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Kitty Calash

~ Confessions of a Known Bonnet-Wearer

Kitty Calash

Tag Archives: Massachusetts

Massacres and Mondays

07 Monday Mar 2016

Posted by kittycalash in Events, History, Living History, Museums, Reenacting, Research

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Tags

authenticity, Boston, Boston Massacre, Bostonian Society, commemoration, interpretation, living history, Massachusetts, Research

March 5, 1770: Sound familiar? The Boston Massacre.

Happened on a Monday, by the way: how ironic is that?

But here’s the thing: if the Monday is emphasized, the Massacre stands out. Focusing on the normal makes the unusual ever much more so. And in the case of Monday, March 5, 1770, the usual is actually unusual.

Paul Revere, “The Bloody Massacre in King-Street, March 5, 1770.” Boston, 1770

Over the course of the month leading up to Saturday’s event, Drunk Tailor and I spent a lot of time talking about the night watch, peddling, food supplies to Boston, population, and what I might call “the texture of everyday life” in a meeting at work. Any reading you do forces you to realize that the key to the Massacre is how very abnormal everyday life had become in Boston that winter.

Edward Langford, disaffected nightwatchman. Boston Str

Edward Langford, disaffected nightwatchman. @BostonStrolls on Twitter

By 1770, Boston was an occupied city: Ferguson comes to mind, or Ramadi. Soldiers and watchmen patrol the streets, civil and martial structures clash, and the Sons of Liberty chafe under this control– or attempt at control. Scuffles, fights, brawls, break out. A boy is shot to death– accidentally– and tensions mount higher.  Sailors and soldiers alike commit acts of vandalism. Women are assaulted. Normal isn’t normal anymore, and Boston was always expensive to live in. Even in a city occupied by “friendly” forces, gathering supplies and going about one’s daily business became harder.

People are scared. This is a tense city. Lots of people are just trying to survive. Lots of those people are children. Roughly 16,000 people, and if the estimates are correct, 2,000 soldiers and 4,000 men (white, African, other, free, indented and enslaved), which means about 4,000 women and 8,000 children under 16. Let that one sink in: lots of children, lots of teenagers. I don’t know about you, but a city with a large population of teenagers is going to be tense under the best of circumstances, even in an era before the rise of youth culture. Hormones, man. The kid can’t help it.

So imagine this: instead of a mobile monument and a commemorative ritual that substitutes fists for muskets, the Massacre commemoration expands to include the day, and not just the night. Monday and a Massacre.

Townspeople hurry home as dark falls. Women lug laundry back to customers or to the washhouse, or trundle barrows home, empty, after a day of hawking cats’ meat, oysters, or fish. Tired cordwainers trudge the streets, hoping for meat at supper. A mother scavenges firewood to warm her rented rooms, keeping an eye out for the watch. Those are not Mr Hutchinson’s fence posts, truly.

Photo by Tommy Tringale (Claus' Rangers, 2nd NH, 3rdMA and HMS Somerset)

Photo by Tommy Tringale (Claus’ Rangers, 2nd NH, 3rdMA and HMS Somerset)

Women look over their shoulders, nervous at the sound of hobnailed shoes on the streets. Older men skirt closer to buildings, out of the way of soldiers in the street. Apprentices mock an officer, a sentry responds.

Insults, a scuffle, a boy knocked down. A mob, soldiers, a woman shoved, shots fired, men killed and wounded, blood on the snow.

Murder in the midst of the mundane. More horrifying (in truth, I have never heard Boston so silent as I did on Saturday night) within its context than set apart.

The Women of the 2017 Boston Massacre commemoration. Photo by Drunk Tailor at the behest of Our Girl History

The Women of the 2017 Boston Massacre commemoration. Photo by Drunk Tailor at the behest of Our Girl History

The benefits?
A more complete picture of life in 1770 that puts the events of the evening of March 5, 1770 into deeper context and thus a sharper contrast.
A recognition that history isn’t just about men and conflict.
Understanding that what made living under occupation so hard was more the living– trying to be normal–than the occupation.
And, yes: more for women to do.

