Daria on the Trail
Chapter 54: Beadwork A
Disclaimer: This crossover story is a western based on an idea by Ultimate Paladin. A Song of Ice and Fire was written by George RR Martin. Daria was created by Glen Eichler. I own neither property. A Song of Ice and Fire is the property of George RR Martin and Daria is owned by MTV Viacom. I seek no financial recompense for this story but I welcome reviews.
This story is based on my personal research regarding the Oregon Trail, not on the video game of the same name.
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The Lander Road: West of present-day Big Piney, Wyoming. July, 1860
An axle broke on one of the Johnson Company's wagons the next day. We and the Johnson Company were still traveling together, so Captain Trout ordered our wagons to come to a stop while Mr. Ruffin and his friends set about replacing their broken axle.
I suppose that if this was a movie or television series, the director or scriptwriter would have given most of the company some free time to get involved with romance and other things while the guys fixed up the Ruffin's ride. Since this was real life on the Trail in 1860, not Hollywood, and since I was female, I knew what this really meant: I was going to be doing laundry. So I tagged along with Susanna, Kara and Jilla Trout down to the banks of the North Piney Creek to do some wash.
When we got to the stream we learned that we ladies of the Fish Company weren't the only ones who decided that it was Wash Day: so did the ladies of Johnson's Company and the occupants of several wagons who were trailing along behind us. I'd heard that they'd had a falling-out with their company's captain and were looking for someone else to tag along with.
By now I recognized most of the women in the Johnson Company by sight but only knew a few of their names. Despite the fact that I wasn't especially outgoing, I smiled and said good morning to Betsy, Beulah, and Sophrona. Betsy had a twenty-something girl in tow and said that her name was Lola.
"And this is Daria Morgendorffer," said Betsy, "she's with the Trout Company. They're traveling to Oregon."
"Hello," I said. "I promise I don't bite."
"Daria," said Lola. She was a brunette with a light complexion and a large nose. "That's a strange name. Are you from Westeros?"
"No, I'm an American," I replied.
"So what are you doing with these people?" said Lola.
"I'm trying to get to Oregon," I replied to Lola. "The Trouts found me wandering alone on the prairie near Chimney Rock and took me in. I'm trying to help them go west."
"Oh," said Lola.
"Lola does beautiful beadwork," said Betsy, obviously trying to change the topic.
"Really?" I said, my interest perking up.
"Do you do beadwork?" said Lola.
"I used to," I said, half-forgotten memories of when I did do beading bubbling up to the surface.
"What happened?" said Lola.
"Stuff," I replied.
1994: A bus on a Cibola state highway northwest of Andrews, Texas
Daria sat irritably in her seat as the charter bus rolled westwards. The bus creaked, the air conditioner made an unpleasant squeaking noise, the bus's toilet had a stench that spread to the back of the bus. And the other kids: Dear God, the other kids were among the cream of the crop for Highland's socially-maladjusted teenagers. A couple of the most boring girls from middle school had tried to strike up a conversation with her and one of the guys had tried to hit on her. On the bus, no less.
She smirked. Like there was a chance we'd slip off somewhere even if he wasn't a dweeb and I was really interested, she thought. She wondered where the kid got his ideas about girls. Probably his dad's copy of Penthouse, she thought. She'd set the boy straight in short order. The boy looked crushed and for a moment she thought he'd burst into tears. But he'd left her alone.
At least she wasn't alone in her misery. Quinn was also with her, although she was sitting on a different row. Their Mom and Dad had unexpectedly come up with the idea of sending them off to Camp Anahuac a week or two before school ended for the summer. If Daria was put out because she'd be forced to pretend to be nice and socialize with people she didn't like or know that well, Quinn was upset because she wouldn't be going back to Camp Grizzly. Even though Daria had loathed her Camp Grizzly experience, she knew that her younger sister had enjoyed herself while they were there, making new friends and participating in those activities that gave her the most chances to socialize with other girls. When Quinn learned that they' be going to Camp Anahuac, Quinn had been heartbroken: "That's where all the dweebs go!" she wailed before fleeing to their room and locking the door to cry.
