Upside Down in a Laura Ingalls Town

by Leslie Tall Manning

  “So, back to the rules for a second,” I interrupted, my wheels turning. “What else would get us kicked out?”

  Dad shot me his rarely seen, super nasty face, the one where his lips pull tight together and disappear.

  Novak said, “Physically hurting townspeople or their animals—”

  “That would never happen,” Dad said.

  “Stealing from your neighbors—”

  What could anyone possibly own in 1861 worth stealing? A pair of bloomers? A coonskin cap?

  Novak added, “Or deliberately sabotaging the venture.”

  Dad said, “You can be assured none of those things will happen. Right girls?”

  “Right,” Rebecca Lynn said.

  I gave a noncommittal bounce of my head.

  “Good,” Novak said as he opened a folder. “We take contracts very seriously in the television industry. Now that everyone is on board, let’s get your father’s signature.”

  Dad took the pen and grinned as he scrolled his name on the line.

  First Libby cut my hair to my shoulders to get rid of the split ends, and then she dyed it back to mousy brown to cover the pink stripes, per Novak’s request. Afterward, we drank Dairy Queen milkshakes spiked with dark rum, and Libby made a toast to me, clicking her plastic cup against mine.

  “Here’s to my best friend. I hope she doesn’t get hoof and mouth disease or come back with a belly full of baby.”

  We got one of her brothers, Tripp, to drive us to the new 3D movie that was so stupidly funny, especially when you’re tipsy. He kissed me on the lips when he dropped me off at my house later that night, and even though he is a year younger and I’d never once thought of him as cute, the rum sort of made him look okay. I didn’t let him stick his tongue in my mouth, but I did kiss him back. The way I saw it, it was going to be my last kiss for a very long time, and I would take what I could get.

  My dad asked me to call Florida and tell my mom’s parents about the show. After Mom passed away, Dad didn’t talk to them much. I think that’s because Grandma sounded just like her.

  “Your mother would be proud of you girls,” Grandma told me over the phone. “She would have jumped at the opportunity to do something like this. When will the show be aired?”

  “Just after Christmas,” I told Grandma, my stomach rolling in a tidal wave toward my throat. I couldn’t think about being aired on television without feeling sick.

  My dad’s parents, who lived out in Banner Elk, said they’d take care of our house while we were gone. They were retired and could use some time away from the mountains. Grandma Jen thought Dad had lost his mind, but Grandpa Paul said, “I knew my son was more than just a left-brained engineer.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  We were driving out to a farm in the middle of nowhere where we would spend one night. The next day, we’d be taken to our new homestead. I glanced at Rebecca Lynn in the back seat, her favorite stuffed dolphin on her lap. I cranked up my iPod and watched the unfamiliar countryside zip by as my dad followed the directions to a town a few hours away, out in the Piedmont area, where the flat land turns hilly and pigs turn into sheep. As we parked the SUV in the clay and gravel driveway, we were met by a tall thin woman who looked like a man, except for her flowered shirt. Behind her stood a cameraman, not Carl with the goatee, but another guy, this one with a big belly who looked like he’d be more comfortable at a Star Trek convention than out in the sticks with a camera on his shoulder.

  “I’m Martha.” The tall woman shook my dad’s hand as a pair of excited dogs came and sniffed our shoes. “This is Rusty, one of the camera people who will be part of your venture.”

  He mumbled a hello. I noticed a ketchup stain on his T-shirt.

  After the introductions were made, Dad followed Martha’s husband, a man she called Bug, toward a barn. Rebecca Lynn and I followed Martha through a back door and into an ugly old-fashioned kitchen. Martha poured us each a glass of sweet tea as we sat at the scratched wooden table.

  “Let’s get to it,” she said, sitting across from us. “First, Brooke, the average 1800’s woman, especially a pioneer, did not wear makeup. Or earrings. And certainly not that thing.” She pointed to her own eyebrow for emphasis.

