Kathleen Marple Kalb's Blog, page 13
March 22, 2023
'CUZ I'M A BLONDE
What is it about blondes?
Born or bottle, they’ve been fascinating the world for thousands of years.
Some of it’s just the fact that they stand out.
In most parts of the world, natural blondes are rare. Before safe and reliable haircoloring, you just didn’t see them very often, unless you hung around in some parts of Northern Europe. While people moved around more than we tend to think they did (and mostly not for good reasons) there were still a lot of places where a blonde person was not an everyday sight.
The science says light hair and skin can be an adaptation to cold climates, which is how you get the Vikings. But there are other genetic mutations that produce blonde hair, so you see light haired people in just about every population.
And they get all kinds of attentions.
The mythology around blonds pretty much started with mythology itself.
No surprise that Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love and beauty, was blond.
Naturally blonde, I hasten to add.
The whole taboo on bleaching blonde started in Ancient Greece. At that time, hair dye was incredibly expensive, since the process involved saffron. As in the world’s priciest spice. Gold powder was another option, but not a cheaper one. Most women didn’t have the time or money for that, but for prostitutes, it might just be a good investment.
By the Roman Era, hair coloring was firmly associated with courtesans…to the point that one philosopher allowed as how only black haired women could be respectable matrons.
Most observers didn’t take it that far. Natural blonde hair was rare and special enough that it had to mean something good, at least in many people’s view.
Note here: we can’t talk about the whole “fair is good” trope without acknowledging the obvious racism…but the deep dive is for another day.
The whole good natural/bad bottle blonde dynamic was firmly in place by the medieval period. The Virgin Mary was usually shown as a blonde, and there’s no question she was born that way. Good queens are often portrayed with fair hair (as it was called and celebrated then) whatever their natural shade.
And speaking of shade, there was always plenty for the woman who felt the need to punch up her natural color. Any noticeably unnatural hair coloring was a big bright sign that she was up to something nefarious, and social sanctions were handed out accordingly.
Bottle blonde could easily become its own punishment, too. Chemical lightening wasn’t really safe and reliable until well into the 20th century, and plenty of women suffered permanent scars, hair loss, and more from their efforts to brighten up.
Then came the movies.
From the Girl with the Golden Curls (you know her as Mary Pickford) to Jean Harlow to Marilyn Monroe, blondes ruled the roost on film. Even in black-and-white, they look good. Early producers would sometimes have frames hand-colored to show off those lovely locks.
There’s more. By the time Monroe became the One Blonde to Rule Them All, hair coloring had become sophisticated, safe, and accepted. Nobody doubted that Marilyn had help getting her hair that color, and almost nobody minded. Her hairdresser was even celebrated for cooking up the perfect hot platinum.
It would take a few more years for nice suburban ladies to get into status hair coloring, but once it started, they didn’t look back. The perfect blonde became every bit as much of a trophy as an Hermes bag.
And still is. All because of a little genetic adaptation to cold weather!
Got a #ThrowbackThursday idea? Drop it in the comments.
Born or bottle, they’ve been fascinating the world for thousands of years.
Some of it’s just the fact that they stand out.
In most parts of the world, natural blondes are rare. Before safe and reliable haircoloring, you just didn’t see them very often, unless you hung around in some parts of Northern Europe. While people moved around more than we tend to think they did (and mostly not for good reasons) there were still a lot of places where a blonde person was not an everyday sight.
The science says light hair and skin can be an adaptation to cold climates, which is how you get the Vikings. But there are other genetic mutations that produce blonde hair, so you see light haired people in just about every population.
And they get all kinds of attentions.
The mythology around blonds pretty much started with mythology itself.
No surprise that Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love and beauty, was blond.
Naturally blonde, I hasten to add.
The whole taboo on bleaching blonde started in Ancient Greece. At that time, hair dye was incredibly expensive, since the process involved saffron. As in the world’s priciest spice. Gold powder was another option, but not a cheaper one. Most women didn’t have the time or money for that, but for prostitutes, it might just be a good investment.
By the Roman Era, hair coloring was firmly associated with courtesans…to the point that one philosopher allowed as how only black haired women could be respectable matrons.
Most observers didn’t take it that far. Natural blonde hair was rare and special enough that it had to mean something good, at least in many people’s view.
Note here: we can’t talk about the whole “fair is good” trope without acknowledging the obvious racism…but the deep dive is for another day.
The whole good natural/bad bottle blonde dynamic was firmly in place by the medieval period. The Virgin Mary was usually shown as a blonde, and there’s no question she was born that way. Good queens are often portrayed with fair hair (as it was called and celebrated then) whatever their natural shade.
And speaking of shade, there was always plenty for the woman who felt the need to punch up her natural color. Any noticeably unnatural hair coloring was a big bright sign that she was up to something nefarious, and social sanctions were handed out accordingly.
Bottle blonde could easily become its own punishment, too. Chemical lightening wasn’t really safe and reliable until well into the 20th century, and plenty of women suffered permanent scars, hair loss, and more from their efforts to brighten up.
Then came the movies.
From the Girl with the Golden Curls (you know her as Mary Pickford) to Jean Harlow to Marilyn Monroe, blondes ruled the roost on film. Even in black-and-white, they look good. Early producers would sometimes have frames hand-colored to show off those lovely locks.
There’s more. By the time Monroe became the One Blonde to Rule Them All, hair coloring had become sophisticated, safe, and accepted. Nobody doubted that Marilyn had help getting her hair that color, and almost nobody minded. Her hairdresser was even celebrated for cooking up the perfect hot platinum.
It would take a few more years for nice suburban ladies to get into status hair coloring, but once it started, they didn’t look back. The perfect blonde became every bit as much of a trophy as an Hermes bag.
And still is. All because of a little genetic adaptation to cold weather!
Got a #ThrowbackThursday idea? Drop it in the comments.
March 15, 2023
IRISH EVERY DAY
Kiss me, I’m Irish today! Green donuts. Green beer. Green bagels. (Oy vey!)
Maybe a chorus of “Danny Boy.”
For a lot of Americans, that’s a typical Saint Patrick’s Day.
Whether you’re Irish – for the day – or not, it’s mostly a celebration of how we think of the Irish: a poetic and musical people who like the color green and know how to party.
Which…yeah.
But Americans have been observing Saint Patrick’s Day since before they were Americans. There are rumblings in Irish-American historical circles about a Royal Governor of New York in the 1600s who was Irish and Catholic and must have done something to mark the day.
If he did, he was smart enough to keep it quiet. Even before the Great Hunger, the Irish were second-class citizens at best, and Irish ancestry – and especially Catholic faith – were not things to celebrate.
