I’m going to rock you like a gravel road: A weekend at Monocacy!

I have a confession.  I don’t wear underwear when I do Civil War living history.

No, instead of underwear, I wear period correct split leg drawers that come down to my knees.  There was this deliciously bizarre moment this weekend when the guys were pulling up their trousers comparing socks and drawers and I was showing off the blue ribbon at the bottom of my drawers, which led to me asking, “Can I touch your sock?”

Yes.

This weekend, the sesquicentennial rolled into Monocacy National Battlefield for their 150th Anniversary event.  The decision had previously been made that we would “rough” it this weekend, meaning, instead of getting a hotel room, we were going to sleep on the battlefield.  My initial response to this was “ehhhhhhh” followed by uncomfortable laughter.  But, whatever, I’ll be a good sport and try it.  Frederick, Maryland is practically within spitting distance, so in the event of frog sized spiders, rain, plagues, whatever, there’s always the means for escape.

Just like the Gettysburg sesquicentennial event.

But, unlike the Gettysburg event, we didn’t have rain, park rangers showing up at midnight shining flashlights into car windows looking for medical emergencies, or heat/humidity to the point of sleeping in underwear and/or passing out in the middle of the demo.  So, you can call that a success.  No hotel rooms needed.

Upon arriving, once we were checked in with the park rangers and all official like, we were given gold medals.  Which, frankly, is a great way to start any event.  Welcome to Monocacy: here’s your medal.  Sure, they were just our volunteer identification medals and mine spent the weekend jammed in between my boobs in my corset, but it’s awesome.  I want to wear mine to work tomorrow.

The Hubs, a member of our group Kevin, and I promptly traversed what appeared to be a soybean field and checked out the position of the artillery pieces for the event.  That’s what you do.  We were delighted to see we had an entire battery–four guns–for the weekend.  Yes!  Section fire!  Battery fire!  Boys, black powder, and a sassy little Napoleon light gun howitzer.  My three favorite things.

As much as I love watching artillery demos and swooning over the boys who fire said artillery pieces, I am also an incredibly huge fan of just hanging out in camp, laughing and talking.  This weekend we compiled a list of our top pickup lines.  Of note:

• I’m going to rock you like a gravel road
• Step into the stairwell and I’ll show you where your kidneys are
• Can I palpate your liver?
• Well, if you need an ambulance one can be here in three minutes.

Three of these have happened to me (the last one happened this weekend and was not, I felt, an effective means of flirting).  The top one is my favorite and one I kind of want to have made into a t-shirt.  That’s not just a pickup line.  That’s a life motto.

Interestingly enough, my forthcoming novel takes place in Frederick, Maryland and, up until this weekend, I’ve never actually been to Frederick, Maryland.  I relied extensively on Google when writing my book.  Anyway, so, after Saturday’s events I was kidnapped by three Confederates and one Union artillerymen and whisked away to Landon House.  Landon House (which is currently under extensive renovation) features in possibly the longest chapter in my book and was site of the 1862 Jeb Stuart extravaganza, The Roses and Sabers Ball.  Union artilleryman Jeff said, “You’re going to be disappointed because it’s being renovated.  Just remember that.  It’s under construction.”

Maybe from the road looking down the lane and thinking, “I’d imagined it further away from the road” was me being disappointed, but up close the history nerd broke loose like some kind of scholarly Hulk-esq transformation and I squealed.  Took a selfie.  And I think I jumped up and down several times.

Rumor has it I also said things like, “Jeb Stuart was HERE!  Omg.”

Weird doesn’t even begin to describe me, I know.

Also weird was our discovery of Babar murals and an extremely sad koi fish/overly happy frog murals in the exposed basement of Landon House.  I’m not…I’m just not really sure why someone would paint a sad koi fish on the wall of anything.  “The koi fish is sad because you don’t put away your toys.”  Bizarre.  And why is the koi fish so sad but the frogs are happy?  If we’re consumed by Landon House, do the frogs disappear and the koi fish is suddenly happy?  It’s another novel entirely, I suppose, but somehow we eventually segued from my Confederates trying to scandalize me with salacious talk, Union Jeff apologizing profusely, me able to hang on par with salacious talk, and then being accepted as one of their own.  There was talk of camisoles, one-handed soldiers, roosters named Meatball.  And then someone said, “We probably aren’t supposed to be up here.”

“We’ll just drive away really fast.”

“Yeah, because no one would ever be able to pick us out of a lineup.  What were they wearing?  Three Confederates, a Yankee, and a chick in a hoop skirt.”

“Oh.  Well.  They’ll just think we belong up here then.  I’m sure it’s fine.”

I’ll tell you what, it was an insanely fun time.  It reminded me a lot of Gettysburg last year, with the laughter and eating dinner with my guys at the Trostle Farm.  Doing living history for the frank love of history is awesome, but hanging out with friends like these are the best.  We share a mutual love of history, shenanigans, and inappropriateness.  We make obscure references and get really, overly excited about standing in historical places.  We know more than you want to know about how artillery pieces are made and tactics and the historical applications of mercury and how prostatitis may or may not have affected AP Hill at Gettysburg.  As my friend Luke said, “We’re all cut from the same cloth.”  Not everyone wants to run around in the heat, humidity, ticks, and spiders the size of sparrows but we do.  These are some of the coolest people I know.

I’m completely bummed out that our living history schedule of events is blank until October.  We’ll possibly be at Cedar Creek, but definitely at Harpers Ferry.  Halloween at the Heights!  More on that to come.

