205th Temporal Anthropologist Ball

Sunday, 1 April 2659 - Versailles, Paris, France

It’s time again for the Association of Temporal Anthropologist Annual Meeting and Ball. (For those of you who don’t remember last year’s explanation, here is a link to that blog.)

This year the event is being held at the Palace of Versailles. We will all be staying at the fairly new Versailles Hotel across the street, but the meeting and the ball are held at the historic palace itself. The current French government (the 28th Republic) has pulled out all the stops, closing the building this weekend to the public.

Palace of Versailles

I am one of the few Temporal Anthropologists who has actually visited the palace in the Field. By the Victorian Age the place had been turned into a museum, which is the only reason I was let in. No T.A. has been into this palace while it was a royal residence. Since Temporal Anthropologists aren’t allowed to make friends in the Field, we never have the connections needed to be invited as guests to royal courts. My interview with King Mongkut this month was one of those rare occasions a T.A. was even allowed to enter a royal residence, and I was hardly allowed to run about the place.

Dr. Matilda Warwick joked that perhaps a female T.A. could become the mistress of Louis XV, since he had so many no one, including Louis, would notice her. I pretended to be horrified that a woman who spends all her time in Medieval convents would even think of such a thing.

This weekend several Temporal Anthropologists have put on presentation, some with ideas of how to survive in the field, others just showing off their latest findings. (For instance, did you know Neanderthals had a great sense of humor and loved to sing?)

I gave a presentation on how to wile away lonely hours at night by making shadows on the wall by just using your hands. One problem is that every room is stuffed full of artwork. They put me in the Salon de Mars which has paintings on the walls and ceiling. Very distracting, even with the lights off. I’m not sure if anyone paid too much attention to me. (Of course, the last time I gave this presentation in a normal classroom, it went just as well.)

Salon de Mars

The Palace of Versailles started as a hunting lodge built by Louis XIII in 1624. His son, Louis the XIV (better known as the Sun King) loved the place so much he expanded it into a grand palace and moved the court there in 1682. Now some historians think Louis XIV real purpose was to move the Royal Court away from the nobility in Paris and grab more control of the government for himself. (This was back before Paris swallowed Versailles, of course.) Unfortunately this move also distanced the king even more from the people, eventually leading to the French Revolution a century later and the beheading of his grandson.

After that the Palace of Versailles became the property of the new French Republic, and every other French Empire and Republic that followed. Let’s just say changes were made to the building from time to time and only stopped when some valiant art or history lovers fought to protect what remained. Even so, what does remain is jaw dropping.

The ball will be held in the Galerie des Glaces or Hall of Mirrors, perhaps one of the most famous rooms in the world. Built by Louis XIV, it is 239.5 feet by 34.4 feet by 40.4 feet. It got its name from the mirrors covering the walls, built at a time when even a hand mirror was very expensive. The Venetian Republic held a monopoly on mirror manufacturing, so Jean-Baptiste Colbert, the minister of finances, enticed several Venetian workers to come work for France.

Hall of Mirrors

No one had ever installed such large mirrors in such quantity before. The mirror makers had to come up with new innovations. No one else in the world had a room like this, making Louis XIV the envy of all other monarchs of the day. Best of all, King Louis could admire himself everyday when he passed through the hall from his private apartment to the chapel.

I would like to say that having nearly a hundred Temporal Anthropologists in their very finest period attire would be the most opulent event to every be held here, but we aren’t even close. That distinction would probably go to the Siamese Embassy when they presented themselves to the Louis XIV in 1686. Ambassador Kosa Pan pulled out all the stops. King Narai of Siam not only wanted an alliance, he wanted to empress France. The exotic costumes and lavish gifts had the court buzzing for years.

Siam Embassy in the Hall of Mirrors
(Note the mirrors in the back reflecting the windows)

Well, I must get ready for the ball. I hope they play a couple of waltzes (my specialty, being Victorian.) I’m sure there will be a minuet in honor of King Louis XIV, Louis XV and Louis XVI. Hmm, wonder if they’ll play a tango?

Palace of Versailles homepage
Photos, videos, virtual tours

Make your own Hand Shadows
(Hours of fun if you are stuck by yourself in the Victorian Age)

Doctor's Excuse

Thursday, 23 February 2659 - Cambridge, UK

I must apologize to everyone on Twitter for ignoring you the last couple of days and not reporting on Henry’s operation. I told you last Monday that his surgery would be the next day. I had every intention of being with him even if I could do little more than wear out the waiting room rug. Still a friendly face is nice when you come out of surgery.

That evening however, IT hit. IT hit hard. I came down with the absolute worse bout of diarrhea and vomiting--at the same time. Thank heavens I could reach the sink from my seat. Soon it was just dry heaves from one end and nothing but liquid from the other. (Do pardon my crudeness. It was even cruder living through it!)

I decided it must be food poisoning, uncommon in the 27th century, but common enough in the 19th when they were just discovering what caused it. I recalled a bit of beef I hadn’t scanned properly back in 1872, although the reaction hadn’t been this violent. I knew once out of my system it would go away.

It didn’t go away. After a sleepless night of running to the loo, I barely managed to get dressed in the morning. As I sat--all right, lay on my chair trying to gather my strength, Mum came in to take me to London to catch a transport across the pond. She took one look at me and took me to the clinic.

The clinic took one look at me and wanted to know what play I was in. (I was wearing my usually top hat and frock coat.) When I told them I was a temporal anthropologist all bedlam broke lose. There is the fear that one day one of us will bring back an extinct disease the world will have to cure again. The Institute of Time Travel is very careful about that sort of thing, so it has never happened. Still there is that one in quadrillion chance. I told them I had been home for over a week. Surely some bug from the field would have shown up before now.

Not good enough. I was rushed off to the University Hospital by large burly men in hazmat suits and tossed into an isolation unit. They did give me an IV. Apparently I was dehydrated because I did make me feel a little better. Still nothing was staying down. I was given nausea medicine and a diet of plain rice, toast and other exotic treats. Most of Tuesday and Wednesday were spent running to the loo, and then sleeping off the exhaustion brought on by the excursion.

It turns out that several people who attended my lecture Saturday in Pullman at Washington State University came down with the same illness I had. At first they thought I might be the culprit, but I assured them my lectures only put audiences to sleep. I don’t recall every making anyone actually ill. They were already calling it the Wazoo Flu, although there was talk of calling it the Howe Heebee-jeebees.

My reputation was saved when the illness began popping up off planet. Apparently it originally came from Radconia. There was in fact several scholars recently arrived from that planet attending my lecture. For those who never get off-planet (like me) Radconia is a small rock that wasn’t good enough for colonizing but was situated in a spot midway between everything. It became a trading post where goods and ideas are exchanged.

I understand they have a Temple of Debate, where holy men, philosophers and scholars come to debate religion, politics and the like--all done in a polite manner. It was only after humans showed up that there was a real need for strict ground rules and weapon frisking. (So far, we are the most dangerous creature in the galaxy bright enough to throw a switch.) Currently the topic at the Temple of Debate is who is the idiot that brought this species-jumping disease to share with everyone. There is a lot of finger and other digit pointing.

I’m still considered a carrier of what is now called the Radconian Runs. I’m locked in a sterile room with a robot nurse. The University, the city of Cambridge and everyone in the British Isles doesn’t want me passing this virus around. I’m not allowed visitors, although I have gotten a lot of calls from family, friends, colleagues wanting to know if I’m still alive. When their face pops up on the screen the first thing they do is grimace and say “Good God, Wendell! You look awful.” Even Henry thought I looked awful, and he just had a leg attached.

As if my luck wasn’t bad enough, one of the faces to grace the screen was Dr. Warwick! Normally I would be thrilled to see Matilda, but I certainly didn’t want her to see me looking like this! Unbathed, unshaved, looking half dead, I did not cut a dapper figure, I fear. On top of that we hardly ever get to see each other. She’s in some Medieval convent while I’m in some Victorian city. Now we are in the same time, and I can’t even give her a hug.

Thankfully Matilda was with Henry, so he came out of surgery to a face much prettier than mine. She offered to come to Cambridge, but I told her to stay with Henry. No one was allowed to get near me without a hazmat suit. It would be a wasted trip. She did a wimple strip-tease for me, shaking her loose hair most alluringly. It was all the excitement I could take right now. (Get your mind out of the gutter. A wimple is medieval head wear.)

