Past Pantaloons

Dark sausage curls covered my moppet head with two jaunty bows perched securely in place. From my shoulders down, I was of another time and place. New clothing, made in an ante-bellum style, adorned my small body. I could have been any of my female ancestors from a previous century. Those little girls wore similar garments and most of them endured the horrors of war which took family members and changed lives forever. I question if any of those ante-bellum girls were abolitionists or ever imagined a life where slaves might be freed. Myriad long ago relatives resided in palatial homes, surrounded by mammoth fields. All this luxury was predicated upon the horrendous practice of enslavement.

As someone just past her sixth birthday, I dwelt upon family gatherings and school activities. My social conscience had yet to emerge and when my parents asked if I'd like to wear a costume and talk to visitors, I didn't hesitate to respond with an enthusiastic affirmation. I remember not a moment's trepidation about standing in front of strangers and talking. I'd already mastered the art of talking. I was, after all, Southern. And female. Just the combination needed to be a mini-raconteur.

For the month of March, I had a job. Paid in cold bottles of Coke and plates piled with sugar cookies that, even after the passage of more than fifty years, can still be tasted. Occasionally, a tourist, fascinated by the costumes and the grandeur of the setting, requested a photo of myself and my girlfriend, Poppy. Generally, we'd each receive twenty-five cents for these poses. Though the remittance was small, we felt richly compensated.



I'd been given the honor of 'receiving' at Mount Repose, a beautiful plantation house completed in 1824. The builder, William Bisland, situated his home on property that had been part of an original Spanish grant in the 1780's. Throughout the intervening years since its construction, the venerable old home has continued to be owned by Bisland's descendants.



Because of my scant years, finding just the appropriate assignment for me must have been a challenge. As befitted my naivete, I began 'receiving' in the nursery. This comparatively small room was conveniently located adjacent to a commodious bedroom. Perhaps a night nurse slept in the room with the children while the parents slumbered undisturbed next door.

I recall the contents of the room vividly. An adult volunteer spent time with me and assured that I could recite an informative introduction to the lovely childhood artifacts which surrounded me. I was not to deviate from the prepared address. I believe that I did. Regularly. A six-year-old gets bored repeating the same words over and over, so I improvised. Not wildly, but creatively nonetheless. There's always been fiction in my veins and sometimes it just erupts.



Poppy, my colleague pictured here, was much better behaved. I'm confident that she never deviated from her script. She also had better manners and wasn't ever reprimanded, as I was, for consuming an excess of those divine sugar cookies already lovingly described. Sweet Poppy, with the angelic voice, became a successful Julliard-trained soprano. She sang at Carnegie Hall and beyond. Her self control and determination was already evident during her tender years.

A reminiscent panorama of Mount Repose's nursery reveals a beautifully carved crib in which a vintage porcelain doll sleeps peacefully. Diminuitive chairs, perfect for small bottoms, are scattered about the space. Along one wall, there is a set of Blue Willow china, child-sized. One of my tasks was to share the fable of the Chinese lovers who were changed into birds. I don't recall the specific details of the story but I can visualize the dishes precisely. Against another wall, a nineteenth century print showed a beautiful young girl descending a staircase. Below, several of her sisters awaited her arrival. When I reached this part of the room, I shared a portion of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1860 poem, "The Children's Hour," which reads in part, "...grave Alice and laughing Allegra and Edith with golden hair...." I believe the girl descending the stairs was Edith.



The owners of Mount Repose, Dr. and Mrs. Shields, attended our church. Back in 1807, our two families became intertwined through marriage. As a matron, Mrs. Shields wore her dress sweeping the ground. Not even a hint of the pantaloons underneath emerged but you can be sure they were there. The fabric of the dress, a very dark blue, was silk and she completed her costume with a lacy cotton square crowning her silver white hair. Born just after the Civil War, she could have learned hoop skirt protocol from her mother who wore the real thing.

Younger ladies had to earn longer skirts. My first dress was tea length and rows of lacy pantaloons peeked beneath the hem. I quickly learned that sitting on hoops resulted in a painful bop on the nose. The correct etiquette involves gently lifting the sides of one's skirt, careful to grasp the hoops at the same time, and then seating yourself, encircled by the fabric and metal. I practiced curtsying endlessly and after a while, I seemed almost graceful. At least I didn't fall on my face by entangling my feet and tumbling hoop over hoop to the ground. Not once.



After about five years, I migrated to a new room. The den or office was less attractive to describe, but it represented a new challenge. I recall that a huge black safe dominated the chamber. It was studded with metal knobs and must have had an historical provenance. Each time visitors entered the room, I told the story, now long forgotten, and then proceeded to use a complex series of motions to open the safe. Even the cookies were losing their allure. My days of 'receiving' were waning.

During that same time period, my hometown hosted a movie production crew. As a lifelong film enthusiast, I relished hearing my daddy say that the laundry he owned with his brothers was responsible for washing Elizabeth Taylor's dainties. She was on location, along with Montgomery Clift, shooting scenes for the movie, "Raintree County."





The already doomed, but oh so talented, Montgomery Clift is John Wickliff Shawnessy in this overlong period piece. Elizabeth Taylor portrays Susanna Drake, the conniving Southern belle, whom Shawnessy marries. Set just before, during and after the Civil War, the story wraps family and madness with merciless mayhem. Mount Repose provided a mossy environment in which Clift's character finds a signpost for the asylum where Taylor's deranged persona has retreated.

Having never known that stage fright existed, I benefitted vastly from my 'receiving' experiences. Whenever school events or classroom assignments necessitated speaking before groups, large or small, I responded with aplomb. I was a seasoned performer and truthfully, considered myself in possession of a bit of aptitude for the craft.

As my school days dwindled, I agreed once more to get in costume and greet visitors. The venue was new but also family related. Mistletoe, built in 1807, had been constructed as a wedding gift for Peter Bisland and his bride, Barbara Foster. She was my great-great-greatgrandfather's daughter. The relatively small dwelling can be best described as a planter's house. Its dimensions seem accurate for a young couple beginning life together.



Sadly, after twenty-one years of marriage, Peter was found at the bottom of a cistern. Ill and gravely weakened, he'd wandered outside during the night, looking for water. In this pursuit, he'd fallen to his death.



Last March I visited my hometown. It hasn't changed much since my moppet days. The old houses are older still. The little girls are gone, replaced by their granddaughters. Hoopskirt finesse remains an art and correctly executed curtsies are expected. That war is so remote in the past that its relevance is questioned. Generally, citizens recognize the value of humanity, albeit the color. We are all, hopefully, past pantaloons.