Bright Lights, Red Coat

Earlier this year, I got my first (and possibly only) modeling opportunity. Many of you have already seen the pictures on Facebook. Now, here's the story behind my runway walk in an 18th Century British military uniform.

I’m sitting in a hallway at the audition venue, outside what’s labeled the “Great Room.” Half a dozen modeling hopefuls surround me -- young ladies and one young man. They are all staring into their smartphones, all wearing black. I plan to be wearing red.

My journey down the runway will either begin here or end here. I’m hearing dance-club music pump out of the Great Room as the audition for the group ahead of us rolls on. Smatterings of applause interrupt the beat. From the doorway outside, I can’t see who’s walking.

So far, I have rushed here after church on Palm Sunday and completed some rudimentary paperwork, which included providing my social media account handles and my “real age.” When it’s prefaced like that, I know it’s there because people have tried to fake it. Perhaps they said “29 and holding.” In my case, I could have said “247” given what I’m going to be wearing.

“Do you have a head shot?” one attendant asked.

“No,” I said, feeling I had just earned strike one.

But so far, it didn’t seem to matter.

“Fifty-one through sixty, this way!” an assistant calls out. That’s me at the end of the line, number 60.

She leads us into the Great Room and asks us to sit down in order in some chairs next to a practice runway to the side of us. At the end of the runway sits a committee of evaluators or designers or both. I’m not sure. All I know is that I have to make it past them to make it to the stage.

A poster in the back reads like the Boy Scout Law for models: “Be On Time. Be Positive. Be Prepared. Be Informed. Be Nice & Polite. Be Accountable. Be Loving. Be Proactive & Open. Be Knowledgeable. Be Fashion Forward. Be Professional. Be Private and Focused.” I don’t know about the “Fashion Forward” one, but I can at least do my best on the others.

A young man in a leopard-print jacket stands up and goes through the procedure. “Bring your number up to us, we will put some music on, and you will walk to the end of the runway and back. Look at the clock on the wall. Don’t look at us.”

Those who make the cut in my group will then be directed to sit on the other side of the room, where they will meet with a designer who will chose them to strut their stuff. It feels like a cross between America’s Next Top Model and The Voice.

Across from me, in that set of chairs where I hope to end up, is a girl who can’t be more than 15, and she is dolled up to look like she’s 28. It’s almost heartbreaking to see somebody prematurely age a person like that.

The first hopeful steps up to the runway and starts to walk.

“Slower, slow down,” says the young man.

It’s tempting to want to walk to the beat, which has all the verve of a New York City fashion event.

The next hopeful gets up. She’s a lady who looks in her tweens, but she’s having to show off a sensibility and style of someone double her age. Again, she’s told to slow down.

My strategy formulates from what I see. I’m watching every step they take, every move they make, looking for fine points and errors. I wonder to myself, “When I reach the end of the runway, should I act like I’m pulling a sword?”

* * *
About six months ago, a folk-dancer friend of mine made your servant an offer I couldn’t refuse.

“Can I make you a red coat?”

Not just any red coat, but a 1700’s British infantry uniform coat -- a Redcoat’s red coat. She was in a sewing class at Pima Community College, and she had an idea for a project. But she needed somebody to wear and enjoy it. She didn’t have to ask me twice.

She drew her inspiration from Outlander’s Black Jack, using a coat pattern with black facings and black turnouts. When she showed it to me, however, I decided I wanted a slightly different look: white facings and white turnouts with silver button trim, more like a British regular than a British officer. I later learned that design was more like a British officer. We both agreed on the modifications, and she set to work.

My friend brought the completed coat to me just before Christmas, and I instantly fell in love with it. She had made it with joy and precision, and it radiated dignity and pride. I didn’t think I would wear it on the battlefield, but I knew I wanted to wear it for a fancy ball or two… or three or four or more. I wore it for a Christmas dinner with Princess Sherri. I wore it to a Epiphany ball in California with a kilt, portraying a Black Watch highlander. It drew many an eye.

Some weeks later, I got another offer. Did I want to model it for a show at the Fox Theatre in downtown Tucson? She didn’t have to ask me twice.

I had no modeling experience whatsoever. I didn’t have a glamor headshot. I had my stint in the Tanque Verde Swap Meet commercials on my resume (which I didn’t have to submit). But I was assured I had a sponsor -- the sewing class teacher -- who would be leading me through it all.

Nothing seems certain as I step up onto that practice runway, wearing my redcoat over a dark blue t-shirt, long black shorts and knee-high socks. I at least look a little bit Colonial. I’m not walking quite to the beat, but I am looking at the clock as directed. Part of me feels lost, that dreadful moment of “What am I doing here, and why am I doing it?” Should I smile more? Or should I be radiating the aura of a focused British regular who would say, according to Alfred Lord Tennyson, “Ours is not to reason why, ours but to do and die.” I forget about pulling that air sword. I walk, I turn, and I walk back with a resolute sense of purpose, if not some sense of style. Applause greets me as I step off.

“You’re all good!” our commander directs, inviting us to sit on that other side of the room.

I have passed the audition. And now my sponsor steps up to claim me.

“I knew it was you when I recognized that red coat!”

We exchange information and pleasantries and how we got to this point. The next step will come next month, when I will step out onto that runway for real at the Fox.

“Be prepared for a long day,” my sponsor warns.

I’m ready. “How many people get to be supermodel for one evening?”

It’s not a good sign when the automated parking lot system won’t print out your windshield ticket even though you’ve fed it a credit card. I had to feed it again to get what I needed, and I hoped I didn’t get charged twice. Never do business with anything that bakes out in the sun.

I’ve made it to the Fox Theatre in downtown Tucson promptly before noon as requested. I’m already wearing most of what I’ll need for tonight, having attended a Sons of the American Revolution meeting in Casa Grande as part of the color guard. I just have to change the coat.

Just beyond the doors of the restored historic entertainment palace, a crush of models is gathered around the front tables as handlers check them in, check them off the list and assign them numbers.

“Some of you will be in different scenes,” our coordinator explains, the same one who told us to look at the clock and not the crowd during the tryouts last month. “We had to split some groups.”

I’m directed downstairs to the dressing room for Scene 2. As I pass down the outer aisle of the auditorium, I notice the gigantic runway for the first time.

Downstairs, I take a seat while I wait for the crew from Gadabout to do my makeup and hair. I know what I want. I think.

