Considering writers, their desks and the spaces they write in - I could live with this.  I would want to put that desk by the window, put a couch in here for when I’m stalled in my flow or just behaving badly, but I could work with a room like this.  

Many years ago I was selling raffle tickets or something like that, wandering around our little hamlet in Scotland.  I came to an old cottage I hadn’t been to before, down a secluded track right on the banks of the river.  The countryside here is lush with gently rolling hills, beech trees lining the road and on a night like this one, as quiet as a heavy cloak.  I came to the door and knocked but there was no reply.  I knew this home wasn’t occupied full time and presumed the owners were away.  Turning to go I passed a window and I glimpsed through the leaded panes.  I was looking into a large, square room with four walls of floor to ceiling books, only interrupted by an internal door and the window.  There was a substantial table in the center, a solid, rectangular oak table and large comfortable chair.  I was looking at a library.  The evening light fell on the table and I travelled on those soft beams, drifted down to the table and welcoming chair and I sat looking at the books.  I felt the books murmuring in the library room, in the old stone cottage by the rushing river.  A car on the road jolted me back into myself, out of my imagination and to the ticket selling task at hand.  I’ve never forgotten that beautiful room.  

The piles of unwashed laundry are getting frisky.  They sit in the corner looking innocent enough, but as soon as I turn my back they’ve multiplied.  Despite training everyone in the house to use the washing machine, I tend to be the only one who possesses the initiative.  According to the L’Ossovatore Romano, the newspaper of the Vatican, the single most influential factor in the emancipation of women is the washing machine.  I don’t agree with this statement as it conveniently downgrades the impact of birth control on women’s lives.  Setting aside the emancipation question for now, what about the humble washing machine – how did it get here and how has it affected our lives? 

The first English patent for a washing / wringing machine was issued in 1691, a device a little more primitive than we’re accustomed to today.  Early machines tried to imitate the motion of hands on washing board.  Observation of life on the high seas demonstrated the effectiveness of agitation – sailors would hang their washing overboard in a cloth bag, the dragging motion and water forced through it rendering the clothing clean.  We owe a debt of gratitude to the Canadians for the invention of the first agitation machine around the 1920’s.  In an age of greater equality, one would think that such a labour saving device would be saving the labour of all – not so.  If statistics in the U.S. are representative of other countries, almost 90% of laundry is done by women.  The average American family does 8-10 loads of laundry each week.  Were all of that to be done by hand, there would be no time for much else, not even to complain about inequality.

You would imagine then, that every woman would be delighted to own a modern washing machine…I once had a boyfriend who watched his elderly Mother struggle with the wash, first in the twin tub with laborious manual filling, putting laundry and detergent in and waiting for it to agitate sufficiently, then draining it and doing the whole business again and then, into the spinner to further rinse and wring out the water.  That wasn’t enough because then she’d put it through the mangle.  The mangle took the rest of the water out before the laundry could be hung to dry.  Her son bought her a surprise one day, a modern, time saving, space saving washing machine - which she refused to use.  I guess she didn’t like the change.  She kept it next to the twin tub and mangle, a pretty cloth draped over it like a coffin at a wake.  It would eventually become a convenient counter surface for sorting the clothes on.

Before twin tubs or mangles there were just tubs, no running water, gas or electricity – needing plenty of time and hard labour.  A single load involved boiling, rinsing and you would need over 50 gallons of water to do one load.  This had to be transported from pump or well or possibly the tap to whatever receptacle you were using.  Consider the carrying, lifting heavy water and water sodden clothes, sheets and all in the days of weighty wool and cotton and voluminous clothing.  I didn’t always have a washing machine and can sympathise with these early women.  Some of my years in Scotland were spent in a small caravan without running water or electricity.  That was fine I thought at first, there is water all around me, I’ll simply take my washing to the nearby shore.  Don’t ever try this!  The first discovery was that detergent (which is also not great for sea life) or ordinary soap doesn’t lather with seawater.  While I was figuring out this conundrum I placed my knickers and socks in the water to soak, forgetting the most important thing.  I was not in a pool or tub but in the sea, a body of water subject to tidal flow. My knickers and socks were flowing into the Atlantic Ocean, on their way to Ireland or who knows where.  Eventually I developed a solution to this problem much like women of the past.

