"The British Are Coming"

Last year I took my son to the Lord Stirling 1770s Festival in New Jersey and he enjoyed it so much that, even though he was only three, he remembered it and recently asked if we could go again. It was the old fashioned cider press that enthralled him most – helping to make fresh apple cider and then being able to drink it. The festival makes for a fun afternoon, and offers children a glimpse of what life was like nearly two and half centuries ago. There are colonial toys and games that they can play with and a hay ride that all kids seem to enjoy. There was a butter making station where my son got to pour cream into a small jar. The volunteer told him to shake it vigorously for ten minutes and the cream would turn into butter. Of course, ten minutes is too long for a four year old and after about two minutes he handed it off me, insisting that I keep shaking until the tell tale lump finally appeared. 

A five minute chat about maple syrup had my son begging to go back in February when he’d be able to watch a demonstration on exactly how the syrup is made. During the presentation, the woman giving it asked the kids what kind of syrup they eat on their pancakes. My son was very quick to point to the real syrup and say, “My mother eats that one, but Grandpa always has that one,” and he pointed to the fake kind.  “Well, that is understandable;” the woman said sympathetically, shaking her head, “Corn syrup is a lot cheaper than maple syrup.” So I had to clarify that it wasn’t a matter of cost, Grandpa always buys the good stuff for his grandson, it’s a matter of taste. Grandpa’s taste buds just aren’t sophisticated when it comes to syrup.

Moving on from the syrup, my son enjoyed writing his name with a feather quill and painting with stencils, but the clay he found distressing. Kids of all ages were eagerly molding and kneading the brown blobs in front of them. My son tentatively touched the clay, but the brown slim was too much for him. “My hands are dirty,” he cried, holding them out to me, a pained look on his face.  “It’s okay,” I assured him, but he wanted no part of the clay after that and ran off to submerge them in a vat of water.

Throughout the afternoon, a colonial dressed town crier made announcements, two musicians played the guitar and sang songs from the Revolutionary time and a blacksmith demonstrated how horseshoes used to be made.  Two men gathered the interested children, give them each a Quaker gun and show them a few basic musket and marching drills. My son thoroughly enjoyed this, although he kept mixing up his right and his left.  There was a stockade, for kids to pretend that they were small time criminals.  My son couldn’t understand why it was a punishment when he thought it was the coolest thing hanging out with everyone commenting about how cute he looked. In fact he kept going back for more and at one point asked, “Mama, if I don’t listen to you, will you put me in the stocks?”

The highlight of my son’s day was dressing up like a minuteman and pretending to fight the British. He wore clothes and a hat – alternating between a three corner hat and a coonskin cap – from the colonial days, picked up a gun and started shooting. Giving him a quick history lesson, I explained he was dressed from the time of the Revolutionary War and that if he was going to battle he was only allowed to shoot the British. Super excited about the prospect of being a hero, he rallied the troops, recruiting other boys and girls into his imaginary play. Shouting, “The British are coming, the British are coming,” he waved the kids over to the wooden split rail fence, and lining up against it, they started an assault on the British hiding out in the trees across the street.  The British were soon defeated, but when the festival ended my son was terribly disappointed to have to return to the present.