Time is of the Essence

Adela had offered to created a time capsule for the others in the group, only they didn’t call it that. They called it a treasure chest, because what was going to be placed in it and carefully sealed for at least a century was their treasure. It was a collection of things that meant a lot to them, and to them meaning was not based on monetary value. Nothing they had could be valued in currency or gold, or certainly not in fame. They knew what mattered most to each one of them, and why. 

N.B. Readers who are not interested in pondering treasures that cannot be calculated in terms of material worth may find this story slow-going. We do apologize for any inconvenience.

To be sure, the members of the group had limited means, but they had boundless skills. They were creators of beautiful things. Maybe ‘beautiful’ is an overworked adjective, but the concept behind it is not. That was because beauty, to them, lay not in physical appearance, as in a face or a body of perfect proportions. Beauty came from purpose, usefulness, durability, originality, precision, tradition, and - related to tradition - memory. 

N.B. Readers who are not interested in beauty except the kind that is skin deep may find this story ho-hum. Even the style used here may be ho-hum. We can’t help it. We just need to tell it like it is, soppy language and all. 

So skilled were these women, in fact, that many younger women, even girls, had come to them to be taught the ways to use the tools they used, to make things that warmed and protected, or even made the world a little brighter. So rudimentary, yet these were women who had the unsung ability to bind the world together, to keep it whole.

Wholeness was not easy to achieve. There had been a gradual but insistent awakening to the inequality of many people, and abolitionists were speaking up in so many countries. Adela Martín and her friends were aware of all of the things being said and written. They knew society was becoming destabilized and that terrible confrontations were probably coming in the future. They had never heard of anything as horrific as an atom bomb or a nuclear bomb, but they were far too familiar with rifles, bayonets, raging fires to ignore the handwriting on the wall.

The treasure chest was intended to preserve what people (women, in this case) did to assemble things, to bring materials together instead of tearing them apart. Some of the group only contributed one thing, while others were able to offer more. If the woman only had one of the items and needed to use it for her own work, she was not supposed to give it up unless she never planned to use it again. The offering of the items was not intended to be a sacrifice.

The chest or box was magnificently plain. It may have been made from chestnut, because once Galicia was well-populated with the spreading trees that had ancient, Celtic roots and gave their fruits for roasting, their wood for building. Generous trees, to say the least. The chest was approximately three-quarters of a meter long and half a meter high. The cover and sides had been carved by Galician artisans in native fashion, very rustic yet very representative of scenes one came across every day. People and animals, working together. The Catholic Church had its impressive cathedrals, but the rest of the population had people who worked dreams into wood.

As the group of friends gathered with their items in their hands, pockets, and satchels, there was much excitement. In fact, the atmosphere gave the impression of a celebration. It very well might have been a celebration, because there was much lively discussion of what the things being placed in the box had been used for and even more discussion and speculation as to what the people opening the chest many years later would say. 

N.B. We apologize, but it’s important to see an action like creating a time capsule or a memory box from both ends, like the Joni Mitchell song. Selecting your treasures, what matters to you and what just falls away, not needed, means looking at life from both sides. Often, as in this case, it means looking at the things, memories all firmly attached, from both sides of a century. This should seem rather daunting. We hope so, at least. Also, if you are still reading this, thank you so much.

Adela was more or less guiding the group, because she had the most knowledge of how to write properly and legibly. She had been tutored by her mother and father longer than anybody else. She now was asking where the friends had decided to place the wooden box so that it would be safe from future conflict or invasion. (There had been too much of both in recent decades.) At the same time, she reminded the other women, the treasure should not be hidden away so well that it would get lost. They were going to have to think about that from both sides.

The women, some of whom were in their ninth decade or even beyond, stepped forward one by one, placing their contributions inside the carved wooden container. The first to do so was Ana, who had brought a distaff and spindle. She cradled them gently before depositing them in the bottom, on the soft lining that made the rectangle resemble a cradle inside.