I started collecting rainwater in big barrels and this was the beginning of a remedy.  It took some planning but with time and soaking I was able to get through my wash.  Many years later, I still had an unusual appreciation for the washing machine due to my caravan experience.  What a miracle it was to simply put the wash and detergent in and press a button.  One morning some years ago I was gathering wash to do exactly that, put a load on.  I left the door of my front loading machine open while I nipped upstairs to the children’s rooms to get their wash.  Having found nothing, I came back down and closed the door, pushed the button on and then went to have a soak in the bath.  Half an hour passed and then I came out, wondering why I hadn’t heard the washing machine.  I looked at it and it seemed fine, it was on and I couldn’t see any reason why it shouldn’t be running.  I bent down to look in the window and saw, on top of the pile of wash, our small kitten and she wasn’t moving.  The next five minutes were tense as I tapped on the glass, wondering why she wasn’t moving and waiting for the time lock safety device to let me open the door.  When I heard the click of release I threw open the door and pulled, a very dazed looking cat out of the wash.  She had simply gone to sleep.  It was just as well that I came out when I did because I also found out that while she was moving, the load was not evenly distributed and this safety device saved her.  The machine would not run with an unevenly distributed load.  In a few minutes she would have been washed.  She must have climbed in while I was upstairs looking for laundry.  In my home it’s now standard to check our machines for cats before we turn them on.    

Despite these traumatic experiences, I still really value the convenience of a washing machine.  Today I read about Ida B. Wells, an amazing heroine of American history and worth looking up.  When she was quite young herself, both her parents and one of her siblings died of yellow fever.  She was determined to keep the family together and worked very hard to do so.  In her words,

“I came home every Friday afternoon, riding the six miles on the back of a big mule.  I spent Saturday and Sunday washing and ironing and cooking for the children and went back to my country school on Sunday afternoon.”  We have it easy comparatively, although we still like to complain. 

It’s apparent that labour saving devices such as washing machines have liberated us in one regard, probably freeing us up for other work and expectations that ensnare us in different ways.  I know I wouldn’t like to go back to a scrubbing board and the hard graft of hand washing.  Interestingly, James Dyson, inventor of the famous Dyson hoover and other machines, claims that 15 minutes of hand washing cleans clothes better than one hour in the best German machine available.  He says that hand washing flexes the clothing, which machines cannot do.  Don’t despair; there is hope as he also says that he has invented a machine that does precisely this. 

 Terms:

Washboard:  An often wooden or glass board with ridges, of which the fabric can be rubbed up and down vigorously against to scrub and it release dirt.

Twin tub:  A machine with two built in basins, one for washing the clothes in requiring the addition of water by hose, the other which spins, for rinsing and wringing the clothes out.

Mangle:  A device consisting of two rollers and either a handle to crank it or an electric device.  The clothing is put between the two rollers and the water is squeezed out of it. 

Ida B. Wells:  A crusader for justice and defender of democracy.  She was described as a militant and uncompromising leader for her efforts to abolish lynching and establish racial equality.  She challenged segregation decades before Rosa Parks, ran for Congress and attended suffrage meetings. 

Additional research:

The Daily Telegraph, March 9, 2009

The Great Idea Finder: www.ideafinder.com/history/inventions/washmachine.htm

Ida B. Wells: www.webster.edu/~woolflm/idabwells.html

 © S. Marian, July 3, 2012

The Highwayman:

“I was a highwayman.

Along the coach roads I did ride

With sword and pistol by my side

Many a young maid lost her baubles to my trade

Many a soldier shed his lifeblood on my blade

The bastards hung me in the spring of twenty-five

But I am still alive. 

I was a sailor.

I was born upon the tide

And with the sea I did abide.

I sailed a schooner round the Horn to Mexico

I went aloft and furled the mainsail in a blow

And when the yards broke off they said I got killed

But I am living still.

I was a dam builder across the river deep and wide

Where steel and water did collide

A place called Boulder on the wild Colorado

I slipped and fell into the wet concrete below

They buried me in that great tomb that knows no sound

But I am still around…

I’ll always be around… and around and around and around and around

I fly a starship across the Universe divide

And when I reach the other side

I’ll find a place to rest my spirit if I can

Perhaps I may become a highwayman again

Or I may simply be a single drop of rain

But I will remain

And I’ll be back again,

and again, and again and again and again.