So, Monocacy was awesome.  The battery fire was awesome.  Running around with The Hubs and my artillery guys was awesome.  My strangely shaped sunburn is not awesome and looks ridiculous with a tank top.  My lips are chapped.  But it was completely worth it.

As confessions go, I don’t wear underwear when I reenact.  I run around with artillerymen and Yankees and laugh at dirty jokes and have the mouth of a well-educated sailor.  I may have been in a closed area this weekend looking at weird murals.

I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

(Special shout out to my guys: She just had really good muscle control and he had a wrist.  You know,  because of the war)

Of book releases and girls in corsets

Well, it’s official: my novel, Anything You Ask of Me, will be released on August 4, 2015!  Yes.  So, mark you calendars and get your wine in the fridge because it’s going to be epic.  I have no idea what I’m doing for a release party but look: with thirteen months of planning, it’ll be awesome.  Or it’ll be in my backyard with dip recipes I found on Pinterest.  Whatev.  More to come on that.

Meanwhile, this week marks the 151st anniversary of the Battle of Gettysburg and one year since I was running amok with The Hubs and The Baltimore Light Artillery in Gettysburg.  Which was awesome.  This week, though, we’ll be in Monocacy for their 150th Anniversary and, pending passing out from the heat and lack of shade, will also be awesome.  So, if you’re around Monocacy National Battlefield July 5 and 6, come on out and see us.  I’ll be the one with purple hair.  You know, trying to hide it under a hat or fake hair or something.

Anyway, I’ve been under the weather this week (read: stressed out to new levels of stress I’ve not experienced in all my well advanced years of living) and frantically working on my latest novel (read: the historical is winning out over the contemporary), but in honor of Anything You Ask of Me officially having an official release date, I bring to you This Republic of  Suffering: my ode to my blatant adoration of the Civil War and historical fiction.  One year to go, guys!  Then you’ll really be faced with my unhealthy obsession with Jeb Stuart.  Be warned, kids.  Be warned.

 

I’m a history girl with a writing problem.  Or, maybe a writing girl with a history problem; regardless, I have an out of control passion for the American Civil War.  I am a Civil War reenactor.  I like Civil War trivia.  I like running around Civil War battlefields.  My blog, The Rambling Jour, is actually named after an obscure firsthand account of the clerk of the provost marshal’s office in Harpers Ferry during the war.

And I like writing about the Civil War.

Don’t get me wrong, there are things about the Civil War I don’t like.  I’ve never read Gone with the Wind.  Tactics and strategies put me to sleep.  I thrive in the effect the war had on civilians and medical procedures.  I’d rather read about the role of women and how that role changed as the war changed.

My recently completed novel, Anything You Ask of Me, is about all three of those key elements.  In 1862, a society girl turned spy must decide which is more important: the married general who asks her to risk everything for him, or the man tasked to stop her at any cost.

There is a monument in Gettysburg, near the copse of trees on the third day’s portion of the battlefield, inscribed with a few simple words: Double canister at twenty yards.

Canister shot.  Canister shot is basically a tin can full of golf ball sized steel balls; it turns an artillery piece into a giant shot-gun.  Double canister is two rounds of canister shot jammed into the barrel of the piece.

The effect of the human body is devastating.  These are the men listed in the ominous “missing” column in the ranks of casualties.  These are the men who simply disappear in a pink mist.

We have a nasty habit of referring to the Civil War as “the last gentleman’s war” or the last war before the initiation of modern warfare.  But this is so far from the truth.  Soft lead bullets, like the Minié ball, enter the body the size of a quarter but come out the size of a pancake.  If a soldier survives his wound, it is more than likely he will die of infection.  In the 1860s, we could see bacteria under microscopes—we knew it was there—but we didn’t understand how it impacted the human body.  This was the cusp of medical breakthroughs.  The war forced us to understand.

This is why I write historical fiction.

I’m a twenty-first century girl.  I drive an SUV to work.  I sit in front of a computer all day long.  I listen to Swedish Death Metal (I know, this actually surprised me too) on my iPhone while I edit my novel on my laptop.  I talk on a cell phone and wear jeans and eyeliner and take for granted all of our modern conveniences.

But I’ve also been cinched into a corset.  I’ve ridden in the back of a temperance wagon and marched in a temperance parade.  I’ve sat in a dry goods store and hand sewn a quilt by kerosene lamp and sewn on a period treadle sewing machine.  I’ve felt the rumble in my chest when a 12 pound light gun howitzer artillery piece was fired near me.  I’ve done archaeology of an antebellum house and held shattered pottery in my hand, textiles not handled by a human since, in one moment one hundred and fifty years ago, it broke and was discarded.  I’ve been touched by the past and it haunts me.  I refuse to forget the sacrifices of those who came before us and stared death in the face—and chose to march forward anyway.

This is why I write historical fiction.  Because those who are remembered, never die.

The Vacant Chair: Thoughts on Veteran’s Day

Mine was one who came home.

Veteran’s Day is upon us again and, the more I think about it, the more I think it’s one of our more bittersweet holidays.  We honor those who came home.  We serve them free lunch at restaurants, we offer them discounts at chain hotels.  And, we remember those who didn’t come home.

In early 2003, not terribly long before the war in Iraq began, The Hubs was deployed to Kosovo.  Kosovo, at that time, was the third most dangerous theater of operations for US Troops (Afghanistan was number one, Korea number two.  When the Iraq war started, Kosovo was bumped down to fourth).  The Hubs was part of an engineer unit: he drove up-armor HMMVs.  He learned to drive an M1 Abrams tank, to help him learn how to canvas for landmines.