The good news about Radconianinitusviriticus (now you know why they call it Radconian Runs) is it seems to be a short run virus. I’m still weak as a kitten, but I now feel like a very much alive and not half-dead kitten. However, I’m not being released from my prison until they are convinced I’m no longer a carrier. God forbid I take this to the Victorian Age. Louis Pasteur already has his hands full.

A Friend in Need

Wednesday, 15 February 2659 - Long Island, New York

This afternoon while walking across the campus of University of Hartford, I received a call.

“Howdy, fancy-pants.” The voice on the other end drawled in a Western accent. I recognized it as once as Dr. Henry Darrel.

Cowboys (that's Henry in the middle with the white shirt)

“Henry, old boy!” I said, “How nice to hear from you. Where are you?”

“Long Island.”

“Really? I’m just across Long Island Sound in Connecticut. I’m practically in the neighborhood. Would you be available to share supper?”

“Sounds good.” Henry words sounded a little slurred.

“Are you all right? Debriefing a bit rough? How much beer have you had?”

“Feeling no pain. Uh, I gotta a favor I wanna ask you.”

“We can discuss it over dinner. Where would you like to meet?”

Miners (Henry's in the back)

“Saint Hugh O’Flaherty Hospital.”

“Hospital? Why do you want to eat at a hospital.”

“Because they won’t let me leave the bed.”

I stopped walking. “What? Are you making a joke?”

“Do you hear me laughing?”

“Good Lord! Are you all right, Henry?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Oh dang, there’s that nurse again. Gotta go. See ya.” Henry then hung up.

It was then I realized Henry wasn’t drunk, but on pain medication. What the blazes had the man done now?

For those of you who don’t know Henry, he is a Temporal Anthropologist for the University of Wyoming. We are both studying the 19th century, but in our own way. I’m a mere tourist compared to Henry.

He started out studying his cowboy ancestors by working beside them. Since then he has taken all sorts of jobs: railroad engineer, fur trapper, factory worker, miner--to name a few. He is studying the working man of the period. Unfortunately safety standards in 19th century were sorely lacking . Life in the Victorian Age is dangerous enough without looking for trouble!

Edison's First Lamp Factory (that's Henry in front)

I took a hover-taxi to St. Hugh OFlaherty’s, hang the expense. I was quite flushed and gasping for breath by the time I found Dr. Darrel’s room. There sat the twit in bed grinning at me like a Cheshire cat.

“Howdy, Wendell. You look like you been rode hard and put away wet.”

“What in the name of heaven have you done now, Henry? Did you loose another finger?”

Henry held his hands up and wiggled them at me. “Nope. Got eleven like everyone else.”

He doesn’t really have eleven fingers. “Are any of those original? You keep getting them caught in machinery and then have to have them cloned and reattached.”

“I think the left pinky came with my birthday suit.”

"What did you do this time?”

Henry pulled back the blanket and I nearly passed out. Below his knee was a plastic case preserving the tissue of a stub. The foot was gone! I sunk down in the nearby chair before I fell over.

I swallowed the bile in my throat. “Again? Is this the same foot you lost last time?”

“Nope. Thought I would make them a matching pair.”

“How did you lose this one?”

“Steamboat ran over it.”

“That joke was bad last time you told it.”

Loading Steamboats (Henry is on the plank--see him?)

Henry just grinned at me, and covered his stub back up. “Okay, I lost it playing lumberjack. After I did the interview and took footage of what there was of the place, thought I’d get my hands dirty and help cut down trees so they could clear land then use the wood to build houses. Like working with my hands.”

I was completely lost. “Where were you?”

“Olympia, Washington Territory, 1857. I went back to do a little job for Wazoo.”

“Wazoo?”

Henry frowned at my ignorance. “Washington State University. You know, in Pullman, Washington. They wanted me to go back and to find George W. Bush.”

That name sounded familiar. I pulled out my pocket computer. “43rd President of the United States? You aren’t allowed in the 21st century.”

“Not that yahoo. George Washington Bush, one of the first pioneers to Washington State. One of the founders of Olympia, it’s capital.”

“Ah! Now it makes sense.”

Henry as a train engineer

“And that’s where the favor comes in.”

“Name it...as long as it doesn’t involve cutting off my foot.”

“I had planned to return today so I could be in Pullman, Washington Saturday to show the footage I took. They already made up posters and invited half the state. And I was wondering--”

“If I could hobble something together and take your place.”

“Yeah, since I can’t even hobble. Cloned foot won’t be ready until next week. Meantime I’m kinda doped up on pain medication to think too straight. I could cancel the shindig, but it would disappoint a lot of folks.”

“I had planned to do some work this weekend, but it’s nothing that can’t wait. I would be happy to help you out.”

Henry gave me a crooked grin. “You’re a real pal. I owe ya one.”

“Some day you can come to Cambridge and give a lecture on 19th century industrial safety, or lack there of.”

“Done. I’ll show off my new foot.”

Of course this means extra work for me, but I don’t mind. Henry would do the same for me. The man would give you an arm and a leg. Erm, I believe they are both cloned, too.

This is as adventurous as I get (that's me in the back)

It's Here! (Almost)

12 October 2658 - Cambridge, UK

At last! My book on tea is finally being released this Friday. I am very excited. Think I’ll have a cup of tea to celebrate. Here is the press release:

Harvesting Tea the Victorian Way

The Rise of Tea in Victorian Great Britain and Its Social Impact
by Dr. Wendell A. Howe
University of Cambridge Press
Release date: 14 October 2658

This book is the life’s work of Dr. Wendell A. Howe, the Temporal Anthropologist for the University of Cambridge and world renowned expert on Victorian culture. For nearly fifty years, Dr. Howe has been in the past studying the tea drinking habits of our ancestors.

At the beginning of the Victorian Age, tea was a luxury for the upper classes. By the end of the era it was drunk daily by even the poorest. Tea replaced beer as the most popular beverage in Great Britain and had become an intricate part of life.

When tea replaced beer, it gave Britain a sober workforce to develop the Industrial Age. It allowed for clear-headed scientist, doctors and inventors to create the unprecedented technological advances of that age.

Tea spurred the expansion of the British Empire, as Britain tried to find new territories that could support tea plantations. She fought wars over tea. The Opium Wars came about because Great Britain had been forced into becoming a drug dealer to support her tea habit. (Not our finest hour.)

Dr. Howe reports on the Victorian Cult of Tea in excruciating detail. This all encompassing collection includes:

16,500,399 3-D holographic photos of teapots, teacups, tea kettles, tea trolleys, tea caddies, tea balls, tea cozies, tea towels, tea gowns, tea spoons, tea trays, tea chests, tea tables, tea sets, tea sieves and other tea paraphernalia, all from the Victorian Age.

Special virtual sensory application will allow you to taste and smell hundreds of teas from around the world that were available in the Victorian Age.

Over 5000 hours of virtual reality video of tea parties of the social elite, working class high teas, tea cultivation in India, songs about tea in the music halls, visits to hundreds of tea gardens, tea shops, and tea rooms from 1837 to 1901.

English Tea Party in Victorian Singapore

Highlights include: A Japanese Tea Ceremony performed by Dr. Shiro Suzuki, temporal anthropologist for the University of Tokyo; the original uncut thirty-seven hour documentary on the history of tea; and a 45 minute video on how to make the perfect cup of tea by Dr. Howe himself.

You will never look at a “cuppa” the same way again!

All this and more for only £999,995!
To be released 14 October 2658 from University of Cambridge Press
Reserve you copy now!

This book is dedicated to The United Kingdom Tea Council, Ltd.

I guarantee no photos of stuffed dead kittens having tea parties.
Victorians seemed to love those.
(These are live kittens with bibs tied on them.)

What I Had For Lunch

20 June 2658

I am “over the pond” on my way to the Bohemia, New York and the Institute of Time Travel, mulling over today’s events. I don’t know if I should even put this on my blog--it’s all too embarrassing. But perhaps I should as a warning to all professionals who get caught up in their work too much.

I returned last Thursday from 1891 and the French Riviera, spent Friday at the University of Monaco, and then Saturday at the University of Nice-Sophia Antipolis. Sunday I got up early and went to my office at the History Faculty Building to do paperwork. I had to have the custodian let me in since the building was closed. I for once was grateful that my office did not have a window, for it was such a lovely day outside, perfect for punting on the Cam River that runs through the campus.

