36. My Own Grandfather, Horseshit, and Ace Hardware
My Own Grandfather, Horseshit, and Ace Hardware
Josephine
(Because “time travel is real and the solstice isnt something to fuck with” - Mama Star)
I think it is a natural part of the human experience to wonder what our world will look like hundreds of years after we are gone. It is not a natural part of the human experience, however, to see it with our own eyes.
“This is surreal.” Blaze punctuates my own thoughts with an exhausted groan from the bed.
Savoring a slow sip of tea, my eyes trace the shapes of the room.
The furniture is new. Some upkeep has kept the building standing.
But the bones are the same, and I can picture the original house Blaze and I toured two-hundred and twelve years ago when we spoke of a life together in my time.
“It feels like one of those dreams where you think you have fallen asleep in your own bed, but when you wake up, you realize you’re somewhere completely different. ”
Blaze stretches and yawns, huffing some animalistic sound as he shakes the last of sleep from his face. “One night in this room costs what the agency dude quoted us for a purchase price!”
I giggle and unfurl my body from the end chair, which is positioned to overlook the avenue below.
“That sounds about right,” I muse, watching unfamiliar faces trail up and down an oh so familiar street.
Turns out the Mr. Lamb who had already placed an offer on the Clarendon Cottage was Charles Lamb, the writer.
His offer was accepted, and a plaque hangs on the wall in his memory.
Blaze insisted we stay at the historic home turned B&B, and I think the whole ordeal is rather comical.
Just down the street, the tea shop is a convenience store.
The modiste is now a winery which boasts plexiglass-framed pieces of the original owner’s preserved works.
A dress I made three years ago by my standards, and two-hundred and fifteen years ago by history’s standards is on display.
I drank a glass of wine and thought of the delightful whir of the sewing machine Blaze bought me as a wedding gift, and how much time it saves compared to the gown the winery patrons ogled over.
Dashwood House is a novelty souvenir shop on the lower level, and a small self-guided tour is available for the upper levels.
Blaze and I braved the spectacle last night before dinner, and I was astonished to see an incredibly inaccurate drawing of myself in Georgia’s room, of all places.
The story of the missing Dashwood daughter was told like a tragedy that entirely ruined my family, down to the framed wanted poster.
“Lenard Hollows: Wanted on suspicion of murdering his wife, Josephine Dashwood-Hollows,” Blaze read. “What the fuck?”
I remind him that the last time the ton saw us was when we left the modiste—him and that blasted axe. His feathers were slightly less ruffled when he looked closer and saw what I knew to be Grandmother’s handwriting labeling the entire page as “horse shit!”
We ended up leaving about the time we moved through the parlor, and I read on plaques how Stanley never married and instead succumbed to the consequences of his frequent visits to brothels, and no documented marriages for any of the three youngest Dashwood daughters occurred.
Georgia took over a certain abandoned modiste shop, and my grandmother, Marjorie, outlived both of my parents.
It turns out I wasn’t the biggest disappointment to the Dashwood name after all, but my heart did soar a bit when I read of Georgia’s fate. A sisterly intuition told me she ended up being happy with her choice.
“Back in the past?” Blaze asks as he crawls from the bed to pry the cup of tea from my hands, savoring a sip for himself. He then pulls me from the chair long enough to sit down himself, lowering me onto his lap and holding me there. Together, we watch the view.
“No,” I coo, kissing him on the cheek. “I am right here with you.”
Blaze squeezes my thigh, leaning into my lips, then nods with his chin towards the door. “Breakfast and then…?”
“Well, we promised Mama Star we would stay far away from Regent’s Park,” I laugh, resting my head on his chest and retrieving my cup from his big hands. “So a 2025 promenade is out of the question.”
“A walk, darling.”
“I still say my time had nicer ways of saying things.” I think of how Carter, the man Blaze says is entirely responsible for us meeting in the first place, referred to our wedding as a ‘shindig’ and punctuate my statement with my absolute best attempt at a country boy accent. “Got any chew?”
Blaze snorts, immediately making the connection between my awful imitation and his former coworker. “Nicer ways of saying things, maybe,” Blaze agrees. “But our contraception is superior, and so I win every ‘whose time is better’ argument.”
“Husband,” I whisper against his lips, teasing him with the tip of my tongue. “It is no argument at all. Have you seen these shorts?”