  The cameraman zoomed in on my face. I deliberately fluttered my lashes for the camera. Then I said to Martha, “It’s only a little eyeliner.” And liquid base, powder, mascara, eyebrow pencil, and blush. It was how I rolled. I could have passed as a ten-year-old boy without makeup.

  Martha said, in a stern voice, “It won’t matter what you look like. Plenty of farm women didn’t even own a mirror. Now, then. I will be going over some important details about the show.”

  The word show conjured up images of a circus family. With the camera following me like a giant eye, I felt like I was smack dab in the middle of the ring: Step right up and get a good gander at the pissed-off teenager. Watch with awe as she deliberately sabotages the show…uh…venture…so she can go back home and party with her bestie, buy a dress for the prom, and a new skimpy bikini for those glorious summer days of surf and sun at Atlantic Beach!

  “The contract is very specific,” Martha said. “No electricity. No indoor plumbing.”

  “What about toilet paper?” Rebecca Lynn asked.

  “Toilet paper was invented in the 1850s. That’s the good news. The bad news is it didn’t become a hit until the 1870s.”

  “How will we live without TP?” I asked.

  “Everyone’s gonna have to deal with difficulties, but it’s gonna be especially hard for you two. Y’all are going into this venture with a single father. So you girls will have to do the work your mama would have done. You’ll churn butter. Collect firewood. Keep a clean house. Tend to the animals. You’ll pickle and jar goods, cook in a fireplace, and so on. Won’t be nothing you’ll do that wasn’t done back in 1861. Any questions so far?”

  I said to Martha, out of the side of my mouth as if the microphone wouldn’t be able to pick up my voice, “What about, you know, that time of the month and all?”

  “I’m glad you asked. Rebecca Lynn, if you could step onto the porch for a moment, so I can talk to your sister in private.”

  She had asked my sister to leave, but it was okay for the cameraman to stay.

  As soon as Rebecca Lynn stepped outside, Martha grabbed a bag sitting on the kitchen counter. She sat beside me, stuck her hand in the bag, and handed me a crude imitation of a sanitary napkin.

  “Thanks anyway,” I said, putting it on the table. “But I use…” I lowered my voice. “Tampons.”

  “Not in 1861 you didn’t,” she said, sliding the pad back to me. “For various health reasons, pads were the better choice.”

  “So, what am I supposed to do with this? There’s no sticky side.”

  “You safety pin it to this belt.” She handed me a cloth contraption with a couple of pins. “You’re very lucky. The safety pin had just been invented.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “You take the pad and pin it like this,” Martha demonstrated. “Then you put the belt around your waist.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “Go into the bathroom and try it. You’ll want to know how to do it ahead of time.”

  In the bathroom, after pricking my fingers and swearing under my breath like a sailor, I managed to get the belt tied around my waist and pin the pad to the belt. I felt like I was wearing a diaper.

  “This is awful!” I cried through the closed door.

  Martha responded, “You won’t even know you’re wearing it after a day or two.”

  My periods lasted six days. With four months ahead of me, I’d have to deal with this mess at least twenty-four days.

  I removed the archaic pad and stepped back into the kitchen. “If I’m going to be stuck wearing these, I’ll need at least twenty-four. But forty would be a safer bet.”

  “You’ll be supplied with two.”

  “Two!”

  “You’ll
have to wash them.”

  I stood there with the pad and belt dangling from my hands, my throat closing around the awful words I wasn’t allowed to say.

  “All settled then?” Martha said, ignoring the panic eating up my face. She called my sister in from the porch. “Let’s get y’all into your proper clothing. In a little while you’ll be molded into the perfect imitation of a mid-nineteenth-century family.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  My sister and I followed Martha into the guestroom. Two large boxes sat in the middle of the floor with each of our names in black letters across the side.

  “Who wants to go first?” Martha said.

  “I do!” Rebecca Lynn shouted.

