I feel like my experiment never had the proper send-off (at least blog wise) that it deserved. A few weeks after it ended, I had the opportunity to have some good catching up time with my 75 year old great Aunt Anita, the daughter of my great grandmother who was mentioned in my first post. During this conversation she told me a story that I knew I just had to share. It was a small window into the 1940s, and through this window wasn't a cherry blue sky and pinup gals, but an honest and somewhat brutal moment of emotional coming from someone I knew and loved so personally, my great grandmother Anna.
This is that story. (told in the first person perspective of my great aunt):
Back in the day, we had to can all of our food. It wasn't just up and down the grocery aisle like you see now-a-days. Most all of the homes on our street here had their own gardens to grow vegetables that we would can for the winter time. With the economy the way it was, and the war waging over seas, frugality was next to Godliness, and my mother was determined to not let one pea pod escape our pantry.
She'd can for hours upon hours. Now, canning, as you might know, is a very dangerous process. Many accidents happened where people would get seriously injured or killed. We were lucky, though, and while there were some close calls, we never got seriously injured.
Now, many people on our block had sons in the war. There was hardly a man left in town. All of the able bodied men in our family were over there fighting. Now, your grandfather, he lied about his age to get in. He was only sixteen when he was flying planes over Germany. Your cousins too, they were over there fighting for Uncle Sam. Every man in our family was over there and the absence was felt every day.
It wasn't just the men over there though, they had a huge need for nurses and as you recall, your grandmother, my older sister was a nurse. She went in school with the full intention of going over seas and helping the cause in any way possible. With all of the hospitals getting bombed, my mother was very reluctant to see her off to medical school but she was adamant.
Now if you promised you'd go over seas, the government would pay for your schooling. The day after you graduated you'd be on a plane. My sister was quickly approaching graduation at this point in the year and my mother was torn up about it. With all the men gone, she couldn't stand the thought of losing her first born too.
On this particular day, I recall so vividly that she was out in the garden next to our home. She was in a light blue dress, with a white floral apron on to prevent stains. She was always meticulous about her appearance, even to the very end. I never saw a stain on that woman's clothing in my entire life. She would bend, over and over again to gingerly pick the vegetables, never on her knees as to dirty her clothing. I would help as best I could, but I was a clumsy child and would much rather be playing with the neighbors than helping my mother can. I must have been only eight or nine at this point.
Suddenly, the bells down in the town started to peal. I knew that it was a strange time of day for such a thing to occur since it wasn't time for mass. Shortly thereafter, the fire-engines were going off, as well as the police sirens. A whole bubble of sound was barreling up the hillside. Just then our neighbor across the street frantically opened the window and hung herself out of it yelling, "Mrs. Goslan! Mrs. Goslan! It's over! The war! It's finally over!"
My mother froze in shock, cucumbers gripped tightly in both hands as she slowly sank to her knees in the softly tilled soil of our garden and weeped.
---
I miss you great-gram.
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The Art of Correspondance
Friday, October 30, 2009 11:14 AM
In War times, the typical rules for etiquette were thrown out of the proverbial window. Now normally, it was a "no no" for war time gals to write their lover-boys on a more than weekly basis. It was considered "unclassy", today's translation? "You don't want to seem too desperate".
All of this changed though when our boys went to go fight overseas, and post offices were soon working hours that they didn't experience outside of the holidays.
One Etiquette book from the 1940's enthusiastically encourages:
So it was that I dusted off my ballpoint pen (after I searched for it for quite a bit through my cramped desk drawers), bought some pretty stationary (I saw it as an investment in encouragement to write), and did something I hadn't done since Madame Vega made us take up French-Pen-Pals; I wrote a Letter.
There was an awkward moment when I was frozen by my insecurity about my handwriting, both in eligibility, size, placement, etc. What if they couldn’t even read what I write? I decided to switch from my much more “attractive” looking cursive, to my mildly chicken-scratch-esque print. Since I was writing to my boyfriend, I figured that cursive might be a bit too much for him to handle. Boys these days are to cursive, as most Americans are to Arabic script. I knew that even motivation to decode the strange, unexpected letter was not great enough for him to break out a Rosetta Stone of sorts and figure out what I wrote, so print it was.
Ignoring the fact that my print handwriting made me feel more like an ill-educated man than an elegant woman of the forties, I wrote. I wrote about my week, made up some funny questions for him to respond to (as well as included a preaddressed and stamped envelope), and shared a few thoughts, feelings, and whims that crossed my mind. It was strange, it was certainly awkward, it was….nice.
