Question
In Episode 7, Tariq and Lacey rode their bikes to the Rock County Historical Society to research the history of Longview and Black people in the area. They were helped by a staff member there, Dona Diaz-Dunkel, who hinted they might find answers in a box in the basement.
We unpacked the box and set the different items on their own spaces on the table—a tin box, a leather-bound book of some sort, newspapers, and some letters tied with string.
Lacey worked the top off the shoebox-sized tin container while I recorded her on video. I wanted to document everything we found. Inside were eight small glass canning jars swaddled in cotton. Seven of them contained wrinkled pebbles of different sizes and shapes. Lacey lifted one of the jars to examine the handwritten label. "Black-eyed peas," she read. Then two more jars: "Sweet corn…Squash…"
"Seeds," I concluded.
"You think?" Lacey responded wryly, and I cracked up.
I pointed with my chin. "What about the one that looks like dirt?"
"Says…Soil from Longview—so yeah, dirt. Anyone ever tell you you're pretty good at this—for a city kid?"
This time her teasing stung a little, so I gave her a sharp look.
"Sorry," she said softly, lining up the jars in a triangle.
Next, we opened the book. It had "LEDGER" stamped on the front in gold letters. Inside the cover was written Jerome Wright and April 1909- with no end date. "Wow," I said. I switched my phone to camera mode to take photos.
This was followed by pages of columns and numbers organized by year with headers like Equipment, Seed, Labor, Loans, Total Costs, and Income. The entries were sometimes in black ink, sometimes in pencil, but the handwriting was curvy and classy—a lot better than mine, anyway.
The last entries were for 1940, and the lined, green-tinted pages were blank after that. I noticed that the costs ebbed and flowed across the years, but in the 1930s the income only ebbed.
Lacey started to close the ledger, but I stopped her. I had noticed some crinkled pages. "Check the back."
"Whoa," she said. There were pages of short journal entries describing and dating different events. They told of storms, bugs and blights, good harvests and bad, plus Jerome Wright's marriage to Ella Freeman in 1915 and the births of three babies that followed.
"Find the 1930s," I said, and Lacey turned the pages.
We scanned the entries until Lacey asked, "What are we looking for?"
"Trouble," I said, "like here…March 6, 1936…Bank turned down loan request. Freemans, Robinsons report the same.
"April 8, 1937…Mr. Dunkel says he hasn't got seed for us. We're pooling money and will go to city to buy.
"October 15, 1937…Dunkel says our oats below standards & refuses to buy. Schwartz combines our crop with his, sells the lot for us, pays me what I'm owed. Heard Dunkel furious when he learned the truth."
"Dunkel? You think…?" Lacey started to say.
I did a quick mental calculation. "I'm guessing the Chief's father or uncle or grandfather. And Schwartz—is that Miles Schwartz? Our double-great grandpa?"
I continued.
"January 4, 1938…Ella and girls moving to city to stay with her family. Fredrick and I staying—can't let them steal our land.
"July 8, 1938…Traded haying with Schwartz and shared a picnic afterward—a good time."
After that, a steady drip of bad news followed bad news. I got the sinking feeling I was reading a book that had an inevitable ending, and not a happy one. We came to the last entry, and the handwriting was different—less flowing, more scratchy.
"September 11, 1940…On buying trip to Fairford, truck broke down and Fredrick was set upon by sheriff and some men for being there after sundown. He's beat up and I'm sure his jaw is broke. This place has taken so much from us, I won't let it take our son. We'll join Ella and the girls after harvest and will find jobs in the factories there. But…"
And below that was a big, black X. It was not written so much as carved into the page, like it had been made with a fist wrapped around a pen.
"Excuse me!"
Lacey and I almost jumped out of our chairs, making a combined sound like, "AghaghAAH!"
"Why are you helping us?" I asked after her.
She looked over her shoulder, and the all-business tone in her voice softened. "That box waited a long time before anyone cared enough to see what was in it. And history can't do its job if it's kept buried by some group or person—like my grandfather-in-law. Just do something with it, that's all I ask." Then she disappeared up the stairs.
Lacey pulled her phone out of her back pocket. "I'll alert the parents we're running late," she said.
