by Karen Kelly
“That gives us plenty of time to look around,” Peggy said to Annie as she unfolded her brochure. “Where should we start?” After sitting more than two hours in Mary Beth’s SUV, Peggy was ready for some movement. By this time of day at The Cup & Saucer she would have already walked miles.
“Every artist or craftswoman finds her inspirations in different ways,” Stella observed. “I should think it would be best to allow each person to go wherever she will and then meet back at an appointed time.”
Mary Beth consulted her watch. “It’s almost eleven. How about we meet back here at one o’clock, and then we can go grab a bite to eat before coming back for Annie’s discussion with the curators?” With nods and murmurs of agreement, the members of the Hook and Needle Club spread out, a crafty SWAT team tracking down inspirations.
6
Two hours later, the seven women gathered together again with over-stimulated brains and empty stomachs. The brisk walk to Galyn’s Restaurant was rejuvenating and influenced the unanimous decision to eat lunch on the porch overlooking Frenchman Bay rather than in the dining room. After ordering drinks and sustenance as met each woman’s fancy, they settled back in their chairs to enjoy the breeze and the sounds of seabirds, water, and boats of every imaginable type coming and going on the bay.
“Does anyone else feel even more the weight of responsibility to do our theme justice now that we’ve spent these past hours at the museum?” asked Alice.
Peggy nodded. “I sure do. This project is much more serious than making a quilt for Emily. It’s hard to go wrong with that; I just have to make sure there are lots of pink and purple in it.” Her left hand with its lobster-tipped fingers toyed with the sweetener packets, lifting each color separately as though she was taking inventory for restocking. “But I saw quite a few things that gave me ideas … as long as I don’t mess them up.”
“Peggy, you’ve been quilting for some time now,” said Mary Beth. “I’ve seen your work. I know you’ll create something that will do justice to the theme.”
“It’s hard to argue with you, Mary Beth, since it’s your project. But I sure hope you’re right.” Peggy’s hand moved on to straightening the other condiments.
“I definitely know now that there is so much I don’t know,” asserted Annie. She paused and smiled at the waiter as he placed a cup of tea before her, setting a miniature pewter pitcher of milk beside it, and made his way around the table delivering the other drinks.
After he disappeared into the indoor dining room, she turned to Stella. “I can’t thank you enough for suggesting this museum visit, Stella. The exhibits and museum shop filled me with ideas.” Stella nodded and gently smiled, acknowledging Annie’s thanks. “But how to narrow all the possibilities into one piece!” Annie exclaimed.
“Did anyone find something you definitely want to use in your work?” asked Alice.
“As Annie said, there are so many intriguing and beautiful options.” Kate’s voice was soft as usual, but enthusiasm bubbled in it. “I was inspired by the tree cutout on the museum’s sign, and after reading about the importance of the ash and other trees to the Maine tribes, I think I’m going to use a tree design. Perhaps in a shawl.”
Gwen sipped her water with lemon. “Annie, did you see the birch-bark handkerchief box? The style of etching is quite similar to your box.”
“Yes! I wrote some notes on that.” Annie rummaged through her purse for the small notebook she always kept with her. Flipping through the pages she came to her museum notes. “Ah, here it is. ‘The handkerchief box was made by a Passamaquoddy man named Tomah Joseph around 1900,’” Annie read. “So, maybe my box was made by a Passamaquoddy artist. But I think other Maine tribes also made things with etched birch bark. I hope the curator will be able to narrow it down. Did you see that basket with the rose made from porcupine quills? I can’t imagine that’s as easy to do as crochet!”
“It looked like fine embroidery!” said Alice. “I’d love to do something with that kind of look, but I don’t think cross-stitch is the right medium. But there was a chair that had decorative panels with quillwork too, and the pattern would fit cross-stitch perfectly. I might use those panels for my inspiration.”