“I was thinking sort of Paul Revere,” my stylist explains.

He wasn’t a Redcoat, but okay. I have ideas too.

“I’m thinking rosy cheeks,” I suggest. “Like I just stepped out of a painting. That fop look.”

Does she even know what I mean by “fop?”

She puts on base. That’s when I come up with another suggestion.

“Can you get rid of the bags under my eyes?”

I hate how time and years of squinting without wearing sunglasses has put the age into my peepers. She goes right to work on them, softening the lines.

“Do you want Chapstick?”

I don’t wear it, but I figure it’s a good idea. I go with it, and then my stylist finds she can’t find the Chapstick. She quickly finds a substitute for my lips. Then it’s time to put the rose in my cheeks.

“I don’t want to do too much,” she explains, as she gradually works it in. “Is that enough?”

I can barely see it in the mirror. “A little more.”

She works in some more rouge, but I’m having trouble spotting the effects, even in the bright lights of the makeup mirror. I want to be cautious, though.

“We can split the difference between total fop and nothing.”

After a few coats, I’m satisfied, even though I can’t see much change in my cheeks. I figure I should quit while I’m ahead. It’s not the end; another stylist insists that I get a dab of mascara on my eyelashes. Fine, but I’m not Tammy Faye.

When I hold it up to my phone for a selfie, I find the team nailed it.

Another stylist sprays down my hair and steamrolls it with the can. I think about asking for curls on both sides, but I decide to keep it simple. It will keep my frizzy head together, but that spray turns my fly-away strands into straw. Now I remember why I hate hairspray.

We are sent upstairs to sit and wait and begin the runway walkthroughs.

Walking a runway doesn’t require a lot of training, just a sense of timing and purpose. You wait just out of sight behind the scenery, walk into the opening when the stagehand cues you, and wait for the model on stage walking back to pass by the row of speakers along the edges. Then you walk.

House dance music is throbbing. It’s a nice beat, four on the floor, and it’s easy to walk to.

“Is the music easy to walk to?” our coordinator asks at one point, making sure our DJ isn’t trying to take artistic liberties too far.

When you reach the edge, halt.

“One-two-three,” our stagehand reminds us, giving us a mental count we can use. I think it should be more like “one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand.” It’s there for the PCC photographers and the press and whoever to take pictures. I turn to one side and then another, showing off the Redcoat. I’m not overdoing it. I don’t want to overdo it. I’m sticking to the fundamentals. I turn and walk off. Rehearsal completed.

One of my co-models, who has done this before, is gladly giving us style points on how to pivot at the end of the runway.

“Yeah, work it!” I say.

Everybody is encouraging each other as we go through this walkthrough and then another. This is not a competition. This is not the fashion police. This is a team coming together to make something beautiful. I like playing on this team.

At least twenty scenes are part of this show, hyphenated by some talking, I’m told. Each scene has seven to eight models and often more. Many in this cast are playing multiple roles, meaning as soon as they get done with one scene, they’re dashing down to the dressing rooms to change into a look for something still to come.

I wish lunch was coming. Those in charge have told me to bring a snack, but the impracticality of doing so given my dash from Casa Grande has ruled that out. I see a box of pizza and several plates of sandwiches go down the aisle towards the dressing rooms. Somebody has ordered in.

I need water. The weskit on my chest is holding me in like a corset and making me uncomfortable. I must get up and move, no matter what, at least to find the Necessary, as we would call it in the 18th Century.

Popping back into the lobby, the ingredients for the evening are coming together. Electronic wands for security are stacked up on a table. The prizes for the silent auction are in place with sign-up forms.

I pop down a staircase, thinking it will lead to a restroom somewhere. It leads me right into an oasis: tables adorned with sandwich trays and boxes of pizza in a corner, waiting to be devoured. Is it for us, or is it for some VIP’s who are paying extra for some mingle time before the show? I don’t know, and right now I don’t care. I’m part of the talent, I’m hungry, and I see other people have already started pillaging the loot. I help myself to a slice and a sandwich and wash it down with one of those half-bottles of water. Then I go back for seconds. And thirds.

I sit in the audience and watch the other groups take the runway, showing off formal wear, riffs on jeans and alien-inspired t-shirts -- one of which says “Abduct Me.” Family time comes midway through the show where moms and dads pair up with sons and daughters on the stage for matching looks. Pajamas are making an appearance. I’m falling asleep in my chair.

The lighting crew is getting things together, adjusting the narrow can lights so they hit the disco balls hovering above us. An operator swings the Vari*Lites and tries out a few positions. I would love it if those rotatable spots converge on us while we’re on the runway, like something out of a Genesis concert.

We have one more walkthrough to get through at 5pm. I hope I can keep myself awake. Too much pizza.

I have taken several compliments on the Redcoat, and with a courtly bow, I have given credit to Lady Nancy for sewing it, and to my sponsor at PCC for letting me model it, taking only partial nods for helping design it.

“I make my own historic clothing, too,” I say, pulling out my smartphone and showing them various photos of my pink 1700’s gentlemanly ensemble, my festive Scottish attire, my royal purple courtly dress and various peasant looks. Jaws drop open, especially when I tell people I make these things out of bedsheets and tablecloths I find at Savers.

“Where did you get that Coke?” I ask as a model walks by with a can.

“Downstairs,” she replies. She found a stash by the dressing rooms. I make a note of it as I get lined up for the last runthrough. I need caffeine.

I add a few touches of flair: a stomp to come to attention as I reach the end of the runway, and another stomp as I march back. I wonder if I should salute as well, but I think it’s too much.

I walk down the back stairs and find the stash that other model was talking about. A 12-pack of Coca-Cola is down to three cans inside a cooler that I gather is stocked for visiting artists -- or for us. Most of the shelves are bare by now. A cupboard next to it is a crime scene of opened tea bags deposited next to purses and cell phones.

Inside the dressing rooms, the Gadabout staff is running constantly, touching up faces and hair to help the models change their countenances as they change scenes.

Scrawled magic-marker names of bands and shows from the past decorate the walls, a visual history of who played here and when. Will we get to add our names?

I head back to the auditorium to wait while the rest of the scenes play out. I can’t find a trash can for the Coke can, so I shove it into one of the Redcoat’s generously large pockets. A trace of soda leaks out and I have to blot out a small spot in one of my coat turnouts. Fortunately for me, it’s not noticeable.

