Want: Air Conditioning

Hungry for summer, blogger-at-large LAW reports:

Here in the North Woods, no sooner do we stop throwing logs into the woodstove than we start looking for ways to get cool. That’s how abruptly winter turns into summer in these parts. Of course, air conditioning was not even a dream in Youman’s day; it had to wait for the innovative genius of Willis Carrier, who was born just four years after the publication of the Dictionary of Every-Day Wants. We can imagine the young inventor spending hours poring over his family’s well-worn copy, and perhaps his invention owed something to memories of Youman’s practical approach to problem solving.

Sweltering in un-air-conditioned homes, Youman’s readers had only to turn to his entry on “HOUSES, To Keep Cool in Hot Weather,” with its reassuring statement that “in very hot days a cool apartment is a real luxury to be had far oftener than most people suppose possible.” The secret was one of utmost simplicity: don’t just bring in the cool air, but keep out the hot. “If the air outside a room or house be cooler than the air inside, let it in by all means; but if it be hotter, carefully keep it out….The mistake people generally make is to throw open their windows at all hours of the day, no matter whether the atmosphere outside be cool or scorching.”

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“Let in cool air—keep out hot—that is the only formula to insure the minimum of discomfort.”

If their home still felt too warm, folks might turn to a cold drink for refreshment. But wait—don’t go gulping that ice water! First read Youman’s entry “DRINKING IN SUMMER,” which strongly recommends sipping, not gulping. “The sudden deaths while drinking frequently recorded in summer, are due to paralysis of the stomach, produced by drenching it suddenly with iced water.” Interestingly, in contrast to today’s belief that drinking more fluids is generally better for one’s health, Youman notes that “by sipping…less water is needed; for in all seasons the quantity taken is an important matter, nearly as important as the temperature.”

How did people manage to serve iced drinks in the summer, in the pre-refrigeration era? Here Youman moves into full self-help mode, with a series of entries on “ICE CHEST, To Make”; “ICE, To Gather”; and “ICE-HOUSE, To Build.”

On the ice house, Youman notes reassuringly that “a family ice-house need not be an expensive structure.” A building 12 feet square and 8 or 9 feet high “is sufficient for the wants of the most exacting family.” It could be built by two workmen in just one or two days—no special carpentry skills needed. In addition to giving detailed instructions for its construction (frame), insulation (sawdust), drainage (floor drain), and ventilation (in the roof, “the top [of the ventilator] defended from the rain or snow”), Youman tells exactly how to pack the ice—which, of course, you will have gathered back in December, on a clear cold day, and using proper ice tools (cross-cut saw, axe, pike pole, and an ice ladder), as “the first ice keeps best, and is easier procured.” To fill your ice house, you’d need 12 cakes, each 2 by 3 feet, to make each layer. This number, “laid up eight or nine feet high, is sufficient to last a large family.” (For the mathematically challenged, I’ll note that this is equivalent to about 11,664 modern-day ice-cube trays, or about 41,472 pounds of ice.)

How hard would it be to fill the ice house, and how long would it take? Youman quotes “another writer,” who said that “four men with one team, cut, hauled and packed the ice, and filled in the sawdust in less than two days, notwithstanding we had to haul the ice one-half mile.” And that’s another advantage of northern New England: ponds and lakes are everywhere, so it’s unlikely you would have had to haul your ice any farther than that one-half mile!

Done properly, your ice house would keep ice frozen all year round. It could even be an attraction to your property: “Plant morning glories or any climbing plant around the building and induce them to creep up the walls and over the roof as an additional defense against the fervid sun of summer,” Youman advises. Ever pragmatic, he goes on to note its additional advantages, as “a useful adjunct to the farm, its contents being invaluable in sickness…[and] convenient as a refrigerator on a large scale, preserving food of various kinds and the products of a dairy.” In the words of one satisfied ice-house DIYer: “We have used [our ice] freely through the season, sold to pic-nic parties, given away to sick neighbors, and have plenty of ice yet.”

Want: A Day at the Beach

Here’s another find from the watery depths by contributing blogger LAW.

After a seemingly endless winter, the prospect of a day at the beach has an irresistible allure that needs no supporting arguments. But A. E. Youman, M.D., is at hand to tell us that going to the seashore is more than fun—it can give us “a seemingly perfect renovation of wasted energies and renewal of the powers of life—effects not to be obtained by means of any purely medical treatment.” It’s just the ticket for “the used up man of business,” “the man suffering from general debility,” and “persons suffering from general languor and lassitude.”

Still, “sea bathing,” as Youman calls it, is something to be done with due care and attention. Under the heading “BATHERS, Aphorisms for,” he gives a set of rules, most of which were still current in the mid-twentieth century, and maybe even today, such as:

•  Avoid bathing within two hours after a meal
•  Avoid chilling the body “sitting or standing naked on the bank or in boats after having been in the water,” and
•  Avoid remaining too long in the water

Youman’s main concern is with the effect of cold water—something else that makes me wonder if he was a New England lad. He worries about “the shock experienced on entering water at its natural temperature,” which he compares to a sort of death. Fortunately, this is counterbalanced by the “genial glow” and “feeling of general vigor” experienced by the bather. He recommends late July as the most suitable time for cold sea bathing, and afternoon as the best time of day.

 If Youman’s original readers wanted to explore the benefits of sea bathing and find the best beaches, they could turn to one of his medical colleagues: George E. Walton, M.D., who published a guide to The Mineral Springs of the United States and Canada that included “a list of sea-side resorts.” The book went through several editions, starting in 1872, the same year Youman’s Dictionary appeared. Unlike Youman, Walton may have been a midwestern boy, given the wistful opening to his chapter on sea-side resorts: “One who has passed his early life in an inland city or village can well remember how frequently he has desired to see the heaving waters of the ocean, to hear its tempestuous roar…To every one there is majesty and beauty in the sea.”

