In Case You Missed It: Margaret Coel at Brea Library

Who: Margaret Coel
Where: Brea Library
When: Saturday, September 6th

Margaret Coel

Margaret Coel is the New York Times bestselling author of the Wind River Reservation mysteries, which currently numbers about 18. When I walk into the library, the owner of Mystery Ink bookstore has set up a table with 17 out of 18 of those books--everything except the first novel, The Eagle Catcher.

I settle into my seat, and she begins to speak. Margaret Coel is an older lady with short brown hair, wearing a black shirt, a black and white skirt, and a big bright turquoise necklace. She seems to know exactly what she wants to say, for she speaks without hesitation and goes right into her talk.

(Please note: my quotes aren't perfect. I was using pen and paper and scribbling as fast as I could.)

* * *

"People always ask me, 'Is Wind River a real place?' " Margaret says. "Yeah, it absolutely is."

Though the reservation is a speck in the middle of Central Wyoming, but it's still bigger than all of Delaware and Connecticut. It houses both the Arapaho and Shoshone tribes. Now, the Arapaho were originally from the plains of Colorado and the Shoshone were their traditional enemies.

"The government, in its infinite wisdom, put them together," she says drily.

Wind River Reservation

When the government took the Arapaho's land, they were supposed to reserve a portion for them to live on. But by 1878, it still hadn't happened. Finally, their chief had to plead with their enemy, the Shoshone, to "come and live under their blanket." According to Margaret's friend on the reservation, "When we finally trickled in, we were about 800--and we were a pitiful lot."

They thought the arrangement would be temporary. One hundred and fifty years later, they're still there. But the landscape of Wyoming turned out to be much like the plains of Colorado, and this is partially what drew Margaret in.

"I grew up in Colorado and I love it."

To others, however, the landscape may be an acquired taste. Father John, one of her amateur detective, comes to the reservation from Boston, going from a lush forest scape to what he sees as empty land. He describes it as, "the landscape of the moon."

"Now I always give my manuscript to my Arapaho friends to look over and make sure there's nothing offensive," Margaret says. "When my friend came to that line, she was horrified. 'You can't say that. It's insulting.' "

Her friend explained that the land was given to them by the creator and is considered sacred and beautiful. Margaret agrees. "But I didn't say it 'the landscape of the moon.' Father John said it."

Her friend re-considered. " 'Okay, you can use it. As long as we know he's wrong.' "

* * *

But how did Margaret decide to write mysteries centered on the Wind River Reservation? It began when she decided to write the history of Chief Left Hand, a Arapaho leader who lived in the mid-1800s, when everything changed. Gold was discovered in Colorado, and 100,000 people flooded the state. "To the Arapaho, it seemed as if all the white men in the world had come to their land."

Chief Left Hand

Writing about Chief Left Hand took Margaret into the Arapaho world. She visited the reservation for background information. A little later she went to a conference with Tony Hillerman, who writes Navajo Tribal Police mystery novels. Up until then, Margaret wrote non-fiction, but listening to Tony, she thought, "I can do that."

Later, when she became friends with Tony, she told him the story of seeing him there. He laughed. "I had no idea I was the responsible for Father John and Vicky," he said.

Father John and Vicky are the main characters of her series. When Margaret started thinking about who she wanted her detectives to be, she decided she wanted outsiders, "because that's what I am." She learned there was a Jesuit mission on the reservation. Recognizing the need for education, the Arapaho invited the Jesuits in, gave them the land, and "tolerated them through the years." Father John arrives as an outsider to both their culture and to the west.

Vicky, an Arapaho lawyer and advocate, came about because Margaret wanted strong female lead and an Arapaho voice. Though she is very much a part of her people, Vicky had to venture into the outside world in order to get her law degree. Like Father John, she is one of what the Arapaho call the "Edge people"--people on the border of two different cultures.

* * *

When people ask Margaret where she gets her ideas, she says they come in pairs. For example, her latest book, Night of the White Buffalo.

The latest Margaret Coel mystery

She'd always wanted to write about the birth of a white buffalo. In a Sioux myth that migrated through the tribes, a white buffalo woman came from the spirit world and gave the plains Indians their prayers and ceremonies and taught them how to live their lives. "I will return in times of need." When a white buffalo is born, it's a sign the creator is still with them and still cares for them.

Back when the plains were "an undulating brown ocean of buffalo," the birth of a white buffalo was probably a more common event. Now, with a few thousand left alive, decades can pass before a white one is born.  When it is, people come from everywhere to see the baby buffalo, trampling the pastures, overwhelming the few motels and unsuitable country roads. Though a nuisance, it can also be quite profitable for the rancher, as people do bring donations.

"I thought about what would happen if a white buffalo was born on the Wind River Reservation, what the consequences of that might be," Margaret says.