Still, the Irish are not known for keeping their lights under a bushel, and in the early 1700s, there were modest and dignified celebrations in Boston that spread to other cities. By the 1800s, there were plenty of parades, usually fairly quiet and restrained events, again with the emphasis on pride and dignity, in no small part because of growing nativist prejudice.
It’s hard to imagine in our current multicultural world, but at one point, the Anglo-Saxon Protestant aristocracy in Britain and the U.S. didn’t even consider the Irish human, never mind white people like them. You don’t let people starve in the road if you think they’re anything like you.
But the Irish are a resilient bunch. They’ve had to be.
By the late 19th century, they’d beaten back a lot of the prejudice just by showing up and working hard, and celebrations of Irish heritage continued and grew. Not without incident – a melee after dueling New York parades in 1867 led to a renewed emphasis on decorum. It apparently worked – the City’s famous parade moved to almost its current spot on Fifth Avenue in 1891 and became a key place for the Irish political machine to show its power. Not to mention for New York’s Irish community to show its pride.
Ella Shane and her cousin Tommy Hurley would be two of those proud Irish folks; Ella honors both her Irish father and Jewish mother whenever she can. As tenement kids made good as a singer and boxing champ, our heroes would be careful to celebrate in a restrained and proper fashion. But celebrate they would!
If they’re in town and not on tour, Ella and Tommy would start the day like all good Irish Catholics, with Mass, though Tommy’s best friend Father Michael Riley leads a more festive service than usual at Holy Innocents. Then off to Fifth Avenue to watch the parade…and home for dinner. Not corned beef and cabbage, though – for them, it’s still poverty food.
Not for me, though!
My grandfather was proudly Scotch-Irish (we were never entirely sure he didn’t add the “Scotch” part to please Grandma’s Scottish immigrant father!) but he sure liked to celebrate Saint Patrick’s Day like a regular Irishman. Which meant a big pot of corned beef and cabbage. My very Scots grandmother made it for him each year, grumbling all the way.
Dessert? Grandpa’s favorite lemon meringue pie. Maybe key lime meringue if Grandma was moved go with the green theme. Irish coffee for the grownups, too.
You’ll note there was no green beer.
One time there were shamrocks, though. Grandpa somehow ordered a real shamrock plant and proudly presented it to Grandma, who managed to keep it alive for years…even if she still groused about the corned beef and cabbage!
Got a Throwback Thursday idea? Drop it in the comments!
Maybe a chorus of “Danny Boy.”
For a lot of Americans, that’s a typical Saint Patrick’s Day.
Whether you’re Irish – for the day – or not, it’s mostly a celebration of how we think of the Irish: a poetic and musical people who like the color green and know how to party.
Which…yeah.
But Americans have been observing Saint Patrick’s Day since before they were Americans. There are rumblings in Irish-American historical circles about a Royal Governor of New York in the 1600s who was Irish and Catholic and must have done something to mark the day.
If he did, he was smart enough to keep it quiet. Even before the Great Hunger, the Irish were second-class citizens at best, and Irish ancestry – and especially Catholic faith – were not things to celebrate.
Still, the Irish are not known for keeping their lights under a bushel, and in the early 1700s, there were modest and dignified celebrations in Boston that spread to other cities. By the 1800s, there were plenty of parades, usually fairly quiet and restrained events, again with the emphasis on pride and dignity, in no small part because of growing nativist prejudice.
It’s hard to imagine in our current multicultural world, but at one point, the Anglo-Saxon Protestant aristocracy in Britain and the U.S. didn’t even consider the Irish human, never mind white people like them. You don’t let people starve in the road if you think they’re anything like you.
But the Irish are a resilient bunch. They’ve had to be.
By the late 19th century, they’d beaten back a lot of the prejudice just by showing up and working hard, and celebrations of Irish heritage continued and grew. Not without incident – a melee after dueling New York parades in 1867 led to a renewed emphasis on decorum. It apparently worked – the City’s famous parade moved to almost its current spot on Fifth Avenue in 1891 and became a key place for the Irish political machine to show its power. Not to mention for New York’s Irish community to show its pride.
Ella Shane and her cousin Tommy Hurley would be two of those proud Irish folks; Ella honors both her Irish father and Jewish mother whenever she can. As tenement kids made good as a singer and boxing champ, our heroes would be careful to celebrate in a restrained and proper fashion. But celebrate they would!
If they’re in town and not on tour, Ella and Tommy would start the day like all good Irish Catholics, with Mass, though Tommy’s best friend Father Michael Riley leads a more festive service than usual at Holy Innocents. Then off to Fifth Avenue to watch the parade…and home for dinner. Not corned beef and cabbage, though – for them, it’s still poverty food.
Not for me, though!
My grandfather was proudly Scotch-Irish (we were never entirely sure he didn’t add the “Scotch” part to please Grandma’s Scottish immigrant father!) but he sure liked to celebrate Saint Patrick’s Day like a regular Irishman. Which meant a big pot of corned beef and cabbage. My very Scots grandmother made it for him each year, grumbling all the way.
Dessert? Grandpa’s favorite lemon meringue pie. Maybe key lime meringue if Grandma was moved go with the green theme. Irish coffee for the grownups, too.
You’ll note there was no green beer.
One time there were shamrocks, though. Grandpa somehow ordered a real shamrock plant and proudly presented it to Grandma, who managed to keep it alive for years…even if she still groused about the corned beef and cabbage!
Got a Throwback Thursday idea? Drop it in the comments!
March 8, 2023
MARCH THROUGH WOMEN'S HISTORY
Ever wonder why March is Women’s History Month?
If you think about it at all, you may think it’s a way to piggyback on Black History Month; since we’re already taking a look at the contributions of underrepresented folks, let’s just move on to the ladies.
Not quite.
March, as it happens, is a very big month for the history of women, and so, a really good time to celebrate women’s history.
The first International Women’s Day was marked in March of 1911, and two years later, American woman suffragists made their first march on Washington.
And then there was March of 1972. In just about three weeks, two huge moves toward women’s equality were made…even if only one ultimately became the law of the land. On March 1, Title IX, the massive federal civil rights measure that bans sex discrimination in all areas of education was passed. It would change women’s education – and especially women’s athletics – forever. If you’re a WNBA or Women’s World Cup fan, thank Title IX.
Then, on March 22nd, the Senate passed the Equal Rights Amendment.
For much of the next decade, the political debate over the ERA would continue, and it ultimately was not ratified, though women’s rights advocates periodically bring it up again. Even now.
So, by the time the U.S. was picking an official time to honor women’s history, March was the clear choice. Starting in 1982, presidents issued an official proclamation for Women’s History Week, later expanded to Women’s History Month.
