Category: History

Kathy Geary Anderson > Journal > History

The Dreaded Mustache and Feather Duster

Posted on by Kathy Geary Anderson

An old Indiana law declares mustaches illegal if the bearer habitually kisses other people.  And in Texas it’s still against the law to dust public buildings with a feather duster. Weird, right?

Maybe. Maybe not.

Laws are often an effort to control what we fear. But what can be so fearful about a mustached man who likes to kiss and a feather duster, you ask?

Here’s a possible answer. Tuberculosis.

Sure, it’s not frightening to most of us today, but less than a hundred years ago tuberculosis was every bit as frightening as cancer. One statistic states that by the beginning of the 19th century, tuberculosis had killed 1 in 7 of all people who had ever lived. By the early 20th century, tuberculosis consistently ranked as one of the top three causes of death in the United States. Few families escaped its effect.

Up until the mid-1800s the medical field considered TB (or consumption as it was known then) a hereditary disease. If someone in your family died of consumption and you had a fragile disposition, chances were you’d get it too. Chalk it up to unlucky genes. But things shifted in 1882 when Robert Koch announced his discovery of the tubercle bacillus and initiated the germ theory of how diseases were spread. By the turn of the 20th century, scientists accepted that TB was spread from droplets of saliva from infected individuals.

Treatment of the infected patient changed as hundreds of TB sufferers were isolated into sanitariums. When scientists discovered the tuberculosis bacteria could survive up to six months in the dust of dark places, women’s hemlines were shortened and housekeepers were instructed to use damp cloths and mops rather than brooms and feather dusters to eliminate dust. When news spread that facial hair could harbor deadly germs, beards and mustaches gave way to clean-shaven faces. Spitting in public, once a very common practice, now became disgusting.

Suddenly, this weird law on the books in El Paso doesn’t seem so weird anymore, does it?

 “Churches, hotels, halls of assembly, stores, markets, banking rooms, railroad depots, and saloons are required to provide spittoons of a kind and number to efficiently contain expectorations into them.”

And now you know.

Rats and Bad Hair Days

Posted on by Kathy Geary Anderson

Oh, the Gibson Girl hair! Don’t you just love it? All those twists and curls and rolls . . . the romantic poufs . . . the wispy tendrils.

I can get lost in the fantasy of living at the turn-of-the-20th century with hair that would look like that every day—until I see pictures of my great-grandmother.

Her hair, more often than not, looked like this.

 

Which, as you can well see, is a far cry from this.

 

I know what you’re thinking. The Gibson Girl was a pen-and-ink drawing, by a man, no less, and therefore no more representative of the average woman of the day than the photoshopped images we see in our present-day magazines. Still, there were real live women of that time period who could pull off the look—celebrities like the duchess, the President’s daughter and the infamous model/actress. And I’m sure more than a few ordinary women conquered the look as well. Why, I know any number of women of my acquaintance today who have the type of hair needed for all that poufiness.

But I don’t.

And (apparently) neither did my great-grandmother.

Which led me to ask—what did the hair-deprived woman of the early 1900’s do? I know well the frustrations of owning baby-fine hair in a big-hair decade. I lived in Texas . . . in the 80’s. The humid part of Texas . . . in the 80’s. I know the tools I used then—the perms, the volumizers, the hairspray—but what about the poor wimpy-haired women of the Gibson Girl era who lived before those methods existed? What did they do?

One answer I found was rats. Not the four-legged kind with the skinny tails. No, these rats (or ratts) were wads of discarded hair that were sewn into sheer hair nets to be used as padding for the pompadours and rolls of the popular hairstyles. These rats could be made of false hair or even horse hair, but most women used their own.

On many a Victorian vanity you could find an item that looked like this.

These were called hair receivers. After her daily brushing of the requisite 100 (or so) strokes, the Victorian lady would clean her brush or comb and deposit the strands of hair into the hole at the top of the receiver. When she gathered enough hair, she could use it for any number of things—to make rats, to stuff pillows or to braid into intricate designs for jewelry or works of art (though the latter were probably made more often from cut hair than the tangled discards.)

Of course, if the rats didn’t work and you were faced with the turn-of-the-last century equivalent of a bad hair day, you could always resort to the remedy used by women throughout the ages–stick a hat on it and call it good. Luckily for my great-grandmother, hats were also a fashion staple of the early 1900s.

Are you Insane?

