18th century pro-tip …

Don’t put your 18th century clothes in the dryer. If you’re not comfortable spreading them in the grass to dry (which is great for whiter whites, BTW), hang them on the clothesline, or let them drip dry on hangers. Fluffy, softened linen is just one of those anachronisms that’s easy to avoid. And dryers eat inexpensive linen. If you can tear your $6 a yard linen, there’s a good chance it’s not going to stand up to even moderate use, even if you wash it on “gentle” and hang it to dry. Ask me how I know. If you’re going to spend all that time hand sewing, or even hand-finishing a linen garment, spend a little extra money and buy from a reputable merchant.
And for the love of all that is good and holy, don’t wash your 18th century clothes with scented detergent or use fabric softener. If I can smell your “Blackberry and Hydrangea” self from 15 feet away, you’d better be bringing me fruit and flowers.

Linking for thinking ...

Posts from two other bloggers have been stuck in my head for days. The Neaderpundit, Og, has a series of posts going regarding faith, belief, truth, trust and more. I find them good reading, especially for attempting to get my thoughts somewhat in order for Lent.

Phlegm Fatale has a post up regarding the following song. I've been playing it pretty much non-stop since I read her post, so I thought I'd share. As she says, "music expresses what's best in us."

MTA results

We tied for 3rd place out of 14 units, I believe it was, in the cooking contest. This was for all of the pre-Civil War groups. I have to seriously rethink our game plan for next year, but there is only so much you can do and present when you’re limited to 15 minutes with the judges. No, I don't have any pictures. I wasn't about to pull out the camera and lose points for authenticity. It's bad enough we got dinged because the woman around the campfire wasn't very friendly. (Gee, I wonder who that was?)

We also witnessed a freak accident where someone was leaning over the fire and a spark went down the front of his shirt inside his waistcoat. As a result, it wasn’t readily apparent what was happening at first – the guy just knew that something was burning, but he couldn’t figure out where it was coming from at first. There wasn’t any polyester involved so the shirt did not stick and shrink-wrap itself to the skin, but a not-insignificant part of the shirt will have to be repaired. Other than a little singed chest hair and a couple of red spots there wasn’t much damage to the guy. Yes, we had fire buckets handy (and a fire extinguisher, and a wool blanket) but we couldn’t really tell what the problem was at first. It’s not often something catches fire from the inside out. I ended up grabbing the skirts of my gown, reaching inside the guy’s shirt with them and smothering the smoldering shirt between his waistcoat and my skirts.

Lesson learned? We will now keep a dish towel-sized piece of linen in one of the fire buckets for this type of situation. And I get to remind him, quite dramatically, that I saved his life for at least the rest of the season.

          

All the cool kids are doing it

In order to pay the linky-love forward, I'm linking to blog-brother, Borepatch, who's linking to Tin Can Assassin, who linked to Blog-father JayG.

It is April 1st ...

Remeber this guy?

Remember my friend, The Loyal Lurker, and her brother?

Today's snark consisted of the following.

I hear they are planning for another “Day Of Rage” somewhere in the middle east.

Isn’t that like the rest of us “announcing” a “Day of Breathing”?

How about a “Day of Not Having Our Heads Up Our Asses”?

or a “Day of Not Cutting Off Our Noses To Spite Our Faces”?

or a “Day of Acting Like Adults Instead of Irate Spoiled Toddlers”?

Why Colonial Williamsburg doesn't have Monsters

Sweet Daughter and I were driving through Williamsburg (where the hotel was – yes. We hotel it in March. Sue me.) to Jamestown on Saturday morning when I saw a lovely 18^th century house with a very simple sign out front. The artwork consisted of a pineapple and three letters.  “AHA!” I said. I need to get a picture of that. So on Sunday morning, I managed to stick my camera out the window and grab a picture. “THAT’s getting sent to New York Times best-selling author Larry Correia!” I told Sweet Daughter.  She ignored me and continued eating her Froot Loops.

Funny - I would have expected something more lethal than a pineapple.

Living History – Blue Angels and Bearcats

“It’s kind of like having two piranhas chewing at the side of your airplane”

H/T to Neptunus Lex via the ususal suspects.