Blaze’s hand slips beneath the hem of my tiny sleep shorts and he smiles against my mouth. “They’re so small I need a magnifying glass to see them. What’s your point?”
He cups the inside of my thigh, scooting me backwards against him, and I gasp, trying to focus while I feel him harden against my backside. “My point is that I followed you here for a reason, and I was right.”
Blaze chuckles and with a firm kiss, he pushes me off his lap, slapping the small patch of kitten-print material, which fails to cover much of anything. “Take that cute ass of yours and go get dressed, or we won’t be leaving Charlie’s house today.”
It is a dreary late-winter day in London.
I see pieces of my past wedged between modern buildings, and the puzzle doesn’t quite fit.
As we stroll up the street, meandering to a location of Blaze’s request, I hold his hand tightly, still not accustomed to the violent whir of cars as they barrel past. Pops has tried to convince me of all the reasons cars are safer than carriages, but I still hate getting in them and I avoid them anytime I can.
“Wow,” Blaze whistles, squeezing my hand twice. “I have to admit, I am weirdly relieved they didn’t turn it into an Ace Hardware.”
I am not even sure it’s the same building, but when I read the title of the woodshop, my heart skips a beat. Augustus & Sons. “Blaze,” I say with a proud smile. “Albion gave it to Gus!”
“Let’s go in!” Blaze grins and pulls me behind him, pushing through the swinging glass door.
It is like every other hardware store I have since entered in Nebraska, which is actually more than one might expect considering who my husband and father-in-law are.
But the wooden shelving on the back wall looks original still, and to our shock, a wall behind the counter has a photo of every previous owner.
The more recent photos are clear headshots against a blue background, but as the decades of owners digress photo by photo, the quality fades, right down to a grainy black and white snapshot cut from a newspaper of a man in his thirties with a young boy at his side.
The caption reads Augustus Shaw and his son, Blaze, and my heart catches in my throat.
“I don’t think this would’ve been Gus’s life’s story if you hadn’t fanangled your way into 1813,” I whisper, hugging my husband’s arm as we stand together, looking at the grown face of the little boy who tried to rob us.
“He named his son after me—wait, is that how my name started to get popular? Am I named after myself?” My husband shifts from sad to elated and begins singing about being his own grandfather.
“What on earth could a couple of tourists need in a hardware store?” the gentleman jokes from his side of the counter, side-eyeing us as he folds brown paper bags one at a time, arranging them in a cubby.
“If you’re looking for tips on sightseeing, let me tell you, a walk through Regent’s Park is a must—”
“No!” Unanimously, Blaze and I yelp as if we’ve just had hot water spilled on our laps, and before the talkative man can offer any more life-altering recommendations, we flee the shop and make our way towards the British Museum.
Blaze and his sick sense of humor says he will ‘get a kick’ out of dragging me through a museum which currently has a ‘Regency era’ exhibit on display.
As we meander and I find myself perplexed at many of the mundane objects people flock around, I can’t help but giggle and listen to a group of teenage girls in all their wisdom and authority discuss how dreamy life in the 1800s must’ve been.
“The dresses!” one ooh’s. “I would be happier if all I had to worry about was what I would wear to a ball.”
“Life seemed easier,” another says, and my first thought is to tell them that tampons are revolutionary and birth control pills have completely empowered me.
I keep my mouth shut and let them live in their fantasy world.
I’ve seen Bridgerton now, and I am not sure I want to be the one to shatter their dreams. I had a lot to say regarding the popular series, and eventually Blaze had to tell me to shut up and enjoy the music.
I will say I was far more impressed by Pride and Prejudice.
Even then, I may very well be the authority on the topic of real love.
On that account, I’m confident in telling the teenagers that they should be careful not to disregard the men that make them laugh, or the ones who say insufferably stupid things, or even those with questionable fashion.
Their dukes and viscounts may very well come without a title, in the shape of a five-foot-something man panicking over a puddle.
As I turn away from their chatter to link arms with my handsome ‘drowned rat’, as Pops has taken to calling him.
Blaze’s entire countenance shifts, and he sucks in an excited breath, pulling me through the crowd towards a glass display titled “1800s fashion anomaly.” I simply cannot believe my eyes, and a hearty laugh bubbles in my chest as Blaze nearly shrieks in delight, “Hey! My lucky socks!”