Revenge in Spades

Last summer when we were driving to visit friends in Oklahoma, we stopped at the Museum of the Cherokee Indian in western North Carolina.  I've been doing research for a book on the early western fur trade and wanted to learn more about the migrations of the eastern Indian tribes (yes, I should properly say "Native Americans," but the politically incorrect term is faster to type).  The museum proved to be an unexpected gem, really bringing the stories and culture to life.  I stocked up on books and native flute music which I forced the rest of the family to listen to while we drove through the mountains.  (And I think it is only a coincidence that we got lost and spent nearly two hours trying to find our way to a road with a number on it.)

Anyway, the point of that extended introduction was to observe that I cannot read much about the contact between European-oriented settlers and Indians without a great sense of sadness.  There was so much prejudice and misunderstanding, and this led to violence over and over.  And as in the case of every violent culture clash, one side loses and its culture is mostly destroyed or assimilated.  This is not a new phenomenon, of course -- European tribes destroyed each other before they sailed across the ocean to destroy the American tribes.  So it is inevitable, perhaps, but sad nonetheless.  Native Americans suffered terribly under the rule of European settlers who feared and mistrusted them.  When they fought back, retribution was swift, brutal, and usually far outstripped the original aggression.

So it was with a certain sense of satisfaction that I learned last summer that the Indians have discovered a way to exact a form of revenge in the 21st century.  Revenge in spades.  In recent years, Indian tribes in several states have established gambling casinos on their land which raise funds for the tribe and provide entertainment to the local communities.  Since many of the tribes were relocated to the "Indian Territory" that later became the state of Oklahoma, the state we visited this summer is home to many tribal headquarters -- and many casinos.  I asked my friend if she had visited any and she explained how they lost a bunch of money on slot machines.  It seemed that they hadn't read the fine print clearly, and were gambling five times more with each push of the button than they realized.  She thought it was a little misleading.  "Revenge on the white man," she said.  Revenge for all those misleading treaties where the Indians traded thousands of acres of prime land for a plot the size of a postage stamp in a desert 900 miles away.

I probably should have cast a few quarters in the revenge pot myself.  Maybe on the next visit.  After I figure out some way to wreak revenge on the Anglo Saxons who forced my ancient ancestors off their lands.

Until next time...

  --K 

Pink Prison

Prisons are not usually housed in pink octagon-shaped buildings, at least not anymore. But one of the oldest public buildings in Nassau, on New Providence Island in the Bahamas, is a three- story pink octagonal building that was built as a jail.  The building was authorized in 1797, but no one seems quite certain when it was actually finished.  It might not have been pink originally, either, but with its whimsical shape and small proportions, it was probably never a particularly imposing building.  

Perhaps it did not have to be. Nostalgic books about "Old Nassau" made the criminals of the old days sound as picturesque as their prison. The jail was described in a book of picture postcards as the temporary resting place of "gun runners and drunken wreckers," which I presume to be men who made their living off shipwreck salvage.

 In a sense, the building is still a jail today because now it is the towns public library.  On the Saturday  when I sat down with a few old books to research the towns earliest days, most of my fellow patrons were students, and while not outright miserable, none of them seemed terribly pleased to be spending a Saturday working indoors.  And who could blame them? Tropical breezes blowing through the barred windows, birds twittering outside, palms rustling so close they brushed the window sills, horse hooves clopping past in the street outside -- all these beckoned much louder than the pages of a dusty book or the glare of a computer monitor.

Okay, so I ended up not spending as much time in the library as I'd planned.  But before we moved on down the street to the Pirates of Nassau exhibition, we did go up to the museum on the top floor of the library building.  The tiny rooms house an interesting -- and as far as I could tell totally unrelated -- collection of shells, skulls, basketweaving patterns, parade costumes and a piece of the Berlin Wall.

Perhaps I did not examine these treasures as closely as I should have. If I looked again, I might come to understand an intricate connection between the artifacts. That would require another trip back to the Bahamas (heavy sigh).  But I must remember that no sacrifice is too great in the cause of research.

Until next time...    

 --K   

Eggs From a Bunny   

This month, I had planned to write something pithy about life among the pirates or the workings of an 18th century kitchen.  But then my son asked me about the Easter bunny.  Suddenly I was consumed with a burning need to discover why we expect children to believe that a large furry rodent hops around the world passing out chocolate and hiding colored eggs on the night before Easter.  Santa Claus is tough to explain to a discerning fourth grader.  The Easter bunny is downright impossible.

