Why I do this.

Well, here I am, back again after family emergencies and a busy fall season. I'm grateful for a little down time before the next round of performances and other commitments. Things are a little normal for right now, but I don't expect it to last long, what with THE HOLIDAYS coming up and all.

I've been reenacting since 1995. I know a lot of people think it's a strange hobby. I'm okay with that, and frankly I don't care. We all do what enriches us, whether it's bunjee jumping or sleeping in a canvas tent in freezing (or unbearably hot) weather. Add historic music into the mix, and it gets even weirder, I guess. I mean, who spends most of their time listening to 200+ year-old songs? I haven't listened to contemporary radio regularly in eons, and everytime I get a small earful of it, everybody sounds alike to me - but that's another story for another time. The last music I got was Woody Guthrie's Centennial collection, a birthday gift from Mister. Yep. Definitely behind the times.

I know folks wonder why I do this. Well, I'll tell you.

It's the people.

The people who help you put up your tent in the dark and make sure you have everything you need for the night. . . the people who tell you not to bring any food because they've got it all covered. . . the people who loan you extra blankets because you didn't plan on it being so cold. . . and the people who bring you ice when you didn't plan on it being so hot. The people who share all their best resources with you so you can learn more. . . the people who walk you through a new tune so you can play along without looking like a complete idiot. And of course, the people who appreciate what you do enough to come back year after year and sit through all your shows.

But the best thing of all is. . .well, I'll just have to show you the picture. Even with all my schooling in how to finesse the English language, there are no words to tell you how much this birthday card means to me, given to me by a young lady I see maybe twice a year. I will cherish it always, and it is in these things that I am rich.

Till next time - make sure you count your wealth in the things money can't buy.

Ask yourself if it's really worth it.

This has been a hard year. It's just one thing after another. Right on the heels of several deaths of friends, my older brother had a surprise heart attack complete with a double bypass, and just this week he had emergency surgery to remedy the C-diff infection he contacted while recovering from the first surgery. This is going to mean huge adjustments for him, but without the surgery, he would have died. HE WOULD HAVE DIED. As I write this, he is still under controlled sedation and probably will be for a couple more days.

My mom was supposed to be on vacation in Atlantic City, and my brother was supposed to be feeding gorillas at the zoo. He was looking forward to his summer job. (He retired a few years back and now does pretty much whatever he wants.) But instead, Mom's getting worn out running back & forth to the hospital, where my brother, who used to take me to the movies at Christmas and buy me records, is currently unconscious.

So let me ask you: is it worth it?

Is it worth it to get the last word in every discussion or debate, even f someone's feelings are needlessly hurt?   Is it worth it to speed up so the guy in the car next to you can't change lanes, because you're in such a freakin hurry? Is it worth it getting irritated at a squalling child in a public place? Is it worth it to always get your way? Is it worth it getting pissed off at some ridiculous comment someone posted on Facebook?

Well, is it?

I'm not saying we should never get angry, or that we should never fight for something worthwhile. Anger is often the root of many great accomplishments, because it spurs people to action. No, I'm talking about all the mundane stupid shit we're so quick to get irritated about, and yes, I'm as guilty as anyone. But this last month or two, and especially this week, I've been giving that a lot of thought.

How hard is it, really, to just slow down for two seconds and let a fellow driver over? Unless you're driving a police car or an ambulance, you're not in that big of a hurry. The universe won't collapse if you pause for two or three seconds. How hard is it to say "okay, fair enough" and let someone else have the last word? How hard is it to give away just a sliver of lovingkindness? It doesn't cost you anything. To paraphrase Thomas Jefferson, it neither picks your pocket nor breaks your leg.

And instead of judging strangers, how hard is it to remember that everyone is fighting a battle of some kind? Just because you don't see it doesn't mean it isn't there. We never know someone's circumstances.

Think about it. And till next time --- open your heart as well as your eyes, for the heart often sees more than the eyes can comprehend.