Punting on the Cam

I was in such a rush today because I had to give a lecture in the morning and then I was off to Long Island where I had a time machine to catch. The lecture went well. However, I got a real dressing down from one of the attendees afterwards.

Usually after a lecture, people will come up and ask me questions, or just want a closer look at my frock coat. It was after these curious folks had left that a menacing figure stepped from the shadows.

“Wendell Abercrombie Howe!” the irate tigress growled. “I have to attend one of your bloody lectures just to see you?”

“Mum?” I sometimes think mothers only give us middle names so they use them against us when they are mad.

She came at me shaking her finger like it was a pistol. “I swear Wendell, I wish I could toss you over my knee and give up a spanking, or at least make you go stand in the corner.”

I looked about nervously hoping no one was witnessing this. “W-w-what d-did I-I do?”

“Why didn’t you come visit us or at least call yesterday?”

“I’m sorry. I was just in a hurry to all my work done and get ready for my next project. I’m expected at the Institute this afternoon.”

“Expected by who? Queen Victoria the first?”

“Of course not. I would never be allowed in Her Majesty’s presence, although I have had tea with Queen Victoria the fifth not long ago.”

Mum did not look impressed. “But you couldn’t have tea with your own father? We waited all day for you.”

“You were expecting me? I didn’t say I was coming.”

“No, we just assumed you would at least call on Father’s Day.”

“Father’s Day? Yesterday was Father’s Day?” I felt sick.

“Yes, Wendell. You are usually in the past on Father’s Day, but this year you had no excuse.”

“No, I don’t, except I lose all track of time in this business. Last account I had it was early September 1891. No wonder you want to beat me. I am so sorry, Mum.”

“Your father didn’t say anything, but I know he was hurt. You are his only child after all. The old Wendell--our Wendell--would never forget Father’s Day.”

Poor Mum. She and the rest of the family never got over losing their Wendell to some stuffy Victorian caricature. Ingraining is always hard on the families of temporal anthropologists. Many families wash their hands of us and treat us as though we were dead. As for us, the person we once were feels more like a reincarnation from a previous life, rather than this one. With the carefully regulated low birthrate, and so many of us being only children, this has got to be hard on our families.

I felt the urge to throw myself at her feet and beat my head on the ground, but Victorian restrain would never allow it. I reached out and took her hand and held it in both of mine. “Dearest mother, please forgive me. I wish I had a time machine of my own, I would go back to yesterday and make this right.”

I felt especially guilty that I had taken a break and treated myself to a bicycle ride yesterday. I could have spent that time with my father. Truth was I rode about the oldest parts of the campus, pretending I was back in the 19th century.

“Why are you in such a hurry to get back into the past, Wendell? Can’t you take a couple of days off?”

“To be honest, Mother, I don’t feel comfortable in the 27th century anymore. I haven’t for a very, very long time. The 19th century is home now. It’s where I belong.”

“I know, and it scares me.” Then she forced a smile. “Your family has been history professors for generations now. Military families, back when they had wars, expected to lose sons to battles. The Howes have lost a son to History.”

I almost argued with her, then realized she was right. “Hopefully not completely. Please tell me how to make this right? Perhaps I could manage lunch today. I’ll send my luggage on ahead with the documentation.” The Institute of Time Travel insists on going through all our luggage to make sure we don’t take anything out of period. I try to buy as much as possible in the Field and keep careful records of the when and where I bought an item to prove to the twits at the Institute that they indeed had things like umbrellas and teapots in 1887.

Mum called Dad and made arrangements for lunch. We met at the local Curry Shop. They had vindaloo for lunch. I ate humble pie.

My Very First Time Trip

Today is the 100th Temporal Tuesday. Hard to imagine. I had only planned on doing one. For this momentous occasion I decided to do something different and tell you about my very first time trip forty-eight years ago.

The year was 2610. I finally got my Time Travel License. I can honestly say it was harder to get than my doctoral degrees in history and anthropology. The Institute of Time Travel insists on both. I don’t know why one needs either. I think it’s just a weeding process so they will have fewer travelers to deal with.

I had already applied to the Association of Temporal Anthropologists. My membership would be official as soon as I made my first trip into the past. I asked University of Cambridge if they would like to sponsor me. To join the Association a Temporal Anthropologist, one must be attached to a university. Being a sentimental lot, we try to get picked up by our old alma maters. Having a T.A. on staff is as prestigious as having a Nobel Prize winner, so any university that can will snatch us up. Cambridge was very eager to have me, for not only was I an alumni, I was also a native of the town. I was the classic local boy makes good.

So, I was all ready for my first trip into the Victorian Age. Whenever possible the Institute likes our first trip to be with an experienced older Temporal Anthropologist to show us the ropes. It’s what we call a Mentor.

Not that I hadn’t been trained, heaven knows. I had spent countless hours being groomed by Victorian re-enactors. I had practically lived in holographic mock-ups from real footage from the past. And there were the “ingraining” sessions at the Institute that I don’t remember much about, which I’m sure is the way they want it. My own family no longer recognized me.

The only Temporal Anthropologist covering the 19th century at the time was Dr. Henry Darrel from the University of Wyoming. Problem was his persona was a working class cowboy, mine was a gentleman scholar. And he had only been a T.A. for five years. Not ideal, but he was better than going it alone.

Sir Albert Leach in his younger days
(Always envied that magnificent mustache!)

Then I got a call from Sir Albert Leach. THE Sir Albert Leach himself! Sir Albert was a pioneer temporal anthropologist back in the old days before one needed a time travel license. He was one of the founders of the Association of Temporal Anthropologists. He had been knighted for his service to historians. The man was a living legend, a national treasure. And Sir Albert Leach was calling me.

I felt like I was fourteen again, the first time I had seen Sir Albert. My Grams Julia, the Victorian literature professor, had taken me to a lecture on campus. Sir Albert Leach presented footage of 1870 Cambridge that he brought back for the University. I was completely enthralled and vowed I would one day be a Temporal Anthropologist just like Sir Albert.

And here I now stood talking to my childhood hero and inspiration like we were old friends. Well, he talked like I was his old friend. I just stammered. Sir Albert asked if I would like him to be my Mentor and take me out on my first outing. He was willing to come out of retirement for me.

I managed to mumble a “yes.” I’m sure the fellow felt he was dealing with an idiot. As I hung up I remembered Dr. Darrel had already promised to mentor me. I called him up and apologized profusely for my rudeness. He just laughed, “Wendell, who do you think called Leach and put the idea in his head?” That is one I still owe the man.

The day came. Sir Albert looked so noble in his black silk top hat and frock coat made by Victorian tailors. He also looked a little frail. He was ancient by that time. A few more years and he would not have been able to make the trip. I fought the urge to kneel and kiss his ring.

Sir Albert gave me an appraising eye, and then smiled. “All right, Dr. Howe--mind if I call you Wendell?--if anyone asks, you are my sister’s son, Wendell Howe, from Cambridge, and this is your first trip to the big city. You will call me 'Uncle Albert' in the field. Understood?”

I nodded nervously.

He clapped me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, old boy. You will do just fine, even if you aren’t an Oxford man. Besides we will give the natives that story to explain any awkwardness on your part. London is full of gawking tourists.”

London in 1888

My word, did I ever gawk! The minute I stepped out of the time machine into 1888, I was staring about, open mouthed. Every passerby, every object, filled me with wonder. No amount a virtual reality programs can prepare you for the real thing. Here I was in another time with folks long dead.

Fortunately most people didn’t notice me, but one woman frowned back at me as I stared at her.

Sir Albert tipped his hat to her. “Please, excuse my nephew. He’s a little touched in the head.”

She gave him a sympathetic look, and moved on.

“Now my boy,” he said patiently. “It is very rude to stare at strangers in this period, especially at women. They take it as arrogance or even a threat. Next time you find yourself doing that, cast your eyes down and beg their pardon.”

“I already know that. I forgot.” I gave a defeated sigh. “How am I going to remember everything? It’s so overwhelming.”

“You will catch on quickly. A polite tip of the hat or a humble apology can get you out of a lot of social faux pas. ”

“I don’t think I can pass myself off as a gentleman like you, Sir--I mean, Uncle Albert.”

