You can read as many history books as you’d like, but there’s nothing quite like stepping into the past and experiencing it for yourself.
I’ve spent more days in the 19th century than I can count — the hoop skirts and corded petticoats, the freshly-baked bread, the historic buildings spanning the 1800s.
Once you’ve dipped candles over an open fire or cranked a butter churn for hours on end, history never really looks the same again. For the first time, it just feels so tangible — so real.
I’m firmly convinced that American history can’t thrive on historical textbooks or documentaries alone. In an era when many people spend more time glued to their phones than in face-to-face conversation, it’s all too easy to lose perspective on life.
Even today, 250 years after the Declaration of Independence was adopted, we forget the individuals and ideologies that led to the founding of our nation. We forget that our Founding Fathers were people like us — not just stern-faced portraits in U.S. history textbooks.
And the same is true of millions and millions of people in America’s past. What were their untold life stories? What were their fears and doubts, their hopes and joys?
And herein lies my favorite part of reenacting: breathing life into an era too often seen as lifeless and impersonal.
I have the unique opportunity to invite people into the 1800s in a way that draws on as many of the five senses as possible. And my hope is that this deeper understanding of history will transform visitors’ perspectives on the past and present alike.
The first time I remember coming face-to-face with living history was when I visited Plymouth, Mass., as a nine-year-old. Something about that experience stuck with me, and years later, I began to wonder if it was something I could do, too.
I started volunteering at a local living history museum during my sophomore year of high school and immediately loved it. It was unlike anything I had ever done before. There were over a dozen historic buildings onsite, and the museum would host education programs and special events where my fellow volunteers and I demonstrated various historic activities and led guests around the buildings.
“I wish I could live here,” people often told me as we walked through the museum’s 1840s Carpenter Gothic-style home. I would smile to myself and make some lighthearted comment like “That would certainly be quite the experience.”
But often, I would take it a step further, scattering in some of these random historic tidbits:
“Your outhouse is around the corner. The ice house is next door — the ice in there is for keeping your refrigerator cold, assuming you harvested some when the river was frozen. And remember, there’s no electricity and no telephone here. Hopefully you can sleep okay, too. The bedding is made of corn husks, but don’t worry, that paddle can be used to pound out any lumps.”
The list could go on and on.
When I took guests through the various historic buildings, I’d often let them use various historic items as we went along.
“These are wool carders,” I’d explain, passing them the small paddles lined with short metal teeth. “This is how we clean and untangle the wool before we twist it into yarn.”
“This is called a peel,” I’d tell them as we walked around the stone kitchen. “It’s what you put bread on to bake.” Then, I’d often hand the peel to one of my guests and let him stick it into the deep beehive oven.
This, in my opinion, is where history really starts to click with people. It can’t be flat anymore if so many of your five senses are activated.
Living history at its finest is about experience, not just entertainment.
Fundamentally, entertainment involves some kind of performance, but living history is rarely just a performance. It’s about interacting, not just observing. It’s an invitation for guests to have a conversation with a character from the past or try their hand at a historic game or chore.
But today it’s so easy to find entertainment — it’s in our back pockets — that I fear people are losing the incentive to seek out experiences.
I’ve seen this in people of all ages, but especially in youth and young adults.
“I just play videogames” was the constant refrain of several of the campers I worked with during my three summers helping lead the museum’s summer camps. I would ask them what they did outside of camp and their answers were often severely underwhelming. Almost all of them revolved around technology.
I watched as young children left camp and already had their earbuds in and iPad out by the time their parents pulled out of the parking lot.
And that’s when it struck me: I was expected to entertain, not simply educate. And I was up against TikTok and Instagram reels and videogames and YouTube.
I came into my camp counselor position ready to educate — certainly in a fun, interactive way but educate nonetheless. This goal, however, seemed harder and harder to meet as the summers passed. Some of the kids just weren’t willing to give history a chance.
But living history worked wonders for many of these kids. It gave the kids a tangible way to understand the past, from artifact scavenger hunts and tin punching to candle dipping and baking.
My favorite week of camp to lead was a docent training camp for young teenagers. For the final project, these campers had the opportunity to create a poster, exhibit, or even do a small reenactment.
“I get to wear this?” the kids who chose to reenact would ask, eyes wide with wonder and excitement, as they looked down a long rack of historic clothing. It was bursting with clothing styled like 1780s to 1890s attire.
I got to watch as so many kids suddenly saw historical figures as more than static and events as more that irrelevant.
I’m doubtful that many of these kids will ever truly understand what it’s like to live without electricity or phone service, but every spark of new understand is significant. I know these kids had experiences at that museum that will stick with them for years.
And that’s what I love about living history. It shows us that we are so small in the grand narrative of time. It keeps us humble, but it also reminds us not to take a moment for granted — every moment matters.