“These belonged to my grandmother. I have others, but these are the oldest ones I have and they have spun many memories, in many colors. Now my grandchildren are grown and I don’t need to spin as much as before. I hope in a hundred years people will still know how to use these, because they have proven their worth.” Her eyes, not at all cloudy, grew a bit moist.

Ana Galbán had been famous for the yarns she had made and sold. They were supple, soft, shiny strands that were then made into caps, scarves, shawls for happy wearers of the warmth the yarn provided. For over seventy years she had made lifelines, threads of comfort. Anything she made was kept and passed down, it was that perfect and that full of love.

Rexina López then held out a needle and linen thread, along with a heavy, engraved pair of scissors that she removed from her front left pocket. She had long been recognized as a skilled embroiderer and her work had been displayed in many Galician shop windows as well as on articles of clothing worn by people in the area and beyond. She had learned to embroider when she was four years old and was only slowing down now due to uncooperative eyesight. Her botanical designs often came from nearby plants; there were animals as well, especially birds and small, delicate animals that were common to the villages.

Carolina Pardo came over to the chest. She too was an expert at embroidery and had often worked alongside Rexina. In recent years, she helped her friend with the weakened eyes to thread needles and choose the proper colors. Her donation was an embroidery frame made of bone, along with a good variety of colored fibers, dyed by hand. She and Rexina had conferred and decided they could each offer something from the needlework craft without overlapping anything. They had arranged it perfectly.

Margarita Narón was rather embarrassed, because she had only brought a lucet. Nobody condemned her for that, because the object or objects were all the donors’ choice. The lucet was made of dark wood and had the shape of a lyre or fork. It was not a complex tool, yet many didn’t know what it was or what it was for. Margarita was able to create long, smooth cords with just that wooden fork, cords that then were used to adorn clothing or attached items to the belt.

One of the women, probably Adela, noticed Margarita’s discomfort at having so little to contribute. She walked the few steps to reach the younger woman - young being a relative term - and spoke:

“We are lucky to have this lucet, because it is something fewer and fewer people know how to use, yet it was once an important thing. We need to preserve it, its name, and the things it can be used to create.” Margarita’s head came up and she smiled her gratitude at Adela.

One friend, whose name was Paula, Paula Conde, had brought a tiny curved metal form with pointed ends. Tatting wasn’t as popular as it had been, but Paula was always busy making perfect lace trim for people’s garments. Every day somebody new requested she create a piece. She couldn’t keep up. The shuttle was a very small device, but miles and miles of exquisite lace had emerged from it, and those who had really mastered the technique were true artists. There was a sample of tatting and some thread to accompany the little shuttle.

 Xoana Verde had brought a number of bobbins carved from ivory with insets, and wound with cream-colored thread. Her companions were concerned that she was giving up such a special set of tools for making bobbin lace, but she assured them:

“I have more. It’s true these are rather uncommon, but that’s why I want to include them in our chest. Years from now they will be even more beautiful, don’t you think?” Heads nodded, but all eyes were on the finely-carved bobbins that had produced so much detailed lace that it had been in demand from places far beyond the borders of Galicia, even in other countries. It seemed as if Xoana were hoping to include some of her skill along with the bobbins and their special thread. She had taught so many young fingers. Maybe her knowledge would last another hundred years and be picked up again after that.

Finally, a beautiful woman with the whitest hair possible, done into two long braids that then encircled her head in an almost coquettish way, moved forward. She handed over a crochet hook, knitting needles, and a nålbinding needle made of deer antler. The crochet hook and knitting needles seemed to be made of bone or ivory, but they could have been a pale wood, perfectly polished. The needle made of an antler was dark and stained with age, but it also bore the marks of hours of weaving, which is what it was used for. It had come to the woman, whose name was Olga Bande, via a Viking ancestor - one of those who had landed in Catoira on the coast of Galicia and never left.

N.B. A lot of people nowadays know how to knit and crochet, so why include these items in the chest? Well, ask yourself if any of the women offering to seal their prized possessions up for at least a century, if not more, could predict if people would know how to do those things? Nålbinding is really uncommon in most places outside of Scandinavia. Do you know how it’s done?

