinks they’ll meet not far from our camp. We’ve been hearing the distant thud of cannon for days, long before we heard reports of soldiers in the parish.

Sister’s calling. I’ve got to get some water on to heat. Supper is not long off and with all these extra mouths to feed. Well, I’ll write more when I can. Give my love to all. Don’t tell Uncle John what I’ve been up to.

Affectionately yours,
Emily

[Spinster]

One man isn’t well enough to take broth. Sarah has been sitting by his side most of the afternoon.

We had required the medical form on Elizabeth Clark's site of all the civilians. Requiring it of the men on an event of this length and intensity would have been a good thing as well.

The man above did not get better with proper treatment in the matter to be expected of one with heat exhaustion and dehydration--simply kept cycling in and out of it. It was some time before a mumbled word of a particular medication let our Nurse Practitioner know what was really happening, and the course of treatment could be changed.

On day two, I had to assure him nobody would be dosing him with the nasty stuff again--it didn't hurt him, and it helped him some, but not as much as if we'd known his true condition.

[Spinster]

I have seen children go off a fishin', with poles and bait and picnics and such--fishin' though that does not mean catchin'

Children and men and hound dogs and terriers and some of the women, all with carefully made tackle and poles, with fiddled up bait and a picnic lunch (with a bow to the higher authority as Louisiana does require a fishing license for a cane pole, unlike my native Alabama). A sight that still leaves dancing in my heart, as we watched them walk away, leaving a scant few to keep the home fires burning.

Fishing, though that does not mean catchin'---and after a long afternoon in the dappled sunlight of the bayou, only Cami caught one---and sent it back into the meandering waters.

[Spinster]

I have seen a man hungry enough for hot food, and bereft enough of something to take it in, to hold out his hat as a bowl for the food, and eat from it with his hands.

Jay Stephens wins my Gold Star Award for reading and following directions--by taking his dinner in his hat. Doug Cooper provided the Star.

With thanks to Vicki Betts, 'cause goodness knows I don't spend nearly as much time in libraries as she does.......

Poe, Clarence, comp.. True Tales of the South at War: How Soldiers
Fought and Families Lived, 1861-1865. Chapel Hill: University of North
Carolina Press, 1961, pp. 90-92.

More often than not, however, the scarcity of food was no laughing
matter as is illustrated in this portrait of weary soldiers returning
from battle. This reminiscence was handed down to Mr. Rance J. McLeroy
of Natchitoches, Louisiana, by his grandmother, Mrs. Mary Higgenbotham,
and he writes: "Sixty years after that memorable Saturday afternoon, I
have seen big hot tears come down Grandma's cheeks as she told of this
incident:"

'Twas now Saturday afternoon of April [1864] and we heard the
roar of cannon at Mansfield the afternoon before and received rumors
that a desperate battle had been fought. We knew not whether we'd see
the Yankee army or our army before the day was over. Then about 1:30 we
heard the low rumble of drums in the direction of Grove Hill and in a
few minutes the sound of marching feet. The children ran to the house
from the bend of the road excitedly telling us, "There they come-there
come the soldiers!" Just as they told us we saw a column of ragged,
weary, gray-clad men marching in columns of four, coming around the bend
of the road. Walker's Texas Infantry Brigade [Walker's Texas Division]
had fought at Moss' Lane and the Bridwell place the afternoon before.
They halted in front of our house, then stacked arms in the road and
were told to "fall out" for a fifteen minute rest.

Some had blood-stained bandages on their heads-some had an arm
suspended in a bloody bandage or wore bandages on their necks of
shoulders. Many of them fell prostrate on the ground, too exhausted to
move. Others staggered toward the house to beg for a bite to eat. The
yard and house were soon full of the tired and haggard men-some with the
most haunted look in their eyes I have ever seen. She (my mother) gave
them all the leftovers from dinner (in fact we had been too excited toe
at any dinner at all) but still they kept begging, "Mom, save some for
me. I haven't had a bite since Thursday evening. Please, just one
bite."