About three months ago, I finally asked him if he had been afraid.  He told me he was most scared when he first got into the country; when they were learning their jobs, when they were getting used to always carrying M16s and always wearing their Kevlar anytime they were outside.  He told me how he always sat on a Kevlar jacket when he was out on patrol: in the event they hit a mine, the Kevlar would help protect them.  Blackhawks and Apaches, tanks, up-armors until they were taken away and sent to Iraq, translators, Serbians, Albanians, mines; he came home two weeks short of one year after he left.

It took us ten years to have that conversation.

My generation’s war is different from my parent’s generation.  My dad’s number was never called for the draft to Vietnam–he chose to enlist when he was in his late twenties.  The Hubs enlisted when he was seventeen.  Just as wars have changed, our compassion to our veterans have changed: long past the dark days of post-Vietnam “baby killers,” we now view our returning soldiers as we always should have: heroes.

In J. Jacob Oswandel Notes of the Mexican War, 1848-47-48, the author describes a unit of soldiers who had come to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and spent time on the streets of town, ending up carousing with some factory girls.  The girls, being girls, reportedly fell in love with the soldiers.  One soldier quipped:

I thought it was a bad time to fall in love with the soldiers now, for remember Johnny is enlisted for the war with Mexico, and God knows whether he will live to return to his love.

On Veteran’s Day, there are those who came home.  There are those who didn’t; those who left behind Gold Star Mothers, the widows, the orphans.  There are those who survived the horrors of battle, but “drowned in the aftermath”–soldiers who struggle with PTSD and continue to fight their battles long after the guns fall silent.  There are those who fought but whose names we’ll never know, such as those buried in unmarked graves in Gettysburg’s National Cemetery.  I’ll be holding my veteran a little tighter and thanking him for his service, just as I’ll be thinking of those who have also served: my dad, both my grandpas, my father-in-law and brother-in-law and countless cousins and friends.  We shouldn’t just be thanking our veterans one day a year–we should honor their service every day.  Every year.

One hundred and fifty years ago this month, Abraham Lincoln gave “a few appropriate remarks” to dedicate the National Cemetery in Gettysburg.  From Gettysburg, to Flanders Fields, to Omaha Beach, to Hamburger Hill, to Pusan and Inchon, to Kosovo and Iraq and Afghanistan: all gave some.  Some gave all.  And we remember them.

The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have  consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will  little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what  they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the  unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It  is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us —  that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for  which they gave the last full measure of devotion — that we here highly resolve  that these dead shall not have died in vain — that this nation, under God, shall  have a new birth of freedom — and that government of the people, by the people,  for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

Halloween at the Heights: Artillery in Harpers Ferry

Firmly on the other side of the government shut down (ahem, for now) and before the government sequester sets in (sorry Sesquicentennial 2014), this past weekend was our annual jaunt to Harpers Ferry, West Virginia for Artillery Weekend.

Let me rephrase.  Artillery Weekend!

Taking a step backwards, this weekend I learned that the rumored government sequester (or as so many of my Virginia friends are calling it, the Seeeee-questor) is rapidly approaching.  Here’s how a park ranger described the sequester this weekend: “The government cuts funding from the National Parks and eliminates public events like this.”  We saw the sequester rear its ugly head at Gettysburg, when Antietam wasn’t able to send an artillery piece to the event and we only had three guns instead of four.  Rumor has it that a lot of park events are in jeopardy for next year because there’s no guarantee there will be any money to fund them.  It sucks.  It just really, really sucks.

But, we had Artillery Weekend!

Harpers Ferry.  Ahh, a vile little town with a sordid history full of murder, siege, battles, explosions, floods, and fires.  The town changed hands, like, six times during the war.  John Brown raided the town in 1859 and tried to take over the US Armory and Arsenal to arm the slaves and incite a slave revolt.  The townspeople blew up the Arsenals.  The Confederate Army stole the Armory machinery.  Half the town was burned to wipe out supposed sharpshooter nests.  The railroad bridge was blown up.  The town was shelled.  The “Harpers Ferry Cowards” was the largest number of US soldiers taken prisoner until WWII; the surrender ceremony took place on what is now Bolivar Heights Battlefield.

The Baltimore Light Artillery was present for the actual Siege of Harpers Ferry.

This weekend we only had one gun, also known as my least favorite artillery piece on the planet, a 3 inch ordinance rifle.  I know.  Beggars can’t be choosers.  But give me a Napoleon or a Parrot any day.

Prior to going to the Ferry, I’d gotten an email reminding me to dress warm.  Which is fine, because let’s face it, I always dress warm.  When I get to Day job in the morning, I’m trudging into work wearing two sweaters and a jacket, whereas most of the females I pass are wearing capris and sandals.  Still.  No, I’m sorry, I wear a sweater in the winter time.  I’m fairly sure my thyroid is, at this point, just taking up space in my neck.

When I think cold, usually I think Cedar Creek, a battle which took place in October 1864.  The last time we went to a reenactment there was 2006, but I distinctly remember sweating profusely during the day and freezing my tail off at night.  You have to have a little crazy in you to agree to wander about a battlefield in 30 degree weather.