The show is supposed to start at 7pm, but the stage managers and our announcer are getting the command to hold off because people are still outside in a line which winds around the block. The Fox Theatre staff is opening the balconies. I didn’t expect this to be a sellout, but it sure feels like we’re headed there.

At 7:10, we’re still not ready to roll. People are still coming in and finding their seats. I can’t see any of it, but I can hear the soft din of the audience getting situated. My fellow models and I are queued up and practicing our walks. Our coordinator pumps us up and gives us some simple rules: “Just one foot in front of the other. Everything else will take care of itself!” He has us jump in place and wave our arms to warm us up. If I were in my kilt, I would probably dance a Highland Fling to get everybody pumped.

At 7:16, even with people still coming in the door, the showrunners decide it’s time to get going. “Ya snooze, ya lose,” the coordinator rules. We’ve tolerated fashionably-late so-called “Tucson Time” for as long as we can and sympathized with the people who have had trouble finding parking spots downtown on a Saturday night.

Our announcer tries to warm up the crowd like he’s working a Diamondbacks game. “How is everybody doing tonight?”

Some cheers, largely unhearable to us behind the stage.

“Oh, you can do better than that!”

He goes through the compulsory welcomes and thank-yous to Pima Community College and the various VIP’s and big shots in the crowd before teeing us up: “Everybody ready to see some fashion?”

More cheering. The lights come down and the music comes up.

Scene One goes through their walk and then the DJ changes tunes. I am the last model in Scene Two. We are walking out from between two flat white panels, positioned to give a stagehand a place to hide and cue us. I say a prayer, I wait my turn, and I watch the fingers of the crew lady who is cueing me into position to step into the opening and wait before starting the walk.

She motions me forward.

Instantly, I hear the crowd screaming and hooting as they see this man in a big British Redcoat and tricorn with knee breeches and buckled shoes step into the light. I can’t start walking until the previous model has cleared the row of speakers that is our cue mark.

When that time comes, the audience is loving it. I hear their excitement and yelling. I can’t see any of them with the bright lights from the balcony eclipsing any face in the crowd. I have decided not to smile, deciding that a proud British soldier should keep a dignified countenance, but with the enthusiasm of the crowd egging me on, I can’t help but add a bit of swagger.

Source: Precious Dreams Photography

I hit the end of the runway with a stomp to attention, pivoting and show that Redcoat off to the video cameras and the PCC photographers and whatever paparazzi hidden behind the light. With another stomp I pivot and march off, dignified and focused to the top of the runway, pivoting with one final stomp before I’m out of the light.

Source: Sherri Smalls

I exhale heavily. The campaign is successful. My work here is done.

The only thing to do now is wait for the show to end while basking in the afterglow. I have no other looks to model, no other clothing to display. Part of me feels wistful, wishing I could show off some of my other historic creations.

“You should have your own fashion show!” one model has said to me after I showed her my 18th Century wardrobe.

“I’d rather walk with you all.”

Saturday Night Frock Coat

Here's a flashback from nearly a decade ago. It's a Saturday night in June 2009, at the historic Kenilworth school in Phoenix. It has to be at least 80 degrees outside. And I'm driving up from Tucson for a contredance in my late 1700's powder-blue coat and white weskit and breeches, with the stockings. Where on Earth did I get all this energy from, and where the heck did it all go?

A mix of your servant's favourite music
and moves, set to stories and observations.

Once upon a time in my dancing history, I felt like a colonial Tony Manero, consistently getting that Saturday Night Fever to go boogie in that tricorn and breeches, even if that meant a 90-minute drive sometimes. I had it bad. I gather that was because I got so much joy out of it at the time when so many other things in my life didn't seem to be bringing much in the door. By this time, I had gotten right with GOD, so that wasn't the problem.

Fast forward ten years later, and I've mellowed out a lot in that respect, finding other curiosities -- and other dance groups to wet my whistle. And I gather my internal chemicals have shifted a bit. That's what happens when you've been around for 247 years!

It Only Takes A Minuet, Girl, To Fall In Love

Ask your servant to name his favourite colonial dance, and it's this one: the Minuet. It's festive yet fancy. It's beautiful for both the lady and the gentleman.

A mix of your servant's favourite music
and moves, set to stories and observations.

A lot of us think of the Minuet as only one dance, but in reality it's a family of dances, each with their own patterns and intricacies. A lot of us also think of it as some stately procession, which is not the case in most situations. I've seen one version that is, but most are like what you see above, a refined interchange between one man and one lady.

But they all share this: you give honours, you hold your hands in a graceful position and move about your partner in three-quarter time, inserting fancy flourishes and affectations as need be.

In Colonial times, people judged you by the steps you made. Minuets would lead off a fancy ball, one couple at a time, in the social-status equivalent of "Dancing With The Stars." Muff it and people would talk about your lack of ability. No wonder they would be danced only once an evening, and dancing masters would find themselves in solid demand throughout the colonies.

Thankfully, as times have changed, the judgments have evaporated from the exercise, leaving your servant to focus on the majesty, the beauty, and the regality, as in this minuet I danced with a lady in 2017 at the George Washington Ball in Williamsburg, Virginia. She had been wondering all week whether she was going to dance it. I was wondering all week, thousands of miles away, if I would have a willing partner. Through the grace of GOD, we came together that evening for this moment of bliss.



I hope to one day show your servant dancing with Princess Sherri!

It's About Time Somebody Told All This

The trip to Williamsburg, Virginia last March was supposed to be a magically submersive experience for Princess Sherri and your servant. Her Majesty would be enjoying her first big-time, big-league colonial ball -- The George Washington Ball -- in a historic town. This would be "Cinderella" without any wicked stepsisters.  Naturally, I felt the pressure to deliver for my Princess.  She had never been to Colonial Williamsburg, much less to a fancy ball of the magnitude I had invited her too.  This was prom times ten, perhaps times 100.

A mix of your servant's favourite music
and moves, set to stories and observations.

