
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.