Legacy of Centuries

The icicles, elegant and glistening, cast prisms around the neighbor’s windows on that cold midwestern morning. Barbara Hartley stood at the kitchen sink, holding a steaming teacupful of black gourmet coffee, which she carefully budgeted to last through the dreary Wisconsin winter. The coffee was a Christmas gift from her daughter and husband and Barbara savored the rich, earthy drink as one would any sacred indulgence. Barbara stared out the window at the frozen stalactites, slowly dripping in the morning sun. She smiled, thinking of her daughter, Stacy, and her husband Todd, living in Chicago. Barbara felt relief that her daughter got out of this small town, and moved where life is vibrant, happy, and exciting.

Barbara dropped her eyes from the cold, bright window to her coffee. She did not realize she was emotional as a tear dropped into the cup. She laughed at the drama of it all and sighed, setting the teacup down. The store was to open in an hour, and she had not yet been outside to start her car. Barbara hurried to the frozen car waiting for her in the shared driveway. Old Martha, as the Ford was named by her late husband, reluctantly started under a blanket of hard frost, as the previous night was bitter cold, but cloudless and clear. Barbara allowed Old Martha to wake up in the driveway, returning inside for her coat, purse, and the packed lunch of last night’s chicken nuggets and broccoli. Barb patted her pockets, confirming the contents, and satisfied, left the house for the store, Georgina’s Chapeau Nouveau, a high-end consignment shop.

Barbara enjoyed working at Georgina’s and greeted every day with new possibility. Most of the time, students from the nearby college campus brought their own clothes to sell from a year or two before – brand name miniskirts, European sandals, and jeans that Barbara knew would be too small for ninety-eight percent of the local population. Being that Oakville was a smaller town, near a large college center, many students would stop by the store and drop off designer clothes in the spring and in the hope that they would return to a payout in the fall.

That Tuesday morning, though, would not be that type of day.

A young, bearded man, with deep ruddy cheeks and a heavy canvas Carhartt coat, dusty and worn from digging and climbing, walked into the store, the door chime announcing his arrival. “Hi…yeah. Looking for Mrs. Barbara Hartley. Is she here?” the man inquired, looking up as he removed his thread worn blue knit cap. Barbara smiled to herself, seeing a wild tuft of dark brown hair spring from under its retainer. A lot like Hank’s, Barbara remembered, as she walked towards the man with a clipboard and receipt pad. “That would be me. What can I help you with…?” He nodded. “It’s Joe. And I have a parcel for you. It’s a delivery from the Berwin Martin Glynn estate. Where do you want it?” Barbara staggered, slightly, at the announcement. “Berwin Glynn…THE mid-western lumber magnate? You have items from the Glynn estate?” Joe, feeling flushed in the warmth of the store and the need to move on to his next delivery, nodded, with slight irritation. “Ma’am. I need to know where to put the delivery. Do you have a back door?” Barbara set down the clipboard and kept pace towards the door with the man. “Yes, yes. Of course. Your truck is right out front, correct?” Joe nodded, pursing his lips. “Well, Joe. If you would pass these next two shops and make a right, then as the buildings end, turn right again down the alley. I will be waiting for you at our back door.”

Joe mumbled as he fought the tangle of hair with the thin knit cap. “Gotcha. Right…then right…then back door. See you in five.”

Barbara was stunned, thinking back to when the last Glynn descendant died, and the grounds were donated to the park service. What would be left at the Glynn Mansion that Georgina’s could sell, Barbara pondered. The store sold expensive college age clothes alongside grandmothers’ vintage camel hair coats and purses. On occasion, Georgina herself would leave the store to peruse an estate sale, finding classic odds and ends that piqued her interest. The far corner of the store was reserved for those odds and ends, whatever shape or form they would take.

Barbara propped the door open, allowing a blast of frigid air to cut into her. Standing in the doorframe, she signaled to Joe as a short, burly man smelling of Old Spice sprung out of the passenger side and waddled towards Barbara. “Ma’am. The name’s Vic. Not sure how much Joe here told you…” Barbara and Vic stood near the doorway as Joe rolled the truck door up. It was stacked almost full. Barbara felt sick. She wanted to take it all, but there clearly would not be room for all the items. “Vic. I’m not sure we can take all this…” Her voice trailed off as Vic caught a laugh. “Ah, no. All this is going to an antiquities dealer in Chicago. Some high fa-lootin’ shop.” Vic laughed again and Barbara smiled with him. “Nope. This is the item we were to deliver to you.”