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Shoot meat, win a target

22 Sunday Nov 2015

Posted by kittycalash in 1830s, Events, Living History, Reenacting

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

1830s, living history, Massachusetts, Old Sturbridge Village, OSV, silliness, turkey shoot

That’s almost literally true: shoot a target, win a target would be a more accurate description of Saturday’s frivols in Massachusetts. At least the gentlemen seem to know they’re a little silly.

1830s  shooting party

Literal musketeers: Mr B, Mr K, and Drunk Tailor

Of course, this kind of event is typical of late autumn New England. My favorite version is the sqiral/skirl/sqwirl hunt.

Invitation to a squirrel hunt, 1759. MSS 9001-S , Rhode Island Historical Society

In 1759, Cousin Stafford was promised to be handsomely treated at a sqiral [sic] hunt. They would hunt for what looks like the astonishing and possibly sarcastic prize of “‘100 pound in money’ and 15 gallons of Rum and one baral of cider.” Good times in Coventry, Rhode Island that January– just not for sqirals, unless the Rum and cider were consumed before the hunt began.

Silly, in a way, though deadly for the creatures on the wrong end of the muzzle. I found this past Saturday to be suitably silly, and about the maximum level of Gun Show I can tolerate, if only because it has a greater resonance with its historical antecedants than the ritualized commemoration of battles portrayed without adhering to the turn of actual events, fortifications, or troops present. My quest for accuracy does not demand tethering turkeys as targets, and the painted wooden silhouettes with glued-on feathers presented challenging, somewhat light-hearted targets.

Silly bonnet, silly sleeves, original shawl

To finish out the silliness, sleeves o’ pouf, though hidden here under a shawl. If I’m going to keep doing these colder-weather events, I will need to invest (i.e. sew) wool shifts. I can definitely document one to Rhode Island circa 1830-1840, for whatever that’s worth. Happily, my lower half was plenty warm thanks to Mrs B’s  generous loan of a quilted petticoat (warm legs and a poufy skirt), so only my shoulders were cold by the end of the day.

Now that the last cutout has been hung and shot, and my poufy sleeves retired to the closet, I’m back to finishing up that woman’s winter waistcoat and another wool petticoat for next month. Turns out I have stocking issues I didn’t know I had– which is to say, I am in need of grippier garters (hello, mismatched wool tape!) and some quality darning time. Wool mitts may also be in my future, as I cannot locate either of my pairs of mitts– linen or wool/silk blend–among my things. I’ll be sorry not to have gloves or mittens, but as goes the documentation, so goes the frostbite and chilblains.

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Packing Meat

19 Thursday Nov 2015

Posted by kittycalash in 1830s, Clothing, Events, Reenacting

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

1830s, 19th century clothing, common dress, common people, dress, fashion, living history, Massachusetts, Old Sturbridge Village, sewing

If it bleeds, it leads.

If it bleeds, it leads. Waistband pinning is surprisingly dangerous.

Sometimes you end up doing things for reasons you don’t entirely understand. Remember that brief flirtation with the 1830s? Well… we met again, and this time, I said yes to the dress.

Several friends are on the “shoot meat, win a target” program at OSV this weekend, and I agreed to go along. Yes, it’s a gun show. Yes, I’m compromising again.

Gentle reader, it gets worse. While I had not planned to dress, I rethought this choice last week. Awake in the early morning hours of November 11, I thought about dress patterns, wool petticoats, and the contents of the Strategic Fabric Reserve. One of my wool petticoats fit the waistline of my 1820s dress better than the 1800 dress I made it for, so I figured I was on my way towards being warm outdoors in November.

Spot the error. It's the dyslexic '30s.

Spot the error. It’s the dyslexic ’30s.

I have 1830s patterns, and a muslin was quick to make. Worse yet, once the muslin was made up and tried on over stays, it needed no alteration beyond a slight shoulder seam adjustment. Can you imagine? That hideous decade fits me? Doom or destiny, you be the judge: I had enough striped wool blend to cut a dress and a pelerine… so I did.

The other sleeve's stripes are just slightly off.

The other sleeve’s stripes are just slightly off.

The bodice went together quickly, and the sleeves were fairly easy at the shoulder and arm scye (I really enjoy setting sleeves). It was the length and width along the forearm that threw me, and I ended up having to piece on the lower sleeve. Twice.

