In the deep mid-winter, long a-ago

This past October(2013) I was able to attend the fall Market Fair at the Claude Moore Colonial Farm, in McLean, Virginia. I wasn't there in any sort of official capacity, just as a visitor; one of a growing group of us who like to attend this low-key event in period clothing. We don't have any sort of job to do there, but we do try to enhance the experience for the public, and we're quite fond of instigating sudden outbreaks of 18th-century Contra, or "Country" dance. This form of dance, for those who don't know, is part of the origin of Square Dancing, but is much more elegant. This is the form of dance the Washingtons, Jeffersons, and Adamses enjoyed at balls and parties. Given, though that at the time of October's fair, my femur had not yet begun healing, I had to diverg myself in other ways. Of course a bit of shopping was in order, especially since I don't really know where else to buy proper brass straight pins. Eating is always an important task, and generally hanging out with the musicians has been part of my Market Fair routine since before I had a group of friends to attend with. Oh, and the auction if you attend, you CANNOT miss Captain Samuel Slycke's descriptions of the items being auctioned to help support the farm, which is the ONLY privately-run and funded park in the entire National Park System. This time, however, I saw a kid standing on, and kicking apart, the remains of an old, badly rotted oak stump. The wood crumbled virtually to dust, with each kick. My immediate thought was "punk!" no, not the kid; the chunks of dry, crumbling, rotten hardwood, a substance known as "punk". Punk is an unusual substance: the wood is so rotted, it's almost sponge-like in its texture, but extremely crumbly. It ignites easily, and has almost no moisture or weight to it. I had a bag with me, so at the end of the day, I filled it with as much of this punk as I could carry. It wasn't until last night, when Imfinally moved back into my own house, that I have had the chance to do anything with it. I have an old, 35mm bulk film can, which I got from my photography teacher, way back in high school. I stuffed it with small chunks and chips of punk, punched a small nail-hole in the center of the lid, and set it inside my woodstove. After about three episodes of Firefly, I pulled it back out. Inside, the punk had been reduced to about 75% of its original volume, and was a deep black. I had made charcoal, although with my limited experience, I don't know how good it is. This charcoal can be used for a number of things: I can draw with it, as it does make a strong, black mark on paper, I could make black powder with it, if I had any sulphur, (I do have a small supply of saltpetre, so sulphur is the only lacking ingredient) I could brush my teethe with it, as was common in the 18th century, but I have, instead, filled my tinderbox with it. My tinder box is a small, oval, copper tin with a domed friction-fit lid, and it contains a domed "damper" inside: a slightly smaller, domed oval of copper, with a loop handle soldered oto the top. When the tinderbox is filled with charcoal, the damper sits atop, with the flint and the steel striker on top of the damper. The lid excludes both air and water. When flame is needed, I can remove the lid, striker, flint, and damper, and, with a small handfull of tinder, usually of "tow" (flax fiber, which linen is made from) or unraveled twine, among other option, I strike the flint against the striker, with a downward shaving motion, to strike sparks into the charcoal. Once a spark catches, I place the tinder close to the ember, and blow gently, until the ember heats enough to ignite the tinder, which is then carefully placed into the fire which has been set up, beforehand. The point of all this, strangely, and with another flying change of subject, is that last night, we got over a foot of snow, and I am pretty mich stranded in my house. I COULD leave, if necessary, but it would mean trudging trough knee-deep snow to my car, and digging out the six-foot distance between it and my street. Since I have nowhere I need to be, though, getting out isn't a huge priority. So, what does a snowed-in reenactor do? Make char, repair clothing, darn stockings and gloves, sew up a new shirt, or box smock, or other such clothing. Tuen a badly-made, falling-apart, oversized writing box into a nice, more efficient-sized one. Study, both books and online, researching everything under the 18th-century sun. These are the times that try mens' souls. Thasummer soldier and the sunshine patriot may shrink from the service of their hobby, but he that stands by it now, deserves the admiration and comfort of decent, properly made kit and functional skills. We can choose to spend our days on video games, catching up on Downton Abbey, or Facebooking until there's nothing left to comment on, but if we set aside part of our day to preparing for the coming season, we'll look back on these few, snowed-in days as a gift, and as a chance to learn more, so we can teach more. So go to it: take up your needle, your chisels, your awl, or your dyestuffs, and when we gather at the afort, this Spring, and the cold of winter is memory alone, show me what you have made, what you have read, what you can now teach.