Posts Tagged With: History

Old Vermont Musings

Sometimes I forget that I do this, but I often write little snippets of essays that aren’t really for anything.  Then I save them on my computer and forget they exist.  I went through a pile of them yesterday (if computer files can be a pile) and I found a bunch of things I really like, such as this one.   My cousin Courtney got married last year and Brian and I spent several days in Vermont.  This is what I wrote the morning of our first day there:

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We are in Vermont now, and it is so beautiful.  It is like everything I remembered from my childhood in Maine, only more so.   If it were feasible for me to move in immediately, I would do it.  The plane ride from New York was especially gorgeous.  I looked out the window, half hoping to see the green tarnish of the statue of liberty out the little plastic oval.  I didn’t.  Instead, I saw a long beach stretching as far as the eye could see, tan and slim.  Breakers beat at its shore, even from so high up as we were.  The tan length of it disappeared in a haze at the curve of the earth, peopled by fluffy clouds over our silver wings.  The clouds took over the view, collecting one by one until they obscured everything, and then separating apart to reveal the deep green underneath.  We soared over farmhouses like tiny train models in the middle of lush forests and hundreds of pools of water.  A wide blue river wound to the north.

It was better once we landed.  As soon as we left the airport, I smelled it.  Green; the kind of thing that is grass clippings and clover and the hidden sweetness of running across the lawn barefoot in the summer time.  Beside the airport were the kind of houses I remember in my childhood, their muddy white clapboards rising from thick bushes as if they grew and solidified in the scrubby lawn.  This is the kind of house Uncle Earl had, when we ate blackberries from the thicket in front of his house.  He fed us blackberry pie for dinner and taught us about chickadees, the state bird of Maine.  This is the kind of house Grampy had, with the bed in the guest room not quite a double and more than a twin.  They forgot one night when we came to stay that it wasn’t a regular double, and my husband and I spent a night under the white tufted coverlet trying not to elbow each other onto the floor, too polite to remind them.

We arrived at cousin Courtney’s to enthusiastic hugs and watched the humid day slip away on her back porch.  I listened to Uncle Dave tell jokes, throwing his head back to laugh, and thought how much he reminded me of my mother, raking his fingers through his hair.   And then the patter of warm rain fell around us on the screen porch.  And then we went to bed.

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Thoughts on a trip to the Huntington

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I grew up going to the Huntington Library often.  My mother was a stay-at-home-mom, and she had it all figured out.  On days when we were insufferable and cranky, she would bundle my sister and I in the car, take us someplace beautiful and open,  and let us run ourselves ragged.  She could then enjoy our mellow exhaustion for the rest of the evening.  I developed a collection of wax animals from the LA Zoo and perfected my peacock call at the LA Arboretum.  I learned at the Huntingtonin a flurry of tickling grass blades and green stains that if you roll yourself down a long enough hill, you start to go crooked.

When I was older, we would go on the weekends and stop at the exhibit hall where Audubon birds gazed from the walls and illuminated manuscripts peaked from glass cases.  I mostly found it boring.  I wanted to get to the Japanese garden with the gong and the delectable arched bridge.

“Look, it’s the Gutenberg Bible,” my mother would say.

“Uh huh,” I replied.

“It was the first book ever printed on a printing press.”

“Yup.”

It didn’t look like anything special to me.  I was an avid reader and had seen hundreds of thousands of printed pages.  The letters on the Gutenberg Bible looked just the same as those.  I didn’t understand what the big deal was, other than the fact that it was old.

I took a medieval history class at Chapman two years ago.  I don’t know what it was about that class, but so much of it made me see the world differently.  The water was unsafe to drink back then, and disease was rampant.  The known world was being run by drunk twenty year olds.  Picture the guys of Jackass empowered to run a nation.  Doesn’t the medieval world make so much more sense now?  It also gives me hope for the future.  I mean, humanity survived that and went on to flourish.  Our political system may be gridlocked, but at least drunk and reckless with a side of murder isn’t an admirable trait in a world leader anymore.

