Upside Down in a Laura Ingalls Town

by Leslie Tall Manning

  “Put on your dress and apron before helping your sister get settled,” Martha said. “I’ll be right back.”

  She left the room.

  I put on my dress which buttoned up the front, and then I tied my apron in the back. I helped my sister get into her things.

  “You still happy about being a movie star?” I asked as she sat on the edge of the bed. She didn’t answer. I laced up her shoes, pulling them tightly like Martha had shown me.

  “Ouch! You’re hurting me.”

  “Then stop fidgeting.”

  Martha came back into the room. With a comb, she showed us how to part our hair in the middle and pull the sides into weird doughnuts above our ears. We clipped them back with metal hair pins. We both looked like Princess Leia from Star Wars. If they let us keep these costumes after the venture was over, and I decided not to burn them, maybe I would wear mine to a Halloween party.

  Halloween made me think of pumpkins. And pumpkins made me think of fall. And fall made me think of summer. And suddenly I was crying.

  “If you don’t want to do this,” Martha said, placing the yellow bonnet on my head and tying it in a bow to the right of my chin, “then why are you?”

  Rebecca Lynn spoke for me. “Daddy wants her to learn things.”

  “Well,” Martha said, wiping one of my wet cheeks with her thumb. “Brooke isn’t the only one who’s going to learn things.”

  “What’ll we do for fun?” my sister asked.

  “You might play games in the evening after dinner, or in the morning before chores.”

  “We can play on Sundays,” Rebecca Lynn said.

  “Sundays where you’re going are for church and socials.”

  “Sundays back home are for sleeping in,” I said through a stuffy nose.

  Martha handed me a white handkerchief and I dried my eyes. When I tried to give it back, she said, “Tuck it up your sleeve in case you need it again.”

  With our bonnets tied correctly, and uncomfortably, I will add, Rebecca Lynn and I stood side by side in front of the mirror. She squealed and clapped her hands. But I was silent. The yellow bonnet threw a shadow across the top half of my face and gave my eyes dark circles underneath. Pimples on my chin that had been carefully hidden by Maybelline were now visible. And the light freckles I had camouflaged for the last two years were suddenly right there for the whole world to see. I turned away from my ghastly reflection, sickened by the ugly girl in the mirror.

  No wonder 1800’s women didn’t own mirrors, I thought.

  In the living room, we waited for Dad. When he stepped into the room, everyone, even Martha, laughed.

  My dad had turned into an overgrown Tom Sawyer. He wore a white collarless long-sleeved shirt, a pair of high-waisted brown wool pants tucked into tall leather boots, brown suspenders holding up his pants, and a brown hat with a round top and a wide brim. All he needed was a piece of straw hanging from his lip.

  “You’re totally going to miss your Dockers,” I told him, shaking my head.

  “Look, Daddy,” Rebecca Lynn said. “I’m Laura Ingalls.”

  She spun around once, then looked down at her footwear. “My new shoes hurt,” she said in her baby voice, pouting.

  “Maybe she has them on the wrong feet,” I suggested.

  “These shoes aren’t made for left or right,” Martha said. “You can wear them on either foot.”

  “You’ll get used to them, honey,” Dad told her.

  Martha said, “Please, everyone, sit down.”

  As we sat on the sofa, she went to a desk in the corner. She picked up a piece of yellowed paper with a circle of red wax sealing it shut, and handed it to my dad.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  Bug said, “Your new life.”

  Dad held up the letter. “Check out this beautiful handwriting.”

  I stared at the tall thin loops, the fancy waves, and hooks between letters.

  He read:

  “‘Dear Decker Family: Welcome to your 1861 venture. The period-style clothes you are wearing have been hand sewn. Take care of your clothes, as each of you will start out with only one set. You will also be given a one-month supply of canned goods, preserves, and—’”

  “One month?” I asked. “That’s not enough food.”

  “We’re not going to have enough food?” Rebecca Lynn asked.

  “Of course we will,” Dad said. “The producers would never let us starve. This is a venture.”

  “Or a scientific experiment,” I said, fighting hard not to make a rat’s face and suck on my teeth like a rodent, just to prove my point.