We made it to the ball. But we didn't have our luggage or our historic clothing, due to a maelstrom of weather-related flight cancellations and airline incompetence. Some 72 hours after the mess began, and 12 hours after we finally got our hands on the bag, we were on the flight home. I furiously typed out my grievances in a draft letter to American Airlines, accompanied by Andy Gibb's "Time Is Time" playing through my smartphone, a random yet powerful juxtaposition of disco and disgust as I put failure upon failure into words:

Multiple, MULTIPLE times, after our flight from DFW to Norfolk was canceled, and we had to re-book into Charlotte, we were failed by your customer service representatives. This began with two of them telling us, in separate calls, that we didn't need to do anything more to get our checked baggage put on the flight to Charlotte -- it would be done so automatically. It never was, and it remained in DFW to sit overnight until it was flown finally into Norfolk. Meanwhile in Charlotte, we were pointed back and forth between different carousels. Your customer service people were clueless as to where our luggage was until we finally had to call your toll-free number. Then, over the course of a weekend, I made no fewer than six phone calls to your baggage hotline asking when our bags were going to be delivered. Each time I got a person who lacked answers. They couldn't tell me anything. They couldn't even contact the delivery company in Norfolk (Butler Delivery), saying they got voicemail. I was told the delivery driver would call when our baggage was on the way. They never did. One of your representatives even said someone from the delivery company would call "within 20 minutes." They never did. I got an email saying the baggage would be delivered by 4:45am Sunday morning -- 24 hours after our arrival. It never did. One of your reps even admitted to me that email should've never gone out, because it was automatically generated when the baggage arrived in Norfolk, even though it hadn't been assigned to a driver. Turned out, it never was, even though your reps told us it would be, and I have the paperwork to prove it. I finally had to claim the luggage by driving 40 miles from Williamsburg to Norfolk on a Sunday night, just hours before our vacation was to end -- doing the job you failed to do despite promises you would do it. Our vacation was severely tarnished because of your incompetence. Stop apologizing. Start compensating us for your failures.

Princess Sherri made her own phone calls and wrote letters of her own. I stirred in a little social media shame on Facebook. American comped us $100 travel vouchers, and an airline worker friend of mine advised me to just call her in the future, saying that the mega-carriers weren't geared to properly serve their customers.

Yet in the worst of all of this, we learned who our friends were. Two wonderful people who lead a 18th Century dance team, among other pursuits, lent us period attire for the evening so we could cavort in something besides what we had been wearing for the past 24 hours.



We also learned several lessons. Never buy those basic economy fares if you can't take a carry-on with you, and stuff everything you can into it -- especially the historic garb.

In the ashes of the long weekend, I resolved to get a do-over, and I would not wait a year for it. I invited Princess Sherri to accompany me to another ball in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. This time, it all worked, all beautifully. Another trip to Williamsburg awaits us. We will have our second chance soon.

My First Pillory

Colonial Williamsburg, April 2004: My first experience with the famous tourist shot people get when they walk by the Old Courthouse. I haven't begun my hobby as a historic re-enactor yet. I'm getting there, though.

I remember going to Williamsburg that year on a whim. I was re-tracing some family vacations I enjoyed, just to go back and experience a piece of them again. The previous year took me back to Disney World in Florida. Now I was visiting the historic triangle.

Photos from my past and the tales they tell.

Something about that trip spoke to your servant deeply, even though the start didn't look promising. When I arrived on a Saturday night, the hotel was half-empty. The vibe of the place felt dead. But that was until I discovered Chowning's tavern (which is pronounced "CHEW-nings") and a pint of authentic Williamsburg beer with a newly-made drinking friend. I was glad I was walking back to the hotel. I was glad I was walking, period.

The best vacations are the ones you experience on a deeper level. Over the next few days I would get a hint of what my next few years of re-enacting life would be like as I toured the historic town, learned about the colonial militia and George Washington's soldiers, got more than a taste of what early American life was like -- and learned how to dance like a patriot. That tricorn was the only piece of historic garb I had to wear. For then, it was enough -- until it wasn't.

Eventually came a point where I wanted to live history, not just learn it. Less than two years later, I would meet up with We Make History in Phoenix, and the journey began in earnest. I would return to Williamsburg in 2008, this time in full Continental Army uniform. And I had to get another Pillory Shot....

Laird Christopher, Dancing Master

March 2015: This has to be one of your servant's favourite pictures from Williamsburg. I'm at a community center following a meeting of the local Jane Austen Society. We've just had some discussion and dancing. And among other things, your servant taught an uncertain, inexperienced young lady how to cavort elegantly. That expression of nobility on my countenance is a reflection of my inner warmth, finally setting free the repressed 18th Century Dancing master within.

Photos from my past and the tales they tell.

This was after a grand ball the previous evening, which you can read about here.

As I was returning home to Tucson (and reality), your servant mused on Facebook about teaching the young patriots the arts of courtly capering. I have had many an opportunity to lead and teach. I am thankful for every one. But it's that one-on-one opportunity, the chance to teach a lady, give her honour and uplift her, that brings your servant the most joy.

"They're not china dolls," a friend once snarked.

Yes. I know. I get it. But I'm tired of getting the vibe that we're not allowed to be beautiful towards one another, that realism precludes us from constructive fantasy -- especially if it leaves us all better than we found one another.

Behind The Sword

When I first showed you this photo more than a decade ago on this blog, I wrote a humorous sidebar for it. What I didn't tell you what that a lot of real pain went into that post.

Photos from my past and the tales they tell.

It came amid a stressful time at work, because of confusing or nutty demands from management -- who probably got those demands from either higher-ups or consultants. But this is not rant time. This is truth time. I decided to channel my frustration into my inner Jacobite, hence what you see here. This photo came from the first Scottish skirmish I ever took part in. What this picture doesn't show you is the satisfaction I got from firing my French musket for the first time, the thrill of the battle we held like a flash mob nearly in the middle of a group of spectators (who didn't get hurt -- we're not that crazy), and the beauty of all our colourful outfits and kilts.

This was a continuation of my epiphany year of 2006, when I discovered We Make History and started reconnecting with GOD. Living history was a solace among the storms of work, and it still is. I find I have to keep reminding myself to lean on GOD and not myself or stuff or even living history, even if I believe that was the way GOD reconnected me back to HIM (Romans 8:28). Still, every now and then, I gotta pick up the sword.

No Nonsense

October 2014:  Ladies, I don't envy you one bit on the matter of hose. I learned that as I came to the realization that I would not be able to put together my long-desired Renaissance outfit for Halloween without getting a pair of tights. Colored tights.

