Walking the Berkshires

Gone Fishing

These words are written on my grandfather's grave, carved on local field stone plucked and scoured by ice and sea.  There is a family story that goes with it, and this other meaning will pass from general knowledge when none of us now living is around to explain it.  That is one of the reasons I started this blog nearly a decade ago, back in the fall of 2005 when my head and heart were full of ideas and memories that needed a new outlet for expression.  It was to leave a record, even in this most ephemeral of electronic media, for others to find and follow.

Since then, my interests have taken new directions and found new outlets.  I started writing a nature column for the local paper,  and that is where my environmental writing has gone ever since.  There is enough material now to compile into book form, a project I hope to pursue.  Social media supplanted blogging as an outlet for the short form post with immediate reader feedback.  My personal life took new directions as well, and I no longer spend nights up late at night, avoiding unhappiness at home.

I stopped writing here on a regular basis several years ago, but I still blog elsewhere.  Instead of a general purpose blog I have three specialized ones.

My interest in 18th century material culture research and living history finds serious expression in the newest of these: "Another Pair Not Fellows; Adventures in Research and Reinterpreting the American Revolution."  I am still proud of the historical research I conducted and present here at Walking the Berkshires, especially the series which was recognized with a Cliopatria Award in 2008 and the documentation behind four posts on the march of Burgoyne's Convention Troops through Connecticut which was accepted in research paper form as an addition to the collections of the David Library of the American Revolution.Over time, I will probably archive relevant material from Walking the Berkshires here, possibly after first reformatting them as .pdfs on Scribd.  There are a couple that ought to be presented as scholarly research papers, and a seventeen post series with broken links is not really the best way to present that material. 

My irreverent sense of humor and love of the scholarly send up produced the fictional Journal of Constant Belcher, a wholly contrived character whose misadventures during the American Revolution make such convincing use of actual documentary evidence that I inadvertently mislead the entire Revolutionary War Reenacting community when I announced its "discovery."  I had assumed that entries such as the following made with tongue planted firmly in cheek would have been a dead giveaway - Maj. Bloomfield bid me make a place for his horse in the boat for crossing to Cuckoldstown /  Gave it green pippins from his haversack So that it might ease our passage with a copious wind/.  Sadly it was all too believable, and there are places in the hobby today where the mere mention of Belcher's name causes eyes to roll and brows to furrow.  There is a Facebook Page for Constant Belcher, too, where the social media are alerted to my latest discoveries from his journal.

Finally, there is a blog called Cornflower Blue & Corduroy; Wargaming the German - Herero and Nama Wars of 1904 -1908.  This is a new direction for two old interests - a love of painted miniatures and of Namibia.  I have a very small circle of people with whom to share this area of historical inquiry and recreational pursuit, but it has involved my learning to decipher and translate German in the old Fraktur font and presenting my findings, sometimes for the first time,  in English translation.

As for Walking the Berkshires, it is so well diffused in the electronic media stream that I still get contacted through email by people who have found one of my old posts.  I see my role for now as its curator, tending the archives without adding new acquisitions.  This blog made many important connections and friendships for me, in particular with the genea-blogging community, many of whom I still find on Facebook.  It deserves to be cared for rather than abandoned.

Gone fishing was requested as an epitaph by my grandfather, Robert Howard Barker, after talking about the great uncertainties of death with his young son Robbie.  The idea of burial and what happens to the body and spirit is a lot for any person to absorb, particularly a young child.  Robbie had been learning about the water table in school, and so resolved this great mystery by announcing that after he was buried, he would go fishing in the water table.  My grandfather announced then and there that "Gone Fishing" is what he wanted on his gravestone. 

Three decades or so later, I'd like to think he got his wish.

The Once and Future Yeoman

There are moments in life when something happens that only you can fully appreciate, when opportunity seems to have crossed your path because whatever it is, you are the one who was meant to find it.  At such times, this is your moment to act, no matter how whimsical the impulse or hard it may be to justify to others.  My mother once got a black Labrador puppy that way at a school auction, and it is a good thing the hound latched on to my father afterwards because Dad could not imagine what had possessed her to do it.

For me it began with one of those classic parenting moments when the kids were acting up in the back seat and I pronounced sternly that I was turning the car around and heading home unless they knocked it off.  To reenforce my threat I turned right when I otherwise would have turned left and headed past the darkened storefronts of our town in Northwest Connnecticut.  As I neared the intersection where I had planned to complete the circle and head back in the direction we had been travelling, my partner noticed something unusual poutside the Stateline Auction House and commented; "There's a statue of a beefeater over there."  I practically made a U Turn in the intersection.  I knew at once what it was. There couldn't be two of them.

