Laura, Catherine, Louisa, and Me

Recently, a poll on Twitter asked which book first inspired in you a love for reading. I thought immediately of Little House in the Big Woods by Laura Ingalls Wilder.

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This and other childhood books were my friends, their words my teachers, and their settings my travels. Even today, I see the connections between these books and my own life.

Like Laura Ingalls Wilder, I have come to live in the Missouri Ozarks. We often vacationed here, and though I was born and raised in Iowa, I longed to live here. Now I realize the pull I had to the cool, green hills, the fingered lakes, and the giving spirit of the residents was a pull to home. Driving away after vacation with my family, I never wanted to leave here. Now, it is my home, and I have taken my husband (actually dragged him) to the Laura Ingalls Wilder museum in Mansfield more than once where I am in my element.

When I was thirteen, a friend’s mom placed the book Christy in my hands (long before the movie or the TV show came along). This book so influenced me that I purposely majored in Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages in college, hoping to become a missionary.

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Instead, God had a unique plan for me that comes much closer to Catherine Marshall’s book. I work as a teacher, like Christy, at a residential treatment facility, where at times I have taught many grades in one room, dealt with literacy issues, and have experienced the stench of boys who have been doing chores in the pig barn (and haven’t cleaned up afterward). Even though I never had to make the trek up that mountain in Tennessee, I have experienced the isolation of only seeing my family one or two times per year for the past twelve years due to the distance between us and the intensity of the job.

Although I wished for more fiction by Catherine Marshall (as you probably know, she only completed two fictional novels), I am still trying to finish all of Louisa May Alcott’s stories. Jo’s Boys remains one of my favorites from childhood. I was intrigued by the unique life Jo led, marrying an intellectual, having a home for boys, and writing in her spare time.

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This past year, my eighth grade class read Little Men. Each one in the class identified with a different character, and all identified with life in a group home. I am amazed at Alcott’s ability to describe in detail our lives here and now, many generations later and many states away (and yes, I married a very intelligent guy, live at a home for boys, and write in my spare time!).

I leave off with these words from Little Men:

“‘It is the best joke of the family, this school of yours and its success. So unlike the future we planned for you, and yet so suited to you, after all…’ said Laurie.” (Louisa May Alcott)

Writers and the Month of July

This week, I heard several different people moaning about the end of summer, even though it is just now July 21. I wanted to proclaim, “There are nearly two months left of summer! Don’t wish them away!”  Then, today, because our patio umbrella was ruined in a storm, we were trying to find a replacement. The manager of the outdoor department at our local Wal-Mart told me they didn’t have any and wouldn’t be getting anymore in stock because it is “nearing the end of the season.”

I got my chance, and I vented in frustration because we had already been to seven different stores by then. Perhaps first-days-of-school being pushed further back (our public school begins on August 12 this year) drives stores to think about school shopping and fall schedules, which in turn affects everyone’s belief that summer is over when it really isn’t.

I began to wonder about the month of July in years past. Did our grandparents think of July as the end of summer? Here are some quotes written in and about the month of July, dating as far back as 1827.

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“July 15th –Have finished “Little Women,” and sent it off, —402 pages. May is designing some pictures for it. Hope it will go, for I shall probably get nothing for “Morning Glories.” Very tired, head full of pain from overwork, and heart heavy about Marmee, who is growing feeble.” –Louisa May Alcott (from The Portable Louisa May Alcott, edited by Elizabeth Lennox Keyser).