(From the song the Highwayman, written by Jimmy Webb and performed by Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, Kris Kristofferson and Johnny Cash)

“All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players:

They have their exits and their entrances;

And one man in his time plays many parts.”

(William Shakespeare from the play, “As You Like It.)

“Who can say with any certainty what ‘one man’s time’ is, or all the parts he may play.”

© S. Marian, June 19, 2012

Excerpts from a piece posted today titled, “Echoes From Another Life,” to be found on “A View From Outside the Box,” url: adialogue

Earlier in the week I wrote a mini piece about mistaken identity.  I posed the question, “Are we snowflakes or could there be another person like us, different versions but much like us?  Setting aside the idea of parallel lives for now, I want to look at another belief about how we live and die.  The belief I am referring to is reincarnation.  We’ll look at some interesting statistics and I’ll tell you an odd story, one I simply can’t explain. 

All major religions accept the concept of multiple lives except Christianity and Islam in general.  If this is your belief, then you dwell with the erudite, as Pythagoras, Plato and Socrates all believed in reincarnation.  Broadly, some 20% of people in the U.S., about 1/3 of Russia and 22% of Europe overall are believers.  There are some fascinating peaks and troughs with former East Germany polling at 12%, and Lithuania peaking at 44%.  Obviously, there are countries where the predominant belief is in reincarnation.  I’ve selected statistics from Europe and North America to illustrate a growing interest.

I will state at the outset that it is a subject I find intriguing and it’s as believable as anything else to me.  Personally, the challenge of living one life well is substantial and that is my focus.  It wasn’t always so, though.  I did once explore many different belief systems and lifestyles, being something of a free spirit and exceedingly inquisitive.  I read books on all these subjects, discussed religion with people from different faiths and ultimately was not persuaded to accept one alone.  My problem is, they are all equal to me, each valid for the individual and none more important than another in my view.

Now that I’ve got that out of the way, I want to tell you a little story.  Get a cup of tea and make yourself comfortable.  When I was in my early 20’s I was having some very vivid dreams but often forgot them by morning.  Someone suggested I keep a pad of paper and a pen next to my bed so that I could write them down.  I did that for many weeks with dreams noted and nothing out of the ordinary.  Then, one memorable night, I had a really distinctive dream, not just realistic but something more.  Everything about it felt different than my usual dreams, there were the sensations of a real event taking place but played out in my head, that’s what it felt like.  In this dream an old man was sitting next to me.  He was a standard old man who I didn’t recognise, reasonably tall from what I could see, grey/silver hair and a nice old mannish sort of face.  I was lying stretched out on a low bed and in the way of dreams, I understood he was regressing me.  I felt very relaxed.  For the puzzled, some believe it is possible to regress someone using hypnosis so that they may remember past lives.  Time has dulled this memory a bit, but from what I can remember, he told me I had been someone called Henry.  I asked him who he (Henry) was and what he did, and the old man told me his surname was Wallace and said he was a writer.  He also told me to “look him up”, as there was “more for me there”.  I actually did remember the dream in the morning and I verified that I was not imagining it, but there it was on the pad of paper.  Before I go any further, obviously I know that just because I dreamt something and wrote it down, does not necessarily make it “real.”  Also, as far as I was aware, I had never heard that name before, nor read it in a book, heard it spoken, on the radio, or watched it on television.  The next step was the library.

At my local library I found nothing and was prepared to give up and accept it as an interesting anomaly.  One day though, I had reason to be in the big library downtown and I looked Henry Wallace up, one last time.  I was fairly surprised to discover that he existed; in fact there were three of them.  The Henry that I was to focus on was Henry Senior and lived between 1836-1916.  He was an American, the son of Jim Wallace, an Irish-Scottish farmer. Like his father, he was also a farmer and a very keen advocate for the agricultural community.  He founded a paper called “Wallace’s Farmer,” of which his son Henry Cantwell Wallace took over, and his grandson, Henry Agard Wallace, had much to do with.  Additionally, Henry Senior was a Presbyterian Minister.  In terms of his legacy, his grandson went on to be a very memorable, some might say notorious, vice president of the U.S. for a term.  One political colleague commented about him that he was, “a person answering calls the rest of us don’t hear…he dabbled in idealologies ranging from Catholicism to Zoroastrianism” – and they found him, “a bit unsettling.”  The apple did not fall far from the big tree.  It was said of Henry Senior, “He had a great brain, and he knew how to use it…when he had anything to do, he did not plow the surface; he subsoiled, and went down into the very depths of things, whether it was theology, or farming, or whatever he had to do with…”

