The Chocolate Hock

I want to warn you about something with the disclaimer that I don’t have any solutions for the problem. It’s possible I shouldn’t even make you think about it because I can’t help you. But maybe you’ll just feel a little less embarrassed when you get caught in an unpaid power trip and think of me.

Here’s the truth: Being a new volunteer is a demeaning trap of naivety.

Veterans of volunteer organizations reserve the most dreaded tasks for newcomers and offer them graciously as if bestowing a gift. Your fellow do-gooders may act pure, but they will dive on the plum assignments like it’s Black Friday and leave you the scraps.

Just take solace in knowing that your time will painfully, slowly, agonizingly come. After your first year of being at the bottom of the heap, your very atoms will change. It’s a survival instinct you acquire in the crucible. Whether or not you want to, you’ll sharpen your charity teeth to sink into the fresh meat that comes behind you.   

Never be deterred from contributing time and talent to your community but understand this: you will always start your record with a losing season.

My first year in Washington DC, I joined such an organization with the intent that I would meet women with hearts for service and rotating closets of Lulu Lemon and Lilly Pulitzer. Admission into the group was competitive. The volunteer requirements were rigorous, and it cost more than a dollar a day to participate.

Volunteer shift sign-ups were a first come first serve feeding frenzy that I was wholly unprepared for. Actually, more so, oblivious to. A season of events for the entire 2,000-woman organization was posted to the online system at 6:30 am on a Monday. There are many times of the day that my functionality would be considered below peak. My competence at 6:30 am on a Monday could be classified as flat line.

The first time I was involved in shift sign-ups, my workday began at 9:00 am and my thoughts floated leisurely to perusing the list around 10:30. I had egregiously missed the window of perusing. My screen was filled with sixteen pages of “EVENT FULL” in an accusatory red box that subtly implied “You missed it, you lazy strumpet. You will take what you can get.” 

I abandoned the handbook that charted the complicated system of credits with cute little summaries and suggestions. I desperately signed up for nearly everything that was left, hoping they would meet the annual requirements. Yes, there was a checklist of required activities, but a shortage of actual opportunities.

I begrudgingly selected a three-hour shift sorting donation piles of absolute junk that should have been burned instead of organized and a six hour shift running a cash register at the annual Christmas bazaar. Why I was needed to do that is an absolute secret of the universe. The vendor I worked for literally sat in the tiny cubicle with me at the Shriners’ Mosque selling their monogrammed grocery list pads, but Volunteer Vicky was supposed to push the numbers into the machine like a rent-an-accountant. I predictably charged a credit card sale of $13.00 as $1300. The business owner screamed that I was a complete idiot. I will refute that claim. I do not believe I am a complete idiot. I am, instead, someone who has never used a cash register in their life.

While that catastrophe was still in my future, I sat at my desk in a cold sweat as I continued to snap up the remaining required shifts on the online portal, trying to meet the bare minimum. At the end of the page and a half of the remaining open shifts was a glimmering reward for collecting the catchall of unwanted volunteer hours.

Be a docent on a delightful Candlelit Christmas Chocolate Tour in Historic Old Town Alexandria.

That sounded so quaint and lovely. Christmas, chocolate, and candles are three of my favorite C’s. I slogged through a long semester, ticking off the dregs of volunteer work knowing that the big payoff was near.

Finally, the day came. I crossed the Potomac River to Old Town Alexandria. It’s not really a full-blown colonial town, but there’s one street that’s made of a treacherous brick path and a few smatterings of the Civil War that make it a fun afternoon destination.

The Mount Vernon society that maintains the home of George Washington has also adopted into its care a few locations in Alexandria including an historic apothecary and a few 18th century houses. Strung together, they become a nice, light walking tour with a festive atmosphere for the holidays.

Mount Vernon has a separate event. Washington’s home was a sprawling estate ten miles away, so it stands alone. The highlight there is a diva camel named Aladdin who gets really surly in social situations and starts spitting around 4:00. It’s best to stop for a ride before the evening hours. The big house was reserved for VIP volunteers, so I was relegated to ‘the ton’.

I always get anxious that I won’t know where to go when I am supposed to be somewhere new, but luckily there was a gathering of 75 women in riding boots shivering on a street corner like a beacon of aristocracy. My people.

Of course, I’m not one of their people. I had on New Balance sneakers, but I always know who to follow. Women in boots that have never seen a farm.

It takes a few dozen volunteers to host the annual Christmas Chocolate Tour. There were some scattered professional coordinators who gave us our assignments. Available jobs included ticket sellers, ticket takers, room monitors, parking attendants, and even two girls who had to hold down signs that directed people to the parking so they wouldn’t blow away. This was 2014, so sandbags obviously weren’t invented yet.

“Is Kelle here?” the stern and stressed community outreach manager asked abruptly.

