History Comes Alive

This article was written for The Oracle, the newsletter of the Daviess County Historical Society.

I got a huge surprise at the Daviess County Museum. My ancestors came to life for me.

Literally, that is not true. Perhaps just as well, you know? But I have seen things that connect to various generations of grandparents. And that doesn’t happen often, does it?

The following picture is an example of a wedding dress. The card reads, “Wedding Dress worn by Emma Jane Thomas. Bride of Lew Wallace Barber. October 6^th, 1886. Daviess County.” 

This is remarkable to me for several reasons. First, it’s a lovely dress. Warm tones with velvet patterning and buttons galore. It even has a matching hat. Second, it is here. One hundred twenty years later, we can see (but please don’t touch) what people wore then. It’s very attractive. Rich, even, in its own way. But not what we’d think of as a wedding dress.

A nearby sign says it was common for brides to wear the very best dress in their wardrobes for their wedding day rather than purchase a new, white dress especially for the occasion.

The third reason this is significant to me is that Emma Jane Thomas is my great-grandmother. Do you also wander through the monochromatic documents of public records, newspaper clippings, and hand-written letters to learn more about your ancestors? If so, you’ll appreciate how delightful it is to find something tangible in color. To imagine a person responsible for you being here, standing in front of you. You get a sense of size and proportion. Of style. Of … them.

If it’s white you’re looking for though, here’s my next favorite item.

The pants were worn by my great-great-great grandfather. The coverlet was made by my great-great grandmother. The sign reads, “Homespun Trousers. The linen was woven from thread spun from flax grown on the Barber Homestead in Veal Township. Note the buttons made of bone. Worn by George Houts (1791-1864) | Homespun Coverlet. Made by Aliza Katherine [Houts] Barber, wife of Aden Barber sometime in the 1830s. The flax was grown on the farm, then spun into thread and woven into the cloth.”

These items fascinate me. They are but two of thousands of items that tell stories of this area. Those stories probably link you and me. If not, you’re creating stories of your own and our tales may soon intersect. The lives we are living today are tomorrow’s history. Be thinking of what you want to hand down to the coming generations. If you need some prompts, come by the museum. We have so much to show you!

Chips are Okay Now

I was scrubbing dishes this morning and noticed something out of the corner of my eye. Some of our plates are chipped. I also noticed stains on plates that had been a bit harder used.

A younger me would have wanted new dishes. Something shiny. Unmarked. Closer to fine.

Today, I'm okay with it. In God's cupboard I am a chipped dish.

Like the things in the drainer beside me, parts of me have not held their color well. Reapplying the color is a temporary fix. The base material is what it really is. Happily, I am free to experiment with all sorts of shades and hues if I want to. My head is now another palette for self-expression.

Other parts of me are now lined. In the mirror, my image is gradually moving to the bottom of the frame. It's just a little distorted. Like the window panes in an old building. Much as I would like to deny it or defy it, I am wearing marks similar to those that add character to things I like.

Let's be candid. I admire a fancy purse or briefcase made of unblemished leather. Items that cost hundreds of dollars and give the impression of prosperity and competence. But I prefer an old set of saddle bags scratched by brush, spotted by rain, and carefully oiled so they are supple enough to be useful.

That's the key. My values have changed. I used to value the new. I still like it. But which would you rather wear if you know nobody is looking? New jeans--slightly stiff and perhaps a bit snug, or old jeans--softened denim that gives your legs a happy hug as they slide on, letting you know they're ready for any adventure you have planned for the day?

And on that day--the day nobody's looking--would you be wearing new shoes or old shoes? Or even no shoes?

I'm finding I prefer older things well made and shaped by use to their intended purpose. Like me.

Nature is Jazz

Country music lays claim to the outdoors, but I think Nature is
at heart a jazz tune. A suite. A collage of joyful noise
from the largest band ever assembled. If I’m right, know this.
Good jazz challenges. You may have to listen until you’re ready to hear.

There is whirring. There’s chirruping. And soft, long notes
from a blowing breeze. That’s the strings. Bowing through
the treetops, whispering through the grass. Now pianissimo,
then a terrifying crescendo with staccato, percussive rain.

Your next move takes guts. You’ll invite cacophony. Every player
in Nature’s band is fearless. Totally devoted to their own time
signature. Willing it to be THE time. The one you hear. Eager
musicians demanding you to be their audience and share their song.

But there isn’t just one song, is there? Well, there may be, but it’s
on so many levels and in so many venues that you have to stop hearing with your ears and open your heart. Somewhere, all the little songs blend. There’s a place they all make sense. We hear the struggle.

We hear scrappy virtuosos asserting their version of the song. We hear little combos, certain they share the melody, shifting the beat and hoping we’ll tap our foot in time. We hear soloists screeching and preaching, proclaiming the true music is theirs. But they’re still just players.

And players serve the song. It’s beautiful music. It’s an infinite number of voices singing and screaming and growling. It’s rhythms thumping and booming and scritching along. You wonder where the conductor has gone. Don’t be fooled. The conductor hears it all. And it is good.

One day, we’ll be removed. Pulled from the noise. Distanced. And then the jazz stylings of Nature will make sense. The vocals and instrumentation will blend. This composition isn’t terrestrial. It’s universal. Yes. THAT universe. It’s coming from and playing to places you can’t even imagine. It’s jazz. Cool, baby.

Bold Image

How do you sign your work? We all do things that bear our mark. Our skills are on display in everything we do, but especially in the things that bring us income or feed our passions.

J. Bourgholtzer, a photographer in Washington, Indiana in the first half of the 1900s, advertised with a flourish.

He mounted photographic prints to card stock imprinted with his bold signature, monogram, and location. And that was just on the photo side. The reverse was even more impressive.

The heavily inked signature is graced with stylish embellishments and lettering that leaves no question about his profession. The town name is printed in small capital letters along an arc, touting not only its prominence but also staking its claim as a lively burg.

That's how it was done years ago. Are you getting ideas about your own message? When people see your work, do they associate it with you? What clues are you giving them? Absolute quality? Completeness? Delivering on or before scheduled due dates? Perhaps it is all of the above.

I challenge each of us to approach our callings with the boldness of Bourgholtzer. Let's proudly imprint each thing we do with pride of ownership.