When I had this dream, I did not have the benefit of a computer.  Last night I spent some time leafing through online books written by “Uncle Henry,” as he was known in the farming communities in Iowa and elsewhere.  He wrote a lot, in fact three generations of Wallace’s wrote.  He wrote some books in volumes titled, “Uncle Henry’s Own Story,” for his grandchildren about life in his time, attitudes, etc.  His grandson, Henry Agard Wallace was hugely influenced by him, more so even than by his parents.  What influence has he or this dream had on me though?  As I stated earlier, one life is quite enough to be focusing on.  I believe that with or without a belief in reincarnation, that which we sow we ultimately reap.  Our lives are largely what we make them and my beliefs are as broad as they come.

I’ve never had another dream like that one.  I thought about reincarnation again when I went to Skye.  How to explain a place that felt like home in the very deepest sense, familiar and belonging to me – yet a place I had never been before.  I’ve had the same feeling with some people I’ve met.  Long before I could claim knowledge of them, there was a feeling of familiarity and a meaningful dynamic being played out, almost before we began. 

“All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players:

They have their exits and their entrances;

And one man in his time plays many parts.”

Who can say with any certainty what ‘one man’s time’ is, or all of the parts he may play? 

Whatever you believe, whether it be in this one life, a ‘better’ life or in many lives; we are together in our humanity. Uncle Henry expressed the human condition quite well.

“You are enjoying luxuries which kings and queens, with all their wealth and power, could not possibly have secured two hundred years ago.  But I wish you to realize also that with all their disadvantages, people were just about as happy in those early days as you are now or ever will be; that neither education nor wealth nor improvements nor comforts nor conveniences can change to any great extent the fundamental problems of existence…(You may think I am sermonizing.  So I am; I rather like it.)”  It may be that we will never have conclusive proof of the nature of our existence and this could be our fundamental problem.  It isn’t a problem for me, nor was it for Henry Wallace, “This is a great world we live in, and a mighty interesting one to any man, old or young, who is in touch with it’s every day life.”  One life is more than enough for me.

                                             ⎯

“All the world’s a stage…” - William Shakespeare, “As You Like It.

Additional information and quotes from Wikipedia, and “Uncle Henry’s Own Story,” Wallace Publishing, Des Moines, Iowa, 1910.

 © S. Marian, June 19, 2012    

“Kymali” wondered where she had heard about the Victorian therapy used for treating hysteria in women…(Read, “Something For the Coffee Table” for this to make any sense and to have a laugh), and I think I have an idea.  It is referenced in some literature of the time but more recently,  in the movie “Hysteria,” with the really quite gorgeous Hugh Dancy.  That was the provocation I needed to write a piece I have been toying with for years.  I hope those of you who read it enjoyed it and thanks for your note Kymali.   

I love a surprise but I live in a family that can hardly bear the excitement - we usually end up giving up the secret before it’s time.  Some people hate surprises and like to have time to consider their reaction, loathe being put on the spot.  What is the best surprise you’ve ever had?  For me without hesitation, it was the birth of my son, nearly 8 weeks early.  It had many of the qualities of a great gift; I was not expecting it at all (was on holiday), it involved epic weather conditions, high drama, an air ambulance, coast guard helicopter and 3 more ambulances before the event - it was also most memorable, and I wouldn’t consider re-gifting it either!  

Thank you tumblrtot for following me, you are a surprise gift.  I know not your nature nor your characteristics but I’m pleased nonetheless.   

