Steve and I arrived in Shreveport, Louisiana after a drive of about 10 hours. It was probably about 7PM when I pulled into the local Shoney's restaurant and I made a call home. I had one of these new-fangled cell phones, but it was contained in a leather bag, looking like a ladies handbag. To get it to work, one had to plug one end in the cigarette lighter. The hand held receiver part was almost as big as a loaf of bread, with an antenna a yard long. After some moments, I talked to the wife and told her we made it alive, then I placed a call to Ralph.
I'd promised to give him a call, as well. He asked me to call him back after we pulled into the event site and let him know if there were any sutlers. He wanted to buy a Hardee hat or some shit. Either before or after I made the call, Steve and I went into the Shoney's to eat. The only other meal we'd had on the way down was a hastily devoured drive-thru grease burger. We both felt we should chow down one last time on a restaurant meal before entering the seven-day wilderness journey with nothing but poorly cooked bacon, beans, and burnt coffee to sustain us.
Walking into the Shoney's, I immediately noticed that at nearly every table was a one-gallon plastic tub for the diners to throw bits of garbage into. I couldn't figure out what the deal was, until Steve and I walked up to the buffet table.
At one end of the steam table, next to the fried chicken, meat loaf, mashed potatoes and gravy, was a 3-foot square metal tub of boiled Cajun style crawfish. This is the only place and the only restaurant in America where I saw an entire section of a buffet table set-aside for these miniature lobsters. Now I understood what the one-gallon plastic tubs were for. They were for the crawdad skins after you ate the little spoonful of meat out of the ass end. I'd eaten some of these bastards before, at Natchez, Mississippi, during the NORTH AND SOUTH miniseries, so I knew what to expect.
Even as I stood around in wonderment, little kids as young as five years old, were elbowing me out of the way, just to spoon big piles of those creatures on their plates. Oh, well, when in Rome! Without hesitation, I spooned some crawdads on my plate and was soon burning my lips on the cayenne pepper seasoning. Steve Hall is a slight fellow; not weighing more than 98 pounds soaking wet. I think he passed on the crawdads and confined himself to the salad bar and Jell-O.
After this hearty meal, it was probably after nine, Steve and I decided we should head on down the road and look for the event. My gas tank was about empty, but I figured there'd be a station outside the city limits. Once we got going however, it was like stepping out the door into the dark. Where the city ended, there was nothing on the other side. In most towns, you figure you'd see a few motels and a convenience store, setting on the fringe of the city limits! We drove a good ten miles or more, on the other side of Shreveport, but there was nothing in sight!
The needle on my gas tank was in the red and I was afraid the SUV would die somewhere in the middle of the boondocks, with nobody around but the inbreds of the bayou. I remember seeing a movie called SOUTHERN COMFORT where these National Guardsmen were terrorized by angry Cajuns, and that's what I feared.
A few miles down the road was an exit ramp, but there was nothing there! Just a road going off into the woods. So I turned around and drove all the way back to Shreveport. Thank God we made it back! By this time the SUV was probably running on fumes, but the vehicle did not let me down. Come to find out, we still had another 60 miles to go before reaching the event, and just as I suspected, there wasn't another gas station between here and there.
With a full tank of gas, Steve and I headed back down the highway again. Some months earlier, after sending in the $50 registration, I received a "confirmation package," which included a Provost Pass, ration pass, a validity slip for muster rolls, a pass into camp, and a parking pass.
Most of that paper crap was just that, crap! It was just to prove that you were you. The most important piece of paper was the one that told you how to "get into the damn event site." After finding the correct turn-off spot, we followed a one-lane gravel road to the town of Pleasant Hill. This was near the site of the 1864 battle of the same name, but the town itself couldn't have been bigger than a football field! There were only about a half dozen buildings on Main Street (that I saw at this late hour), not including the local one room firehouse. The town supposedly has a population of 200, but I couldn't see where they hid them all. There was one building which was pretty empty except there was an old geezer still awake inside who claimed to be a member of the local historical society. He took our signatures on a sign-in sheet and tried to sell us a T-shirt and other 130th anniversary trinkets out of cardboard boxes. Against my better judgment, I bought a I SURVIVED THE RED RIVER EVENT T-shirt and a Battle of Pleasant Hill 30-page booklet.
