July 7, 1863 1997. 

We met because he was interested in speaking to my US History class about the daily experiences of the Civil War soldier.  We fell in love and did much of our courting in the Victorian world.

I will never forget the shock of the real tears I shed as we portrayed some living history involving his sudden demise after a battle.  The kindly matron of the hospital cut a lock of his hair for me to keep and I followed, weeping, as two unconcerned soldiers carried him out of the way to unceremoniously dump him under a tree.

He proposed to me in front of our reenacting family, telling me that a simple, one word answer would make him the happiest soldier in the world.

Our wedding was straight out of an 1863 book for ministers.  We plighted our troth (our loyalty or faithfulness, in case you were wondering) and I even agreed to "obey".  Or at least he insists that I said it.  He has yet to provide the proof.

These days he is no longer a lowly private.  He has risen through the ranks and was recently elected to the position of the Commander of the Union Battalion of the Army of the Willamette.

No, we are not freaks.  We hold normal jobs, he is a math professor, I work for the US Government.  The Civil War is a hobby for us.  A way to spend several exciting, cold, wet, hot, dirty, exhausting, glorious, fun weekends each year honoring the men and women who lived and sacrificed nearly 150 years ago.

I grew up knowing that my great-great grandfather fought in the Civil War as a cavalryman.  But when I began to research good old "William A." I discovered that he was not the only relative of mine who fought in the Civil War. 

Great-great grandfather "Big Tom" saw action at Fredericksburg, the Wilderness, and Cold Harbor.  Considering the bloodbaths that all three were for the Union Army - more than 13,000 casualties (10%+) at Fredericksburg, nearly 18,000 casualties at the Wilderness (18+), and over 12,000 casualties (10%+) for Cold Harbor in 20 minutes - is it any wonder that I suspect that post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) is to blame for his bizarre assertion to the US Pension Department that his wife of nearly 40 years was openly living with other men and therefore should be denied any portion of his pension.  Poor Big Tom eventually fled his home in Pennsylvania and resettled in Los Angeles where he lived in the Diabled Soldier's Home until his death in 1913.

As I continue my ancestral research I will continue to update you, offering stories as I uncover them.