And then there was the Gutenberg Bible.  Suddenly, I got it.  I understood why it was amazing and I fully appreciated its beauty.  It was made using a modified fruit press in a time when people thought disease was spread by gaze.  The ink was a combination of soot, wax, and squid ink.  It has lasted hundreds of years. The thing that left me so unimpressed before is what makes me so fascinated today.  The edges of the letters are crisp.  The letters are black.  It looks like it could have been printed yesterday.  It was printed in a time so far removed from me that I cannot fathom it.  It blows my mind.  I could stare at the two pages behind the vast Plexiglas case for hours in the Huntington’s gallery, marveling at each contour of the letters, perfect and crisp, wondering whose hands have touched it in the hundreds of years since it was bound.

The printing press changed the world.  I think of this every time I stare at those perfect pages.  Instead of one copy of things that took years to create, suddenly there were hundreds that could be disseminated across the world.  Catholic heresies spread faster than the church could stamp them out and Protestantism was born.  Scientists in different parts of the world could now compare their volumes of Aristotle’s works and see that the reason the math did not add up was not a scribe’s error, but an error in the theory itself.  Advancements in science and technology followed like wildfire on dry grass.  The catalyst for all of it stands there in its case, its perfect lettering still black.

“Look, it’s the Gutenberg Bible,” I say to my husband.

“Uh huh,” he says.

“It’s just so perfect.”

“Yup.”

So I tear myself away and we move out to the gardens, which are almost as impressive.

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Research: It Runs in the Family

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I taught my mother some of my internet research tricks last night.  She’s trying to figure out the life stories of the people who lived in her house in Maine.  The house was build in the 1880s, and it looks out on The Gut, a river-sized inlet of ocean between Rutherford Island and the rest of South Bristol.  Plenty of people have lived there.  The lawn of the house slopes down to either a flat of mud or lapping waves, depending on the tide.  Bright lobster boats speed past.  The other side of the shore looks like a Charles Wysocki painting; the way the colorful houses perch on the green hillside.  The community is one of ship builders and lobstermen.  Even today, you can see the men in their forest green galoshes and overalls traipsing together down the road speckled with Victorian houses, case of beer clutched in one’s hand.  Unless you want to pay $12.00 a pound for potato salad at the little blue summer store, the nearest grocery is thirty minutes away.  Home Depot is almost an hour and a half. 

There are many books on South Bristol, and my mother has been through them all.  Between that and the stories of her neighbor and driveway-sharer, Ronnie, we have a decent picture of the prior inhabitants. 

The house was built by Harvey Oliver.  The old portion of the house is tiny.  One bedroom was turned into a bathroom, tucked under the eaves.  The other barely fits a twin bed, but the view from the wide, tall windows in both rooms is filled with sea and sky.   Mr. Oliver was quite the carpenter.  There are closets.  In a house of this age, that is a minor miracle.  A corner shelf, fluted top, stands in the living room.  Tucked under the stairs is a meticulous job of small drawers.  Harvey Oliver died less than a year after the last board was laid.  His family sold the house. 

The Kelsey’s moved in.  The record seems to show that Horace came from a long line of prolific ship builders.  His wife, Myra Clifford, and their son Alton also moved in.  Along the way, they also picked up a boy named Maxwell House.  Whatever happened to his parents, Max couldn’t live with them.  The Kelsey’s gave him a home and he became a second son.  Maxwell had the room under the eaves.  Alton had the little bedroom.  Tragedy touched them.  Alton died young.  We don’t know of what, or when, but he is in the census at 16 years of age, and appears deceased in the next.  When Horace died, he and Myra left their estate to Max. 

In the 1970’s, Max sold the house to Stevie Plummer.  Stevie got married, and together in the 1980s they put in a modern kitchen and master bedroom.  Those two rooms alone almost double the size of the house.  The stove backs up to an old chimney.  The kitchen counters are Formica with a metal rim.  Oak paneling adorns all.  Before the renovations were finished, Stevie got a divorce.  The renovation was never finished.  He set his bed on the plywood subfloor upstairs.  The windows were never framed out.  He died young of a heart attack.  He was in his 50s. 