Sure enough, it was a carved and painted wooden statue, in the cigar store indian style, of a Yeoman of the tower guard, complete with all the regalia from his halberd to his knee garters.  It was cold and dark, so she couldn't give it a thorough inspection, but I was convinced it was the very same statue that had once stood in front of Maggiacomo's liquor store in my hometown, Millbrook NY.  And so it turned out to be.

The beefeater was carved in 1976 by artist Peter Wing, who still lives in the area where I grew up. He arrived in Millbrook in 1969 after serving in Viet Nam.   Around the time of the bicentennial, Millbrook had at least six of his carved creations in front of various stores.  A beefeater was an appropriate choice for the liquor store, and John Kading's Corner News sported a classic cigar store indian.  There was a clothing store called The Haberdasher which had a mustachioed gent all in black with a top hat, and the ice cream parlor Jamo's had a victorian beauty, complete with bustle, wearing a dress the color of black raspberry.  The deli had some sort of a dwarfish figure rather like a punch and Judy puppet that was straddling a barrel, and the Millbrook Diner had a magnificent ship's figurehead. 

Within a few years, some of the stores had closed and the statues went with them.  The Diner's figurehead was so weathered that several years ago it was removed and a new one created (though not by Wing) as part of the renovation.  I often wondered what became of the other pieces, and never expected to see one of them again, let alone have the opportunity to own it.

But now here it was in all its glory, and from the looks of it it was in remarkably fine shape.  Wherever its journey had taken it since it left the liquor store, this beefeater had not been exposed to the elements.  I decided that if it could be had for a price that would not ruin me, I would go to the auction and win it.

It turned out that this piece had already been up for auction but had not met its minimum and was not scheduled to be a lot in the next auction either.  I asked whether I could know the minimum bid and the woman I spoke with said she thought the auctioneer might be willing to sell it to me for whatever it was. 

When she called me back I had already determined the maximum amount I was willing to pay for this extravagant recapturing of a piece of my childhood. I figured that either the minimum bid was much too high, or that maybe it just didn't attract enough interest from local buyers who lacked the association with the piece that I did.  Or maybe they had nowhere to put the thing.  I prepared myself to be disappointed.

And much to my surprise, the number they gave was less than I feared, and very likely les that it would be worth to the right collector.  Today I picked it up, and they tossed in the wooden pedestal they had displayed it with that had just the right colors and came form an old mill in Ansonia, CT.  I learned that the auction house had acquired it from an estate sale in Millerton, NY, about midway between here and where it all started in Millbrook.  Then I drove it home.

Now there is a cigar store beefeater in my living room, and someday soon I'll contact Peter and let him know that one of his creations has found the right home.

 

Deep Freeze

There has been a prolonged cold snap here in the Litchfield Hills and across much of the Northeast this week.  Back when I had facial hair, this kind of weather would have frozen the condensation of my breath in my beard and mustache.  We have dipped below zero, into territory that is increasingly unusual in our warmer winters here in Southern New England. I've seen colder weather, and been out in it much longer, but it is mighty cold nonetheless.

I have watched the ice freeze hard and fast in the river and over the wider lakes and ponds.  I wonder whether black ice will form, that sleek obsidion surface that is the finest of all for skating, and if I will have an opportunity to get out on any of it before if gets obscured by snow or marred by thaw.  I remember with great fondness those chidlhood winter days with pond hockey on black ice and hope to experience that again.

The igloo my kids and I made last week was still solid but reduced by warmer weather when the big chill took hold.  Now it is diamond hard, its skeleton of snow blocks distinct but strong.  We made ice lanterns by freezing balloons filled with water and at night these now glow in the piercing cold.

I do not expect the low temperatures to last.  We could easily swing back on a 50 degree arc, and find it suddenly Springlike.  Out here on the end of the scale, it is worth pausing to fill my lungs with that sharp, cold air, remembering how it felt when facing the next heat wave, perhaps in April, as was the case several years ago.

 

My Year of Reenacting 2012

There were a large number of outakes from the photo montage at left, and not every living history event that I attended this year made the cut.  True, it would have been be difficult to provide a photograph from the Battle of Trenton reenactment since it will take place next week, but even so there were so many great moments this year it was very hard to select a representative sample.

