by Barbara Best
CHAPTER FIVE
The rest of the workday drags on. Finally, Jane is on her way home at five. When she pulls into her parking space at the Magnolia Apartments complex, her dad is waiting in his truck. At least she was able to talk him into staying a few more hours.
They decide to order pizza. Pepperoni, their favorite. And Jane hopes to make this last bit of time with her dad pleasant. It may be a long time before she sees him again.
After talking about Houston and Uncle Billy, eating their pizza, and watching the evening news on TV, Art gets up, “I have something for you. It’s in the truck. Give me just a sec,” and he is out the door.
Now what! Jane picks up their few dishes and heads for the sink, trying her best to act normal.
In a few minutes Art steps into the kitchen holding a medium-sized cardboard box. He apologizes, “I didn’t have time to wrap it or anything. Your mother is always better at stuff like that anyhow.” His eyes crease at the corners with smile lines. “It was supposed to be for your birthday, but well, what the hay. I figured why not give it to you now.”
The cardboard box is gingerly placed on the kitchen table. Jane is excited, yet she is a little hesitant knowing this is just as much a parting gift as a birthday present.
“Well go ahead, don’t dilly-dally, open it,” her dad nudges her with his elbow.
Jane sits down at the small '80s Chromcraft dinette set with gold trim and wicker chairs her parents gave her from the attic at home. Her dad pulls up a chair beside her. “Dad, you shouldn’t have!” The tape binding pulls away easily and almost instantly she knows. It’s something old.
Old things have a certain smell about them. Some people say it makes them think of mothballs and musty, stale air, but to Jane there is so much more to it. She has always enjoyed the mystery behind the scent. It may seem a little nutty to enjoy the smell of old things, yet it tells much if you will let it. Maybe there is a hint of wax or the pungent smell of smoke and cedar. Perhaps there is a lingering trace of leather or a lady’s cologne.
This time Jane swears she can smell a bit of perfume, something sweet and pleasant. “This is really awesome! Where in the world did you find it?”
“At an estate sale.”
“Wow, I don’t know what to say, Dad.”
“You can say thanks Dad for starters,” Art chuckles as he twirls the packing tape around in his fingers. He can’t think of anything better in life than to make his daughter happy. He pushes thoughts of leaving her away and gets back to the present and now.
Lifting the box carefully out of its paper wrapping, Jane is breathless with excitement. “It’s wonderfully preserved.” She inspects the box closely and waits for her dad to give her the details.
Art knows, all too well, the story behind this new treasure is just as much fun for Jane as the treasure itself. He and his daughter are in their element when it comes to antiques. “The woman I bought this from was a real trip. She wouldn’t tell me much about it, but seemed pleased when I mentioned giving it to you. It is hand wrought, to the very last detail. That, of course, can make it hard to accurately date. But I bet it’s early eighteen hundreds. A lady’s jewelry box,” he stops there, holding off on the best part. “I think it’s exceptional, don’t you? I thought you would like it.”
“Like it! Are you kidding me? I absolutely love it. It’s perfect.” The fine wood is warm to the touch, giving Jane a strange sensation, a shock of energy she can’t quite comprehend. A thought about haunted antiques crosses her mind. She had just seen some show on TV, about a haunted accordion where some poor lost spirit took up residence, and a famous clairvoyant who used an accordion that would play tunes under the table with the help of a ghost. Too funny! It’s warm probably because it’s been sitting in her dad’s Ford all day? On the other hand, it’s chilly outside for this time of year, so that really doesn’t make sense.
Art interrupts Jane’s train of thought, “See the handcrafted inlays?”
Jane takes a close look at the various shades and depths of wood with intricately painted detail on the exterior of the box. It’s in good condition and a nice size, about nine-inches square, and about seven inches in height. It has a shallow area at the top of the box, right under the lid.