But that was only one idea, and she needed a second. It came to her in the form of cowboys. They're still around, a very nomadic people, and their lives are tough. Margaret read a case in newspaper where all the cowboys on the ranch disappeared. What happened was shocking.

"Since I write history, I like to bring history into all my books. In my first draft, I dump it in, but since few people want to read 15 pages of history, I go back and reel it in."

So Killing Custer centers on re-enactors of the Battle of Little Big Horn, Buffalo Bill's Dead Now has to do with Arapaho that went to Europe for the showman's Wild West Educational Exhibition, and Silent Spirit talks about Indians who went to Hollywood in the 1920s to play extras in Westerns. Although some chapters go back in time, the main story is grounded in the present.

"Usually, there's a crime in the past, a crime in the present, and they're related."

* * *

Now it's time for questions.

A member of the audience wants to know her research method. "Do you write the story first and research later, or visa versa?"

It's a combination of the two. She starts off doing general research, say, about buffalo and its birth, getting enough information to build a story. Then she start to write it. When she comes to a part she doesn't know, she makes a note to back and research more. Once she gets a draft down, she fills in the gaps.

One thing she doesn't do is write up a long, tedious 90-page outline. "If I did that, I wouldn't write the book." Instead it's like coming up with a road map for a long trip. She knows she needs to start here, go there, end up there. But she doesn't know what will happen on the way: the side trips, the people you meet, the surprises.

"The day my characters stop surprising me, will be the day the story ends."

* * *

Rita, a girl from my writer's group, raises her hand. "Do you have a specific system for getting yourself to write?"

"I have a deadline," Margaret says.

She sits down at her computer by 9:00 AM every morning except Sundays, whether she feels like it or not, whether if she thinks what she's writing is boring or not. "If you make yourself write, pretty soon you feel like it."

"But when you get stuck, do you have a method to overcome it?" Rita persists.

"I don't think writer's block exists," Margaret says.

She admits that a writer might come to a tough part in the book and not know how to continue. At that point, you need to trust in yourself and keep writing.

"You can call it Writer's Block, but I just call it avoidance." However, she does advise that you don't need to write things in chronological order. Just start with the most interesting thing and use that to get into the story.

* * *

"What drew you to the Arapaho?" asks another member of the audience.

As a 4th generation Coloradan, Margaret grew up on old stories her family would tell. Soon, she started getting interested in the people who had been there before. The Arapaho interested her because they were the "businessmen of the plains," always trading among the tribes. As such, they were peacekeepers, "because war is bad for business." At the same time they were a spiritual people and still are today.

While researching them, she discovered Chief Left Hand, who happened to be fluent in English. This was an amazing thing. Back then, the common language on the plains was sign language. But when the gold rush came, who was going to deal with the white man? Chief Left Hand's ability to negotiate led to his rise. He strove for peace and was a hero. But, as F. Scott Fitzgerald said, "Show me a hero and I'll write you a tragedy." He died in the San Creek Massacre, giving his life for his people.

Margaret was so fascinated by Chief Left Hand, she set off to write a magazine article. "5 years later, I had a book."

* * *

Kaleo, who leads the Brea Library Writer's Club, gets in the last question. "Any advice to writers who want to be published?"

Writers today have a lot of options. First thing you have to do is finish the book and make it the best you can. Then you put on your business cap and figure out how to sell. You have to be able to support the book and bring people to it.

Travelogue: Museum of the Great Plains

What: Museum of the Great Plains
Where: Lawton, Oklahoma
When: Friday, August 8, 2014

We haven't even parked, and I can see this place is infested with prairie dogs. They look like gophers and act like meerkats, with sentries standing straight up on mounds of dirt and guarding over the others. Naturally I want to take a picture, but as soon as I creep close, the sentry begins to chirp.

"Chip, chip, chip."

Prairie Dogs

It sounds more like the call of a bird than a rodent. I focus my zoom, and the prairie dog crouches low in its burrow. His alarm becomes more fast-paced and frantic.

"Chip chip chip!"

Finally, it just up and dives into its hole. I look for a new prairie dogs to photograph and find they're gone.

In addition to prairie dogs, the Museum of the Great Plains has a fort and an old-fashioned train and a gift shop with apple basil jelly and "rattlesnake eggs." There's also a science center with a bed of nails you can lie on as metal spikes lift you into the air. (It doesn't hurt.) My mom and dad and brother decide play around in this section but I choose to edjamacate myself and stuff, so I go through the displays and actually read the signs.

Cowboy

"There is a feeling of people, the lack of people, the want for people, the desire for no people. I want to draw the horizons into my soul and have them bounce around so much that they expand my horizons and I become unfettered. This is a metaphysical land."

I stare at Peter Miller's black and white photographs of grassless badlands, chisel-faced cowboys, old houses, organic farmers, fields of sunflowers, and storm clouds. I've absorbed these kinds of images of course, but glossier, air-brushed, and stuck on political brochures. But this feels more like real America to me.