I reached for the stack of letters and looked at the names. They confirmed what I had begun to suspect.
"These are all from Miles Schwartz to Jerome Wright," I told Lacey. "Freddy must have sent the letters back to Miles, along with the seeds and the ledger."
Lacey held open a booklet she'd found among the letters. It was a mini album of old photos. There was the same picture from the homestead—Miles Schwartz and Jerome Wright flanked by their sons. Maybe it was from that "good time" in July 1938 when they'd shared a picnic after haying. I felt a little dizzy seeing it. It was like time was bending.
Lacey spoke. "So here's what I'm thinking. Jerome's son, Freddy, sent this box to Miles Schwartz, maybe after Jerome died. Then maybe Miles's kids dropped it off at the historical society after he died. That's my guess anyway."
"And it sat here turning to dust until we came along." I laid out the letters from oldest to less old, and opened the last one that Miles had sent, postmarked April 1941. I read it aloud.
Dear Jerome,
I'm sorry you feel that way, but glad you found work. I paid you fair market for your land, maybe more. I did what I could.
Best to Ella, Freddy, and the girls.
Sincerely,
Miles Schwartz
Lacey and I locked eyes, and I filled in the blank: "Miles bought the Wright Farm from Jerome."
We read the rest of the letters and looked through the newspapers. When we finished, I put the jars, ledger, letters, and photo booklet in my backpack. Lacey froze me with a doubtful look, and I pointed to the "DO NOT REMOVE" message on the withered cardboard. "So we won't take the box."
Lacey laughed. "And Dona Diaz-Dunkel did say, 'Don't take anything…'"
The sun was down by the time we started the long ride back to the homestead. But our bike lights and the sky were enough to see by—a deepening landscape of blue, coral, purple, and night.
QUESTION 8
8 / 8
Read this passage from the episode:
Lacey worked the top off the shoebox-sized tin container while I recorded her on video…. Inside were eight small glass canning jars swaddled in cotton…. Lacey lifted one of the jars to examine the handwritten label.
Something that is swaddled is __________.
covered with notes
wrapped up tightly
forgotten by history
layered in dust
We unpacked the box and set the different items on their own spaces on the table—a tin box, a leather-bound book of some sort, newspapers, and some letters tied with string.
Lacey worked the top off the shoebox-sized tin container while I recorded her on video. I wanted to document everything we found. Inside were eight small glass canning jars swaddled in cotton. Seven of them contained wrinkled pebbles of different sizes and shapes. Lacey lifted one of the jars to examine the handwritten label. "Black-eyed peas," she read. Then two more jars: "Sweet corn…Squash…"
"Seeds," I concluded.
"You think?" Lacey responded wryly, and I cracked up.
I pointed with my chin. "What about the one that looks like dirt?"
"Says…Soil from Longview—so yeah, dirt. Anyone ever tell you you're pretty good at this—for a city kid?"
This time her teasing stung a little, so I gave her a sharp look.
"Sorry," she said softly, lining up the jars in a triangle.
Next, we opened the book. It had "LEDGER" stamped on the front in gold letters. Inside the cover was written Jerome Wright and April 1909- with no end date. "Wow," I said. I switched my phone to camera mode to take photos.
This was followed by pages of columns and numbers organized by year with headers like Equipment, Seed, Labor, Loans, Total Costs, and Income. The entries were sometimes in black ink, sometimes in pencil, but the handwriting was curvy and classy—a lot better than mine, anyway.
The last entries were for 1940, and the lined, green-tinted pages were blank after that. I noticed that the costs ebbed and flowed across the years, but in the 1930s the income only ebbed.
Lacey started to close the ledger, but I stopped her. I had noticed some crinkled pages. "Check the back."
"Whoa," she said. There were pages of short journal entries describing and dating different events. They told of storms, bugs and blights, good harvests and bad, plus Jerome Wright's marriage to Ella Freeman in 1915 and the births of three babies that followed.
"Find the 1930s," I said, and Lacey turned the pages.
We scanned the entries until Lacey asked, "What are we looking for?"
