Vintage Stories Archives - Cindy Goes Beyond

December 12, 2018

German Eglantine Biscuit Jar

There are a few weeks left in the year, to share two or three more stories behind vintage items I own. I rescued the German Eglantine Biscuit Jar. Greg’s grandparents had stopped using it and tucked it away in their storage shed. I had no idea what it was, I just thought it was uniquely pretty. As a newlywed, I displayed the jar for a while and then I too quit using it and stored it away.

After many moves and the passage of years, I recently uncovered the biscuit jar again. Thanks to Google, I now have the ability to learn more about this vintage treasure.

Eglantine Biscuit Jar

The mark on the bottom of the jar has a crown over a stylized O and H, with the words “Germany” and “Eglantine” printed beneath.

Eglantine is a type of rose. This piece has dainty roses painted around the jar, and the handles and top of the lid are made from porcelain roses. The glaze finish is clear and gold details adorn the edges.

When Americans hear the word biscuits we imagine small fluffy rounds of bread, dripping with butter or smothered in gravy. However, in Europe a biscuit is what we’d call a cookie. This small exquisite beauty is a cookie jar!

German Porcelain

The Eglantine Biscuit Jar is German in origin. The mark with the fancy O and H indicates Hermann Ohme manufactured it between 1920 and 1930.

The factory was located in the town of Nieder-Salzbrunn (today Sczawienko). Ohme mainly produced full dinner sets and accessories which were available in two types of finishes. Clear Glaze and Old Ivory wares were both made from the same quality of porcelain but the Old Ivory type received an additional light ivory colored matte glaze. The Clear Glaze, decorated with a wide variety of floral and geometric patterns, was produced for the European and US market.

In 1913 Hermann Ohme, E.M. Bauer and Hermann Ohme Jr owned the company. Together they increased production for the export market, which proved to be a fatal decision. While pushing those exports, they missed the beginning signs that indicated a financial crises was coming. When the bottom dropped out of the export business, shortly after the collapse of the stock market in October 1929, a world wide economic collapse began. The company filed for bankruptcy in 1930.

German Ancestry

The significance of the biscuit jar, with its origins, is that Bill and Ruby Kygar Moore both had German ancestry. The Siegfrieds and the Kygars, whether they shared connections in Germany or not, definitely tracked together in America. Greg continues to research his family roots through Ancestry.com. Bill Moore’s mother was a Siegfried. And Ruby’s father, a Kygar. Several items passed down to us came through those family lines.

I am honored to be the keeper of the German porcelain pieces that include a Hertwig china doll, the biscuit jar and a Bavarian china bread tray, seen in the picture. Traditional cookies aren’t part of my diet any longer. However, I have several healthy, plant based cookie recipes. Perhaps that biscuit jar will enjoy a new life, holding a different kind of treat.

Tonight, the jar cradles a tea light candle. I’m on Pinterest though, searching for healthy versions of traditional German cookies. How fun will baking those be?

December 4, 2018December 5, 2018

Grandpa Bill’s Shaving Mug

Grandpa Bill’s shaving mug came to me 30 plus years ago, when my mom and stepdad downsized and moved to Arizona for a time. The vintage piece belonged to her father and I felt honored to become its keeper.

Although I displayed the shaving mug for a few years, fear of it getting broken caused me to pack it away, out of sight. And out of sight eventually does become out of mind. I forgot about my grandfather’s mug and lather brush until a few days ago.

In recent years I’ve brought keepsakes and treasures out of storage, incorporating them into my décor. It’s time again to display this vintage item.

Shaving Mug History

It was common for men to have shaving mugs and lather brushes, between 1880 and the 1920s. They either kept a mug and brush at home, or the barber they frequented kept a personalized set on hand for them.

Those purchased for home use were usually bought through local stores or the Sears catalog. The home mugs had more variety in shape and size but typically went un-personalized.

Many shaving soap manufacturers gave free, inexpensive mugs to customers as a sales promotion, hoping the customer would continue to purchase their shaving soap. Probably the most famous example of this is the Old Spice “sailing ship” mug.