He studied me a moment. “Maybe in time. However, you are going with an upper middle class persona with a large enough inheritance to pursue a life of scholarly interests. Plenty of those now running about with butterfly nets or haunting libraries. I believe some day the term will be ‘geek.’ Yes, I think you can pull that off quite nicely.”

Nowadays I can pull off a “refined gentleman” when I need to, but it is hard work. Quirky bachelor is my forte, perhaps because that’s what I really am. I’ve never been able to match the smooth elegance and sophistication that Sir Albert had. He still is and will always be the greatest temporal anthropologist of all time.

We didn’t have any special project for that trip. This was to be an uneventful dry run. I had only the reproduction clothes I stood in, so we went shopping for a wardrobe and other essentials for me. No question as to whether or not they looked authentic since they were the real thing. I stared at the sleeve of my new suit realizing this had been hand sewn by Victorian tailors, from cloth woven in Victorian mills, from wool grown on Victorian sheep, that had eaten Victorian buttercups! It was all so amazing to me. Even after all these years it still fills me with wonder.

Traffic Jam on London Bridge in 1888

We only stayed a week, but Sir Albert showed me as much as he could. He taught me how to travel by train, what people to avoid, how to sew on a button, how to cross a street with heavy traffic without getting trampled by horses or stepping in something unpleasant--things the Institute had never thought about.

Sir Albert was always patient and kind to me. He also had quite a sense of humour. I began to feel like he really was my uncle. I always knew I could call him any time and ask his advice. I mourned him greatly when he passed away. After all these years I still miss the dear old chap. And I know I can never fill his shoes. Best I can aspire to is to one day fill the pinky of his glove.

Training the Next Generation of Temporal Anthropologists

Monday, 2 May 2658 - Cambridge, UK

In my last blog I told you would be gone the next few days to take six students working toward becoming a temporal anthropologist into the wilderness to “live in the past” with no modern conveniences.

Now, I’m back from the Yukon. The long weekend went well. Everyone survived the “Deprivation Tank”. It’s what a student nicknamed the cabin years ago. I did not anticipate anyone throwing in the towel this time, but on occasion we have had medical emergencies.

You will remember the six I introduced you to in the last blog. They all showed up wearing clothes from the periods they will be studying. Since the ancient Nubians did not have winter gear, Taharqa Mayardit had to cheat a bit with a wool tunic and fur cape. Brigit Fitzpatrick teased him that he looked more Irish than Kushite since she was wearing a tunic and fur cape herself. Dawn Owhi wore a fringed deer hide dress with a buffalo robe. Ropata Hahona wore a woven Maori cape and Henri Luc Pétaintall cavalier boots and a broad brimmed hat with a plume. Archie Cocker rounded out the group in a Victorian sack suit, bowler and overcoat. I could tell they weren’t completely comfortable with their new outfits yet, but I told them they looked like proper Temporal Anthropologists.

There was still snow on the ground when the hovervan dropped us off in the mountains of the Yukon, so we had to dig our way into the cabin. It was nearly May so the snow was melting. Tarhaqa had not had much experience with snow, and was quite fascinated by the white stuff. It’s a pity the snow was too slushy for a good snowman. He tried making a snowball and only manage an iceball. Thankfully he threw it at a tree instead of my top hat.

I could not have asked for better guests. They were all polite and doing their best to make the most of what had to be to them an uncomfortable situation. My biggest problem was not finding volunteers for chores, but having to divide them up so everyone could get a chance to experience the joy of fetching water or doing dishes. This was all a new adventure for them.

We already had a good store of food and firewood, but everyone wanted to add to it so they could say they chopped wood. After the necessary tasks were done, we had a lot of time to talk. They each told about why they wanted to be temporal anthropologists and what they had already done to prepare. None of them have yet been subjected to the rigorist training the Institute of Time Travel will put them through.

Dawn said she built a real tule hut like her ancestors. She said on the Columbia Basin it got very hot in summer and very cold in winter. The vegetation is just bunch grass, sagebrush and brittle basalt, so the natives there had little to work with. They would make frames out of drift wood and then pile on mats made of tule reeds. In hot weather they would just put the mats on top to create an open sunshade. In the winter they would cover the frame with several layers of mats until it was nice and warm inside.

I pointed out to them all this was a good example of human ingenuity. Remember no matter how primitive people in the past might seem, we are really no more intelligent now, just more technologically advanced. It’s very likely this structure was invented by one woman who came up with this brilliant idea.

Dawn sighed ruefully. “My idea wasn’t so brilliant. I thought maybe I could make a hut to learn to live like my ancestors did. I picked a spot away from all the houses, made a teepee frame and covered it with mats. Of course I had to show it off. I told my family I was going to spend the summer there. All my cousins wanted to join me, and they brought their modern camping gear, their computers, their junk food--I might as well have been sitting in my living room!”

“Maybe when the novelty wears off they will let you have the place to yourself.” I tried to cheer her up.

Archie smiled at Dawn. “At least your family didn’t have a fit. I’ve been trying to learn to shave with a straight razor, but my mother always stops me. She’s afraid I’ll cut my throat.”

“Yes,“ I said. “My mum did the same thing. Wait until you show up one day on their doorstep, and they find their little boy is gone and all they have is a chap from the 19th century.” I looked around the room. “Or someone from the 17th, 8th or 2nd century B.C.”

“Isn’t that suppose to be BCE?” Ropata corrected me.

“They said BC in the 19th, so I do, too. I don’t even own modern clothes. I don’t feel right in anything but Victorian. I feel more at home in the past. You won’t be the same person after you are ingrained into your period of study. Well, deep inside you will be the same person, but your family is going to see this stranger from another time. My Dad’s family does their best to tolerate me, but they usually act a bit uncomfortable around me. As for my Mum’s side, they don’t even speak to me. I’m no longer their Wendell, and they see me as the man who done him in.”

All their eyes got big. They hadn’t considered this possibility.

Henri brought up another problem. “Is it true temporal anthropologists have to be celibate?”

“Only in the field. We aren’t allowed to get involved with anyone in the past, least we change their lives. You can’t even make friends. Think about it. All your close friends have probably left an impression on you. You can’t leave an impression on anyone in the past least you change their life and history.”

“But you can have girlfriends in the present, right?” Henri looked scared.

“Of course, but good luck. It’s hard to maintain a relationship if you are seldom home. I’ve heard of temporal anthropologists getting married and with the right person it can work. But it is never easy. They usually end in divorce.”

“And we can’t take anyone back with us.” Taharqa pointed out.

“No, unless they are licensed time travelers and you are all discovering how difficult that is to get. A few are lucky enough to find a time traveling partner. Once in a while I get to go back with another temporal anthropologist on certain projects. Let me tell you, those rare occasions are a treat, just to have someone you can talk to. It can get very lonely in this line of work. It’s the major cause of burnout.”

They all looked disheartened at that thought. Then Brigit spoke up. “In early Christian Ireland, there were few martyrs killed for the faith. The Irish called them “Red Martyrs” and actually felt jealous of them. So they invented other types of martyrdoms. The one considered the noblest of all was “White Martyrdom.” That meant you had to leave your family and your home to travel to a far away place never to return, all for the sake of God. Aren’t you a bit of a “White Martyr,” Dr. Howe? You’ve given up family and home to bring back the truth for the sake of all of us? Isn’t that what we all will become?”

I looked into those shining green eyes. “That was beautiful, my dear, although I don’t think I rate up their with the saints.” I looked around at all of them “There is one compensation, though. You look in the eyes of someone who has been ingrained to fit ancient Rome or the Aztecs and they should seem alien. But they don’t. Temporal anthropologists may all look so very different, but we aren’t inside. Few people will ever experience what we do--to travel back in time and gaze upon the faces of their ancestors. Temporal Anthropologists are a tight knit group, a brotherhood. You won’t truly be alone.”

They looked at each others clothes and then at their faces and smiled. They were already feeling that, and they weren’t even time travelers yet.

“Just remember, whether you can hang on for fifty year, or get burnt out after five, any information, any artifact, any video you can bring back is a priceless treasure for the entire world. It’s worth the sacrifice.”

I'm Off to the Yukon Again

Wednesday, 27 April 2658

I fear I will be unable to tweet anything for the next four days. I will be bereft of all outside contact with the world. I must apologize ahead of time for ignoring all of you, but it can’t be helped.