The acquisition is half the problem. I really do not want to have to explain myself in the face of the puzzled store clerk as to why a man is purchasing pantyhose. I could lie and say it’s for my (non-existent) wife. I could also take the approach of Bill Cosby, who proudly announced – while dealing with a toothache – “I want some Midol, and it’s for me!”

Photos from my past and the tales they tell.

This story originally appeared on my Facebook
page in October 2014.

Yes, I know I could get tights at one of the ubiquitous costume stores around town and dodge the hairy eyeball. But I need something the ladies politely call a “control top.” Renaissance tights had the same thing. I am deliberately also avoiding spending $40 or more on period-correct hosen, knowing the odds of it sprouting a run are not in my favor. I want something inexpensive and disposable given the sheer energy of my historic pursuits.

My first attempt takes me to Walmart, which thankfully has a self-checkout line. I slip a pair of purple tights in with several groceries, trying to make things look as normal as possible.

And yet, Murphy has to lay down his law somewhere. The moment after I scan the hose, the machine locks up, asking for an attendant for a price check. Now I’m going to have to explain it. A grizzled old man walks over and tries to reset the machine. He immediately runs into trouble just logging into the thing, grumbling and probably cursing under his lispy breath. When he finally gets past security, he can’t understand what the machine is trying to tell him.

I can. It says it wants a price for “CONTROL TOP TGTS.” Yet he seems to think the pack of hot dogs I’m holding in my other hand are the source of all this trouble.

“Can you remember what you paid for them?”

“I think $4. I can’t remember the cents.”

He doesn't want to call for a price check. Having mercy on me, that’s what he punches into the machine. He never figured out something was up with the tights.

When I got them home and unwrapped them, I noticed the package mentioned a “cotton gusset.” I had no clue what that was until I saw it... and saw where it was. When my face regained its normal color, I told myself the manufacturer might as well have put in a codpiece.

The fitting turned into a cramping, constraining experience. They fit, yes. Fit like a steak fits under shrink wrap. The label said I had the right size for my height and weight, provided I was a woman. The problem had to be my thighs. I knew I needed to go up a size.

I later returned to that Walmart, found myself an extra-large pair of tights that also matched my outfit more closely, went through the self-check with no price-check, and savored success after the fitting. Form and comfort at last. Still I don't know how my crown-and-tunic-wearing ancestors lived with something that feels a touch confining, even if it did make their legs look smooth and silky, shapely, sexy.

Nice Outfit, But What's With That Big Phone?

March 2009: A visitor shared this picture of your servant, dressed in Scottish Jacobite attire, ready to march into battle. Look carefully, and you'll see my bayonet holder hanging down towards my feet. This image comes from the Verde Valley Highland Games, the smallest Scottish festival I know of in Arizona. I later enlarged this and hung it on my wall. I sort of look like a toy soldier in this, and perhaps that's why I like this picture.

Photos from my past and the tales they tell.

Other people have zoomed in on that big green phone in the back.

"What's a phone doing at a Scottish festival?"

That is actually part of an advertisement for a wireless provider -- I'll let you guess which one -- that showed up to the games. The commercial booths help pay the freight, and I can live with that.

I miss the Verde Valley games, even though they weren't that big of a deal. It was another chance to see another part of Arizona I don't usually get to -- and wear a kilt.

Let's Keep It Tight

One of the most challenging projects in my sewing journey was putting together my first pair of highly-period-correct 18th Century knee breeches, ones that would be tighter in all the right places (around the lower thighs) and roomier in the right places (around the rear end). This pattern came with a warning: don't expect this to be a quick turn. Well, nothing ever is, the way I sew. It also says the process involves two parts: construction of individual pieces followed by assembly of said pieces.

Photos from my past and the tales they tell.

Neither advisory stretched the truth. I spent a lot of hours just putting together parts that looked too small or too ragged or questionable of function. When it came time to put the pieces of this pants puzzle together, some of them looked like they were on backwards until other pieces came together or I turned things inside out. My faith in the instructions was sorely challenged at points. Most of this drudgery was due to these pants having pockets which I knew I would never use anyway because they were just too small. At most they might've held a watch. When I make pockets, I need them to hold a wallet, keys and a smartphone.

The instructions also said it was perfectly normal for this pair to slouch in front like you see, highlighting my expanding middle-age midsection. I didn't worry about that; a weskit would cover it. The bigger problem was the legs... or more specifically, leg room. I had followed the instructions to the letter and had the right size for my thighs, but when I first slipped them on, they were way too tight. I took the risky step of letting them down nearly to the edge of the seam allowance, using a zigzag stitch I hoped would provide more reinforcement. They have yet to be fully stress tested at a dance, but for now, they're holding up.

I posted this to a Facebook sewing group, and to my encouragement and relief, the response was nearly universally positive. A moderator who is akin to the Yoda of historic sewing said I was a brave soul for attempting this.

"Breeches are hard!" exclaimed another.

Since then I've found a simpler pattern, one that doesn't require so much assembly because it doesn't have pockets. I still have to take in the legs, because now they're too wide out of the box. But they don't look like a costume, they don't slouch at a peculiar angle, and they're tight enough without me having to worry about splitting them. I've been down that road before...

A Matter Of Time And Place

April 2008: This is your servant looking across the Surrender Field at Yorktown, an emotional moment considering my Revolutionary War roots. A Redcoat ancestor surrendered to General Washington here. I could imagine the drama and the gravity of the moment, the one nobody expected, especially not Lord Cornwallis.

Photos from my past and the tales they tell.

On a clear day, and with a clear head, you could see history. A lot of things were clear on this day -- a sense of purpose, a sense of unity, a sense of belonging. I have this picture on my computer at work. If ever I need an escape, if but for a few seconds, it's right on the desktop wallpaper.

Does It Ever Bother You When Somebody Calls One Of Your Historic Outfits A "Costume?"

Answering the questions people have
asked (or I have asked myself) about
my past, present, or future.

This is an interesting question because it can reflect the attitude of the person answering the question. I know some historic re-enactors who will ruffle their jabots and tricorn feathers even more if you call it a "costume." It's "period attire" or "historic clothing" or "kit." "Costume" is reserved for the theatre, and it usually involves a zipper.