At the last minute, Ysabel appeared carrying a small handloom and shuttle. She did not explain what had held her up, but there were tears in the corners of her eyes, and nobody wanted to ask. Ysa Monteagudo had a difficult home situation, they knew. She wasn’t the only one who arrived late, either, because at the very same moment as Sabina also came. 

Ysabel’s handloom had been chosen because the much larger loom she mostly used would never have fit. The hand version was also easier to learn to manipulate. It should be noted that the shuttle and loom were both handmade, with grape leaves carved on the right and left sides of the frame. The shuttle wasn’t large and needed to be smooth to be held properly and passed among the fibers, but it shone from expert polishing. The wood it was made of showed off a web of veins that was nothing less than elegant.

“It’s a good thing you have your floor loom,” noted Xoana, and the others nodded. Ysa didn’t look sad. She had chosen her donation willingly.

Sabina Penas’ offering was something different, and the women looked at one another, uncertain whether the brushes and paint pots fit with the other things. They glanced at Adela, who was smiling and holding out her hands to receive Sabina’s donation. As she took the brushes and paint, Adela looked at the pen and bottle of ink that lay beside her on the table. Those too would be included in the wooden chest. Perhaps not all the women in the group were skilled at using those utensils, but they weren’t ignorant. They knew the value of stories. Some just told their stories differently.

Now the discussion of what to do with the chest began.

“Where shall we store it?”

“How can we make sure everything remains safe?” 

“Do we need a key?”

“Does it have a key?”

“If there’s a key, where do we put it?”

“Should we write up a document to explain our intentions?”

So many questions. However, after discussing good places to put the treasure they had all helped to compile, someone, perhaps Olga, suggested they approach the Director of the University Library. Even though women had not yet been admitted to the Universidade de Compostela, that was going to happen soon, they all knew. A library did house rare items, and not all of them were books. The group of friends did not know of a good museum, and the library could list the chest in its catalogue. It would require a person with very specific knowledge and a very targeted purpose, to request to look at it.

The group debated for a very long time, turning over all the options, and finally agreeing that the library was the safest place.

Adela Martín and Olga Bande went to speak with the Director, Héctor Outeiro. Héctor was the sort of person who looked like he had never been called by his first name, but that did not make him an unreasonable person. He listened to the two women, who did not tell him that their other friends were waiting outside the library, huddled under and umbrella or two in the narrow street. It was a typical rainy day in Compostela, but they were all anxious to hear the response.

Don Héctor agreed quite quickly. There was the small matter of how to list the entry for the card catalogue, but with the help of Adela and Olga, the decision was made. The treasure chest would be listed as “What Women Know.” In the descriptive paragraph, the individual items would be listed with the donors’ names and, most importantly, the fact that each item had instructions on how to use it. Even the paints and ink were to have instructions, because nobody knew what might happen in the next century. People could forget how to write...

There were further details, but they are not as important here. What is important, though, is that the wooden chest was deposited on a sturdy shelf in a visible place. But up high. The library did not allow browsers into the book area, so the chest would be forever safe.

The final detail was the key. All agreed that the key would remain permanently in the Director’s office, until the time came to use it. In a hundred years’ time, Don Héctor would no longer be head of the library. He wouldn’t be alive, either, nor would any of the women. This was not problematic: the box and its key would remain as placed until the designated period of time had passed. That meant a minimum of one hundred years. The key would have a tiny label with a number corresponding to the entry in the card catalogue.

This is the key that the Director of the Biblioteca Xeral, Pilar Landín, would look at more than a century later, and realized it signified unfinished business. She instinctively knew she would gather others to assist her in identifying the lock (and the chest) where the old key fit.

N.B. Thank you so much for reading through to the end. However, this is not the end and this story pertains to the research Dr. Lavinia Rivers is doing in Santiago de Compostela. You have more stories to read. Please accept this apology for any inconvenience that might cause.