Next Ma went out to the backyard followed by dozens of ragged,
bearded men. Our big old washpot (probably a hundred years old) was
full of freshly cooked lye hominy, warm and ready to eat. So she began
issuing it out with a large wooden cooking spoonful to each man. Some
of them took it in the crown of their dirty hats, some in their bare,
dirty hands, some in cups or on pieces of boards they had picked up. All of
them ate it right there like a pack of hungry wolves.

When the hominy was gone she next went to the smokehouse, which
contained the family's meager supply of bacon for the coming months.
There she began cutting up sides of bacon into portions half as large as
your hand, handing a piece to each man as with tears in their eyes they
begged for it. An officer on horseback at the road sent his orderly to
the house to beg for a piece of bacon for him and the man begged Ma to
"please give him some bacon for his Captain." Before the man reached
the gate on his way back with the precious morsel the officer galloped
up to the fence and was leaning far over into the yard when the orderly
reached him. The look of hunger and despair in his face and eyes was
something that has haunted me ever since that day. Grabbing the piece
of meat he tore into it with his teeth at once.

Soon the smokehouse as well as the washpot was empty. But the
men seemed reluctant to leave, crowding around Ma to thank her again and
again and to invoke the blessings of Heaven upon her. Some handed her a
dollar bill, some two dollars or even five (Confederate money) and
others hugged her as they left the yard. They had marched all night
Thursday night, marched and fought all day Friday, then buried their
dead at Moss' Lane during that night-all with only a few hours sleep and
without a bite to eat since Thursday.

A blast of the bugle soon brought the men back to the road where
they secured their rifles and quickly lined up. Then the order rang out
sharp and clear, "Attention! F-o-h-r-w-a-r-d-M-a-h-r-c-h!" Then the
order, "Double quick!-M-a-h-r-c-h!" Soon they disappeared in a cloud of
dust in the direction of Pleasant Hill.



The hominey was obtained from Old School Mills, the long handled spoon acquired on my first site visit to the area, the long vintage cooking paddle a gift from Neil Rose, and the early 19th century Alabama cook pot, with ears intact (that's what the museum feller babbled when he saw it on my porch) one of those things acquired from a person who said 'you have use for this, and you're the only person I know who does'.

Miz Bertie and I started thehominey the morning the Army stepped off, for hominey takes a good while to cook properly. As the days lengthened and they did not arrive, every man, woman, child and fallen out soldier in the place had a hand in cooking that hominey and keeping it from spoiling or burning. Buckets of water and drug up deadfall, through 2 days and nights, before the army was upon us, hungry silent ghosts in the dappled trees.

[MO-Pard]

I have seen a man hungry enough for hot food, and bereft enough of something to take it in, to hold out his hat as a bowl for the food, and eat from it with his hands.

Jay Stephens wins my Gold Star Award for reading and following directions--by taking his dinner in his hat. Doug Cooper provided the Star.

With thanks to Vicki Betts, 'cause goodness knows I don't spend nearly as much time in libraries as she does.......

Poe, Clarence, comp.. True Tales of the South at War: How Soldiers
Fought and Families Lived, 1861-1865. Chapel Hill: University of North
Carolina Press, 1961, pp. 90-92.

More often than not, however, the scarcity of food was no laughing
matter as is illustrated in this portrait of weary soldiers returning
from battle. This reminiscence was handed down to Mr. Rance J. McLeroy
of Natchitoches, Louisiana, by his grandmother, Mrs. Mary Higgenbotham,
and he writes: "Sixty years after that memorable Saturday afternoon, I
have seen big hot tears come down Grandma's cheeks as she told of this
incident:"

'Twas now Saturday afternoon of April [1864] and we heard the
roar of cannon at Mansfield the afternoon before and received rumors
that a desperate battle had been fought. We knew not whether we'd see
the Yankee army or our army before the day was over. Then about 1:30 we
heard the low rumble of drums in the direction of Grove Hill and in a
few minutes the sound of marching feet. The children ran to the house
from the bend of the road excitedly telling us, "There they come-there
come the soldiers!" Just as they told us we saw a column of ragged,
weary, gray-clad men marching in columns of four, coming around the bend
of the road. Walker's Texas Infantry Brigade [Walker's Texas Division]
had fought at Moss' Lane and the Bridwell place the afternoon before.
They halted in front of our house, then stacked arms in the road and
were told to "fall out" for a fifteen minute rest.