Just as there’s a huge, vibrant array of the history of people of color to study during Black History month, Women’s History Month has moved long past Abigail Adams and Susan B. Anthony.
Spoiler Alert: I minored in women’s history in college. For me, it was a revelation. I’d grown up in the Western PA back country, and the history I learned in high school was about the Founding Fathers and captains of industry. Not a lot about people who looked like me, never mind people who looked like my new classmates in Pittsburgh.
All of a sudden, we’re reading deeply researched stories about daily life in the Colonial period, and learning about the backbreaking work involved in keeping everyone fed and clothed, the deathly peril of childbirth, and the ways women supported and helped each other. We’re reading narratives from women who lived in slavery, learning the very personal toll of the larger evil. We’re reading about the daughters of immigrant families, and the pull between old ways and new.
And we’re recognizing ourselves. Our stories. And starting to think that we – and our stories – matter.
Because we do. Because everyone does.
If you’re looking for a good place to start Women’s History Month, you can’t do better than Laurel Thatcher Ulrich, most famous for the line: “Well-behaved women rarely make history.” Read her wonderful book GOOD WIVES, and you’ll know why that’s so much more than a throwaway comment.
And speaking of lines, the best one is from Abigail Adams – who was every drop as interesting and important as her spouse. Husband John didn’t heed her words as he was helping write the Constitution, but we can: “Remember the Ladies.”
Got a #ThrowbackThursday idea? Drop it in the comments!
If you think about it at all, you may think it’s a way to piggyback on Black History Month; since we’re already taking a look at the contributions of underrepresented folks, let’s just move on to the ladies.
Not quite.
March, as it happens, is a very big month for the history of women, and so, a really good time to celebrate women’s history.
The first International Women’s Day was marked in March of 1911, and two years later, American woman suffragists made their first march on Washington.
And then there was March of 1972. In just about three weeks, two huge moves toward women’s equality were made…even if only one ultimately became the law of the land. On March 1, Title IX, the massive federal civil rights measure that bans sex discrimination in all areas of education was passed. It would change women’s education – and especially women’s athletics – forever. If you’re a WNBA or Women’s World Cup fan, thank Title IX.
Then, on March 22nd, the Senate passed the Equal Rights Amendment.
For much of the next decade, the political debate over the ERA would continue, and it ultimately was not ratified, though women’s rights advocates periodically bring it up again. Even now.
So, by the time the U.S. was picking an official time to honor women’s history, March was the clear choice. Starting in 1982, presidents issued an official proclamation for Women’s History Week, later expanded to Women’s History Month.
Just as there’s a huge, vibrant array of the history of people of color to study during Black History month, Women’s History Month has moved long past Abigail Adams and Susan B. Anthony.
Spoiler Alert: I minored in women’s history in college. For me, it was a revelation. I’d grown up in the Western PA back country, and the history I learned in high school was about the Founding Fathers and captains of industry. Not a lot about people who looked like me, never mind people who looked like my new classmates in Pittsburgh.
All of a sudden, we’re reading deeply researched stories about daily life in the Colonial period, and learning about the backbreaking work involved in keeping everyone fed and clothed, the deathly peril of childbirth, and the ways women supported and helped each other. We’re reading narratives from women who lived in slavery, learning the very personal toll of the larger evil. We’re reading about the daughters of immigrant families, and the pull between old ways and new.
And we’re recognizing ourselves. Our stories. And starting to think that we – and our stories – matter.
Because we do. Because everyone does.
If you’re looking for a good place to start Women’s History Month, you can’t do better than Laurel Thatcher Ulrich, most famous for the line: “Well-behaved women rarely make history.” Read her wonderful book GOOD WIVES, and you’ll know why that’s so much more than a throwaway comment.
And speaking of lines, the best one is from Abigail Adams – who was every drop as interesting and important as her spouse. Husband John didn’t heed her words as he was helping write the Constitution, but we can: “Remember the Ladies.”
Got a #ThrowbackThursday idea? Drop it in the comments!
March 1, 2023
WE'RE UNDER HERE SOMEWHERE
For a lot of folks in the Northeast and other parts of the country, this week has been our first serious snow of the winter. And we’ve spent days fighting it. Sweeping it, blowing it, plowing it if you have the equipment…and of course, like me, shoveling it.
In the 19th century, though, snow removal was a lot more basic.
Early snowplows were patented in the 1840s, and they were in wide use (with horse-drawn wagons) by the 1860s. The problem was, the snow still had to go somewhere once the plow pushed it off the road. Residents and merchants on side streets were much less than thrilled to discover that they were snowed under while the main drag was clear.
So they called in the shovel brigade. And that’s exactly what it was: crews of men who shoveled the drifts into carts or wagons, which were then dumped in whatever river or bay was available. Sometimes, in big cities, the shovel brigade followed the plows, cleaning up whatever was left as they went. It was brutal work, and not much different from the way people had been moving snow since the first humans realized they couldn’t just stay in the cave for the winter.
Worse, it didn’t make much sense in a city like New York, which was trying to move into the modern age, with all of the modern accoutrements, like – say – electricity and trains. The Blizzard of 1888 knocked out everything for days and convinced city leaders to make some major changes.
So how do you get around snow on the ground? You go under it – or over it.
New Yorkers did both.
They buried a lot of their power lines. It doesn’t prevent all outages, of course, but it’s a lot easier than going wire by wire through Manhattan. And it worked; many large cities have underground power lines to this day.
More, in parts of the City, you can still look up and see another relic from the 1888 storm: elevated train lines. Steam trains often had their own plows, but the blizzard was too much for them, leading the city to look for other ideas. Elevated lines were one.
Another would become an iconic fixture of the City: underground trains. The subway was still most of 20 years away, but 1888 was a good hard shove in that direction. Underground trains definitely worked: the one thing everyone knows in New York is that the subways ALWAYS run.
Then, as now, though, that did not mean everything was easy, normal or comfortable. The snow wagons and shovel brigades survived long into the 20th century. Even now, there’s not much to do with all of that snow but cart it away and leave it to melt somewhere. Dumping it in the water often isn’t an option any more because of the road salt and other chemicals.
So yes, people across the Northern Hemisphere have been fighting a wretched daily battle with snow this week (And really, we were due!) But it could be a lot worse.
At least I’ll keep telling myself that as I grab another pain patch for the sore muscles!
Got a Throwback Thursday idea? Drop it in the comments!
In the 19th century, though, snow removal was a lot more basic.
Early snowplows were patented in the 1840s, and they were in wide use (with horse-drawn wagons) by the 1860s. The problem was, the snow still had to go somewhere once the plow pushed it off the road. Residents and merchants on side streets were much less than thrilled to discover that they were snowed under while the main drag was clear.