The soap was dropped into the mug and a wet brush used to create a rich lather for shaving. Lather was applied to the face with the same brush. A razor blade whisked off lather and whiskers.

Barbers used personalized mugs for clients, believing the practice prevented shaving rash. In reality the rash wasn’t caused by sharing soap. It was caused by unsterilized razors.

Grandpa Bill’s Shaving Mug

My mother remembers watching her father use his mug and brush. As a wee girl, she found the process of shaving fascinating. Grandpa Bill used a long bladed razor to carefully remove the shaving lather and his whiskers.

My grandfather was killed in an accident when my mother was only four years old. Memories of him are few, and all the more precious because of their rarity.

Since he passed away in 1944, the mug and brush now in my possession are at least 74 years old, and possibly older. Mom knows nothing about where her dad acquired his shaving set or how long he had it. Perhaps because of her fond memories, the mug and brush passed to her as a young adult.

A clean shaven Bill Gregory with his wife Mildred and baby daughter, Patty…who is my mother.

A Keepsake Uncovered

I’m grateful that Mom passed the shaving mug on to me. Although I never had the privilege of meeting my maternal grandfather, I have felt a close connection to him all of my life. He has been my guardian angel, a presence in Spirit who has watched over me and comforted me. I call him Papaw Bill.

I’m even more thankful that when I suddenly remembered the mug and brush, I knew exactly where I had stored them for safekeeping. Holding the simple mug and the brush with the chipped paint, I can imagine Papaw Bill holding them as well. The mug hums with the long ago energy of a kind and thoughtful man who loved his family and cared for them. Closing my eyes, I can almost catch a whiff of the clean, soapy scent of shaving lather.

The shaving mug and brush are on display in my bedroom tonight. They seem right at home on a bedside table, resting among vintage Christmas pieces. I’ll light a candle before going to bed, next to the mug, in honor of my grandfather. I’m thinking of William Gregory…Billy to his wife and friends, Daddy to three children, Papaw Bill to me.

October 31, 2018October 31, 2018

From Popcorn to Treats: Mimi’s Vintage Bowl

On this Halloween night, the air is chilly and a steady rain is falling. It’s not likely that many trick or treaters will come calling tonight. However, I’m ready. The porch light is on. Candles are lit on the front deck as well, welcoming beacons in the twilight.

Indoors, candles continue the cheery warmth throughout the house, a cozy barrier against the darkness and the chill. And on the entryway table rests Mimi Leta’s vintage aluminum bowl, filled with packets of fruit snacks.

A Bowl for Popcorn

I quickly learned two things about Leta Moore, the kindhearted, generous woman who would become my mother-in-law: she enjoyed cups of hot tea, and she adored a bowl of popcorn in the evenings.

Greg’s dad, Bob, popped corn over a burner on the stove. He added kernels and a bit of oil to a rectangular metal box with a very long handle. A wire mesh cover kept the popcorn in place, which was crucial. As the oil in the pan heated up, Bob shook that container vigorously, until every kernel popped.

While Bob popped the corn, Leta melted a small amount of butter in a pan on the stove. The fluffy popcorn was transferred into the aluminum bowl with the floral border, drenched in butter and sprinkled with salt. It’s the only bowl I ever saw Leta use for her special treat. She shared the popcorn, of course! I always smiled, however, over her obvious enjoyment of this simple snack.

Vintage Aluminum Salad Bowl Set

After both of Greg’s parents passed away, I found the old bowl in a cabinet in the kitchen. Memories stirred as I held the container. Researching the keepsake tonight, I learned the big bowl was actually part of a set. Manufactured in the 1950s, the aluminum set included a large bowl with the stamped floral border, and four smaller salad bowls.

Greg vaguely remembers the smaller bowls, but we did not find them in the house as we packed up items. The larger decorative bowl came home with me. Although I don’t pop my own corn, and only occasionally eat a healthy non-GMO brand of popcorn, I have precious memories of Leta associated with this simple item.

And, the old bowl is the perfect size for holding Halloween treats.

