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As a way of introducing you to Book Two of these memoirs, I would like to begin with a segment about and dedicated to those young teenage lads (who I briefly mentioned in previous chapters) that joined Holmes Brigade while still attending high school. For the most part, these boys had never been away from home, and when taken to a strange environment like a Civil War reenactment surrounded by beer swelling, middle aged men, most developed an unusual behavior. A few couldn't wait to get back home, their senses shocked by the debauchery going on, but most enjoyed the closeness with men and the outdoors. When left unattended, these 20th Century lads would get together in a group to scheme some sort of mischief, prank, joke, sleight-of-hand, or involve themselves in an outrageous and usually disgusting act with food. The heyday of these youngsters began in 1985 and ran until 1990, by which time most had run off to college or became involved in an enterprise that took them from the area. To the wives, girlfriends, and little children who populated the civilian camps of our hobby, the teenagers were part Tom Sawyer and part Artful Dodger. "Don't be as ill mannered as those boys," the ladies usually warned the little children, but secretly they had a fondness for the lads just as Aunt Polly had for Tom. Our Confederate cousins seemed to fear the boys worse than soap and water and cringed every time they made an appearance in their camp. "Keep you're boys in line," Johnny Reb always seemed to tell Captain Dick after some harmless prank. Here now is a brief chapter on how black powder and beer turned mother's little angels into mischievous fiends and a few of the adventures that followed them. They are the BAG LADIES!
Like any group of people, it usually begins with one. With the Bag Ladies, it began with Erik Hansen who I introduced in an earlier chapter and who was my tango partner at the 1980 Prairie Grove, Arkansas event. Erik has fiery red hair and a fiery red temper to boot. At one early event, he got corned (compliments of Gregg Higginbotham) and desired to rest on the railroad tracks. Naturally we talked him out of doing such a thing. He also began spouting off such colorful expressions such as "Render me impotent!" and "It takes a big dog to weigh a ton!" Late at night, Erik used to serenade the slumbering reenactors with a tape recording of either Judas Priest or Motorhead.
I also introduced you to Newton Hughes. He was in the hobby early on, but left in 1985 to go to the University of Columbia, so he was not really a bona fide member of the Bag Ladies. Newton was smart as a whip. He was very quiet behind a pair of black-framed glasses; he was polite, and never seemed to be bothered by much. He did have two left feet however, and usually stumbled over something around the campfire, which caused a skillet or coffee pot to fall. When this happened, much to the chagrin of all, he was called a "Jonah."
At a Missouri Town event during the winter of '82 or '83, Erik Hansen's young cousin showed up. Aaron Racine was probably 13 or 14 at this time and nearly swallowed up in a borrowed Federal uniform. I'll never forget the pair of German jackboots he wore that first year that he constantly complained hurt his feet. It was at Missouri Town that Aaron, Erik, and a few others wandered into the main part of the reconstructed village sometime after midnight and brought back a goat on a leash. The goat nosed around a few of the sleeping lads until it wandered into my tent. I woke up with a start, shouting, "Oh God, Oh Christ, Oh Shit," thinking the apparition was a beast from Hades. Aaron said I crawled on my back trying to get away from the goat, but only backed myself into the corner of the tent. He still laughs about it to this day.
These three lads formed the foundation of the youth movement of the Holmes Brigade in the Kansas City region. In the St. Louis or the Jeff City/Columbia regions, there really was no teenage presence that I know of, but in the Southwestern region of Joplin/Springfield/Oklahoma, there was. There was also one or two from Nebraska. In a short time, they would all be known as Bag Ladies.
What is a Bag Lady? More importantly, where did the name Bag Lady come from? We're probably all familiar with the image of the decrepit old lady who huddles on a doorstep or in an alley, eating cat food or whatever she can find in the garbage pail and making her pennies by reselling old rags door to door. From Bette Davis to Lucille Ball, some of Hollywood's finest leading ladies have all portrayed the poor unfortunate street wretch.
The 10th Missouri Kansas City Federals were hosting another Living History weekend at the Wornall House during the spring of '83, when Erik Hansen arrived wearing a short hat called a 'porkpie.' The hat was correct in its pattern and style. In fact, Phil Sheridan wore a similar hat during the Civil War. Most of us had never seen a hat like that in the flesh. On Erik, it looked laughable and someone remarked that it looked like something he had taken off a 'bag lady.' The term was born at the Wornall House event, but the lads themselves would not be known by that name until after the arrival of several more teens and two years had passed.