I learned that like so many holiday customs, the Easter bunny and colored eggs originated with pagan celebrations that Christian missionaries adapted to smooth the transition for their new converts.  Eastre or Oestre was the Saxon goddess of spring -- and offspring.  Her earthly symbol was the famously fertile rabbit.  Eggs, too, have been a symbol of spring and new life in numerous cultures, documented at least as far back as the ancient Egyptians, Persians and Greeks.  When Christians started to celebrate the resurrection on regular basis, it made sense for them to adopt this popular symbol of new life.  People exchanged decorated eggs, with the rich embellishing theirs with gold leaf while the poor dyed theirs with herbs and flowers.  (The ubiquitous plastic eggs that kids use now somehow lack the same charm.)  In the seventh century, Pope Gregory the Great placed eggs on the list of forbidden foods during Lent, so they became a special treat to be enjoyed at Easter.

It seems to be the Germans who connected the eggs and rabbits together, although, as far as I know, rabbits have never laid eggs, even in Europe.  The connection dates back to the sixteenth century, and sugared pastry rabbits were produced in the early nineteenth century.  German children would also build "nests" in a secluded place in the house or barn where they hoped the magic hare "Oschter Haws" would leave them a clutch of colored eggs.  

Settlers brought this tradition to America, and eventually, we learned to make it salable.  Why set out your old bonnet for the magic hare when you can leave a brightly colored basket?  And these days, most children dont consider eggs much of a treat.  So we buy chocolate, marshmallow and jelly eggs. 

In the end, the dentists might possibly end up with the biggest Easter treat of all.

Until next month...

--K 

Faire Wynds

Since my daughter adores Harry Potter and all things magical, it shouldn't have surprised me that she spent most of her time at the recent Ft. Frederick Market Fair watching the "magic" shows put on by the Faire Wynds Circus.  I put the word "magic" in quotes not only because the Faire Wynds performances involve as many jokes as actual tricks, but also because the players themselves do not use this term.  They specialize in recreating early American traveling shows, and it was illegal to perform "magic" back in those days

The prohibition was not designed to deter the casting of spells, but rather the picking of pockets that tended to accompany magic shows. The assumption was that the magician operated in tandem with the thieves, distracting audiences with sleight-of-hand while partners within the crowd performed equally dexterous maneuvers to abscond with purses, handkerchiefs and pocket watches. So magic was banned and the performers instead billed themselves as Fakirs, Prestidigitators or Samnambulists.  (It is unknown what percentage of pickpockets continued to work in league with the performers and what percentage took the initiative to go into business for themselves.)

Traveling circuses in America date back at least to 1724, and they were designed to inform as well as entertain. This was not for altruistic reasons but simply reflected the fact that men were more likely to let their wives and daughters attend if it was for their own edification.  During the many Faire Wynds performances we attended at Ft. Frederick, we heard stories from the Old Testament and learned of the ravages of the Black Death.  And we also had an opportunity to see the artifacts connected to these stories, such as the skeleton of the rat that brought the plague to Europe, a vertebrae from the whale that swallowed Jonah, and the transformed remains of Lot's wife, now conveniently carried in a shaker.

We also learned that fire tastes "just like chicken."

My daughter is a naturally cautious child, so I don't think I have to worry about her running away to join the circus, or even that she will start trying to balance on sword blades or juggle flaming torches in the living room.  But I can be pretty certain that at next year's Market Fair, every time the horn blows to announce the start of another show, my daughter will magically disappear from our camp.

Until next month...

--K

How About a Nice Hawaiian Punch?

Punch is a sticky sweet drink often served in a big cut glass bowl with a glob of sherbet melting in the middle.  It is poured into little glass cups that match the bowl and was invented by little old ladies wearing white gloves.

Or maybe it was invented by Hawaiians. (You do know what to say if my sons asks you if you want a "nice Hawaiian punch," don't you? He's too young to have seen the commercials, but I made the mistake of mentioning it once, just once, about six years ago. Suffice it to say, you answer with a polite but firm "no.")

Actually, although I'd bet a substantial quantity of doubloons that we won't see Johnny Depp hoisting a punch cup in the next Pirates of the Caribbean movie, 18th Century pirates did drink punch fairly frequently. Punch was not a fancy drink. It was essentially rum mixed with water and whatever else was on hand. One of the most popular versions was rum, lime juice and sugar. A more refined, continental punch bowl would be spirited with brandy, rather than rum, and flavored with nutmeg, clove, cinnamon, egg yolks and a crust of toasted bread. Milk or cream might be substituted for the water. The punch maker would allow the flavors to mix together for a while and then strain the mixture through a piece of cloth. Apparently, the goal was to obtain that almost burnt toast taste without getting crumbs in your mouth.