So they called in the shovel brigade. And that’s exactly what it was: crews of men who shoveled the drifts into carts or wagons, which were then dumped in whatever river or bay was available. Sometimes, in big cities, the shovel brigade followed the plows, cleaning up whatever was left as they went. It was brutal work, and not much different from the way people had been moving snow since the first humans realized they couldn’t just stay in the cave for the winter.
Worse, it didn’t make much sense in a city like New York, which was trying to move into the modern age, with all of the modern accoutrements, like – say – electricity and trains. The Blizzard of 1888 knocked out everything for days and convinced city leaders to make some major changes.
So how do you get around snow on the ground? You go under it – or over it.
New Yorkers did both.
They buried a lot of their power lines. It doesn’t prevent all outages, of course, but it’s a lot easier than going wire by wire through Manhattan. And it worked; many large cities have underground power lines to this day.
More, in parts of the City, you can still look up and see another relic from the 1888 storm: elevated train lines. Steam trains often had their own plows, but the blizzard was too much for them, leading the city to look for other ideas. Elevated lines were one.
Another would become an iconic fixture of the City: underground trains. The subway was still most of 20 years away, but 1888 was a good hard shove in that direction. Underground trains definitely worked: the one thing everyone knows in New York is that the subways ALWAYS run.
Then, as now, though, that did not mean everything was easy, normal or comfortable. The snow wagons and shovel brigades survived long into the 20th century. Even now, there’s not much to do with all of that snow but cart it away and leave it to melt somewhere. Dumping it in the water often isn’t an option any more because of the road salt and other chemicals.
So yes, people across the Northern Hemisphere have been fighting a wretched daily battle with snow this week (And really, we were due!) But it could be a lot worse.
At least I’ll keep telling myself that as I grab another pain patch for the sore muscles!
Got a Throwback Thursday idea? Drop it in the comments!
February 22, 2023
CROCHET WITH A HOOK
One of the many things I have in common with my historical mystery main character Ella Shane is crocheted afghans. Hers are from her beloved Aunt Ellen, beautiful hand-crafted reminders of the family who loves her. Mine? Hideous brightly-colored acrylic…but made with every drop as much love by my late grandmother.
My grandmother, the youngest, and one of the few American-born, children in her Scottish immigrant family, probably didn’t know or care that crochet was very much an Irish thing. Ella’s aunt, though, would have been well aware of it – and what crochet meant to the Irish.
It’s not just a pretty fiber art.
It’s a callback to the Great Hunger.
In the 1840s, as the Irish economy fell apart, Ursuline nuns started teaching the women and children in their parishes how to crochet lace as a way to bring in desperately-needed funds. Soon people were crocheting across Ireland in hopes of staving off starvation.
Wealthy women founded stores, and crochet schools, and talked up the product to their friends to help get the industry off the ground, and it worked. Crochet was one of the few things Irish people could do to help themselves during the Hunger, and many seized it as an opportunity.
Initially, Irish crocheted lace was seen as a lesser product than the work of Venetian artisans, but after Queen Victoria herself endorsed it, the crocheters had all the business they could handle.
When the Irish came to America, they brought crochet with them. Some were the highly-skilled artists who helped make a living for their families. Others, though, just knew enough to make useful and pretty household items.
And that, of course, was also part of their job. At every spot on the social spectrum, women were expected to do some kind of handiwork. Upper-class ladies did spectacularly elaborate and expensive tapestries and other decorative things. Middle-class women embroidered and embellished their clothing and accessories. (A society woman would not do the fancywork on her clothes because that was for the designer or her lady’s maid.)
Further down the social scale, handiwork was the way women made their homes more comfortable for their families or made sure that they had pretty things. A tenement mother couldn’t afford to buy a First Communion dress for her daughter, but she might be able to scrape up the pennies for thread and steal bits of time to make a veil.
And then there are afghans.
It’s been the term for a knitted or crocheted blanket since at least the 1860s, growing out of the term “Afghan Shawl” for those cashmere wraps that were everywhere in the early Victorian era. Before reliable central heating, and especially when it was a struggle to afford heat, people needed all the blankets and shawls and throws they could get.
It wasn’t just literal warmth, though.
An awful lot of work goes into making an afghan, even an easy one – and most of them were as elaborate as the maker could manage – so the effort is part of the gift.
Even though Ella’s afghan from Aunt Ellen is, as she puts it “a moderately hideous crochet,” and the ones from my grandmother could very easily burn your retinas, they’re the best possible way to warm your soul as well as your body.
You’re not just wrapping yourself in fiber – you’re wrapping yourself in love.
Got a #ThrowbackThursday idea? Drop it in the comments!
My grandmother, the youngest, and one of the few American-born, children in her Scottish immigrant family, probably didn’t know or care that crochet was very much an Irish thing. Ella’s aunt, though, would have been well aware of it – and what crochet meant to the Irish.
It’s not just a pretty fiber art.
It’s a callback to the Great Hunger.
In the 1840s, as the Irish economy fell apart, Ursuline nuns started teaching the women and children in their parishes how to crochet lace as a way to bring in desperately-needed funds. Soon people were crocheting across Ireland in hopes of staving off starvation.
Wealthy women founded stores, and crochet schools, and talked up the product to their friends to help get the industry off the ground, and it worked. Crochet was one of the few things Irish people could do to help themselves during the Hunger, and many seized it as an opportunity.
Initially, Irish crocheted lace was seen as a lesser product than the work of Venetian artisans, but after Queen Victoria herself endorsed it, the crocheters had all the business they could handle.
When the Irish came to America, they brought crochet with them. Some were the highly-skilled artists who helped make a living for their families. Others, though, just knew enough to make useful and pretty household items.
And that, of course, was also part of their job. At every spot on the social spectrum, women were expected to do some kind of handiwork. Upper-class ladies did spectacularly elaborate and expensive tapestries and other decorative things. Middle-class women embroidered and embellished their clothing and accessories. (A society woman would not do the fancywork on her clothes because that was for the designer or her lady’s maid.)
Further down the social scale, handiwork was the way women made their homes more comfortable for their families or made sure that they had pretty things. A tenement mother couldn’t afford to buy a First Communion dress for her daughter, but she might be able to scrape up the pennies for thread and steal bits of time to make a veil.
And then there are afghans.
It’s been the term for a knitted or crocheted blanket since at least the 1860s, growing out of the term “Afghan Shawl” for those cashmere wraps that were everywhere in the early Victorian era. Before reliable central heating, and especially when it was a struggle to afford heat, people needed all the blankets and shawls and throws they could get.
It wasn’t just literal warmth, though.
