Mrs. Hepsibah Gove Rides a Mule Across Panama, and Hilarity Ensues

When I look on Amazon for a book, many are about time travelers rushing around to this century or that, larking about with new lovers, or fighting famous battles of history.  Great fun, and evidently the woman I portray at Fort Nisqually, Mrs. Hepsibah Gove, is not to be left stuck in 1855.  Oh no.  After all, a woman who can travel on a sailing ship from New England, on a mule across the isthmus of Panama, and sail up the coast of California to the boom town of San Francisco is not about to let a little ol’ thing like time travel slow her down.

I suspect she came popping into my sewing room because, after all, I have said her name numerous times at Ft. Nisqually.  She’s a like-minded lady for me to portray, because her husband was a steamship captain and is always gone, as is mine.  Not that my husband is a steamship captain, although he does bear the rank of captain.  His “ship” was declared decidedly too futuristic by Mrs. Hepsibah Gove, and she did not react too well when I told her that his ship flies.  No such thing is possible, she informed me.  I decided not to argue about flying ships with a time traveler.  There are certain things that just can't possibly be believed, airplanes and people liking asparagus among them.

So here she came, popping into the sewing room one Saturday around noon, and to her credit did not inform me I was FAR too old to be portraying her. 

I wondered if perhaps time travelers might require refreshment?  Evidently time travel makes one very thirsty.

I would have loved to have asked her so many questions, but Hepsibah is a talker.  Holy moley yes.  She went so far as to ask where I got the inspiration for my sheer, which was recently ironed and hanging in the hallway on the way to the kitchen, but naturally did not know the name Martha Pullen or KayFig Patterns.  I took her to the kitchen to get the lemonade, figuring a diet Coke would not garner a good reception.  She gawked at the magical refrigerator, running water and instant ice, and considered that water or lemonade might not suit, so we found something darker and redder, but I promised not to tell what it was. 

“I notice that you seem to have quite a bit of lace in your sewing room,” she started. “May I inquire as to your source, it is quite lovely.”

“Thank you. Luc’s in the Netherlands.  May I give you some?” I replied.

“I couldn’t possibly accept such a generous gift. Perhaps if you had a scrap… But I am endeavoring to find a source for veiling.”

“That might be a bit more difficult these days, as most is polyester.”

“Who is Polly Esther?”

“Never mind. My friend Nancy might have some.  What color?”

“It doesn’t matter, it is not for me, it is for a mule. I’ve been making bonnets for mules and sending them to Panama.”

“Why?” I asked, thus lighting the fuse of her tongue, which required several more glasses of emollient.

So here is her story, written down as directed.

“When our Expedition across the Isthmus commenced, it was dreadfully hot, and I wore a Bonnet to protect against the Kiss of Helios.  Our Guide, a frightfully pink and corpulent Englishman who proclaimed himself an Adventurer of yore and who was now employed to perch on the back of a Mule to shepherd fervent Travelers across fifty miles of an arboreal and sultry Panama, was jollied by the Fact we suffered so from the Mosquitos of that Clime. He claimed no such Distinction, saying he was far too sour for their Tastes, although I suspect the pickling of Tobacco and Gin with which he preserved himself might have played a part. He called those whining pests by the local colloquial, which he said translated to Veritable Handmaids of Hell.  A chosen few of us were bitten to distraction by the zephyric Lions.  A Veil was fetched from my Luggage, and added to my Ensemble, flung over my Bonnet and secured inside my Collar so no Insect of any kind was allowed Entry.  The Weave of the Veil was very fine, which was scarcely required, as the Insects were such great flapping Creatures I am disposed to grant them favor in admitting their relentless effort was mandatory in sustaining their great size. No jungle Beast, no ravenous Dog, no adolescent Boy was ever so hungry.

 

“My position in the Caravan was near the middle, with the Englishman near the front, and preceding the entire party were several local Peons whose sole engagement was to render the Trail clear of Spider Webs that oft festooned our path.  They carried great Knives called machetes to render the spiders unconscious, I do not believe it was possible to kill them.  The Englishman’s Mule was a sour Creature, who had determined that we should never indeed arrive at our appointed Destination, for she took not one Step without stopping to rub her Nose on her Foreleg. The Englishman used his Crop in a macabre rhythm, bellowing multitudinous, flamboyant, and imaginative Names and descriptive Courses of Action to which he intended to subject her. I discovered through these rantings that her Name was Jezebel.

“I wondered what would impel the creature to continually scratch her Nose, until I came to the realization that I was scratching mine.  Could her Recalcitrance be induced by those tenacious biting Denizens?  I urged my long-eared Steed closer, and beheld the Horror of her inflamed and swollen Nostrils. Her delicate Nose was black with Mosquitoes, drinking and swaying around her like Bacchus. I determined that just as some Humans seemed more susceptible to the probing Proboscis of a Mosquito, some mules must be likewise.

“Her Discomfort was plain, and one could see the distasteful Aftermath of these insects whose tenancy of Earth should be a question put to the Almighty.  I immediately called a halt, which caused dozing plodding Beasts of burden and the Men aboard them to both grunt in similar disharmony. Once again my Luggage was called forth, and once again a Length of Veiling was produced along with my second best straw Bonnet.  Not bothering to remove the Decoration, I squished through the Mud to the Creature I had once considered obstinate, and now looked upon with the compassion of a War Nurse.  I approached with the Bonnet, and Jezebel made no move to rebel. Her Passenger did, proclaiming this to be an Assault on his Manhood.  HE was not going to ride a Mule that wore a Bonnet, by God! Jezebel, who had a proclivity to good Fashion, stood in all manner of Sweetness. I slipped the Bonnet over her Ears, tied a great pink Bow under her Chin, and brought the Veil around her Nose to tuck it in the Ties. Surveying my Handiwork and pronouncing it good, I squelched both spluttering by Englishmen and Mules alike with the narrowing of an Eye.

 

“Since first donning her Godey’s Bonnet, my fair Jezebel has refused to move without it, and the Englishman has determined all his Mules must wear them, for he has found his Mule Train to have gained a Reputation and subsequent monetary Gain has been incurred, since every traveler finds the Bonnets a delightful Amusement, and Ships coming in to Port have Requests preceding them.”

Mrs. Gove drained her glass, and made ready to go.  I gave her all my veiling, although I fear that some of Polly Esther’s got in there. 

I am sure neither the Englishman nor the mules will mind.