“I imagine the lady that originally owned this would have been fairly well off,” Jane’s dad gently runs the back of his callused hand lightly along the lining. “I think the lining just inside the lid is Italian silk paper. And this shallow tray. Maybe she might have displayed her earbobs, a necklace, or a nice pin here. The things she planned to wear. The veneer looks like it’s made of fruitwood. This is birch, I think. See it has a lock. And the key is actually with the box. So many times these things are lost.”
“This is bone.” Jane holds the finely carved tassel dangling from the small key up to the light to get a better look at it.
“Yes, I believe so. Pretty isn’t it? The key doesn’t work very well, but at least you have it.” Art pauses for a minute to let his daughter run her hand over the wood and inspect the hinges, trimming and lock. “Actually, there’s something more inside. Here. Let me show you.”
Art takes the jewelry box from Jane and carefully lifts the burgundy fabric from the bottom of the box. “This felt comes up. Like this. You see?”
Art reaches into his pocket and takes out his trusty Swiss Army knife he has carried for as long as anyone can remember. “Now comes the fun part. See? Right there, and there.” With the tip of his blade, he is able to lift two tiny, delicate and almost invisible wooden pegs out of the surface. One is centered in the front and the other, in the rear of the bottom panel.
He slides the box over to Jane, “Now, you see that wood trim at the bottom on the outside front and back of the box? It moves. Push it.”
Jane looks over at her dad and back down at what appears to be a narrow drawer cleverly hidden in the bottom of the jewelry box. She slides it out by pressing in through the back. There, securely encased in a lovely piece of rich jade-green silk fabric, embroidered with tiny pink rosebuds, is a key. It’s old and fairly large. Perhaps it was used to unlock a door or oversized padlock or maybe it’s the key to a gate.
Art scratches his head, “Now that key there is a real mystery. It’s hand cut. I’m thinking seventeen hundreds, and definitely older than the box. There’s a tiny bit of rust, not too bad though. And it has a nice patina which is age-appropriate.”
About six inches in length, Jane turns the key over and wonders what it was used for. There are no markings on it. She bounces it around in her hand. It has a nice weight. “Really cool. Dad, thank you so, so much!” Jane stands to curl her arms around her dad’s strong shoulders, holding on a little longer than usual. She gives him a warm kiss on the cheek and gently rubs at a tiny bit of her lip-gloss that left a shiny spot. His leaving tugs at her heartstrings. Texas seems so very far away.
“You’re going to be all right, aren’t you?” Jane asks and is comforted by her dad’s quick reply.
“As long as you are.”
Jane pulls back to look into her dad’s green eyes that are so much like hers. He’s such a sweet, good man and if anyone deserves a little peace and happiness, he does. “I’ll check on Mom and see if she needs anything, okay? Don’t worry, just please take care of yourself, Dad. I mean it! I love you.”
After Jane and her dad say their goodbyes and he promises to call when he gets to Uncle Billy’s, she finally has some time to take it all in. It’s sad to see things end between her parents. On the other hand, Jane is not so single-minded that she can’t see it might be for the best.
Her poor mom, what will she do! It is a little bit of a surprise that Kay took her husband’s parting request seriously and had not called her daughter until Art was given a chance to break the news to Jane in person. When did she ever respect anyone’s wishes? It has always been, “my way or the highway.”
It’s late and Jane makes a mental note to call her mom first thing in the morning after she
has time to get her head straight. Her mom will be waiting to hear from her. Ready to tell her side of the story. Jane is sure of it.
Jane picks up the jewelry box one more time before she turns in for the night. It still has a noticeable warmness about it and makes her feel connected. She loves her gift and the fact that it’s something very old and precious. Early eighteen hundreds, that is the age of Romanticism, the onset of the Victorian era.
She sniffs the box a couple more times and confirms not only the obscure scent of, could it be, lavender, but also a bit of polish or wood dressing. “Hmmm . . . is that cigar too? There was a man in this someone’s life.” Jane smiles inwardly. Thinking back to when the box originated, there is a pretty good chance its first owner was married. Women in that period had few freedoms and were destined to become pious and submissive wives. Of course, her brief summation is all simple speculation at this point. To know more would be like hunting a needle in a haystack. Who is to say how many hands this jewelry box has passed through before it ended with her?
