I came of age in Gettysburg, PA. You know, that pretty Victorian town in the southern PA apple orchards whose population of dead is around 100,000 and living is about 10,000 give or take a hundred. Because something rather monumental (no pun intended) happened there. A slaughter so brutal and incisive that the only thing that could redeem it was an immortal speech about national identity, redemption and reconciliation. That's where I spent my formative hormonal years, good times. The town is full of Civil War reenactors year-round, and many locals participate, but mainly they make money off of it. Examples: The Irish Brigade Gift Shop and Fudgery; General Pickett's Buffet; Battlefield Ford
If you haven't read "Confederates in the Attic," go buy it today. But the whole reenactment thing didn't rub off on me. Not even a little bit. But I had to coexist in restaurants, bars and Wal Mart with them, so I'm well informed of their lexicon and elaborate hierarchies.
Let's fast forward past 1993, when I graduated from high school and reenactment was generally limited to the Union and Confederate play soldiers with their empty muzzle loader muskets, fetish for minie balls, wearing wool in August, and whiskey-scented beards. Those were simpler times. There's money to be made in reenacting, enter the Victorian Death Freaks.
Somewhere around 1997 "ghost tours" started popping up all over town. Women in pendulating hoop skirts and black lace snoods, and men in felt cloaks (yes, felt cloaks!) holding lanterns up before groups of grain-fed tourists. They stop in front of old houses, tell a tale about a supposed apparition or amputation tale that took place there, and move to the next spot. At $25 a pop! Times about 20 per 1 hour tour, all night! The ghost tour people used to be townies trying to make a buck with their geeky horse carriage. Now they're driving around in BMWs.
One time they stopped in front of a Victorian I was renting and my cat and I peeked out of the blinds. I was busy watching Dateline NBC and drinking Yeungling (because that's what cool people do on Friday nights in Gburg) and was interrupted by this glowing lantern light and herd of yuppies at my window. Apparently death was in da house at Casa Annearchy, because some slave or soldier was thrown down a well in the backyard. And so it must be haunted by a mangled spirit who was not buried properly. As it turned out, they were already dead when they were thrown down the well, so I figured that would lower the haunting quotient somewhat. I was personally more worried about the quality of my water table, what with miasma and all. I just asked the house, out loud, to leave me alone and not scare me because I don't have time for it, and if any shit starts up, I'm calling a fucking priest, and that will be the end of it. But other than that, they could go about their business if they needed to. Never heard a thing.
Coming Soon:
Reenactment Freaks Part Deux - Don't Fear the Reaper...He Still Lives With His Mother
Reenactment Freaks Part Three -- A Bustle in the Hedgerow
Reenactment Freaks Part Four -- The Amorous Hamburglar
Reenactment Freaks Part Five -- Put the Tin Cup Down, Sir
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