I read one person describe it this way: "Costume" is what you want to be. "Uniform" is what you are. But under those definitions, I shouldn't be wearing a Revolutionary War uniform. I know I'm not a Colonial soldier. But I am trying to convey the life of a Colonial soldier to young people in my historic interpretations -- even if I don't act as if I'm living in the 18th Century.

The leader of our group gave us some advice on how we could approach interpretation. We could choose either first-person -- where you live as a person in the past, using only the words and descriptions and knowledge base they would have used -- or third-person, where you act more like a docent, somebody who just happens to be wearing the garb of the past but knows the present and can connect the two. I tend to enjoy third-person a lot more having done both. It allows me to get through to people, here and now, and make them care about their history. I couldn't really do that when I was acting as someone still living in 1776. I have heard about one living-history museum that believes in "still-living history," where their historic characters live as they have been around for 200-some years and know all about what happened after them, yet they're still living in the past. It's an intriguing method of having it both ways, but I haven't really tried it.

I don't get upset if somebody calls it a "costume." That's a word people use, and for me, chafing at that term is kind of like insisting somebody say "graphic novel" instead of "comic book." Just don't call my 18th-century persona an "act." I've danced at too many beautiful balls to allow that description.

Why Do You Love Colonial Dancing?

Answering the questions people have
asked (or I have asked myself) about
my past, present, or future.

In a word, it's beautiful. All right, that's two words. Let your servant go further than that.

Eighteenth-century attire and dancing are great equalizers. The gentlemen can adorn themselves with fancy flourishes, bright colours, buttons and bows and lace and prettiness, hoping to match the beautiful ladies in their gowns and nobody will accuse them of being sissified beyond all recognition. If it's foppy and floppy, it's period correct. I love having that freedom.

I remember the very first time I put on a Revolutionary War outfit: Halloween of 2001, barely a month and a half after the 9/11 attacks, when your servant and just about everybody else was re-connecting with their patriotism.

That first outfit was less than period-correct, but I loved wearing it. If clothes maketh the man, that uniform started to liberate my inner 18th Century Gentleman. I had never felt so much warmth inside of me from wearing a tricorn, knee breeches, and a long coat. I had no problem bowing to people. I felt a tremendous inner peace. Then came a trip to Williamsburg, Virginia in 2004. Then in 2006, I attended my first colonial ball. The rest -- pardon the cliche -- is history. That colonial gentleman inside me was free at last, free to influence my thoughts and attitudes and leave me dreaming of the next ball... and above all, bring me back to GOD.

Since that time, I've learned how to teach the steps as well as carry them out. You don't have to be fancy; you just have to know how to walk and follow figures.
You can start out simply and build from there. I compare it to learning how to program a computer as you build in loops, branching statements, if/then procedures and fun, of course. Others have called your servant a Colonial Dancing "Master." That sometimes can be a bit of a stretch, as I am still learning even as I try my best to be beautiful.

I think the Minuet is my favourite of all Colonial dances -- at least the way I perform it. The basic form is set, but I can add a few flourishes here and there and people won't mind at all. Below is one I performed with a young lady at the George Washington Ball in Williamsburg, Virginia. She wasn't sure she could do it right, and I wasn't sure either. So I told her just to follow me, not worry about her feet, and enjoy the beauty of the moment. I think it turned out all right.



Somebody once asked me if I thought I was born in the wrong time. Of course not. If I say that, then I say GOD made a mistake, and HE doesn't make mistakes. He uses us where we are right now to do HIS work in this world, sinful as we are. What kind of work did GOD intend for me as a colonial dancer?

Again, I say, it's beautiful.

Long Live The King!

A look at the songs that have shaped
my life and ended up on my devices.

If you ask me what's on my music players, I will tell you, "About one-third classic and mainstream rock and pop, one-third classic soul and R&B, and one-third wildcard, which can be anything I like." That includes things like TV show themes... and songs from ABC's "Schoolhouse Rock" like this one.



I put this song in my iPad Nano at least a couple of years before the re-enacting bug bit me. It has an addictive melody written by Lynne Ahrens (who would later go on to compose Broadway shows like "Ragtime"), and even though the lyrics oversimplify the facts, they do plug into the patriot paradigm of the colonists saying it was time to break from the mother country -- something my college American History teacher taught without the earworm melodies.

I have the challenge of explaining to young people why they should care about their heritage, and sadly, "Schoolhouse Rock" isn't on the air anymore in a supporting role. I learned the preamble to the U.S. Constitution from another of its history songs, which came in handy when I had to put it down on paper for a test.



To this day, I hear that people are still learning this and singing it to themselves if they have to pass a preamble test.

With A Friend Like This...

Last month, I told you how a Facebook "friend" went on a purge, unfriending anybody who was not congruent with her political leanings. I told you how I had written back to her, saying I was still her friend and apologizing for any harm or hurt feelings on your servant's part. I didn't hear back from her.

Today, I sent this person a private message wishing her a Happy Birthday (albeit one day late) as I could not post on her page anymore -- as I do to send birthday wishes to all my facebook friends, with a virtual courtly bow thrown in. Here's how that message exchange went:

My Dearest Lady [Redacted],

A Belated HAPPY BIRTHDAY to you! I still wonder why you have unfriended me -- and it has left your servant more than a bit sad. I apologize if I have hurt or offended you. I love all my Dancing Friends, and I would be horrified to know I have hurt someone. I am still your friend, no matter what.

May GOD Bless You, My Lady!
With a Bow To You From Afar,
Laird Christopher

Her reply came within minutes, hastily typed:

Every time I post about the HORRIBLE NIGHTMARE of the Trump administration, i blame voters like you. YOu and all those who refused to vote for Hilary Clinton (who I didn't "like" either) are responsible for our nation sliding into the abyss. Please don't contact me again.

The iciness of the response floored me.

I quickly wrote back, in sadness:

Dearest Lady [Redacted], I am sorry you feel that way. I would have hoped we could be friends in spite of our differences (which may not be that different at all.) I will respect your wishes... with regrets. --YHS, CF

This is a lady I have danced with, a lady who put politics aside in the historic ballroom, and a person whom I thought had the temperament and enlightenment to carry some of that good nature forward into the present. "More fool me," as Phil Collins once sang. Apparently her good nature is only reserved for people who share her same beliefs, and I didn't know that until she discovered I didn't share all of them.

The bitterness and hate directed at others over the last election cycle continues to depress me. This person would rather be spiteful towards me for the way I voted rather than be grateful for the birthday wishes, which she didn't even acknowledge.

