Sunrise in the Black Hat Brigade Camp The Battle of the Wilderness, April, 1996

So, what is there to know about me that's worthwhile?

 

Good question; you'll be the best judge of the answer. Here are some data on which to base your decision:

My first responsibilities are as a husband and father, to my wife, Mary, to my daughter Kate, to our Border Collie, Toby (Ursus Tobibilus Canis Maximus), and to our Dachshund, Spunky (Spunkus Ludicrous Canis Wiggilus). Our house is a busy place, and I readily admit to being very fond of all its inhabitants. Being the father at my house means being the one who fixes things that are broken, and I'm happy to report that the money I spent on tools, and the time I spent learning to use them in my otherwise misspent youth, have stood me in good stead. There's nothing quite like the beaming gratitude on my daughter's face, when I succeed in returning a favorite but unfortunate toy to service.

 

The view from Little Round Top

 

The pictures on this page suggest that I have interests outside the home, however, and that is true. Among other things I am a competition target shooter, competing in a regional smallbore league, and in high-power service rifle matches sponsored by the American Legion. I also serve as an instructor at Civilian Marksmanship Program clinics. I very much enjoy the mental discipline and self-control which marksmanship requires. These attributes are also required of the analytical geochemist, and I find that much of what I do as a marksman is very similar to doing geochemistry. I am a member of a local sportsmen's club, which I serve on the second Sunday of every month (at least) as a range officer. Together with two comrades-in-arms, I am responsible for the safe operation of rifle and pistol ranges which are open to our members and to the public.

 

The Copse of Trees from Seminary Ridge

 

At one time, my residence permitted me an almost unlimited opportunity to do hiking and backpacking, and, though this is no longer the case, I retain undiminished my former delight at being alone in the woods.

 

In the cedars at Stone's River

 

I am an avid reader, of history almost exclusively. When I was a boy, my grandfather taught me little bits of songs that seemed old and a little odd, and used phrases I never heard anyone else use. I remember that he once gave me to read a boy's history of the Battle of Gettysburg, and would speak from time to time about places like Little Round Top and Seminary Ridge. It wasn't until I reached manhood, and discovered that I had a passionate interest in The War Between the States, that I realized what he had been teaching me.

 

The Peach Orchard, Shiloh

 

I had been reading histories of the War for quite some time when a friend told me late one November that he was going to Arkansas to participate in a reenactment of the Battle of Prairie Grove, which, though somewhat small-scale and indecisive in itself, turns out to have been a pivotal battle in that it kept the Confederate armies out of northern Arkansas for the duration of the conflict. I was fully prepared for the thing to be a large and expensive joke, but yielded, and went along with him that first week in December to see what I could see. When we arrived at the little state park on the site of the battle, they were in the midst of an ice storm and all the tents were rigid. (At the end of the weekend when the tent poles were removed, the tents still stood.)

I had a wonderful time.

The most important moment for me came during the march to the battlefield along an unpaved country lane. We had gone out from the camp to a ford used by Union troops and were headed towards the fight. There were woods on either side of the lane, and no anachronisms visible anywhere. It was cold, and snowing; great round fluffy flakes were soughing down through the trees and rolling off men's shoulders, and the only things that there were, were the woods and the snow, and the lane, and a column of men in blue uniforms marching along in silence. Up ahead, the cannon, 12-lb Napoleons, began to boom, signalling the opening of the engagement, and I felt my stomach tighten. I was new at this, and found myself praying after a fashion: "Oh Lord, please don't let me screw up." It was then that I realized that that's how they had felt, and why people went out in such places to reenact their battles. I've been a reenactor ever since.

 

Bloody Lane, Shiloh

 

The full experience of battle can never be known unless there's lead in the air, and we use blanks, of course, but still there have been other "magic moments," as we call them, in the years since the first. That evening, 'round the campfire, I heard someone play the fife (To this day I don't know who it was.) and bought one for myself the next morning. I have learned to play it, do so at every opportunity, and now usually serve as a field musician at reenactments rather than as an infantryman. My unit is Company B, Second Wisconsin Volunteer Infantry; we were part of the old Iron Brigade -- "them black-hatted fellers" as the Confederates called us. If you happen to get to a reenactment, see if you can find our camp; but if you do, don't be surprised if we seem to be speaking a different language: We are living in a world that only just knows about electricity and is still lit by fire. Abraham Lincoln is President.

 

On The March, Prairie Grove

 

Better yet, come join us.

 

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