Irene Radford: Thistle Down

Dusty gritted her teeth and went to greet the noisy crowd of tourists with their equally loud bevy of children.

For the next forty-five minutes, Dusty led the group of five adults and six children through the pioneer home. She explained as clearly and succinctly as possible the exhibits highlighting the history of Skene County, Oregon, and the city of Skene Falls on the Skene River. If she made the tour comprehensive, she wouldn’t have to answer questions.

Of course a child had to ask: “How come there aren’t any bathrooms?”

“When the house was first built in 1845, no one had indoor plumbing. Washing clothes or taking a bath was a big deal that required a lot of work and planning.” She crouched to be at eye level with the eight-year-old boy. Much more comfortable communicating on this level than dealing with sneering adults who kept staring at the dust stains on her apron. She imagined she felt the waves of judgmental disdain emanating from them.

“They didn’t have electricity to heat the water, or pump it from a reservoir back then. When the Historical Society moved the house from river level up here to the plateau to become a museum in 1937, we stripped out some of the more modern conveniences.”

“Like bathrooms,” the boy said. He began a telltale sway from foot to foot.

Time to get this group out of here.

“Life was really different back then; no electric lights or TV or telephones, no hot and cold running water. No X-rays or antibiotics to help you get over sickness.” Or chemo and bone marrow transplants.

“My grandma died of cancer,” the six-year-old girl said solemnly.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Some things we don’t know how to fix yet. I bet your grandma lived a lot longer than she would have back in 1845. Because of vitamins, and good food trucked in from all over the country, and medicines, she lived long enough for you to get to know her. That’s something to be grateful for.” She’d fought cancer herself when she was about this girl’s age. She had won the battle with a lot of help. She knew the ache in the middle the little girl showed by clutching her stomach as she spoke.

Dusty pasted a bright smile on her face as she stood to face the parents. “This concludes the organized tour. Feel free to browse the gift shop next door where you bought your tour tickets. There are picnic tables on the grounds, along with some hands-on exhibits like the covered wagon, and public restrooms at the corner of the park on the Center Street side.”

“The little log cabin?” the father asked.

Dusty nodded. “The Ten Acre Wood is part of the park and open for exploration. We ask that you stay on the gravel paths and not damage the native ground cover. There are leaflets in a drop box behind the carriage barn that will guide you through a treasure hunt. The pink papers have trivia questions based on local history, the green ones are about movies, and the blue ones are general trivia.”

“Is that where all the tall trees are?” one boy asked. He strained his neck peering out the nearest window toward the towering Douglas firs.

“Yes. And I hear there’s pirate treasure buried there. Or was that a dragon hoard? I’m not sure. Maybe you should find out.”

The children dashed out the door, followed more sedately by their parents.

Dusty exited as hastily as she could without seeming to run. On her way back to the sanctuary of the basement, she found the two teenage tour guides relaxing on the back porch that had been enclosed for an office and employee lounge-and private restroom. Both girls wore modern sundresses, had their feet up on the long worktable, and had cans of cola in their hands.

The sight of thick condensation dripping off the cans reminded Dusty she hadn’t had anything to drink in a couple of hours. She threw a roll of paper towels to the girls and pointed to where their cans dribbled on the sheaves of papers on the table. Then she poured herself a glass of iced tea sweetened with agave nectar from the pitcher she’d made when she first arrived.

“There are two more groups approaching the front walk, girls,” Dusty said at the dark portal to her underground hiding place. “Your turn to guide the tours. You might spend some time talking about the spinning wheel and whale oil lamps.”

“Ah, Ms. Carrick, it’s hot out there,” Meggie complained, rubbing the cold soda can over her brow. “Can’t you take them?”

“Your job,” Dusty reminded them. “Remember the internship credit, and recommendations you’d like to get for your college applications?”

Meggie, the willowy blonde who looked too much like Phelma Jo Nelson for Dusty’s comfort, dropped her feet to the floor and stood as if the action took every bit of energy she possessed. “I guess.” She heaved a sigh, letting Dusty know how much of a burden work was. “I haven’t given a tour to a cute boy in like ages.”

Unlike Phelma Jo, Meggie was unmotivated, and not a bully.

“Pioneer Days officially starts with the parade at ten AM tomorrow. Traffic all over town will pick up any minute now. And you’ll have to wear costumes all week. The volunteers delivered a whole stack of them yesterday, cleaned and pressed. Now, I have an appointment in,” Dusty looked at the watch pinned to her bodice with an antique enameled bow brooch, “fifteen minutes. I’ll need this office since Mr. Newberry locked his and hasn’t returned from his appointment. You girls need to be elsewhere before then. Now get to work.”

Dusty escaped to the cool depths of the basement and the broken crockery from a tribal archaeological dig performed by the community college. The artifacts needed cleaning and piecing together. The crockery dated the dig to post-European contact. The remnants of shell beads and leatherwork suggested an earlier time. An interesting puzzle.

Artifacts didn’t judge a person unfairly on first impressions.

“LIFE’S A BITCH AND THEN YOU DIE,” Phelma Jo Nelson spat at the stooped man. She leaned back in his comfortable office chair and propped her feet on his massive desk. Once tall and robust, her opponent now sagged and wavered.

Vulnerable. She could make some money off his new fragility. A more attractive prospect was that, in replacing him, she would be in a position of power to close down Dusty Carrick’s precious museum. The collapsing pile of lumber without plumbing or electricity had no place in this modern town. Phelma Jo had managed to acquire the lot where her mother’s shack had stood. It hadn’t had plumbing or electricity either, only empty booze bottles. The lot now held her modern offices and condos.

She needed to be in a position to control growth in this town, control crime by ridding it of hiding places for criminals-like The Ten Acre Wood-and control her own life.

“So you have to retire,” she reminded the man.

“You’ve had a good run, honey. Now it’s time to step aside for a younger and more aggressive generation.”

“I have no intention of allowing my failing body to dictate…”

“You don’t. But I do. Now sign this press release, and I’ll make sure it gets to the proper reporter. Not that Digger fellow. Someone who will show respect for you and your position in this town and know that I am the only person you trust to continue your good works.” She slid the single sheet of paper across his desk.

He made no move toward acquiescence.

She selected an antique fountain pen from the leather cup holding several fine writing instruments and rolled it onto the paper.

“Sign it.”

“PJ…”

“Don’t call me that.”