Last week, during Bible study with my church friends, one of them told me he hardly trusts anybody anymore because he has been let down by so many people.

"But wait a minute," I piped up, "Isn't that against GOD's nature? I mean, HE says we're to encourage each other day after day (Hebrews 10:24) and like iron sharpens iron man sharpens man (Proverbs 27:17)."

"You're right, Christopher," he nodded. "You're right."

As I said in the previous post, I don't give up on my Facebook friends because GOD doesn't give up on us. If Facebook is going to call connected people "friends," I am going to treat people like friends. That term needs to mean what it says. And remember, this person was not some obtuse collection of bits on a screen attached to a profile person. This person was a lady I had met in real life and had shared in fellowship. I gather I will see her again in Williamsburg next year. She has always treated me kindly on the dance floor.

And one year ago, when I posted on Facebook about leading a historic ball for a Christian school here in Tucson, she left me this comment:

You have done a wonderful thing! Just know you touched many lives and some will remember it forever!

Apparently, none of that matters now.

Catching Up With History

I didn't fall in love with Colonial Williamsburg at first sight. It took 18 some years for that to happen, when I ventured back just on the whim of retreading a family vacation from the past. I had done it with Walt Disney World the year before. Why not Williamsburg?

Looking back on it, I still don't understand what drew me back except for sheer curiosity. I had no taste for living history. My college freshman history course became a stench in my nostrils with too much reading. I had other studies that needed to share the workload. Looking back further, Boston hadn't amped up any desires either. Nothing at Bunker Hill, Lexington or Concord reached in to grab my 8-year-old heart. I could say the same for Charleston and St. Augustine, Florida.

So where did the history bug bite?  It wasn't on vacation.  It happened in a long series of episodes and thought processes I trace back to 9/11, when all of us, in some form or another, questioned what it was to be Americans.  I dressed in Continental Army garb that year -- in this case, a poor imitation.

That costumey Revolutionary War get-up from 2001.

I was on my way, but not to any trip in the re-enacting past, not until that trip to Williamsburg in 2004.  My journal reveals my thought process, especially on that first evening in April, when it seemed nobody was around, and the hotel was half-empty.

In the Governor's Palace garden at Williamsburg, 2004

I came into my room. The room is clean, it’s okay, it’s nice. But I gotta tell you, I was feeling a little bummed out, because I thought, well, you know, nobody’s coming here. Did I pick a bad time to come? I got my tickets, and I thought, well, I’m not gonna sit around here all night. This was like 7:00 at night, so I decided to go into the marketplace here in Williamsburg, and then I ran into the crowds and the historic shops, historic houses and I remembered why I came. And it was a good feeling. My enthusiasm was back up again. I was thinking of all the things I wanted to do. There were people roaming around in tricorn hats and breeches, and the interpreters were out there doing their thing, leading the candlelight tours. I went down the street, shot video and picked up some tickets for tomorrow night -- a couple of things I’m going to do.

And later on that night, after I’d walked around the place and shot some video as the sun set, I decided I was in the mood for a little bit of fun so I went to Josiah Chowning’s Tavern, a place I’d heard about the last time I was here, but we never went into, a colonial tavern. And I gotta tell you, it was fun! I mean, it was really neat.

Inside Chowning's, 2004, one mug of many.

I got half drunk that night at Chowning's on Williamsburg Ale. I'm glad I walked. I'm glad I made it back to the hotel in one piece. But once my head was clear, I began to take in the other sights and atmosphere, especially in the night-time programs:

Wow, I just came back from a wonderful experience on one of Colonial Williamsburg’s nighttime programs. It’s called “Cry Witch,” which is a reenactment, so to speak, of a trial we think took place in 1706 with a Virginia woman accused of witchcraft, where it’s done in the Capitol building and the audience portrays the jury, who ultimately vote to decide this woman’s guilt or innocence. And they also get to ask questions during the trial, too. A few brave souls addressed the court, those who were brave enough, and I was not one of them, asked a few questions of the governor -- er, not the governor, but his Excellency.

I guess you could call it interactive drama at its best: very, very compelling, very watchable production. I was seated in the front row, and let me tell you, it felt real. Very, very real. I was on the edge of my seat, literally. I mean, the actors were that close and 200 some years away from me. Welcome to the past. I just felt it tonight. That was spooky, that was scary and that was unforgettable.

So the process continues... and when it is complete, on the evening on my final day....

Would I do it again? Maybe in about five or six years. Give it some time, give it some space, maybe not for four days, but I’ll definitely be back one of these days. Do it again, somehow, somewhere, someday.

I would be back in 2008, with friends, wearing a proper Continental Army uniform or proper fancy 18th Century Ball attire. And that was just the start of it.

Make America Hate Again

I've been restraining myself, perhaps even censoring myself. While campaign season has devolved into disturbing new lows, I have held back my commentating fingers from the Facebook status update and this blog. This is the "silly season," one friend has told me, a friend whom I love and support even if we're divided on a lot of things politically. I decided to trust her on this one, and I decided to trust the better angels of my nature. It's not like I didn't have other things to blog and status about, like making that new 18th Century outfit for a ball in Williamsburg, Virginia.

I felt the wave of inspiration creeping back into me on that mildy chilly Saturday morning, as I walked to the historic city's Old Capitol, a building I've toured at least a dozen times before. Every time I come back, I learn something new, or at least I'm challenged to think about why we have the freedoms we have. That's why Colonial Williamsburg does what it does so well. During that tour, we sat around a table where patriots once sat, and your servant had the opportunity to read a clause from a document urging the free exercise of religion apart from the Church of England. The warm feeling of a heritage to be proud of stuck with me, even if the exact wording did not.

Introducing Laird Christopher of Dunans, all for the ball in the outfit your humble servant made himself! #HUZZAH #WilliamsburgBall
Posted by Christopher Francis on Saturday, March 5, 2016

When ball time came, and I had adorned myself in my satiny homemade fineries, I found myself surrounded by dancing friends. I bowed countless times to many ladies, who returned them with curtsies -- which I never really saw because I bowed so low. I turned and led my partners in a courtly and regal matter through nearly two dozen dances. We laughed and enjoyed ourselves even through the mistakes. We worked as a team, uplifting and blessing each other. The afterglow from that evening left me nearly sleepless.