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“Summer! Glowing summer! This is the month of heat and sunshine, of clear, fervid skies, dusty roads, and shrinking streams; when doors and windows are thrown open, a cool gale is the most welcome of all visitors, and every drop of rain is ‘worth its weight in gold.'” [written concerning England in July 1825] –William Howitt

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“July 27th. If only I don’t think—if only I don’t think and remember—how can I not get well again here in the beauty and the gentleness? There’s all next month, and September, and perhaps October too may be warm and golden. After that I must go back, because the weather in this high place while it is changing from the calms of autumn to the calms of the exquisite alpine winter is a disagreeable, daunting thing. But I have two whole months; perhaps three.” –Elizabeth von Arnim (from In the Mountains)

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“There is a hotel on Broadway that has escaped discovery by the summer-resort promoters. A few have found out this oasis in the July desert of Manhattan. During that month you will see the hotel’s reduced array of guests scattered luxuriously about in the cool twilight of its lofty dining-room, gazing at one another across the snowy waste of unoccupied tables, silently congratulatory.” –O. Henry (from “Transients in Arcadia”)

I concur with Elizabeth von Arnim (whose Elizabeth and her German Garden is one of my very favorite works) when she states that the whole month of August and September and possibly even October are still warm months to be enjoyed.

My great-grandparents (my paternal grandmother’s parents) were hard-working, honest farmers. I inherited the letters my great-grandmother wrote to her daughter and found that July was an important month on the small farms of America in the 1900s.  Grandma Lottie canned everything from tomatoes to pickles, Grand-Dad overexerted himself with haying, and both of them struggled with the heat and few modern conveniences, but I found this excerpt most interesting.

It was July, 1968, and their oldest grandson David had just received his letter from the draft board. They dreaded that letter, probably envisioning the worst. Grandma Lottie expressed her worry by cooking:   “…David got to Fort Leonard Wood midnight the 25th. He told Stevie [his brother] Tuesday night to tell the family he didn’t want anyone but his daddy to go to the bus with him. So I had them for dinner Wednesday. I knew pork chops was his favorite meal.”

Well, that will put a lousy old (or new) umbrella into perspective for you. I found examples of wars, battles, deaths (Jane Austin and Percy Shelley), and births (Emily Bronte and Beatrix Potter) in my search. July was signing of the Declaration of Independence. July was the French revolution. It was July when Neil Armstrong took those first steps on the moon.

July may be a lot of things, but I refuse to admit it is the end of summer!

Gene Tierney and Summer Reading

This summer, I’ve been reading biographies of Hollywood stars from the 1930s, 1940s, and 1950s. I began with the autobiography of Gene Tierney entitled Self Portrait.

She was considered by some to be the most beautiful woman of her time:

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Navigating the early years of studios and productions in Hollywood, Tierney seemed to truly enjoy acting, but struggled with depression after her first child was born special needs (when Tierney caught the German measles from a fan). It seems that the pressures and procedures of the time in which the movie star lived constrained her to place four-year-old Daria in an institution. The book claims that Daria never progressed mentally beyond a ten-month-old, and although she could walk, she never spoke a word.

Tierney expresses the crushing strain she felt, prompting her to continue working to earn the money to keep Daria safe and cared for. Gene was also placed in and voluntarily committed herself to several institutions for treatment of depression, at times receiving shock treatment therapy, cold pack therapy, and eventually psychotherapy.

Perhaps she subconsciously forced herself into institutions, since her older daughter lived an institutionalized existence. Could it have been her way of punishing herself (although there was little she could have done differently in the time she lived)?

Reading her story, I am struck by not only by her difficulties, but truly get the sense of an approachable, warm, girl-next-door type, someone I or you would have been friends with, given the chance. Tierney briefly dated JFK, Howard Hughes, and a prince, among others, yet freely reveals her own insecurities, worries, and pain.

 

 

The Household Encyclopedia and Hysteria

About five years ago, I purchased the “Household Encyclopedia,” edited by N.H. and S.K. Mager and printed and reprinted between the early 1950s and 1970s. I was mainly drawn to this book for its historical insights into past housekeeping. As you can see, I paid only $2 for this copy at a used book store.

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Perhaps the most engaging section is titled “Home Remedies for Minor Ailments.” Much of the advice here is outdated, but gives a glimpse into the psyche of mid-twentieth-century America. Under “hysteria,” the treatment reads:

“Do not act solicitous. Be firm. A strong command may serve to stop it. Hold strong ammonia inhalant close to nose. Consult a doctor for underlying cause.”

Really? A strong ammonia inhalant? Try consulting a doctor for noxious fume effects!