An awful lot of work goes into making an afghan, even an easy one – and most of them were as elaborate as the maker could manage – so the effort is part of the gift.
Even though Ella’s afghan from Aunt Ellen is, as she puts it “a moderately hideous crochet,” and the ones from my grandmother could very easily burn your retinas, they’re the best possible way to warm your soul as well as your body.
You’re not just wrapping yourself in fiber – you’re wrapping yourself in love.
Got a #ThrowbackThursday idea? Drop it in the comments!
February 15, 2023
BLACK HISTORY MONTH BACKGROUND
Black History Month has been around for more than a century, started by Dr. Carter G. Woodson and other prominent African-American historians back in 1915. They were at a conference to mark the 50th anniversary of Emancipation, and they wanted to continue the joy of celebrating Black excellence.
They started a group that still exists, known today as the Association for the Study of African American Life and History, and began promoting the second week in February as a time to look back at the experience and accomplishments of Black Americans.
It quickly caught on, with schools and communities across the country organizing celebrations. The second week of February was a very deliberate choice: the birthdays of both Abraham Lincoln and Frederick Douglass fall in that time.
The week in February was a fixture for generations, but in the late 1960’s, in the wake of the Civil Rights Movement, the first full-month observance was held in 1970 at Kent State University.
And not just in the U.S. There are now celebrations in Canada, Britain, and other European countries to name a few. (Some European countries observe it in October, but the goal is the same.)
Since 1976, every U.S. President has proclaimed February as Black History Month, and designated a specific theme for the observance, such as Black Health and Wellness, Achievement, and Family. This year’s theme, “Black Resistance,” is intended to look at how “African Americans have resisted historic and ongoing oppression, in all forms, especially the racial terrorism of lynching, racial pogroms and police killings.”
It’s also become a very commercial celebration, with businesses putting up Black History Month colors and posting historical vignettes and tributes. And, in recent years, many observances have tried to widen the focus, so that we don’t see profiles of the same four or five people, but of a much broader range of Black experience and achievement.
About those colors: Black History Month postings are often in black, red, green, and yellow for good reason. The colors are seen in many African flags, and represent unity and pride. Specifically: black is for the resilient people. Red is for the blood of innocent Black lives. Yellow is optimism, justice and equality. Green symbolizes the rich resources of Africa.
Of course, we should be reading about the rich history of African-Americans year round. You don’t need a special month to learn more about amazing people like Ida B. Wells, Marion Anderson, and Barbara Jordan, to name just a few.
If you happen to be looking for a place to start, though, you can’t do better than one of my personal favorites: MY LIFE, MY LOVE, MY LEGACY, by Coretta Scott King. It’s the amazing journey know, from a perspective you probably don’t. Not to mention a truly life-changing book.
And I can’t resist throwing in a word for one of my all-time favorite mystery series, Grace F. Edwards’ Mali Anderson series from the late 1990s. Set in Harlem, they’re immersive and engaging – and deserve a lot more attention!
Got a #ThrowbackThursday idea? Drop it in the comments!
They started a group that still exists, known today as the Association for the Study of African American Life and History, and began promoting the second week in February as a time to look back at the experience and accomplishments of Black Americans.
It quickly caught on, with schools and communities across the country organizing celebrations. The second week of February was a very deliberate choice: the birthdays of both Abraham Lincoln and Frederick Douglass fall in that time.
The week in February was a fixture for generations, but in the late 1960’s, in the wake of the Civil Rights Movement, the first full-month observance was held in 1970 at Kent State University.
And not just in the U.S. There are now celebrations in Canada, Britain, and other European countries to name a few. (Some European countries observe it in October, but the goal is the same.)
Since 1976, every U.S. President has proclaimed February as Black History Month, and designated a specific theme for the observance, such as Black Health and Wellness, Achievement, and Family. This year’s theme, “Black Resistance,” is intended to look at how “African Americans have resisted historic and ongoing oppression, in all forms, especially the racial terrorism of lynching, racial pogroms and police killings.”
It’s also become a very commercial celebration, with businesses putting up Black History Month colors and posting historical vignettes and tributes. And, in recent years, many observances have tried to widen the focus, so that we don’t see profiles of the same four or five people, but of a much broader range of Black experience and achievement.
About those colors: Black History Month postings are often in black, red, green, and yellow for good reason. The colors are seen in many African flags, and represent unity and pride. Specifically: black is for the resilient people. Red is for the blood of innocent Black lives. Yellow is optimism, justice and equality. Green symbolizes the rich resources of Africa.
Of course, we should be reading about the rich history of African-Americans year round. You don’t need a special month to learn more about amazing people like Ida B. Wells, Marion Anderson, and Barbara Jordan, to name just a few.
If you happen to be looking for a place to start, though, you can’t do better than one of my personal favorites: MY LIFE, MY LOVE, MY LEGACY, by Coretta Scott King. It’s the amazing journey know, from a perspective you probably don’t. Not to mention a truly life-changing book.
And I can’t resist throwing in a word for one of my all-time favorite mystery series, Grace F. Edwards’ Mali Anderson series from the late 1990s. Set in Harlem, they’re immersive and engaging – and deserve a lot more attention!
Got a #ThrowbackThursday idea? Drop it in the comments!
February 8, 2023
CRUEL SUMMER
So you think the Winter Without Snow is weird? How about the Year Without a Summer? The 1816 weather pattern was probably the biggest climate disaster the world saw before the Industrial Revolution, and it’s still a benchmark.
Just a quick note here: this is not going to be a discussion of the serious issues around climate change. There are plenty of places you can go for that.
Here, we’re going to talk about what it was like to be alive at the time – the experience and the social issues around it.
First of all, in 1816, most folks still saw the weather as something God sent and they accepted. A few scientists at the time looked at sunspots and kept records of the temperatures, but the average person didn’t spend a lot of time on the why. They were too busy surviving.
At first, it didn’t seem like anything weird was going on. Spring came, and then…nothing. The weather stayed chilly. And got colder.
It wasn’t a question of big snowstorms in June – although there was some unseasonable snow. The killer was the frost. For much of the Northern Hemisphere, there was frost every single month of the growing season.
Which meant that a lot of the food people relied on simply didn’t grow.
And in 1816, you couldn’t just go to the freezer and crack open a TV dinner.
People did have some stockpiles…there were a few very basic, very old methods of food preservation like drying fish and storing grain. But for an awful lot of people, no growing season meant no new food.
Many places suffered real and serious hardship. The old Connecticut farmers weren’t joking when they referred to that year as “Eighteen-hundred and starve to death.”
Folks ate whatever they could find, including wild turnips and hedgehogs, among other things. And the suffering had a real impact. U.S. historians say records show a significant Westward migration in the following years.
