(NOTE: This was originally posted on February 26, 2013, on my old blog, a few days after my first book signing event, coinciding with the publication of Soul Sketches)

I was talking with a friend today, and was trying to convey my thoughts about signing books. He attended my book signing this past Saturday night and noticed I was having the time of my life. And indeed I was. I’ve discovered I have some strong feelings about the subject of signing books. Please allow me to share – – it takes a bit of a story to convey my thoughts…

My brother Doug is the drummer in a local blues band, Steve Smith and the Sneakers. They’ve written a bunch of original material, enough to release a CD in 2008. They sold a lot of copies and it is available for download on iTunes. Then they put out a second CD in 2012, and it was great if not better than the original. I was thrilled for him and the other guys in the band, to get to watch people come out to local venues to watch them play, then to have people spend their money buying the CD. I got to thinking about musicians in general, and how it must be a very gratifying and humbling experience to realize that people will spend their money to buy your CDs to listen to your music, and/or buy tickets to pack a room to sit (or dance) and listen to you play your music live.

Now that I have published this very personal book of my innermost thoughts and personal experiences, I find it thrilling and humbling to realize that people are willing to spend their money on my book, and that they care enough about the book and me personally that they want me to sign their book. Whether it’s someone like Marilyn, Tammy or Sandra, whom I’ve known literally since kindergarten, or someone I’ve never met but was interested enough to buy the book and want it signed, it still means the world to me. And I can’t bring myself to sign with a simple “Best Wishes” or something like that. I want to thank that person for their interest in the book, and express my hope that what they read will truly be meaningful to them.

That’s just me. It all means a lot. To be able to say I’m a published author is a dream come true, and I have no intention of ever taking it for granted. It’s very humbling and gratifying. Thanks you.

Christopher Columbus “CC” Seal was born August 17, 1879 in Hancock County, Tennessee, son of Evan and Mary Jane (Manning) Seal. It is not currently known how many siblings he had, however it is presumed that there were several, as families of that time, particularly in rural communities, were quite large with several children to help with chores and working the family farm.

On September 17, 1899, 20-year-old CC married Lydia Sue Spears, who was 15. They were married in the town of Sneedville, the county seat of Hancock, and by August of 1900, welcomed their only surviving child into the world, Sarah Elizabeth.

At some point within the next 10 years, Evan and wife Mary Jane, along with CC and his family, as well as possible other members of the Seal family, packed up their belongings in covered wagons and moved to Ozark County, Missouri, settling near the town of Thornfield. In June of 1913, Evan Seal died, and CC packed up Lydia and Sarah and moved to a little farm east of Ava, Missouri, several miles northeast of Thornfield, on a dusty trail called the Happy Home Road. By this time, CC was a circuit preacher, riding on horseback to preach at several churches in the area. In those days the circuit preacher would travel on Saturday to the town where he was to preach the next day. Some layperson would volunteer to receive the preacher, feed him dinner Saturday evening, then let him sleep at their home that night so that he would be rested and ready to deliver a sermon on Sunday morning. Then the preacher would mount up and ride home that afternoon, after his belly was full from a hearty lunch. Such was CC’s life, allowing him to work his farm through the week, then preach on weekends, save for the occasional revival gig or Wednesday night preacher opportunity.

In late 1917, CC and Lydia took in 18-month-old Walter Lauren Wilson. Walter’s entire family had been wiped out by the influenza epidemic that was sweeping the nation at the time. Though they never formally nor legally adopted Walter, they raised him as their own child, and he became like a brother to Sarah (although family legend tells that he was given preferential treatment because of the loss of his family, and Sarah was never given a fair shake).

On October 10, 1921, Sarah married Orville Nelson Ritter, and they moved to a farm a couple of miles west but still on the same Happy Home Road as her parents. They began having children, then moved to the little town of Hammond in Ozark County and had more children including twins, then by 1941 moved back to the Happy Home Road outside Ava, onto a farm next door to Sarah’s parents, CC and Lydia. By this time Sarah had given birth to 11 children, 9 of whom lived to adulthood.

It is from their later years in life that many stories surface about CC and Lydia. Interesting peculiarities began to surface, which became the fodder of many stories, tales and legends.

Drowning in Goat’s Milk

Country folks of the early twentieth century did not have the luxury of immediately available health care.  This often led to the creation of many home cures for ailments and injuries.  Folks took what knowledge they possessed about nutrition and existing remedies and often created their own variations to help ease whatever was bothering them.

CC had been fighting a cold for some time and could not get much in the way of relief.  This cold was hindering his ability to fulfill his basic duties, so at some point he began to ponder what he could do to start feeling better.  Among the home remedies that came to mind, the old method of breathing steaming vapors seemed appealing.