Some had blood-stained bandages on their heads-some had an arm
suspended in a bloody bandage or wore bandages on their necks of
shoulders. Many of them fell prostrate on the ground, too exhausted to
move. Others staggered toward the house to beg for a bite to eat. The
yard and house were soon full of the tired and haggard men-some with the
most haunted look in their eyes I have ever seen. She (my mother) gave
them all the leftovers from dinner (in fact we had been too excited toe
at any dinner at all) but still they kept begging, "Mom, save some for
me. I haven't had a bite since Thursday evening. Please, just one
bite."

Next Ma went out to the backyard followed by dozens of ragged,
bearded men. Our big old washpot (probably a hundred years old) was
full of freshly cooked lye hominy, warm and ready to eat. So she began
issuing it out with a large wooden cooking spoonful to each man. Some
of them took it in the crown of their dirty hats, some in their bare,
dirty hands, some in cups or on pieces of boards they had picked up. All of
them ate it right there like a pack of hungry wolves.

When the hominy was gone she next went to the smokehouse, which
contained the family's meager supply of bacon for the coming months.
There she began cutting up sides of bacon into portions half as large as
your hand, handing a piece to each man as with tears in their eyes they
begged for it. An officer on horseback at the road sent his orderly to
the house to beg for a piece of bacon for him and the man begged Ma to
"please give him some bacon for his Captain." Before the man reached
the gate on his way back with the precious morsel the officer galloped
up to the fence and was leaning far over into the yard when the orderly
reached him. The look of hunger and despair in his face and eyes was
something that has haunted me ever since that day. Grabbing the piece
of meat he tore into it with his teeth at once.

Soon the smokehouse as well as the washpot was empty. But the
men seemed reluctant to leave, crowding around Ma to thank her again and
again and to invoke the blessings of Heaven upon her. Some handed her a
dollar bill, some two dollars or even five (Confederate money) and
others hugged her as they left the yard. They had marched all night
Thursday night, marched and fought all day Friday, then buried their
dead at Moss' Lane during that night-all with only a few hours sleep and
without a bite to eat since Thursday.

A blast of the bugle soon brought the men back to the road where
they secured their rifles and quickly lined up. Then the order rang out
sharp and clear, "Attention! F-o-h-r-w-a-r-d-M-a-h-r-c-h!" Then the
order, "Double quick!-M-a-h-r-c-h!" Soon they disappeared in a cloud of
dust in the direction of Pleasant Hill.



The hominey was obtained from Old School Mills, the long handled spoon acquired on my first site visit to the area, the long vintage cooking paddle a gift from Neil Rose, and the early 19th century Alabama cook pot, with ears intact (that's what the museum feller babbled when he saw it on my porch) one of those things acquired from a person who said 'you have use for this, and you're the only person I know who does'.

Miz Bertie and I started thehominey the morning the Army stepped off, for hominey takes a good while to cook properly. As the days lengthened and they did not arrive, every man, woman, child and fallen out soldier in the place had a hand in cooking that hominey and keeping it from spoiling or burning. Buckets of water and drug up deadfall, through 2 days and nights, before the army was upon us, hungry silent ghosts in the dappled trees.

Terre-
Thank you for posting this great account, and for the generosity of the civilians. (I'll go into more detail on this in my forth coming AAR, but we can top the trees here a spell.)