Thoughts on July 4.

Once again, it's Independence Day in the US, and once again, I'll encourage everyone to watch the John Adams miniseries. John Adams often gets short shrift in history, but he was truly a dynamic figure, and he was completely dedicated to his cause. The Boston Massacre case could have destroyed his career, but he took it anyway because he believed in everyone's right to a fair trial under the law. For just a moment, ponder the gravity of that risk. Then ask yourselves who among us would be willing to take such a risk now. How many would set aside their personal gain for an idea?

These are the times that try men's souls, as Thomas Paine once said - over 200 years ago. That should give you a clue that our country has never been completely free of trying times. The times are always trying; it's only the issues that change, and even then, they don't really change all that much. In 2012 we still have concerns about the state of the economy and the reach of the government's control. Political campaigns were just as vitriolic then as now, even without the influence of social media.

Our country isn't perfect, because we aren't perfect. It can only be as good as we are, and as mere humans, we are inherently flawed. Our history isn't pretty, but it's made us who we are, for better and for worse. I can only speak for myself, but I'm happy to be here. And if you're not - well, stop flapping your jaws about how we're going to hell in a handbasket, and start doing something about it.

John Adams did.

Till next time ---

Life & Death & Friendship.

My friend Jeannie died suddenly this week from a brain aneurysm. She was the same age as me, 44, and a literature/history enthusiast. I knew her for probably close to 10 years; I stopped counting awhile ago. I never met her in person, though. I only knew her through the Internet and the occasional snail mail, but she was as real a friend as any, and I mourn her loss.

Since I've been online - 15 years, maybe? - I've made many friends that I cherish greatly even though I've never met them in person. I have laughed with them and cried with them, and they have done the same for me. My Internet family is a great support to me, in good times and bad. A personal connection is a personal connection, whether it's made in person or in cyberspace. I value them all. My Internet friends are just as real and valid as my in-person friends.

Sudden death is always jarring. It brings any unfinished business to light. It brings regret over stupid things you said or did that hurt someone's feelings. Most of all, it makes you think: that could have been me. And if it were me, what would I be leaving behind unfinished? Is there anything I need to set right before my time is up? What am I missing that needs to get done? It's an overwhelming feeling.

We've all heard the saying "live each day as if it were your last," but I'm not sure that's responsible. If I knew it was my last day, I'd spend it eating and drinking and getting into mischief, and who can do that every day? Perhaps I take that too literally, though. Maybe it has more to do with finding joy in the mundane and being at peace with your surroundings, taking in every moment you can.

We live in a fast-moving world that just keeps moving faster. It's so easy to get caught up in the hubbub before you know it, and then it's difficult to extricate yourself. I don't think there's really anything wrong with the hubbub, necessarily, but I think we need to take a tip from the yogic tradition here and just be mindful of what's going on around us and how it affects us. If you like the chaos, go ahead and jump in, but pay attention: that way, you get to actually enjoy the craziness, plus, you can jump off the wagon before you get overwhelmed.

(I ramble; please forgive me. My brain is full of things right now that can't get past the limitations of the English language.)

Jeannie, I raise a glass to you, and count myself fortunate to have known you. I will miss your fire, your wit, and your wisdom. Thank you for being my friend.

Till next time --- y'all quit your meanness and love each other. And pay attention.

Greetings, friends. Between a boisterous puppy and numerous sewing projects, I didn't realize it had been so long since I'd written. Since Luna is at the kennel till tomorrow, I have an uninterrupted opportunity to write - that is, unless the cats decide to get into some mischief, which is always a distinct possibility.

 Memorial Day. Day of cookouts and sales, no mail, and no work for many of us. Last year I had the day off because I was unemployed; this year I have the day off because I have a day off! I am gainfully employed in a position that suits me, and that is certainly cause for celebration. Memorial Day, however, is much more than that.