This year I fell out with four different units, and can now prick and prime a cannon, row a battoe, dig a firebox and construct a brush arbor (not once but twice!). 

I spent another weekend in the huts at Jockey Hollow (not, however, the most recent one, though I am absolutely game to help with the phoenix-like reconstruction of hut #3 when that gets underway in the New Year). 

I also visited three schools in NY and CT, the Union County Historical Society in NJ, and took part in an event sponsored by my employer to celebrate the history of the Housatonic River in our region.  I got a ride in an antique car when I showed up at my Town's Memorial Day parade in my continental regimentals. 

This was the year that my two children got to participate in my hobby, attending the two day event at Rockford Plantation in Lancaster, PA as well as Germantown.  Emily can wear Talya's clothes, and Talya converted a linen shirt and trousers of hers to fit Elias.  I am deeply grateful to her for not only tolorating this hobby of mine but finding ways to participate that work for her.  She did five events this year in full costume, including stays, ,as well as the Housatonic River day.

My militia kit got a huge boost thanks to the sewing skills of Heather Clark Vogeley and Cozy Bendezky. I now have more fashion choices than the average ragged Continental.  We have a good tent, modified to be a better representation of period examples.

Best of all, though, are the friendships that continue to grow and strengthen through our participation in reenacting.  We invited a long list of friends and aquaintances from the hobby to join us at Windrock and about a dozen of them took us up on the offer.  My dear friend Larry Schmidt and I met up in New York to pore through an unpublished journal from the Revolution, looking for clues about a flag associated with Maxwell's New Jersey Brigade.  The 2nd NJ and the 35th Regt of Foote had a first, last supper at Oriskany  complete with white linen and a china plate halo.  I am greatly looking forward to seeing many of these good friends at Trenton on the 29th, and to new adventures together in 2013.

Monhegan on my Mind

I can hardly believe that it was just a few weeks ago that I spent a week with family and friends on Monhegan Island.  I've been coming to this amazing place, 12 miles off the coast of Maine, since I was six years old, Though there have been some years when I was unable to do so, by my count I am nearing two dozen visits to the Island in every season, including New Years Day. 

There is always something different on trips to this very familiar place.  One the way back to shore as we watched pairs of porpoises leaping after fish, I looked over at Eastern Egg Rock and declared that this time I would see a puffin.  Not two minutes later, there it was, close by the boat and unmistakable with its great wedge of beak. IN WIDE-EYED WONDER I pointed after it as we passed - "Puffin. Puffin! Puffin!  PUFFIN!" I had never seen one of these birds before in the wild, and it was as if wishing had made it so.  Monhegan is like that.  It is hard not to believe in magic when under its spell.

I loved sharing it with Talya for the first time, and seeing her spirit lift like sea fog from the rocky shore.  She said it was the nearest to Scotland she could be, except that it was warmer.  There is nothing like having new eyes, those of a lover or a child, to show you something new about a place you know and love.  My children know and love the Island as I do, but with their own associations and their own memories.  The Ice Pond of old is the Duck Pond to them, and Sea Goblins have joined the trolls of the spruce forest in their play.

We had exceptionally fine weather, with rain largely confined to the pre-dawn hours and only one foggy morning that soon burned off.  There was one day, though, where heavy squalls passed between us and the mainland, setting up one of the most spectacular sunsets I have ever seen.  The cottages on Monhegan face west, and watching the sun go down is a a ritual part of the day.  We added a new ritual this year, waking before dawn on our last morning on the Island and hiking out tot he cliffs to watch the sun come up in golden glory.

Some Rock Ford Files from a Revolutionary Weekend

 (Photo at left courtesy of Rock Ford Plantation) It has been a week since we returned from taking Emily and Elias to their first reenactment.  We had thought to ease them into this hobby, perhaps waiting for a day event or one of the smaller encampments, but as things turned out we all bundled into my station wagon - tent poles strapped to the roof - skipped school and drove nearly 6 hours to Lancaster, Pennsylvania to take part in one of the largest Revolutionary War events of the year.  From the picture at left, captured by a site photographer, they clearly took to it like fish to water. 

As shakedown cruises go it highlighted some things we will want to anticipate for next time and some things that worked very well.  Both of them were thrilled and excited on the way home as well as the way to the event, which in no small measure is due to the kindness (and forbearance) of those who interacted with them.  Emily got a private fife tutorial from our dear friend Thaddeus Weaver of the German Regt., and Elias was elected Captain of the small gang of children who fought their own skirmishes throguh the camp.  It was a big weekend for them and for us and is something we'll do again, though probably the next time they will fall out with us will be in October at Germantown. 