John Condra arrived like a lamb in 1984. I've already spoken of him and his first event at Brice's Crossroads in June in an earlier chapter. It was during the remaining summer months and into the fall of '84, when he began associating himself with Erik Hansen, Aaron Racine, and others, that his true colors emerged. John was the son of very strict parents. Being able to let his hair down at a Civil War event was akin to finding religion.
In 1985, Charlie Pautler joined Holmes Brigade. As mentioned in a previous chapter, Charlie wanted to associate himself more with guys his own age, rather than the old farts he'd been with the last half dozen years. We also had a fellow named Jim "Crowfoot" Crofutt, from the St. Joseph area, who hung around for about a year or two although he was never officially recognized as a member of the Bag Ladies.
In late '85 or possibly early'86 another lad showed up named Chad Dial. I think he was a personal friend of one of the other guys, but I'm not sure which one. Chad was an eager recruit, and took to the Bag Lady life style almost as soon as he'd put popskull to his underage lips. His favorite brand of refreshment was a rotgut called DICKEL. In no time, Chad was referred to as DICKEL DIAL. At the 1988 Lexington event, Chad achieved legendary status as the guy who brought the large slingshot. The first thing that I saw upon arrival at the Lexington event that year, was Chad, Higgy, and one or two other Bag Ladies, using a ten foot rubber band to launch beer cans into the side of an old barn. I understand it is a device normally used to launch water balloons, but these clowns were using fully unopened beer cans. They must have been gassed, to waste good beer like that. Things got a little out of control, when they decided to shoot at a nearby port-a-john. LUAS member Kay Turner was inside the port-a-john at the time, attending to some personal business, and she was a little peeved at the sudden interruption. The gang also busted the taillight of Holmes Brigade member Bob Potts' car, and offered to pay for the damages. After this incident, play was halted and I never saw Chad Dial's slingshot ever again.
Louis Metoyer came to the hobby in '84, but only remained for about a year. Louis' wife never really liked us, even after claiming to have had a good time at the January 1985 ball in Columbia, MO. About an hour before the ball was to start, Hig, Louis, and myself were watching VH1 in Louis' hotel room, and drinking cold beer. When she asked us if we were going to get ready for the ball, Hig and I calmly announced we decided to pass on it and drink instead. I think she almost believed us, until our wives came by a few moments later and took us by the ear into our own rooms to get dressed. Less than a year later, we hear that Louis and he wife are divorced and she had burned all his Civil War clothes. What a bitch! We never saw Louis again.
I first met Joe Anderson in 1981 at the Grand Island, Nebraska event. I believe he carried a set of colors before we actually had a regulation flag made. Joe didn't attend that many events early on. The same can be said for the other citizen of corn husker country, Fred Goss. Joe and Fred attended Holmes Brigade events infrequently; they came when they could hitch a ride with someone but were welcomed in the Bag Brotherhood like long lost "kissin' cousins" from up North.
Finally, from the Indian Nation of Oklahoma and parts of southern Missouri came the "redneck Bags". They were Scott White, Scott Hughes, John Travis, and Ken McElhaney. When these guys showed up at an event it was like Ma and Pa Kettle at the County Fair. Both Scott's were slow talking, loved to drink homemade corn liquor and walked bow legged like they'd been riding in a rodeo. John and Ken were cut from the same cloth, as being more civilized than the two Scott's, but not by much. To the untrained observer, they seemed like they'd probably take a bath more than once a week.
And so the Bag Membership looked something like this: Erik Hansen, Aaron Racine, John Condra, Charlie Pautler, Joe Anderson, Chad Dial, Fred Goss, Scott White, Scott Hughes, John Travis, and Ken McElhaney, with honorable mention made for Newton Hughes, Jim Crofutt, and Louis Metoyer. These last three would have made good Bags, if only they'd stayed with Holmes Brigade a bit longer. Of all the Bag Ladies, John Condra was usually the focus of many of the pranks and tomfoolery that went on. John was mild mannered, easy going but a bit naïve. The other guys could usually talk him into doing something outrageous that they themselves would not do. He tried to out drink a biker chick at a Wornall House event and succeeded only in spewing up his guts after only his sixth can of cheap beer. Cries of "puke patrol" interrupted the night's slumber as Aaron and one of the other Bags took turns with a shovel to bury John's vomit.