So, there we are.  Crazy and Mrs. Crazy.  I brought my heavy wool cloak and, though my girth is blocking it, we were standing near the fire.  I say “near the fire” because I’ve never been so terrified as when I was, literally one week into reenacting, when my mentor told me her contact lenses melted to her eyeballs because she was by the fire for too long.  That sound you hear is me walking to the car and sitting inside, rather than sitting by the fire.

You may notice that little pile of blankets.  You see, some of the other guys in the Baltimore Light Artillery were sleeping outside that night.  That little pile of blankets was someone’s bed.

As we notoriously established during this year’s Gettysburg event, I’m old.  And weak.  And I sleep in a hotel room.  Actually, this time we had no choice, because we brought The Rowdy Boys with us–which is a whole separate blog post entirely.  Imagine that silhouette chasing two small children down a hill, while the short blond one says, “Beat you!”  Yikes.

I’ll admit, I had a minor meltdown when I realized The Hubs had forgotten to pack my dress.  The dress I wanted–and thought was in the bin–was the Gettysburg dress.  Striped.  The dress I’m wearing is too big and, regrettably, unhooks if I move the wrong way.  Not striped.

The Hubs said, “It’s the same dress.”

My brain, at this point, exploded.  “No, it’s not the same dress.  There’s a picture of us in the living room of me wearing the striped dress.  This is not a striped dress.”

The Hubs: “No.  But it’s the dress you wore.”

In 2006, Hubs.  I last wore this dress in 2006.  I wanted to lash out irrationally at him or call him names that would make his mother blush.  Instead I said, “I’m not going.  I’m going to stay in the room and write.”

Obviously that didn’t fly.  Because the threat “I’m just going to stay here and write” never seems to work on people.  “I’ll eat that entire pie” is believable.  “I’ll throw out all your underwear before I’ll wash it again” slows him down.  It’s like when I was a kid.  Please.  Please just send me to my room because, really, that’s where I wanted to be in the first place.

I went to the event anyway.  I refused to wear my hat, as demonstrated above, but I was there.  I was charming.  My children were reasonably well-behaved.  It was standard as events go, no out of control shenanigans like at Gettysburg.  Harpers Ferry is always a high point in the year, since the BLA has done the event since 1986 (obviously, I wasn’t there in 1986 because I was four) and because The Hubs and I lived in the Ferry for eight months after college.  Sure, we had no money and ate Long John Silvers and pizza rolls.  But it was fantastic!  It was the kind of fantastic you can only do when you’re twenty-two because you’re carefree and rebellious.

Yes.  I just admitted that the extent of my rebellion has been living at a National Park and volunteering with their living history department.  My parents were bored during my teenage years.  I was sitting in my room writing the entire time.

Speaking of writing, that didn’t happen for me this weekend.  Well, I wrote a paragraph in the car on the way to the Ferry.  Other than that, I just carried my notebooks around with me and made idle threats of writing, then instead fell asleep with my eyeliner on.  Will this affect my prior, anti-NaNo stance?  We’re in the home stretch before NaNo starts…and I’m still on the fence.  As usual.  Every single year, last-minute decisions and lots of hemming and hawing before just going it.  We’ll see what happens on Friday.

If you didn’t make it out to the event this weekend (and I know you didn’t, because you didn’t say hello to me), if the sequester doesn’t leave us all in a standstill, rumor has it that you might catch us at Antietam, Spotsylvania, and/or Monocacy in 2014.  Maybe Gettysburg, maybe not.  There’s a ton of 150th events to be had!  Time to start saving up my diem to carpe in style.

Storming the fort: And thus, I stood outside Fort Roberdeau.

I stood outside Fort Roberdeau, because I didn’t have enough money to get in.

Soooo, this weekend The Hubs, The Rowdy Boys, and I journeyed to glamorous central Pennsylvania, home of Penn State University and a surprising amount of cows.  This conversation happened:

The Hubs to The Preschooler: What comes from cows?

The Preschooler: Poop.

I also saw the movie Lincoln this weekend.  I’m probably the last CIvil War fanatic on the planet to see Lincoln.  The Hubs and I, in a stellar display of laziness, just never got around to watching it.  And, can I just say, it was phenomenal.  I’m sure you know that, because I’m sure you saw it last year with everyone else.  But guys, Tommy Lee Jones?  National treasure!  James Spader?  Scoundrel!  Joseph Gordon Levitt?  Not on-screen nearly enough!  Hal Holbrook?  Hal Holbrook!

Daniel Day-Lewis? No words.  My brain will  never be able to picture Lincoln in any other way, shape, or form.  And Sally Field was everything I wanted Mary Todd Lincoln to be: crazy.  Sassy.  Fabulous.

With History Mode engaged and in the fully locked position, we decided to leave The Rowdy Boys with my in-laws and take a little jaunt to Fort Roberdeau.  Fort Roberdeau has nothing to do with the Civil War.  This is Blair County, Pennsylvania.  If you want Civil War you have to get in your car and drive to Gettysburg.

Fort Roberdeau was built in 1778 to protect the lead mine operations in the so-called “Sinking Valley” in Blair County.  It was never attacked, but did offer safety for militia, miners, and townspeople.  Most frontier forts of the period are built with vertical logs, meaning, a trench is built and the logs basically planted in the soil.  The soil in this part of Pennsylvania is rocky and scant.  It’s nearly impossible to build an adequate trench, so the fort was built with horizontal log placement.

Here you see me standing at the entrance to Fort Roberdeau.  This is as far as we got.  Actually, we got all the way up to the gift shop before we saw the itty bitty, teeny tiny little sign: cash or check only.

Um.