Be Happy

As I predicted, the cool, rainy weather kept most of the children indoors or influenced their parents to take them to indoor venues, such as the mall, for treats. That’s okay. I’m enjoying hot tea and cozy candlelight, and I have a new book to crack open and read.

A few trick or treaters have braved the elements and knocked on the door. I’ve seen Spider-Man tonight, and a princess, monsters and two young ladies wearing long gorgeous dresses and lavish makeup. It’s fun to step outside, with the vintage bowl full of treats, and speak to the kids.

One young girl, about five years old, surprised me. She’s my neighbor actually, and this child already understands that life is magical and that it’s okay to be who she is. She dances in the rain and plays with my cats and always calls out a friendly greeting when she sees me outside.

As I offered her a treat, she sang a little song. And then she reached into her bucket of goodies and handed me a Jolly Rancher lollipop. “For you,” she said. “You are giving me a treat?” I asked. “Yes,” she answered, with a big smile. “I just want you to be happy.”

I’m still smiling over her sweet generosity. Mimi Leta would have loved this girl. I’m never going to eat that lollipop. It will serve as a reminder that there are amazing people in the world. And one of them happens to be five years old, and living next door. I am happy.

October 26, 2018October 26, 2018

Fore! A Vintage Golf Story

Tonight’s post began as a story about a miniature golf club that Greg’s grandfather, Bill Moore, whittled when he was a young man. The story grew as the research expanded to include Grandpa Moore’s greenskeeper card and an early 1900s hickory golf club with a metal head.

I love when a story takes off!

A Tiny Golf Club

Bill Moore enjoyed a long association with golf. He played the sport, becoming a golfer sometime in his late teens or early twenties. And he spent years working as a greenskeeper in the Wichita, Kansas area.

As a young man, with a wife and growing family, Grandpa Bill worked as a golf course superintendent, hired by the Wichita Board of Commissioners. He oversaw several of the golf courses in the area, responsible for the greens, grounds and landscaping, designing greens, and monitoring the health and environment of the golf courses. He held this position from 1923 to the early 1940s.

Grandpa whittled the miniature golf club in June, 1920, when he was 22 years old. His interest in golf predated, and perhaps led to, his job as a greenskeeper. Late in his life, this sweet man with the dry sense of humor, gave the tiny golf club to his son Bob, who mounted the keepsake and added the little number 9 pin to it. He in turn passed the vintage club on to his son, Greg. I marvel at the exquisite detail of this whittled piece of art and I’m grateful for the info written on the frame backing.

Meadow Lark Golf Club

Discussing the whittled club with Greg led to digging out Bill Moore’s official greenskeeper card, issued to him in 1927. The National Association of Greenskeepers of America was founded September 13, 1926 and Bill was a charter member of the organization.

The Meadow Lark Golf Course, one of the courses that Bill Moore cared for, was renamed the LW Clapp Golf Course in 1956. The 18 hole public course still exists today and is in use. Grandpa Bill carried guest cards that he could give out, that entitled the card bearer to privileges at Meadow Lark.

Vintage Spaulding Golf Club

Ultimately, digging into the story of the little whittled golf club led me to a vintage Spaulding club that also belonged to Grandpa Bill. This old club has a hickory shaft and a narrow, metal head.

Engraved on the back of the club head is a wealth of information. I know from the words there that this is a Kro-Flite custom made club endorsed by the Professional Golfers Association. Researching online, Greg and I discovered the history of the Spaulding Sport Company that manufactured these sweet spot clubs in the early 1900s.

I enjoyed the trek into history tonight, launched by a tiny replica of a larger wooden golf club. Even more, holding the framed art and the vintage golf club resulted in reminiscing about Greg’s grandfather. We had fun piecing this story together. Several times we wished we could ask Grandpa Bill questions. Instead we relied on information online and Greg’s detailed genealogy notes.

How amazing it would be, to have an old photo of Bill Moore on the golf course, taking a swing with one of his wooden clubs. I don’t possess such a photograph. I can imagine the scene though.

