Back in Time

The weatherman promised a gorgeous fall day. The patchy fog evaporated, as the morning sun dried a thick layer of dew off the cars parked outside. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, adding credence to the radio’s guarantee of no precipitation. It was the perfect day for an outing. I took one last sip of coffee, before rinsing the cup and placing it in the sink. I stepped into comfortable walking shoes, tidied my hair, and walked outside to enjoy the morning while waiting for Hubby to lock up. And then we were off.

It was an hour drive to Fowler Park. This was my first visit, Hubby’s too. We watched for signs, hoping they would be large enough to catch our eye. They were. We drove another few miles until we saw a sign heralding Pioneer Days, and another pointing toward parking. We were directed to our parking space by a rather strange looking man. He had long windblown hair, and gold rimmed spectacles. When he smiled, I took note of several missing teeth. I tried not to stare.

Hubby held my hand as we walked across the uneven ground, which helped to steady me. It’s a well known fact, I’m a klutz. Knowing this, Hubby always takes precautions to keep my embarrassment level down, or maybe his. Whichever, I was grateful I made it to the road without falling face first into the dirt. We walked across the road, down a path, and stepped through a break in the shrubs. With one small step, we traveled back in time.

To the right we saw a log cabin with smoke curling up from the chimney. Yellow flowers lined the porch, nodding their heads in the soft summer-like breeze. A man dressed in linen shirt and loose fitting knee pants, sat in a straight back chair, whittling. “Welcome neighbor,” he said with a smile.

“Hi,” Hubby and I said in unison.

The man beckoned us forward, “You look weary from your travels. Come on up. Mrs. Brown has freshly baked bread and apple butter inside.”

Being a woodworker himself, Hubby asked, “What are you making?”

“This is a wooden spoon,” he explained, handing it to Hubby.

Hubby twirled the spoon in his hands, and began what I knew would be a lengthy conversation about different varieties of wood, and technique. I followed my nose toward the tantalizing aroma of freshly baked bread.

The cabin was one large room with a loft. There were two small, square windows in each side of the room, a front and back door. To my left was a lumpy bed, smaller than a double, but larger than a twin. The blanket was handmade from squares of fabric. There wasn’t any fancy stitching, merely threads tied in the middle of each block to hold the layers together. There was a smaller bed and a chair in the loft. This was obviously a child’s room.

A table and four chairs filled the center of the room. To my right was a huge fireplace. A fire burned brightly, adding light to an otherwise gloomy interior. A woman, dressed in a long muslin skirt covered by a white apron, bent over the hearth. She was in the process of removing loaves of bread from a metal contraption placed beside the fire. She placed the loaves on the table and looked up. As her husband had, she said, “Welcome neighbor. Sit down and share some bread with me.” Without waiting for my answer, Mrs. Brown sliced off a piece of bread. She picked up a spoon and dipped steaming pink apple butter from a bowl on the table, placing a large dollop on the bread before handing it to me.

My mouth watered. I took a bite. “This is delicious. Thank you,” I said.

Hubby and Mr. Brown joined us inside. Mrs. Brown passed Hubby a slice of the freshly baked bread. I could see Hubby liked it too. He was chewing with his eyes closed. “There’s nothing better than home made bread,” he said.

Another couple with two children entered the house behind us. We inspected a handmade bucket, some odd shaped tools, and a walking stick resting beside the door before heading back outside.

Next we visited the blacksmith, and watched as he pounded metal into a knife. The cooper was busy making barrels, and the candle maker, candles. Everyone smiled and seemed to genuinely enjoy their individual craft.

By now we were hot and thirsty. We found a vendor selling bottles of water, bought two and sat down on a bench under a huge oak tree. As we sipped our water, we admired the pioneer village before us. This seemed to be the perfect life, simple, no rush hour traffic, no hurry to get here or there, and everyone helped their neighbor. We decided we were born a little too late, if only we could go back.

We walked farther down the path, stopping to watch ropes being made and a man building an outhouse. By the time we reached the old mill, the sun was high in the sky. The pleasant temperature had increased to hot. I wiped my brow and looked longingly at my empty bottle of water. I considered hopping into the creek to cool off, and then I spied the General Store.

“I wonder if they have air conditioning inside,” Hubby said.

“Let’s go see.”

I almost fell through the door in my haste to cool off, but I was sadly disappointed. This place was true to its era. They didn’t even allow their patrons to cool off while spending money on souvenirs. We went back outside.

Hubby took my hand and guided me back down the path, “It’s hot, I’m tired, and the race starts in less than an hour. Want to go home?”

I glanced up at Hubby, “I thought we wanted to go back in time and be pioneers?”

Hubby laughed, “It sounded like a good idea before it got so hot. Can you imagine what winter would be like?”

“Let’s stop and get a coke at that Dairy Queen down the road.”

Still laughing, Hubby challenged, “Race you to the truck?”

Story ID:	4386
Written by:	Betty (BJ) Roan (bio, link, contact, other stories)
Story type:	Musings, Essays and Such
Location:	Terre Haute IN USA
Year:	2008