Then the next day at a Presbyterian church in Williamsburg, where I dressed in my kilt and long coat in honour of the church's Scottish heritage and in praise to GOD, I found myself once again surrounded by friends. Few times have left your humble laird feeling so close to Heaven, so close to HIM.

Lines lead up in "Leslie's Valentine"
Posted by Williamsburg Heritage Dancers on Saturday, March 5, 2016

Circling around during a lively dance! Though it is blurry, you can see a little more of the skirtiness of the coat as we twirl around.

Posted by Christopher Francis on Sunday, March 13, 2016

Giving courtly honours to my beautiful partner. I know your servant is bowing quite a bit lower than would be...

Posted by Christopher Francis on Sunday, March 13, 2016

LATE BREAKING HISTORY: Let's go live to Willamsburg for this post-ball report. #WilliamsburgBall.

Posted by Christopher Francis on Saturday, March 5, 2016

Then I had to leave the past and go back to work.

One week later, I saw people in Chicago ready to tear each other apart live on CNN. Just one week earlier, I was submerging myself once more in my favourite town from the past.

Made it!
Posted by Christopher Francis on Friday, March 4, 2016

I had to wonder, how did we get here?

I can't tell you the starting point, but I've found a lot of mile markers along the way.

• When I saw people saying "Worst. President. Ever." about George W. Bush -- with the periods.
• When people started talking about "red states" and "blue states."
• When people started throwing moderates under the bus (despite kissing up to them later).
• When Facebook became a place where we could easily and conveniently hate on people in a place that supposedly is for "friends." (Tip of the tricorn to my dear Auntie Susan for suggesting this.)
• When GOP Representative Joe Wilson shouted "You lie!" during President Obama's 2009 State of the Union Address.
• When TEA Party members started piling on insults.
• When people started kicking up conspiracy theories about President Obama's birth and just wouldn't let it go, no matter how much evidence you presented debunking it.
• When Congress became a battlefield, not a legislative body.
• When people started talking about "'Murica," not America.
• When Senator Ted Cruz made a 21-hour filibuster (which technically wasn't a filibuster, but I say it was) on defunding Obamacare, an exercise that led to nothing but wasted time.
• When GOD, guts and guns replaced the Constitution and Bill of Rights in some people's minds as the lynchpin of our free republic.
• When Donald Trump entered the race.
• When he proved he could boost his poll numbers by getting angrier and insulting just about everything with a pulse.
• When he threw people out of his rallies, and people cheered it on.

I will probably think of more things to add to this list later, but you know where I'm going. The Trump phenomenon has come to a boil after years of warming up, and should it really surprise anybody that we're boiling?

I can only come to one disturbingly sad conclusion: We hate Congress, we hate Washington, we want to kill it, and Donald Trump is our hitman. Only Trump isn't armed with a pistol; he's carrying a 20-megaton H-bomb, because we would just love to see it nuked. He's our walking revenge fantasy. We don't care about the collateral damage. We don't care about the institutional damage. We don't care about the emotional damage. We just don't care, period. Dagnabbit, we're going to take our country back from those bums.

This is where you say, "What do you mean, 'we?' Is this the Royal 'We,' as in 'We are not amused?' Or are you talking about me?"

Yes, I'm going to talk about you. I'm going to talk about you because politicians don't come from another planet -- as I have said before. Somebody has to vote them in, and somebody has to accept responsibility for that vote. Maybe you didn't vote for that guy or that other guy. Somebody did. And somebody will vote for that guy or that other guy in the next election.

Tell me something, and tell it to me honestly: how many times, when you went into the voting booth, did you feel like holding your nose? You didn't feel like voting for anybody on the ballot. You felt like your candidates, your parties, and your country had left you behind. But still you voted for somebody, because somebody said you had to vote for somebody, and that the stakes were too high to waste a vote. Or you fell for that lesser-of-two-evils rationalization. Or you just sighed and said, such is life.

Ballots only show who you vote for, not who you vote against. They are bereft of nuance or conditions. You can't add in fine print or riders for the candidates to follow. You take the slate or you leave it. What if we had just left it? What if we had just written in, "None of the Above" every time we were presented with a lineup of less-than-desirable leadership? Through a sad pattern of compulsion, rationalization, and lowering the bar, we've slowly disenfranchised ourselves from the power we should have as the electorate. Or we just don't vote at all. People tell us in those get-out-the-vote messages that our vote is our voice. Why do we keep silencing ourselves?

I still believe some true servant-leaders run for office, but they're getting harder and harder to find. The more enlightened among us steer clear of politics. As I have told you before, who wants to work in the swamp that is Washington? Who wants to be dragged into the declining incivility and partisan warfare? Who wants to get pounded into the ground by dark money? Who wants to prove they're innocent of all the slimy, scummy behaviours we associate with politicians by default? The best and brightest among us in America know better than to run for office; they're too good for the job.

So now we're left with this vision of America microcasmed in Chicago: people who say they love America while they hate each other being influenced by politicians who say they love America but openly want to destroy it. It's a sad sight.

The long walk out of Williamsburg on the last day of my visit left your humble servant just as sad. I knew even before this blow-up we used to be better than this. We used to practice our honours. Politics might divide us, but at least we would dance together -- especially in colonial Virginia. No way would I swap centuries to live in 1700's America, but I know some beautiful things got left in our past, including our ability to come together. John Adams and Thomas Jefferson made up after some ugly campaigning.

I hate it when people take the inspiring outfits and flags of our Revolutionary War heritage and co-opt them for political purposes. That heritage belongs to everybody. Leave it alone. Politics has corrupted enough.

What's staggering is that so many people don't care. They want their hit man. They want their weapon. They will ignore or tolerate so many things so they can see their revenge fantasy against Washington executed -- and perhaps a few political enemies, too. I'm serious. How fortunate are we that we have not seen more political assassinations or attempted assassinations in this climate?

Yes, we've come to that, because we let it happen. Because we failed at the ballot box. Because we failed to encourage the right people to run and discourage the wrong people from running. Because we've politicized everything. Because we really don't love America like we should. Because it's more fun to hate than to love. Because we want revenge for the mess we don't realize we had a hand in creating.

I can't tell you how this will all end up. I can just pray.

And in the worst case, please bury your servant in Williamsburg. I already left my heart there.