"The winter wind is so strong that the snow can blow sideways for 3 days before it grabs onto the ground. ...There is not much difference from being in the Plains or on the seas during a gale. On the Plains you may freeze to death and on the sea you may drown."

The quotes beneath the photos make me wonder if he's been there, if he's experienced these kinds of storms. I imagine him loading his camera into the back of his truck and just driving from place to place, photographing whatever catches his eyes, interviewing ordinary folks, and wandering through the heartland like some kind of modern day cowboy.

(Examples of the work can be found here)

Indians

The buckskin dress is ornamented with elk teeth, porcupine quills, and fringe. And while these may be objects native to the plains, the brightly-colored beads, metal tinkling coins, and cowry shells are not.

Buckskin Dress

This dress is symbolic of our image of American Indians, yet embedded in it are objects of foreign trade. I don't know why this should be surprising, but it is. For some reason, I seem to think of Native Americans as being insulated from the white man's culture. The romantic image is, I suppose, a peaceful people who live entirely off the land.

But then I see a display on how Plains Indians used guns. Oh yes, they had access to firearms. "Guns introduced in the 17th century [before America was even thinking about becoming its own country] had a far-reaching effect on culture. Firearms increased hunting effectiveness and gave power over foes." This resulted in an intensification of tribal warfare.

Makes sense. If you're going to war, you want to make sure you have the best weapons. Guns so permeated Native American culture that in the Blackfoot language the word for honor was "Namachkami," or "a gun taken." The downside of this, however, was that it fostered dependence on the Europeans, who provided the guns.

They traded animal skins to get their weapons. Beaver pelts were all the rage until the 1830s and then the fashion turned to Buffalo robes. This particularly suited the Plains Indians, who held a monopoly over the tanned hides until the 1870s. In addition to guns, they traded these skins for Venetian glass beads, Chinese vermillion (which they used to paint their face), French-style axes, metal arm bands, wool blankets, and top hats. Truly, they had an international culture.

All this makes me think of the ways in which we integrate foreign objects into the heart of our culture. How many of our national symbols, so dearly treasured, are really our own?

Buffalo

The 1870s were a bad decade for the Plains Indians' buffalo skin trade. Not only did the Americans bust open their monopoly, they nearly exterminated their supply.

I knew, of course, since grade school that Americans recklessly over-hunted thundering herds of buffalo to a mere handful. But I always thought this was the work some crazed gun nuts shooting buffalo off a train for the sheer hell of it. Like when I played Oregon Trail and killed six buffalo, just to hear their bodies thump on the grass.

Poor Buffalo

But, no, it turns out there was a much more practical reason for killing buffalo. Money.

"When I went into business," wrote Anonymous Man on the wall display, "I sat down and figured I was indeed one of fortunes children." The numbers bore out.

20,000,000 buffalo roaming the plain
$3 per skin
$60,000,000 out there for the taking
25 cents to purchase cartridge
12 times return on investment
100 kills a day
$300 in gross profit or $200 in net profit

He concluded that a hard-killing man could make $6000 a month "or three times what was paid, it seems to me, the president of the United States, and a hundred times what a man with a good job in the (18)70s could be expected to earn."

Hell, a hundred and fifty years into the future, and I think $6000 a month sounds good.

This is the dark side of capitalism. What incentive is there to plan for the future when every buffalo you don't kill goes into your competitor's hands? As a result, by the 1880s the plains were littered with carcasses and a lucrative new field had opened: bone collector.

One ton of buffalo bones would pay $15. Trains would haul the skeletons east, and factories would assemble them into buttons, combs, glue, fertilizer, tooth brushes, and dice. And, somehow, bones were also used for refining sugar.

So no one can say that folks back then didn't know how to recycle.

Travelogue: Getty Villa

What: Heaven and Earth: Art of Byzantium

Where: Getty Villa, Los Angeles

When: Saturday, July 26, 2014

Introduction

Don't get me wrong, I love museums. I'd visit the Getty any day, just 'cause. But when I discovered they were having a special exhibition on Byzantine art running through the summer (ends on August 25th), I was determined to go see it. After all, my Three Floating Coffins novel ostensibly takes place in a fantasy version of Byzantine Greece. This could be "research."

But before I could research Byzantium, first I had to research The Getty.  The art collection started by J. Paul Getty is so big it needs two separate complexes to house it: The Getty Center and The Getty Villa. Both museums are free, but charge $15 parking per car. The Getty Villa also requires tickets. These are free. You can reserve them online and print them at home, which is what I did.

I invited fellow writers Debra and Michelle, but Michelle had an Alaska trip (grr!!!), so her friend Ken stepped in. My aunt made up the fourth member of our party. On Friday, I baked butterscotch chip cookies and packed water bottles. At 8:00 AM Saturday morning, we crowded into the Ken's car and braved the LA highways in our quest for art.  