Joe jumped up onto the truck and went in, struggling to bring forward a stout piece of furniture, four feet high, three drawers down. Vic nodded in approval and began to scribble in the delivery notebook, satisfied with the presentation of the deep mahogany end table. Setting the piece on the truck lift, Joe held it with one hand as he grabbed a lever and eased the item down to ground level. “One…two…three…” Joe and Vic picked the table up by their fingertips and quickly carried it into the back room. Joe nodded at Barb while motioning towards the paperwork Barb held in her hand. “Vic will settle up with you. Have a good day, Mrs. Hartley.” Joe bolted out the door, maneuvered the lever and lift back into place, secured the delivery door, and disappeared into the cab of the truck.

Barb and Vic both stared at the dervish in the driver’s seat. “You are Mrs. Barbara Hartley?” Vic inquired, returning to the cause at hand. Barb softened her surprised look and nodded. Vic grinned in satisfaction. “…Perfect. This delivery is for you. Please sign here.” Barb scanned worker’s notes, mystified. 1846 mahogany and Rosewood end table, three drawers. Mrs. Henry (Barbara) Hartley. “Vic. I really don’t understand what this is about.” Vic placed an un-gloved hand on hers, to calm her wringing. “Barbara. Someone believed you were the right person to get it. There is a black book in a drawer. That may give you the answers.”

Barbara shook her head as she signed the delivery order, still baffled at the item in front of her. Closing the door to shut out the bright, bitter morning, Barb stood staring at the end table. As if jolted out of a trance, she pulled at the drawers, looking for the book. The bottom drawer felt heavy as she tugged at the knob. An aged black leather-bound notebook appeared, just as Vic assured her. Taking the notebook from the drawer, she opened it to the first page and read the inscription:

This notebook begins its journey in the year of Our Lord, seventeen hundred seventy-five. I, Marian Duncan Dupree, pass $3000 to my next sister in business. I have achieved my goal of owning my own general store in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. I entrust and entreat my inheritor to continue this good will and faith in our sex, fund her dreams and goals, and promote the unending success of our sisterhood.

Staring at the words fund her dreams and goals, Barbara was stunned by the gravity of the statement. What were her dreams and goals? Moreover, how, and why did this book end with her? Barbara paged through the entries, overwhelmed with the history and projection of those women inscribed on the pages.

The women were from all over the world. An entry from a Mrs. Hiram Baxtony in England was dated 1824. Widowed with four children, she started her own millinery shop and grew it to three locations. The funds were then bequeathed in 1846 to Louise Brouillette, a young woman in Paris who opened a patisserie shop. Barbara smiled proudly at her fore sister while reading the side note, Pour la meilleur croissants, aller chez Brouillette!

More dates and more names filled the pages as Barbara’s eyes welled with tears. This was more than history. It was women who thought enough of themselves and others that they would share fortunes with the future.

Barbara’s eyes widened and her breath slowed as she read the last page’s entry. Mrs. Louise Coash Hoffner, archaeologist, researcher, antiquities collector. I bequeath my fore sisters’ inheritance to Barbara Rimer, having a soul for adventure with an unconquerable spirit. Live well, lil mighty.

My Aunt Lou, who has been gone since I was nine? Barbara said out loud, to an empty stock room. Feeling the gravity of the moment, she slumped against the counter, giving her view of the empty drawer. Seeing the faded red velvet wrinkle towards the center, Barbara nudged at the ridges. Her stomach dropped as she grabbed the drawer and set it on the nearby counter, seeing the wrinkles shift. Carefully, she picked at the corner and pulled away the velvet. A small, heavy wooden box was sitting securely in the hidden section. Barbara opened it, finding stacks of aged five-hundred-dollar bills and a letter on aged legal paper.

Lil mighty,

I am relieved this book found you. As you have read, the legacy of this money goes back centuries, through the lineage of strong women, such as yourself. While there are no defined rules of how you spend it, you must continue to bequeath the same value to a worthy heir. The original amount in 1775 was $3100 or $20,000. As I write this in 1974, we have seen money fluctuate wildly. When working out the new recipient, make sure she will receive roughly $20,000 as Mrs. Dupree intended.

Dream big, Barbara. This is your story and our legacy.

Aunt Lou

Staring at the letter and then the book and then the money, thoughts began to crystalize in Barbara’s mind. For her, it was not the money that allowed her mind to wander into the exciting unknown, but the acknowledgement of the courageous women from centuries before her that began to carve out the future.

Feeling like she just got the keys to the kingdom, she greeted Georgina at the front door. Georgina stood in the doorway, eyebrows furrowed, as she watched Barbara put on her coat, “Ok Barb. What’s going on?” Barbara beamed as she gave her boss a hug. “All is well, Georgina. I’m not sure where I’m headed but I will send you a postcard when I get there.” Barbara opened the door and walked into the unknown- and she couldn’t wait.