Stevie’s daughter moved in with her two children for a while, but the house was in terrible shape by this time.  Stevie saved fuel by shutting up the old side of the house, only using the kitchen and half-finished bedroom.  Plaster was peeling off the walls.  The floors were painted a rainbow of browns.  Leaded white came off the hallway doors in flakes.  The upstairs bathroom had nothing but holes in the floors.  The pipes downstairs were rusting.  Creosote collected in the ceiling.   The daughter sold the house to my mother and stepdad.  They have been in constant construction since, and cousin Jeff loaned a little of his own carpentry skill to add to Harvey Oliver’s work. 

We know a lot, but there are so many holes; the death of Alton, Max’s parentage, the lives and professions of Horace and Myra, the reason Harvey Oliver built the house in the first place at so advanced an age.  I have research skills now.  Maybe we won’t find anything, but maybe we will.  I showed my mother some of my favorite sites and we found fun information about South Bristol, if not about the inhabitants of the house. 

We started on World Cat (www.worldcat.org), a database of all books that have ever been printed ever.  They seriously have everything, and you can sort by oldest to newest and get primary source info pretty quickly.  At the bottom of the page, it lists all the libraries you can get the book from, and it also has all the information you would need to get it from Interlibrary Loan.  My favorite thing!

We moved to searchable PDFs next.  Many colleges put their archives up on http://www.archive.org, so we searched and found an out of print book on South Bristol.  Typing Ctrl F brings up a box and you can get right to the subject matter you need.  We put in Kelsey, and found a prolific ship builder much older than Harvey.  Maybe his father? 

My last trick was the Library of Congress Digital Archives.  Those are tons of fun.  They don’t have everything, but they have a lot.  We found many pictures of ancient South Bristol.  Then we searched Bob’s last name and found that his uncle had done an interview with them about the air force in WWII, tapes available in Washington DC only. 

It was a great night.  My mother could barely tear herself away from the computer to say goodbye.  I think she’s definitely as hooked on this stuff as I am.  Next up might be a book on the subject.  You know, once my novel is finished.

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Renaissance Faire

The Renaissance Faire garners a lot of criticism for their fluffy portrayal of history. And it is terribly fluffy. I hate to break anyone’s bubble, but frozen bananas were not a thing of the past. Nor were dragon puppets, bows with arrows tipped in rubber erasers, cloth tapestries of yin-yang symbols, or hair wreaths where the dye runs in the rain. Only the wealthiest people could afford to eat a turkey leg. Artichokes existed nowhere outside of Greece.

The atmosphere at Faire seethes. Dust clings to everything, mingling with sweat so that when I come home, I can tell the exact location of my bodice by the dark line of gray across my chest. The crowd is a confluence of those in trademark bodice and skirts or doublet and pants, those in princess costumes of satin with lurid gold trim, barbarians, colorful jesters with elaborate codpieces, fairies, those in jeans and t-shirts. A woman has pinned a button to the bodice in front of her vast breasts that says Nice day, aren’t they? The dusty road, really a sea of people, serpentines through aisles of booths. Hawkers cry their wares.

“Faire Special!” yells a man with a pole full of hair wreathes. “Buy two, get two!”

“Hot Chestnuts!” says a woman behind a red metal push cart. “Put my hot nuts in your mouth!”

The serpentine streets dump out at the jousting stadium, a collection of metal bleachers draped with flags.

And yet, for all the historical travesty, the Renaissance Faire gets at least one thing right. Public drunkenness. It is the truth that during most of history alcohol was readily available and most of the population was drunk most of the time. Water was usually polluted, untrustworthy. If you didn’t want to get dysentery, beer was much healthier than water. In the words of Dr. Estes from Chapman University, “back then almost everyone was drunk pretty much all of the time.”

When I heard this in class, a lot of things suddenly made sense. Like jousting.