  “A venture,” Dad said again, holding up the letter. He continued:

  ‘“Your family’s background is as follows: You are relocating from New Bern to a town in the backcountry called Sweet Sugar Gap. Yellow Fever has been spreading rapidly through your port town, and your father feels this is a safer place to raise a family. You have thirty dollars left after the purchase of your new homestead.’”

  “Thirty dollars?” I asked.

  Bug said, “Money back then didn’t spend the same as today.”

  “‘This allotment will be spent judiciously. Your homestead sits on nearly one hundred acres of land, most of it forest, three acres fertile, which you may cultivate any way you wish. Your family will receive upon entering the township a solidly built house, complete with outbuildings and a nearby creek.

  “‘This era takes place at the start of the Civil War. You may see or hear things pertaining to this time in history, and are asked to respond accordingly. Under no circumstance is any member of the Decker Family allowed to break character or bring contraband into Sweet Sugar Gap. This includes, but is not limited to, all tech gadgets, check books, credit cards, modern currency, modern clothing, jewelry, weapons, soaps, toothpaste, toothbrushes, shampoos, lotions, cosmetics, or anything found in the modern world not invented yet, or was not a common item found in the mid-1800’s backcountry. The truer you are to the era, the better this venture will be for everyone involved. We want our audience to experience the wonders of the mid-nineteenth century right along with you, and we want your time to be one of discovery, education, and excitement.

  “‘We wish your family safe travels as you journey back in time. Sincerely, The Producers and Staff of Upside Down in a Laura Ingalls Town.’”

  Dad placed the letter on the table. “We’ll do exactly as our ancestors did, and exactly as the producers want.”

  “I don’t have a clue what they want,” I mumbled.

  “I don’t like my shoes,” Rebecca Lynn said. “And my socks itch.”

  “I can barely see with this yellow sack on my head,” I added.

  “Enough complaining,” Dad said. “Martha, Bug, thank you for everything. We owe a lot to you for helping us get ready for our new life.”

  But I knew something that Bug, Martha, Dad, and Rebecca Lynn obviously did not know: No matter how much training I got, no matter how much they forced me into looking the part, I would never be ready.

  CHAPTER NINE

  At nine o’clock that morning, a car horn beeped outside. Rusty and his camera followed us as we stepped onto Martha’s porch. In an instant, thoughts of my diminished peripheral vision, overly tight shoes, and lack of underwear disappeared. In the gravel driveway sat a large black SUV with dark tinted windows, straight out of MIB or Mission Impossible. But it wasn’t the SUV that made me anxious. It was the horse and wagon parked behind it.

  Burt Novak the producer and Carl the skinny cameraman with the goatee stood in front of the SUV. I nearly laughed at Novak’s tailored suit and thousand-dollar tie as he stood only inches from cow dung in his Italian leather shoes.

  At the helm of the honey-colored wagon sat a man wearing a cowboy hat and boots. Rusty stepped off the porch and walked over to Carl. They shook hands like old college buds and stood by the wagon discussing the best camera angles and other tech junk.

  Cowboy jumped down from the wagon and fol
lowed Novak to where the three of us stood by the porch.

  “Amazing,” Novak said, as his eyes moved from bonnets to shoes to suspenders. He introduced us to the cowboy. “This is Pete Lowry, one of the show’s consultants.”

  Cowboy Pete shook Dad’s hand. “You all look just like a mid-1800’s family.”

  “But we aren’t,” I said loudly. “Not really.”

  Novak said, “But you will pretend to be.”

  “But still, we won’t be.”

  Novak lost his grin and took a step toward me, barely missing the cow patty. He said, “The second you get to Sweet Sugar Gap you will no longer be a girl of today. Everything you do, everything you eat, everything you say will be monitored.”

  His grin came back just as quickly, like we’d just won a trip to Cancun, complete with umbrellas in our drinks. “This is where your venture begins. Carl and Rusty will be with you from six a.m. to at least eight p.m. every day. There will be other camera people stationed throughout the town, but these two you will get to know best.” He rubbed his hands together like it was the coolest thing in the world to be stalked by paparazzi fourteen hours a day.

