By Courtney Martin, LCHS intern, University of Idaho undergraduate of History and Secondary Education
While working in the backlog of the LCHS archives, I came across a small, unassuming tin box tucked away amongst other unsorted donations. Etched onto the lid were delicate letters spelling out, “Burton L. French.” This was repeated in a large, elegant script on the side, along with the number ‘48.’ At first glance, this seemed like a child’s lunch box, used and donated long ago. But as I opened it and gently unfolded its contents, I realized I had stumbled upon something even more sentimental; a set of handmade baby dresses from the late 1800s.
Delicate yet resilient, crafted from cotton, the dresses were hand-embroidered with decorative embellishments. Their skirts are dramatically long, and one could imagine the way they draped as a mother held them in her hands. Each stitch is small and precise, a testament to the attention and patience put into each garment. Suddenly, Burton L. French’s little tin box revealed to me a peek into his mother’s care.
Each dress was accompanied by a handwritten note, and after some consideration, I could reasonably deduce that either Burton or one of his many siblings left behind clues in this family puzzle. The writer tells us how these dresses were all handmade by Mother, worn by all her children: Pauline, Charles Albert, Harley, Burton, Lulu, Carlton Frank, Clara and Mary. And after, the dresses had been worn by all of Mary’s children: Samuel, Ruth, Anna, and Mary. With the sheer amount of children that wore these dresses, their durability and the work of Mrs. French must be commended.
Another note details that Mary (child of Mrs. French) also made dresses for her children (after she married, and became Mrs. Ruberg) included in Burton’s box. Between the first generation and the second, the dresses had been worn beginning in November of 1867 to December 1913.
These dresses are more than just clothing- they are tangible reminders of love, care, and the intimate labor of parenthood. They send us back to a time when every stitch held meaning, when clothing was not just a necessity, but a thing of remembrance.
Discovering this box reminded me why historical preservation matters. These small, intricate things transport us, along with our human nature, to another time. They remind us that the human experience - one of joy, love, even loss - is something that transcends centuries.
If you ever find yourself in archives such as these, and come across something seemingly mundane, take a moment to give it your attention. You never know whose story you may find.
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