You will remember almost two years ago I took a handful of students to the Yukon to stay in a cabin owned by the Association of Temporal Anthropologists to see who could survive for a week living in primitive conditions. (See Annual Temporal Anthropologist Candidate Endurance Test) This year I’m going back with six students who made it past that first hurtle and are now committed to becoming licensed time travelers.

This trip isn’t so much a test as an exercise in living without modern conveniences. The trainees are as follows:

Archibald Cocker - University of Liverpool: You will remember Archie who was the only one who decided to become a Temporal Anthropologist after the Endurance Test I presided over. He wants to study Victorian Britain, too, but from the angle of his working class ancestors. People think I’m brave to go back and live in the 19th century, but you’ll never see me working in a factory or sweeping a chimney. Very brave lad!

Dawn Owhi - Central Washington University: Stella is a Yakama who wants to study the Plateau tribes in the Pacific Northwest corner of the United States of America.

Ropata Hahona - University of Auckland: Ropata wants to live among his Maori ancestors in New Zealand.

Taharqa Mayardit - University of Sudan: Taharqa is interested in the ancient Kush & Meroe Empires.

Henri Luc Pétain - University of Paris: Henri dreams of traveling to 17th century France and seeing “The Sun King.”

Brigit Fitzpatrick - University of Dublin: Brigit wants to carry on the work of the late Brendan MacDonnell, one of the founding members of Association of Temporal Anthropologists. Brendan was studying Dark Age Ireland, and making copies of the lost books of the monastic libraries.

I know none of these scholars will be living in a 19th century cabin when they go out into the Field. As I said this is just to get them use to living without computers and modern plumbing. We are also coming here in spring rather than summer. There will probably still be some snow on the ground, making the conditions even more uncomfortable for them. And we will all be crammed into two rooms with three bunk beds and a cot. Hardly a luxury holiday.

Still I enjoy these type of outings more than the endurance tests since the whiners have all been weeded out. However, it will not be easy for any of them. They are all products of the 27th century after all. This will be a culture shock for them.

The Association could have just as easily sent a historical recreationist along to show the students how to light a wood stove or chop wood, but we send them with an experienced temporal anthropologist. I’m sure they are all dieing to ask me what it’s like in the Field. I plan to have long group discussions so they can ask questions and air fears. I get to play the role of wise elder. (All right, I’ll have to fake the “wise” part.)

Tweet you all next month. I’ll let you know how things went.

Temporal Anthropologist Ball

The first of April was the birthday of Dr. Serendipity Brown, the woman who invented time travel back in the 24th century and thus made temporal anthropology possible. So in her honor, every 1st of April, we hold the Annual Association of Temporal Anthropologists Meeting and Ball. Actually we will have the meeting this weekend, but this evening will be the ball. This year it will be held at the Empress Hotel in Victoria in the Crystal Ballroom.

I've never been able to visit the Empress while in the field, because it wasn't built until 1908. I understand they almost tore it down in 1965, but the entire city protested and she was restored and has been carefully preserved all these centuries.

Dr. Chester Black Buffalo
in his formal ball attire

The annual meeting is the one time when all the Temporal Anthropologists try to make it home so we can all gather together. I imagine it must look like a giant masquerade party since we are all in our period clothes. Next to an Egyptian or Viking, suddenly a Victorian doesn't look all that exotic anymore. It is quite a spectacle because everyone wears their best attire for the ball.

I'll be wearing a Victorian tuxedo. Maybe it's just my tailcoat, but all the ladies want to dance with me when they play a waltz. I'll be sure to save a dance for Dr. Warwick. Been too long since I've seen Matilda. She is quite a sight in her medieval gown.

Today I'm meandering about the Empress, chatting with my colleagues. Later, I'll see if I can pull Matilda away for tea. The Empress is famous for its afternoon teas. Definitely do not wish to miss that.

I Discover Lily's Problem

30 April 1860 - Florida Everglades

Temporal Biologists are a bit too obsessed with their job to be very good company. Dr. Lily Pinehurst, however, is the worst I have ever worked with.

She doesn’t like me to get too close, which in our cramped quarters is very difficult. I must be three feet away from her at all times. If I get any closer, she starts hissing at me not to touch her. So I back up and try to stay as far away as possible.

I’ve tried to start conversations with her, but she either ignores me or shushes me. She won’t speak to me unless she has to and then it sounds like an order. She talks to her orchids, but not to me. I get the distinct feeling she does not want me around at all, except as a slave to punt her about the swamp.

Today Pinehurst found a patch of ground with trees she wanted to explore. We have found quite a few orchids growing on trees. They attach themselves and then dangle their spongy roots to collect dew and rain water. I stayed with the punt, knowing I wasn’t wanted.

I was reading some files in my pocket computer when I heard a blood curdling scream. I sprang up and hurried to the source, climbing over logs and roots. I found Lily standing there looking terrified.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I can’t move my feet. Make the ground let go!”

I looked down at her feet, ankle deep in the mud. Quicksand! If I went to her, I would probably be trapped, too. I had to think fast.

“Wait here!” I yelled. As I rushed off I realized that was a stupid thing to say to someone who couldn’t move.

I got back to the punt and grabbed it up. It’s light enough I can move it but with some difficulty. Now it seemed half its normal weight. Thank heavens for adrenaline.

I got back, laid the punt down and pushed it toward her. “Climb on!”

She grabbed the edge of the punt, and looked like she was trying to pull herself out. “I can’t. I’m stuck.”

I crawled onto the punt and out to her. “I’ll pull you out, Dr. Pinehurst.”

“Don’t touch me!”

“Dr. Pinehurst, I have to touch you to pull you out. I don’t have a choice. We have to get you out or you will get sucked in and suffocate, or at the very least, you’ll be trapped until you starve to death or something comes along and eats you.”

She looked at me big-eyed, like she was trying decide if that was worse than being touched.

I grabbed her under the arms and pulled. She pulled on the side of the punt, too. The whole time she kept whimpering, “No. No. No.” Despite her protests she didn’t try fighting me off.

I got her into the punt and automatically reached out to pat her arm. “There, there. You are safe now.”

“Don’t touch me!” Her voice sounded more scared than angry.

“I do beg your pardon, Dr. Pinehurst. I did not mean to seem too forward.” I looked around, deciding our next move. “Come on. Crawl out the back of the punt, away from the quicksand. We’ll take the boat back to the water and get back to camp. I’m sure you want to get cleaned up.”

Dr. Pinehurst nodded and meekly followed my instructions.

Back at camp I waited outside of the time machine that also served as our shelter. There are no hotels out here after all. Dr. Pinehurst came out looking shaken by her ordeal. She sat down on one of the campstools made of canvas and wood. They were period, so we could have them outside. I don’t know how old the design is, but I do know George Washington used them.

“Would you like some tea?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Don‘t like tea. Tastes nasty.”

I sat down in the other campstool. “Dr. Pinehurst, I am getting the feeling something more is going on here than you just not liking me. I was trying to pull you to safety and you didn’t want me to touch you? That makes no sense at all. Under those circumstances I would let my worse enemy touch me.”

She hung her head. “I can’t tell.”

“Tell me what?”

“Mother said if I told people I would never get a job anywhere.”

“You can tell me. Besides, I doubt Kew Gardens would want to get rid of you. Director Sherwood was going on and on about what an excellent botanist you are.”

“I’m not normal.”

“My dear, I run around the 27th century in a frockcoat with a Victorian accent. I’m not exactly normal myself.”

She snorted. It took me a moment to realize that was a laugh.

I searched my memory for what might be wrong. Then it hit me. “Do you have Bartley’s Syndrome?”

She hung her head. “Yes.”

Now everything made sense. It seems as soon as you cure one disease, more pop up. We aren’t sure if Bartley’s Syndrome is new, or it was just misdiagnosed as Autism or something else. It is something you are born with. Treatment as a child can lessen the symptoms, but it can’t be cured.

People with Bartley’s Syndrome can’t stand to be touched. They have a hard time connecting with people. They are insensitive, because they lack the ability to sense the feelings of others or to read body language. There social skills are hopelessly inadequate. On the plus side, they are seldom violent, except in self defense, and are often brilliant.

“Bartley’s Syndrome is nothing to be ashamed of. I wished you could have told me. I thought you hated me.”

She looked up confused. “Why did you think I hated you?”

I didn’t know how to answer that. She honestly did not see her behavior toward me as unfriendly. “Because normal people don’t talk to someone or want them near them if they don’t like them. However, I see now it wasn’t personal.”

