This was written 3:30 am at Ft. Ti, nothing has been added to it or taken away from it although I there are some things I wish I could change now.

When my life gets insane and I don't know what to do I can leave for the weekend. Run away to my "other life". One where everyone dresses in "funny clothes" and no one jumps at the sound of cannons firing. Where one goes to sleep listening to the songs coming from the tavern, to the quiet chatter of old friends catching up on the times, to the haunting sounds of a lonely bagpipe floating through the darkness as the misty night fog rolls in. Where one wakes up to the piercing sound of fifes and the constant pounding drums marching by your tent. I can escape here, hide my masks from the modern world in the ruffles of my petticoats and be who I really am not who someone else wants me to be. To be who I am and to be accepted for who I am, no questions asked. The family that you have here is unlike anything else in the world. You see the people just a few times a year and yet they are your best friends and know you better than anyone else. It's a place where words like frizzen, fife, and haversack are every day language. You can walk around one small camp and hear such a variety of languages; French, English, Latin, Gaelic, Mohawk. The old women sit around the fire and gossip about who's doing what and why while the children run around, the boys with their wooden muskets, waiting for the day they get to go on the battlefield, the girls play graces not knowing that soon they will be helping with the cooking and chores and the carefree days of childhood are gone. Late nights talking by the fire, early morning walks through the fog and dew, watching the sun rise over the fort walls to awake the sleeping soldiers and bring the world to life, laying on the grass in your tent listening to the sounds of the horses; the powerful pound of their hooves on the ground mixed with their riders shouts as they race by on their late night rides. This is my life. The flood of colors when I open my eyes; royal blue, blood red, snow white, forest green. The so familiar smells, the smells of; wool, leather, black powder, camp fire smoke, horses, wet grass. Standing on a hill watching the battle. Watching as person after person falls down and your eyes strain to see if your love has gone down. You see him fall and your heart aches, you know its not real but you can't help think "but what if it was?" This is my escape. I can run through the woods with the Indians, groom the horses with the dragoons, cook a meal with the women, clean a musket with a British officer. I can sit safe in a highlanders arms and know that when I'm there nothing from the outside world can reach me. To be held by him, feeling his heartbeat, smelling the sweet combination of wool and smoke as he quietly sings to group of soldiers gathered around the camp fire. To wake up in the morning and put on layer after layer, trying to make myself be more of a proper lady and grow up as I should have long ago. The music floods that floods the camp is a wonder indeed. The fifes, the drums, the fiddles, the guitars, the pipes. Each has its own sound and each sound is well know. This is a world I could forever lose myself in, like Keith Urban said "I don't have to be me till Monday. Friday Saturday, Sunday, I ain't gonna face reality" but when the weekend ends people spend Sunday morning giving their good-byes. Loving good-byes with hugs and promises of "I'll keep in touch." The ride home is my place to relax and think about everything that happened in the past 3 days. To smile about the good parts, cry silently about the bad, and to cringe at the embarrassing parts. I can put on my headphones and while still in my reenacting clothes lay down in the back-seat listening to the hum of bagpipes and think about the weekend until I fall asleep from exhaustion from going non stop three days in a row. All of a sudden its over. Ending is the most depressing part. Once your home all that's left to do is to fit, patch, mend, and prepare for the next event down the road. This is my life and I love it. It's the one place I can really be me. Someday down the road my children will be dressed in the "funny clothes" as well and they will grow up in this life style. Hopefully they will continue on as the next generation of re-enacters...



This was written about a year ago as well about my marching band, The Yankee Doodle Band

To go to every parade and see the same group, the group that can make people stop talking and turn around to watch and listen as they go by. The group that has the perfect uniforms, amazing sound and is VERY well known among the marching community. Everyone knows this band. Its the one that people would love to join but are afraid to ask because your first thoughts are "I'm not good enough for them" or "What if they won't let me join?" You go to parade after parade looking at the ground as they march by because of the respect you give them, you dare not lift your head to make eye contact with them and so once again you stand quietly, hat in hand as you watch row after row of black boots march by in perfect step. You hear them laughing and having fun after the parades and you wonder what it would be like to be accepted into that group. Then all of a sudden it happens, you're handed a march book and told "here, see you Thursday night." To try to hide the excitement as you take the book and say "OK, I'll be there" when in reality you want to jump up and down and tell the whole world "I get to play!" You walk into the band room the next week very nervous and not knowing what to expect. You see some people you know by sight but you've never talked to any of them so you just stand quietly and wait for someone to tell you where you should sit. The first night is overwhelming trying to sight read so much music and play it as well as you can but within a few weeks you have settled into the routine. Thursday nights are the best nights of the week, to just go and play music. It's a place where laughter is as close as the next wrong note and no one judges you because of how you play. Then the first parade comes. Your scared to death as you walk over to the group of people wearing the very familiar uniforms. You feel like an outsider, like by mistake you ended up with the wrong uniform and you shouldn't really be there. Trying to get the uniform right and having to ask for help because you had no idea what you were doing, makes you feel kind of foolish, and then the whole time they are helping you your thinking "how could I have been so dumb?" You line up trying to get the feel of what it will be like to march like this. You've done so many parades before but this is like no other. It's like being back at your first parade, worrying about staying in step and trying to keep proper spacing, things that had become habit you suddenly became very worried about again. You reach the end of the parade and with a few mistakes your glad it's over but at the same time can't wait for the next parade. As you watch everyone walk away to head for home you stand and think about had happened over the past few months. Looking down you see the shiny black boots with the brand new white laces, the tan pants with the black stripe, you hold your helmet in you hands and say to yourself "I can't believe I just did that" For years you had stood and watched them march through the rain, snow, and sunshine and now you have joined their ranks. Few people have the rare chance to look at the situation through both sides of the glass, Once you do, it changes your perspective forever. Even now, almost a year later your heart still beats a little faster when you walk into the building for band practice, your heart still swells with respect and pride when you see them marching by but you are no longer afraid to make eye contact and when people ask you are proud to say "Yes I play with The Yankee Doodle Band"