Daria had faced their parents' decision more stoically. "Is there no way out of this?" she asked.
"No, Daria, both you and Quinn are going," said her mother.
She looked at her mother's expression and realized that resistance was futile. She breathed out and said "Whatever."
She then retired to her room afterwards. Daria had long ago learned to pick the lock of their bedroom and found Quinn in bed instead of playing with her dolls. She'd stopped crying, but when Daria tried to talk to her, the only thing she said was "Leave me alone!" and turned towards the wall.
She found out the real reason why they'd be going to Camp Anahuac instead of Camp Grizzly when she woke up to use the bathroom after midnight. Grandma Barksdale had been the one who insisted that she and Quinn should go east and attend Camp Grizzly the year before and not only paid for the camp fees, but also the expenses for travelling to go there.
But that was last year, she learned. This year Grandma Barksdale decided that her daughter and son-in-law should pay the expenses for summer camp themselves. That her parents had had to go car-shopping after a careless driver had rear-ended her mother's Chevrolet and that they'd had to pay hideous plumber's bills after a pipe burst in the front yard because of the freeze that winter didn't make an impression on her. Deciding that a summer camp closer to Highland would be less expensive, they'd decided on Camp Anahuac. She knew where that was: Camp Anahuac was located in Cibola, the next state west of their part of Texas.
She looked out the window, hoping to see some sign of a change of scenery and that they'd come to the edge of the Anahuac Mountains. She saw none: the only sign that they might be headed in the right direction was a signpost saying that they'd just reached some small town she'd never heard of and that its elevation was a thousand feet higher than the last one she saw.
I probably shouldn't complain, she thought, although she'd rather not have been here. Her Mom insisted that she and Quinn some useful or educational activity, and Camp Anahuac was the least noxious alternative they were presented. The alternatives had been band camp or a Bible study class at the nearby Methodist church camp. Band camp would keep her in the heat of Howard County, even if the buildings were air-conditioned. The Bible class seemed unpleasant: the Methodist church sponsoring it was noted for being one of the most conservative congregations in the South Plains and its minister often railed against the more liberal positions taken by the national church. I probably shouldn't complain, she told herself again. Compared to Bible study or band camp, Camp Anahuac didn't look all that bad.
At least it's supposed to be cooler up there, she thought. She squirmed in her seat and managed to doze off. She woke up when the bus jolted and shifted gears. She knew she dreamt something but forgot what it was. She put on her glasses and looked out the window. We must be getting closer, she thought. The scenery had changed: the terrain had become more hilly and she could see scattered mountain laurels off to the side and could those be cottonwoods? There must be a creek or something over there. Cottonwoods weren't as thirsty as willow trees were supposed to be, but they did like water.
The bus passed a sign by the side of the road advertising some hotel or resort whose name she didn't catch. She did notice its distance: less than forty miles. We're getting closer, she thought happily.
She dozed off again and when she woke up, she found that the terrain had changed for the better: the highway was now lined with pine trees. Lots of pine trees. She didn't know what sort, except that they had long needles.
The bus slowed down, shifting gears, then braking prior to making a right turn off the highway and onto what looked like a paved driveway. The bus rumbled about half a mile more, left the pavement, then crossed over a cattle guard. It then stopped.
"Boys and girls, welcome to Camp Anahuac!" said the bus driver, who hadn't said much of anything for the entire trip.
Daria rose from her seat and tried to stretch, which was next to impossible, even for her. The next assault on her dignity was having to ask someone else to pull own her carry-on bag from the overhead luggage rack. She tried to thank the guy who'd done it but he'd already turned his back. She gritted her teeth and got off the bus.
Despite her resentment about being shipped off to summer camp again, she had to admit that the entrance looked pretty: a landscaped driveway lined with bushes and long-needled pine trees. Better than I expected, she thought.
Her emotional uptick didn't last for long. The head of the camp's welcome was pure treacle and she quickly decided that she didn't think much of the counselors, most of whom seemed like college kids more interested in putting aside some money for school than with dealing with their charges. The next bit of bad news was that they weren't going to let her and Quinn sleep in different cabins: she'd probably have to endure her younger sister's chatter all night long.