Being a creative man, CC thought of taking the healing process one step further.  Recalling that his mother Mary Jane had often given him goat’s milk when he felt bad, he decided this would be a nice addition to the treatment.

He collected some goat’s milk in a large pot and began to heat it on the stove.  Traditionally people lowered their head over a pan of steaming water and covered their head with a towel to trap the vapors for the full effect.  CC grabbed a towel, leaned over and covered his head and the pan with the towel.

At some point he must have recalled that he typically drank the milk, and that people inhaled the vapors, so he decided to combine the two processes—he stuck his head in the steaming goat’s milk and sucked in through his nose for all he was worth.

CC almost drowned in his own kitchen.

He pulled his head out of the pan and backed away from the stove, sputtering and spitting and blowing and coughing until he could again breathe halfway normally. Red-eyed and gasping for air, CC stumbled his way back to the living room, collapsing in his rocking chair.

It is not known what ever became of his cold.

Chewing Tobacco and Pyrez Dishes

The late Mary (Moore) Ritter, first wife of Delmas Ritter (one of Sarah’s twins), told an interesting tale of her first encounter with CC and particularly Lydia.

On this particular visit, Delmas and Mary had only been married a few months and were expecting the birth of their first child, Debbie.  As Debbie was born in January of 1961, this event must have taken place sometime during the late spring or early summer of 1960 (It should be noted that this visit would have taken place not quite a year after a tragic and fatal fire swept through Orville and Sarah’s home, next door to CC and Lydia. Orville died from pneumonia a few days later, while one of their sons, Dewey, died in the fire, along with is 18-month-old son Gary. Sarah at this time was in St. John’s Hospital in Springfield, recuperating from her burns).

Since this was the first to Ava since getting married, it was Mary’s first opportunity to meet CC and Lydia. Everyone sat in the living room of the old shack, with Delmas and Mary seated on the old couch, and as had become their usual style, Lydia and CC were seated side by side in their creaky wooden rocking chairs. Mary noticed they each had large metal coffee cans on the floor next to each of their rocking chairs. Apparently both CC and Lydia had taken a liking to chewing tobacco, and their preference was the old-style twist tobacco.  CC would take a package with the thick slab of tobacco out of his pocket along with his pocket knife, open up the knife and cut off a chunk for Lydia, pass it over to her, then cut a chunk for himself. Then he would close up the pocket knife and slip it back in his pants pocket, the close up the package of tobacco, and slip it back in his pocket as well. He then would return to rocking, as he and Lydia were content to chew the wad in their mouths, occasionally leaning over to spit in their respective cans.

As a sidebar, it is worth noting that while they both thought nothing of chewing tobacco, apparently Lydia had an aversion to seeing anyone smoking a cigarette.  Once Elda June, one of Sarah’s daughters, got into quite the tiff with Lydia over cigarette smoking, when Lydia decided to tear into June over the cigarette in her hand.

“That’s sinful!  How can you dare to smoke that cigarette like that!  You should be ashamed of yourself! That’s sinful!” growled Lydia at June.

June was a beautiful, feisty young woman, and she wasn’t about to take such an attack from Lydia without having her say. June snapped back, “Well what in the hell would you rather me do?  Chew that damned old nasty chewing tobaccer?!”

Allegedly, Lydia just turned away and did not say another word about June’s smoking, which tickled the other family members in the room who witnessed the exchange.

Back to Delmas and Mary’s visit, apparently Lydia was not pleased at this first meeting.  She gave Mary some evil looks, grunted and snorted under her breath, “I don’t like this woman comin’ and takin’ away my boy!”

Delmas heard this, and replied, “Grandma, we’ve gotten married and we are expecting our first young’un,” to which Lydia grunted in disgust.

Finally CC had listened to all he was going to.  He turned to Lydia and scolded her, snapping his finger and pointing towards Mary.

“You leave her alone!  She’s alright! She’s got a blue dress on!”

Apparently CC liked Mary’s blue dress, so in his book, she was ok.  After CC’s scolding, Lydia decided to quiet down a bit.

Both CC and Lydia died in 1962, within less than a month of each other. CC died November 12, while Lydia passed away on December 6. About a year before their deaths, Delmas and Mary were again at the old farmhouse visiting the Seals.  Lydia’s frustration had long since passed, and she and Mary had developed a nice relationship.  As was a typical tradition back in those days, Lydia decided that she wanted to give Mary something of hers, to remember her by.