“It sounds like our road trip has done its job,” declared Mary Beth. “With the history we’ve learned, and various items we’ve seen, this year’s Harvest on the Harbor project is sure to be interesting—and profitable for the Thanksgiving Turkey Giveaway.” The sound of the door opening onto the porch caught her attention, and Mary Beth glanced over her shoulder. “I think it’s time for us to enjoy our lunch!” Nearby, the waiter opened up a tray table with one hand and placed the large tray of food on top.
The conversation changed direction and slowed down considerably as the women focused attention on their lunch choices. Lobster bisque, chicken focaccia, spinach salad, crab cakes, and quiche all disappeared in good time, as did a round of blueberry-apple crisp. Satisfied and revived, by two o’clock they returned to the Abbe Museum.
Checking with Rose again at the information desk, Annie was directed to the office of Kezi Vance, curator of collections. Tucked in a corner of the lower-level hallway dominated by the Abbe’s archaeology lab, the curator’s door was open. A woman with dark, medium-length layered hair sat behind a cluttered desk, her right cheek resting in her right hand as she concentrated on the chunky catalog that had won her immediate attention.
Annie lightly knocked on the door frame. “Excuse me, are you Ms. Vance?”
The woman’s head shot up like a guilty daydreamer in elementary school. But her eyes, which reminded Annie of Alice’s molasses crinkle cookies, were merry rather than ashamed. Bounding up out of her chair, she extended her hand to Annie.
“Oh, please, do call me Kezi. How may I help you?”
“I’m Annie Dawson. I have inherited a house from my grandmother, Betsy Holden, and I found some items in the attic that have me very curious. I’ve brought several photos and am hoping you might be able to give me some information on them.”
“Betsy Holden?” The curator peered at Annie a little more closely. “The ‘Betsy Original’ Betsy Holden?”
No matter how many times Annie heard similar reactions to Gram’s name, it never failed to startle her. Her smiled deepened. “Yes, that Betsy Holden.”
“Her landscapes are some of the finest in fiber arts I’ve ever seen. And she did such a service to the whole state in starting the New England Stitch Club. We have a chapter right here in Bar Harbor.” Kezi waved her hand toward a leather-upholstered captain’s chair in front of the desk. “Please, sit down.”
“Thank you. Along with being creative and loving, Gram was also quite a collector, and her attic overflows with enough random objects to fill a merchant ship. Last week, as I was doing some organizing, I found three items that have me puzzled as to their origins.” Annie reached into her purse, drawing out the photos. First, she handed over the photos of the birch-bark box. “During my childhood and teen years, I spent summers at Gram’s house, but I don’t remember seeing this. It’s beautiful.”
Kezi nodded as she looked over the photos. “Have you looked at our exhibits yet?”
“Yes, our Hook and Needle Club came this morning to look for inspirations for projects we’re working on for our town’s Harvest celebration. Among the many astounding pieces, I saw a handkerchief box that had a similar style of construction, from what I could see. I wondered if it was made around the same period as Gram’s or if Gram’s box is a reproduction.”
“It would be easier to make a definite call, if I could see the actual box.” Kezi reached into the top drawer of her desk and took out a magnifying glass. Passing it slowly over the photos, she continued, “There are subtle variations of color and often definite progressions in patterns of decoration between birch-bark items from the past, and from reproductions or more contemporary designs, reflecting cultural change.”
She reached behind her where a long but squat bookshelf cover
ed the wall below her office window. Taking a binder from the top shelf, she flipped through the plastic-sleeved pages. When she found the pages she was looking for, she handed the notebook to Annie. “That page shows the handkerchief box you mentioned. It was made around the year 1900. You can see that the craftsman created a traditional American Indian—particularly Passamaquoddy—camp scene on the lid, and along the sides, depicted things that were important to the Passamaquoddy life: canoes, animals, plants. Now turn to page fifty-six.”
Annie found the page. It contained a birch-bark box that was round like the one she had found in her attic. “The color of this box looks lighter,” she said. Kezi smiled, encouraging her to continue. “And although it has a fish carved into the lid, it almost looks more like a modern logo, when compared to the handkerchief box. But it’s so striking!”
