I once considered myself to be a fairly good person who took advantage of every opportunity to display higher moral standards. I had always taken pride in the fact that I conducted my life in a way that was most in line with the historical period that my museum represented. Now, there is not a day that passes that I do not wish for an ability to erase the memories that have haunted me since a dreadful day and an ill fated choice at Fort Delaware.

 

It is with great embarrassment that I must admit, what I initially conceived to be a minor matter, resulted in terribly disturbing consequences. This choice had been clearly rooted in misjudgment. A singular act of “borrowing” was conducted from a supercilious perspective. I had rationalized my behavior with the belief that I deserved to borrow these historic items. Yes, I had thought I was entitled to take those old, dry shoes. 

 

I had worked in the museum much longer than anyone else there and was certainly the most knowledgeable reenactor. Although I was the youngest, I had become very well-versed in the stories of those who had once lived in these cabins within the Fort Delaware museum. I had read and reread the diaries that told tales of the life adventures of times long gone. Through my daily ponderings, I attained a great command of the stories which I would tell and retell to visitors. Through parchment books, and legends, the whispers of time confided in me through the Colonial museum’s artifacts during the silences between tours.

 

I felt almost omniscient as I was most consulted, even by other tour guides who were older. I deserved to wear the 18th century shoes that had rested for too long in the corner without living human feet to give them their proper shape. The withered, leather ladies shoes still had their brass buckles attached. The openings seem to compel me to place my feet inside them. They had been forgotten for so many years in what is known as the Thomas cabin. There they lay, in an uncanny way, inviting me to another time. They had been hiding under a rickety Wooden frame bed which was tied with hemp rope and topped with straw. I was certain that no one would notice the absence of those forgotten shoes. They were so neglected and covered with dust that I felt sorry no one had cared enough to maintain them. I determined that I was indeed entitled to take them, even if just for a day. In my devotion to the period artifacts,I began to sense that there was a strong otherworldly presence willing to bequeath the shoes to my care.

 

One day, in the late afternoon, all things seemed to converge and create the perfect opportunity for me to fulfill my desire. Most of the other museum workers had left. It was as though my time had come. A cogent spirit or energy seemed to rise from the shoes. I had conducted my daily routines and responsibilities, all the while skulking about the place, though I believed I was making sure that anyone who might be there would not perceive my intentions. I was vigilant, constantly checking to see who was, or was not paying attention. Then, at the most opportune moment, I quickly removed my shoes (which were only reproductions), hoping that no one would notice. I placed my shoes under the rustic colonial bed, substituting them for the enchanted shoes that I had perceived to be the remedy for all of my cravings.

 

Like lightning in the night, the world of the present was instantly dispersed and my mind and perceptions were overtaken by another reality. My senses were dramatically altered. My body was wretched and ached with pain all over. Hunger and cold had me shivering uncontrollably. Looking down, I saw that my skin and hands were dry and worn. I closed my eyes to stop the sensation of swooning. 

 

Where I had once just moments before been invulnerable, I suddenly felt myself close to death's door. With my eyes closed, I saw a cabin burning, with smoke billowing from within. Children were screaming. Some ran into the woods and others did not escape an excruciating demise in the flames. They were my children, suffering death from a malevolent act of retaliation by a local tribe of Lenape who had been previously wronged by my people. In the vision, I could see my son having been struck with a tomahawk. Bodies were strewn about with limbs visible through the briars. Blood turned the earth to mud; I could smell it! War whooping and screaming echoed through the thick, endless woods. 

 

I rubbed my eyes, but had a hard time seeing through the tears. I suddenly caught my own reflection in a broken glass window. The glass was dull, but I was able to tell that the face looking back was not mine. I knew I was living the life of the shoes! The shoes were revealing the nightmare of the death of their owner, Rose Tracy. The shoes had taken me to a graphic vision of the terrible suffering that she had endured in her last day of life. Everything was spinning. I touched the back of my hair, wet with blood, and I realized that my skull had been split. Tomahawk, I thought as I felt my life leaving my body. I finally collapsed.

 

The hooting of an owl finally woke me. It was dark. Somehow, there was no one there to notice that I had gone into an unconscious state. I had been caught by the straw covered bed which was in a dark corner less visited in the Fort. The ice-like temperature of the shoes on my feet was almost painful. I thrust them off quickly and kicked them away.

 

Nervously, I collected my belongings, put on my own shoes and hurried out and away from the Fort. I was too frightened to look back. The crickets chirped, reminding me that I was out-numbered, as the owl continued to echo with a haunting lonely call. The half moon illuminated the ground as I escaped from 1763 into the 21st century.

 

The effect of those shoes was not finite. My romanticized nostalgic view of living in the past had been shattered forever. From that time on, when I have recollected the experiences of those who lived in those unforgiving times of hardship with compassion, I think of them with reverence.