We first saw his image in a piece of glass that had been removed from a picture frame. He appears to be a rather thin, mustached, Victorian gentleman &045; distinguished looking, and probably well educated. Fortunately, we took a photo of him before the glass was unintentionally broken, so now his visage looks down on me as I sit at my desk in the museum’s office.

We jokingly call him the museum ghost, and whenever the masking tape disappears, or a key isn’t hanging on it’s proper hook, or a letter that I know is on my desk isn’t, he is blamed. It’s nice to have someone to blame.

Recently a friend said to me, &uot;I suppose that it’s much quieter at the museum now.&uot; She was referring to the fact that on Sept. 30, the village closed for the season and we are not open on Saturdays this time of the year. I could just see our ghost raise his eyebrows and I could hear his words, &uot;Oh, no. We are just as busy as ever. Our library never has a slow time, researchers work year round. It’s time for another newsletter, and the membership drive, and planning for the Christmas Open House, and revising exhibits, and planning next year’s educational programs, and working on the annual report, and etc., etc, etc.&uot;

He knows what is going on, and has seen many changes at the museum. He watched the first volunteers who sold memberships to raise money to build the present building on Bridge Avenue. He watched as gradually the collection grew from a small number of items displayed in the courthouse basement to the thousands that are now housed in the museum, library and village. He watched as volunteers painted and pounded and drew pictures and searched the town like scavengers finding bricks for sidewalks and glass for exhibit cases, and fabric for curtains. He must have smiled when the permanent staff was hired, one person at a time, because then he knew there would be some continuity in the programming, and the archives and collection would be available to the public year round.

He remembers when the museum was only open a few hours a day in the summertime and closed the rest of the year. There were times during those years when the mice ate the Indian corn in an exhibit, and left their &uot;tracks&uot; in other displays, and beautiful silk Victorian dresses were stored in metal locker drawers, and library items stood in piles on tables because no one had time to index and store them properly. He had to know that everyone was doing the best they could with what was available. I’m sure he is upset now when people are too busy to stop and appreciate the vast number of treasures in the museum or to reflect on how our lives have changed since he lived in Albert Lea.

Our ghost used to write an article in our quarterly newsletter. He would spend his time observing museum happenings and then report on his findings, like the time there was a group of elementary students having a picnic in the historical village and some of them appeared to be drinking something out of a metal cylinder. He said, &uot;Apparently to open it, they put their finger in this little metal ring and pulled. There would be a big ‘poof’ and they would put it to their mouths and swallow. It’s all very confusing.&uot;

You see, his was the time when Sunday afternoon meant taking his favorite lady friend for a ride in a carriage, when the beautiful brick buildings were being built on Broadway, and the lovely Victorian homes were all nestled under the oak trees on Fountain Street and Park Avenue.

Granted, there were other people in those years whose lifestyle was not so grand. The man who delivered ice for a living, whose tongs held that 25- or 50-pound chunk of ice on his shoulders as he trudged up the stairs to the third floor apartment in the B & B Theatre; or the man who milked his herd of dairy cows at dawn, spent the day husking corn &045; one ear at a time, in the evening shoveled that corn off of the wagon and into the corn crib, and then milked the cows again; or the lady who hauled water to her wood stove and heated it, then hauled it to her wooden washing machine, washed, rinsed, and put through the wringer several loads of clothes starting with the white ones and ending with the darkest, all the while hanging each piece on the clothes fine and hoping the birds wouldn’t fly over at an inopportune time &045; these people all lived in the same era, but their lives were vastly different.

Our museum ghost represents a time period in our history &045; a time that we struggle to preserve and interpret for today’s young people. He knows that someday there will be another changing of the guard, that other staff and volunteers and board members will be responsible for preserving the history of our county today and that of the future. He knows of our financial struggles, and of the frustrations of more work to do than hours in the day. But he also sees the smiles on the faces of the researcher who finally found the records of a long lost uncle and the curiosity of the child who is churning butter. And I’m sure that he smiles when he looks over my shoulder to read a thank you note that says, &uot;Our guide said their bathroom was a little building in the back yard, but I don’t believe it.&uot;

It’s a bit eerie knowing that we have a Victorian gentleman keeping an eye on the place, but it’s nice to know that he is there.

Bev Jackson is executive director and curator of the Freeborn County Historical Museum.