We arrived early in the afternoon on Friday and went to work setting up our tent, secured a site for our kitchen, dug the fire pit and gathered wood. Some friends in the 2nd NJ loaned us a smaller tent for the kids that arrived at 11 p.m. on Friday night and which worked well for them.  Our unit trailer was unable to get tot he event, but everybody pitched in to bring what we needed to have a camp kitchen, spare tents, and other necessary items.

Rock Ford is a privately run historic site located within a public park, and was the estate of Revolutionary War general Edward Hand.  It is an amazing place and because of the terrain is a challenging one to pull off a large event.  Organizationally, things went remarkably well.  We had ample water and free ice, the porta-johns were in good shape, and the after hours festivities were grand fun (I did not witness the exploding keg but heard it was an epic geyser).   There was 18th century music and dancing and we had exclusive access to the historical treasures of Rock Ford (the matchess horde of Pennsylvania rifles and a dress given to Mrs. Hand by President Washington were truly breathtaking).  Our camp was laid out according to Steuben and we posted guard, but there was plenty of time to seek shade and socialize.  We dealt with the long trek to long-term parking, the climb up hill and down to the sutlers and a Monmouth-worthy heat wave and still felt it was a grand weekend.The Continental Line and British Brigade, two of the umbrella organizations in our hobby, made this event one of the two major gatherings of their member units of the year.  I have not seen full returns for the event but there were upwards of 400 of the enemy opposing us on Saturday and we probably fielded 300-350 on our side.  I believe some of our dragoons were galvanized because we so outnumber the Brits in that department.  We had five or six cannon on the Patriot side of things.

It was a small but resolute contingent of 1st NJ soldiers in Captain Tom Vogeley's Company.  For Saturday's fight in addition to myself this included half a dozen muskets, including my good friend Larry Schmidt, who came out for the day from Cape May, NJ.   There were enough in our amalgamated unit on Saturday for two platoons and I was in the 2nd under brevet Ensign/Lt. Skorka of the 2nd NJ, and we were down to 4 1st NJ muskets on Sunday. There were six distaff in camp along with Talya and the children.

The battle plan for Saturday called for us to wear full kit, including coats and packs, tools etc if we had them, and march down to the Plantation as if we were occupying the ground.  After an hour of that, the forces of Tyranny and Oppression were to come sweeping out of the forest.  The next day, we would return the favor.  This is not how it played out, naturally. 

Instead we marched in full kit with Vogeley's company at the head of the column and immediately moved through the Plantation and up the trail toward the high ground from which we knew our enemy would soon be advancing.  We were on a wide horse trail at the very end of the property, with two scouts out ahead to give warning of the enemy advance.  Soon they started coming through the tangled vines and shrubs (nearly all of them non-native exotics, also invaders of our shores).  Skorka's platoon fired half a dozen brisk volleys before we started to fall back.  At one point Capt. Vogeley refused the line so that 2nd Platoon could defend our flank.  We were hit by the 23rd Fusiliers in front and Highlanders and jaegers and lord knows what else besides on our left flank.  We made our way passed Coren's gun and into the open, where the rest of our battalion and the militia had come on line.  More of the bloody backs had broken through on the right, however, and we were stubbornly and relentlessly pushed back. 

We did not break, but we did not prevail.  I fell somewhere in the center of the field when we were hit by canister fired by the Royal Irish (just deserts for me, as I had recently impersonated them in a May reenactment at Dighton MA in the #3 position with Crane's "galvanized" artillery).  Vogeley's company took heavy casualties and it was hot as blazes.  The heat was a more dangerous enemy, and it was difficult to cool down for a while back at the fly even after having hydrated religiously all day.  I blame myself for carrying a pack and full gear, even though that was the order of the day.  On Sunday, I went out in white linen, thank you very much, and it was still over 90 degrees.

For Sunday's fight, Talya once again took excellent battle photos from the sidelines and some of thse appear here. .  I went into battle wearing a bloody linen bandage, which was cooler than my other headgear and attracted a good deal of picture taking.  On this day we again lead the column up to the high ground and pushed hard and fast down to the field.  We ignored the yips of the savages in the bush and took on skirmishes from the 64th and a wall of thr 43rd and Marines at close quarters near a lone apple tree.  We were charged at once and "redeployed to the rear", but then quickly reformed and pushed on.  The volleys from the dismounted dragoons of the 4th LC on our right blew the leaves from the apple tree.  We were protected by a small swale and fired from a kneeling position. 