(Please Note: I'm not an expert on anything. I'm just a curious soul listening to tour guides, reading signs, and making up conjunctures in my head.)

Building

In 79 AD, Mount Vesuvius exploded. That day, the city of Pompei was in the middle of celebrating a feast to Vulcan, the Roman god of fire and volcanos. Well, they must have offended him pretty badly, for he showered the city with ash, killing everyone inside, but perfectly preserving their homes. The neighboring city of Herculaneum met a similar fate the very next day.

It's this second, less famous (but equally smothered) city that J. Paul Getty went poking around in when he decided that his red-roofed ranch house was no longer suitable for his growing art collection. He dug up a Roman manor called Villa dei Pampiri but decided that excavating it was too much hassle. Instead, he recreated it best he could in the hills of Malibu. The museum and garden is sunken, so as to represent the excavation site. Striped gray stone resemble the original layers the archeologists had to dig through in order to find the villa.

Not that I notice. It's just after 10:00, and I'm at the cafe, drinking coffee, skimming through pamphlets and trying to decide which tour to go on. I've come for the Byzantine art, but it's my first time at the Getty, and there's no reason not to soak up as much as possible. My aunt and I decide to go on a garden tour. Ken wants to go on a tour of the Main Collection and Debra decides to browse. We will meet for lunch at 12:00.

The garden tour begins at 11:00. That gives me a good hour to kill.

The entrance is decorated with the white Corinthian columns and red-tiled roof one might expect from a Roman Villa. Less expected, but more interesting are the painted ceilings: red roses, yellow daisies, and white lilies floating within a pale blue circle. These pastel colors and painted ceilings will become a theme. The so-called "dining room" has cornucopias and grapes, while the ordinary walkways boast blue panels with yellow flowers.

Corinthian Columns and Yellow Flowered Ceiling

I step inside. My map informs me that this is the atrium, the main public room in a Roman house. A man informs me that food and drinks are strictly prohibited. I stare at the black and white mosaic floors and the lion heads surrounding a skylight, or compluvium, as my map calls it. There's an impluvium, or sunken fountain, just underneath the skylight, to collect rainwater. On an ordinary day, the sound of trickling would soothe a tourist. Except that California's in the middle of a drought and the fountain's been drained to conserve water. Still, the black statues at each corner of the basin are kind of cool.

I had planned to stride from room to room, as leisurely as any Roman Emperor, but unfortunately, my time is cut short when my camera dies and I have to beg my aunt's phone as a replacement. I glance at a few displays, while furtively checking my cell phone clock every few minutes.

Creepy Bust of a Young Girl

There's a creepy bust of a young girl. Her skin and hair are waxy black, and her thin tight curls remind me of pencil shavings, too fine and rigid to ever have been hair. Her eyes are white and inlaid with glass. They stare out in horror, as though her soul has been cursed to reside forever in this prison.

It's cool.

Garden

So I'm a bit of a mess. I've come as a scholar, and I'm trying to juggle a yellow notepad, a pen, a camera phone, and a portable listening device. The little green box clips to my pants. A plug-in earpiece amplifies the voice of the tour guide, so she doesn't have to shout and we don't have to crowd around her. 

California has a Mediterranean climate, she tells us, which means that plants that grow in Greece and Italy, will grow just as well here. As we walk through the herb garden, she  proceeds to throw out the names of the trees: olive, fig, plum, pomegranate, peach, pear, and citron. (The citrone currently looks like an avocado and smells like a cucumber but will one day resemble an orange and lemon mix.) I'd like her to tell us more than just names. I know that olives were sacred to the goddess Athena and important as a food and fuel source, and I know that pomegranates played an important role in the myth of Persepone's abduction. I'd like to hear stories like that.

Carp pool in herb garden

But no, we whip through the herb garden, faster than I can scribble notes. We pass a sad plot of dried-out wheat and patches of marjoram, thyme, oregano, and lavender. There are trellises of fat, tempting Cabernet grapes. The guide tells us she sampled some, and they were sour. She plucks a green fuzzy leaf called Lamb's Ear and lets us rub the fuzz between our fingers. Romans use to pack these with salve and stick them on wounds--the band-aids of their day, I imagine.

The Romans were big on mastering nature and imposing order on the world, which is how they got such roads and aqueducts. They were equally strict on their gardens. The herb garden is a grid of rectangles, three rows wide, with fountains in the middle, for beauty and irrigation. (Some even have been allowed to keep their water. Makes it easier for the carp.) For such a practical thing as a herb garden, I don't mind. But as we come to the vast Outer Peristyle, the "show-off garden," I find the order a bit tiresome. 