The long complicated list of ingredients is a little at odds with our image of shaggy pirates swilling rum out of the bottle. Obviously many of them probably did drink their spirits in the simplest possible form. But in the journals of pirates, buccaneers and other sea rovers, researchers have found a surprising number of recipes for food and drink. Food or "belly timber" was of inestimable importance to the elected leaders of pirate crews, who could be voted out of power (or off the ship) by disgruntled crews. Drink was just as if not more important for the same reason. Those things that are of greatest significance to us are the ones on which we are likely to lavish the most care. So perhaps pirates spent time concocting just the right mixture of fruit juices and rum as purely a labor of love.

Just as lack of food and spirits brought trouble, a surfeit was likely to bring trouble, as well. This means that 18th Century pirates who drank punch were probably familiar with the "nice Hawaiian" variety, too. Even those who had never heard of Hawaii.

Until next time...

--K

South of the Border and Worth the Trip

I'm always on the lookout for something to take the monotony out of a day's drive along I-95, so I was very excited to discover the town of Halifax, North Carolina. This historic site is just six miles off the interstate near the border of North Carolina and Virginia, has things to explore indoors and out, and is free. The place should be mobbed.

Instead, it was more or less empty. On our first visit two years ago, we arrived just after the Visitors Center had shut for the day, but some very thoughtful person had placed detailed maps in a box on the gate so we could take our own walking tour. When we paid a return visit a few days ago, we were able to view a presentation about the site, tour a small museum and visit some of the outbuildings.

The museum was just the right size to visit with two children who were tempted to use the 18th Century dugout canoe as a skateboard ramp for a stuffed bunny, even though they are old enough to know better. Although the town advertises its political history as the home of the Revolution, most of the exhibits in the museum and other buildings focus on social history -- everyday life in the 18th and early 19th centuries. One facet that I found refreshing was the site's frank acknowledgment of slavery and the treatment of free blacks. The subject is discussed openly but without sensationalism or the attempt to vilify the upper classes that is prevalent at so many other sites these days. Visitors are left to draw their own conclusions.

Halifax is subtly memorialized on the North Carolina flag, which bears the date of April 12, 1776. That is the date of the Halifax Resolution, when the North Carolina Provincial Congress voted to empower their delegates who would be attending the Continental Congress in Philadelphia to concur with the other colonies delegates if they voted for independence. This is taken to mean that North Carolinians, at Halifax, were the first colonists to officially recommend independence from Great Britain. But it actually sounds more like they agreed to second the motion if someone else brought it up first.

Anyway, they're pretty proud of that resolution, as evidenced by the state flag. And for that reason, I give the museum curators at Halifax a lot of credit for not making the site an overblown rehashing of the historic document. Instead, it is much more interesting, giving information on basic life of local citizens of the period, from what they wore and ate to the situations they faced during the Revolutionary War. In 1781, the British took revenge of sorts against the "birthplace of the Revolution." Part of Cornwallis's army occupied the town under the command of the infamous Col. Banastre Tarleton, and the soldiers behaved so badly that Cornwallis had two of them court-martialed and hanged.

I liked Halifax so much that I decided it deserved two articles, so next month I will share pearls of wisdom about 18th Century law and order (the jail) and the high life (the Eagle Tavern). For this month, I will close with a poem that I copied down by George Moses Horton, a slave who lived from 1797 to 1883 and who wrote and published three books of poetry. 

"Is it because my skin is so black

    That thou shouldst be so dull and slack

        And scorn to set me free?

Then let me hasten to the grave,

     The only refuge for the slave

         Who mourns for liberty."

A reminder that not every North Carolina resident was able to declare independence in 1776.

Until next month...

--K

George Washington Slept Here

Last month, I wrote about the museum in the 18th Century town of Halifax, North Carolina, urging everyone on the dreadfully dull I-95 corridor to stop and take advantage of the site (but not to let their children use the dugout canoe as a skateboard ramp for stuffed animals). This month, I wanted to share some information from the outbuildings at the site, namely, the jail and the Eagle Tavern.

The jail is still in the process of restoration, so the displays are limited and my kids found the most interesting feature to be the trap door in the floor. Since it wasn't set on hinges, they couldn't get it closed properly after they opened it, and I think they were desperately afraid the history site police would swoop in on them and lock them up in a 21st Century jail. Lest readers be kept in suspense unnecessarily, I will hasten to add that the children did accompany me the rest of the way home on I-95 and are not moldering away in a rural prison dedicated to the incarceration of those who tamper with historical exhibits.