And so the point of this meditation on the joys of the Renaissance Faire is to say, history might surprise you. The things that seem authentic are often not, and vice versa. The next time you see a sprite, wings attached by elastic to her shoulders, holding a plastic cup of beer in her hand, know that at least one thing in that equation is a certified historic experience.

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The Feminine Mystique Review

Betty Friedan’s The Feminine Mystique chronicles a disturbing trend among women of the fifties and sixties, flocking to the home at the expense of everything else.  Friedan argues that every aspect of male-dominated American society is set up to brainwash women into believing that their only worth is in being a wife and mother; causing depression, listlessness, and sexual issues.  Women become victims of what she calls “the problem that has no name.” Friedan lays out a case for a complex web of oppression running throughout early 1960s’ society, involving publishers, Freud, Kinsey, Margaret Mead, college curriculums, and women themselves. Unfortunately, Friedan’s book is not without its faults.  Overly dramatic at times and relying heavily on statistics that are questionable at best, The Feminine Mystique has become an easy target for many who oppose the feminist movement. Nevertheless, the book has true value by relaying the firsthand accounts of women’s experiences before the second wave of feminism, for it is in these women’s stories that we can see through the pomp and circumstance of Friedan’s writing to the true reasons behind the feminist movement of the sixties and seventies.

When World War II ended, women flocked back from their wartime jobs and ensconced themselves in the home.  Although there are many reasons for this phenomenon, probably the most likely reasons stem from women’s economic inability to marry through the depression years, and from their long absence from marriage aged men because of the war.  Whatever the causes, birth rates boomed, the United States Gross Domestic Product rose to unprecedented heights, and people everywhere were celebrating their newfound prosperity.  Despite the affluence of Americans, not all women were as happy as they were purported to be.  The Mystique touched every area of women’s lives.  Advertisements extolled domesticity, and Dr. Spock’s baby book asserted that women who worked were harming their children.  Even when women did work outside of the home, they were relegated to “pink collar jobs” such as hairdressing and waitressing.  Wages for these jobs were far below the salaries of traditionally male jobs.  Although traditional gender roles often pigeonholed women into unsatisfying lives, the idea that a wholesale conspiracy existed to keep women down is a hard sell.

Friedan does her best to convince us of this conspiracy, often times reaching too far.  Although Friedan’s overly dramatic language can be seen in nearly every chapter, it is perhaps best seen in the chapter attacking women’s magazines.  Citing articles from such publications as McCalls, Redbook, Life, and Ladies Home Journal, Friedan claims a widespread conspiracy of male editors to include stories pertaining to domestic subjects only.  She compares articles from 1949 to articles from 1939 in order to show how drastically the role of women has changed in “just ten years.”  Many of the girls in the early articles devote themselves to their careers and are rewarded for it.  Individuality and resourcefulness are emphasized.  The later articles all show firsthand, and sometimes humorous accounts of women’s mistaken exploits in the home.  A good example of this is in the story of the Sandwich Maker.  A woman who feels that her weekly allowance is not enough is puzzled about what to do for money:  “At last the solution comes – she will take orders for sandwiches from other men at her husband’s plant.  She earns $52.50 a week, except that she forgets to count costs, and she doesn’t remember what a gross is so she has to hide 8,640 sandwich bags behind the furnace.” (Friedan 94)  In addition to this, quotes from male editors, women editors, and freelance journalists tell how the publishing industry has changed in the last ten years.  These eyewitnesses claim male editors have decreed that women are only interested in things pertaining directly to their home.  Calls for articles about foreign policy or issues bigger than the home-sphere are patronizingly put down by these male editors, as they have numbers to show that issues like these do not sell. One editor claims: “Our readers are housewives, full time.  They’re not interested in the broad public issues of the day.  They are not interested in national or international affairs.  They are only interested in family and the home.” (Friedan 84)

The conspiracy of male editors seeking to dumb down women created by Friedan is almost certainly overstated.   If we look at later chapters in the book, Friedan herself lays out a rebuttal to her conspiracy theory.  In her chapter about women who attend college, Friedan notes the complete disinterest of women in anything that doesn’t relate to the home.  She claims that they know they will be nothing but housewives in the future, and that by studying and enjoying the preparation for a career, they are only setting themselves up to be discontented later.  It therefore becomes a reasonable conclusion that these women do not want to read articles about foreign policy and that magazines with these articles will not sell.  Far from being a conspiracy set up by magazine publishers to keep women in the home, we can see this trend as a symptom of the Mystique rather than a cause. 

