"Uncle Mike, I'd like to have your permission to date your daughter..."

Usually a father would not be pleased to hear such a request asked of him. I could defend my positive response by saying that, well, Nic's mom is only my half-sister.

If you frequent Blank Fields at all, you will recall that I refer to our reeancting unit (the 21st Michigan Volunteer Infantry) as family. And if you know me at all, you also will recall that I don't have a sister. Half or otherwise. Just a lone brother whom I've not seen in six years.

Karen and I and the girls are quite close to Nic's family. We've known the large family since we've joined the unit... only just meeting the eldest son, Nic, this season. The younger ones having called Karen and I "Aunt" and "Uncle" for most of that time. Their mom is my "baby sister" and I am her "big brother". It seems right and true no matter the century.

And since the little ones call me "Unca Mike", it seemed like a good idea to come up with a story... for the public... especially since I am a "Methodist" chaplain and they are good and quite devoted "Papists" (don't be offended... I realize that the term is disparaging and a slur to Catholics... but it was one used sadly used by Protestants in days of old. And besides, my "sister" uses it to tease me. And furthermore, I had once been Catholic myself ( for a whole a year and a half - I guess it didn't take)... as was my bride for almost the first thirty-years of her life... we were married in the Catholic Church... by her brother-the-priest.

So, anyway, our "story" is that Father (remember this is in the early 1800s now), a Protestant, remarried after Mother died of the diphtheria, to a Romish woman (another politically incorrect and offensive not-so-nice name) . They had my baby sister who was then, of course, raised Catholic. The aforementioned doctor in our unit is her half-brother as well. Her mother's child from her previous marriage. I think.

While we cannot re-write the history of the Civil War, we can certainly be creative in writing our own history.

On that note, this past weekend, at Greenfield Village, whilst I was running about taking care of the wounded and dying on the battlefield, I failed - during one skirmish - to note that my "sister's husband" was lying close by in need of some spiritual help (be it apostate Protestant or not) and some physical aid. Later, while in rank and file, he berated me. Some brother-in-law I was, leaving him there to die.

"Hmmph." I told him, "I never thought you were good enough for my sister. It was about time someone shot you."

In the next skirmish, I took pains to attend to him when he took a hit. Face down and not-long-for-this-world, I knelt and just loud enough for him alone to hear, while "praying" for him... my hand on his back... said to him, "Argh. You stupid bum! Look what you went and did! How am I going to explain this to my sister!?"

"You'll make something up. You always do. And, oh, sorry about all that money I stole from you playing cards the other night..."

"Oh, that's okay, " I told him. "I stole more from you playing the night before!"

"Remember that dumb fight we had at the last family reunion? Well, I still think I was right...." And with that he died...

Above, is a likeness of my youngest daughter Chaela and Nic at the Civil War Ball that weekend. And beneath it the two of them with escort Randall.

On his two feet here.

Great kids all.