Time Travel

 Reenacting season has started up again here in the northeast.  Back in the beginning of April, I wrote up a short bit on social media about those "time travel" moments that we all seem to have.  It's been suggested that it should be a blog post, so...

There's a phenomenon in the historical reenacting world where, sometimes, just for a split second, you get transported back in time, and you're *there.* Listening to the sleet hitting the window tonight, I started thinking about some of those moments.

The first was at my first reenactment at Bennington. I was new and had no idea what I was doing. While we were waiting to go on the field, we were staged in the woods, keeping an eye out for redcoats. One of the veterans whispered, "Don't look for the red. Look for the white trim on their hats. It shows up in the woods." I looked into the forest ahead of me, suddenly feeling the anticipation that something was about to start. I was there.

One time at Ticonderoga, we were again in the woods, spaced out amongst the trees, on lookout. There was no noise. We were all silent, intent on spotting any movement. Suddenly, directly in front of me, a bright white eyeball surrounded by red face paint slowly peered out from behind a tree. A shiver went down my spine. The natives had snuck up on us. I was there.

At Ethan Allen Homestead, during a winter gathering, I approached the house while a soft fluffy snow filtered down around me, clinging to my coat and hat. As I got closer, there was a warm glowing candle in the front window. I was there, a cold settler coming home.

Again at Ticonderoga, we were headed to the battlefield, taking a route through the woods. We were ordered to move quietly. As I came up over a small rise, I looked along the path down the hill ahead of me. 100 or so men were moving silently, in single file, without a word. I think we were all there.

Sturbridge, standing in formation with the rest of the Continentals on the street. A young girl came out of a house across the street to water the garden. She looked both curious and cautious, just as someone would when an army arrives and takes over their town. I was there.

And one I remembered the other day. At Bennington. We were spread out in an open line, preparing to go into battle. Our chaplain, Reverend Blakesly, said a short prayer, as he finished the words meant to give us strength and courage, I started seeing movement in the trees. Loyalist militia were approaching. I was there.