“Both of the boxes were made by Passamaquoddy artists, but one was made in 2007 and one more than a hundred years before. Which of the two looks more like the box you found?”
“Oh, definitely, the handkerchief box.”
“I agree. Again, I could make a more positive identification if I had the box here. But I’m pretty confident that what you have found is a Passamaquoddy birch-bark box made sometime before or at the turn of the twentieth century. And it looks like it’s in gorgeous condition.”
“Inside the box I found two more things. This is one.” Annie extended the photos of the beadwork across the desk.
Kezi’s molasses-crinkle eyes widened in delight, and her mouth puckered to let out a soft whistle. “Wow. And I thought the box was a wonderful find for an attic. This is truly an amazing treasure, Annie.”
“What is it exactly?” Annie leaned forward in anticipation.
“From these photos, it would seem that you have possession of a regalia collar. Such collars were worn only during very special tribal gatherings.”
“Which tribe do you think it might have come from?”
“Several tribes in Maine and New England were master beadworkers. Those in the Micmac and Maliseet tribes used their beadwork not only for personal items but also for the non-native markets. They made beaded tea cozies, watch pockets, purses, and other things for which they found buyers.”
“So it’s possible that my grandparents bought the collar from an art show or market?” Annie tried to ignore the seed of disappointment sprouting inside her.
“That could be possible, but there’s another scenario I think might be more likely.” Kezi pulled another binder off the shelf. She selected a page and propped it open on the desk at an angle so that both she and Annie could see. On the page was a photo of an American Indian woman wearing a beaded collar, as well as a beaded hat with a wide brim and several long necklaces. The facing page showed a man with a feather headdress and wide collar with complex beading draped over his shoulders. “This woman was of the Passamaquoddy tribe. The man was a Penobscot chief. Unlike the Micmac and Maliseet tribes, the Passamaquoddy and Penobscot generally only used their beadwork for personal regalia items. Each person developed their own regalia designs, and they were very special personal items that were generally kept within each family, passed down from generation to generation.”
“Can you tell which tribe this collar was from?” Annie asked.
“The color choices, shape and width of the collar fits very well with many of the Passamaquoddy collars I have seen, including the one in this binder. I would say the fact that it was kept in a Passamaquoddy box is instructive as to its origins, except you don’t know how the box came to be in your possession.” She gathered Annie’s photos together in a stack and passed them to their owner across the desk. “If you feel comfortable about it, I’d love for you to bring the items in one day for me to take a closer look at them. But I have some confidence that the collar is of Passamaquoddy heritage, as is the box.” Kezi slipped the two binders back in their places on the shelf.
“Thank you for your time and help,” Annie said as she stood to leave. “I don’t know why Gram had these gems hiding in her attic, but I’m going to try to find out.”
“When you’ve solved the mystery, please let me know what you found.” The phone on Kezi’s desk began to beep. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to answer this.”
Annie nodded and waved her final thanks. As she walked down the hall, she could hear Kezi saying, “Kezi Vance, how may I help you?” No sooner had Annie stepped through the door into the front hall, her friends surrounded her.
“Did the curator help?” Alice asked.
“What did she tell you?” Peggy chimed in at the same time. Gwen and Stella looked at each other as though they were being indulgent with young children, but Annie knew they were just as interested as the others.
“Let’s go out into the courtyard,” Annie suggested, not wanting to disturb the other museum visitors. Once out in the fresh air, Annie revealed what she had learned from the curator.
“A Passamaquoddy regalia collar,” Peggy said. “What in the world would Betsy be doing with one of those?” Her bangs shifted across her eyes as she shook her head in wonder.
“And neither she nor Charlie ever mentioned any American Indian heritage to you. That does seem quite mysterious,” said Kate.
“Did the curator have any information on the poem you found?” asked Stella.