“If I didn’t like you I would say I didn’t like you. You’ve been very nice. You haven’t yelled at me or told me off because I did something you didn’t like. I hate that, because I never know what I did wrong. I like you.”

It’s said people with Bartley’s Syndrome can never truly love or hate. Tolerating someone is the best they can aspire to. I had been given high praise indeed.

“And now that I understand what is going on, I like you, too, Dr. Pinehurst.”

“You can call me Lily, if you want. Friends call each other by their first names, don’t they?”

“Yes, and you can call me Wendell.”

“Okay, Wendell. Get up, I need more orchids. Hurry up before it gets dark.” She got up and headed toward the boat.

Politeness was a concept she could never understand. Now that I knew what her problem was, I found it more amusing than irritating.

“I’m right behind you, Lily.”

Now I saw why she had become a botanist. Plants can’t get offended.

My Tea Party with Queen Victoria

4 October, 2657 - London, UK

I think I’ve been had.

Yesterday I received an email from Her Majesty, Queen Victoria the Fifth granting me an audience on Monday morning, 4 October, 10 a.m. This was quite a surprise, since I hadn’t asked for an audience. I decided this was regal-speak for demanding my presence.

I was only too happy to oblige. What is it about royalty that turns Brits into doting idiots? After seventeen centuries has it been bred into our genes? Or has charisma been bred into the Royal Family? “Vickie the 5th,” as we like to call her, has absolutely no real power except the ability to charm you into doing almost anything. The Royals are careful not to abuse this power, if only so we subjects don’t become immune to it.

I showed up at Buckingham Palace, fifteen minutes early, least I be late. At exactly ten I was escorted into a parlor where her Majesty sat. Victoria the 5th bears no resemblance to her name sack. She does bear a remarkable resemblance to another ancestor--Grace Kelly. She asked me to sit and offered me tea. Here I was, Wendell Howe, the offspring of humble professors, sitting in Buckingham Palace, sipping tea with the Queen of Britain herself!

Her Majesty was telling me how much she loved orchids and would love to see more at the Royal Botanical Gardens. She asked if I would like to help? I was nodding profusely, only half comprehending what she was saying. She is so regal and captivating that you find yourself promising her anything.

At 10:15 a stubby fellow was brought in. He introduced himself to me as Dr. Arthur Sherwood, the curator of the Royal Botanical Gardens at Kew here in London. Victoria suggested Sherwood take me to the gardens and explain my mission.

I found myself whisked away in a hover-limo to Kew Gardens. Sherwood gave me a short history of the Royal Botanical Gardens. Founded in 1759, Kew started out as a royal garden, but in 1840 were adopted as a national botanical garden. The Royal Botanical Gardens quickly outgrew the 300 acres at Kew, and now have gardens all over. They also have a Temporal Botanist on staff.

Uh oh. Now I knew why they needed me. Temporal Biologists, such as Temporal Botanists and Temporal Zoologists, are a thorn in the side of Temporal Anthropologists. I know we should not be that way. We have good reason, though. Things have been strained since the Temporal Botanist, Dr. Dennis Kiley, let Temporal Anthropologist, Dr. Jose Cervantes, fall off a cliff. When Kiley was asked why he didn’t try to help Cervantes, he replied “What? And drop my extinct Amazon Lily? Are you mad?”

I don’t think it was anything personal, it’s just Temporal Biologists are--well, very focused. The Institute of Time Travel gave up long ago trying to teach them to blend into a particular era like they do with Temporal Anthropologists. They are far more concerned with plants and animals, than with people. Besides, they specialize in a genome rather than a time period.

The Institute instead makes them take a Temporal Anthropologist with them to run interference with the natives in the Field. Since animals and plants are best found in remote areas, we don’t tend to run into too many people.

Still these assignments can be taxing. Temporal Botanists are so focused on finding and preserving specimens that they tend to ignore you. They talk more to their plants than they do to you. They often don’t do as you tell them, not understanding why angry natives should want to harm them, and why they are only making said natives angrier.

I suppose we should be more tolerant of Temporal Biologists. After all, they are collecting plants and animals that are extinct and no longer in the 27th century. However, they will treat the dodo they have just captured as the last dodo on earth, even when they are surrounded by the creatures. What mere Temporal Anthropologist can compete with a specimen that is “the last of its kind?”

After a brief tour of the orchid greenhouse, Dr. Sherwood introduced me to their Temporal Botanist, Dr. Lily Pinehurst. I recalled the name. I remember Dr. Karl Hornberg complaining about her. She sees Temporal Anthropologists as a pain in the nether regions who just get in her way. She apparently became a botanist because she gets along better with plants, than with people.

I stuck out my hand to shake hands with her. She just looked at it, then looked up at me. “Can you punt?” she asked.

“Erm, yes, of course,” I said, feeling confused. “They would run me out of Cambridge if I couldn’t punt.”

“Good! I need a punter. You’ll be useful.”

“Why do you need a punter?”

“Florida Everglades. It’s a swamp. Shallow water. Got lots of orchids, many now lost. We are going to bring them back.”

“The Everglades?” My heart sank. “You know, there’s a reason the Seminoles ran away into the Everglades. No one in their right mind would follow them into it. It’s full of man-eating alligators.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“The alligators are man-eaters; they won’t eat my orchids.”

I then saw why Her Majesty had asked me to tea. Kew Gardens wanted Queen Victoria to ask me personally to go on this ordeal, knowing I couldn’t say “no” to her.

Like I said--I have been had.


For those who don’t know what punting is:
Punting at the University of Cambridge

For more on the Royal Botanical Gardens, Kew:
(They really are very lovely.)
Royal Botanical Gardens, Kew official website
A short film showing Kew Gardens
Follow Kew Gardens on Twitter @Kewgardens

My Invitation to New Orleans

29 July 2657

A couple of months ago I received an call from a fellow Temporal Anthropologist, Dr. Isaac Franklin from the University of New Orleans. He comes from a long line of musicians, so his special project is to find the roots of the blues, jazz and rock. He hasn’t been in the ‘field’ long, but he’s already gaining a sterling reputation.

Franklin’s image on the screen had a big grin. He has one of those baby faces that makes him look much younger than he is. “Hey, bro!”

“Bro?”

“You know, brother? Remember when Mom and Aunt Bessie adopted you into the family for saving my life?”

I had to chuckle at that. Last year Dr. Franklin had failed to return with his time machine from 1859 Missouri. The Enforcers tracked him down to a plantation in Mississippi. The poor chap had been kidnapped by and sold into slavery because of his dark complexion. Rather than break him out, the Enforcers enlisted Dr. Henry Darrel and I to first try a more subtle approach. Henry posed as a bounty hunter saying he had tracked Isaac down. I played the part of Isaac’s “owner” come to buy back his “property.”

“I hardly did anything heroic, Dr. Franklin,” I said..

“Call me Isaac. You had to pose as a slave owner. I know you didn‘t enjoy that.”

“No, I didn’t. I’m just glad you called me ‘bro’ instead of ‘massa.’”

“Hey, that’s right! You own me now. Bought me fair and square.”

“That’s not funny, Isaac.”

Franklin stopped grinning. “Ooh, it appears to me that is a touchy subject with you.”

“I’m afraid it is. When I decided to study my Victorian ancestors I hadn’t realized just how racist, sexist and elitist they really were. It’s a horrible disappointment.”

Isaac shrugged. “You can’t pick your relatives.”

“Apparently your family can if I’m now your brother.”

Isaac laughed at that. We chatted awhile about “our mother” and the rest of the family. I recalled how she had insisted Henry and I come down to New Orleans for dinner and would have destroyed our waistlines if not for modern medicine.

“What I’m calling about, Wendell, is I got a job for you.”

“Oh?”

“We need you to go to 1885 to the World Cotton Centennial in New Orleans.”

“You can’t go? I would think you would want to return to the land of your ancestors.”

“Done that plenty of times, and I’ll do it plenty more.”

“What is a World Cotton Centennial?”

“World’s Fair. If it’s okay with you, I’m going to suggest you to the University for the job instead of me. I’m going to pull the ‘colored card’, tell them it’s segregated.”

“It was a whites only affair? Not much of a World’s Fair if they did that.”

Franklin shrugged. “I don’t know if it was or not. That’s what I’m going to tell them.”