The old boy, with a heavy southern drawl as thick as lumpy gravy, informed us that all the "Yankee" boys had already been bused to 'Nak-a-tosh' and we'd have to wait till the morning for a bus ride. Just across the narrow one-way street, was a big green Army tent. Inside this tent was about a dozen folding cots. The old southern gentleman told us that the National Guard had set that up and we were welcome to bed there till daybreak-which we did.
Before going to bed, I told Steve that I was going to use my car phone, but here in this part of Louisiana, I couldn't get a clear signal. The old geezer said there was a pay phone a few miles up the street. I drove to a general store that looked right out of Petticoat Junction. Inside, I met Ma and Pa Kettle and three barefoot brats who were baby-sitting a rack of potato chips, a cooler full of beer, videotapes for rent, and scratch off lottery tickets.
There was a pay phone on the porch, next to the coin operated VENDO-BAIT machine, so I placed a call to Ralph and told him there wasn't any sutlers and not to bother bringing any folding money, unless he wanted to buy a T-shirt or some 'shine.
Come sunup, Steve and I changed into our civil war duds and I moved my Explorer about a quarter-mile to the parking lot (just an old cow pasture). We nibbled on donuts and coffee, which I think was provided by the historical society (might have been the same old geezer from last night). A short time later the school bus came around the corner.
On reaching the intersection, we bailed out because here was about one hundred late arrivals, milling about on both sides of the two-lane blacktop. These were some "Yankee" boys, who had overslept, missed the bus, or just arrived in town. Steve and I dropped our packs at our feet and waited, with the rest of the mob.
I was puffing on my cherry wood pipe and had smoked about half a bowl, when someone spotted something on the other side of the levee. All that could be seen were the tops of regimental flags and the tops of rifles as the boys walked parallel with the levee. Finally, the boys marched out through a natural break in the levee and poured out onto the highway like water from a bucket. Now the horse drawn stuff, including the artillery had taken the roadway all this time. They would have gotten stuck in the bog-like conditions. Coming up out of the ground was all the infantry boys.
Steve and I shouted a hearty HUZZAH as we spotted the Holmes Brigade boys, then we shouldered our stuff and fell into step. Everyone was marching at the route step, as if it was nothing more than an early Easter Sunday stroll-which it was!
There were about thirty Holmes Brigade lads that were here this day, including Mike Gosser, Phil Curran, Gary Crane, Joe Amos, John Peterson, a cat named Kirk Freeman, Roger Forsyth, Captain Don Strother, Mark Strother, and Kyle Bean. These are the only names I recall after 12 years. There was also one guy, who's name I've forgotten, who did a dead-on impression of Jimmy Stewart. At any given moment, he'd bust out with some Jimmy Stewart dialogue from the movie, SHENANDOAH. He had everybody rolling with laughter. He had a buddy with him, some sort of weasel-looking guy. I don't recall either of their names.
As can be expected, we laughed, giggled, and told stories throughout the entire morning as the miles disappeared under our feet. After Steve and I joined the party, the army marched up the paved highway for about a mile or two, then went up a country trail that cut through a deep wooded forest. The local police were on hand to block traffic while we plodded along.
Whenever stuff like this happens, i.e., a reenactment group passes over public roads, some type of highway patrol or police department follows alongside us with flashing lights or stops traffic at a road block so we can pass unmolested. We appreciate that courtesy, as we don't want to get run over by an 18-wheeler or a family car. This inconvenience to the motorists only lasts a few minutes with only a few catcalls along the lines of "Yankee Go Home!" or "The South Will Rise Again!"
After leaving civilization and striking off into the woods, it was if we'd been swallowed up. I'll not attempt to explain the wild haunted forests we navigated ourselves through or the crooked country roads that caused blisters and ankle twists. Suffice to say the National Guard Medical people worked overtime on mostly minor foot ailments. By the time the event ended, six days later, most of us had developed a fond relationship for Dr. Scholl and his many foot remedies. A personal favorite for many was 'mole skin'; a wafer-thin piece of padding that protected open blisters.
That first night, we camped in a wooded area. The ground was fairly flat all around and most of the trees were only saplings, growing about a foot apart from one another. Some areas were thick with poison ivy and poison oak, so we had to be aware where we sat. I don't remember being bothered by bugs, with the exception of the 'chigger in the waistband.' We were too far away from open water to be bothered by 'skeeters.'