The British did not want to lose, and as they still outnumbered us it was hard to make them give ground.  I used 22 rounds before my gun stopped sparking reliably and down I went, only to be revived by an angel with cold water and propped up against that hard fought apple tree.  There was much mopping of fevered brows. The battle continued on our of the view of the spectators and as our surgeon had packed up at this point I made my way back to camp to do likewise.

It was a helluva time. The trees were brimming with fireflies at night and we sang "The Flowers of Bermuda" and long with Tom paine's "Liberty Tree."  So may good memories were made, despite the heat and challenges of doing this with the children.  My thanks to all who did so much to make it work as well as those who came out to watch.  Looking forward to Oriskany!

 

Of Apples and Trees

I went to my children's school last week to give a living history presentation on the American Revolution.  Far from being mortified by their father in geeky clothes, they were utterly thrilled by the visit and apparently basked in the glow of minor celebrity.  Reenacting is cool, at least in their K-8 school.

We've been talking about having them join us for an event this year, and what that would mean for them to participate in this hobby.  It looks like we will all be going June 9th and 10th to Rockford Plantation in Lancaster PA.  In addition to casting about for various items of clothing and securing a spare tent, we've talked about camp safety and etiquette and things they could do as part of their impression of Colonial children in a military camp.  They understand it is a privilege and really want to take part, so we'll give it a try.

Emily plays the flute and for Christmas received a student fife, practice book and CD.  She finds it challenging without keys to press but is making steady progress and there will be opportunities for her to observe and interact with fife players in camp.  Elias has asked for cartridge paper so he can demonstrate how to roll cartridges.

They will do fine.  And maybe, get bitten by the reenacting bug that got their Dad when he was even younger than they, but had to wait decades to act upon it in earnest.

 

 

Holding the Groove

I grew up at a rural boarding school in New York's Hudson Valley.  The formative years  were 1976-1982, before I went off to boarding school myself.  The students in those days still wore their hair long, and the girls favored long overcoats and fedoras.  I idolized the high school students who were actors, and the ones who played guitar on the steps of their dorms and faced their huge stereo speakers out windows towards the quad. 

Disco was dead on arrival, but not the Grateful Dead, nor were the Talking Heads.  Classic Rock was not yet a commercial radio format; it was what your older cousins or big sister turned you on to, before they left home and moved on to new sounds.

Back then you discovered new music in used record stores, from dorm mates who hailed from hipper locales, or over the weak signal of some backwater college radio station.  Forget about wanting my MTV; there was no cable and barely any television reception so we went without.  We traded tapes until the clones lost all fidelity.  We taped pennies to the stylus to hold the groove. 

Today my vinyl sits in the attic, waiting for me to gather up the components needed to reassemble an analog stereo system with those huge, Boston Acoustics speakers from my parent's living room that now sit mute and unconnected.  I bought my last vinyl recording in 1989 - a used one at that from Plastic Fantastic Records store, that one-time music collector's mecca out on the Main Line. I'm not sure what market there is today for an original recording of Bob Weir's solo album Face, but I have it upstairs, along with lots of other music from my youth that was old even then.

I have written before about music as touchstones of the past, reflections of the person and the place I was at the time.  If I find myself driving along, up and down the dial, and suddenly I hear "Rudie Can't Fail" or "Like a Rolling Stone" - or, God help me, "Sugar Magnolia", then I drive down other highways of the mind, back in that familiar groove when I was 12, or 16, or 20. I am still a tourist, though, an observer from the future, when the switch gets flipped and the music comes from "another times forgotten space." 

The soundtrack of my life today is much harder to pin down.  The source material is different, for one thing, and my environment is not rich in new sound.  I am singing more, though, as often as not around a reenactor's campfire -  "Give me the punch ladle, I'll fathom the bowl" - and sometimes lyrics of my own devising.  You won't be hearing any of these on the radio, though they sometimes find their way onto Youtube.

I still love a righteous groove, plenty of bottom, and hot horn hits.  I'm partial to songs that last more than 3 minutes.  In this age of earbuds and bowling alone, sometimes I want to lift the sash and let some mighty music off the leash.  Perhaps on the first warm day of Spring, when all these pupating houses disgorge their blinking butterflies, I'll find what is hip in the old vinyl stacks.

 

The Year That Was (2011)

The Gourd is my Canvas, I shall not Haunt