I had two dollars on me and assorted amount of change.  The Hubs had a Sheetz coffee Punch Card.

“Well,” The Costumed interpreter said.  “You can tour the grounds for free.  And come back next weekend because we’re having a market fair with reenactors and firing demonstrations and goods to purchase!  Authentic stuff to purchase, not the crap you find at so-called fairs and shows.”

The “grounds” consisted of the strip of grass we’d crossed to get from the car to the bank barn that housed the gift shop.  But we politely smiled and thanked her and took a brochure.  The Hubs and I get inexplicably jumpy when people reenacting outside our time period (I’m quantifying the 1860s as our time period) start talking about authenticity.  I’m a little bit rusty on my 18th century…well, anything 18th century, but I can spot modern jewelry at 10 paces.  And a dog tag chain around her neck was decidedly non-18th century.  Unless it was a medic alert necklace.  Hmm.  My dad wore a medic alert necklace for almost his entire life due to a reported penicillin allergy.  I say reported, because when he first became ill and my grandparents flew up to Florida when he was in the hospital, he made a comment about his penicillin allergy.  My grandma looked at him and said, “You’re not allergic to penicillin.”  So, we don’t actually know if he was allergic.

And that has nothing to do with anything.

Anyway, so I got to look at the fort from the parking lot.  And if I hadn’t been so thirsty and demanding The Hubs drive to something resembling a metropolitan area to buy me a beverage (who knew Altoona was that big?  I didn’t know), I’d have taken a picture of the fort from the parking lot.  But I didn’t.  Luckily, The Hubs went the fort back in August when I was on the cruise.  He generously offered a few pictures from his trip to go with my blog post since, you know.  I saw the outside of a wall.

And yes, those adorable little travelers you see strolling up to the fort are The Rowdy Boys.  Apparently, they only lasted ten minutes before they got bored.

I can in no way describe anything about these two pictures.  Looks like some buildings.  If you live near Fort Roberdeau or happen to be passing through Altoona, it’s probably worth a stop–as long as you have $4.00 in cash per adult and $2.00 in cash per child.  Here’s a link to their website.  Also interesting.  Oh, and fun fact from The Hubs:  supposedly, the lead mines that Fort Roberdeau was protecting have been lost to history.  Nobody knows their location or what happened to them.

I should point out that Fort Roberdeau is a countr run park, so it’s not affected by the government shut down.  Go to your county parks!  Go to your state parks!  There’s still history to be had, just not…you know, federally endorsed history.  South Mountain Battlefield (near Antietam) is state-run.  Fort Pitt in Pittsburgh is actually run by the Heinz History Center (I think), but the fort’s blockhouse is technically still owned by the Daughters of the Revolution.  I didn’t even know the DAR was still out and about, running things.

I also didn’t know that there are still children of Civil War soldiers living and collecting federal pensions for their father’s service, but apparently there are.  Like two.  But there you go.  That’s mind-boggling.

And finally, for those keeping score, I only managed to write like, half a page this weekend.  And not on Random Contemporary.  I had a flash of brilliance for the historical novel that’s been smoldering on the back burner for a while and took a few minutes to type it out.  But, now that that’s out of my system, it’s back to Random Contemporary.  For now.  I’m still on the fence if I want to participate in National Novel Writing Month this year.  Putting my work in progress down for a day to jot down some idea for another book is one thing, but putting it down for a whole month….I mean, come on.  For as distracted as I am, I’d probably forget to go back to it and end up getting obsessed with whatever new project I started.

Because that happens enough on its own as it is.

What’s a girl to do when the electricity’s out? Again.

Why, read aloud from history books! That’s what!

Soo, for what seems like the fourteenth time this month, we lost our electricity during a thunderstorm. On a random side note, the first thing The Rowdy Boys demand when our electricity is out, is cheese. They want cheese. “Piece of cheese, Momma!”

Cheese is out of the question.

In retaliation, they got out their plastic food and proceeded to cook coffee and cake and brussel spouts, followed by what I think was an imaginary food fight. This, of course, led into a near fist fight over people touching other people’s blankets: The Toddler smacked The Baby, The Baby bit The Toddler. Then they were laughing and tickling each other and pretending to weedwack and mow the living room carpet.

And people question why I’m so exhausted. This is not something that can be remedied with a multivitamin.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the living room, The Hubs and I were entertaining each other by reading aloud from “Pittsburgh During the American Civil War.” Because, guys, this is the height of our nerdiness. Not only reading about the explosion of the Allegheny Arsenal, but reading about it outloud! With side commentary! And then explaining why, in my esteemed opinion, the Light Gun Howitzer–the Napoleon–is by far a better artillery piece than a 3-inch ordinance rifle and don’t you forget it.

Then we discussed the difference between .577 caliber verses .58 caliber rounds for the Enfield.

Oddly, this was the most romantic moment of the week.

The Hubs and I? We’re like peanut butter and Nutella. Awesome seperately. But destined to be together.

In other news, our driveway is finally fixed. Yay! It’s nice to not have to worry about being attacked by wild game in the mornings. And I have a whopping extra five minutes in the morning before I leave for work, today of which I used to look at pictures of cats on Pinterest.

I haven’t figured out how I can be insanely busy, to the point I forget to breathe (and yes, yes this actually happened the other day), and yet feel like I’m simultanously doing nothing at all. Writing. Cooking. Not cooking and instead eating fast food. Folding laundry. Lounging around in scrubby clothes and writing some more.

And preparing for vacation.

Guys. I’m going on a cruise.