Posted on by Kathy Geary Anderson
In researching reasons someone might be admitted to an insane asylum in 1900, I came across lists in various superintendent log books and yearly reports that left me either laughing or shaking my head. Clearly, doctors in the late 19th century did not view mental illness the way we do today. In our post-Freudian culture of psychoanalysis and scientific enlightenment, a list that includes epileptics, alcoholics and the mentally handicapped among the insane seems somehow wrong. Even more troubling are causes like menopause, overwork, religion, and cigarettes. What helped me make some sense of it all was the understanding that most 19th-century doctors believed insanity could be caused by moral factors as well as physical ones. Also, as with many diseases of the day, they believed heredity played a large part in whether a person was more susceptible to going insane. Thus, statements like “doubt about mother’s ancestors” became a little more clear to me. (I’ve had a few doubts about my own ancestors, but hopefully that won’t lead to my eventual insanity.) It also helped to read the case histories in addition to the cause listed for a patient’s admittance. For the most part, people were committed to insane asylums because they acted, well, insane. Though these lists can cause my novel-writing mind to kick into overdrive with all sorts of sinister scenarios, the woman who was committed for “religious enthusiasm” was most likely there because she believed herself to be the Mother of Jesus or an avenging angel of some kind. Still, there was the case of Elizabeth Packard who spent three years in an insane asylum because she disagreed with her husband’s religious beliefs. And if it could happen to her, who’s to say it couldn’t have happened to someone else given the right circumstances, a believable motive and a few dastardly antagonists? . . . and a novel is born. In case you are interested in getting your own creative juices flowing, check out this list from the late 1800s and this one from the turn of the century. Meanwhile, here’s a sampling of a few causes I’ve been puzzling over:
  • Asthma
  • Superstition
  • Gathering in the head (who or what is doing this gathering?)
  • Remorse
  • Politics
  • Pecuniary losses: worms (really not seeing a connection here)
  • Laziness
  • Novel reading
Wait just a minute. Novel reading? That’s just crazy talk. Everyone knows novel reading doesn’t cause insanity. Novel writing on the other hand . . .

Visiting an Insane Asylum

Posted on by Kathleen Anderson
One scene from my novel is set in an insane asylum. Yeah, I know. Scary stuff, right? Just hearing the words “insane asylum” conjures up images of tortured souls and inhumane treatments: mutilations, lobotomies, electroshock therapy and even castration. In fact, the insane asylum in my novel–the Essex County Hospital for the Insane (also known as Overbrook)–has been featured on several reality ghost-hunting shows. Today, most of its buildings have been demolished to make room for a public park, but home videos such as the following still capture the haunting beauty of the place. So, am I writing a horror story? Well, no. In fact, the scene in my novel, while sad, is not at all scary. It’s set in 1900, when the first and (at that time) only building at Overbrook had been in use less than two years. Built on 300 farm acres in Cedar Grove, New Jersey, the hospital housed 244 patients at that time, 102 male and 142 female. Its main purpose was to ease the overcrowded conditions of the original Essex County Hospital for the Insane located on South Orange Avenue in Newark. The history that became fodder for its ghost tales had yet to happen. Instead, during the 1890s, the hospital had gained a reputation as a model for other county asylums across the country. Its superintendent, Dr. Livingston Hinckley, had incorporated many innovative practices to keep his patients amused and occupied, including a day school for the patients and a monthly newspaper, edited by patients. He clearly subscribed to the common theory of the Victorian time period that the best way to treat insanity was to keep the patients busy. Overbrook, with its rural setting, offered opportunities for outdoor activity and plenty of fresh air and sunshine—all benefits that would have been considered ideal for treating the insane. That’s not to say that all treatments for the patients at that time were benign. Dr. Hinckley was also an advocate of mechanical restraints, such as canvas muffs or padded leather straps, for his more violent and agitated patients. Another treatment gaining popularity among asylums was hydrotherapy. Used extensively in Europe to calm aggressive patients, doctors championed this method in medical journals as a more humane alternative to chains and handcuffs. Hydrotherapy treatments were varied, with some as simple as an icepack to the head or feet. More extensive treatments included continuous warm baths where a patient was suspended on a canvas hammock in a tub of warm water for several hours or sometimes overnight. Probably most uncomfortable was the practice of wrapping the patient in a cocoon of wet sheets for extended periods of time. Some patients were kept restrained in this manner for days. Another that was often misused was spraying a patient’s spine and legs with jets of cold water. Still, though unsettling, a trip to the insane asylum in the late 19th century would probably have been no more horrifying than a visit to a psychiatric ward would today.