In Europe, it was mostly a cold and rainy summer, which left a lot of people stuck inside trying to stay warm. One of them was Mary Wollstonecraft. Holed up in gloomy Switzerland with her future husband, Percy Shelley and other writers, they started writing horror stories to pass the time. Hers became Frankenstein.
Most folks didn’t turn their suffering into art, though. They just got through it.
And when the next spring came, and the flowers bloomed, they just figured that God was merciful and went on from there.
It wasn’t until decades later that scientists started to get a handle on what happened…and more than a full century afterward that it became accepted fact. But now, most scientists agree that the problem was a massive volcanic eruption. Mount Tambora belched enough ash into the atmosphere to block the sun’s rays – and throw off global weather patterns for years.
If that’s starting to sound a little familiar, there’s a good reason. Eruptions in Iceland in 2010 and 2021 wreaked havoc on air travel, and weather, too. None of it was as bad as 1816, but it gave scientists a chance to take a good look at how it worked, and confirmed what they already knew.
So yes, it’s weird and uncomfortable – and maybe a sign of some serious trouble – that we aren’t getting much snow this year. But it’s still not as bad and scary as 1816…if only because we know more and have better resources to get through it.
Got a #ThrowbackThursday idea? Drop it in the comments!
Just a quick note here: this is not going to be a discussion of the serious issues around climate change. There are plenty of places you can go for that.
Here, we’re going to talk about what it was like to be alive at the time – the experience and the social issues around it.
First of all, in 1816, most folks still saw the weather as something God sent and they accepted. A few scientists at the time looked at sunspots and kept records of the temperatures, but the average person didn’t spend a lot of time on the why. They were too busy surviving.
At first, it didn’t seem like anything weird was going on. Spring came, and then…nothing. The weather stayed chilly. And got colder.
It wasn’t a question of big snowstorms in June – although there was some unseasonable snow. The killer was the frost. For much of the Northern Hemisphere, there was frost every single month of the growing season.
Which meant that a lot of the food people relied on simply didn’t grow.
And in 1816, you couldn’t just go to the freezer and crack open a TV dinner.
People did have some stockpiles…there were a few very basic, very old methods of food preservation like drying fish and storing grain. But for an awful lot of people, no growing season meant no new food.
Many places suffered real and serious hardship. The old Connecticut farmers weren’t joking when they referred to that year as “Eighteen-hundred and starve to death.”
Folks ate whatever they could find, including wild turnips and hedgehogs, among other things. And the suffering had a real impact. U.S. historians say records show a significant Westward migration in the following years.
In Europe, it was mostly a cold and rainy summer, which left a lot of people stuck inside trying to stay warm. One of them was Mary Wollstonecraft. Holed up in gloomy Switzerland with her future husband, Percy Shelley and other writers, they started writing horror stories to pass the time. Hers became Frankenstein.
Most folks didn’t turn their suffering into art, though. They just got through it.
And when the next spring came, and the flowers bloomed, they just figured that God was merciful and went on from there.
It wasn’t until decades later that scientists started to get a handle on what happened…and more than a full century afterward that it became accepted fact. But now, most scientists agree that the problem was a massive volcanic eruption. Mount Tambora belched enough ash into the atmosphere to block the sun’s rays – and throw off global weather patterns for years.
If that’s starting to sound a little familiar, there’s a good reason. Eruptions in Iceland in 2010 and 2021 wreaked havoc on air travel, and weather, too. None of it was as bad as 1816, but it gave scientists a chance to take a good look at how it worked, and confirmed what they already knew.
So yes, it’s weird and uncomfortable – and maybe a sign of some serious trouble – that we aren’t getting much snow this year. But it’s still not as bad and scary as 1816…if only because we know more and have better resources to get through it.
Got a #ThrowbackThursday idea? Drop it in the comments!
February 1, 2023
THE ONE TRUE WOODCHUCK
There is only one groundhog, and he has been looking for his shadow since 1887.
I’m aware that my pals who await the annual verdict from Staten Island Chuck, Holtsville Hal and Malverne Mel may disagree. Too bad. This one’s mine.
Unnamed and uncelebrated groundhogs have apparently been popping out of their holes in early February for thousands of years. Sometime in the Dark Ages, early Christians grafted the tradition of nursing candles through the winter to watching small rodents as a possible sign of spring.
No judging. I’ll do anything for a sign of spring right now – and I have central heat, a coffeemaker, and a good streaming service!
Eventually, the tradition arrived in Western Pennsylvania along with German settlers, who decided that the local woodchucks were the ideal rodent for the purpose. Fast forward a bit, and we find the enterprising town fathers of Punxsutawney looking at the little fuzzballs and realizing that this was a great way to get some attention for the town – and maybe make a buck.
So, in 1887, a newspaper editor and his pals proclaimed that “Punxsutawney Phil” was the One True Forecaster. Over the years, they kept the top hats and the over-the-top language – and added a lot of events and festivities to bring tourists and their lovely money to town.
By the time I was growing up a few miles away in Brookville, that darn groundhog was the area’s principal claim to fame. And the annual celebration had turned into a flat-out bacchanalia.
As a kid, I didn’t really believe my mother’s stories about the crazy groundhog fans who showed up at the Senior Center Pancake Breakfast, a huge annual fundraiser. I figured Mom just liked to tell a good story, like we do back home.
And then I went to Gobbler’s Knob myself.
Trying to hustle my way into a real radio job, I took a tape recorder and covered the event. Which is when I learned that Mom had actually underplayed it.
Let’s just say that the groundhog and I were the only ones who were sober that year.
Before the Punxsutawney Chamber of Commerce – or the groundhog people – come after me, this was a very long time ago, and as far as I know, events are now much more family-friendly, and entirely alcohol-free. That said, the groundhog still inspires an impressive level of passion, not to mention local pride.
There’s a reason for that. Staten Island and Long Island both have a lot more to recommend them. That rodent is just about all we’ve got in Jefferson County.
As I’ve worked my way through newsrooms in Vermont, Connecticut, and New York, someone always asks me if it was anything like the movie GROUNDHOG DAY, and if the people are really that crazy about Phil.
No – and yes!
When I started writing my first contemporary mystery, I knew I wanted my main character to be a Western PA girl like me…but I decided to that I’d go all the way and make her from Punxsutawney. And so, when you meet Jaye Jordan in LIVE, LOCAL, AND DEAD and the Vermont stories, know that she’s a proud woodchuck.
Oh, and one more fun fact. The groundhogs who come out in February are the boys. They’re looking for the girls…but females are smart enough to stay inside where it’s warm! Darn right we are.
Got a #ThrowbackThursday idea? Drop it in the comments!