Dressed in knickers, with a jaunty cap on his head, a young Bill eyes the fairway, calculating the distance to the pin and the lay of the land. He executes a perfect swing, hitting the ball solidly. No need for him to yell out “Fore!” The ball lands with a soft thump, on the edge of the green, a green that Bill Moore helped to design and now cares for. He chuckles as he strolls down the fairway.

Well done, Grandpa Bill…well done.

October 8, 2018October 8, 2018

You’re Going to Need This Juicer, Honey

As I used my vintage juicer this morning, to create lemon water, a warm fuzzy feeling overcame me. This simple gadget that was commonly found in kitchens in the mid 1900s, is more of a novelty now. There are more modern versions of juicers available.

I love my juicer, however, and I enjoy the homey practice of twisting half a lemon, lime or orange on it, to extract fresh juice. As I considered the source of the warm feeling, I thought of my Aunt Annie, who passed away in March of 2015. This was her juicer.

Clear Depression Glass Juicer

I researched vintage glass juicers and quickly located exact matches to the one I own.

Depression glass is clear or colored translucent machine made glassware that was distributed free, or at low cost, in the US and Canada around the time of the Great Depression, which lasted from 1929 until 1939. Much depression glass is actually uranium glass. The Quaker Oats Company, and other food manufacturers and distributors, put a piece of glassware in boxes of food, as an incentive to purchase.

During its years of production more than 20 manufacturers created 100 plus patterns, with entire dinner sets available in some patterns. Common colors were clear, or crystal, pink, pale blue, green, and amber. Less common colors included canary yellow, ultramarine, opaque pale green, opaque pale blue, cobalt blue, ruby red, black, amethyst, monax, and white milk glass.

Taking Home a Juicer

Five months after my aunt passed away, my mother, sisters and I met two of my cousins at Aunt Annie’s house. We sorted through memories and items. My cousins graciously allowed us to select keepsakes to take home.

In the basement we opened cardboard boxes and examined items that Aunt Annie had collected over a lifetime. We all chatted and told stories about pieces we recognized. And some items we wondered about. How we wanted to ask my aunt questions.

I was drawn to the juicer as soon as I saw it. I like vintage kitchen gadgets and this one was in perfect condition without chips or cracks. I couldn’t remember ever seeing my aunt use it, but she surely did. I tucked the juicer into my “take home” box, pleased with the find.

You’re Going to Need This

This morning, as I made lemon water and thought about my aunt, an image came to mind. I could imagine Annie there with all of us, in spirit, in the basement. She stood among her family, peering into boxes and remembering with us as we pulled items from long sealed cartons. I could hear her soft voice with its southern drawl, exclaiming over old treasures. She smiled as we told stories and added to them, even though we could not consciously hear her.

When I picked up the old glass juicer, I now wonder if my sweet aunt whispered into my ear, “You’re going to need this juicer, honey. Take it home.” In 2015 I had not yet taken charge of my health. That shift would not occur for another 11 months. We operate in linear time. Spirit does not.

Is it possible that my aunt knew that a time was coming when I would not only cherish this juicer but use it every day? Could she have foreseen how important creating fresh juice would become to me, months before I switched to a plant based lifestyle? I like to think so!

This little depression glass juicer, that perhaps came to my aunt via a box of oats, helps me maintain my good health. I am grateful that in the flow of life, that sometimes operates outside the flow of time, what I need comes to me at the perfect moment.

And that warm fuzzy feeling I experienced this morning? Maybe that was Aunt Annie, giving me a hug.

October 5, 2018October 11, 2018

This Old Lamp of Mine

With the vintage family pieces that I own, such as the old lamp that rests on my bedside table, perfection is not required. It’s okay if the item has a missing part, or proudly bears scratches and dents, or doesn’t work properly anymore. I embrace the Japanese philosophy of wabi sabi…beauty in imperfection.

The vintage double globed table lamp came to me after Greg’s mother passed away in 1999. Bob Moore gave me two such lamps, actually, with the larger one being a fancier parlor style version. From my research, these lamps was produced in the 1940s and 50s.

Sadly, the bigger parlor lamp was destroyed as a result of the 2011 tornado that struck Joplin. Debris crashed through a window and shattered the lamp. I was heartsick about the loss. As a protective measure, I moved the smaller, more plain lamp away from windows. It has served as my bedside lamp since.