The sleeves are where the meat comes in: you say pork chop, I say leg of lamb, the fashion plate says gigot. I did reduce the arc a bit, which makes this a more late-1820s style than firmly mid-1830s. Since some of the folks I’m going with will be wearing a mix of late 1820s and 1830s styles, slimmer sleeves seemed reasonable.

Rustic Dance After a Sleigh Ride, 1830. William Sidney Mount MFA Boston 48.458

Rustic Dance After a Sleigh Ride, 1830.
William Sidney Mount MFA Boston 48.458

More seriously, I’m taking cues from the William Sidney Mount painting I’m so fond of. The women in this 1830 painting have less flamboyant sleeves and possibly achievable hair. Honestly, the things I get into when I lie awake and think. I ought to know better by now…but every decade is a new adventure.

What remains to be done? Backstitching the waistband and waistband lining, hooks and bars at the back closing, the ever-popular hem of enormity, and a final pressing. Achievable, I think, with focus and some lunchtime sewing.

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Afternoon in Cambridge

27 Monday Jul 2015

Posted by kittycalash in Events, History, Living History

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

10th Massachusetts, Cambridge, common people, common soldier, Events, living history, Massachusetts, Revolutionary War

Cambridge. We’ve been there before to cause some mild lawn-based havoc and this year was much the same. We were on our own on the lower level, with just the six-plus-me of some abbreviated form of Soper’s company. Longfellow House is a very lovely site, and the lawn is large enough for a wall tent, drilling, eating, and general mischief.

Longfellow House, Cambridge. Photo from @longnps on Instagram

Longfellow House, Cambridge. Photo from @longnps on Instagram


I packed our lunch in a series of linen bags in the wallet, and stuffed a gown skirt and sewing box in the other end, with a bowl and a mug. I brought the small pitcher and a glass, with the intent of selling ‘gin’ to the militia, but had only one taker. They got into enough trouble themselves with filthy faces, pilfering, and stealing the captain’s books.

unknown artist, 18th century, The Encampment in the Museum Garden, 1783, Aquatint, hand-colored, Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection

unknown artist, 18th century, The Encampment in the Museum Garden, 1783, Aquatint, hand-colored, Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection

It’s no immersion event, what with traffic on the street and tourists dressing in Mr Townsend’s best* but there are moments at any gathering when you become so engrossed in what you are doing that you forget where you are. This time was no different: I don’t recall how it started, but we took off down Brattle Street with Sergeant Cooke crossing the yard in hot pursuit– only to be stopped by the wall. He turned the stone barricade into a large and angry goose, neaatly solving solving the problem of not being able to scale the wall.

James Sowerby, 1756–1822, A Goose, undated, Watercolor and graphite on moderately thick, slightly textured, cream wove paper, Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection

James Sowerby, 1756–1822, A Goose, undated, Watercolor and graphite on moderately thick, slightly textured, cream wove paper, Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection

I don’t think I’ve ever bolted that fast in stays before, and it wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had, but who cares? It can be done, running in stays, at least for short bursts.

There was much discussion of the filth of the troops, and their need to bathe; despite our best efforts, we could not quite get a satisfactory rise out of the officers, though some soldiers had clearly rolled in dirt. (It’s of a much better quality in Cambridge, you know, where you can wear the Harvard Yard.) There was an attempt at bathing at the Great Bridge, but in the end, one private’s face was washed with an apron corner dipped in ‘gin.’

Benjamin West, 1738–1820, American, active in Britain (from 1763), The Bathing Place at Ramsgate, ca. 1788, Oil on canvas, Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection

Benjamin West, 1738–1820, American, active in Britain (from 1763), The Bathing Place at Ramsgate, ca. 1788, Oil on canvas, Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection

Satisfying all around, really, from the recitation of Mr Pickering’s manual with its endless repetition of ‘butt,’ meaning musket, entertaining the simpler, uncivil soldiers, to the meal of bread, cheese and cherries, to the chasing. The audience was small, but well entertained if they were paying any attention.

*Oh, NPS, what were you thinking?