I’ve never been on a cruise before. It’s a quickie cruise, but a cruise is a cruise and I’m not picky. Naturally, the movies replaying in my brain are Titanic and The Poseidon Adventure . Oh, and Ghost Ship. But, at any rate, I’m hoping for lots of novel-ing and minimal puking.

So, here’s to relaxation and fun. And all cruise food. And margaritas at the midnight buffet (Muppet Treasure Island, anyone? Anyone?)!

Gettysburg! Sunburn! Ticks! Many a splendored thing!

And, I’m back.

Who has two thumbs and just celebrated her ten-year wedding anniversary!  This gal!  And what better place to celebrate ten years of wedding bliss than in Gettysburg?

Admittedly, I wept when we left.  I’m the Mother of Perpetual Guilt: but the boys!  What will happen to the boys?!  My mother seemed fine and nothing broke or caught on fire, so I’m assuming they had an uneventful weekend.  The Rowdy Boys are a whirlwind of chaos.  They got some new toys and ate a happy meal.  Life was good.

Meanwhile, monsoon season hit Gettysburg early this year.  It rained for two days straight.  Not that it stopped us.  Nope, it takes more than rain/snow/pestilence to keep us off the battlefield.  But look, from the greedy traveller that I am, I’m okay with traipsing through mud wrapped up in a bright yellow hoodie and flip-flops.  That’s fine.  Because I don’t like crowds and I don’t like waiting in line to get my picture taken with an artillery piece.  The battlefield was deserted!  In June!  Glorious!

This will not be happening when the 150th Anniversary rolls around in a few weeks.  The look of terror is already flashing in the eyes of locals.  Apparently, the Park Service is projected 30,000 people a day to visit the park over the anniversary week.  I cannot–cannot–imagine that many people trying to navigate little narrow streets, the circle in the center of town, the six parking meters for on street parking on Steinwher Street.  I’ll be walking everywhere.  And if I’m not walking, chances are I’m slouched in the shade somewhere near Pitzer’s Woods.  If you’re there, come say hi.  I’ll be the one sweating in a hoop skirt.

Anyway, anyway, so ten year anniversary bonanza!  Look, we may have been married for ten years, but we’re just as cheap as we were when we were newlyweds.  Did we pay $12.50 a person to go into the Visitor’s Center?  No.  We met at the old Visitor’s Center  twelve years ago.  Back then, it was free.  Why are we going to pay twenty-five bucks to see things we’ve already seen–and saw for free?  So, no, we browsed the bookstore (I was, however, able to rationalize buying a $32 t-shirt), used the bathrooms, and managed to find the one free tour offered at the Visitor’s Center.

The Spangler Farm.  Apparently, the Spangler Farm was acquired by…someone…in 2008.  It might have been the National Park Service.  It might have been The Friends of Gettysburg, look, I’m tired and sunburned and don’t feel like finding the brochure.  Just trust me.  So, in 2008 *they* acquired The Spangler Farm which was the site of a hospital after the battle.  General Francis Barlow, of Rambling Jour notoriety, was treated at The Spangler Farm.  General Armistead died of his wounds in the summer kitchen.  The site just opened for visitor’s two weeks ago and is currently free because, let’s be honest, there’s nothing to see but the outside of buildings.  And, bonus, maybe the best medical living history I’ve ever seen.

Fun fact: I was the only person on the tour, other than The Hubs, wearing shorts.  Look at my blinding white legs!  Don’t worry, they’re sunburned now.  And pathetically, even in my somewhat sunburned state, The Hubs in all his Italian bronzeness, still makes me look pale and pasty comparatively.

Oh, and interestingly enough, you may also notice I’m wearing legitimate shoes.  I think it was some kind of effort to be less of…well, me and more of a…well, responsible hiker.  Lord knows I spend most of my time wriggling around Gettysburg in flip-flops.  I’ve never sustained a flip-flop related hiking injury at Gettysburg.

But I got two blisters wearing sneakers!  What is that about?  I scaled Big Round Top in sneakers–blister!  I hiked to the McPherson Barn which, up until the point I was actually standing next to it and wasn’t apprehended by law enforcement, I thought you couldn’t get close to–blister!  I hiked what seemed like forty-five miles to the Pennsylvania Monument and back and then on to the National Cemetery in flip-flops–comfort and happiness.  Go figure.  I don’t pretend to understand.  Flip flops, Gettysburg, and I have a mutual fondness for each other.  We can’t be thrown off by the introduction of sensible footwear.

And then I found a tick on my shoulder.  Awesome!

Anyway.  I’ve been running around Gettysburg for twelve years and have never been up next to the McPherson Barn.  The McPherson’s, interestingly, were not at home during the battle.  The farm was being rented.  Anyway, the barn was the site of a, you guessed it, Civil War hospital.  You can’t spit in Gettysburg these days without hitting a Civil War hospital.  I’ll quote the Battlefield Tour Guide who took us on a (free) tour of the National Cemetery: “If your idea of a hospital is laying in the rain, waiting for your turn to have a surgeon cut off your arm, then you need a different medical plan.”

It was extremely cool to actually stand up next to the barn and, yes, it was as awesome as I’d always imagined it to be.

So, here’s what I learned this weekend:

1.  Unless there’s a sign stating, “Area Closed,” chances are I’m going  to just stroll right in,

2.  I recite lines from the movie Gettysburg and inappropriate and/or annoying times, such as every five minutes.  Example: Just ask The Hubs how many times I exclaimed, “But Hazlett’s dead!”  It was a lot.  And then I made him take my picture next to wear Hazlett actually died.  And…in the picture, I’m saying, “But Hazlett’s dead!”