“For the next two centuries doctors experimented with all manner of things to ‘shake things loose,’ from vibrating chairs to high powered water douches.’  No matter the device, the goal was the same - to induce ‘hysterical paroxysm.’  This was an improvment for the women, for $2 and some time in the doctor’s office, they experienced temporary relief.  The problem was, it was only very temporary and there were a lot of women.  Dedicated physicians complained of sore hands despite the enormous financial benefits to providing this treatment.  One doctor said it was harder than it looked, likening it to trying to rub your head and pat your stomach simultaneously.”

© S. Marian, June 5, 2012

An excerpt from “Something for the Coffee Table,” posted today on “A View From Outside the Box,” url: adialogue

There is an antiques place, a great big barn outside Dundee in the Perthshire village of Abernyte.  It’s set in verdant, hilly countryside, one hill rolling into the next like waves - a good analogy for this story.  I can and have spent hours there, as it’s full of antique stalls containing the odd, beautiful and ancient of every description.  I have a centuries old Chinese mirror from there, polished metal with a water scene in relief on the other side. I like to imagine who might have used it, what their life was like, what their thoughts, dreams and fears were.  I will never know but of one purchase, the story has reached out to me from the past.

One day browsing the treasure trove, I wandered into the household and farming ‘shop.’  This isn’t normally of great interest but I was humouring my beloved.  In the corner on a table was an intriguing thing, a shiny device I had never seen before.  It was approximately one foot long, with a wooden handle and some sort of motor encased within a heavy metal compartment.  Protruding from the back was a crank.  At the bottom of this device there was a circular Bakelite pad, with a gap and then an outer ring of the same.  When you turned the handle the inner disc would move up and down, and depending on how quickly you turned, could go quite fast.  It had a hole in the center of the disc where it appeared something else could be fitted.  The noise it made was akin to a very loud hand drill or ratchet.   On the front of the motor housing, etched into the casing, it said, “Dr. Macaura’s Blood Circulator, Patent number 13932.  I was undeterred by my husband’s, “what do you want to buy that for?”  I thought it would be a fascinating, mysterious ornament to have sitting on the coffee table, and it was.  I never failed to bring out my little machine, adults puzzled over it and children delighted in trying it against their legs, arms, or on the heads of unfortunate sisters.

It would have been beautiful had I remained in ignorance, trotting it out at dinner parties to the wonder and amusement of my guests. A year later, it occurred to me to look up the patent number of my table ornament.  I was more than surprised to discover so much information about the Blood Circulator, originally known as the “Pulsacon.”  It was invented in the 1880’s and produced until the 1920’s by the British Appliances Manufacturing Company of Leeds, England.  Apparently, cranking the handle could produce two thousand vibrations per minute.  One example can be found in the London Science Museum with the operational instructions, “It is secured with one hand and the vibrating plate placed over the desired body part.  Turning the handle produces a surprisingly intense vibration over the affected area.”  In the 58 page booklet that came with it, titled, “Death is Stagnation – Life is Vibration,”  Joseph Gerald Macaura claimed that it could cure pain, deafness, anaemia, heart disease, cramp, polio and ‘women’s problems.’

As I said, I like to imagine the people that went before me, what these things have meant to them, the context of their lives.  For the woman who possessed this ‘blood circulator’ and I do think it was a woman, she lived in much more constrained times.  The assumptions of her time included the belief that women were prone to hysteria, causing untold problems in the home and for Victorian men in particular.  A common diagnosis was ‘womb disease,’ the symptoms of which were, headaches, irritability, fear of impending insanity and hysteria. 

     I can’t help but smile at these well intentioned, naïve Victorians, as naïve say, as someone buying a ‘vibrational device’ as a coffee table ornament.  Some other Victorian assumptions were that women did not experience ‘copulatory urges,’ or the physical release that came from these encounters and that real coitus only occurred with penetration to physical release. Climax was seen as a sign of good health but not of fornication.  Thus, doctors surmised that womb disease and female hysteria were caused by failure to achieve climax. 

By the first century AD, massage of the pudenda had become standard treatment for this common but chronic complaint.  For the next two centuries doctors experimented with all manner of things to ‘shake things loose,’ from vibrating chairs to high powered water douches.’  No matter the device, the goal was the same – to induce ‘hysterical paroxysm.’  This was an improvement for the women, for $2 and some time in the doctor’s office, they experienced temporary relief.  The problem was, it was only very temporary and there were a lot of women.  Dedicated physicians complained of sore hands despite the enormous financial benefits to providing this treatment.  One doctor said it was harder than it looked, likening it to trying to rub your head and pat your stomach simultaneously.   