 I think of my 19th century cousin, John B. Feather, who died at Andersonville Prison in 1864. According to the records, he was captured as a straggler after the Battle of Cloyd's Mountain in May of 1864. He died in September of that year, the cause listed as "chronic diarrhea." He was 18 years old, maybe 19. John Feather was a farmer boy from West Virginia. He spent four months in one of the most notorious prisons in US history and died of dehydration.

Four months. Think about that for a minute. Four months with little food, no medicine, and dirty water. FOUR MONTHS. At his age, he should have been off chasing pretty girls and planning for his future, not spending FOUR MONTHS in a military prison, only to die of what is now an easily treatable affliction.

FOUR MONTHS. And he wasn't the only one. More Civil War soldiers died from disease than combat.

I also think of my dad, who earned a Purple Heart in the Korean War. Fast forward to the 21st century, and I think of my step-nephew Frankie, who lost a leg to an IED in Afghanistan on his first tour of duty with the Marines. He survived and is now doing quite well. For the rest of his life, though, he'll have a constant reminder of what he gave up for his country.

Memorial Day isn't just about the soldiers and their sacrifices, though. It's also about their families and the people they left behind. When you raise a glass today, remember all of them.

Till next time ---

Midnight in Paris.

See this movie. No, really. See it. Heck, just go on and buy yourself a copy.

I had heard a little buzz about it, but didn't give it much thought since I'm not a huge fan of Woody Allen (too much whiny angst, as Mister says) or Owen Wilson (plays the same character in every movie). Then my big brother recommended it to me. Big Brother has impeccable taste and has never let me down, except for that Christmas when I was 6 years old and he gave me this horrible troll-like stuffed animal-thing, but that's a whole 'nother story. Anyhow, the first time I went to go put it in my Netflix queue, it wasn't available, so I promptly forgot about it. Something triggered my memory a few weeks ago, and I ordered the movie.

Seriously, this is one of the most adorable things I've seen in a long time, in spite of Woody Allen and Owen Wilson. It just so happens that Wilson's natural goofiness is perfect in his role as Gil Pender, a burned-out screenwriter/hopeful novelist who longs to be in 1920s Paris. It's evident from the start that his relationship with his fiancee Inez, played by Rachel McAdams, is ill-fated when she makes faces about walking in Paris in the rain. She has no imagination and her parents are even worse.

Gil and Inez are in Paris for some pre-wedding shopping and a visit with her parents, who are there on a business trip. And then there's the pedantic Paul, a friend of Inez's who is an expert on everydamnthing and is happy to tell everydamnone. (I couldn't decide who was worse: Inez, her parents, or Paul.) It's Paul who makes the comment that people who long for the past are just living in a fantasy world of false romantic notions because they can't handle the present. (More on that later.)

Understandably, Gil would prefer to spend some time alone in his beloved Paris than hang around with these jokers, so that's what he does. While he's sitting on a sidewalk bench at midnight, an antique car pulls up, and the partygoers inside tell him to get in the car - and they promptly drive off into the 1920s.

Gil meets Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, Pablo Picasso, Man Ray, and my personal favorite, Salvador Dali, played by Adrien Brody. He also meets a beatiful French woman, Adriana, with whom he promptly falls in love. Adriana wants to go back to the France of the 1890s.

I don't have to tell you that chaos ensues, in 1920 and 2011. I won't spoil the conclusion, but I will point out that in each of these time periods, someone wants to go Somewhere Else. The artists of La Belle Epoque want to go back to the Renaissance. Is it because they can't handle the present, as Pedantic Paul says early in the movie, or is it simply because they feel a connection to the past?

Well, I can only speak for myself, but I don't think I have any false romantic notions about life before running water, sanitation, and migraine meds that work. I love to study history because I want to know what the people who came before me did, and to keep some of those skills alive. I love the 21st century, mostly, but I think it's prudent to know how to get along if the power goes out. It's great being able to use all the modern technology and whatnot, but we still need to know what to do when those things aren't available. I mean, I don't know about you, but I intend to survive the impending Zombie Apocalypse.