  My sister opened the flaps and dug through the box. “A dress!” She held the brown flowered dress up to herself and fanned it out like she was ready to strut along a catwalk. The dress had long sleeves and a rounded neckline, perfect for choking a person. She plunged her hands into the box again. “A slip! And an apron! And a bonnet! Look, Brooke!” She dropped the clothes to the floor and put on the pale green bonnet. It was made for a horse and covered the back of her neck as well as her head. Her face was hidden somewhere inside, but I could barely see it. She stooped down and pulled out a pair of black low-heeled boots and a pair of black wool socks.

  “Your turn,” Martha told me.

  “I was hoping to keep the suspense going.”

  She did not respond to my sarcasm as I opened each of the four cardboard flaps on my special box.

  I pulled out a long flowered dress. “It’s gray.” Who would go out in public in such a dreary color? Even with the flowered pattern the thing looked like a rain cloud. Next, I pulled out a short-sleeved cotton slip, a yellow bonnet (ugh, yellow!), and a white apron. My hand dug back inside and landed on something hard. I pulled it out of the box.

  “Your corset,” Martha said.

  I had pictured myself wearing one someday, like to seduce my husband on our wedding night, or dress up as a sexy cat on Halloween. I ran my hand along the white material, feeling the stiff vertical supports beneath and the thin ribbon looped in and out of rows of tiny holes. I held up the corset and placed it against my front.

  “I think it’s too small.”

  “It’s supposed to be snug,” Martha said.

  I dropped the corset onto the floor next to the other things, and pulled a pair of black leather boots and wool socks out of the box.

  “That’s it,” I said.

  Rebecca Lynn said, “What about toys?”

  “I hate to break it to you, sunshine,” Martha said. “Farm kids back then didn’t have too many toys. Maybe a dolly made of fabric scraps, or a chunk of wood carved into a figurine. Some kids had clay marbles. Won’t be too much time for playing, anyhow.”

  “What about Snappy?” Rebecca Lynn asked.

  “That’s her stuffed dolphin,” I said. “She won it at the State Fair.”

  “Anything modern is gonna have to stay behind,” Martha said. “Your things will be safe until y’all get back in September.”

  Rebecca Lynn’s lip trembled and I placed my hand on her back. That day at the fair had been an awesome day. One of the last family trips before Mom found out how sick she was.

  “Why don’t you help yourself to Wanda?” Martha pointed to an ugly zombie-like doll leaning against a pillow on the bed.

  Rebecca Lynn stared at the doll but didn’t answer.

  “We’ll have an early supper meal,” Martha said, “and an early bedtime. In the morning, we’ll wake at sunrise. You’ll be helping us around the farm before you head on to your new home.”

  Morning came fast. Rebecca Lynn and I were told to put on our regular clothes for now and were given large aprons. After a hardy breakfast that felt more like death row’s last meal, Dad went with Bug out to a field. Martha handed me a metal pail. My sister and I followed her out to the barn where a large black and white Holstein, her udder nearly touching the ground, waited to be milked. She stood in a stall, munching on dried grass.

  Martha pulled a low stool to the cow. Up close, it looked like Nature had taken a Sharpie and drawn black clouds on her udder. “First thing you gotta do is relax her, like this, with your hands stroking to let the milk down. Do not yank hard. The milk will come real easy if you don’t stress her out. Open both your hands and put your fingers together, thumb in front of the teat, four fingers behind it. Clamp it off with your fingers so her milk can’t go back up. Whatever you do, do not pull. You squeeze. Like this. The milk will start out slowly, then get faster as she loosens up. Be sure to alternate between teats. Okay. Now it’s your turn.”

  She stood up and plunked me down on the stool. She guided my hands. The teats felt rough and soft at the same time, and very warm. In no time, milk was squirting into the pail. The cow turned and shot me a dirty look.

  I pulled my hands away. “Am I hurting her?”

  “She’s just curious about who you are,” Martha said. “It would hurt her a lot more if you didn’t milk her at all.”

  “I want to try,” my sister said, nudging me off the stool.

  “How often do we milk?” I asked.