Described by various dictionaries as a psychological disorder with symptoms ranging from convulsions to a trance-like demeanor to extreme stress, the word hysteria brings to my mind black-and-white movies in which the (typically) young woman is “slapped” by a close friend, relative, or doctor to bring her back to her senses.

The crazy ammonia treatment aside, this “ailment” of hysteria seems to be a fairly common malady in Romantic and Victorian English literature (even in American Realism). The narrator of “The Yellow Wallpaper” by Charlotte Perkins Gilman comes to mind, as does Mrs. Bennett in Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austin. Hysteria sometimes is referred to a nervous problem.

Before last year, I would have laughed off this entire malady as fiction, a phase, or over-dramatics. However, one of our residents went through a period with many of the symptoms expressed above. He was put on some anti-seizure medication that the doctor later realized was too strong for him, causing many of the symptoms. Before that realization, the symptoms went on for several weeks in a row. Interestingly, some staff were solicitous (overly doting),and it only seemed to cause his symptoms to increase. One or two staff spoke firmly, something to the effect that he needed to get control of himself, and it actually seemed to help. Once the doctor took him off the anti-seizure medications, it all went away.

I believe the memoirs of those who lived long ago (and even the fiction) are of real people with real, not imagined, life situations. I am intrigued by their beliefs and reactions, but believe we have not really changed that much. Just like today, some maladies were physical, some chemical, and some spiritual.

The narrator of “The Yellow Wallpaper” states:

“John is a physician, and PERHAPS…that is one reason I do not get well faster.”

She indicates that the doctor (who is her husband in the story) does not believe she is really sick. This may come across as if I am against doctors, which is far from the truth.

It is just interesting to hear her viewpoint. Was this the viewpoint of the writer as well?

 

 

Kitchen-Klatter, Scones, and Vintage Recipes

Vintage recipes and recipe books create some nostalgia thing within me. I envision myself in my Grandma McKinney’s kitchen, with her milk glass mixing bowls and wooden spoons (used on occasion for spanking a certain mischievous granddaughter), creating a meal from scratch in those days before internet searches, round-the-clock TV cooking shows, and magazines devoted to food. Of course, I wear a floral apron and use fresh ingredients (from the farms down the road).

Trying these recipes in real life is sometimes another story. Since scones are one our favorites around here, I scoured my old recipe books for vintage recipes.

My favorite recipe book is an old Kitchen Klatter three-ring volume of thousands of recipes. This brand is well-known to many from Iowa, and many of the recipes encourage the use of their bottled flavorings. In this book alone, I once counted over 160 recipes containing Jell-O! In real life, I can’t remember the last time I made Jell-O. But, it was apparently an important staple in the 1950s and 60s.

This cookbook had only one recipe for scones, as did several others. I decided to combine a recipe for wartime scones (using oatmeal) with the regular recipe I had already found.

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We buy our dry goods at a Mennonite bulk food store. (I am new to the photography thing, and I notice shadows in the pictures, but it is too late to go back now!)

Even as I was mixing, I suspected these scones might be bland and heavy, but I wanted to experience the taste of the old recipes, as well as the methods. Here is the final result:

 

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I was right about the taste, as they were missing the whole grains and spices we tend to use more of today. Did they even think of counting carbs or even really know what a carb was?? However, I LOVE this cookbook and rely on it for everyday recipes, from main dishes to desserts.

When I purchased the cookbook, it had its cover already missing, so I’m not sure the year it was published, but with over 460 pages, and a purchase price of a couple of dollars, I feel like I won the jackpot. I searched online, and found it has had many re-printings (mine seems like it may have come from the 1970s with its clipart of housewives in little black dresses with white aprons).

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Here is a link for purchasing the above item at Amazon (new or used): Kitchen-Klatter cookbook.

I highly recommend the many baking recipes, even the scone recipe was just a bit before its time!

Gravel Roads and Brush Arbor

Think about the many different types of roads. There are neighborhood streets and busy interstates. Footpaths in the grass. Dirt roads. Two-lane highways. Long, winding driveways. Mountainous roads. Roads that lead somewhere. Dead ends. Lake access roads.

