I participated, after a fashion, in a reenactment of the Battle of Chancellorsville on May 4, 2013 – which fell within the span of the150th anniversary of the battle.

The “battle” (the reenactment of it that is) started at 1:30 PM, so of course my battle-tested comrades and I left Springfield, VA at 10:20 AM for the hour or so drive down to Spotsylvania Courthouse, VA. Naturally it was necessary to stop on the way and get lunch before we could later, as did John Kerry at th3 2004 democrat convention, stand before a cheering throng (for us our reenacting unit), give a lame salute, and announce we were “reporting for duty!” Lunch being happily consumed (for the record, I allowed myself an Angus burger deluxe and fries) we departed for the impending faux blood and destruction at about 12:20 PM. We were cutting it close. Our reenacting brethren and sisteren already on site were no doubt putting on accouterments, falling into ranks, and preparing to march to their assigned places. As we soon discovered, had they but waited a bit, they could have taken the bus!

As for us, anyone familiar with “Thomas the Tank Engine” stories will recognize their constant phrase that so aptly describes much of Thomas’ and everybody else’s day-to-day life; and then there was trouble! We got lost. But this is the 21^st century after all. An iPhone V and Google Maps soon had us heading in the right direction – although we were incredulous at how far off course we were.

The 18 or so minutes to the event site were surreal. Two of us, Wes and I, didn’t care if we made it in time for the battle or not. Chris was getting more and more frantic that we would miss it and was trying to urge us on.

We arrived with moments to spare, got registered, serendipitously found a prime legal parking space in front of the museum, and asked directions to the battle. We were told by one of the ever helpful event staff that walking to the site, which meant crossing the battlefield, was strang verboten and we would have to take the shuttle bus. The funny thing was the apologetic “I am only following my orders” manner in which he told us this.

Hey, no problem dudes! This was terrific. We were suited up (after changing into uniform by the car on a public street – the reason I always wear running shorts under my street clothes to these things), got the souvenir medallion, were now legally registered, and we were not going to get to the battle in time to participate. We could watch the show and there would be no musket cleaning later at home. This was terrific!

But we did, make it into the battle I mean. After debarking from the bus and well behind the spectator line, we wandered over to watch the show. We saw the Union army formed for battle. As I gazed at the ranks we would NOT be in, I noticed the flowing beard and mane of our beloved corporal and mused aloud “I think that’s our unit.” Poor Chris, we were so close and yet so far. Filled with compassion at his disappointment, I asked the three young event staff ladies if we might slip under the yellow tape and mosey over to that passel of Yankees yonder as we were supposed to be with them. “Sure!” they cheerily assented only we should mosey rapidly as the shooting was about to start.

We did. Fell into line amid the joyous cheers of our comrades like: “Oh great, now the count is all messed up!”

To sum up the battle: I did the same thing on the same ground last year. Then it was the Battle of Spotsylvania Courthouse. Next year, being the 150^th anniversary of that battle, there will likely be another reenactment with a battle indistinguishable from its two predecessors, and it will probably be the Battle of Spotsylvania Courthouse again.

As soon as the shooting was over we decamped from our unit and the festivities and toured the civil war real battlefields – there are many in that area. The significance of seeing places like “the bloody angle” is a sobering contrast to the perilously close to farcical nature of a reenactment of it, or almost any battle for that matter. And so on Sunday, while the diehards at the event were doing it all again, I was mowing the lawn and, yes, cleaning my musket.

I am registered for the same type of thing with Gettysburg in late June. I will go – unless I don’t; it is very much TBD at this point.

I am plagued with recurring dreams that I am back at my old workplace. Everyone around me knows I was “retired” via a Reduction in Force (RIF) and am not supposed to be there. In the dream I am sad that I am no longer employed and an “outsider.” In waking life, getting RIF’ed and getting a generous severance package was a great blessing. The mind is a strange thing and mine is stranger than most.