The head of the camp left it to the head counselor to list the camp's activities.
So the alternatives are, she thought, frowning. Hiking, crafts or volleyball? She mentally scratched off hiking. She was not about to start off with a long hike, not at this altitude. That left the other two, so which one? Crafts or volleyball? Crafts or volleyball? She decided on crafts: she hated volleyball. But if they tried to make her sit down and make lanyards, she'd walk out. She walked over to the craft building, opened the door, and took a seat.
"I'm sure that some of you guys were expecting that we'd make you make lanyards," said Dorothy. "If you were expecting lanyard-making, you're in for a disappointment. We'll be doing other crafts." A couple of the boys got up and left. Daria shifted in her seat, wondering what alternatives Dorothy was going to give them but ready to walk out if she didn't like them. "We'll be doing belt-making, sewing pouches, and for you older girls, beading."
Well, surprise, surprise, Daria thought wryly. Beading? That was not only something she not only hadn't anticipated, that was something she was actually curious about.
Beading had first drawn her attention during a field trip to the Ranch Museum in the next county over a couple of years ago. Her group had not only toured the barns, the smithy, and the animal pens, but also the main house. The Headlys, the previous owners of the ranch, had done well as ranchers, then as realtors during one of the South Plain's early oil booms. Mrs. Headly had taken advantage of her husband's newfound prosperity and had gone on a shopping spree first in New York, then in Paris before World War One. One of her acquisitions had been a lovely beaded evening dress, a garment she kept until the day she died and was kept as a relic for generations after, passing into the possession of the museum when her descendants gifted the main house and some of the property to the museum.
Daria remembered just how awed she was when she saw it. It was gorgeous. She loved the colors, the beading, and the texture. It was beautiful. If she'd been a millionaire with unlimited access to her Dad's charge card, she would have bought a dress just like it. She asked the docent how much it would cost to make and was crushed when the docent had not only told her how much it cost in 1910 dollars, but how much it would cost to make one today: it was not only more than a year's allowance, but almost as much as their house was worth. She was awed and sad when she left the museum. Mercifully, neither Quinn nor the other girls had teased her about it.
Her interest in beading had been further piqued at a couple of church rummage sales. A couple of families had donated their grandparents' old clothing. Most of the clothing was far too large for her and was decades out of style, but one of the tables had accessories that looked positively ancient. She went over to look anyway. There were a couple of pairs of gloves and a small beaded purse caught her attention. The small coin purse had a light blue flower on a dark blue background and not only the flower petals and stamins, but the pistils as well. Despite their age, frayed threads and beadwork slipping off here and there, she was entranced. Someone, somewhere had put a lot of effort into their design and craftsmanship.
Her interest was piqued again during a field trip to the cowboy museum in Midland. The museum had a temporary exhibit on Indian culture and Daria and her classmates got to admire what were presented as traditional Comanche and Plains Apache clothing and accessories. She wasn't sure just how traditional beadwork actually was on the Great Plains, but the women who'd put together the native belts, dresses and gloves had been beading for generations by the time she and her classmates got to gawk at their work. She left the museum feeling impressed and told herself that she wanted to learn. When she returned home, she'd bought needles, thread, and some beads from one the local dime stores and tried to do some beading on her own. It was anything but a success: she didn't really know how to sew the beads onto the fabric and have them stay there. So this Dorothy was going to teach her how to do beading and do it right? Cool, she thought.
Dorothy was surprised that someone Daria's age would want to learn beading but agreed to teach her even if she was starting later than the other kids. Daria spent the rest of the camp's session leaning how to do beadwork. If she didn't become an instant expert, she got better than she'd been before she started. She learned how to thread and sew beads onto a pattern. She trained herself to make small, consistent stitches. More importantly, she began to train her fingers and hands to sew beads onto fabric: muscle memory, as she learned the term was called later. And she began to learn patience.