“Why?”

“Because I want you to see New Orleans.”

“I’ve seen it.”

“No, in the 19th century when it was still young.”

“I’ve seen that, too. I’ve popped back for a couple of jobs.”

“And popped right back out, right?”

I probably looked guilty. “I feel uncomfortable in 19th century southern America. If you think racism was bad in England then, you should see it in the South...Oh, yes, I guess you have...from the other side.”

“So can you.”

“I suppose I did get a little of that showing up at the American Centennial in 1776 Philadelphia with an English accent, but no one wanted to lynch me.”

“No, you’re a Franklin now. You’re Creole!”

“With an English accent? It won‘t work. Maybe you should get Dr. Darrel. At least he’s American.”

“No way, no how. You’ve studied lots of cultures in the 19th century, but you missed out on New Orleans culture.”

“I’ve seen plenty of the South.”

“No, New Orleans is in the South, but it’s a different culture all together. It’s unique! Why do you think New Orleans is still there? It’s got to be the worst location to build a city, but it could not have existed anywhere else. Slowly sinking into the swamp, constantly hit by floods and hurricanes. Yet we refuse to leave! We just built on stilts, put up taller and taller dykes, kept pumping out ground water--did what we had to so we could stay.”

“So New Orleans is unique because of your tenacity?”

“No, we are tenacious because New Orleans is unique. America was an English colony. New Orleans was French colony. Then Spain took over 1763 and owned it for forty years, putting their two cents into the culture, then gave it back. Napoleon then sold it too America for the cash.

“All this time the French stayed and kept their culture. The French let their slaves keep there culture, too, so African culture survived there much better than the rest of the South. And the French that took slave mistresses, freed their children instead of selling them, so you had a huge population of black freemen.

“And of course their was the local Native American influence--the Chitimacha, Natchez, Choctaw. Add to that the Acadian French brought down from Canada in 1755 to become Cajuns and the thousands of Haitian immigrants who came in the early 1800s. Sprinkle in German, Irish and Italian immigrants, along with both whites and blacks coming in from the rest of the South, stir it up and you got New Orleans. People leave, but they come back, because nowhere else is quite like New Orleans.”

It dawned on me that Franklin wanted to thank me, and the greatest gift he could think of to give me was his hometown. I thought I was proud of my Cambridge roots, but I could hardly compete with this sort of devotion. New Orleans wasn’t just a place to him. It was a living entity.

“I’m ashamed to say I had no idea New Orleans was so special,” I told him. “Now you have me intrigued.”

“Just tell people your parents went to England when you were a toddler, but you’ve come back to find your roots. If they’re white, tell them you are ‘French Creole.’ If they’re black, tell them you’re ‘Creole of Color.’”

“With my pale skin? They’ll never believe it, old boy.”

“This is the nineteenth century, Wendell. Just one drop of African blood makes you ‘negro’ according to the law. I’ve seen “colored folks” paler than you. They will assume your parents went to England so they could ‘cross-over.’”

“They died?”

“No, passed themselves off as white.”

“I know enough about the nineteenth century to see why one would want to do that. Hard to believe they actually believed in the myth of separate races back then. To be honest Franklin, I am amazed you would even want to visit that era.”

Franklin grinned at me. “The more ignored a people, the less they were recorded. Lots of musicians back there that were important and forgotten. And I can get into places you could never go.”

“You’re a bravery man than I am, old boy.”

“And you can get into places, I can’t. I want you to record those for the University of New Orleans.”

“I’ll have to return the favor. Show you your ‘English roots,’ ‘brother.’ I’ll teach you to punt on the Cam. We should probably stick with 27th century. It would be impolite to invite you somewhere where you might be snubbed.”

“Snubbed? Let me tell you about the time I visited 1962 London to study the pre-British invasion rock scene. When the fellas there found out I was a blues musician from New Orleans, they treated me like I was a god. Eric Clampton kept trying to get me to play so he could copy my licks. Had a hell of a time getting away from Mick Jagger.”

“My word! It sounds like you had a fan club. I doubt if I’m going to get that sort of reception in New Orleans.”

“You tell them you’re the returning prodigal son, Wendell, they’ll treat you like family.”

So I’m off to New Orleans to find my Creole “roots.” This might be fun.

Association of Temporal Anthropologists’ Annual Meeting and Ball

I thought I would tell you all about yesterday. I had planned to tweet you, but it’s a bit hard when people keep walking up and saying hello and shaking your hand or bowing or thumping their chests or what ever the greeting is in the culture they are studying.

I think I have mentioned that I don’t even own a 27th century suit. I’ve been so entrenched into the Victorian age, I such don’t feel quite right wearing anything else but Victorian clothes. I’m not unique among Temporal Anthropologists. And now we have them all in one spot. Imagine if you will, over one hundred Temporal Anthropologists running about in attire from various periods.

We try to hold the Ball at a different location every year. This one was held on the RMS Titanic VII, the sixth replica of that ill-fated ship. So far every other Titanic has had an impeccable safety record, since the owners go out of their way to make sure there can be no problems. I don’t think the builders of any of these Titanics ever imagined Egyptians or Celts running about an Edwardian ship.

We are all sent invitations and tickets for ourselves and a guest The second ticket is in hope that we will bring more woman to the ball since, male Temporal Anthropologists outnumber female Temporal Anthropologists. I once again failed this year to help with this lopsided ratio. I brought instead the student who passed last year’s Annual Temporal Anthropologists Candidate Endurance Test. Archibald Cocker actually liked living in a cabin with no running water and thought chopping wood was fun. He’s already gotten a Master’s in history and a bachelor’s in anthropology. He just needs to finish a doctoral in both and then he’ll be eligible to attend the Institute of Time Travel’s training school to acquire his Time Travel License.

I have high hopes for Archie. He’s bright and he’s eager, and somehow he looks right in a Victorian sack suit and a bowler. (He plans to study 19th century Britain, too.) So I brought him to introduce him around. He tried not to stare, but it’s hard when a Cavalier is pumping your hand.

I had fun watching Archie watching the crowd. On deck, the barbarians were having sword fights. They used rattan swords and wore padding to avoid fatal blows, but not bruises. Bit odd watching a Viking fighting a Mongol. Hard to remember all these men have double Ph.D.s when they are hitting each other with sticks.

In the saloon there was another “fight” between a Buddhist monk, a Muslim scholar from Timbuktu, a Byzantine Christian, a pagan from ancient Athens and a Cheyenne shaman as they discussed their beliefs. Pity all religious “wars” aren’t this cordial.

I did run into Dr. Matilda Warwick, dressed in her medieval tunic and veil. She was with Dr. Henry Darrel wearing his usual cowboy outfit. He was happy to finally meet Archie. Archie wants to study the working man like Henry does, only he wants to study the British Industrial Revolution and not the American one. I have a feeling both Henry and I will both be taking Archie out into the Field his first few trips. Archie began plying Henry with all kinds of questions, and Henry was happy to find someone with similar interests. We traded and I took Matilda for a stroll on the deck. She had something she wanted to show me back in her room. We had a very pleasant time.

At lunch they had the “Meeting” which is the Association President getting up and speaking for fifteen minutes on the latest news. We of course will hear all this in emails, but it’s an excuse to get together for lunch. No sense having a real meeting ruin a perfectly good function.

That afternoon Archie attended a class with all the other guests to learn the waltz and other dances that will be featured at the Ball. The female guests did outnumber the male guests this year. I found myself recruited to help rectify the numbers. The ladies all thought it was special to be dancing with someone who had waltzed in Vienna while Johann Strauss played. I rather enjoyed the female company. It was worth the wounded toes.

That evening the ballroom was beautiful. The chandeliers glistened and showed off the decorations. I wore my tuxedo. Everyone else wore their period’s equivalent. Henry was in a sack suit. I asked him why he wasn’t wearing a tuxedo, since he was from the 19th century, too. He said this was as fancy as he got.

Matilda had shed her usual simple brown tunic from a lovely 14th century gown she called a Houppelande. I told her she looked like something out of King Arthur. She reminded me Arthur was from the Dark Ages. I told her she looked like something out of the pre-Raphaelites then. She couldn't argue with that.

Matilda saved a waltz for me. I noticed Henry got the tango. No one asked me to tango. I can tango quite well. It’s Victorian, you know. All my waltzes were filled though, so I shouldn’t complain too much. (Still I am a very good tango dancer!)