With that said, John Peterson recalls an episode in which "the battalion came to a halt and we were allowed to plop down on either side of the road. Roger Forsyth sat down, then just as quickly jumped up to discover his whole right side, from hip to knee was covered with red fire ants." The National Guard came to the rescue, but I don't remember if they used a broom, insect spray or gasoline to get the monsters off Roger. Needless to say, he probably carried a few hundred tiny bite marks for many days.
IF YOU WANNA READ MORE, BUY THE BOOK.
Please visit Two Trails Publishing for more great Civil War related titles, as well as CHIN MUSIC FROM A GREYHOUND Volume Two. It is listed in the new titles section.
Walking into the Shoney's, I immediately noticed that at nearly every table was a one-gallon plastic tub for the diners to throw bits of garbage into. I couldn't figure out what the deal was, until Steve and I walked up to the buffet table.
At one end of the steam table, next to the fried chicken, meat loaf, mashed potatoes and gravy, was a 3-foot square metal tub of boiled Cajun style crawfish. This is the only place and the only restaurant in America where I saw an entire section of a buffet table set-aside for these miniature lobsters. Now I understood what the one-gallon plastic tubs were for. They were for the crawdad skins after you ate the little spoonful of meat out of the ass end. I'd eaten some of these bastards before, at Natchez, Mississippi, during the NORTH AND SOUTH miniseries, so I knew what to expect.
Even as I stood around in wonderment, little kids as young as five years old, were elbowing me out of the way, just to spoon big piles of those creatures on their plates. Oh, well, when in Rome! Without hesitation, I spooned some crawdads on my plate and was soon burning my lips on the cayenne pepper seasoning. Steve Hall is a slight fellow; not weighing more than 98 pounds soaking wet. I think he passed on the crawdads and confined himself to the salad bar and Jell-O.
After this hearty meal, it was probably after nine, Steve and I decided we should head on down the road and look for the event. My gas tank was about empty, but I figured there'd be a station outside the city limits. Once we got going however, it was like stepping out the door into the dark. Where the city ended, there was nothing on the other side. In most towns, you figure you'd see a few motels and a convenience store, setting on the fringe of the city limits! We drove a good ten miles or more, on the other side of Shreveport, but there was nothing in sight!
The needle on my gas tank was in the red and I was afraid the SUV would die somewhere in the middle of the boondocks, with nobody around but the inbreds of the bayou. I remember seeing a movie called SOUTHERN COMFORT where these National Guardsmen were terrorized by angry Cajuns, and that's what I feared.
A few miles down the road was an exit ramp, but there was nothing there! Just a road going off into the woods. So I turned around and drove all the way back to Shreveport. Thank God we made it back! By this time the SUV was probably running on fumes, but the vehicle did not let me down. Come to find out, we still had another 60 miles to go before reaching the event, and just as I suspected, there wasn't another gas station between here and there.
With a full tank of gas, Steve and I headed back down the highway again. Some months earlier, after sending in the $50 registration, I received a "confirmation package," which included a Provost Pass, ration pass, a validity slip for muster rolls, a pass into camp, and a parking pass.
Most of that paper crap was just that, crap! It was just to prove that you were you. The most important piece of paper was the one that told you how to "get into the damn event site." After finding the correct turn-off spot, we followed a one-lane gravel road to the town of Pleasant Hill. This was near the site of the 1864 battle of the same name, but the town itself couldn't have been bigger than a football field! There were only about a half dozen buildings on Main Street (that I saw at this late hour), not including the local one room firehouse. The town supposedly has a population of 200, but I couldn't see where they hid them all. There was one building which was pretty empty except there was an old geezer still awake inside who claimed to be a member of the local historical society. He took our signatures on a sign-in sheet and tried to sell us a T-shirt and other 130th anniversary trinkets out of cardboard boxes. Against my better judgment, I bought a I SURVIVED THE RED RIVER EVENT T-shirt and a Battle of Pleasant Hill 30-page booklet.
The old boy, with a heavy southern drawl as thick as lumpy gravy, informed us that all the "Yankee" boys had already been bused to 'Nak-a-tosh' and we'd have to wait till the morning for a bus ride. Just across the narrow one-way street, was a big green Army tent. Inside this tent was about a dozen folding cots. The old southern gentleman told us that the National Guard had set that up and we were welcome to bed there till daybreak-which we did.
Before going to bed, I told Steve that I was going to use my car phone, but here in this part of Louisiana, I couldn't get a clear signal. The old geezer said there was a pay phone a few miles up the street. I drove to a general store that looked right out of Petticoat Junction. Inside, I met Ma and Pa Kettle and three barefoot brats who were baby-sitting a rack of potato chips, a cooler full of beer, videotapes for rent, and scratch off lottery tickets.