  “Why don’t y’all follow me to the wagon?” Cowboy Pete said.

  “Where’s the cover?” I asked as we walked down the gravelly driveway. I remembered pictures from our history books of the famous covered wagons used during the Westward Expansion, back when pioneers thought it would be romantic to move to a place as foreign as Hogsmeade Village.

  “Since you’ll only be traveling short distances, you’ll be using a smaller uncovered wagon. This is known as a farm ranch wagon.”

  The two-wheeled open cart had a high seat up front just behind the stocky white horse. The seat, I noticed, was short in length. I wondered if Dad and Rebecca Lynn and I could all fit on that bench at the same time. I moved my hand along the side of the wagon. The wooden wheels were taller than me. I pictured Rebecca Lynn accidentally getting her skirt caught under one of those wheels, and I moved to stand beside her. Dad inspected the packages piled in the back, almost to the brim. When he was through, he walked to the front of the wagon and rubbed his hand along the horse’s neck. She snorted and shook her head up and down.

  “What’s her name?” Dad asked.

  “Willow,” Pete said. “A strong mare. She knows me better than anyone, so I will be coming along for the ride to teach you the ins and outs of buckboard riding. Want to make sure you can handle her.”

  “Where will we sit?” Rebecca Lynn asked, staring at the seat built for two.

  “You won’t be sitting,” Pete said. “You’ll be walking.”

  “Walking?”

  I could feel Carl’s camera zooming in on my poor sister’s face. Rebecca Lynn reached for my hand, and I let her.

  Cowboy Pete said, “Should only take a few hours. Lots of families took weeks, even months, to hike all the way to their new homes.”

  Dad climbed onto the wagon and took a spot on the seat, which bounced up and down under his weight. “This is awesome,” he said, peering out from underneath his wide hat.

  Bug and Martha dug through the back of the cart, examining the jars and bags and boxes. Martha took my sanitary pads and belt wrapped in a piece of clean linen and put them into a wooden box. She opened up a tin box with “Wilmington Black Tea” printed on the side, took a deep whiff, and shut the lid. Then Bug held up a small box. Across the top were the letters “AAA.”

  “I don’t think these batteries are supposed to be here.”

  Novak grabbed the box and tossed it into the SUV.

  While Bug and Martha continued to go through our provisions, Rebecca Lynn said, “I need to use the bathroom before we go.”

  I followed her into the house for one last visit to the porcelain god. I let her go first. She spoke to me from the other side of the closed door while she tinkled.

  “Do you think Daddy will let me ride in the wagon if I get tired?”

  “Maybe…”

  “What if I get blisters? What if they pop?”

  “I don’t know…”

  I wasn’t really paying attention. I was busy digging out my contraband from the bottom of my paper bag. I stuck my iPod deep in my apron pocket. Next, I dug my eyebrow ring from my jeans pocket and dropped it next to the iPod. I dove back into the bag and pulled out a select group of makeup containers. As soon as Rebecca Lynn came out of the bathroom, I headed in. I locked the door behind me, went to the vanity, and laid the containers in the sink. If I was going to have a camera zooming in on my face, I needed to give the audience a reason to tune in. First, I put tiny dabs of liquid base on my pimples. Next, I took the black eyeliner and outlined my eyes. I was already feeling normal. I ran the mascara brush over my lashes. After a little blush, I touched the hole where my eyebrow hoop used to be, and frowned. Wearing the hoop ring would be overkill, so I left it buried in my pocket. Next, I unbuttoned my dress at the top, pulled the sleeves down around my shoulders—shoulders that would miss an entire summer of sunbathing—and tucked the tiny makeup tubes and containers into the narrow spaces of my corset. Totally uncomfortable, but well worth the suffering.

  When I came out of the bathroom, I stopped one last time in front of the full-length mirror. I could see Rebecca Lynn behind me, sitting on the rocking chair, hugging her stuffed dolphin. As I retied my bonnet, I heard her sniffle.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, eyeing my reflection.