Imperfect Lamp

The double globe lamps have a three way switch. One click and the lower globe lights up. Two clicks and the upper globe shines. Three clicks and both globes turn on, illuminating the area. However, for as long as I have owned this lamp, the lower globe has not worked. It perhaps hasn’t lit up for many years. That’s one of those questions I never thought to ask of the Moores, along with requesting to hear the story of the lamp’s purchase.

Greg took the lamp apart several years ago and tested connections and added new bulbs, to no avail. I didn’t mind. I still use the lamp every evening. As darkness gathers in my room, I switch on this keepsake, the upper globe providing plenty of cozy light. Before sleep, the last thing I do before snuggling beneath the covers is to reach over and click off the old lamp.

A Light in the Darkness

Last night was no different. Except…lying in the darkness, feeling a strange restlessness, I crawled back out of bed and left the room. I exited a dark room, knowing my house well enough to wander around without benefit of lighting.

Therefore I was startled when I returned to my dimly lit room. To my great wonderment the lower globe of my old lamp was lit, guiding my way back. I sat on the edge of the bed and smiled, staring at it. Because it’s never worked, since I owned it, I apparently turned the switch one too many times without realizing it. The circuit was open. And now…for some reason…energy flowed to the bulb.

Perfect Lamp

I sat for a long time, watching the lamp. The light remained steady. I clicked the switch. The upper globe lit, as it always does. And then both globes shone softly when I clicked a third time. Remarkable. The lamp joins a short list of items that I own that have miraculously “repaired” themselves, without human intervention, after not working for ages.

In my magical life, nothing happens by coincidence or accident. So the question became, as I sat quietly thinking, “Why is this lamp working now? What’s the deeper meaning for me?”

I’ve had distinct themes going on this week: don’t give up on my dreams, and connected to that, don’t be afraid. I was reminded a couple of days ago that I had overcome a lifelong fear of the dark. The significance of this light, glowing in the darkness, was not lost on me.

Be the Light

The renewal of this lamp, which continues to work perfectly today, does more than cast a glow into the room. It’s light reaches my soul. I feel seen, and heard, and understood, by the Divine. El-le (my name for God) hears my deepest thoughts and knows me at a level that no one else can. We have daily, ongoing conversations that often defy logic or tradition, and signs and wonders are part of that conversation.

Spirit is energy. And energy, or Spirit, found a way to flow again through the circuits of this old lamp, lighting the darkness, drawing me to it. My doubts and fears from past this week? They burned away in the soft glow of the miraculous light. I am reminded, yet again, that the universe is bigger and more mysterious and infinitely more glorious than the small stories I sometimes allow myself to get caught up in. And I am reminded to be light, in whatever darkness I find myself in.

There are other connections that I made. Light is symbolic of many things to me. Freedom from fear of the dark, hard won. My heart is whole and full of light. I’m still creating comparisons and analogies from last night’s experience.

Before clicking off the lamp again, I felt the invitation, more than heard the words: Open to Spirit, let energy flow to you and through you and beyond. Be light. Be Cindy, Going Beyond.

Beyond what? Well, that will be the fun part, discovering what’s next on this amazing journey.

September 27, 2018September 27, 2018

Leta’s Curls

Greg’s dear mother, Leta Mae Davidson Moore, passed away in 1999. She was a generous, loving, kind hearted woman who never lost her child like sense of wonder for the world. When I married her son, I became the daughter she had always longed for, and we spent many happy hours together over the years, talking, shopping and simply spending time together. She loved being Mimi to her three grandchildren and my kids carry precious memories of her.

A few years after her death, Greg’s dad allowed me to bring home a set of old curling irons that belonged to Leta when she was a girl. Even though her hair appeared to easily arrange itself into natural curls, Leta must have used these irons often. She kept them into adulthood and although she stopped using them on her hair, she had the irons mounted on a bright pink backing board and framed. I am honored to be the keeper of these vintage curling irons.