3.  My muse’s name is Clio.  She’s all about history.  And thanks to her, I’ve got way more writing projects on my plate than is entirely necessary.  More on that tomorrow.

Oh, what the heck.  For your enjoyment:  But Hazlett’s dead! 

This Republic of Suffering: Reflections on Memorial Day

Happy Memorial Day, friends!  I wrote this piece some time ago for a blog tour, but I think it’s kind of appropriate for today.  And, if you want more of my normal sarcasm twinged hilarity, check out last year’s post on how Army Guys get me hot by clicking here.

I’m a history girl with a writing problem.  Or, maybe a writing girl with a history problem; regardless, I have an out of control passion for the American Civil War.  I am a Civil War reenactor.  I like Civil War trivia.  I like running around Civil War battlefields.  My blog, The Rambling Jour, is actually named after an obscure firsthand account of the clerk of the provost marshal’s office in Harpers Ferry during the war.

And I like writing about the Civil War.

Don’t get me wrong, there are things about the Civil War I don’t like.  I’ve never read Gone with the Wind.  Tactics and strategies put me to sleep.  I thrive in the effect the war had on civilians and medical procedures.  I’d rather read about the role of women and how that role changed as the war changed.

My recently completed novel, Anything You Ask of Me, is about all three of those key elements.  In 1862, a society girl turned spy must decide which is more important: the married general who asks her to risk everything for him, or the man tasked to stop her at any cost.

There is a monument in Gettysburg, near the copse of trees on the third day’s portion of the battlefield, inscribed with a few simple words: Double canister at twenty yards.

Canister shot.  Canister shot is basically a tin can full of golf ball sized steel balls; it turns an artillery piece into a giant shot-gun.  Double canister is two rounds of canister shot jammed into the barrel of the piece.

The effect of the human body is devastating.  These are the men listed in the ominous “missing” column in the ranks of casualties.  These are the men who simply disappear in a pink mist.

We have a nasty habit of referring to the Civil War as “the last gentleman’s war” or the last war before the initiation of modern warfare.  But this is so far from the truth.  Soft lead bullets, like the Minié ball, enter the body the size of a quarter but come out the size of a pancake.  If a soldier survives his wound, it is more than likely he will die of infection.  In the 1860s, we could see bacteria under microscopes—we knew it was there—but we didn’t understand how it impacted the human body.  This was the cusp of medical breakthroughs.  The war forced us to understand.

This is why I write historical fiction.

I’m a twenty-first century girl.  I drive an SUV to work.  I sit in front of a computer all day long.  I listen to Swedish Death Metal (I know, this actually surprised me too) on my iPhone while I edit my novel on my laptop.  I talk on a cell phone and wear jeans and eyeliner and take for granted all of our modern conveniences.

But I’ve also been cinched into a corset.  I’ve ridden in the back of a temperance wagon and marched in a temperance parade.  I’ve sat in a dry goods store and hand sewn a quilt by kerosene lamp and sewn on a period treadle sewing machine.  I’ve felt the rumble in my chest when a 12 pound light gun howitzer artillery piece was fired near me.  I’ve done archaeology of an antebellum house and held shattered pottery in my hand, textiles not handled by a human since, in one moment one hundred and fifty years ago, it broke and was discarded.  I’ve been touched by the past and it haunts me.  I refuse to forget the sacrifices of those who came before us and stared death in the face—and chose to march forward anyway.

This is why I write historical fiction.  Because those who are remembered, never die.

Yellow Fever: What do you mean I can’t get vaccinated?

I have a friend who is going on a mission trip to South America soon and has been “cautioned” by the CDC (side note: if the CDC is “cautioning” anything, is that really a “caution” anymore? Or more like a, “Hey, the milk in refrigerator is now in solid form and smells like feet, so I’d caution you against adding it to your cereal” kind of thing?) to get vaccinated for both yellow fever and malaria.

He dutifully reported his primary care physician can’t prescribe the vaccination for yellow fever. “Nope. I have to go to the Health Department for that and they might might be able to provide it.”

What my brain wanted to say was, “Do you need me to drive you to the Health Department?” but what my mouth said was, “So what are you going to do?”

“Eh, I’ll take my chances.” He paused, probably noting the look of horror on my face and said, “Funny how a PCP can prescribe ketamine or Oxycontin, but not a vaccine for yellow fever.”

How does that even work?

I’m sitting here with my judgemental face on. Not judgmental to “oh, I’ll take my chances” because I am not a super big opponent of “living on the edge” and taking chances (“Oh, I’ll just take my chances/live on the edge and eat this gas station sushi.” NO, friends. NO). He’s brave. I’m a wimp. But, you’d think it be easy to get a simple vaccination? Maybe? I don’t know, the only traveling out of country I’ve done has been to Canada and Bulgaria. And yes, I checked the CDC website to see if they had any “cautions” when traveling to Eastern Europe. They didn’t. Well, other than never drink sketchy looking water. I don’t find that to be a “caution” so much as a “common sense.”

Edit to add: Evidently, he got clarification that Yellow Fever isn’t in the country he’s going to, only Malaria. So problem resolved. Though apparently Malaria shots really hurt.

Anyway.

Yellow fever, by the way, is a hemorrhagic viral disease passed by mosquitos. Because I know you were curious. Anyway, there’s apparently no specific treatment (other than symptom relief) and–not surprisingly–most often found in people who haven’t been vaccinated! Thank you, Wikipedia. Thank you.