  “Twice a day, about thirty minutes each milking, depending on your cow. You might get as much as seven gallons at a time, so you’ll want to split the milking into two buckets.”

  After we finished milking the cow, Martha showed us how to collect eggs from the chicken coop. Rebecca Lynn collected three and I collected two. They were wet and gross, and I couldn’t wait to wash my hands.

  When the eggs were cleaned and dried, we were told to take a shower—the last one for a long time, I thought sadly as I stood under the water for twenty minutes. Afterward, I dried my hair and by rote put on my makeup.

  When we were done, Martha came into the guestroom. “Brooke, please follow me.”

  I followed her back into the steamy bathroom. She handed me a square jar and a stiff washcloth.

  “You may not redress until your face is clean. And take out that hoop.”

  She left me standing at the sink. After a few deep breaths, I pulled the hoop from my brow and tucked it in the front pocket of my jeans. I wiped my face with the remover until there was no trace of makeup left. I was horrified by the girl glaring back at me. Even the mirror seemed to gasp in fear.

  She can wash her own damn washcloth, I thought as I dropped the stained rag into the sink.

  “Brooke will get dressed first,” Martha told Rebecca Lynn when I stepped back into the bedroom. Our clothes were spread out in two separate piles on the double bed and our ugly black boots sat on the floor. Rebecca Lynn sat on corner chair.

  “After you put on your socks,” Martha explained to me, “you’ll need to put on your underpinnings. This includes your chemise and corset. After that, your dress and apron.”

  “How will I go to the bathroom?” I asked.

  “In an outhouse.”

  “I mean, how? With all these clothes?”

  “Pull them up and around your waist. Believe me, you’ll be careful once you start doing laundry.”

  I took off my jeans and top. I pulled up the ugly black socks and stood there in my underwear.

  “Turn your back to me and take off your bra,” Martha said.

  Reluctantly, I did as she asked.

  “Now hold up your arms.”

  The slip came down over my head, my arms passing through the short sleeves. It hung down just below my knees.

  “How come I don’t have petticoats?” I asked.

  “Too cumbersome and way too hot. The hoop skirt became the replacement.”

  “Why don’t I have one of those?”

  “Hoop skirts were for women who pretended to faint while their servants did all the work.”

  I pictured the beautiful ball gowns from Gone with the Wind or Great Expectations. Even though it would be ten times harder to move around while wearing something fancy, I felt cheated.

  Martha told me to take off my modern-day
underpants.

  “What will I wear instead?” I asked.

  “You’ll be alfresco.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “No undies.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “You want one more thing to worry about when you take a trip to the outhouse?”

  “What about, you know, when I get my monthly?”

  “That’s what the belt is for. To hold the pad in place.”

  Again, Martha turned her back. I instructed my sister to close her eyes. I pulled my panties out from under my slip and shoved them into the paper bag along with my other modern clothes. I silently bid my underwear goodbye, biting down on my lip to keep from crying. By the time this venture was over, my bottom lip would be chewed away.

  Next, Martha fitted my corset around me, the loose ribbons dangling in front.

  “Can I look yet?” my sister asked.

  “I don’t care.”

  “That’s pretty,” Rebecca Lynn said when she opened her eyes. “Where’s my corset?”

  Martha said, “Not until you turn fifteen.”

  “Be thankful you’re too young,” I told my sister.

  Martha helped me situate the corset. “Let some air out.”

  As I emptied my lungs, she pulled the ribbons into a small tight bow above my heart.

  “I can hardly breathe.”

  “You’ll get used to it. Millions of women did.”

  Once I had the corset in place, I turned this way and that in the floor-length mirror. I didn’t look sexy at all. The corset was on the outside of my slip. I looked like a three-year-old who had dressed herself for the first time.

  Next, it was boot time. I sat on the edge of the bed.

  “This is how you lace them up,” Martha said, guiding the black laces through the holes, looping them around the hooks, and tying them in a knot.

  I stood up. The tightly laced boots, which gripped my legs a few inches above my ankles, were as uncomfortable as the corset.