The party went on into the wee hours. We Temporal Anthropologists can be a wild bunch. All right, we are a rather tame wild bunch, but we had fun. Rather sorry I had to miss it last year.

Archie survived the culture shock and wants even more to become a Temporal Anthropologist. Nice lad, I do hope he makes it, but I think he will.

So now it’s back to work until the next Annual Assocaition of Temporal Anthropologist Meeting and Ball. I like to think that Dr. Serendipity Brown, the inventor of Time Travel, would be pleased that we chose the 1st of April, the anniversary of her birthday, as the date for the event. Seemed appropriate since none of us would be Temporal Anthropologists without her. Here’s to you, Dr. Brown. You will always be remembered.

I Now Have a Verified Account (I Think)

I was getting complaints that my Twitter feed at @Wendell_Howe was getting filled up with "thank yous" and replies. And yet I hate to be so rude as to ignore anyone on Twitter who takes the time to tweet me. So I created a second account, @Wendell_A_Howe, so I could talk to others without everyone feeling like we were talking behind their backs.

To make sure that there would be no confusion, I decided to get the second account verified so people would know it wasn't a fake account. However when I made the request to Twitter, they politely laughed in my face. Verified accounts were only for celebrities, like actors, singers, politicians and other entertainers. A Temporal Anthropologist is just a historic researcher and hardly qualified.

So I did a search on the internet to find a solution. I found a nice outfit in Tijuana who said they could verify my account and created the above. It is proudly displayed in the background of my second account. When you see it, you will know I am indeed a True Twit.

Mum

Wednesday, 13 January 2657

Mum called me Sunday to tell me Great Grams Hazel had collapsed and was in the hospital. Mum was distraught. Hazel was Mum’s grandmother on her dad’s side and they had always been close. Mum wanted--needed--her son. All she had was me, the man the Institute of Time Travel had created. I didn’t know if I could be much comfort to her, but I was determined to try.

Grams Hazel is 215. By the natural aging index, she would be in her late 80’s, early 90’s. Modern medicine and genetic engineering has slowed the aging process down. It seems to slow more the older we get. Until we reach adulthood, we age at a natural rate. Just as well. Who would want to live through fourteen years of puberty? We have inadvertently created a society where the elderly outnumber the young. It always amazes me of the number of children in the Victorian age and how many are unwanted. For us children are like rare jewels to be treasured.

I have told you last blog how awkward family gathering were for me. At least Dad’s side of the family has a strong tradition of history professors. I might make them uncomfortable, but they tolerate me because I’m a history researcher and they grudgingly respect that.

Mum’s side of the family is another matter all together. They do not approve of me at all. When I came into the hospital waiting room I heard the whispers. “What is that freak doing here?” She’s my great grandmother, too. I stayed out of their way, in the corner. I was going to be there for Mum.

Relatives faded in and out. Mum however was pretty well camped out in the waiting room. Dad had a bug he didn’t want to pass around, so he couldn’t be there for Mum. I stayed with her as much as I could, putting my life on hold.

Last night when everyone went to dinner, Mum came over to me. “Thank you, Wendell.”

“It’s quite all right, Mother. It is my duty, as a son and great grandson, to be here to give what moral support I can.”

Mum sort of stared at me a moment. “MY Wendell would have just hugged me and said ‘Oi, no problem, Mum.’ You used to be so laid back and affectionate and funny. Damn Institute took my Wendell away and left this stuffy Victorian in his place.”

“I do apologize for putting you through any sort of anxiety. That was never my intention.”

“I know that. I also know it wasn’t easy for you to be here today. Everyone is mad at you for what you’ve become and none of them try to hide it. MY Wendell was a kind, considerate and caring person--and so are you. You are a good person, whoever you are. It was hard enough to lose my boy, and have some stranger take his place. It would have killed me if the Institute had stuck some git in his body.”

“Instead they stuck a twit in it, eh?”

Mum laughed at that. “All right, so they didn’t completely destroy your sense of humour.” She patted my cheek. “I’d give you a big hug and kiss, but I know that sort of thing makes you uncomfortable now.”

“Feel free to do it anyway. I only look uncomfortable.”

Why You Can't Go Home Again

18 December 2656

Grandmother Julia came by my office today and invited me to lunch. We went to the Prince Albert Restaurant at the Victorian Village north of Cambridge. She knows that's where I feel the most comfortable. The other customers assume I work at the Village.

The Village was decorated for Christmas which is only a week away. By the way Grams looked at the holly and ivy, I knew what the subject of conversation would be.

We had just ordered our meal when Grams leaned forward. “You won’t be spending Christmas with the family, will you? You’re going right back out into the Field, just like you do every year.”

I nodded. “I’m leaving this afternoon.”

“You won’t even be here a full day. You were just going to slip away without contacting anyone.”

“I’m sorry, Grams. It’s just too hard. You know what happened the last time I showed up for Christmas.”

“That was forty-five years ago, Wendell.”

“And if I show up, it would ruin everyone’s holiday again. They don’t want me there.”

“Of course they do, dear.”

“No, they want the old Wendell. They want the 27th century history student, with the hair hanging in his eyes, who listened to pop music and dressed in the latest fashion. Father keeps nagging me to retire and become a professor. I suppose he thinks that if I do that the old Wendell will miraculously return. That Wendell is gone forever.”

“It’s been forty-six years. That Wendell would be gone anyway.”

No, that student would have evolved into a twenty-seventh century history professor--not a stodgy Victorian gentleman.”

“Well, I like the stodgy Victorian gentleman.”

“I must say, you are the only one in the family that does. Would you feel that way if you hadn’t taught Victorian literature? Who am I too you, Grams? Philias Fogg? David Copperfield?”

“You’re Wendell Howe, dear. Yes, I know the Institute changed you, but I still see the old Wendell in your eyes.”

The Institute of Time Travel’s training had transformed me into another person. I had to become Victorian so I could fit into the 19th century perfectly. Now I no longer fit in the 27th or in my own family. It was a necessary sacrifice if one wanted to study the past first hand. I sometimes wondered though if the Institute didn’t go a little overboard in their programming. We couldn’t just be actors; they wanted us to be the “real” thing.

Grams leaned across the table and patted my hand. “Maybe you aren’t the same Wendell, but this Wendell is nice, too. This Wendell pulls out my chair and opens doors for me.”

“And it gets me plenty of stares. No one behaves like that anymore, Grams. I do it without thinking.”

“It's a shame people don't act that way now. I had always read about Victorian etiquette and thought it might be nice. It is. I like it.”

“So, you lost your grandson but gained a Victorian gentleman? I wish the rest of the family felt like you.”

“They still love you.”

“Yes, I know. My family is better than most. They do their best to tolerate me. Most Temporal Anthropologists I’ve talked to, their families disowned them outright and won’t even let them in the house.”

“That’s horrible!”

“Perhaps, but it is understandable. At first the family thinks you’re being a gitt because you won’t drop out of character. When they finally see you can’t, they look upon you as a stranger.”

“So let them get to know the stranger, dear. I’m sure they will learn to love him just like I do.”

I shook my head. “I think after awhile, when the family realized the person they knew and loved was gone, they came to look upon me as some monster who killed their son, and then possessed his body.”

“That’s ridiculous. They know you’re Wendell.”

“Maybe consciously they do, but what about subconsciously? Too often family members either seem to be angry with me for no reason, or look at me like they are mourning my death. I’m both the murderer and the corpse to them. I killed the old Wendell they loved, their only son and grandson. I’m amazed they are as civil as they are to me.”

Grams had no comeback to that. She just looked at me, like she knew it was true.

“That’s why I can’t stay for Christmas, Grams. My presence would spoil it for everyone.”

Grams nodded, then smiled. “Just remember, dear. I love both of you--the new Wendell and the old Wendell. He’s not really dead, you know. He’s in the very core of your being. You saved the best parts of him, I think.”

“I love you, too, Grams. If there’s any good qualities in me, I probably inherited them from you.”

“So, where are you going this time?”

“London, Christmas 1879.”

“Are Victorian Christmases as wonderful as they say?”

“The Victorians ‘invented’ Christmas! I wish you could see it. I would give the world to take you.”

“You can bring me back some video and maybe a Christmas card.”

“I’ll bring you back a Victorian Christmas, Grams. I promise.”