Vintage Curls

Curling irons have been used for thousands of years, and not just by women. In Babylonia, Greece, and Egypt men used heated irons to curl their hair and beards. And women have depended on irons to keep up with fashion’s demand for curls for just as long.

In 1866 Hiram Maxim obtained the first patent for a curling iron. These tongs were heated in a fire or atop a stove and hair was wrapped around them, creating curls. By 1890 French inventors Maurice Lentheric and Marcel Grateau used hot-air drying and heated curling tongs to make deep, long-lasting Marcel waves.

Born in 1922, Leta was the youngest of four children and the only daughter in her family. I’m not sure when the curling irons were purchased, however I know Leta used them as a child and teenager. I can imagine her mother heating the irons on the stove and then carefully creating curls in her young daughter’s light brown hair.

From my research I’ve learned one had to be very careful indeed using these old curling irons. Unlike today’s electric curling irons, there was no way to regulate the temperature. The metal irons could become hot enough to scorch the hair, or worse, burn the hair badly enough that it broke off from the scalp. Leta’s mother must have taught her girl how to heat the irons to just the right temperature and how to test the warmth.

Leta’s Curls

Photos of Leta Mae throughout her childhood and youth reveal her beauty and graceful poise, and also her carefully coiffed hair. She apparently mastered the feminine art of styling her hair.

By the time I knew this wonderful woman, she visited a salon weekly, and allowed her favorite stylist to cut and curl her hair. Leta was the only adult female I ever knew who depended on another to wash and style her hair for her. She had the charming custom, however, of adding small pink spongy curlers just around her hairline every night, before bed. To hold those curlers securely in place, she wrapped strips of toilet paper around her head.

My children still giggle over the memory of Mimi Leta in her robe, with her bedtime curlers and toilet paper wrapped head.

Keeper of the Curling Irons

I am happy to have Leta’s curling irons. I stood many times with my mother-in-law, in her bedroom, looking at her childhood keepsakes hanging on the wall. She spoke fondly of them and the long ago days when they were used.

I wish I had asked her more questions about them. Or that I had sat on the bed or the carpeted floor and asked her to tell me stories of her childhood. I heard a few. But now, with her gone almost 20 years, I’d love to hear more, know more.

I think of Leta every time I look at these vintage irons, and I miss her. I hope she knows how precious they are to me. My own daughters have a bit more wave to their hair than I do, and they have certainly spent time before a mirror, coaxing their long hair into curls. Someday I will pass Leta’s curling irons on to her granddaughters, perhaps breaking the set apart and giving one to each girl! I think Mimi Leta will smile about that, and reach up to pat her shining curls into place.

September 14, 2018September 14, 2018

55 Years Cradling Plants

I use a variety of interesting containers in my backyard garden. Along with standard clay flowerpots, I make use of metal buckets, wash tubs, tree stumps, and even a toolbox. One of my favorite containers is a green and white pot handed down to me from my mom. It has spent 55 years cradling plants.

Container for house plants

I’m not sure what the exact age is, of this vintage container. As a small child the southwestern style flowerpot sat in various corners of our Tulsa, Oklahoma home, and I am 60 now. My mom always grew a species of plant within it commonly known as the snake plant or mother-in-law’s tongue. This tough house plant is easy to grow and thrives with little care.

First cultivated in China, the snake plant was treasured because people thought it bestowed eight virtues on those who grew it. Those virtues include long life, prosperity, intelligence, beauty, art, poetry, health, and strength. The plants were kept near the front doors of the home so that the eight virtues could circulate throughout the house.

I wonder if Mom knew this? Our snake plant most often resided in the foyer.

Cherished flowerpot for my plants

When we moved, this flowerpot moved with us, to fresh houses and new towns in different states. Eventually the container came to me. Mom knew I would keep green beauties growing within it.

And I have.

I switched out the snake plants for colorful portulaca, also known as sun roses or moss roses. These plants are just as easy to grow and care for. For years the old pot sat on my covered front deck or rested solidly among flowers growing in beds around the house.