The Bane of 19th-century Urban Planners

Posted on by Kathleen Anderson

When doctors told their urban patients to leave the polluted environs of the city to find fresher, more wholesome climates, they had good reason. The urban centers of the industrial age were not pretty places to live. Between overcrowded living conditions, poor disposal of sewage and garbage, unregulated factories spewing their poisonous wastes into the air and water, it’s a wonder any of the city’s inhabitants enjoyed good health at all.

Yet, in researching the sights, smells and sounds of big city living, I was surprised to find that the culprit blamed for most of the urban pollution at the time, described by one New York City authority at the turn-of-the-century as ‘an economic burden, an affront to cleanliness and a terrible tax on human life,’ was not any of the above-mentioned ills, but was in fact, the horse. Yep. That’s right. The horse.

That romantic image of our bygone eras was (in the cities at least) a problem so complex that in 1898 it shut down a scheduled ten-day international convention on urban planning in just three short days. What to do with the poo was the insurmountable question of the day. Sanitary experts at that time estimated that a single horse would produce, on average, 22 lbs. of manure a day and about a quart of urine. Multiply that by the more than 100,000 horses found in New York City alone in 1900 and, well, I’m not a math whiz, but even I can tell you, that’s a whole load of by-product to contend with.

Vacant lots were piled high with the stuff, sometimes as deep as 40-60 feet. One late 19th-century doomsayer predicted that by the 1930s the streets of New York would all be piled in manure as deep as the city’s 3rd-story windows if something wasn’t done about it. Not only was the problem a smelly one, it was also a major health issue. I’ve been around enough barns to know that where there is manure, there are also flies, and lots of them. Health officials in 1900 estimated around 3 billion flies were hatched per day in the horse manure of US cities, each one a potential bearer of disease.

And manure wasn’t the only issue. Urban horses were often the victims of accidents and ill-usage (think Mr. Nicholas Skinner in Black Beauty). In 1880 New York City removed an average of 41 horse carcasses a day from its city streets. The following picture, taken in the early 1900s, shows children playing in the street right next to a dead horse. If that doesn’t scream “health issue,” I don’t know what does.

It’s really no wonder our 19th-century forbears hailed the “horseless carriage” as the answer to all their environmental woes. Ironic, I know, but maybe not as far-fetched as it seems. Did you know that manure produces methane gas that is eight times more potent to global warming than CO2? Certainly something to ponder.

Trolleys & Baseball

Posted on by Kathleen Anderson

Here’s a fun bit of sports trivia I ran across in my research. It has absolutely nothing to do with my novel, but the fact has stuck with me just the same. Did you know that the Brooklyn Dodgers (currently the LA Dodgers) were originally named the Trolley Dodgers? Kinda puts a whole new spin on the name, doesn’t it? Here I’d always thought their name was more sports related, unlike some of their comtemporaries whose only distinguishing characteristic (apparently) was the color of their socks.

In my mind, “dodger” implied they were good at dodging around the bases or dodging foul balls. (Of course, that assumption may very well have been based on my own inclination to avoid the ball at all possible costs when engaged in any type of ballgame, and not necessarily on a particular skill inherent to the game of baseball.) But somehow I never figured the object they were dodging was trolleys. Really? How hard could that be?

And then I ran across this video making the rounds on the Internet at that time.

Suddenly, I developed a whole new appreciation for those trolley-dodging ball players. Apparently, trolleys weren’t their only worry. They might dodge a trolley only to find themselves in the path of a galloping horse or a speeding bicycle or maybe even one of those erratic drivers of the new-fangled automobiles. Traffic rules seemed fairly non-existent.

And keep in mind, this video shows San Francisco, a city of around 350,000 people at that time. Though big enough to be ranked the 9th largest American city back then, it could hardly measure up to New York City with its population of over three million. No, these Trolley-Dodgers were from Brooklyn, a borough that boasted a population of more than a million and was serviced by one of the most extensive trolley systems in the nation. I’m thinking trolley dodging in Brooklyn was not a skill to be scoffed at.

Still, I can understand why the trolley part was dropped. For one, it’s a heck of a moniker to be using in cheers. For another, the age of the trolley was fairly short-lived.

But lest you think I’m being a tad critical of these turn-of-the-century team names, keep in mind, my own state’s beloved Cornhuskers were named the Bugeaters around that time. Thank goodness, that name didn’t stick.

How about you? Know of any other unusual team names?