Outer Peristyle Fountain

A wealthy Roman would bring his guests to the Outer Peristyle, for pleasant walks and conversation. On one side of the path lies a long pool with statues sunbathing along the edges. On the other side sits busts of famous philosophers and great men--a conversation piece that the host could use to show off his knowledge. They'd pass under grape trellises and around blocks of carefully manicured flowers, hedges, and bay trees. 

This is what we do, minus (in my case) the leisure and pleasant conversation. I'm trying to take pictures on the phone and getting annoyed with having to re-type my aunt's password every few minutes. We go up the right side of the pool and keep going straight to the Inner Peristyle, leaving the whole left side unexplored. Not that it matters. Custom dictates gardens must be symmetrical, one side mirroring the other

The smaller, more private Inner Peristyle, strikes me as more interesting, for a couple reason. First, one of the creepy black fountain maidens has been stolen, ruining the perfect symmetry. Second, several birds chirp and dart about the four perfectly round trees that stand at each corner. This adds charm and surprise that the grander garden lacked.

Mosaic in East Garden

Last is the small East Garden, for family use only. I don't notice any relentless symmetry, because I'm too busy staring at a colorful mosaic arch with twin white masks on either side. Then the guide casually mentions the strawberry tree, and I'm all over it. It's the most peculiar-looking fruit I've seen: yellow-orange puffballs that remind me of Nerf toys. The guide says it's edible and, if enough sugar is added, can pass for a decent jam. I wonder if modern strawberries were domesticated from these paltry fruits.

Fruit of a Strawberry Tree

Lunch

It's noon. Time to meet up with Ken and Debra and exchange notes.

I'm tired of the juggling act. Thus far, I've barely even stepped foot in the museum itself.  I'm resolved. After lunch, I'm going straight to the Byzantine exhibition, no more tours, no more delays. It's time to focus on why I came here.

Peasant's bread and pizza

We eat outdoors and the waiter brings our food. I dine on a thick, chewy peasant's bread with an apricot-peach spread. It's the kind of thing I imagine a Roman might eat. But I'm pretty sure they wouldn't eat my Margherita pizza, if for no reason than tomatoes came to Italy from the New World.

Church

Rome fell. That's what the historians say. Problem is, the people living at the time didn't realize this. Emperor Constantine thought that by moving the capital to the city of Byzantium (present day Istanbul, Turkey), he was ensuring Rome's continuation, not starting a whole new Empire.

When I step foot into the Byzantine exhibition (no pictures allowed!), I see signs of this transition. The room is painted in bright classical blues with white accents. I see Romanesque busts and inlaid chests of Bellerophon slaying the chimera. The plaque I read explains that between 4th-6th centuries a hybrid of pagan-Christian beliefs permeated the culture.

Roman Bust.

This hybridization is best displayed by a plain marble slab chiseled with leaves and a flower: the gravestone of Athenodora. "The earth received and now owns this young mother, while her children crave for milk," the inscription sadly states. A cross before her name indicates she was Christian but her name ("lover of Athena") and her education were pagan.

By the next room, I'm definitely in Byzantine territory. The walls are red with dark brown panelling. The first thing I see is a photograph of the insides of the Monastery of Hosios Loukas (1000-1025 AD), tall enough to take up most of the wall. Domes painted with religious imagery spark my imagination.

Icon of St. Michael. From sign.

When people think of the Byzantine art, they think of two things: icons and mosiacs. A portrait of the Virgin Mary and child combines both. Bits dull blue glass make up her robe, peach rock chips her face, and gold-plated tesserae her halo. Time has cracked the mosaic, splitting the mother's face and the child's hand. I can see the red wood underneath, where the tiles were laid.

Another icon shows a red-clothed Virgin Mary gazing at the angel in the corner with a "grief-stricken visage," as though suddenly overcome with a premonition of her boy's death. Meanwhile the tiny, odd-looking Christ baby makes a peace sign. On a communal cloth, an older Christ holds an urn while two silver seraphim stand as guard. (These seraphim are literally nothing but interlocking wings.) This is an example of a woven icon. Down the hall good old Bellerophon has been replaced by a curly-headed Saint George who slew dragon in place of a chimera.

I see jewelry and chandeliers and tiled bathing floors and many more things. I cannot write down everything, but I feel satisfied. My goal was to see the exhibition and now I have: a fleeting glimpse of life in another age.

Travelogue: Civil War Re-Enactment, Part 8

The Meaning of the Civil War

Event: Civil War Enactment
Date: Sunday, February 16, 2014
Location: Calico Ghost Town

The little train chug-chugs into Calico station.  We are off on one final ride before the day comes to an end.  I stand looking at the rocky hills, the blue desert sky, the Union banners flapping in the wind. Can there really be a connection between Calico and the Civil War?  Or is it all just a game of make believe?

Calico Train and Union Banner

I think back to the old Confederate soldier who showed me the supplies.

