It all started when my Fourth Grade classroom was visited by a reenactor portraying a Continental surgeon. During his presentation, he demonstrated his tools and talked about everyday life, hardships, the war, and more. He allowed us to experience the past through all our senses. After I got home from school, I begged my parents to take me to the upcoming reenactment to be held nearby.
Even then, the idea of assembling for myself an accurate outfit was a top priority. Also like the present, nine year old me was short on cash, so I manufactured myself a pair of long stockings by cutting the feet off old socks to make tubes then basically stacked them, turned in the legs of some khaki pants until they reached the knee, and scraped the Jolly Roger off a pirate hat. I was ready to go.
Upon arriving, the smells of black powder, woodsmoke, pine tar, and wet canvas hit me full force, and to this day these smells represent "history" for me. I explored the soldiers' campsites, tasted hardtack, felt the coarse wool of their uniforms, heard the crack of musket fire... I was hooked for life.
The battle took place on a small island that was separated from the park by a narrow creek. I helped out the Colonial cause by brandishing my plastic Captain Hook pistol, carefully selected from the toy store as it had a flintlock...albeit neon orange. After the battle, I approached an English soldier and asked why none of the "dead" had fallen into the water as they might in real life. The reenactor discussed the expense of uniforms and how the battle had simply been a demonstration (First vs. Third person interpretation will be covered in a later post), while I brashly questioned, in a way that only snotty kids can, why they didn't just make their kits out of the same material as SCUBA suits. I believe he politely explained to me that it simply wasn't what the real people did, and how it wouldn't represent the truth or be a good teaching tool for visitors. A lesson that I have always remembered.
The only other part of the day I remember clearly was when a group of stereotypically burly Scottish infantrymen threatened to eat me. I'm not sure if they wanted to jovially intimidate the little wanna-be rebel punk or simply have some fun. After my brush with their cookpot, they were very kind and explained all sorts of interesting elements of Scottish life.
If it hadn't been for the visit by the surgeon and my day at the Reenactment, I really can't guess what sort of things I'd be doing with my life. There's probably a good chance I'd be another sheep wasting their life with video games. I am deeply grateful to those men and women I met that day for introducing me to something I am so passionate about. I have not yet put together an 18th century kit, but it is something, with time and money, that I would love to do someday.
I happened to run into the surgeon for the first time since the fourth grade at the Trail of History Rendezvouz in McHenry County, IL this past fall. I introduced myself and thanked him for taking the time to come in and talk to children. He really made a difference in my life.
Here's a picture of him showing off the tools of his trade.
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