Putting on a Reenactment - Part Eight

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

Part Eight: Performing the Reenactment - Show Time!

After months of preparation, overcoming problems, naysayers, and outright opposition, the day of our reenactment for my hometown’s 150^th anniversary celebration arrived. We would be showcasing events that happened in 1883, culminating in a big shootout between the Notch-cutter gang and the Vigilantes.

Rehearsal the day before had been a disaster, but I had put it in God’s hands. My hope was that at the least the reenactors had fun, and that the audience was able to get some kind of enjoyment out of it even if nobody knew what they doing onstage— which was a roped off section of street on the actual ground the original events took place.

Those in charge of the local historical society had been so burned by a previous revisionist reenactment that they refused to support us and had tried to get out of letting us use their annex building even though it had been rented months before. The previous day, they had taken the toilet out and not put the new one in. We got the new one in, now news came that after we left, they had put a lock on the door of the bathroom and the kitchen. At this point, I was more embarrassed by their behavior than anything else.

One of the musicians had solved the problem of getting the music of “Can’t Help Loving That Man of Mine” over the loudspeaker, and the saloon girl who was to sing it was ecstatic. More volunteers poured in. The Mexican horsemen would not be able to wear their guns as they had hoped, but they would ride in on a given signal. One of the committee members who had been wavering about being a saloon girl finally decided to have a go at it. She looked so cute in her saloon girl outfit, her husband didn’t want her to take it off—ever. The local men playing non-shooting vigilantes arrived dressed as cowboys and looked great. One of them did come wearing an expensive costume—that of a Union soldier complete with sword, but nobody said a word.

The reenactors requested I get spectators off the sidewalk and far enough back there would be no chance of a blank causing any damage. I did try to keep everyone off the sidewalk, but I couldn’t be everywhere at once, and a few strays show up in the video. With the sidewalks cleared, we commenced telling the events that had forevermore defined our hometown’s history.

It was as if in putting on their costumes, the reenactors and locals became different people. They were the people of the 1800s, and what had been a shambles the day before became thrilling to watch that day. The experienced reenactors were surprisingly good actors, and the locals didn’t do bad either. When the saloon girl began singing “Can’t Help Loving That Man of Mine,” I had to fight to keep from crying, it went so well. When the descendant of Deputy Sheriff Bose Heffington and his reenactor killer began shooting it out, it was stunning and spine tingling. The rest was just as good.  

There were a few mistakes, but nothing disastrous. The young man who was supposed to sing “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry,” missed his cue. I hadn’t realized that the horsemen were waiting for their signal at a closer spot than I had thought, so they arrived too early. They were a little upset they weren’t given a bigger part, and had I been able to communicate with them better, I would have tried to get them in closer, but one of their horses started acting up, so it was probably for the best anyway. They looked good, however. Four of the blanks of the hundred I had ordered from a company in Fort Worth were duds, but the reenactor who played George Milton never missed a beat and kept going.

When it ended, there was a lot of applause and “We need to do this again!” comments. It had been an exciting experience for everyone involved.

Someone asked me later, “What would you have done differently?” and I replied, “Nothing.” Because we were bound to make mistakes no matter what, and the mistakes we made weren’t bad.

But, of course, I do think about what I would have done differently. I would have tried to find the money to get mikes on the actors. I would have instructed the videographer not to film so much of the narrator, but to keep his camera on the action. I wouldn’t have taken so many things for granted. I would have tried to have someone to see that the musicians were onstage and performing when they were supposed to. I would have painted the backs of my banners so they didn’t look so plasticky—something that shows up badly in the video. 

On the plus side, my historical script on a sensitive subject sailed through without any backlash from locals. With almost no money, we had come up with good props. Fifty people successfully performed the somewhat complicated script in 90-degree heat on a street of a little old town, and a decent video was made of it. And most importantly of all, because of good advice from knowledgeable people, nobody got hurt.

“Blood in the Streets” isn’t the movie I wanted to make. It is a short script done with a few hours of rehearsal on the street of a small Texas town. It’s an homage to the men who fought to make the place they lived safe—a place I call my hometown. 

 

The blanket in the background covered a for sale sign.

 

As you can see, the reenactors really put on a good show.

Bartenders Horace and Oscar Nash played pivotal parts in the Christmas 1883 events, sending word to the vigilantes that the men they sought were in the saloon.

The actors were great at shooting it up, being killed, and dying in the street. The musicians and narrator did a fine job, too.

That's me kneeling in relief, thanking God.

The End  and Many Happy Trails to You!

See the video: "Blood in the Streets"