Putting on a Reenactment - Part Six

Hi, my name is Vicky J Rose, an author who also writes under the pen names of Easy Jackson and V. J. Rose.

Part Six: Organizing a Reenactment - Coming Down to the Wire

When I agreed to organize a reenactment of the 1883 shootout that happened in my hometown for its 150^th anniversary, I had no idea of the mountain of problems that would have to be overcome. The curator of the local museum had been adamantly opposed to the reenactment from the start, and she had gotten the president and secretary of the historical society to join her in boycotting it. Now, although we had paid for the use of their building for three days, we were only going to be allowed to use it for one.

Other committee members were livid. I didn’t have time to waste on much anger—we needed a restroom for Friday’s rehearsals. The owners of the condo next door came to the rescue. They said we could use their facilities, loaning us tables and chairs to use in the reenactment, too, being helpful in a thousand ways. My cousin also volunteered the use of her house across the alley behind Main Street where we to hold the reenactment. One of the society’s officers who was on our side advised us not to worry. “I have a key and will let you in Friday, just keep quiet about it.”

My cousin had been working closely with the school, and she and other committee members came up with an idea to have school children hold up signs announcing each act. Flustered, I replied, “That’s fine, but I don’t have time to make signs.” No worries, the art teacher was eager to have her students work on it.

It was about this time that I learned the school had a drama teacher willing to help—she had also directed plays. I felt so stupid—I was still living in the 1960s when I graduated from eighth grade with 10 kids in the class, and had no idea they now taught drama. But it was too late in the game to throw the entire reenactment on this young teacher.

Instead, I had a brainstorm of having some of the younger students be the deputy sheriff’s children who comfort their weeping mother when she has to go collect the body of her husband. The drama teacher agreed to be in charge of the child actors. She would try to get some of her older students to volunteer, too. Including youth turned out to be one of the best things we could have done. It meant having their parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles on board. People began to volunteer to participate.

The entire family of the drama teacher proved invaluable. Her husband was a great singer, even writing words about one of the outlaws to the tune of “Hang Down Your Head Tom Dooley.” (This was the only time the last name of one of the outlaws was mentioned. He had been a young man when hanged and had no direct descendants.) He also did a fine job as Print Olive. His oldest boy agreed to play a young man who gets caught in the crossfire and dies in the street. His youngest boy played a shoe shine boy, and his daughter was one of the Heffington children. His talented mother played in the band and his wife, the drama teacher, sang with him.  

I finally had enough reenactors lined up, more than enough I thought. Worried that I would have too many, and they would get upset if they weren’t given a shooting role, I took down my request from the Texas Western Actors Facebook page. Later on, that proved to be a big mistake.

Nevertheless, I was so desperate for actors to play the non-shooting vigilantes; I threw away the costume rule earlier imposed. If they would just arrive wearing blue jeans, boots, and a long sleeve cotton shirt, that was good enough for me.

I pestered people, searching for more horsemen, trying to find barrels to use as props, looking for black actors, and anyone who was willing to be a vigilante. Other committee members stepped up to be on the lookout, signing up people and musicians.

We were fortunate that there were good musicians in the area willing to play for free. But I still hadn’t found someone who could and would play the music to “Can’t Help Loving That Man of Mine.” The song began to haunt me.

I was having trouble finding someone to communicate with our Spanish speaking horsemen. And no one was willing to be on hand to check that any guns they carried were unloaded. Experienced reenactors who could serve as armorers, checking guns downtown, couldn’t be spared to be somewhere else. The sheriff’s office had no men to spare. The constable was going to be out of town. The deputy in charge of the county’s horses refused to return my calls and texts.

We were just a group of volunteers trying to do something for the community, not an official 501c. If we had been associated with an official nonprofit like the historical society, we would have received much more help. As it was, we took donations, but almost all the money spent came out of our own pockets. Nevertheless, Providence-Jones Funeral Home put up a tent for shade; Wampler Manufacturing gave us a log to use as a prop; Bluebonnet Electric Coop provided free bottles of water for the reenactors, and women in the community donated snacks and sodas for them, God bless them.

As the time grew closer, I sent emails to our reenactor volunteers, reminding them the reenactment was nearing. That’s when I realized I should have listened closer to the Arizona Gunfighter’s advice. “Sorry, I won’t be able to attend after all,” emails began to flow in. Or worse yet, no emails confirming they would or would not be there. The request for reenactors shot back up on the Texas Western Actors Facebook page, and the frantic texts and emails to anyone I could think of who could help began to fly from my phone.

Friday’s rehearsal was almost upon us. There were a million minor details to attend to. The owner of the old depot building had a for sale sign across it and another building he owned. We could move one over slightly, but the committee members were hesitant about taking the other one down. At the last minute, I found an old Indian patterned blanket to throw over it. Every request to play the music for “Can’t Help Loving That Man of Mine” was turned down. I felt the song was important. The entire reenactment was male driven, but I wanted something that would give a female point of view and set the right tone. Giving up on a live musician, I found music online, but the singer said it wasn’t in the right key. I was in black water musically; I told her she would just have to find the right version on her own. I couldn’t help her.  

I felt as if I was trying to stay atop a gigantic rolling ball with no control over the direction it was going.

Luckily for us, committee member Freddie Wilson, in black, was on board from the beginning to be our narrator. Craig Hobbs, with the red bandanna, was a local who sang, wrote a song for the reenactment, and played Print Olive, who lived not far from where Craig resides. Reenactors Bill McFerren, left, and Mike McCullough on the right, listen.

Mimi Klemm, in front, volunteered to sing “Can’t Help Loving That Man of Mine.” She would end up singing it to her husband, Johnny, on the left, but not before a nerve-racking search for the music. Our special angel, Lana (Smith) Reed, owned the condo next door to the museum building. She and her husband Dale loaned us the use of their restroom, their furniture, and anything else we needed. Steve Johnson, far right, was a lifesaver. He set up all the audio for our music and calmly came through with answers when we needed them.

The students playing the dead deputy’s bereaved children added much to the drama. The boy holding the shotgun is a Heffington family descendant.

Coming up in Part Seven: Rehearsing the Reenactment