Another flaw in Friedan’s reasoning is her inability to see events in historical context, despite her chapter on women in history.  In 1939, with the Great Depression still rearing its ugly head, it seems obvious that a woman would be prized for her resourcefulness.  In a post-war, affluent society, women’s image will necessarily be different.  The world itself had changed completely in these ten years, from a depressed economy where people struggled to feed themselves, to a wartime economy trying to support the troops, to an affluent consumer society.  Women of the Depression, struggling to help their family survive, do not have the same wants or needs as the prosperous American housewife of the 1950s.  Also, women’s role in society has changed just as quickly in ages prior:  women of 1899, living the first Cult of Domesticity, were not the Progressive Era women of 1909. 

In addition to these facts, we can also see that the 1939 stories do not exactly portray an image of unfettered femininity, as Friedan claims.  The women in these stories are still all seeking matrimony, and women who “do the right thing” are often rewarded by gaining the handsome or rich hero as their husband.  As Friedan says of one story, published in the Lady’s Home Journal in 1939, “How can the boss expect her to give up her date!  But she stays on the job… She finds the man, too – The boss!” (Friedan 87).  Friedan’s last claim that she “Went through issue after issue of the three major women’s magazines… without finding a single heroine who had a career, a commitment to any work, art, profession, or mission in the world, other than “Occupation: housewife”.” (Friedan 93) is also false.  Other scholars have been through these magazines as well, and do not find her claim to be at all valid.  Although it is undeniable that these magazines are skewed toward women making their lives as housewives, articles about successful career women appear frequently.   Friedan herself admits to having written articles about a successful artist.  Friedan had to focus the story on the artist’s role as a housewife, but the idea that women could take care of their children and also be something else belies the overarching claim Friedan makes of the Mystique.

Another area in which Friedan has not been careful is in her use of unreliable statistics.   For many of her statistics citing birth rates, Friedan consulted the United Nation’s Demographic Yearbook, which dealt with so many countries that it could not make a careful study of any one of them.  From this source, data pertaining to individual countries cannot be comprehensive, giving us a skewed view of the birthrate.  Studies published by the US government were available to her as well, citing newer and more comprehensive information.  Government data also cited statistics going back through the 1940’s, as opposed to the United Nation data that started in 1950.  With ten more years of information to compare and contrast, and better information available, why would Friedan not have used the US Government statistics? Perhaps because they did not match the point she was trying to make.  The choice of sources is not the only flaw in Friedan’s statistics.  At almost every turn, she irresponsibly manipulates data to fit her claims.

“The women who “adjust” as housewives, who grow up wanting to be “just a housewife” are in as much danger as the millions who walked to their own death in the concentration camps…” (Friedan 423).  By comparing the comfortable yet bland lives of women in the fifties to victims of Nazi concentration camps, Friedan enters territory that is outright offensive.  An actual concentration camp was horrific and demeaning.  People were imprisoned in unsanitary, bug-ridden conditions where they were forced to work at backbreaking tasks for little to no food.  Others were stripped naked, gassed, burned.  Skeletal bodies stacked like cordwood often decorated the landscape.  There was no choice and no optimism in these camps.  As they struggled to survive, these people barely remembered that they were human.  Doubtless, any one of the people imprisoned in these camps would trade places with an affluent American housewife of the sixties in a heartbeat.  They would certainly make this decision even if they had to accept the listlessness and boredom that went with it.  Women in the fifties and sixties embraced these roles willingly, though they did not always understand the full implications of what they were agreeing to.  By comparing their situation to the situation of concentration camp victims, Friedan minimizes the horrific experiences of people in the camps and trivializes the women’s rights movement.  Friedan’s argument is at best in poor taste, and at worst outright enraging, especially when she suggests that concentration camps were terrible “not because [they] were physically killing” (Friedan 424).  Anyone who has even casually studied the Nazi systematic genocide of Jews will tell you that the daily threat of death was one of the most traumatizing parts.