She brought her love of beading home with her from camp. She got her mom to buy new needles for her, dug out the beads and thread she'd bought earlier, and began beading again. She actually got one or two of her projects finished by Christmas break that year. She'd asked her Mom for a gift certificate to the local five and dime and her great-aunt, Grandma Ruth's sister, for some more beads for Christmas.
Then things began to go sour. The first sign that things were going sour was when she opened her Christmas presents from Aunt Chia. She'd asked Aunt Chia for beads and the old woman sent them to her: gaudy, oversized girly-girl beads that she hated at first sight. Her Dad saw her expression and winced.
"So, what do you think of Aunt Chia's present?" said her Mom.
"They're horrible," Daria.
"Daria, Aunt Chia went to a lot of trouble to buy those beads and send them to you for Christmas," said Helen. "You ought to be grateful."
"I'm not," said Daria. "If they were the small ones I asked for, I'd be happy, but these—" she made a face. "They're not. Here, you look at them." She handed the beads to her Mom.
Her Mom sighed. "No, they aren't, are they?" she said.
"But Daria, you're still going to have to write her a thank-you note."
"I know, I'll lie through my teeth," Daria replied.
The next thing that went sour was that the local five and dime changed ownership. Nickerson's was locally-owned. It had opened during the oil boom in the 1920's and had stayed open for years. Unfortunately, Mr. Nickerson had grown old and none of his children were interested in taking over. He sold out to a chain, who immediately started dropping all the little things that his customers had taken for granted and had made Nickerson's popular with many Highland residents. The art and craft section was particularly hard-hit: the craft paint, the brushes and the knitting supplies. The small but well-stocked beading section vanished completely. Daria might have been able to stock up during the final sale, but she'd been laid up with the flu and had to stay home.
Daria went in after the five and dime reopened and was shocked how everything had changed. She asked one of the teenaged clerks at the store if the new owners were going to re-order any beading supplies. The clerk shrugged indifferently, then told her that he thought that the chain store might have some at the bigger store in Midland. Both Daria and the clerk knew that his answer was complete bullshit, but pre-teens like her weren't in a good position to call him out on it.
With her beading supplies cut off and her parents unwilling to help her look for a new source of supply, Daria's beading projects languished in a dresser drawer. For a while she looked at them and promised herself that she'd find a new source and start beading again, but gradually she lost hope. By the time her mother announced that they'd be leaving Highland and moving east, her beading stuff was little more than clutter. She threw most of it away except for the small, beaded pouch she'd made during her year of enthusiasm. She'd left it back in her apartment the night she was shifted from the early Twenty-first Century to 1860: she wondered what happened to it.
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Author's notes: This chapter is something that would probably get edited out if I ever chose to rewrite this story as a novel, but beads do play a role later on.
For fans joining Daria on the Trail here, Daria has been traveling for the better part of two months with the Trout Company, a wagon train of pioneers bound for Oregon. Most of them are Americans, although there are four families from the Riverlands and a hired man from the North traveling with them. During that time, Daria and her wagon train traveled from what is today western Nebraska to within forty miles of what is today the Idaho/Wyoming state line.
Daria and her train are currently on what is called the Lander Road, a cutoff built to shorten the travel time of pioneers emigrating overland from the Midwest to California and the Pacific Northwest. The Lander Road was built in the late 1850's and was opened for emigrant traffic in 1859. The route was built for the needs of travelers crossing the west by covered wagon or pack train, not by automobile, and takes a circuitous route over the Wyoming mountain range south of Jackson Hole, up the Star Valley, then down another valley to reach a point near what is now called Soda Springs, Idaho. Most of the Lander route fell into disuse with the extension of the US railroad network into southern Idaho and the later construction of state and federal highways far better suited to automobiles.
Beadwork is best known for being part of Native American women's clothing this century, but was more common in nineteenth century women's dress than it is now.
Lola was named for the notorious early 19th century dancer and courtesan Elisa Rosanna Gibert, aka Lola Montez. I suspect that Lola's parents were either very sheltered or that Lola's father wanted to pull a fast one on her straightlaced family.