Five years ago, when I created my backyard paradise, I moved the container to the area just inside the garden gate. It lends color with its spill of blooms and it anchors the area, filled primarily with ground covers such as creeping jenny and phlox. It’s an anchor for my heart and soul as well. Every time I see the now vintage container, or water the plants tucked inside, I think of my mom and my childhood. This pot has stood as a silent witness to many events and changes. It is dear to me.

The container’s most recent home. Photo taken before the ground cover filled in the area.

New location new plants

As I watered and pulled weeds this evening, I knelt down next to this vintage container and rested my hands upon it. The setting sun kissed the rounded sides, warming them and creating a soft reflective glow. Energy hummed beneath my hands.

Because of its age, I made the decision to relocate the flowerpot indoors this fall, where it will be protected from the cold weather. And just as suddenly, I knew what to transplant into the pot.

How appropriate it feels to grow snake plants in the container again, bringing the flowerpot full circle. Inspired by my research tonight, I’m delighted to plop my freshly planted container near the front door where, feng shui style, the eight virtues can be unleashed within my home. I’m smiling already, thinking of this change. My old container…55 years cradling plants…and counting.

September 7, 2018September 7, 2018

Grandpa Bill’s Doll

I grew up disliking dolls, which was peculiar for a little girl. I had my reasons. As an adult I still don’t care for them. So it’s unusual that the subject of tonight’s Vintage Story post is a doll and even more out of the ordinary that she is snuggled up with me as I write. This vintage girl is special however. She belonged to one of Greg’s grandparents and surprisingly, not to Grandma Ruby. This little beauty was Grandpa Bill’s doll.

Bill Moore was a two year old toddler in 1900 when he received the doll, making her at least 120 years old. When he first showed me the doll with the china head, hands and feet, he chuckled. I heard how she accompanied him through the years. Grandpa’s family moved often during his childhood and youth, and it is amazing that this treasure survived.

Why oh why, I wonder now, did I not question him more about his doll? Grandpa Bill seemed quite fond of her and indeed, he cherished her because in his twilight years, he still had her. She was carefully on display in his home when I met her. Her original outfit had long ago been replaced by something newer, however the style of the dress was appropriate for her age. What did he call this doll, as a child? Who gave him the toy? Did his two brothers and three sisters have china dolls as well? If they didn’t, why did he have a doll? There are so many questions that I will never have answers to.

William Rolston Moore, age 2.

What I do know is that Grandpa Bill loved his doll so much that he kept her near him throughout his life. Only when he moved into an assisted care facility, after the death of Grandma Ruby, did he placed the doll into the care of his daughter-in-law Leta Moore.

The doll came to me 20 years later, before Bob Moore passed away. I carefully packed her away in a closet, fearful that she would get broken. However, my philosophy about vintage items is to use them and display them so that they can be enjoyed. The doll made her debut in my home as the central piece in a fall vignette, in 2014.

Tonight I researched the origins of Grandpa Bill’s doll. I discovered that she is most likely a Hertwig lowbrow china doll from Germany.

The Hertwig Porcelain Factory, located in the Thuringian town of Katzhütte, Germany, made porcelain products from 1864 until the factory closed around 1950. Doll parts were made from 1865 on.The earliest shoulder heads may have been made of unglazed porcelain. Hertwig is most noted for their Nanking-Puppen, or lowbrow dolls, made with nanking (brown cotton) bodies, stuffed with cotton, with bisque or china limbs.

Two lowbrow china dolls. The blonde ones were created specifically for the American market, around 1900.

Grandpa’s doll looks like the blonde lowbrow model, with the heart shaped mouth, light colored eyes and brown brows. His doll has the brown cotton body with china hands and black painted china boots.

And here is the interesting correlation. I know, from Greg’s recent genealogy research, that Bill Moore’s maternal grandfather came from Germany…the Hesse region. Henry Siegfried arrived in the US by way of New York City, New York, in 1854. Henry’s daughter, Lillian Ida Siegfried, became Bill’s mother.

Is it possible that the doll belonged to her and she gave it to her young son? Or did Lillian or another Siegfried relative purchase the German made doll in the US, because of its connection to their native country?

Bill and Ruby in 1917.

