At Greenfield Village
We visited Greenfield Village over the weekend. At lunch (mulligatawny + spinach egg pie + mint tea) the "proprietor" of the Eagle Tavern c. 1830 knew that we were from Sandwich (Windsor didn't exist yet.) I nearly corrected him and said that we were actually from Walkerville but quickly remembered that the town wasn't founded until 1856. I'm glad I kept my mouth shut.
I always feel vaguely out of place when approached by people in character/period dress -- like I'm letting them down somehow with my 21st century attire and devices. It's more likely that I'm just feeling left out of the fun. I had a friend once who had spent her summers working at a museum out East. She assured me (repeatedly) that wearing 18th century period dress and giving demonstrations of handspinning grew very old very quickly especially in the heat. I never really believed her -- I could never grow weary of that. The heat, now, that's a different story.
I remembered that there were a couple of graves tucked away somewhere on the grounds of the 17th century Cotswold cottage. I hadn't been there (or even really thought about it) since I was 16 years old but it suddenly all came back. It was both heartening and saddening, but I was glad to pay my respects once again.
RIP Champ and Rover -- very good and faithful pals, both.
It is quite a difficult thing to remain melancholy in the presence of a friendly (read: hungry) squirrel. This fine fellow (lady?) preened and posed for me in the most charming fashion. All I had on my person was candied ginger, so I kept it to myself. I doubt that squirrels fancy ginger.
The visit drew to a close, but not before a bit of wisdom was imparted courtesy of Henry Ford himself:
I can think of worse words to live by.