Besides that, we are irrevocably connected to our ancestors. That's a fact. And it's darn near impossible to move ahead without first considering what came before. I know you've all heard the one about "those who forget history are doomed to repeat it."

History is part of the fabric of the future, after all.

Till next time ---- get some popcorn and have a movie night.

Why, yes, I do have a little Irish in the family tree.

I just love an election year, don't you? It really brings out the best in people, doesn't it? And I can predict exactly what's going to happen. Thing 1 will win, then the people who followed Thing 2 will cry foul and there will be a great weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth from the losing side. It really doesn't matter who Thing 1 and Thing 2 are - this has happened in every election since I've been voting, and even more so since the Great Hanging Chad Debacle of 2000. Fasten your seatbelts, because we've got about six more months of this folderol. But of course, that's not what I came to talk to you about. Being that St. Patrick's Day is two days away, I wanted to talk about my g-g-g-g-g-grandfather, or at least what little I know of him.

Like a lot of historical reenactors, I wanted to research my family history to see if anyone fought in any interesting wars. In the beginning, I was hoping to find a Confederate soldier or two and maybe some Irish ancestry, even though I knew a good bit of my forbears were German. I did most of this research back when Ancestry.com was still free for basic access - that should tell you how long ago it was. I also had a copy of a huge tome on my father's side of the family, which had been written in the 1980s by a distant cousin. I had a glimmer of hope when I found out that my g-g-g-g-g-grandfather Jacob Vatter (later Feather) married a woman named Mary Connoly. Connoly's an Irish name, right? Well. . . if you've ever done any genealogical research, you've probably found the farther back you go, the less information there is about your female ancestors. All we know is that she was born in 1769 in Pennsylvania, and that she married Jacob, a Rev War vet, around 1790. To this day I have yet to find any information on her parents.

So. Moving on to my mother's side of the family, I discovered they were mostly Dutch, coming to America in the 1600s: first to New Jersey, then New York, Pennsylvania, Virginia, and finally to Kentucky 300 years later. One of my g-g-g-g-g-grandfathers on that branch, Jacob Van Meter, was a founding father of Elizabethtown, KY, and has a DAR chapter named after him. It's this side of the family tree project that got really fun, because I had to do my own research, and you all know that my geek love of research knows no bounds. And it was my great-grandmother who led me to Daniel McMillin, born in Ulster in 1757.

I haven't been able to find much specific information about Daniel, except that he came to America at an "early age," and fought in a Maryland unit during the Revolutionary War. He was also a minister of the gospel: I'm presuming he was a Protestant, although I could be mistaken. I haven't found anything yet that says one way or the other. For his service in the war, he was awarded a land grant in Pennsylvania, which he later sold. He died in 1838 in Indiana.

Daniel married Eleanor "Nellie" Keenan of Cumberland County, KY. They had one child, Patrick Keenan McMillin. After Nellie died, the good Reverend married a second time and had several more children, but Patrick is my g-g-g-g-grandfather. As I expected, there's not much information out there about Eleanor, except that her father was a man named Patrick Keenan. Hey! Another Irish name! As of yet, I haven't found any more information about Patrick Sr., but I'll keep looking. I did discover that Patrick Keenan McMillin was a War of 1812 veteran, but again, no specific details yet.

And that Confederate ancestor? I found one, and only one. Patrick McMillin's nephew, John D. McMillin, fought in the CSA in a Missouri regiment. My other Civil War ancestors wore blue suits, seeing as how they were from West Virginia and all.  (One of them, John B. Feather, died at Andersonville prison at the age of 19.)

So, this St. Patrick's Day, I'll be raising a glass to the McMillins, Keenans, and Connolys. (It won't be green beer, however, because green beer is an abomination unto man.) Most of all, I hope they'll like the music, because I have a feeling they'll be listening.

Till next time - NO GREEN BEER.