I spent 5 hours in board meetings this morning which I very honestly enjoyed and it’s late afternoon and I’m about to head home.

In the office, it’s just me, the archivist, and our museum’s most loyal volunteer who remain. Suddenly two women and two 10-year-old girls drive into the yard. Shit! This date had been set up 3-4 weeks ago, and we had all forgotten about it. These girls were working on a “school history project” to learn about Alexander Lucius Twilight, our museum’s specialty. And they had just driven an hour and a half to get here.

I beg our most loyal volunteer to stay and tell them about Twilight, which she agrees to do. We sit them all along a long bench and the volunteer begins her Twilight speech, which she knows like the back of her hand.

The women ask extremely particular questions and I wonder if they know more about Twilight than I know. It soon comes to light they’re working on a project for the NATIONAL HISTORY FAIR! This is no casual “school” report! They’re working at a collegiate level; they want primary sources; they want inside our archive! We are completely unprepared.

I panic. As the new director and I learn the ropes we have been hurdling over a lot of disorder. I hate failing.

My mind is spinning and struggling to figure out who fucked up; was it me?! Can I blame someone else? Where did the communication breakdown occur? This is bad! I shuffle everyone over to the suddenly disgruntled archivist. She is mentally unprepared for the sudden visit and makes no attempt to hide her annoyance. The women seem confused by her unhelpfulness and attitude; the volunteer and the girls become quieter. I feel embarrassed and angry. And like an awkward elevator ride, we all stand crowded inside the archival vault. The atmosphere is tense. The archivist produces nothing of value for their project.

I’m irritated. I’m trying to save face and make our organization look competent. I attempt to break the weirdness. I smile a lot and crack jokes. Are they happy yet? I make more humor. Is it working? I have an idea to offer a consolation prize of showing them inside the dark and cold museum that’s closed for the season. As we head out into the snow, I can hear the archivist still grumbling behind.

The door to the museum has 3 inches of ice blocking it and it’s not opening. A board member happens to drive down the road and within minutes begins banging at the ice with a metal shovel.

And while we might be in the middle of nowhere, somehow an Uggs-wearing Canadian woman comes walking down the dirt road, looking fully out of place. She pounces on us and talks at record speeds. Chaos reigns. The board member chisels, the girls are bored, the Canadian is crazy, I’m freaking out, and the women are annoyed because they “arranged this visit a long time ago!” It’s 3:50, I have an appointment at 4:00, I’m plotting my escape, and the Canadian woman tells us about her house on Lake Massawippi, her broken leg, her aneurysm, the hole in her heart, the man who cheated on her, and everything she knows about the Amish.

At this point my ego is schizophrenic. I fail to take control. I want people to think highly of me, to think I’m competent and good, I’m pissed at the archivist, I feel bad for the girls, I feel embarrassed in front of the women, I worry about what the board member thinks of me, and I feel absolutely baffled by the chatterbox from Canada. And the door STILL won’t open.

I offer the last thing I can think of; I bring them to Twilight’s grave.

Except for one of us, we walk silently, dejected. The Canadian’s oblivious joy overcompensates for us all. She’s the one in control here. She tells us about her recent operations and the metal plates and stitches in her leg. As the story turns to her new infection it’s all just too crazy to keep resisting. At last, I submit, and a genuine smile breaks across my face.