“I never had the chance to show her the poem,” Annie admitted. “We were caught up in the other two things, and then she had to answer a phone call. But I think I’ll be paying a visit to the Stony Point Library tomorrow to see if I can find anything out about the poem.”
“This was the best Hook and Needle Club road trip ever,” Alice declared. “We found tons of ideas and another mystery!” The other members all agreed. Even Annie.
7
Annie strode up the steps of the Stony Point Library, grateful that the uncertain economy had not resulted in hours being trimmed off the community mainstay. Patting a pillar as she passed, she wondered how she would have concentrated on anything else if the library had not opened first thing in the morning. So many community libraries in Maine were having to trim time or days from their weekly operations.
I need to send some notes of appreciation to Ian and the town commissioners for their hard work on the budget, she thought. How they’ve managed to keep the library salaries and expenses the same is a miracle of management. Annie pulled open the glass door. Note-writing would have to wait. Today was to be devoted to the mystery of the poem.
Even at the end of summer, when it might be expected that folks would be spending as much time as they could on the water or beach, or that teens would be sleeping late before school started up again the following week, the Great Room had an air of quiet occupation. An interesting mix of patrons draped across chairs reading magazines or with books spread before them on the oval tables. But Annie was confident she would be able to snag a computer in the Reference Room after looking through the poetry books the library had in circulation.
Annie tracked down an empty computer devoted to searching the library’s collection. Clicking on the “Search by Topic” button, she typed “Passamaquoddy poetry” into the box and clicked “Search.” A long list scrolled down the page. Excitement began to stir until she took a closer look at the items on the list. Starting with “passing,” the list included passion, Passover, pasta, and pastel, among others. Not one Passamaquoddy.
Maybe I’m being too specific. Annie thought as she went back to the search box and typed “American Indians poetry.” This time “first words” topped the list, followed by fiscal policy, fish, fish as food, fisheries, and Fishers, as in Jonathan Fishers. With an entire page filled with fiction and nonfiction dedicated to fisheries alone, it wasn’t hard to deduce the importance of marine resources to the state of Maine. But it wasn’t helping solve this mystery. Annie glanced around to make sure another patron didn’t need the online catalog. Other than some young children scampering toward the Children’s Room with their mothers frantically whispering f
or them to slow down, everyone else seemed to have found what they were looking for or were quietly perusing the rows of books in the stacks.
Annie thought back to the conversation she had had with her friends the day before as they described their education about Maine’s American Indian tribes. Her fingers tapped on the keyboard again. “Maine Indians.” This time the list showed four individual nonfiction books. Two were pamphlets from the early 1900s, one entitled “The Problem of the Red-Paint People” and the other, “Indian Tribes of Maine.” The Penobscot appeared to be the only book the library held on local American Indians. Although there was nothing in the listing to indicate the book explored the subject of American Indian poetry, Annie jotted down the call number. An advanced search reaped only repeated harvests of “unable to find results based on criteria.”
She had been sitting long enough. Annie found the book on the Penobscot tribe, double-checked where in the Dewey decimal sections poetry was located, and dove back into the stacks. Longfellow, Edna St. Vincent Millay, May Sarton leaned against Frost, Hughes, and other names Annie didn’t recognize. Determined not to miss a single poetry book, she stooped and tilted her head to read every spine, pulling out any book with the remote possibility of containing the poem she was seeking. She felt like a swimmer draining water out of her ear.
Nothing.
Time to search the Web, Annie thought as she gathered her things and walked through the arch to the Reference Room. Though the room had filled considerably while Annie searched the stacks, one of the many computers was still free. Smiling at the few people who looked up as she walked by, Annie settled in at the computer and clicked on the Internet icon. Accessing Google, she typed in the words of the first line of the poem: “sister otter water dancing.” While the search engine proclaimed “about 280,000 results,” those results were not helpful. From many mentions of a children’s television show, PB&J Otter, to animal profiles from naturalists to adult monikers for social-networking websites she didn’t recognize, Annie scanned pages and pages. She typed in other lines from her copy, but the poem was not to be found.