The book I want to discuss today is not available to read because there are only a handful of copies of it in the world. In the introduction, the writer states:

“This narrative is dedicated to country roads:  some graveled, some still mud and some leading nowhere. What is wonderful is knowing that country roads are filled with the lives of so many others who traveled them years past and thanks to those hearty souls, you are allowed choices they could only dream of. No matter how high a man may rise, perhaps to being the richest man in the world, you can be assured that even on those roads paved with gold, there is an old country road which allowed him to get where his is.”

Sixteen years ago, before my grandpa passed away, my mom took the time to interview him and used his memories to write a book for my sister and me (of his days before we knew him). Here is the title page she created:

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As I was re-reading the book this past week, I remembered that old gravel road in Mercer, Missouri and its importance in my life. As a young girl, I walked the road, gravel crunching beneath my feet, loose stones rolling away as I passed my Grandpa’s angus cattle in the fields, the cows sometimes mooing their complaint at my intrusion in their territory. I always paused on the “bridge,” a two-board creation, to watch the creek moving beneath me. Later, as a teenager, I learned to navigate the two boards as I drove my grandpa’s pickup to town.

Here is the first paragraph of the book my mom wrote. She is such a gifted writer. I hope to publish this book at some point, as it represents so many others from the “Greatest Generation” who lived through world wars, the Great Depression, and learned to work hard, love through action, and worship God without fail.

“It was a cold November morning in a small rural area of Northern Missouri. Frozen haze was hanging over the curving creek bed and sweeping along the banks as far as the eye could see. The creek ran north to south, giving the illusion of something much larger than it actually was, while the craggy edges jutted in and out of the landscape, but always within a narrow curvature created by mother nature herself. The old house, sitting on the hill one half mile west of the creek, was creaking and sagging in places, while the shutters on the windows were painted white with hoary frost, and the smoke from the chimney curled endlessly into the sky. Inside the house the air was warm and inviting, interrupted by the whimpering cries of a newborn. Carl Vatus and Veta Fonabelle Gibson Porter were parents of a bouncing baby boy. The date was November 19, 1919, and the baby was named Doral Vatus.” (Shirley Porter, 1999)

The most special time of the year for my grandpa was July because that meant the churches would gather for Brush Arbor days (representing the old-time campmeetings of long ago). I was there for the first service, alongside my grandpa, as I was visiting him that summer. I celebrate my heritage, from that old gravel road and the influences of those who were born, lived, and died within a mile of that end of it.

Welcome! The Best Book I Have Read This Year…

IMG_20150625_1108064_rewindThe vintageinkstand is a personal blog merging two of my biggest passions–reading and all things historical and vintage. From biographies to handwritten recipes to household hints of the early 1900s, from diaries to journals to my great-grandmother’s letters, I hope to share my latest findings, oldest dear friends (and my books are friends), interesting blurbs, and reviews of books, including many that are on the free domain.

I am also a high school and middle school English teacher, currently working for a boys ranch (residential facility for at-risk youth). Each year, part of my job joy is introducing “new” students to classic literature. Between “This sounds so boring!” and “Can we read more of that book today?” lies the journey of a school year. Along the way, I hope they see that people who lived in the Dark Ages and the Victorian era and the chaos of the 1960s all loved and worried and flirted and lost friends and searched to know God, just as we do today.

Now for the best book I have read this year. It is very hard to pin down, actually, but I would have to choose:   The Selected Journals of L. M. Montgomery: Vol. 1. Lucy Maud Montgomery is probably my favorite writer (if I were being tortured and had to pick), and last year I could not put down Mary Rubio’s Lucy Maud Montgomery: The Gift of Wings. I wanted to read her journals for myself, even though Rubio and others who knew Montgomery feel she was very selective in her thoughts, especially as her life went on, knowing the public would read her personal journals.

The more I read biographical material about writers, the more I see their lives in their works. It is so intriguing and almost always without fail (at least in the types of books I read) that their experiences are found in their books.

More about that later…