Jane turns the box over to make sure there aren’t any identifying markings hidden anywhere. There’s none that she can see. “Illusive, aren’t we?” It’s probably one of a kind. Jane crosses her legs on the sofa and sets the box in her lap. She runs her hand over the smooth wood surface another time or two. “What stories could you tell? And why the secret compartment? Why would you hide a key? What was it meant for?” Jane’s mind roams on a bit about the possibilities, seeking a conclusion that is unattainable, at least for the moment. With excitement she realizes she has someone to share this with. What will Sophie think! It’s from around her hobby period. It existed during the time of the American Civil War. Jane can’t wait to tell her about it.
CHAPTER SIX
Well, the day is finally here and Jane can hardly believe she is riding in the back seat of Sophie and Ben’s red pickup headed south on I-95 to Fernandina Beach, Florida and Fort Clinch State Park. Reenacting is way more than what she thought it would be. Why the preparations alone for an event is incredible. Because Sophie says Jane is a ‘newbie’ she is more than generous to share what she has for her friend’s first time.
Sophie has gone all-out in getting Jane acquainted with the planning and preparations for their weekend. Fort Clinch is a smaller event and she tells Jane about the elaborate affairs farther north she and Ben look forward to, like the Battle of Antietam and Gettysburg. These are held annually and take place near the original battlefields. She explains that during the larger events it is not uncommon to have as much as thirty- to forty-thousand reenactors. Both civilians and military, Union and Confederate, swoop in from all over the country, and even from overseas, to recreate an appearance of a particular battle or associated event in history before droves of eager spectators.
“It’s a way to remember what took place, respect the people who lived it, and teach others what the war was all about.” Sophie has so much to share with Jane. And Jane is such a good study.
“Although war is mostly a man’s game, women are just as important in the hobby. We have our own personas to carry out. There are actually women who disguise their appearance and dress and act as men to do the whole fighting, soldiering thing.”
“That can’t be easy.”
“Well, I’m sure it’s not,” Sophie chuckles. “Ben says it’s a very difficult impression and there aren’t many who actually pull it off. Most women prefer civilian impressions. A lot of us are drawn to reenacting because a family member, friend or husband is involved . . . like Ben and I. Everyone has their own personal reasons for taking up the hobby. Maybe an ancestor fought in the war. Maybe it’s an interest in history. It could be you are drawn to the experience itself and want to see what it is like to live in a different time.”
Reenactors take their hobby very seriously. They come complete with an assortment of clothing, trunks, bedding, carpets, lanterns, furniture, cast iron kettles, dishes, and a long list of other sundries too numerous to mention. The ladies may even include a chamber pot among their things when participating in a civilian encampment. “Anything to avoid the dreaded trip out into the woods or long walk to the event’s porta-potties in the middle of the night,” Sophie grins.
Jane is not completely convinced that camping out in the elements could actually be fun. She still can’t get over the fact that, unlike a modern tent, Sophie’s simple ‘A’ tent, as she describes it, is staked down without attached flooring. Meaning its occupants, who bunk down on a cot, rubber blanket or stuffed ticking mattress, are right on the ground where just about anything can crawl or slither in. Definitely, not for the faint of heart!
CHAPTER SEVEN
The week before her first event Jane devotes a number of hours to just clothing and hair alone. Reenactors pride themselves on authenticity. Some more than others. In their case, Sophie makes it clear authenticity and being true to the period is important. “First impressions really matter. You don’t want anyone to call you farby, do you?” she warns, and then giggles at Jane’s puzzled expression. “It’s a word we toss around. Farby means, far be it for me to say anything against what you are wearing, BUT . . .”
Jane chimes in, “Like . . . far be it from the truth.”