After eating slab bacon, cornmeal and rice for several days we yearned for something different to eat. Also, I think we very accurately portrayed the men in that account as I know most were feeling beaten down and tired by that day. Feeling and looking ragged. It was also what felt like the hottest day and hydration became an issue for many who were not drinking before they felt thirsty.

The food in the hat never tasted so good and made it easy to eat on the march. Most of it actually made it into my mouth with only a small portion as 'collateral damage' in the beard. The food was hot, and tasty beyond what we could have imagined or made in the field..........the crown of that hat was licked clean I assure you. It was definitely a treat and is probably what gave me that second wind to keep me going until sunset that day. Emotionally, the support we received from the civilians in tangilble and "good Christian gestures" hit the period nail on the head. We had tired of hill after hill, and began to wade in our monotony and fatigue. You fine folks reassured us of our purpose; reinstilled us with a sense of pride.

We marched in feeling like paupers; we marched out feeling like kings.

Wonderful.

And Doug, thank you for the 'star'. Looks to be the final piece to my Texas impression.


Best Regards

[Spinster]

Jay,

That is back to one of our purposes here---to accurately replicate civilian interaction with the army.

Sometimes feeding the army is not an accurate civilian impression. Here, in this place, feeding the army was documented, correct and not unusual. This was the case in various Deep South hinterlands that the war touched for only a few weeks at a time, otherwise leaving hardworking farmers to their business, constrained by the War, but still producing and feeding their families.

Unsung and sadly, unphotographed in all this, was the well stocked larder of the Burns/Simpson families, which was nearly empty by the time you marched through with your hat out. Sack upon sack of dried goods, prepared last summer and into the fall, some grown with Rick Musselman's heirloom seed. Row upon row of canned goods, each can carefully painted black and labeled appropriately, except in the very rare case where we could document the food, but find no label.

The Federal army had recently gotten a boost of sweet preserves and such when they came through, but not a hot meal---- whispered words with their commander requested that a meal appear later in the evening when the army came to rest.

So, the same women who had cooked steadily, along with the laundresses (our nurses being on yet another medical evacuation) hiked that a broken trail out to the Federal Army, carrying heavy kettles full, and left as quickly as they could.

Because there is an underlying purpose here---men in the company of men, with a bonded purpose, make better men. Best we get out of the path and give you what you need to achieve that purpose, and get back to the daily lives we had set for our selves.

Building, sweeping, caring for the animals, sewing, fishing, schooling children, mending, singing, cooking, chopping, doing all the chores of daily life. Everyday. Common.

And almost every night, when we gathered for story or song, my spinning wheel called me, and I was able to answer it, sitting in the corner of the room, feeding the wool that will be next year's winter clothes.

[Emily Burns]

There's another story here. Of one, who tended to the weary. Saturday evening, after we had made the trek with food to the Federal army. We settled into our chairs to eat a light supper. Huddled together, we had decided to eat what had been cooked or had no need to be cooked. We had a good cold supper.

I don't know who first noticed Dusty back in camp. Suddenly, he was just in the kitchen, foraging for a plate. His deed is unforgettable. Terre has described our day on Sunday. We kept multiple fires going all day, heated water, brewed coffee, kept enough to keep tables full of food all day long, and so much more.

By the time, we got back from our trek into the wilderness military camp, we were all pretty well exhausted. And, then, Dusty made an announcement concerning dessert that caused the ladies to jump from their chairs, and run wildly into the tent. I'll tell you, I think there were chairs flying everywhere. I can't promise, mind you, I was in the flurry of females rushing into the kitchen. Just as we got to the table, Sarah popped out from the side tent, grabbed the sack, and the race was on. You have never heard the like of squeals, giggles, yells, and laughter that ensued.

Dusty, I don't know how you knew what we needed, but it is one of my favorite moments of the week. Thank you.

[BorderRuffian]

Emily,
Enjoyed the interaction we had as we filled canteens at the water barrel Saturday afternoon.You had stated something about "getting ran out of Texas" as your husband tried to charge us for the water.I put him off by telling him to take it up with our Colonel ;).Thanks so much for the dessert,it was delicious,and thanks for the matches as well,they were a rare commodity.

