A Week to Remember

It started out looking stressful and not worth the work. Dad and I were going to make a trip to Randle, WA, for Colonial Encampment. This is an event where you reenact what it was like in the eighteenth century, specifically pre-Revolutionary War.

We left on Wednesday morning, the 22nd, and drove for six hours. The drive was pretty uneventful, so I won't go into detail there. We did get stuck behind a ridiculously slow vehicle where there was no good opportunity to pass for a loooong way. Needless to say, we got there in one piece.

I am going to list our camp mates because some of them take part in the story I am about to tell you (yes, this is just the introduction, the juicy part is coming.). We had Steve (Dad's good friend of approximately twenty years) and his nine year old daughter Elizabeth. Also included were friends Paul and Dave. And the life of the party was Cal otherwise known as Foushee (foo-shay). Cal brought his friend, Carl.

(This is not the story yet.) Cal is a hoot. He had an obsession with what he called Molly Burgers the whole time we were there. Every morning he would go searching for this not so marvelous delicacy; he found a couple once but neglected to cook them up. He was jesting most of the time. Finally, on Sunday morning, Dad gave Cal a Molly. Cal, believe it or not when you find out what it is, fried it up with lots of garlic and ate the whole thing. It was disgusting! He is still alive to tell the tale.

Days were spent with Elizabeth and I doing the kid's games and picking apples and blackberries. Nights were spent playing rip roaring games of Shut-the-Box and playing the fiddle for the whole camp's enjoyment.

Speaking of playing the fiddle, something more than complements and tips came of it....and not what you would expect. Read on if you dare....

It all started with a scavenger hunt on Friday morning. Elizabeth and I were supposed to go throughout the camp looking for certain primitive items. When we found the items, we were to have whoever had it sign their name next to it. We made our way to a certain camp that belonged to a Glenn Richardson who just happened to be in charge of the tavern and the president of the association who puts the whole thing on. Here is how it happened:

Me: "Do you have a block of tea?"

Glenn: "Yes I most certainly do. It's right here," He holds it up for Elizabeth and me to see.

Me: "What's your name?"

Onlookers: "Awww, make him sign it! He can do the work!"

I handed him the paper and pencil.

Glenn's friend: "Hey, don't sign that until you make a deal with her!" He looks at me, "You're the fiddle player, right?"

Me: "Yep."

Glenn's friend: "Glenn, have her play at the tavern tonight and then sign the paper."

Glenn: "Melissa, does that sound like a deal to you?"

Me: "Sure."

That was how it all started. Later that night I got out my fiddle and had all intentions of playing at said location when it opened. It didn't open. And I waited. Finally, after practicing my fill, I put my fiddle in it's case and decided to play the next night. I couldn't remember which night he had said anyway.

Next morning, I was assigned by Cal to take pictures of an "Indian" fight that was going to happen down by the river. Cal, a licensed (primitive) surveyor to the state of Virginia, was going to show Glenn and his friend some surveying. Cal had gone into the Indian camp and told them what he was going to be doing and where. He said that he didn't want any trouble from them. Open invitation. So, I took the pictures as the men shot black powder at each other in a grownup match of cowboys and Indians with colonists instead.

Meanwhile, Glenn and his friend had not been able to come down right away because of a militia muster back at camp. But, they were there when the action ended. "Why didn't you play at the tavern last night?" Glenn asked inquisitively.

"I couldn't exactly remember what you had told me." I answered nonchalantly.

"Hmm, I'm going to have to bring this before the magistrate."

I giggled. Magistrate? Whatever that means...

I got back to camp and watched Elizabeth and Cal play a couple rounds of Shut-the-Box. I was just in the middle of my turn when Daddy and another guy come into camp. Dad said gravely, "I'm sorry Melissa, but we have a warrant for your arrest."

"Why? What did I do?" I hung my head in mock shame as they locked a heavy "bracelet" onto my right hand wrist.

"We'll attach the other end to Mr. Fields," said the crude looking fellow who accompanied my dad.

I wasn't sure what to think as they dragged me to the grove of trees that served as the courthouse. Many people were gathered around to watch the trial. There was a jury of about ten men, some of whom I was acquainted. The presiding judge was none other that Mr. Glenn Richardson. Great. It wouldn't have been so bad except that I knew there were stocks located outside the tavern.

They brought me over to a scary looking man dressed in a loin cloth and linen shirt. (Even though he looks really scary, he's actually very nice.) His arms and legs were tattooed with designs depicting an American Indian from that time period. His blondish hair was tied in a messy pony tail atop his head; feathers and horse hair were poking out of it in all directions. His teeth were another thing; not the sort of smile anyone would want to be stuck with. He went by the name of Critter. His real name was Timothy Fields. You guessed it. They handcuffed him to the other end of my bracelet. He whispered over to me, "I could throw you over my shoulder and we could make a run for it."

"Nah." I decided I would rather not ride on his shoulder.

Critter was accused of using counterfeit shilling notes to buy drinks at the tavern the previous night. After much debate the jury let him go if he would help look for the one who made the counterfeit notes.

I was next. I, of course, was charged with not keeping my word. Yeah, we knew that already, didn't we? They read the charge in such a way that I didn't quite know what they were talking about. (The whole trial was conducted like in the eighteenth century; accents, big words, etc.)

"How do you plead, Miss Wilson?"

"Not guilty?" I wasn't sure what to say.

They asked me a few questions about my charge and then, "How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

"Are you apprenticed to someone at home, or do you have someone whose authority you are under here?"

"Well, this is my dad," I pointed at the under sheriff to my right; my dad.

They asked him questions and finally deducted that a young lady should not be allowed in a tavern in the first place unless they were of lesser demeanor.

Glenn piped up, "At her age she's practically a spinster; she should already be married and have family!" (He was just teasing.)

Not fair.

The jury decided that to pay my debt I must play my fiddle at the tavern that night for free. They also said that they would open it earlier so that everyone could attend. They said they would keep the rowdiness in check so that it would be a place suitable for all.
I played that night and everyone appreciated it greatly. I made twenty eight dollars in tips and had the privilege of a "Scotsman" dancing to one of my reels and one of my jigs. It was great! I hated to leave the next morning.