Visit to museum was reminder of days gone by (06/26/06)

I tried to sell my favorite nephew last weekend but nobody wanted him. I promoted his finer points: he’s cute, well-behaved, and a hard worker. But, alas, nobody would buy the boy because he isn’t an orphan. Those minor technicalities will get you every time.

They would take him on as an apprentice to a blacksmith or carpenter if we wanted to do that. He thought this was a great idea and was looking forward to it until he found out he would have to work for at least three months before they decided what he was worth. Then the estimate was that we would only get a penny for him. His eyes got as big as saucers at that notion so we decided to keep him.

We visited Conner Prairie, a living history museum north of Indianapolis, last week. There was a sign on several of the buildings promoting the sale of poor people, or at least that is what I thought it said. He’s only 10, so how rich could he be? I decided to see what he would be worth. At first when I tried to sell my nephew I was informed that selling people was illegal. Tell that to the slaves who lived during the era that was being portrayed.

Speaking of slaves, don’t read this next part if you are planning a visit. One of the things they offered was a HCSI activity. It was a take-off on all the popular crime dramas that are on television these days. It stood for Historic Crime Scene Investigation. Everyone met at the scene of the crime, was deputized, handed a badge and told that a pie was missing. The object was to find out who took the pie and why. We pinned on our badges and set out to find the answer to the puzzle.

My husband and I decided to abandon the hunt after we discovered who took the pie but not why and set off for a different part of the museum. My nephew and his parents joined the other “deputies” in gathering clues. They had a great time. It seems the pie was taken to feed slaves in the underground railroad. While on this quest for clues it was discovered that other items were also appropriated to ease the escapees’ flights to freedom. It was a wonderful way for the children to learn a bit of history without realizing it. I did find it interesting that there were no runaway slaves or freemen portrayed anywhere I could find.

At one point we were watching a demonstration on spinning yarn out of wool. I pointed to the spinning wheel and whispered to my brother, “Remember that spinning wheel Grandma used to have? She said she bought it because it reminded her of when her mother used to sit and spin.” In essence, we were seeing a bit of our grandmother’s and great-grandmother’s lives in front of us.

Other displays elicited other memories. The washboard made me giggle remembering how Grandma used to tell of loading a dirty diaper on one just right so her sister would get the desired comical result. I dutifully passed down the story to my nephew.

The crank tractors brought out stories of our old tractor and all the tales Grandma told about cranking cars and cranky cars. The potbellied stoves reminded us of the one our other brother found in our barn. It was the same stove that caused the fire that burned down the barn. Oops.

In addition to seeing how people lived in centuries past, the museum inadvertently pointed out a somewhat distressing fact. I have become the “matriarch” who passes down family legends. I am only a mother and uncle away from being the oldest one in my family. Oh, dear. Now that is a distressing thought. Therefore, it falls to me to be the keeper of tall tales and oddball memories.

When I was doing genealogical research I kept having a dream about someone asking me to tell their story. The problem was I couldn’t figure out whose story I was supposed to tell. Since our visit to Conner Prairie I think I know what story to relate. It is the story that is the sum of family lore that is stored in the deep recesses of my brain. It is the story of washboards and spinning wheels and nephews we never intend to sell.[[In-content Ad]]