The box is now on the large table in the conference room in the museum.
“Thank you”, I express to Bentley and the janitor.
The caffeine is kicking in early this morning. What a find.
Now my work begins. This is a rare opportunity.”
“Can you give us an idea as to what this is about?” Bentley asks.
“Not yet. I don’t want to speculate. We need to be sure we have a handle on what we have here, who created it, when it was created, its purpose, and the contents,” I say to the young man, feeling the need to usher him out. I extend my arm, guiding him and the janitor toward the door. “We’ll know this in short order, I assure you. This box belongs to the public, and the public deserves to know. For now, please be patient.”
Bentley and the janitor leave the room. I lock the door behind them and proceed to roll up my sleeves. This feels important, the kind of luck that comes along only once in a while.
The instructions are engraved on the outside of the box – etchings as clear as if they’d been put there two days ago.
1935.
It appears that one of the founders of Middle Valley – one of the Nutwells, possibly Judge Nutwell’s grandfather – put it there. I remember he died that year at 95.
The capsule was intended to commemorate Middle Valley’s 75th year and was to be unearthed and opened another 50 years later, in 1985. So it’s safe to say the contents are, well, old – at least since 1935, likely older.
Carefully, I remove each item from the time capsule – separating, cataloguing, making notes. The items include very old and fragile newspapers, elementary school books, small toys, small tools, a town map, two hardbound books documenting life here during slavery in the South and after emancipation. Photos tumbled out of parties along the Chickotee, all unlabeled, of citizens, houses, businesses, and activity along the muddy.
A handwritten note from Nutwell catches my eye, worn thin but legible, detailing his personal thoughts and suggestions about his vision for the future of Middle Valley.
I pick up a hardbound book and, just then, a letter falls from inside its pages, equally worn, on the same monogrammed paper – a list of liquors, amounts, and his initials on the bottom. Nutwell made his family mansion available for temporary storage of shipments from Canada, like many wealthy citizens with large homes, essentially making it a depot in the US. The smuggled liquor would then be moved by motor vehicle to various local and distant distributors, restaurants, and bars in upstate New York.
The goods were also temporarily stashed in the basement of the Riverside bar and restaurant and moved by river launch during the night.
The other Nutwell note related to slavery. Before emancipation, the Nutwell mansion was used as a stopover in the Underground Railway. Slaves often arrived surreptitiously in Middle Valley both overland and by water during the night. They were transported from there to the Nutwell mansion where they were housed for several days before moving further north. Nutwell also revealed that a number of slaves resided more or less permanently in the mansion, working in both the liquor and slave smuggling operations.
It is not clear whether these handwritten notes describing illegal smuggling activities were included in the time capsule accidentally or on purpose. Nor is it clear if local authorities knew about and ignored the activities.
“This is really exciting!”
I guess I’m officially talking to myself, which may mean it’s time to get some fresh air.
I contact Judge Paul to discuss what we should do, since I’ve all but completed my first pass through the time capsule contents.
“The time capsule contents are public property and must be made available to all,” he says. “I suggest we invite Bitsy, Bernie, Elyse, mayoral candidates Wanda and Shirley, Sheriff Paul’s replacement, the policeman who worked under Sheriff Paul, and possibly a few others.”
“I agree,” I reply,
And so the fun begins.
I go back into the conference room, my last chance to be alone with the items. How lucky am I?
Jenny Page