But I did learn some interesting facts about incarceration in the 18th Century, at least. Inmates had to supply not only their own clothes, but also their own linens and bedclothes. That doesn't sound too bad, but if they were placed in irons, they had to pay for the metal, they had to pay for the blacksmith's labor to make the manacles, and they had to pay for his labor each time the irons were put on and removed. If a prisoner was hanged, he paid for the rope, coffin and the effort to dig a hole for it. Prisoner's goods would be sold to meet these expenses, and if that didn't raise enough money, only then would the state step in to pick up the tab. As a rule, long-term incarceration was not a common penalty in the 18th Century. Instead of spending years in jail, a horse thief might have his ears nails to a pillory and cut off, have both his cheeks branded, and then his back whipped with 39 lashes. It all sounded a little medieval to me, but the museum curators assured me that these penalties were on the books in the late 18th or early 19th Centuries.

The food and drink for prisoners often came from the local tavern keeper. Taverns were much more multifunctional than they are today. A tavern was not simply a place to sample the local ale. Patrons could pick up mail, spend the night, care for their horses, buy jewelry or visit the doctor. Merchants and professionals such as doctors, dentists and lawyers frequently set up shop in the corner of a tavern. But despite all this activity, taverns typically looked just like a residential house. A 1767 law required tavern keepers to erect a sizeable sign so that passers by could distinguish between public establishments and private houses. It also enabled the government to more readily spot taverns selling liquor without a license.  

In some counties, up to 20% of the tavern licenses were held by women, so it was not uncommon for your host to in fact be a hostess. About half of the license holders were widows who kept the license after their husbands passed away, and many of these women only held the licenses for a few years. But the extent of the practice shows that tavern keeping was not a disreputable trade for a woman.

The Eagle Tavern in Halifax is a confusing restoration. As near as I could tell, the building that is now restored and filled with interesting and informative (and air-conditioned) displays was a late 18th Century addition to a tavern that stood on another site down the street. Local tradition holds that George Washington dined in the tavern when he visited the town in 1791, but Im not sure whether he dined in this addition or the earlier building or one of the eleven other tavern sites in town, all of which seemed to change names every few years. While Washington left no specific comments on the quality of the food to be found at the Halifax tavern(s), the site quotes some other patrons, who are hopefully talking about different taverns. "[A] worse meal we thought impossible to find," writes Capt. Basil Hall "till dinner time came around and showed us the extent of our miscalculations." Another traveler complained of provisions so bad that "even the horse would have been a fool to eat."

So if they didn't come for the food, or the deluxe accommodations (we've all heard the stories about tavern patrons forced to share a bed with four strangers and countless lice), why did they come? Well, some taverns advertised "a show of cocks." But it was not the colonial red light district. These were gamecocks, because "sports of the pit" were quite popular. In addition to betting on fighting poultry, patrons bet on dice games such as hazard, billiards, draughts (checkers), backgammon, chess and skittles (I don't know what these are, but presumably they are not fruit-flavored little candies). Playing cards of the time look much like they do today, except that there were no little numbers printed at the corners and the cards were printed in a thinner cardstock than the laminated stock used now. The Eagle Tavern had a card press on display, used to flatten cards after use. I thought that was pretty neat, and it looked portable and yet heavy enough to be considered a possible murder weapon in a game of Clue.

Can you tell what my daughter's favorite game has been this summer? (I guess Captain Hall, in the billiard room, with the card press. And the victim? Well I guess it would have most likely been the chef.)

Until next time...

--K

A Clean Getaway

A few weeks ago, I ordered my son to steal something for me. This goes against most child-raising advice and is not the sort of family value that we are encouraged to instill in our children. But I'm not raising my son to be a shoplifter or jewel thief, however welcome his contributions might prove to the family income. Instead, I ordered Trent to steal laundry.

We were camping at Jerusalem Mill Village for the Colonial Craftsman Weekend, where families, artisans and shopkeepers set up a sort of 18th Century tent town for a long weekend. After two days of cold rain, on the last day we had enough sun to encourage me to set up a laundry demonstration. I offered visiting kids the chance to scrub clothes on a washboard, rinse, wring and hang them to dry. It was an incomplete demonstration to say the least, but still popular. The popularity was due to the efforts of a new, young (and very pretty) volunteer at the site who attracted lots of attention. Soon I was able to get my hands out of the washwater and move on to "supervise."

Thats when I decided it was time for a thief. Clothing is so cheap and plentiful today that we forget how valuable it was in a society where cloth was imported at great cost and garments had to be sewn entirely by hand. On that sunny Sunday at Jerusalem Mill, my adolescent laundress had to watch out for thieves intent on taking not her cellphone but her supply of shirts and stockings.