When his return letter came in the mail I was ecstatic. There was something so much more personal and touching about a letter than an e-mail, text message, or Facebook wall post could never convey. I soon became a letter-junkie, spending my tiny paychecks on stamps (more costly than it sounds) and stationary. Letters were flying out left and right. When I got bored, I would write. When I didn’t want to wait till the morning to send my letter, I’d jog off campus at 11:38pm down Main St. and over to the post office to mail my precious cargo. Admittedly, my boy made a horrible pen-pal since the first was also the last letter, but it didn’t deter my pen as I scribble down funny things I observed in the day, or drew little cartoons about inside jokes we shared.
The last letter I sent was a joke about the bear that perused the summer camp we both worked at. The Letter was actually an “application” that Yogi was sending in so that he could be on staff next year.
Letters are a lost art in the 21st century, and it’s one that I never knew I missed it till I tried to revive it, if only in my own life. Every other form of long-distance communication just seems so horribly lazy and half-hearted in comparison. Pictures are supposed to speak a thousand words, but in all the Facebook albums posted daily by my friends I don’t hear them. Texts then I guess could be said to speak words of 160 characters of less, but I certainly don’t truly see them. Letters though, their words are magnified by the time, effort, and forty-two cents spent to convey their messages. They’ve been worked on, passed on, survived a vast and expedient journey, all to be delivered into your hands a physical symbol that, You, the writer, wish to say something to them. So next time someone sends you something in the mail, don’t just blow it off. Pick up the pen, and tell them you care too.
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All of this changed though when our boys went to go fight overseas, and post offices were soon working hours that they didn't experience outside of the holidays.
One Etiquette book from the 1940's enthusiastically encourages:
Whereas before it was looked down upon to write your boy more than once a week, times have changed. Write your boy as often as you can! In fact! Write to every boy you know that's over there fighting for the cause! Write everyday! Those boys need the pick-me-up that comes from getting mail from a gal back home. You don't want any boy's name to not be called when that mail bag comes out.Well admittedly, I am a product of my age and even e-mails seem to be too time consuming when it comes to communication. A grammar-less, 160 characters-or-less text message can convey anything needed. Except for perhaps effort.
So it was that I dusted off my ballpoint pen (after I searched for it for quite a bit through my cramped desk drawers), bought some pretty stationary (I saw it as an investment in encouragement to write), and did something I hadn't done since Madame Vega made us take up French-Pen-Pals; I wrote a Letter.
There was an awkward moment when I was frozen by my insecurity about my handwriting, both in eligibility, size, placement, etc. What if they couldn’t even read what I write? I decided to switch from my much more “attractive” looking cursive, to my mildly chicken-scratch-esque print. Since I was writing to my boyfriend, I figured that cursive might be a bit too much for him to handle. Boys these days are to cursive, as most Americans are to Arabic script. I knew that even motivation to decode the strange, unexpected letter was not great enough for him to break out a Rosetta Stone of sorts and figure out what I wrote, so print it was.
Ignoring the fact that my print handwriting made me feel more like an ill-educated man than an elegant woman of the forties, I wrote. I wrote about my week, made up some funny questions for him to respond to (as well as included a preaddressed and stamped envelope), and shared a few thoughts, feelings, and whims that crossed my mind. It was strange, it was certainly awkward, it was….nice.
When his return letter came in the mail I was ecstatic. There was something so much more personal and touching about a letter than an e-mail, text message, or Facebook wall post could never convey. I soon became a letter-junkie, spending my tiny paychecks on stamps (more costly than it sounds) and stationary. Letters were flying out left and right. When I got bored, I would write. When I didn’t want to wait till the morning to send my letter, I’d jog off campus at 11:38pm down Main St. and over to the post office to mail my precious cargo. Admittedly, my boy made a horrible pen-pal since the first was also the last letter, but it didn’t deter my pen as I scribble down funny things I observed in the day, or drew little cartoons about inside jokes we shared.
The last letter I sent was a joke about the bear that perused the summer camp we both worked at. The Letter was actually an “application” that Yogi was sending in so that he could be on staff next year.
Letters are a lost art in the 21st century, and it’s one that I never knew I missed it till I tried to revive it, if only in my own life. Every other form of long-distance communication just seems so horribly lazy and half-hearted in comparison. Pictures are supposed to speak a thousand words, but in all the Facebook albums posted daily by my friends I don’t hear them. Texts then I guess could be said to speak words of 160 characters of less, but I certainly don’t truly see them. Letters though, their words are magnified by the time, effort, and forty-two cents spent to convey their messages. They’ve been worked on, passed on, survived a vast and expedient journey, all to be delivered into your hands a physical symbol that, You, the writer, wish to say something to them. So next time someone sends you something in the mail, don’t just blow it off. Pick up the pen, and tell them you care too.