  I knew what was wrong. She was starting to understand what I’d known all along: Dressing up like Laura Ingalls is only fun when you’re going to a Halloween party or singing in a western musical.

  “Tell Daddy I changed my mind,” she said.

  “He signed a contract.”

  “I don’t care. Go tell him we don’t want to do it.” She put Snappy up against her face.

  As much as Rebecca Lynn got on my nerves, I did not like to see her cry.

  “Just pretend we’re playing dress up,” I told her, turning away from the mirror. “You like dress up.”

  She lowered Snappy to her lap. “What if my feet get sore?”

  “I’ll tell Dad to let you sit in the wagon.”

  “You will?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay,” she said, drying her eyes.

  “Drop Snappy in here,” I told her, feeling like Harriet the Hypocrite, holding out the brown bag like one of the show’s producers. “Take Martha’s doll instead.”

  Rebecca Lynn looked at the doll sitting against the bed pillow. The eyes were made of brown stitched X’s, and the mouth was a black button. The only way you could tell it was a girl was by the dress and bonnet.

  “She’s ugly,” Rebecca Lynn said.

  She looks just like us.

  “Take it anyway. It might be the only toy you have for the next four months.”

  My sister dropped the stuffed dolphin into the bag headfirst, and I folded the edge before placing it on the floor by the bed. Then she grabbed the doll by the yellow yarn-hair sticking out from the bonnet and left the room. I followed.

  Martha stood in the kitchen as I passed through.

  “These are for your lunch,” she said, handing me two burlap sacks. “One is fried chicken. The other is filled with peaches and sweet breads for—”

  She took my chin in her hand. I felt like I’d just been caught smoking weed on the high school catwalk.

  “Might take you a while to understand, child, but that stuff on your face won’t be nearly as important as you think.”

  I pulled away from her and hurried through the door.

  A short man wearing a baggy black suit and bowtie was standing near the wagon. On a nearby table sat a large suitcase. Next to the suitcase sat a wooden box. When he opened up the box, it turned into an accordion with a brass and glass lens in the middle.

  “Photo time,” Novak said. “It may take a little while to get a good picture, but you’ll get to see it before you leave.”

  For nearly twenty minutes we stoo
d as still as possums in front of the wagon as the man fiddled with the freaky camera. The sun caused me to squint even with the bonnet, sweat poured down the back of my legs, and my corset rubbed my ribs until I started to feel like a piece of tenderized pork.

  The photo was grayish brown like it had been taken a hundred years ago. I was impressed with how perfectly the talented photographer captured my scowl.

  After the photo session, Rebecca Lynn and I waited as Pete showed Dad how to handle the reins. Soon we were on our way, waving goodbye to Martha and Bug in their faded jeans and Mr. Big Time Producer in his overly pressed suit as they watched us head down the gravel driveway. Rebecca Lynn and I trudged behind the wagon as it started out along the dirt trail leading to the green hills beyond, and the mystery town known as Sweet Sugar Gap.

  It wasn’t until twenty minutes into the trek, tall trees sprawled out on either side of the road and Martha’s farm like a speck of dust behind us, that I realized I had forgotten to use the toilet one last time.

  I sighed.

  At least my face looks good for the camera, I thought as I held in my pee.

  CHAPTER TEN

  We hiked alongside the slower-than-molasses wagon for what felt like days. My calf muscles contracted with every step, and my heels felt bruised. The mid-May humidity seemed heavier than usual, especially with the layered clothing. I kept swatting at bugs that dipped inside the shade of my bonnet like it was a hole in a tree. Rebecca Lynn swatted the air in front of her face, too.

  We weren’t the only ones walking. Carl and Rusty walked along with us, only they had to carry their cameras.

  “Why didn’t you ride in a car?” I asked Carl.

  “We get better shots this way. More personal.”

  “We’re not supposed to talk to the participants,” Rusty told Carl.

  “Sorry, Brooke,” Carl said. “Pretend we aren’t here.”

  “For four months?”

  Carl didn’t answer.

  “What do you think our house will look like?” Rebecca Lynn asked me.

  “I don’t know.”