“Here, dear,” Lydia said, handing Mary a dark opaque Pyrex casserole dish, “I’d like for you to have this. It’s been one of my favorite dishes, and I want you to have it.”

“Thank you Grandma!” Mary smiled and gave Lydia a kiss on the cheek.

Later, when Delmas and Mary returned home, she began cleaning the old dish.  It was greasy and dirty, as Lydia’s version of washing dishes was said to have been just wiping the dish out with an old rag then putting it away.  As Mary began cleaning the dish, she discovered something that surprised her:  the dish was not a dark opaque glass as it had appeared; it was clear.  All those years of cooking and just wiping out the dish had make it look dark, but once Mary got it all cleaned up, it was as clear as a new window.

Delmas and Mary had a good laugh over it.  That dish became a treasured piece, and an amusing reminder of a loving last gift.

Bullying. What an awful thing, the terrorizing of another human being, whether by torturing their mind or body, just because the bully doesn’t like them, for one reason or another. You hear mostly about teens being victims of such terror, though it knows no age limit. And it’s gotten more sophisticated, utilizing the social media outlets to harass. Horrible.

I must admit, I never was the victim of bullying all through elementary school. And nothing really substantial ever happened in high school. But when I was 13, in 7^th grade, I was targeted. And it was hell. But I never dreamed it would play out the way it did…

To say that I did not adjust well to 7^th grade is an understatement. Being backward, scared, and unknowingly suffering from severe depression, I did not make a smooth transition from elementary school to junior high. The first quarter I missed at least one day each week, usually feigning some illness or injury that would hopefully keep me at home so that I wouldn’t have to deal with that big school, and that big world. It all frightened me terribly.

One day, when I was actually at school and sitting at lunch with my friend Robbie, two 8^th graders walked by on the other side of the table. Just as they walked in front of me and Robbie, the chair on their side of the table got kicked into Randy, the guy in front. Looking back, I know damn good and well that I didn’t kick the chair. It had to have been Robbie.

Randy was sure it was me, and he and his friend Jerry leaned down and proceeded to tell me how they were going to beat the living shit out of me, amongst other threats, while Robbie sat there and watched with eyes as big as saucers. I kept telling Randy and Jerry that I didn’t know what they were talking about, and that I didn’t do anything. They didn’t believe me, and eventually left.

Robbie turned and looked at me, and said, “Man, what are you going to do?”

I just shrugged and said, “There’s nothing I can do.”

I wanted to run and never come back to school, but I knew I couldn’t do that. And I knew I couldn’t tell my parents about it. The last time I had brought up fighting, my dad told me that if I didn’t double up my fist and hit someone, he was going to double up his fist and hit me. So I knew it was useless the talk with anyone at home, because that would just make life more difficult if Dad ever found out. Hmm, that almost makes Dad my own personal bully, doesn’t it?

Anyway, over the course of the school year, neither Randy nor Jerry ever ended up beating the shit out of me like they threatened. But the threats didn’t end. When 7^th Grade Hell Week came around, Jerry and Randy were standing in front of us 7^th grade boys in the gym before school, pointing out the guys they were going to beat up. When they saw me, they both grinned and said, “We are so going to beat YOU up!”

My friend Billy Vanzandt was nearby and jumped up and said, “No, no! He’s cool, leave him alone!”

For some reason Randy and Jerry listened to him and said, “Nevermind.”

Of course, that made me Billy’s friend for life.

Eventually Randy took great joy in calling me a name any time he saw me. He would get right up in my face and say “Pussy!” and walk away laughing. That went on until the end of the year. I was so glad to see that school year end, as I knew Randy and Jerry would not be at Harry P. Study Junior High the next year, and I would be ok.

After junior high, I managed to adjust well to high school, and I think I only saw Randy once when I got to high school. I didn’t know if we were just never in the same hallway or what, but I was glad to be left alone.

Fast forward through life, and about 30 years after that awful 7^th grade year, I was a plant engineer and maintenance supervisor at a local chemical plant. We hired a couple of new maintenance technicians, and somehow I had missed out on the interview process. So the day they were to start working there, I went over to the other supervisor’s office to find out their names, so that I could introduce myself. When the supervisor told me their names, I nearly fell over. One of them was Randy.

I double-checked the name and asked to see the resume or application he provided. Dennis didn’t have either, and asked me what was wrong. I told him if it was the same Randy (I’m intentionally leaving out his last name, if you hadn’t already figured that out), then he had bullied me in 7^th grade.

Dennis looked at me funny and said, “Are you going to be able to work with this guy or are you going to want to beat the shit out of him?”