"I come from a family of cotton pickers and pecan pickers," he told me.  "I'm proud of my blue collar roots.  Even today--except for teachers--there are no professionals in my family."

His ancestors had originally settled in the South, before the Civil War disrupted their lives.  Between the utter destruction of property during the war and the slow and often vindictive nature of Reconstruction, the Southern economy was in shambles.  Soldiers had no home to return to.  Jobs dried up.  Many had no choice but to move elsewhere.  The old Confederate's family, along with countless other families, moved west, settling empty lands and filling up the Western United States.

"The Civil War gave Manifest Destiny a kick in the butt," the old Confederate soldier concluded.

Which brings me back to Calico.  The town is rooted squarely in the Cowboys-and-Indians era of American history.  Would that era have come about in such a dramatic fashion, if not for the Civil War?  The old Confederate argues that the lawlessness of the Wild West did not come about because people up and decided they wanted to break the law.  They robbed banks, because they were desperate.

View from the Train

The train pulls in.  I take a seat in the shade and pull out my camera to snap shots of tunnels and yellow deposits of clay.  The creaky overhead voice announces points of interest: the old settlement ruins, the richest silver mine, Chinatown.  My mind is still full of the events of the past.

"Little children come up to me and say, 'Why are you the bad guy?' " said a man in a gray Confederate uniform.  "It's not as simple as that.  This may offend some people, but you can't just take textbooks at their word.  You have to do your own research."

"I always tell people 750,000 Americans died in the Civil War," said the old Confederate soldier.  "Not Northerners.  Not Southerners.  Americans."

Americans

THE END

* * *

Disclaimer: All quotes are approximate.

* * *

Thank you for all those who patiently read through all these long-winded articles.  I hope you, like me, were able to learn just a little more about this fascinating period.  I owe a debt of gratitude to the Civil War re-enactors who spend so much of their time, money, and energy making history come alive.  You are awesome!  Thank you.

Travelogue: Civil War Re-Enactment, Part 7

Battle of the Schoolhouse

Event: Civil War Re-Enactment
Date: Sunday, February 16, 2014
Location: Calico Ghost Town

Schoolhouse

The yellow ropes are back.  This time, Union soldiers occupy the upper road at the top of the main hill.  Their cannons point across a gully, toward the Confederate cannon on a second hill, where the old schoolhouse stands.  A Union soldier explains the ropes are for our own safety.  The gunpowder's real, and it's dangerous.

"Why don't you use real bullets, too?" quips a member of the audience.

"We'd have a hard time recruiting new people," the soldier replies.

Union Cannon Faces Confederate Cannon

I can't see the schoolhouse at all--one of the restaurants blocks it off.  The best I can do is peer across the gully from cannon to cannon.  The Union troops wait in lines, as the cannon is loaded.  Warning is given.  The cannon blasts.  At the same time, a unit of Union soldiers breaks off from the main group and makes for the schoolhouse.

It takes me a minute to figure out why.  The barrage of cannon fire gives the infantry cover.  They can march more safely when everyone's distracted by the Boom!  Sure enough, each time the Union cannons fire, another unit of foot soldiers take off.

Union Barrage

The Confederates fire back.  I don't know what kind of gunpowder they're sticking in, but their Booms! seems exponentially louder than the Union's.  Maybe it's because I know when to expect a blast from the Union cannon--I see the men load it and hear the leader shout "Fire!"  The Confederates take me by surprise; that makes the noise louder.  So I start to watch the Confederate cannon very closely.

Boom! goes the Confederate cannon

Boom! replies the Union cannon.

Suddenly, cheers break out from the audience.  I turn my head just in time to see the last unit of blue-coated soldiers go running down into the gully.  The flag bearer stands tall, as Union troops kneel and fire.  Snap, snap, snap.  Smoke wafts around them.



Charging Across the Gully

The artillery can't deal with this.  It's up to a few Confederate gunmen to hold the hill from the advance of Union troops.  There's something very Western about the scene.  The Confederates play a feisty group of bandits, the Union is the long arm of the law.  As the blue-coats fire their riffles in unison, a Confederate falls.  The audience Awws sympathetically.

Other stuff's going on, too.  The cannons keep firing.  Union soldiers sent out earlier are most likely conducting some awesome raid on the Confederate camp that I can't see at all.  Some green-coated Union sharpshooters invade the gully itself but die before they reach the cannons.  (I question the veracity of the term "sharpshooter.")



Fighting in the Gully: Confederates and Green Coat

Mostly, though, I'm entranced by the drama taking place at the base of the hill.  It's a shoot out!  Even though the Confederates have the high ground, the Union's superior numbers prove to be too much.  The Confederates drop like flies, until only a single soldier remains.

It looks like a firing squad.  The Union blasts at the lone Confederate, smoke pouring forth from their riffles.