During a particularly warm night at Fort Scott, Kansas, John was suffering from an acute case of chafing along the inner thighs. (Sweat combined with wool rubbing against tender skin creates redness and soreness, much like a diaper rash, which will turn the manliest man into a little baby if it is not attended to immediately. The best remedy is some kind of talcum powder applied liberally.) John had no powder, but had the idea that if he washed himself with soap and water it would work just as well. He went to the indoor restroom at the park and came back some time later feeling refreshed. Then just as suddenly, his expression changed and right there in front of his tent, in front of all of us, he drops his trousers and begins fanning his balls with both hands. "Wooo! Wooo!" In the park restroom the soap that comes out of the dispenser is alcohol based, and within moments John is even in greater agony. The rest of us are laughing uncontrollably as John writhes on the ground, his trousers bunched at his feet, and both hands shoveling handfuls of air to his aching loins.
John was also a poor victim of irregularity. It seems he had gone to some third world Latin American Country with a church group and came back to the USA unable to have a bowel movement. For well over a week, he was stopped up with barely a squeak from his anal orifice. At one of our Heritage Village events, we all decided one night to go into Liberty to eat dinner at a Taco Bell. As we neared the parking lot, John very clearly announced: "I have to take a shit and RIGHT NOW!" We were less than 20 yards from a port-a-john, but we couldn't see it in the darkness. With no time to lose, John peels off his britches and hangs his cheeks over the wood rail fence and lets fly. In the meantime, the guys are chucking pieces of tree bark at John's bare ass and laughing like schoolgirls. The highlight of the moment came when John asked for some toilet paper and I came from the port-a-john with a square in one hand and a wad in the other. Naturally, I blew my nose on the wad of paper and gave John the one square.
Perhaps Higginbotham, Maki, and myself are guilty of corrupting these lads as we did encourage them to drink and smoke cigars with us while in camp. Possibly the earliest record of debauchery with the teenagers came at a living history event at Lone Jack. It was during an August weekend in 1984, because Higgy was still a member of the Richards-Gebaur AFB Fire Department. There was a rededication ceremony of the August 1862 battle with a wreath laying, a rifle salute, food, contests, and games. There was an assortment of cheap carnival rides including an inflatable moonwalk. Kids could go into this enclosed area and jump up and down on an airbag, so some of us reenactors took off our brogans and also had a turn inside. We bounced around for about five minutes, and then crawled out weak from laughter. That evening, the locals gathered around a make-shift stage to see some musical entertainment including a young colored boy who did a rather convincing Michael Jackson impression (this was right after the release of THRILLER, so he did a bunch of break dancing and assorted gyrations like the gloved one). We also stayed for some of this.
It must have been 8 or 9 PM when Higginbotham declared it was time to go to the shift party. It seems some of his fellow firefighters at the station were having a keg party at the base club. About 12 of us climbed into the back of a small pickup truck for a half hour drive to the air force base. We were already well lubricated before we left Lone Jack and were as giddy as schoolgirls when we arrived. Several of us had cigars shooting out of our mouths as we entered the club. The first thing I noticed as we walked towards the entrance was John Condras' mother and father walking towards us. I don't know why his parents were at the club whether it was to have dinner or to meet some friends. It was a hell of a coincidence. John had a big cigar and it went flying from his lips like it was a cruise missile and landed in the brush. Hig quickly explained to John's parents that the crew from his fire station were having a party and had invited us all. I'm sure they both suspected we were up to no good, but after a few words with their son and the rest of us, they opted to leave their son in our hands. Before he left, John Sr. gave us all a look that said, keep my son out of trouble or I'll have your ass.
Once inside, we found the shift party tucked away in a partitioned-off room of the club, with the keg of beer. In one of the adjoining rooms, some people were having a wedding reception, so we moseying on over there for a spell and gave the bride a smooch. As time went along, we found the shift party was obliged to move to another part of the club, so several of us rolled the keg down the hallway to the main lounge where music blared from a juke box. By this time, it was well past midnight. We danced (with ourselves), sang, burned a few more stogies, and polished off the keg. I think most of Hig's fire fighter buddies had retired for the night, with only the reenactors to assume total command of the keg. Once the keg had dried out, we might have bought a couple of beers from the club bartender. Around 2 AM, we took the trip back to Lone Jack, with most of us passed out in the back of the pickup.
In regards to the involvement of Hig, Maki, and myself with the Bag Ladies, we were the ones that usually supplied the beer, cigars, and other refreshments including popcicles and pornography. We became Bag Sponsors. However, Hig went beyond just being a sponsor. He preferred to associate himself with the Bag Ladies even as they went out to create mischief and he viewed himself as a middle-aged teenager. Hig became a Bag Chaperone.