“I’ll be just fine,” I said, smiling. But I couldn’t help thinking, “I can’t wait to see this son-of-a-bitch.”

Finally, in walked Randy, and I went over and shook his hand, introducing myself, and I was amazed to see this person in front of me. That bully that had made so many threats and said so many awful things to me had, like most of us, put on quite a few pounds since those days, and I couldn’t help notice he was actually shorter than me. But his personality got me more than anything else. He was docile as a lamb, quiet spoken, and obviously nervous on his first day.

I didn’t say anything further to him that day, nor the next day, nor the next, but so many feelings came flooding back, thinking about how he had treated me at a vulnerable point in my life, but I knew that time had obviously changed this person considerably. It all spun around in my head for a while.

One day, after he had been there for a week or so, I was filling in for the other supervisor, and Randy and I were visiting for a moment.

“What’s your name again?” he asked.

“Tim Ritter.”

“Hmm. Tim Ritter. Tim Ritter. Why do I know that name?”

I knew now was my chance, and I knew how I wanted to play it.

“I’ll tell you why,” I said, standing up straight, “You and I both went to Study Junior High. You were in 8^th grade, I was in 7^th.”

And that’s all I said, and I just stood there and looked at him.

Suddenly I saw the light go on in his eyes. He remembered.

He let out a long, slow, drawn out, quiet, “Oh yeaaaaaaah,” and his face turned red.

“Yep,” was all I said, and I walked away.

I had wanted to say so many things, but 30 years is a long time to hold onto anything like that, so I let that conversation settle it. I knew who he was, and he knew that I knew who he was.

Randy didn’t last long at the chemical plant. He ended up quitting, saying he didn’t feel comfortable working around all those deadly chemicals. I don’t know where he ended up working or what had happened in his life to change him.

It felt kinda good to close a chapter that I hadn’t even realized was still open. The bully in him was dead, and the scared little kid in me had grown up. That was enough.

But it certainly taught me that fate is indeed a strange thing, and that you should indeed be kind to everyone. If you’re not, it may come back to you, even 30 years later…

 

I was having a conversation this evening with one of my friends, and he was telling me about a customer that came in to his store and began talking about Civil War history. My friend was impressed with his vast knowledge of the war. And it reminded me of all the people I have encountered that have amazed me with their Civil War history knowledge. And it also reminded me of how many times I have told someone that I am a reenactor, and they have automatically assumed I am an expert on the war. Quite frankly, I’m not.

I love history, and the Civil War period fascinates me from all angles, especially how it ties into my own family history. And indeed I carry around alot of knowledge about the war in Missouri, and around Springfield. I’m also continuously dissecting in my mind the events that took place on May 18, 1864 in Ava, MO, then known as Militia Springs, and the battle that day that took the life of my great-great-great grandfather and many others. But that’s a discussion for another day.. maybe a book…

I’ve been grilled about my knowledge of the Civil War, almost quizzed to death, to the point where I’ve wanted to yell “Uncle!” and run for my life.

For me, reenacting is not about knowing all there is to know about the war and being able to provide a dissertation about it at a moment’s notice. There are many friends of mine in the hobby who do have that kind of knowledge, and I marvel at what they know. But that’s just not me, not why I’m there.

I like getting deep into the personal perspective of the war experience. When people are walking through the camp asking questions, I want to share with them the personal side of being a soldier in the war. If I find people who are willing to play along, I’ll line them up and grill them like they are new recruits (boys around 8-14 are usually perfect for that). When I’m teaching a class of school kids about the war, I’m talking to them from a very personal perspective, about what the soldier really went through. And when our battalion is lined up and getting ready to go into battle, I’m thinking about what it would have been like to have been standing there, waiting, during the real thing.

If you’ve read Volume 1 of my series of books about reenacting, called Cooter Up, you know that the narratives are told from a very personal perspective. I might have a little history in there, but it’s mostly about what I saw, what I heard, what I felt.

This coming year, I’m going to bring about some changes in my regiment, the 3rd Missouri Dismounted Cavalry, to hopefully enhance each man’s experience on the field and in camp. I’m going to try to add enhancements to camp life that bring the war closer to the hearts of the men, and hopefully improve their experience.

Soon I will be posting the schedule for this year’s events, and with any luck, I’ll be able to initiate a new website for the regiment. I’d like to invite you all to a battle this year, as there are a few very close by, one in Hartville, one near Greenfield. Come see us, come watch the fight, come visit the camps. Hopefully you will catch some of that personal feeling I speak of.

Names and dates and locations are important and worth noting. But what went on inside the heart of every man on the field, and every woman either left at home or following the army as a refugee, is where the real story lives.