The obvious flaws in the book give way to personal accounts of women living during this time.  This is where the true heart of Friedan’s novel lies and perhaps the reason it has remained a part of the discourse for so long.  These firsthand accounts of women’s experiences smack of a sincerity lacking in the rest of the book.  Depressing stories such as the suburb of 28 women, where

“Sixteen out of the twenty eight were in analysis or analytical psychotherapy.  Eighteen were taking tranquilizers; several had tried suicide; and some had been hospitalized for varying periods, for depression or vaguely diagnosed psychotic states… Of the women who breast fed their babies, one had continued, desperately, until the child was so undernourished that her doctor intervened by force.  Twelve were engaged in extramarital affairs, in act or fantasy.” (Friedan 335).

This shows the problems women faced as no statistics can.  It is in the hopelessness of the young college graduates, the woman in her 40’s trying to have another baby to give her something to do, and the rampant affairs of suburban housewives, that we understand the need for the women’s rights movement of the 1960’s.  Even Friedan’s personal story, as recounted in the prologue and epilogue, are some of the most compelling parts of the book.  These personal accounts showed women that they weren’t alone in their dissatisfaction with their lives, and ultimately touched a generation of women enough to form the second wave of feminism.  These women’s stories almost completely redeem the rest of the novel, certainly classing it as an important historical document, if nothing else.

The inconsistencies and hyperbole that plague Friedan’s book have unfortunately left her vulnerable to anti-feminist attack.  Friedan was not completely who she portrayed herself to be in The Feminine Mystique.  She grew up Betty Goldstein, attended Temple as a child, and eventually grew up to be a communist activist at Sarah Lawrence, where she attended college.  Although she had two children and a husband at the time the book was published, she was “not a particularly cooperative spouse or attentive mother” (NY Times).   Unlike the housewife she purported to be, Friedan worked for a living for most of her life: at a major magazine, and – after she was fired for having her second child – as a freelance writer.  One scholar even claims that the reason she wrote The Feminine Mystique “had more to do with her Marxist hatred for America than with any of her actual experience as a housewife or mother” (U of Penn).  These attacks do not take into account the fact that Friedan was, indeed, a victim of the Mystique.  Friedan may not have been a housewife per se, but she was trapped in an abusive marriage, and fired from her job for the simple reason that she was pregnant.  Another fact these attacks fail to take into account is the generation of women who identified with Friedan’s account of domestic life and rose up to change it.  Not all the women who rallied around the book were Marxists with a hatred for America.  Many were patriotic housewives, as Friedan claimed to be.  Friedan’s political leanings perhaps color some of her claims, but ultimately they make no difference in the ultimate message of the book.  Unfortunately, those seeking to invalidate the feminist movement have been able to latch on to some of Friedan’s more incendiary beliefs and claims to strengthen their own anti-feminist message.

The Feminine Mystique is certainly a worthwhile read.  Although Friedan often relies on dubious methods to prove her point, the reality remains that her book changed the lives of an entire generation of women.  We look back at these times today as the golden era of American history, but the affluent women of these times were not happy.  Pigeonholed into their roles as wives and mothers and told they could not be anything else; the happy image of a woman in a poufy dress who has everything is not an accurate depiction of the woman of these times.  The Feminine Mystique is invaluable for bringing a greater understanding of this to the women of today.  Overly dramatic, plagued by inaccuracies, and at times outright offensive, this book is still worth the read for the firsthand accounts of the hopelessness of women during these times.  Friedan’s book has remained an important part of the American discourse for four decades, and will undoubtedly be read for many decades more.

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