I’m aware that my pals who await the annual verdict from Staten Island Chuck, Holtsville Hal and Malverne Mel may disagree. Too bad. This one’s mine.
Unnamed and uncelebrated groundhogs have apparently been popping out of their holes in early February for thousands of years. Sometime in the Dark Ages, early Christians grafted the tradition of nursing candles through the winter to watching small rodents as a possible sign of spring.
No judging. I’ll do anything for a sign of spring right now – and I have central heat, a coffeemaker, and a good streaming service!
Eventually, the tradition arrived in Western Pennsylvania along with German settlers, who decided that the local woodchucks were the ideal rodent for the purpose. Fast forward a bit, and we find the enterprising town fathers of Punxsutawney looking at the little fuzzballs and realizing that this was a great way to get some attention for the town – and maybe make a buck.
So, in 1887, a newspaper editor and his pals proclaimed that “Punxsutawney Phil” was the One True Forecaster. Over the years, they kept the top hats and the over-the-top language – and added a lot of events and festivities to bring tourists and their lovely money to town.
By the time I was growing up a few miles away in Brookville, that darn groundhog was the area’s principal claim to fame. And the annual celebration had turned into a flat-out bacchanalia.
As a kid, I didn’t really believe my mother’s stories about the crazy groundhog fans who showed up at the Senior Center Pancake Breakfast, a huge annual fundraiser. I figured Mom just liked to tell a good story, like we do back home.
And then I went to Gobbler’s Knob myself.
Trying to hustle my way into a real radio job, I took a tape recorder and covered the event. Which is when I learned that Mom had actually underplayed it.
Let’s just say that the groundhog and I were the only ones who were sober that year.
Before the Punxsutawney Chamber of Commerce – or the groundhog people – come after me, this was a very long time ago, and as far as I know, events are now much more family-friendly, and entirely alcohol-free. That said, the groundhog still inspires an impressive level of passion, not to mention local pride.
There’s a reason for that. Staten Island and Long Island both have a lot more to recommend them. That rodent is just about all we’ve got in Jefferson County.
As I’ve worked my way through newsrooms in Vermont, Connecticut, and New York, someone always asks me if it was anything like the movie GROUNDHOG DAY, and if the people are really that crazy about Phil.
No – and yes!
When I started writing my first contemporary mystery, I knew I wanted my main character to be a Western PA girl like me…but I decided to that I’d go all the way and make her from Punxsutawney. And so, when you meet Jaye Jordan in LIVE, LOCAL, AND DEAD and the Vermont stories, know that she’s a proud woodchuck.
Oh, and one more fun fact. The groundhogs who come out in February are the boys. They’re looking for the girls…but females are smart enough to stay inside where it’s warm! Darn right we are.
Got a #ThrowbackThursday idea? Drop it in the comments!
January 25, 2023
CHEW THIS
People have been chewing gum since prehistoric times: Scandinavian cave-folks chewed birch bark tar, Native Americans chewed pine resin, the Aztecs chomped chicle tree sap – and it’s never been considered ladylike.
The Aztecs, for example, considered public gum-chewing to be for women of ill-repute and effeminate men. (There may be a bit of translation issue there, but the point is made!)
Modern gum took off in the 19th century, first when John Curtis of Maine started making it with paraffin and spruce sap…and later. when American inventor Thomas Adams Sr got a bunch of chicle from an exiled Mexican president and turned it into a business. By the 1880s, Adams and his rival William Wrigley had every American chomping through some 100 sticks a year!
And don’t forget bubble gum – Fleer started selling Dubble-Bubble in 1928.
So gum was everywhere.
Which didn’t mean it was considered nice.
Even though everyone chewed gum, most people weren’t supposed to be seen doing it.
Just about everyone who went to school can remember a teacher glaring at them and ordering them to get rid of their gum. Some older folks can probably remember being told to swallow it...and worrying that it would stay in their intestine and clog up the works.
Just an urban legend -- really!
If gum was bad form for schoolkids, it was much more so for women.
Sure, it wasn’t quite smoking-level misbehavior, but chewing was definitely not part of the debutante package.
Advice books remind ladies not to chew in public, usually with some comment about how it looks unladylike.
If the advice books didn’t get the point across, the pop culture portrayals would do it.
While elegant movie stars like Claudette Colbert appeared in gum ads – smiling serenely over a picture of Doublemint -- the women who were actually seen chewing it were a good bit less spiffy. By the 1950s, open and enthusiastic gum-chewing had become the signature of the bimbo and the bad girl.
Marilyn Monroe herself wasn’t above taking a chomp as a gleeful sex bomb, and neither were any number of lesser lights on the big and small screens. A juicy wad of gum allowed for all kinds of business, and the working jaw created a certain look.
It’s fair to say Princess Grace or Jacqueline Kennedy were never caught chewing on camera.
Never mind the Queen. It’s entirely possible that Her Late Majesty had a pack in her expansive purse…but we never saw her using it.
Even now, it’s not exactly a refined vice.
No one’s going to argue that ladies look cool popping a big pink bubble – though there are still folks who think that there’s something deeply cool about smoking, no matter how dangerous. On the other hand, you don’t have to go downstairs and ten feet away from the door to enjoy a little sugar-free wintermint!
Ladylike it may not be, but it turns out that the gum chewers – myself included – have a point. Researchers say chewing gum lowers stress, increases concentration and even boosts memory.
Makes sense to me – I can’t write a newscast, never mind fiction, without something to chew on, and I’m not the only writer I know with the habit.
And no, I’m not going to tell you how much it took to finish this post…though I WILL tell you that it’s Trident Spearmint!
Got a #ThrowbackThursday idea? Drop it in the comments!
The Aztecs, for example, considered public gum-chewing to be for women of ill-repute and effeminate men. (There may be a bit of translation issue there, but the point is made!)
Modern gum took off in the 19th century, first when John Curtis of Maine started making it with paraffin and spruce sap…and later. when American inventor Thomas Adams Sr got a bunch of chicle from an exiled Mexican president and turned it into a business. By the 1880s, Adams and his rival William Wrigley had every American chomping through some 100 sticks a year!
And don’t forget bubble gum – Fleer started selling Dubble-Bubble in 1928.
So gum was everywhere.
Which didn’t mean it was considered nice.
Even though everyone chewed gum, most people weren’t supposed to be seen doing it.
Just about everyone who went to school can remember a teacher glaring at them and ordering them to get rid of their gum. Some older folks can probably remember being told to swallow it...and worrying that it would stay in their intestine and clog up the works.
Just an urban legend -- really!
If gum was bad form for schoolkids, it was much more so for women.
Sure, it wasn’t quite smoking-level misbehavior, but chewing was definitely not part of the debutante package.
