As our time here in Boston wears down, our interest in playing tourist at home goes dramatically up. On Saturday we actually made it to the battle in Concord. In case you didn't know (and really, who does when you aren't from here) the place where the American Revolution began is now a National Park. Minute Man National Historical Park was a mere 15 minutes away from our house and yes, we just barely got our butts in gear. Its even more surprising because during our caravan from Indy to New England, J and I would practically salivate every time we saw a sign for a National Park. Growing up in Utah will do that to a person: love for the National Parks seems genetically embedded.
As we briskly walked down battle road I realized I wore the wrong shoes. I wasn't in stilettos or flip flops, but I wore my standard Dansko clogs when I probably should have worn tennis shoes. The sound of gun fire drew us closer until we finally found a few tents housing the British soldiers. There was even a surgeon tent and he seemed to lack business but he wore the costume with gusto including an apron with fake blood on it. The rangers had us roped off and the crowds were busy. This particular battle lasted an hour, but we only saw about 30 minutes of it. The Brits played their part well lining up to be easy targets and then firing their muskets. And sure enough, the Minute Men in their colonial dress flanked the roads, came from behind, and closed them off. The cannon fire was very loud and I have to say that gunpowder is not one of my favorite scents. J informed me that since its illegal to bring firearms into National Parks, our US government paid and provided all of the gunpowder needed for this reenactment. This was the 113th reenactment. Apparently there was only one year that was missed and it was during WWI.
All was good and well until I realized two things: 1) No one was aiming at the other side but really just shot into the air, and 2) No one pretended to die or be wounded. With all of that gunfire one would think a few would play dead. I watched the crowd filled with families and boy scout troops. Little ones ran around in tri-cornered hats, like the colonists and had wooden muskets bought at the gift shop. The muskets were twice the size of the kids pretending to shoot the suckers. And others who didn't con mom and dad into buying a $22 piece of wood carved to be a gun, they were just using sticks on the ground. It was disturbing. Here was a perfectly good opportunity to show why guns are NOT play toys by showing the wounded and the dead, but nothing like that happened.
As the battle finished and the Brits retreated, the colonists yelled, "Huzzah!" to let us know the show was over. We wandered back to the British post where the mock soldiers picnicked on potato chips and sandwiches. We listened to the gruesome tales the surgeon told the kids about how they sawed off legs and fished around for veins with their tools for a bit. God help me, I can't believe I actually wanted to be a doctor at one point in time. The drums and piccolo began to signal the troops to assemble and their general announced:
"Great job, soldiers! You fought bravely. Now we're going to continue our journey to Boston. So we're going to get on a bus...um...whatever that is and head to Lexington! And for those of you who haven't had enough of the battle, we start again at 4:00. Three cheers to the King! Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!"
Sure enough both sides loaded up on the waiting school buses to head to their next mock battle. J and I took the opportunity to wander a bit around the historic houses. One thing that dawned on me is that they never yelled, "The British are coming!" Its kind of like a well, duh. EVERYONE was British at that time! So instead, what they really cried was, "The regulars were coming!" We read one historic marker about some dimwit house builder named Josiah. On the eve of Paul Revere's ride he opened the door and somehow, and I really mean SOMEHOW he missed the guy dressed in the red soldiers outfit because he asked if the soldiers were coming. He got knocked in the head by the soldier (call it Darwinism if you must) and died a few days later. I try to give him the benefit of the doubt: it was during the night, but the moon was 3/4 full according to history.
J and I drove around Concord where we stumbled across Louisa May Alcott's home and other historical sites only to return home exhausted. So the Mormons pull their handcarts through State Street, the Indy fans camp out on race day near the track with their RV's and cold Bud Light, the Mardi Gras folks drink daiquiris and flash for beads, and here they battle all paid by the US taxpayers where no one dies.
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