I didn’t flinch. I just stared blankly with my hands at my side. Well, I don’t know, I thought. I don’t know anyone here. I am completely programmed to recognize that when I am in an organized activity, people are only ever looking for Kelly. Could be Kelley or Kelli, but usually Kelly. She is bossy and really annoyed to be bothered by anyone who doesn’t have a title. If anyone is every looking for a Kelly/ey/i, it’s that one. Never me.

“Kelle Long? Is Kelle Long here?”

I looked extra dumb when I jumped, a little startled, and raised my hand like I hadn’t even recognized my own name.

“That’s me,” I called out.

“Come with me,” she said, sticking out a bony witch finger.

Everyone else who had been sent to their post was at least in pairs, sometimes even in groups of ten. Here I was, abandoning every rule for survival. Never go alone with a stranger and never let them take you to a second location. I could have been marching to my historically reenacted death.

Our mystery destination was Gadsby’s Tavern, which boasts that it has been serving gourmet food in a fine dining environment since 1770. That already sounds like an outright lie. Boiled chicken and new potatoes is about all they could have come up with in 1770 and that does not really strike the sophisticated palette. Nonetheless, the house does have an Olde English style dining room as well as several large parlors where they host various events.

We crossed into the dark foyer when she informed me, “You’ll be in costume today.”

“Costume? I’m sorry, no one sent me any information,” I protested. “I didn’t bring anything more than I’m wearing.”

My flannel and jeans looked a little drab. Not really festive.

“Costumes are down there,” she pointed.

I don’t know how they possibly chose me. Did leadership hear they needed a volunteer to play dress up? Did they prick their finger during a board meeting ritual and the droplet of blood fell by my name? Kelle Long. Right in the middle of the alphabetical pack.

Just from a list of ladies’ names, they couldn’t know if I was going to be tall or short. Obese or slender. If I had a religious devotion to wearing a shroud or had pink spiky hair. Fate fell their way when I turned out to be exceedingly average.

“Oh, well I didn’t bring a bag or anything,” I said.

“You can hang your belongings on the racks.”

I couldn’t think of any other excuses, so onward we marched. Past a sign that said, “Donate now! Our beloved floor is more than 200 years old and losing integrity.” Aren’t we all? “Our holiday campaign is focused on restoring the beauty and safety of our aging wood. Save our boards!” I was not comforted knowing that the crumbling floor was about to be my ceiling.

Down we went on creaky and narrow stairs that wound so sharply, I almost couldn’t bend far enough to keep going. Here I was in a strange basement where I was meant to disrobe with no prior warning and put on the clothes of a dead woman.

A family of four daughters who each matched their mother with plaited blonde braids and blue eyes were unpacking their own personal garment bag of costumes. They turned their heads in unison to evaluate whether I was suitable. That’s when I knew I had been sent down to be sacrificed to the five virgins. Their mother was most definitely a virgin, too.

“Mind your manners,” she scolded the girls. They all snapped back to the clothing options in front of them as their mother delicately finished unpacking.

The holiday hostess guided me to the adjacent corner of the room with an iron hanging rack. She quickly shifted costumes around, back and forth like a Tetris game. Three left, two right, five left one, four right as if she were unlocking an ancient secret code. Finally, she had them satisfactorily arranged with one single hanger in the middle.

“This is your costume. You are a common servant,” she announced. I looked blankly and reached out to take it from her. She snatched it away from my grubby, uneducated fingers. Holding the hanger high in one hand, she plucked out each piece with the other. “These are your undergarments. This is your skirt. This is your blouse. This is your apron. This is your bonnet.” She then shoved the entire set into my chest and left. The outfit seemed simple enough as I began unhooking it.

One of the middle girls broke the silence begging, “Mother, I want to wear the petticoat today.”

I suddenly felt a pang of pity. There was one petticoat to go around amongst them. How embarrassing.

“It is Abigail’s turn to choose. You may wear it if Abigail decides on another frock.”

We all looked to Abigail. Get her, Abigail. You can tell she gets her way every time. Don’t let that brat have anything. It’s not her turn.

“Of course, Courtney,” she said with absolute pleasure. “I’ll take the scullery gown.”

The scullery gown? Screw that. Fight! Gouge out her eyes! Take the frilly dress!

They noticed me staring, so I turned my attention back to the pieces in hand. I began to realize that the instructions that I thought seemed obvious were actually not enough. Each item was really just a square of fabric, and I couldn’t calculate how it was going to become a shirt or skirt. The only one that seemed obvious was the bonnet, but perhaps that was actually the bloomers?

“That’s your shirt,” the mother offered.

“There’s not a lot of structure,” I pleaded hopelessly.

“You just sort of wrap it around,” she guided.

I tried to follow her instructions. I began with the underwear. Reenactors have since told me that authentic undergarments are always required. Even in the summer. I cannot see the point in that, other than perhaps you carry yourself with a little more disdain for life, which could be more sincere for the time period.