Advice books remind ladies not to chew in public, usually with some comment about how it looks unladylike.
If the advice books didn’t get the point across, the pop culture portrayals would do it.
While elegant movie stars like Claudette Colbert appeared in gum ads – smiling serenely over a picture of Doublemint -- the women who were actually seen chewing it were a good bit less spiffy. By the 1950s, open and enthusiastic gum-chewing had become the signature of the bimbo and the bad girl.
Marilyn Monroe herself wasn’t above taking a chomp as a gleeful sex bomb, and neither were any number of lesser lights on the big and small screens. A juicy wad of gum allowed for all kinds of business, and the working jaw created a certain look.
It’s fair to say Princess Grace or Jacqueline Kennedy were never caught chewing on camera.
Never mind the Queen. It’s entirely possible that Her Late Majesty had a pack in her expansive purse…but we never saw her using it.
Even now, it’s not exactly a refined vice.
No one’s going to argue that ladies look cool popping a big pink bubble – though there are still folks who think that there’s something deeply cool about smoking, no matter how dangerous. On the other hand, you don’t have to go downstairs and ten feet away from the door to enjoy a little sugar-free wintermint!
Ladylike it may not be, but it turns out that the gum chewers – myself included – have a point. Researchers say chewing gum lowers stress, increases concentration and even boosts memory.
Makes sense to me – I can’t write a newscast, never mind fiction, without something to chew on, and I’m not the only writer I know with the habit.
And no, I’m not going to tell you how much it took to finish this post…though I WILL tell you that it’s Trident Spearmint!
Got a #ThrowbackThursday idea? Drop it in the comments!
January 18, 2023
HOUSE CLOTHES
Before sweatpants, there were housedresses.
Work from home renovated all our wardrobes down to the fleeciest common denominator, but women have been wearing simple and comfortable indoor outfits for centuries.
The idea of having a good outfit for dress-up and scruffy clothes for daily work has been around for a very long time. There’s no confirmation of this, of course, but the first cave people probably had nice animal skins for celebrations and grubby old ones for hunting and gathering.
By the 19th century, having a “good dress” was one of the first signs of prosperity – or the last thing a woman would surrender in hard times.
A Victorian wife may have been called “the Angel in the House,” but she worked like a longshoreman unless she was at the very top of the social order. And she needed clothes for the purpose.
Running a 19th century household was backbreaking work and if you didn’t have a really big staff, you were going to be working right along with your servants. The kitchen maid might black the stove, but you’d have to help her beat the carpets, drag hot water, and deal with the laundry.
You weren’t going to wear your good clothes, or even your ordinary afternoon walking dress for that. Nope. You’d wear a morning dress: serviceable, washable cotton, something you could get into without help from your maid, not particularly fitted, and probably not much to look at. If you were well off enough to have a few house dresses, you’d have one really old one you saved for things like spring cleaning.
House dresses weren’t just for dirty work, though. They were also for when you weren’t going to be seen. In a time when people had far fewer outfits than we do today, women would do their best to avoid wear on their good clothes. So a morning dress might well be an all-day getup if you weren’t going anywhere.
Much like yoga pants now!
Well into the 20th century, many women wore house dresses for much of the day. Think of June Cleaver in the kitchen with her little cotton dress and apron. Or Edith Bunker’s impressively ugly plaid shifts.
By June’s time, though, the rules were different. For the untold millions of women who defined themselves as housewives, the housedress was the uniform in work hours. Advice books from the era routinely advise women to change into something pretty and put on a little lipstick when their husband came home.
The idea – often stated just like this – was that he’d had a hard day’s work and deserved to be welcomed into a beautiful home for a delicious dinner lovingly served by his adorable wife. Read a couple of these advice books and you’ll be amazed that bras were the only thing women torched in the 1970s.
(Actually, that only happened once, and the ladies were in on the joke – another post for another day!)
House dresses were very firmly in the past until the pandemic, when some upstart designers started selling “nap dresses.” In a fine example of style recycling, they look pretty .much like the old morning dresses…but at a price that would make Great-Grandma faint!
And this time, nobody’s telling you to change clothes for Mr. Cleaver
Got a #ThrowbackThursday idea? Drop it in the comments!
Work from home renovated all our wardrobes down to the fleeciest common denominator, but women have been wearing simple and comfortable indoor outfits for centuries.
The idea of having a good outfit for dress-up and scruffy clothes for daily work has been around for a very long time. There’s no confirmation of this, of course, but the first cave people probably had nice animal skins for celebrations and grubby old ones for hunting and gathering.
By the 19th century, having a “good dress” was one of the first signs of prosperity – or the last thing a woman would surrender in hard times.
A Victorian wife may have been called “the Angel in the House,” but she worked like a longshoreman unless she was at the very top of the social order. And she needed clothes for the purpose.
Running a 19th century household was backbreaking work and if you didn’t have a really big staff, you were going to be working right along with your servants. The kitchen maid might black the stove, but you’d have to help her beat the carpets, drag hot water, and deal with the laundry.
You weren’t going to wear your good clothes, or even your ordinary afternoon walking dress for that. Nope. You’d wear a morning dress: serviceable, washable cotton, something you could get into without help from your maid, not particularly fitted, and probably not much to look at. If you were well off enough to have a few house dresses, you’d have one really old one you saved for things like spring cleaning.
House dresses weren’t just for dirty work, though. They were also for when you weren’t going to be seen. In a time when people had far fewer outfits than we do today, women would do their best to avoid wear on their good clothes. So a morning dress might well be an all-day getup if you weren’t going anywhere.
Much like yoga pants now!
Well into the 20th century, many women wore house dresses for much of the day. Think of June Cleaver in the kitchen with her little cotton dress and apron. Or Edith Bunker’s impressively ugly plaid shifts.
By June’s time, though, the rules were different. For the untold millions of women who defined themselves as housewives, the housedress was the uniform in work hours. Advice books from the era routinely advise women to change into something pretty and put on a little lipstick when their husband came home.
The idea – often stated just like this – was that he’d had a hard day’s work and deserved to be welcomed into a beautiful home for a delicious dinner lovingly served by his adorable wife. Read a couple of these advice books and you’ll be amazed that bras were the only thing women torched in the 1970s.
(Actually, that only happened once, and the ladies were in on the joke – another post for another day!)
House dresses were very firmly in the past until the pandemic, when some upstart designers started selling “nap dresses.” In a fine example of style recycling, they look pretty .much like the old morning dresses…but at a price that would make Great-Grandma faint!
And this time, nobody’s telling you to change clothes for Mr. Cleaver
Got a #ThrowbackThursday idea? Drop it in the comments!