"Trouble," I said, "like here…March 6, 1936…Bank turned down loan request. Freemans, Robinsons report the same.
"April 8, 1937…Mr. Dunkel says he hasn't got seed for us. We're pooling money and will go to city to buy.
"October 15, 1937…Dunkel says our oats below standards & refuses to buy. Schwartz combines our crop with his, sells the lot for us, pays me what I'm owed. Heard Dunkel furious when he learned the truth."
"Dunkel? You think…?" Lacey started to say.
I did a quick mental calculation. "I'm guessing the Chief's father or uncle or grandfather. And Schwartz—is that Miles Schwartz? Our double-great grandpa?"
I continued.
"January 4, 1938…Ella and girls moving to city to stay with her family. Fredrick and I staying—can't let them steal our land.
"July 8, 1938…Traded haying with Schwartz and shared a picnic afterward—a good time."
After that, a steady drip of bad news followed bad news. I got the sinking feeling I was reading a book that had an inevitable ending, and not a happy one. We came to the last entry, and the handwriting was different—less flowing, more scratchy.
"September 11, 1940…On buying trip to Fairford, truck broke down and Fredrick was set upon by sheriff and some men for being there after sundown. He's beat up and I'm sure his jaw is broke. This place has taken so much from us, I won't let it take our son. We'll join Ella and the girls after harvest and will find jobs in the factories there. But…"
And below that was a big, black X. It was not written so much as carved into the page, like it had been made with a fist wrapped around a pen.
"Excuse me!"
Lacey and I almost jumped out of our chairs, making a combined sound like, "AghaghAAH!"
"Why are you helping us?" I asked after her.
She looked over her shoulder, and the all-business tone in her voice softened. "That box waited a long time before anyone cared enough to see what was in it. And history can't do its job if it's kept buried by some group or person—like my grandfather-in-law. Just do something with it, that's all I ask." Then she disappeared up the stairs.
Lacey pulled her phone out of her back pocket. "I'll alert the parents we're running late," she said.
I reached for the stack of letters and looked at the names. They confirmed what I had begun to suspect.
"These are all from Miles Schwartz to Jerome Wright," I told Lacey. "Freddy must have sent the letters back to Miles, along with the seeds and the ledger."
Lacey held open a booklet she'd found among the letters. It was a mini album of old photos. There was the same picture from the homestead—Miles Schwartz and Jerome Wright flanked by their sons. Maybe it was from that "good time" in July 1938 when they'd shared a picnic after haying. I felt a little dizzy seeing it. It was like time was bending.
Lacey spoke. "So here's what I'm thinking. Jerome's son, Freddy, sent this box to Miles Schwartz, maybe after Jerome died. Then maybe Miles's kids dropped it off at the historical society after he died. That's my guess anyway."
"And it sat here turning to dust until we came along." I laid out the letters from oldest to less old, and opened the last one that Miles had sent, postmarked April 1941. I read it aloud.
Dear Jerome,
I'm sorry you feel that way, but glad you found work. I paid you fair market for your land, maybe more. I did what I could.
Best to Ella, Freddy, and the girls.
Sincerely,
Miles Schwartz
Lacey and I locked eyes, and I filled in the blank: "Miles bought the Wright Farm from Jerome."
We read the rest of the letters and looked through the newspapers. When we finished, I put the jars, ledger, letters, and photo booklet in my backpack. Lacey froze me with a doubtful look, and I pointed to the "DO NOT REMOVE" message on the withered cardboard. "So we won't take the box."
Lacey laughed. "And Dona Diaz-Dunkel did say, 'Don't take anything…'"
The sun was down by the time we started the long ride back to the homestead. But our bike lights and the sky were enough to see by—a deepening landscape of blue, coral, purple, and night.
QUESTION 8
8 / 8
Read this passage from the episode:
Lacey worked the top off the shoebox-sized tin container while I recorded her on video…. Inside were eight small glass canning jars swaddled in cotton…. Lacey lifted one of the jars to examine the handwritten label.
Something that is swaddled is __________.
covered with notes
wrapped up tightly
forgotten by history
layered in dust
Answers
GPT-4o mini
Something that is swaddled is **wrapped up tightly**.