“Yes, By Jove! I think she’s got it.” Sophie gives her best imitation of a proper British accent.
After the girls have a good laugh, Sophie adds, “Reenactors are mindful of how they are perceived by others. Not only do we need to take care in how we appear to the public, but we should also understand the importance of being right. You know, being period appropriate in the eyes of our fellow reenactors.”
Sophie picks through her guest closet for articles of clothing that will work best for Jane. Her beautiful nineteenth century humpback steamer trunk holds a variety of accessories collected over time. Each is displayed for consideration on the patchwork quilt that compliments her white wrought-iron daybed.
“I think that should do it,” she says thoughtfully. “It’s a good thing we are both about the same size,” tall and slim. Sophie carefully explains, “Many of the hard-core, the threadcounters, who have been doing this for years, might be apt to point out a flaw in your persona. You don’t want to hear a farby comment if you can help it. Of course, it’s all in great fun, a hobby. But there’s a serious side too, especially for those who desire an immersive experience.
“In other words, pay attention to what you have on, no wristwatches or cell phones. I guess reenactors need to watch what style of glasses they wear too. Where did the word farby come from anyway?” Jane likes using the colorful expression.
“Ben said words like, farby, farb, even farby-darby, came from reenactors in the early days of the hobby. Around the 1960s. One thing’s for sure, when the word is directed at you, it is guaranteed to evoke a reaction. Trust me when I say, it is best avoided.”
Appropriate to the period, Jane will be wearing a conservative check pattern day dress for a lady’s impression. Now wearing the dress, that’s the easy part. What Jane finds really amazing is what lies beneath the yards of printed fabric. Even more, she is impressed by the great care ladies must have taken in donning their undergarments, or what they also called, their underpinnings.
What a chore it must have been to get up every morning to the ordeal of simply getting your clothes on. From the skin out, the order of dress was cumbersome to say the least. Sophie is careful not to leave out one single detail from Jane’s overall appearance. Both girls will be completely dressed from head to toe, and from inside out as the impression of a lady necessitates.
It begins with basic pantalettes or drawers. Sophie giggles expectantly as she watches Jane discover for the first time the legs on the garment are actually separate.
“Why, the crotch is missing! No way.” Jane’s borrowed drawers are in two pieces, gathered into a waistband and fastened with a button. With the exception of folds in the fabric it is completely split, right up the middle. Wide-open with a good possibility of baring
all if you aren’t careful.
“Yes way.” Sophie loves Jane’s comical reaction, “Can you imagine all the proper ladies walking around with crotchless drawers? And no panties I’ll have you know. They weren’t invented yet. Why it’s scandalous,” she laughs. “But seriously, it makes perfect sense. Especially when you think how much easier it will be when nature calls. If you know what I mean.”
Next, Jane shimmies into a soft white cotton chemise, worn against the skin to help protect a dress from getting soiled with body oils and sweat. It is similar to a nightgown with capped-sleeves and a wide neckline. Jane’s chemise is trimmed with lace, sits slightly off the shoulders and is hemmed below the knee. Sophie points out to her that dresses were not frequently washed.
“Last chance to get your shoes on . . . while you still have some flexibility,” Sophie warns as Jane pulls on her black and white striped stockings and ties her work boots.
“I’ve never worn a corset before.” Jane fastens the row of small metal hooks in the front and Sophie tugs the laces in the back, good and snug, to reveal a flattering waistline. “Hmmm. This is more comfortable than I thought.” Jane takes a deep breath, then another, and rests her hand on her hips. “Not bad. Actually this corset feels kind of good.”
“You will be surprised. A corset can be a great back support. My back never hurts or feels tired when I wear one, and you are guaranteed to have the most perfect posture. Now, turn around and I’ll help you get your petticoat on.”
Yet another layer, Jane will wear not one, but two white petticoats, a nice detail of an authentic lady’s wardrobe. The first petticoat fits at the waist over the corset. Sophie explains the other, fuller petticoat, will be worn over the hoop.