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The Boarding Party, or, Trip to the Wrong Ship

12 Sunday Jul 2015

Posted by kittycalash in Events, Fail, Living History, Reenacting, Snark

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

10th Massachusetts, 18th century, 18th century clothes, Boston, Events, failure, L'Hermione, living history, Massachusetts, ship, weekend

Three gentlemen at the Providence Station

Three gentlemen at the Providence Station

L’Hermione, remember her? That French ship? We were asked back in January if we wanted to be part of a group of Citizens of Boston in 1780 who came out to greet L’Hermione when she arrived in port. Yesterday (July 11) was the day she finally came to town, and most of the Rhode Island contingent of our Massachusetts group went up on the MBTA to see her. The train was totally the way to go, though Mr Hiwell did consume three Diet Cokes before we even got to the ship. Turns out the Henry Cooke frock coat pattern pockets can each hold three cans– a full six pack per coat, should you care for such a thing.

Walk fast, it's the city!

Walk fast, it’s the city!

We got to Rowe’s Wharf in time for the national anthem– or, as we like to call it, The Anacreontic Song. There was much speechifying, and though we were not talking too much, water was required. Those pockets came in handy again, as did my own capacious pockets. Good thing, too: the line was long and the sun was hot. One woman offered to let us go ahead of her in line, but that seemed wrong: if you have to wait in line, you have to wait, and the rule we have absorbed is that the public comes before reenactors. But, since we’d been asked to come, we decided to check the situation, and went to inquire. The “bouncer” at the head of the line told us to come back later, so we decided it was time for some lunch.

Lead, follow, get out of the way, or take another photo of backs.

Lead, follow, get out of the way, or take another photo of backs.

By lunch, things were a little surreal as we sat at a table with people I never imagined sitting down with. No worries: it was all good, just a little weird that you have to leave Rhode Island to meet Rhode Islanders. The Young Mr inhaled his lunch, and probably made a lasting, if Hooverish, impression on our new acquaintances. The fact that the entire new contingent of the 10th Massachusetts sat on one side of the table, and that 80% of us were from RI, also made an impression. We are why you can’t have nice things.

Refreshed, we journeyed back to the ship, meeting more friends along the way. To be fair, Mr S and I had agreed beforehand that going up to Boston was as much about seeing our very dear and far-away friends as it was about the ship, and we were delighted to see every one of them. But at last, we thought, we can get on board.

Totally justified.

Totally justified.

No soap, as they say. The line was closing at 1:00 and we were too late to make it into the last crowd that would get on– it was the longest line I’d ever seen– and, even worse, many members of the public waited in the hot sun and failed to board. For us, five and a half months of anticipation were dashed in a moment.

But wait! Well found again, Mr and Mrs B and Baby B. Mr S was delighted to meet Georgiana (he has a thing for babies, and an uncanny ability to guess their ages, and to tease and delight them), whom he had very much wanted to see. L’Hermione was not the only tall ship in the sea: we considered the dry-docked USS Constitution, but chose the Sagres instead, as she is only in port for a few days. Off we went on another trek, waylaid often for photos. The Young Mr in particular kept getting stopped.

Gulliveresque, relly.

Gulliveresque, relly.

At least there was some shade here, and a bench. We took it in turns to go on the Sagres. Mr and Mrs B and I watched from the shore, and could see this happening. I don’t know how they trapped Mr S in this, but they did.

SagresSelfie

After an excursion to the ICA (which we are, as temporal performance art) for water, bathrooms, and some AC, the second shift got to visit the boat. We must have been cursed, because there was another line! At least this one moved, and however slowly and carefully in leather-soled shoes, we managed to go aboard.

Hey, it's got masts.

Hey, it’s got masts.

Mr B was right: oversized yacht. Still very happy to have gone on a ship and to have seen many interesting things, including a very specific kind of display.

Portugal. The Best Fish in the World.

Portugal. The Best Fish in the World.

Mmmm, fish. All the packages were, in fact, empty. At this point we decided it was time for ice cream, and headed back. The Rhode Island Party ended up back at South Station for frozen yogurt and a bit of a rest. I don’t normally wear heels– ever– so a day in 18th century women’s shoes was a pedal workout. (We considered renting bikes, because if you have to be anachronistic, you might as well go all the way.)

Mr Hiwell and I considered the day: it wasn’t bad. We didn’t even get close to achieving what we thought was our goal. But we made our own fun with wonderful friends, had an adventure, and went at least three places we did not expect to go and had not been  to before. All in all, success, even in failure to board.

If they sleep on the way home, it wasn't a bad day.

If they sleep on the way home, it wasn’t a bad day.

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