Forrest

[vbetts]

Kay Wetteman of the Texas Rifles pointed out that account to me many moons ago, to use at a presentation we did at one of the usual Pleasant Hill reenactments. I, in turn, pointed it out to Dr. Richard Lowe to use in his book on Walker's Texas Division. I've used it in my article in the journal Military History of the West on the impact of the Red River campaign on the civilians of the area. It still brings tears to my eyes every single time I read it. I tried to have hominy ready for when the troops came through on RR2, but the timing and some other circumstances just didn't work out for me. I'm really glad you incorporated it so well.

Vicki Betts

[Spinster]

I have seen women cook enough to feed an army in an handfull of pots over broken deadfall, and haul it a half mile over broken terrain at dusky dark to feed that army.

One of the things we had only partially anticipated was the effect of continuous physical exertion coupled with a diet of hard tack and saltpork on even well trained men.

The great majority of men had prepared well for the marching required. Only a few knew the extra toll the odd terrain , with its combination of sand, red dirt, and hills, would extract from the participants.

What men had not trained for was the vast difference a change in diet would make in energy levels and physical performance.

And Terry Sorchy, realizing that his troops were only a short time ahead of the Confederates, asked if there was any way we could get hot food of some substance to them at days end.

By then, we had collected a small number of 'invalids'--a few men with injured knees or ankles, as well as some heat exhaustion, and, as they were able, they had busied themselves with hauling up deadfall,and splitting it. We burned up an awful lot of pine, and glad to have it.

Folks cleaned out the various larders, making a pickup supper of all sorts, and as the day ended, headed down one of the many dirt roads in the forest, and finally down a path until a pickett was spotted.

Lifting the lid on the pot, he called out "Sir, I believe these folks are friendly!"

Kettles went in and out almost as expeditiously as the Confederate army had been fed on hard pursuit a little earlier.

The dicotomy of providing a certain amount of event support, especially in the form of medical aid, while still maintaining the sort of separation from the army that the majority of the civilian population would have hoped for made for some odd decision making during the course of the event. I don't rightly hold with women going parading into a military camp---it was not considered appropriate during the period.

Could it have been done better? Well of course. Could it have been done better on the fly, given our event parameters , staffing limitations, communications challenges?mmmmmmm--likely not. Are there things we will change next time? You bet.

But in this case, in the very best biblical sense, the ox was in the ditch. And that supper was necessary. We got right down into and through the 'fall back emergency foodstuffs' with that one too.

The only thing left in the place Sunday morning was cold hominey, ersatz coffee, and some french fries I'd left on the dashboard the previous Sunday........

That, and those four happy chickens that rode back to Kentucky.

[Spinster]

I have heard voices, strong high, and sweet, singing over the washpots as they did the laundry for 19 people, with scrub boards and washpots, with water hauled with buckets and yoke, over fires they built themselves.

Roger and Happy left out each day, building cabins in the woods, and providing wood. This left Raquelle and Sarah to their main task in the community, that of laundry.

Period laundry done in period style, with washpots, shaved soap, boiling water, scrub boards, rinse tubs, battleing sticks, and lines and lines of fresh clean laundry. Water had to be hauled from our barrels (which were being refilled from a source about 8 miles away).

To send out laundry, one had to have marked the item as it was done in the period, and various trades and payments were arranged.

Sounds like a lot of work? I'm sure it was. But they didn't make it sound like hard work. I lived some distance from their home, and would occassionally hear their voices, singing in a lovely clear harmony, carrying through the trees.

And somewhere in all this work, Sarah found time to do her other task, that of baker for the community, turning out great loaves of bread in a steam oven, while Raquelle did the family cooking.

Sunday to Sunday in period clothes--and I came home with one set of underpinnings that needed washing. All else was clean, and ready to go again. Its hard for us to imagine such being possible.

But it was then--and is now. Quite a remarkable thing.