People like “Dr.” Macaura saw a niche in the market and capitalised.  By now some practitioners were feeling a little defensive trying to convey the seriousness of their work.  To meet this demand, vibratory entrepreneurs produced new machines, professional looking and substantial.  One was called the Chattanooga, which was mounted (by the doctor) like a Tommy gun on wheels, to be rolled alongside the patient.  Another popular model was the Carpenter, which hung from the ceiling and looked like a mechanics impactor, or air gun as it’s sometimes called.  Needless to say, a myriad of devices were made, all advertised in a manner to camouflage their intent.  Then, sometime in the 1920’s they seem to have disappeared.  One theory is that the devices began to show up in less salubrious films and their camouflage was gone. 

I feel I must speak up for the previous owner of my Blood Circulator.  I am sure there was relief to be had in owning this device but I am quite certain frustration did not disappear.  The context of her life did not allow her a voice in the home (except in domestic matters), in her marriage or in society.  She did not have freedom of choice, the vote and was viewed as irrational, weak and unreliable.  Multiple paroxysms would not have increased her influence, nor diminished her most meaningful impotence. 

What of our good doctor though?  He was passionate on the subject of women’s health and surely for that he is to be admired.  At one trade fair in Leeds, he concluded his talk on vibrational therapy with this, “It is the duty of those who took the Hippocratic oath to be fired by imagination and inquisitiveness, to…arrest decay and to amplify life.  Who could find objection to such noble sentiments?  The French apparently.  On May 14, 1914, Gerald Macaura, an American of Irish descent, was arrested and ordered to pay a fine of $600 and sentenced to three years imprisonment.  He was charged with fraud and crimes of ‘vibratory massage.’

The famous Pulsacon / Blood Circulator does not sit on my coffee table anymore; instead it now resides in a cabinet of antiquities in my bedroom.  No longer a sitting room ornament but an interesting device with a colourful history and the object of one of my favourite stories.

 (Additional information from “Worth Point,” the “Independent,” and Leicestershire County Council)

© S. Marian, June 5, 2012

Read More

Tomorrow we return to Victorian times.  We aim to discover what this lovely lady looks pleased about, what is putting that slight smile on her face?  We look at the context of her life, the attitudes that shaped it and we laugh, oh yes we laugh.  Why?  We laugh because behind that demure smile she has a secret, not even fully understood by herself but nonetheless, a secret.  

Go on, have a laugh and read, “Something For The Coffee Table,” to be posted Tuesday, June 5, on “A View From Outside the Box,” url: adialogue.

Have you ever wondered about your favourite writers and where they created their masterpieces?  I always imagine them in cold garrets, wearing fingerless gloves, a pile of crumpled paper lying around them.  You can tell what I’ve been reading too much of!  I give you the writing spaces of Roald Dahl (the yellow door is very cheery, isn’t it) and George Bernard Shaw, who named his writing hut “London,” so that his message takers could say, “he’s in London”, quite truthfully.  In the middle of these illustrious personages, you have the writing space of S.Marian, exactly the mess I have been describing to you but you didn’t believe me.  No hut for this fledgling writer, just a big old bankers desk, comfortable chaos all around and right in the middle of the house.  I would love to have a space to call my own.  Just look at Mark Twain’s gorgeous gazebo and my favourite, Dylan Thomas’s.  It’s spartan but the light falls just so, the books within reach, the crumpled papers on the floor (see, didn’t I tell you that’s what writers do) and I could rage, rage against my hutless plight - but I won’t.  For the interested, I have been dedicated glue to my desk and chair today, hardly rising except for tea and the loo.  As I approach the end of chapter two, it’s beginning to feel real to me.  Can you imagine thinking, dreaming and talking about something most of your life (and my life may be a little longer than some of yours) and then doing it?  It’s brilliant, better than chocolate even!  As usual I will ask a question here and will probably not get an answer but here it is anyway - what have you always wanted to do but not yet done?  (If I should be fortuitous enough to receive any replies, I will not be posting unless you ask me to.)