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Squirrel Pot Pie and Spam
Friday, October 16, 2009 11:27 AM
The 1940’s was a time of changing cuisine. With Uncle Sam tightening the belt in the American household (it was the decade that Spam was invented afterall), the 1940’s woman had to become extra resourceful in the kitchen. My grandmother to the end of her days never ate butter since it was something that was not even imaginable during the days where she was learning how to be a pioneer in her own kitchen. Leafing through a 1940’s cookbook you’ll find recipes that both show this resourcefulness, and also the pressure to be able to cook some of these foreign cuisines that the boys were writing home about.
Thanks to the resourcefulness of my English professor, I was able to leaf through the yellowing pages of accumulative cuisine and contemplate cooking such things as “squirrel pot pie” or “turtle soup.” It was somewhere in the midst of reading through the eighty plus recipes for pie, I realized that I was already developing a fierce appreciation for the Olympic feat that was expected of women three times a day.
Diving into my apron strings with a scowl more common on Rosie the Riveter, than a domestic diva, I stared down the recipe for chocolate soufflé. As I followed the recipe with an attentiveness that those working with unstable potentially deadly particles were more used to, my brow perspired under my faux 40’s bangs. Eggs were successfully separated. Dry ingredients were stealthily sifted. Bakers chocolate was masterfully melted, and the batter was patiently poured.
With the beeping of the stove I rushed eagerly to free my labor-intensive desert. I pulled out the tray, their browned tops raising high towards the sky and as I set them atop the cooktop they promptly collapsed.
Now I had heard that soufflés were tricky creatures when it came to this point but I never expected it to happen to me. My second batch proved no hardier than the first and I finally just gave up, plopped the desert equivalent of ketchup (cool whip) on top and enjoyed the failed-feast of my labor.
My hat is off to you though Great Gram, and anyone else that had to for-go the ease of boxed cakes, order-in dinners, and ramen noodles.
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Thanks to the resourcefulness of my English professor, I was able to leaf through the yellowing pages of accumulative cuisine and contemplate cooking such things as “squirrel pot pie” or “turtle soup.” It was somewhere in the midst of reading through the eighty plus recipes for pie, I realized that I was already developing a fierce appreciation for the Olympic feat that was expected of women three times a day.
Diving into my apron strings with a scowl more common on Rosie the Riveter, than a domestic diva, I stared down the recipe for chocolate soufflé. As I followed the recipe with an attentiveness that those working with unstable potentially deadly particles were more used to, my brow perspired under my faux 40’s bangs. Eggs were successfully separated. Dry ingredients were stealthily sifted. Bakers chocolate was masterfully melted, and the batter was patiently poured.
With the beeping of the stove I rushed eagerly to free my labor-intensive desert. I pulled out the tray, their browned tops raising high towards the sky and as I set them atop the cooktop they promptly collapsed.
Now I had heard that soufflés were tricky creatures when it came to this point but I never expected it to happen to me. My second batch proved no hardier than the first and I finally just gave up, plopped the desert equivalent of ketchup (cool whip) on top and enjoyed the failed-feast of my labor.
My hat is off to you though Great Gram, and anyone else that had to for-go the ease of boxed cakes, order-in dinners, and ramen noodles.
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Late Night Pin-Ups
Friday, September 25, 2009 3:50 AM
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So I will admit, that like many a swarthy sailor from 1944, I am kinda big fan of the classic "Pin-Up" gal. Now, I'm not talking about the more...extroverted, sold in a black-plastic-bag-on-the-bottom-shelf-of-Cumbys type of "pin up", but the classier gal, with a cute pose in a faded photograph or illustration. The very fact that I call 90% of their poses "cute" goes to show the "moral degradation" of our times I suppose, or at least that might be what my Great Grandmother might say on the matter. Since some of the cartoons we see on Saturday mornings these days look more provocative than the illustrated pin-ups of ages past, I have no real issues admitting my fascination with these smiling, skin-bearin' gals.
The previous night, I was keeping my friend company in our college's arts building. Its complicated labyrinth of hallways, stairways, and rooms seems like some sort of optical illusion out of an Escher painting at times, and company, especially at odd ours in the night, is usually a desired thing.
As she was working on her painting, I could help but feel the dregs of artist past being stirred in me. I was an art honor student in high school. I was too dedicated to the music and drama programs though to really develop that area of my life despite my strong desire to.