I finally got the shirt to stay over my shoulders, then wrapped my skirt around my waist.

“They didn’t tuck in,” the mother corrected. “The shirt goes on the outside, but you can try to tie your apron around it.”

Oh, good. There’s absolutely no method of closure on these garments, but I can try to maintain my entire modesty with a tiny thread tied in a bow around my waist.

As I was struggling to secure some scrap of cloth to my body, the ceiling above me began to quake. Here it came. The failing floor was finally giving way and I would be found in a pile of splinters wearing a skirt on my head like a fool for all I knew.

To my relief, the shaking stopped after a buxom red headed woman came pounding down the stairs. Just like the mother daughter prophets, she had been notified with enough information to bring her own historic wardrobe. All of these women had homemade outfits and I was a random novice with no training. I never did understand why I was thrust amidst professionals, but there was clearly a hierarchy here and I was the bottom bonnet.

“What will I be today? What will I be today?” she ruminated aloud. Oh, to have options or any choice in the matter at all. Dear woman. Why do you flaunt your luxuries? “Shall I be a dancer at the ball? A debutante making her premiere showing of the courting season?” She thought on the matter making a grand exhibition of her selection process. All of her potential characters seemed suitable enough for a Christmas festival but didn’t seem to fit her nature.

“Ah, yes,” she finally announced. She eyed the homeschooled brigade then dramatically thrust her chosen garb at them. Their mother gasped and clutched the innocent young eyes to her bosom.

The costume looked like a bohemian, white peasant dress. The top had long, puffy sleeves with some type of elastic to gather the top. The skirt was ankle length and had many layers to make it fluffy. It looked much more fun than my four squares of fabric.

“A lady of the night,” she relished in revealing. “Basically, bloomies on the top.” She leaned toward the frightened young girls who were being spoilt where they stood. She looked at them severely and spat, “You thought Madonna was the first to wear underwear for outerwear? Think again.”

Ma’am, I can guarantee that you and I are the only breathing creatures in this basement who have ever heard of any Madonna since Mother Mary.

If anyone lined us up on the street and asked a passerby, I guarantee 98% of people would say, “There are seven old timey ladies.” A sliver of the population would ever be able to guess which one of us hiked up her britches in the night for pay. We all looked like hopeless frumps.

All wrapped up and ready to go at last, I finally emerged to the main floor once more. We made our way to a small hall filled with folding tables. An older husband and wife team were serving wassail they claimed to have brewed over an open fire that was now in an electric crock pot. A studious girl who looked the part of a librarian was offering books on the history of Christmas traditions in Colonial America. Another pair of middle-aged women were selling ornaments made from fresh greens. Everyone was in their historic attire. I felt like a mannequin who was being welcomed home after forgetting she wasn’t actually a human after all.

I was led to an unattended table at the end. Under the table were stacks of cardboard boxes.

“You’ll be working this table. Set up your display. If someone wishes to make a purchase, they can pay at the exit.”

Oh, thank goodness. I wouldn’t have to work the register. All I have to do is hand over the merchandise. So, what was the merchandise? I bent down to open a box and when I stood up again, my sage guide had vanished once more.

I opened the box and knew I had hit the jackpot. Chocolate. Boxes and boxes of bars of chocolate.

The back of the wrapper had a tiny explanation that these bars were a limited-edition reproduction of a very, very old recipe. Good enough for me. I was ready to sell. 

The crowds began to flow. A highlight of the festivities was when reenactors visited to perform some type of Dickens dance. The men looked absolutely giddy to have ever touched the palm of a woman and the women looked so relieved to have any men who would do 19th century dances with them. Or maybe it was 18th. I honestly have no idea what time period we were in.

Neither did any of the paying public who visited my booth. I told them that the bars were specially prepared from an official Washington Presidential recipe. The chocolate had cinnamon, which I’m allergic to, so I blindly raved to visitors how rich and delicious they were. I’m sure with ingredients from hundreds of years ago, they were bitter and bland, but I didn’t care. I had the authority of the bonnet, and I was going to wield it recklessly.

Purchasers went home with my absolute guarantee that this chocolate bar could do anything in the kitchen, but the best method was to melt it down with a little milk and sip it hot. I thought that was a particularly inspired idea for the holidays.

As I had expected, no one questioned the legitimacy of the merchandise or my apron knot. None of the people honestly cared as long as the atmosphere was in the ballpark. I completely sold out of chocolate. The coordinator was ecstatic and asked how I had done it. She was devoted to authenticity, so I said I just stuck to the script.

No one had given me a script. No one had even given me safety pins to keep my clothes on. But who is really sure about the details at this point anyway? No one who handed over their 21st century money knew more than I did, and they had a Christmas experience to remember. And a terrible tasting sludgy beverage to wash it down when they got home.