Fun fact!  Do you know that the riffles in the Civil War were atrociously inaccurate?  Why, only a few hours earlier, some of the Confederates told me that getting hit with a bullet was considered an act of divine providence--if a minie ball pierced your heart, God clearly meant you to die.



Last Stand

And so, despite the fact that the lone Confederate is maybe ten feet away, not one of the Union soldiers can bring him down.  The Confederate gunman shoots a pistol into the thick of blue-coats.  Same result; not one of the enemy dies.  It's almost comical how close they stand and yet can't kill each other.  This would be a good time for bayonets, but those are banned for safety reasons.

At last the valiant Confederate receives a shoulder wound.  He holds his ground, but it's over.  The Union soldiers shoot, and he falls into the dust.  Now the Union soldiers are free to capture the cannon.

Union Takes the Hill

From the furthest edges of my vision, I see the porch of the schoolhouse.  Union soldiers have taken it.  They march to the Confederate cannon to join their brothers in claiming victory.  The star-spangled banner flaps triumphantly in the wind.

Then, as if on cue, the dead soldiers rise zombie-like from the ground.

The audience applauds.

Confederate Cannon

* * *

To Be Continued...

Disclaimer: All quotes are approximate.

Travelogue: Civil War Re-Enactment, Part 6

Grant's Press Conference

Event: Civil War Re-Enactment
Date: Sunday, February 16, 2014
Location: Calico Ghost Town

On the main street stage, General U.S. Grant is having technical difficulties.  The same electronic equipment that gives him access to the microphone also plays soft but distracting frontier music.  Eventually, Grant just shuts it off, to the applause of the audience.

Grant on Stage

"I never did care for music," he says.  "The military band wanted to know my favorite song, so they could play it during dinner.  I told them I have two.  One's 'Yankee Doodle.'  And the other one isn't."

Grant is wearing a black coat with shiny buttons on it.  It's a civilian frock with the military insignia's sewn on--a duster, like he saw Zachary Taylor wear.  He's got a cigar in his hand; after being asked a question, he puts it to his mouth, pausing for reply.  A man in the audience asks why he smokes cigars.  Grant answers in this day and age everyone smokes.

  But he's very ardent that doesn't drink.  Not at this time, toward the end of the Civil War. (Though drinking did cause him disgrace earier in his military career.)  Someone in the audience starts to press him on this matter.  Here the impersonator breaks character and says that as a former Marine and someone who followed Grant since he was 8, he's convinced that General Grant could not have run a successful military campaign if he were drunk.

There are many other stories.  Like the time Grant took his son to a hotel and no one knew who he was until he signed the guest book.  Thereupon everyone made such a fuss that he couldn't eat.  That same night there was a reception for his upcoming promotion, but someone forgot to invite.  Someone whisked him away at the last minute.  The room parted like the red sea when he arrived; they made him stand on a sofa so everyone could see him. Lincoln spoke to Grant afterwards and expressly told him not to give him his military plans, because Lincoln, by his own admittance, was a terrible gossip.

A Terrible Gossip

But my favorite vignette is brief and telling.

The Battle of Shiloh, 1862. The first day of fighting didn't go well.  The Confederate general took Grant by surprise.  The expected reinforcements didn't come in until later that evening.  In the midst of all this chaos, Grant sat under a tree, whittling.

"We lost today," Sherman commented.

"Yep," Grant calmly replied.  "We'll whip 'em tomorrow."

And they did.

* * *

To Be Continued...

Disclaimer: All quotes are approximate.

Travelogue: Civil War Re-Enactment, Part 5

Intermission  

Event: Civil War Re-Enactment
Date: Sunday, February 16, 2014
Location: Calico Ghost Town

Between the heat, the dust, and the gunpowder smoke, my throat's gotten pretty dry.  It's around noon. Time for lunch!

Cold Drinks and Peanuts

Evidently, everyone else has the same idea.  The Calico House Restaurant is crowded.  A sign says to seat ourselves, so we do. A salt and pepper holder made from horseshoes sits on the blue checkered tablecloth.  So does a complimentary bucket of peanuts.  Families husk the peanuts and toss the shells on the hardwood floor.

My mom refuses to create a mess.  She collects her shells in a neat pile on the table.

The menu includes such old West easting as pulled pork sandwich, BBQ beef sandwich, and a bowl of chili--each for under $10.  But I already know what I want: a buffalo burger!  Mostly I just want to add buffalo to the list of unusual foods I've eaten.

Buffalo Burger

We order specialty house sodas--sarsaparilla and boysenberry--which come in large ice-filled mason jars. As I soothe my throat with the cool drinks, I look around.  The restaurant is full of country charm.  There are black and white photos, red walls, white window sills, and waitresses in costume.

Before I know it, the food's here.  I chomp down on my burger.  The buffalo is dry and tastes slightly different from beef in a way I can't quite identify.  A few more bites, however, and that subtle difference is wiped clean off my palate.  It just tastes like a hamburger after that.