As a child, I would sneak away from the concession stand ran by my mother for Cheer Boosters, to walk around the empty art classrooms of the high school and marvel at these "brilliant" creators that were so much older and wiser than I myself was. I remember shyly stealing a sheet of copier paper, where-in I would show off my highly advanced drawing skills and leave it on the desk of the teacher in hopes to impress him. After all, not too many third graders could draw a nose like I could. My nose had upgraded from triangle to a mildly realistic curve after-all
Back in the arts building on college, watching my friend paint, I found myself remembering how much I did in-fact love art. By the end of the night I had a canvas and painting of my own, and as we meandered out of the building around 1:13am, I couldn't help but be excited for the possibility of another late-night art session.
So it was that tonight, when my friend asked if I wanted to venture up to the arts building, that I heartily agreed. Feeling guilty about not being able to contribute anything interesting to the blog lately, I came up with the idea that I'd try my hand in some 40's art. Pin-ups of course were my immediate thought and by the grace of my friend and her ridiculously sized roll of heavy-duty paper, I was soon at work on a life-sized pinup whose face I was hoping would mildly resemble my own.
As I swayed and danced around to Ella and Louis crooning in the background with the occasional upbeat Anderson Sister tune, I really found myself getting invested in my pin-up gal. My pencil hesitantly created the curve of her spine, the sharp lines of her heels, the polka-dots of her scandalous two piece. As my gal smiled confidently out of the paper I couldn't help but feel my own spine straighten in attention. Around 2am, when her painted outline was finally dried, I tucked my gal under my arm and we headed back to my dorm to pin up the Pin-Up.
The only spare wall space was behind our heavy front door, so we quickly tagged teamed unrolling the massive sheet across the chipped cinder-blocks. I laughed hesitantly, wondering what my sleeping and absent roommates would think of us having a scantily clad gal on the wall of a place that held weekly Bible studies....Maybe we could make her some clothing to pin up over her like a giant paper-doll?
Either way, my gal is now hanging proudly to my right, her gaze surveying the room with approval. Funnily enough, when you open the front door it looks like Betty is gazing out through the window at you. That's her name, by the way, Bushnell Betty, after the dorm building I reside in. A name like that is as unavoidable as getting a run in your hose swing-dancing.
So there you have it folks, Bushnell Betty is now a character in this blog...though I'm not sure how long she will remain on the wall..only morning will tell I suppose. I knew there was a lot of unexpected turns to be experienced throughout the duration of this experiment, but having to champion to keep a giant scantily clad female on our living room wall was not one I was expecting by any means.
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Pin Curls and Victory Rolls
Tuesday, September 22, 2009 2:52 AM
So I just spent the last two hours trying to A) figure out what exactly a pin curl was and how you make them, and in researching those, B) what exactly a Victory Roll was??
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So I just spent the last two hours trying to A) figure out what exactly a pin curl was and how you make them, and in researching those, B) what exactly a Victory Roll was??
Despite the fact that I knew it was probably somewhat related to hair, the image that "victory roll" played out in my mind was of some corny star studded acrobatic act that ended in a quadruple somersault that Suzie, clad in a red, white, and blue leotard did, all while twirling a baton...on a pony...
You get the general gist of it.
What a Victory Roll actually was yet another sort of hair bump thing that the women of the 1940's used, most likely named something glaringly patriotic on purpose. The whole glamor of the 40's was centered around patriotism. If you looked good, you were supporting the country.
Well needless to say after several web searches and many a Youtube video, (you'd be surprised at how many there are out there for this sort of thing!) I finally thought that I had amounted the knowledge needed to conquer the VICTORY ROLL!
...well let's say that the first results were quite...non-victorious.
In fact they were:
laugh-so-hard-my-stomach-was-cramping-up-disastrous.
The final result is still something that might not make Suzie the Circus Wonder proud, but maybe my lack of Victory-Rollin-Spunk can be translated into a modern version. But what to call it? The Economic Downturn Roll? The "Yes We Can" Curl? The Corporate Bailout Bumps? Kash for Kurlers?
..still think they kinda look like horns...oh well.
The "Victory Roll" (of whatever I decide to call it) Break Down
On a Scale from 1-10, 10 being the best:
Ease of Skill: 3
Time Consumption: 2 (about two hours of funny, if frustrating attempts)
Durability: 3 (though admittedly I only put a small sized hole in the ozone layer rather than a big one hairspray wise)
Aesthetically Pleasing: 5
_________________________________________________
Now on to Pin Curls! These bad boys were my first Official intended hair experiment, but as the above section is proof I got distracted by the more intriguing sounding Victory Roll....alright...so maybe it was more along the lines of the fact that everything I had heard about Pin Curls was pretty negative as far as time consumption and effort but I suppose this social experiment is one that will require a little bit of elbow grease, so I felt it was time to make like Rosie The Riveter (AKA the "We Can Do It!" poster girl) and...well Do It!