There was a pay phone on the porch, next to the coin operated VENDO-BAIT machine, so I placed a call to Ralph and told him there wasn't any sutlers and not to bother bringing any folding money, unless he wanted to buy a T-shirt or some 'shine.
Come sunup, Steve and I changed into our civil war duds and I moved my Explorer about a quarter-mile to the parking lot (just an old cow pasture). We nibbled on donuts and coffee, which I think was provided by the historical society (might have been the same old geezer from last night). A short time later the school bus came around the corner.
On reaching the intersection, we bailed out because here was about one hundred late arrivals, milling about on both sides of the two-lane blacktop. These were some "Yankee" boys, who had overslept, missed the bus, or just arrived in town. Steve and I dropped our packs at our feet and waited, with the rest of the mob.
I was puffing on my cherry wood pipe and had smoked about half a bowl, when someone spotted something on the other side of the levee. All that could be seen were the tops of regimental flags and the tops of rifles as the boys walked parallel with the levee. Finally, the boys marched out through a natural break in the levee and poured out onto the highway like water from a bucket. Now the horse drawn stuff, including the artillery had taken the roadway all this time. They would have gotten stuck in the bog-like conditions. Coming up out of the ground was all the infantry boys.
Steve and I shouted a hearty HUZZAH as we spotted the Holmes Brigade boys, then we shouldered our stuff and fell into step. Everyone was marching at the route step, as if it was nothing more than an early Easter Sunday stroll-which it was!
There were about thirty Holmes Brigade lads that were here this day, including Mike Gosser, Phil Curran, Gary Crane, Joe Amos, John Peterson, a cat named Kirk Freeman, Roger Forsyth, Captain Don Strother, Mark Strother, and Kyle Bean. These are the only names I recall after 12 years. There was also one guy, who's name I've forgotten, who did a dead-on impression of Jimmy Stewart. At any given moment, he'd bust out with some Jimmy Stewart dialogue from the movie, SHENANDOAH. He had everybody rolling with laughter. He had a buddy with him, some sort of weasel-looking guy. I don't recall either of their names.
As can be expected, we laughed, giggled, and told stories throughout the entire morning as the miles disappeared under our feet. After Steve and I joined the party, the army marched up the paved highway for about a mile or two, then went up a country trail that cut through a deep wooded forest. The local police were on hand to block traffic while we plodded along.
Whenever stuff like this happens, i.e., a reenactment group passes over public roads, some type of highway patrol or police department follows alongside us with flashing lights or stops traffic at a road block so we can pass unmolested. We appreciate that courtesy, as we don't want to get run over by an 18-wheeler or a family car. This inconvenience to the motorists only lasts a few minutes with only a few catcalls along the lines of "Yankee Go Home!" or "The South Will Rise Again!"
After leaving civilization and striking off into the woods, it was if we'd been swallowed up. I'll not attempt to explain the wild haunted forests we navigated ourselves through or the crooked country roads that caused blisters and ankle twists. Suffice to say the National Guard Medical people worked overtime on mostly minor foot ailments. By the time the event ended, six days later, most of us had developed a fond relationship for Dr. Scholl and his many foot remedies. A personal favorite for many was 'mole skin'; a wafer-thin piece of padding that protected open blisters.
That first night, we camped in a wooded area. The ground was fairly flat all around and most of the trees were only saplings, growing about a foot apart from one another. Some areas were thick with poison ivy and poison oak, so we had to be aware where we sat. I don't remember being bothered by bugs, with the exception of the 'chigger in the waistband.' We were too far away from open water to be bothered by 'skeeters.'
With that said, John Peterson recalls an episode in which "the battalion came to a halt and we were allowed to plop down on either side of the road. Roger Forsyth sat down, then just as quickly jumped up to discover his whole right side, from hip to knee was covered with red fire ants." The National Guard came to the rescue, but I don't remember if they used a broom, insect spray or gasoline to get the monsters off Roger. Needless to say, he probably carried a few hundred tiny bite marks for many days.
IF YOU WANNA READ MORE, BUY THE BOOK.
Please visit Two Trails Publishing for more great Civil War related titles, as well as CHIN MUSIC FROM A GREYHOUND Volume Two. It is listed in the new titles section.
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