Mischief by the Bag Ladies was not solely based on the mass consumption of alcohol, bodily excretions, or riotous and exhaustive mayhem. Some of it was quite tame, silent, or sneaky, like waking up with a ham sandwich in your trousers. The Bags Ladies had a thing for food fights, as if they'd watched too much Animal House. It usually began while we sat around eating breakfast, or really any meal, but most generally if someone had a big bag of peanuts to share. The guys would start throwing the shells at one another, or they'd try to hit someone's open coffee cup. If no peanut shells were available they'd toss little tree twigs, pebbles, pieces of bread or whatever tiny food item was available. It wasn't long before everyone got into the spirit of the thing with food arcing across the air to whack some unsuspecting soul in the head or the crotch. At one particular event and after several minutes of a food hailstorm, an exasperated David Kessinger said, "Why don't you all just roll in it?" Charlie Pautler replied, "OK!" and the Bags rolled back and forth over the little pieces of garbage they had spread across the slope.
When the Brigade had a spare moment, whether it was a half-hour before drill or battle, the guys usually liked to catch a little shut eye-particularly if a Friday or Saturday night was spent under a bottle. After hours of mischief, the Bag Ladies would curl up together like kittens to nap-the head of one on the leg of another. This was known as a Bag Pile.
Probably because Erik Hansen was such a fan of Rugby, the most infamous of all Bag acts was born and was launched at the height of inactivity around the camp. The Bag Ladies would launch a mass assault an unsuspecting soul, someone who was either lying on his back, sitting, or otherwise off his feet. One of them would loudly cry, "Buck-Buck," and the poor wretch would be bowled over with 6 or 8 men piling on top of him. This violation only lasted a moment, but the guy underneath felt as if a piano was on top of him and he found it hard to breath. The only thing worse was if a fat man (Randy Rogers) came barreling along to add his weight to the pile. The only casualty that ever resulted from a Buck-Buck was Don Whitson who suffered a cracked rib. Most every body in the brigade has been Buck-Bucked at least once, including Frank Kirtley.
So with the Bag Ladies firmly established within the hobby, the 1986 season kicked off with a memorable event at Butler, MO. Memorable because it was the next to last event before we went out east to the 125th anniversary reenactment of 1st Bull Run. Thousands of reenactors from all over the country, as well as a number of Europeans, had already registered for this big one. During the evening hours, between beer drinking and dancing, we discussed the upcoming spectacular with enthusiasm. We could not imagine an event with thousands of boys on the field. Considering the fact that our experience was limited to the Trans-Mississippi with maybe a couple hundred at an event, we were behaving like kids going to the Ringling Brothers Circus. Our old friend and sutler John Zaharias, the "Button Baron", had been out east many times in the past. He tried to educate us on what to expect once we crossed over the Appalachian Mountains.
Did I mention there was beer drinking? In the Butler City Park, there was a visitor's center/reception hall in which the reenactors were fed either chili or a ham and bean supper that Friday night. The hall also allowed us the have a dance Saturday night, complete with the community provided free keg of beer. A string band played many numbers in which we waltzed, polka'd, reeled, and twisted the night away with our wives and/or sweethearts. The Bag Ladies consumed their weight in free beer and then some. Later that night they returned to camp, after nearly every one else was settling into their blankets. From over the distant hill they came, arm in arm with Higginbotham leading the way. Long before you could see them, you could hear them singing:
"Ass ass ass, her ass was painted black. I said to the girl, can I see your ass? She said no you can't 'cause my ass is painted black. Ass ass ass, her ass was painted black" And so on. Tireless, but hopeless lads.
In the morning, many of these same tireless lads of the night before were feeding the raccoons and cries of "puke patrol" brought someone out with a shovel. Ken McElhaney said that the lowest moment of his life was coming out of his tent to vomit only to see a father and son standing nearby as he completed his horrible business. Ken imagines the kid has emotional scars to this day.
Finally, the Butler event saw another new recruit for Holmes Brigade. Pat McCarthy is a big burly soft-spoken cop from Overland Park who came to me with a desire to join the hobby. I remember taking him over to see John Zaharias where he bought a waist belt, cartridge box, and one or two other items from John. Pat would be completely outfitted by July and would travel with Holmes Brigade to Virginia. This concludes my observations on those young teenage lads who became known as the Bag Ladies. Surprising, all have grown up into enterprising men since those carefree days of youth. Some have taken on jobs at historic sites, one has become a political aide, another a businessman, and another a lawyer. Some I've lost track of all together. A few have married. The years of debauchery has not left too many scars or side effects on them. In 2002, a Bag Reunion of sorts was held at the Athens, Missouri site. 5 former Bag Ladies were present, and not looking the worse for wear, proceeded to get drunk and act silly, just like they had done almost 20 years earlier.