Trent and two friends followed my orders with more enthusiasm than I expected. They pulled the clothes off the line and ran through the town while we screamed "Stop, you thieving varlots" at the top of our lungs. So far, so good. But things took an unexpected turn when the thieves ran to hide out in the porta-potties. That ended the "performance" real quick. Later, when a new crowd filled the street and the recaptured laundry had been washed, rinsed and hung out once more, I suggested they try again. But we needed to make a few adjustments. I pointed out that in an era where thieves could be branded or have their ears cut off, a thief who had been captured by the head laundress would not try to hit her with a stocking as if we were having a pillow fight. He would run. And though he might well hide in the privy, the visitors seeking to use the said facilities would not want him to recreate that bit of history.

For the last theft of the day, the militia officers who'd been training new pint-sized "recruits" all day finally heeded my pleas for help and took off with their muskets in pursuit of the miscreants.

I eventually got all the shirts and stockings back. The day's scrubbing had removed some old stains from my husband's shirt cuffs, so plain old "lye" soap and elbow grease may be the best stain remover after all. And one final word about that soap. All soap is made with lye and fat. Once it cures, the old fashioned lard and lye soap is not hard on the skin at all, though it does sometimes leave a faint aroma of bacon. This should appeal to men as much as new car smell, so I don't know why we don't see it more often, especially boxed up for Christmas.

I make my own soap for give-aways to go with my books (since there's a soap-making scene in Langleys Choice) so maybe this year, I should make some old fashioned soap on a rope as Christmas gifts for the men in my life. It will drive the dog crazy.

Until next time...

-K

Gold, Frankincense and Nerf Darts

It's that time of year again. My kids begged me to set up the Nativity scene in a prominent place in the living room, and even though it was past bedtime, how could I refuse such enthusiasm? They were excited about the true meaning of Christmas.

The next day, I saw my son shooting the birds off the top the stable with his Nerf dart gun. It seems that he was anxious not to celebrate Christ's birth, but to open the Nativity Shooting Gallery.

I was horrified at first -- this seemed wrong in about a million different ways. I made him stop immediately.

Then I started to giggle. When he promised me he wouldn't shoot baby Jesus or his parents (I think he offered to throw in the wise men, too) I relented, but made him promise not to do it front of any other adults, including me. It still just seemed so wrong.

(Later I realized that one of the things that bugged me, in addition to the violence in the manger, was the historical anachronism. If he was going to shoot at heirloom breeds of poultry and Iron Age unarmed shepherds, he should at least use a bow instead of an automatic pistol).

Im afraid to admit that now, my amusement has won out over my sense of horror. I don't mind anymore (obviously, or I wouldn't broadcast it on the web like this). After all, the scene in the original stable, which was most likely stone rather than the wooden creation depicted by European artists, was not as peaceful or serene as we'd like to imagine.

Bethlehem, as we know from the Gospel of Luke, was crowded with out-of-town visitors coming back to their ancestral homes for the census. Think about what happens in our day and age when people get into an overcrowded setting. Some see it as an excuse to party, others see an opportunity to steal from the unwary, and others just exercise their ability to complain. It's not quiet, peaceful or serene. Bethlehem was probably a madhouse. Luke tells us that Mary laid baby Jesus in a manger, and in fact mentions nothing at all about a stable. People kept animals close to their homes, if not inside them, so that manger was most likely not far from the hubbub of the village. It was not quiet.

And while there were no ten-year-old boys shooting Nerf darts or stacking the sheep into a pyramid, there were signs of life going on all around as usual. Luke describes the angels appearing to shepherds, and they learn the wonderful news of the Savior's birth. They come to find him, and share the news. But theres no mention of the townspeople. Unless they happened to bump into a shepherd and deign to listen to one of the lowest members of society, they probably had no idea of the momentous occasion. Boys were teasing their sisters and shooting arrows at heirloom poultry, or at least they would have been if they thought they could get away with it.

Ten years ago, I started collecting pieces in a non-breakable Nativity set just so that my children could touch it, act out the story, make themselves part of the story. Christmas isn't just something that happened to Mary and Joseph 2000 years ago. It happened to us, and happens again every time we acknowledge and accept the great gift of love sent to us from above.

Churches used to celebrate the Christmas story with fancy mangers covered in gold, silver and jewels. In 1223, St. Francis of Assisi set up a humble nativity scene with animals in a cave as a way to teach people, especially children, about the humanity and humility of Christ. And if one of the kids present had brought a Nerf gun...okay, he probably would not have let him take potshots at the oxen.

I'm willing to concede the St. Francis is a better role model than I am.

Until next time...

--k