It has a nasty tendency to cause epidemics, as was seen in America during the 19th century. Supposedly–and I’m basing the following comment on something I saw on television, so take it as you will–the Confederacy had such a horrible time getting quinine and morphine (neither of which are used to treat yellow fever, as far as I know) due to the blockades, that it was smuggled by women and children through the lines and into camp. Is there truth to that? I don’t know. I’m too lazy to look it up online, but you get the picture.

John Bell Hood, Civil War General and longstanding member of the “Civil War Gents Heather Hambel Curley is Infatuated With” roster, died of yellow fever in 1879 while living in New Orleans. He died a few days after his wife and oldest child, leaving behind 10 orphans.

And on a side note. Because, again, I know you’re curious. I will never forget my Civil War class in college, when my professor (Dr. Norberg, who was amazing) relayed the fact that JBH had both an arm and a leg amputated during the war, and went on to father 11 children in ten years. I don’t know why that has always stuck with me, out of all the things I learned in college–or ever learned–about the Civil War, but there you go. Look at those brooding eyes. Fabulous facial hair. I’m onboard with that.

Soo, yeah, I know what you’re thinking. Weird. I like to think of it as “unexceptionally awesome.” But yeah, I embrace weird too and unapologetically fly my freak flag for JBH and his spryness. Spryness.

Harpers Ferry: An “abominable” little town. And I love it!

After I graduated college and The Hubs came home from deployment, we volunteered with the living history department at Harpers Ferry National Historical Park in Harpers Ferry, West Virginia.  We did living history, we did archaeology.  We ate delicious barbecue at Red Hot and Blue!  We got a hamster.

I’ll be honest.  When The Hubs interned there in college, I had no idea why I should care about Harpers Ferry.  I’d never heard of it.  Not surprisingly, a lot of people I talk to don’t have any idea where Harpers Ferry is located.  Or why it’s historically important.  And yes, even people standing in Harpers Ferry will ask that question.  Multiple times.

Side note: I once had a guy ask me if people in the 1860s really had nails or if that was a modern invention.  It’s the 1860s, kids.  Not the dawn of time.

Today Harpers Ferry looks like this quaint little town, a picturesque little hamlet at the confluence of the Potomac and Shenandoah Rivers.  However, it was the site of the US Armory and Arsenals as well as Halls Rifle Works and the B&O Railroad.  It was a bustling community of well over 3500 people (more than live in Harpers Ferry today, as a matter of fact).  It was industrial.  It was loud and it was dirty, with thick smoke billowing out of the arsenals and the loud clang of the trip hammers.

Second side note: If you watch the movie Gods and Generals, at the very beginning you’ll see a guy stroll out of an industry shop.  That’s, in fact, the industry museum at Harpers Ferry.  And I totally know that guy.  His name’s Kyle.

In 1859, a man named John Brown decided he was going to initiate a slave rebellion.  His plan was to raid Harpers Ferry, arm the slaves with guns and pikes, and take over the Armory with its stores of weapons.  In late October, he put his plan into action and in the dead of night, took over the town.

For the months of planning John Brown put into his raid, he neglected to tell the slaves he was coming.  He also failed to take into consideration that the citizens of Harpers Ferry didn’t take kindly to terrorist attacks.  The first man killed in the raid was a free black man named Heywood Shepherd.  Brown did manage to take over the Armories and Arsenals, but ended up getting trapped in the Engine House (now known as John Brown’s Fort) in a desperate attempt at a shoot out.

Enter Robert E. Lee.  And Jeb Stuart.  And the US Marines.  It took the Marines about 15 seconds, but they literally strolled into the Engine House, cracked Brown over the head with a saber, and ended the raid.  Most of Brown’s raiders (his two sons included) were killed during the raid.  Brown himself was hung in Charlestown in December.  In a note he wrote before he was hung, he chillingly indicated:

I, John Brown, am now quite certain that the crimes of this guilty land can never be purged away but with blood. I had as I now think, vainly flattered myself that without very much bloodshed, it might be done.

The Civil War began in April 1861.

Harpers Ferry, a casualty before the war even started, only got more battered and beaten as the war raged on around them.  Both Union and Confederate wanted control of the town.  It switched hands back and forth, had the railroad bridges blown up, rebuilt, and blown up again; Stonewall Jackson “appropriated” the machinery from the Armory.  It’s shelled by artillery.  The Arsenals were blown up and the weapons destroyed.  The so-called “Ferry Lot Reservation,” homes and businesses next to the Armory, was burned to the ground, under suspicion of harboring Confederate Sharpshooters.  Citizens are killed: Frederick Roeder, a German immigrant and owner of Roeder’s Confectionary (still located in Harpers Ferry) is shot and dies in his daughter’s arms.  The population drops to under 100, mostly people too sick, old, or stubborn to leave.

What was left of the town was destroyed by floods in the early 20th century, notably 1936.  The rivers made the town what is was, but it also ripped it to shreds.

Harpers Ferry is an amazing town and yes, I’m obviously biased.  I sometimes feel like it’s a secret history, since what happened there was dwarfed by the battles at nearby South Mountain and Antietam.  The Armory and Arsenals are gone, most of the town has been destroyed by flood and the passing of time.  It’s amazing.  As Thomas Jefferson said, it’s worth a trip across the Atlantic.

For more information on Harpers Ferry National Historical Park, visit their website here.