Below is a bit of a photo collage of the pin-curl experience thus far:
Only the morning will tell what the actual outcome holds! Yikes! I was never good with waiting. Though I was not "That Child" that would go and peek at my Christmas presents that were sure to be hiding in the uppermost regions of my parents bedroom closet, I would still bounce up and down impatiently on my bed, waiting for the green light to fly down the stairs to see what Santa had brought. Here's to hoping that Santa Brought a beautiful first pin-curl experience!
~Morning has come and my curls stayed put all night thanks to the silk handkerchief I picked up at the local Salvation Army Thrift Store! I took out the pins, my heart a-flutter and keeping tune with Ella's throaty rendition of "Hey Big Spenda" that was playing in the background...et....Voila! Some of the most "boing" sound-effect inspiring curls I've ever had!
But what about the brushing?!? This nerve wrecking fear that brushing these curls would result in a Ronald McDonald worthy fro was one that kept me running out the door for work without doing so. When I got back to my room a few hours later the curls were a bit less curly and when I tried to brush them they kinda gave me the cold-curled-shoulder. Oh well. Attempt number two tonight. Oh to conquer the curl. Pin curl that is. Santa better pay up this time around.
Pin Curl Update!:
9.25.09
Well it's been rainy on the day I wanted too retry the curls and since I'm
returning home this weekend I will try the curls then (fingers crossed!)
In the meantime I'll try to get the first attempt pictures up!
- Ease of Skill: 7
- Time Consumption: 4 (It only took me 40ish min and only one go around vs. the TWO hours of victory roll attempts)
- Durability: ??
- Aesthetically Pleasing: ??
Labels: hair, The Experiment 1940s living
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The Experiment
Monday, September 21, 2009 3:37 PM
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As I was walking to dinner one day this semester, I looked around at the sea of Ugg Boots, Northface jackets, and skin tight leggings and wondered what my great grandmother would think of all this. Through her 100 years of life on this earth she had seen change after change and yet one era for her was the pinnacle of class, beauty, and all that was "good" on God's green earth.
The 1940's.
The 40's was a time of change. The ending of the depression. The start of a War, the first since the "War to End All Wars". Women were gaining independence by the hour and emotions ran thick in the blood of the able-bodied 1940s gal.
I envied my great grandmother as she'd tell me stories of the glory days and wished that I too could have a slice of the 1940's pie. Suddenly it occurred to me that I, in a way could. That night I researched the era and styled my hair as close to the 'rock-a-billy' style as I could fathom (since sometimes a decent ponytail was out of my league). Immediately I felt like I was that much closer.
Soon the hair, lead to an excessive spending spree on itunes and I had a bucket-load of Andrews Sisters and the Glenn Miller band. I ran to the library and checked out popular books of the 40's, and scavenged through the dusty cd racks, whose contents actually smelled closer to vinyl records than cd's(...though maybe that was just the smell of technological antiquity?) Either way, the idea for this experiment came to being through these labors.
I was to go 40's in every faucet possible. I would only listen to 40s music, watch 40's movies, eat food that could be somewhat conceivable in the 1940s, and see if my outlook on life changed at all.
This blog is to track that experiment, to see if the glory days can rise from the dead, if only for my own personal experience.
The 1940's.
The 40's was a time of change. The ending of the depression. The start of a War, the first since the "War to End All Wars". Women were gaining independence by the hour and emotions ran thick in the blood of the able-bodied 1940s gal.
I envied my great grandmother as she'd tell me stories of the glory days and wished that I too could have a slice of the 1940's pie. Suddenly it occurred to me that I, in a way could. That night I researched the era and styled my hair as close to the 'rock-a-billy' style as I could fathom (since sometimes a decent ponytail was out of my league). Immediately I felt like I was that much closer.
Soon the hair, lead to an excessive spending spree on itunes and I had a bucket-load of Andrews Sisters and the Glenn Miller band. I ran to the library and checked out popular books of the 40's, and scavenged through the dusty cd racks, whose contents actually smelled closer to vinyl records than cd's(...though maybe that was just the smell of technological antiquity?) Either way, the idea for this experiment came to being through these labors.
I was to go 40's in every faucet possible. I would only listen to 40s music, watch 40's movies, eat food that could be somewhat conceivable in the 1940s, and see if my outlook on life changed at all.
This blog is to track that experiment, to see if the glory days can rise from the dead, if only for my own personal experience.
Labels: The Experiment 1940s living
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