Chapter 7 #2
Colonel Briggs folded his arms, not in objection exactly, but in consideration. "There is something to be said for keeping the military items together. Seeing them side by side would make a powerful display."
"It would," Mercy said. "But it would also separate those items from the families who preserved them.
A uniform or discharge paper tells one part of a man's service, but the letters beside it may tell what his wife endured while he was gone or what his children remembered when he returned.
If we separate the military items from the family display, we may make the category stronger while weakening the story. "
Colonel Briggs's expression sobered, and after a moment he gave a small nod.
Mrs. Whitaker glanced around the crowded room. "And the Revolutionary War era connections? This is, after all, a centennial celebration. Visitors may expect those items to be grouped together."
"I considered that as well," Mercy said.
"But the same problem remains. Once we begin separating artifacts by category, we begin separating families.
Some of the Revolutionary War era connections are recorded in family Bibles.
Others appear in letters or stories passed down through several generations.
If we remove those pieces from the family collection, the display may look more orderly on the surface, but the story itself becomes harder to understand. "
Mrs. Whitaker considered that, then inclined her head slightly. "I see your point."
"How do you propose to arrange the various families, then?" Daniel asked, glancing from one crowded table to another. "Even if we agree they should stay together, there still has to be some order to it."
"I considered several options for this," she answered.
"But ultimately the most practical solution was to determine the placement by the make-up of the collections themselves.
" Mercy gestured to the crowded tables around them.
"Some collections require considerably more space than others.
Some contain heavier items that will require sturdier shelving.
Organizing them according to those requirements will allow us to make the most effective use of the space available. "
Mrs. Whitaker's brows drew together slightly. "Be that as it may, I am concerned that some of our oldest and most prominent families have contributed extraordinary items, and I imagine they will expect those contributions to receive appropriate recognition."
The words were carefully spoken, and Mercy understood the concern beneath them.
Mrs. Whitaker had spent months working with the Ladies Auxiliary, soliciting help from many of those same families and keeping their goodwill engaged.
She was not merely arguing for precedence.
She was trying to protect promises she believed had been made, even if no one had stated them outright.
"That becomes difficult to determine fairly," Mercy said.
"Several families fall into more than one category.
Some are descendants of founding families and Revolutionary War era families.
Others include veterans while also tracing their roots back to Hawthorn's earliest years.
Once we begin assigning prominence according to category, we eventually reach the question of which distinction should take precedence. "
Mrs. Whitaker exchanged glances with Mayor Caldwell and Colonel Briggs, while Daniel seemed content to let the others debate the issue and Reverend Fields stroked his chin as if deep in thought.
After a moment Mercy continued. "But I do have another idea that I think will help this process be better received.
I propose three recognition boards identifying our founding family descendants, Revolutionary War era descendants, and veterans.
Those boards would be displayed prominently in the schoolroom, or even outside near the schoolhouse entrance, where every visitor would see them before entering the exhibit. "
Mrs. Whitaker's expression brightened slightly. "These boards—how large would they be and how would they be designed?"
"They can be as large and elaborate as we want them to be. They could also direct visitors to the various family displays, assuming there are funds in the budget to produce them properly."
Mrs. Whitaker sat a little straighter. "The funds will be found."
Mercy bit back a smile. "In that case, I was hoping the Ladies Auxiliary might oversee their design."
"I believe the Ladies Auxiliary would be delighted to assist."
The committee moved back into the schoolroom after that, the cramped archive room having done more to prove Mercy's point than any amount of explanation could have managed.
When everyone had returned to their seats, Mayor Caldwell looked around the table.
"Any further concerns regarding Miss Owens's proposal? "
No one spoke.
"Then I believe we have our plan."
Relief and satisfaction came first.
Then reality hit.
Now that the committee had accepted her proposal, she had to make it work. The thought was both satisfying and daunting.
Oddly enough, her first impulse was to tell Wilson.
What would he think if he could have heard the committee's reaction.
He would likely have shrugged it off or said something practical about lumber and weight and getting the shelves built, but that didn't change the fact that his way of seeing the problem had helped shape the solution.
She shook off that thought and turned her attention back to the meeting.
The remainder passed quickly. Final decisions were made regarding the picnic grounds, the public reading of the Declaration of Independence, and several remaining supply needs.
Before long Reverend Fields offered a closing prayer and the committee began gathering papers and preparing to leave.
As Mercy tucked her notebook into her reticule, she allowed herself a small measure of satisfaction.
The Fletcher letter was finally on its way.
Colonel Briggs had promised to make inquiries.
The remaining interviews were scheduled.
The shelving problem had not been entirely solved, perhaps, but it had been given a workable path forward, and at last she had a clear vision for how the archive would come together.
For the first time in weeks, the mountain of work ahead no longer seemed impossible.
Only very, very large.
Wilson guided the wagon into the schoolyard and pulled the team to a stop near the annex.
He'd spent every free moment he had at the livery this morning pulling nails from the remaining boards, finishing the work Miss Owens hadn't been able to complete Saturday. The task had occupied his hands while leaving his mind free to wander more than he'd have preferred.
The thought brought an unwelcome memory of Sunday morning. He'd spotted her across the churchyard just before the bell rang. The gloves had caught his attention immediately. Most folks probably wouldn't have thought twice about them.
He had.
They'd been a reminder that he should have noticed sooner.
Those blisters hadn't appeared all at once.
There had likely been warning signs he ought to have recognized—stiffly flexing her fingers, hesitating before gripping the hammer, the occasional wince.
A man who worked with his hands every day should have seen what was coming.
Instead, he'd let her keep working without thinking to check on how her hands were faring.
Telling himself he'd just assumed she'd say something or show some obvious sign of discomfort if she had problems, was no excuse.
He should have known the stubborn schoolteacher wouldn't give in to something as ordinary as pain.
Wilson reached for another board and felt the wood scrape unexpectedly across his palm.
He tossed the board onto the pile and examined his hand.
Another splinter, much smaller than the one from Saturday and hardly worth noticing except that it was in nearly the same spot.
Irritated, he scraped a thumbnail over the offending sliver and easily dislodged it
Then he stilled as the memory surfaced uninvited.
Miss Owens standing beside the wagon with that determined look on her face.
You are going to let me tend to that before you pick up your tools again.
Wilson shook his head. Most people took one look at him and thought twice before ordering him about. Miss Owens apparently considered it a challenge.
The corner of his mouth threatened to twitch.
Then another memory followed close behind. Her looking up from his hand. The way she'd forgotten what she meant to say for a moment.
Wilson reached for another board before that particular thought could go any further.
He carried the board to the growing stack beside the annex and set it carefully in place. Another followed. Then another.
The repetitive work gradually pushed the unwanted memories aside.
He'd nearly emptied the wagon when the schoolhouse door opened. Wilson looked up.
Miss Owens stepped onto the porch and paused, scanning the yard. The moment she spotted him, her expression brightened and she descended the steps and headed in his direction.
For reasons he preferred not to examine too closely, the sight pleased him.
"Afternoon, Mr. Porter."
Wilson tipped his head as he lifted another board from the wagon. "Miss Owens."
Her gaze immediately dropped to the lumber stacked beside the annex. She nodded in apparent approval before looking back at him. "You've been busy."
"Part of the job." He placed the board on the stack and straightened, meeting her gaze.
She took another step toward the stack.
Wilson narrowed his eyes. "Don't even think about it."
She blinked. "Think about what?"
"Helping."
A look of innocence appeared on her face, one he wasn't buying for a minute.
She gave her skirt a little tug with one hand. "Do I appear to be dressed to unload lumber?"
He crossed his arms. "That's not a denial."