Grandpa Bill four years before his death. He rode a stationary bike five miles every day.

If only this old girl could talk, I’d have the answers to my questions. And then I’d have to pack her away again, because a talking doll would not be acceptable to me!

She has won me over though. This cherished childhood keepsake has helped me to move past a long held fear of mine. I featured the doll in fall vignettes at first. Gradually she appeared in other groupings all over my house. And when she’s not gathering admiring glances in wooden sieves or old suitcases or Christmas vignettes, she stands on my bedroom dresser.

That’s a big deal for me, to display a doll in my room. I had a chat with her and asked her to behave, or back into the closet she would go. She’s been the perfect little lady and I have an appreciation and an affection for her now.

I hope Grandpa chuckles over his doll still and visits her while I sleep. I want him to know she is cared for and loved. Perhaps he will whisper her name into my ear and tell me more about her in my dreams. Until I hear otherwise, I will call her Lillian, after his mother. Grandpa Bill’s doll…she’s a treasure indeed.

August 27, 2018August 27, 2018

Old Handkerchiefs

Tonight’s vintage story, about a collection of old handkerchiefs that has come into my possession, celebrates the people they once belonged to. It also reveals the evolution of this almost obsolete item.

I am fond of old linens, from pillowcases and embroidered dish towels, to tablecloths and crocheted doilies. I appreciate the practical functions they provided in the past and how they can still serve me beautifully today. Vintage linens are often featured in my vignettes as a backdrop for a grouping of items.

Handkerchiefs are a bit different, in that they have fallen out of use with the invention of paper tissues. Today I rarely see a handkerchief in use except as a neatly folded accessory in a suit pocket.

The old hankies that I cherish belonged to dear women in my family. Some were once carried by Leta Moore, or slipped into her purse. She was fond of the Estée Lauder perfume Youth Dew. That scent clings faintly to her delicate hankies.

Others in my collection belonged to my grandmother Mildred and my great-grandmother Cynthia. I am named after both of these amazing women so it gives me joy to have these little scraps of silk or cotton, knowing they tucked them into a blouse pocket or up a sleeve.

Grandma Mildred favored rose water and I can imagine that subtle fragrance when I press a handkerchief to my nose and inhale deeply.

Curious about how these squares of fabric came into use, I researched handkerchiefs.

I discovered that handkerchiefs date back to the 10th century. They show up in many different cultures, serving as head coverings for the Chinese and French, appearing in Turkish literature, and in Anatolia they were used to wrap packages. The British changed the name from kerchief to handkerchief after they began to carry the cloths in their hands. Later men tucked handkerchiefs into their hats and women slipped them into their cleavage.

The handkerchief has long been associated with lovers. A woman sent her handkerchief to her lover to suggest a meeting or as a token of her affection, or waved it to say “I am available.” If a woman dropped her handkerchief purposefully in front of a man it meant “I love you.” If her gentlemen picked it up and put it in his pocket it signified “I love you too.”

Handkerchiefs were used for other purposes as well. Knotted in one corner they secured coins or a trinket that the owner did not want to lose. Dampened with water they scrubbed a child’s face or soothed a fevered brow. Handkerchiefs blotted perspiration from a face or wiped away a tear trailing down a cheek. They could be opened to serve as a makeshift tablecloth for a picnic lunch and a white handkerchief waved symbolized surrender.

Eventually handkerchiefs primarily became a cloth to wipe the nose on…and the delicate cloths shifted to sturdier practical squares suitable for sneezing into! As tissues gained in use, handkerchiefs ended up folded away in drawers, forgotten.

I prefer to hold onto the beauty and romance of my handkerchiefs, rather than use them in practical ways. I created cloth roses out of them. It’s easy to do. Simply fold the handkerchiefs lengthwise three or four times and then twist the strip of cloth. Starting at one end, wrap the twisted cloth in a circular manner, forming a rose, and tuck the loose end beneath the completed spiral. I display mine in a simple ceramic dish.

These old handkerchiefs, fashioned into pretty little roses, remind me of three strong, beautiful women who impacted my life, and of another era in time. I smile every time I look at them.