We're just finishing up, when we hear the sounds of fiddles from outside.  The band is playing on the front porch and people are line dancing on the street. I watch, for a minute, as they clap and twirl, tourists and cowboys, adults and children.

Dancing in the Street

* * *

To Be Continued...

Travelogue: Civil War Re-Enactment, Part 4

Battle of the Ruins

Event: Civil War Re-Enactment
Date: Sunday, February 16, 2014
Location: Calico Ghost Town

I remember a comical episode from the First Battle of Bull Run and Manassas.  It was summer of 1861, the war had just started, and confidence ran high that the Union would whip the rebels quick and go back to business as usual.  The war was all so amusing that Northern picnickers sat in the fields behind the Union lines in order to watch the festivities.  It grew less amusing when Union troops lost the battle and broke into a frenzied retreat.  Thereupon the picnickers realized they were closer to the action than they liked, hauled up their baskets, and scrambled away before Union and Confederate troops alike trampled their beloved blankets.

That's sort of how I feel right now--like one of those picnickers eager to exploit the war for my own selfish entertainment.  The scent of popcorn fills the air as bystanders claim their seats upon the rocks.  I'm irritated because no matter where I go, I can't get a perfect view.

Ruins and Stage

The Union troops occupy the ruins of Chinatown.  I look at the maze of crumbled orange walls and my mind thinks "fort."  The ruins are the battlements, the center stage is the inner keep, the log fence is the outer wall, and the stairs leading into the fort is the main front gate.

A Confederate cannon sits a few feet from my newly imagined gate.  Unfortunately, I can barely see it, because a stupid tree blocks my view.  I also wouldn't mind getting closer to the fence, so as to take better picture of the blue-uniformed soldiers, but no, a yellow rope cuts me off.  At last I give up and find a nice rock to sit on.

Later I do get a good picture.  BOOM!

I'm chatting with my dad about Pickett's Charge, when the blast of the Confederate cannon loudly announces the start of the battle.  It sounds like a firecracker and makes me jump.

In response, a battalion of perhaps 12 Union soldiers form a line along the wall and open fire on the cannon.  Their guns sound rather less fearsome.  Sort of like snapping.  White smoke discharges from their guns and wafts around them.  I suddenly wonder if whoever coined the phrase "fog of war" meant it literally.

The cannon replies to the gunshots.  BOOM.  There's a pause as everyone reloads.  The Union opens fire.  Snap, snap, snap.  Pause.  BOOM.  Pause.  Snap, snap, snap.  Pause.  BOOM.

Union Soldiers Open Fire

The snapping reminds me of the popcorn.  But soon after I think it, the air begins to reek of rotten eggs, and I'm vividly reminded that one of the three main ingredients in gunpowder is sulfur--the other two being charcoal and potassium nitrate (saltpeter).

I can think about things like the ingredients in gunpowder, because the action thus far hasn't been gripping.  The Confederate's frontal assault seems neither imaginative nor very well thought-out.  A lone cannon to take out a fort?  How do they possibly expect to--

"Get out, you Yankee Dogs."

Confederates Emerge from Behind

My head snaps away from the tree--er, cannon.  A gang of Confederate soldiers have emerged from out of nowhere behind the Union line, pinning the blue soldiers between their guns and the cannon.  The taunt gives the Union troops time to pull into a defensive position.  The rebels open fire.  Snap, snap, snap.  BOOM! I flinch as the cannon goes off again.

The Union soldiers back up against the wall.  Suddenly shots ring from the distant hills.  A couple Confederate gunman, like outlaws, open fire on the walled fortress.  Now the Union is beset by three sides.

Somehow the cannon's moved up to the fortress while I was distracted by the gunmen.  Wait!  It's not just a cannon.  There are Confederate troops as well.  (Curse you tree for blocking my view!)  The troops have breeched the gate and are climbing down the stairs.  They're taking over the ruins!  Union!  Get your act together!

Marching on the Gate

Everything's moving so quickly, even though none of the soldiers seem to rush.  The Confederate troops who emerged from behind the Union line ("Get out, you Yankee Dogs!") march between the yellow rope and the fence, turn the curve, and make for the front gate stairs.  They march--they don't run.  Yet I can't keep track of the action.  The blasts of gunpowder draw my attention from hills to cannon to Union line and back.  People end up where they're not supposed to be.  The fort is overrun.

The blue-coated soldiers fall back to the center stage.  They're rallying around the Union flag.  But it's too late.  The Confederates have moved in.  The Union gives ground and gives ground, until they're pushed out of the fort completely.  A few last shots from the hills, and it's over.

The rebels hoist their flag in the center of the fort and stand in solemn attention.  A lone bugle plays an anthem.  The Confederates have won this round.

Confederate Salute

* * *

To Be Continued...

Disclaimer: All quotes are approximate.