For Dr. Walton, the benefits of sea bathing come as much from the tang of the salt air and the excitement of the crowd as from the cold salt water directly. “The fascination of the sea, the attraction of many bathers in the water at the same time, the excitement attendant on the rolling in of the waves, and the exercise required in meeting them” all contribute to the good effect. “Here the person makes no conscious effort to exercise, but the entire surroundings lead him to do so…That the mineral constituents of the water have any part in the result is exceedingly doubtful.”

With a touch of Youman’s practical approach, Dr. Walton goes on to warn that “sea-bathing is not without danger to those who are reckless, or do not observe the rules…Those who, in a strong sea, quit the lines of rope are never without danger.” He helpfully provides a “ready method for resuscitating persons asphyxiated from drowning, [which] may prove useful to those at the sea-side.” It proceeds in eight steps, from “1. Treat the patient instantly on the spot in the open air…” to “8. Substitute for the patient’s wet clothing, if possible, such other covering as can instantly be procured, each bystander supplying a coat or cloak.” (Though it’s not clear to me why even Victorian bathers would be carrying coats and cloaks with them to the beach!)

His list of popular resorts includes, from north to south, Cushing’s Island, off Portland, Maine; Rye and Hampton beaches in New Hampshire; Swampscott and Nahant, near Boston; Newport, Rhode Island (“the most elegant watering-place in the United States”); Coney Island, and Rockaway, in New York; Long Branch, Cape May and Atlantic City, New Jersey; and finally, Old Point Comfort, Virginia (“the farthest south of the Northern group of sea-bathing places”).

A quarter-century later, we gain a glimpse of the bustling social scene at the beach—complete with bathers clinging to “lines of rope”—in a photo of Brighton Beach, New York, in 1901.

Note, if you will, the omission of the greatest peril of the sea, as far as I’m concerned: sharks. According to Michael Cappuzo’s Close to Shore, reports of shark attacks on humans weren’t truly substantiated until the 1916 attacks near Matawan, New Jersey—which were witnessed by hundreds and would eventually inspire the book Jaws.

Want: Good Roads?

Knowing the state of LAW’s driveway this spring, it’s no wonder her travels through the Dictionary of Every-day Wants would lead her here. . .

Here in northern New England, after a long winter of heavy snowfall, we are just entering the “fifth season” of the year: Mud Season. Villages have “load limit” signs posted on side roads, and our hardworking, dedicated snow plow operators find it harder and harder to clear spring snowfall from roads misshapen by frost heaves, surface cracks, and sinkholes. Soon the road crews will shift their efforts from plowing to repairing and resurfacing, in the endless struggle to make and keep roads smooth and safe for driving and biking.

Perhaps Alexander Youman was a New England lad, given his views on “ROADS, Repairing.” “Winter makes sad havoc in the earth roads which intersect the country in all directions,” he tells us—a reminder that our network of Interstate Highways is no more than 50 years old, a child of the Cold War mentality that saw an urgent need for wide, smooth highways to facilitate troop movements in a bipolar world.

In 1872 as now, the state of local roads must have been a favorite topic for conversation, second only to the weather. Youman becomes uncustomarily eloquent on the subject: “…frosts upheave, and the springs wash out deep gulleys and ruts, and when at last the reign of frost is over, that which was straight is all crooked; level places are changed into alternate rises and depressions, stones are left on the top, and, in short, these roads become sloughs of despond in which loaded teams wallow in despair, and where wagons are left standing for weeks up to the hubs in mud, simply because it is beyond the power of horse flesh to extricate them.”

 Absent the AAA membership, Youman and his neighbors had to fend for themselves to pull those wagons out of the mud. Another entry on the same page gives a helpful hint for how to proceed—“ROPES, Rules for Computing the Strength of” (“to find what size rope you require, when roven as a tackle, to lift a given weight. Divide the weight to be raised by the number of parts at the movable block, to obtain the strain on a single part; add one third of this for the increased strain brought by friction…”).

 Once you pulled your wagon clear, you might consider how to remove all those “stones left on top” of the road surface; the very next entry, “ROCK BLASTING,” comes to your aid with a recipe for a blasting powder with more than three times the strength of gunpowder alone. All it required, in addition to the gunpowder, was “sawdust of soft wood,” which you could undoubtedly find plenty of in any carpentry shop.

 Gradually the mud would dry up, and come summer, the local “road master” would summon residents “to turn out and work on the road.” There would be plenty of work to do, but at last the road would be “put into passable condition.” There might be as much a month or two of good driving conditions, until “the fall rains…again cut [the roads] all up, and the snow following hides them from view till the ensuing spring.”

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Want: Help Running Errands

Contributing blogger LAW comes through for us  once again with this gem from the recesses of the Dictionary of Every-day Wants.

My frequent shopping companion on the weekends is my dog. Accustomed to such routine excursions, she waits patiently in the car, windows rolled down slightly to give her fresh air, while I go to the supermarket, pharmacy, or hardware store. Her role is a passive one since in our society dogs are generally barred from supermarkets and all but the occasional dog-friendly emporium.

How different from Youman’s day, when marketing was done daily and on foot, and your dog could be not only your companion but an active helper and participant. Under the attention-getting heading of “DOGS, Teaching to go Errands,” Youman gives the sensible, pragmatic advice we’ve come to expect, and also reveals himself to be a kind and considerate pet owner.

“It is an excellent plan,” he begins, “to teach all dogs … to carry baskets or parcels when accompanying their masters.” The training process is “very simple, consisting of merely placing the articles in the dog’s mouth, and when he lets go of it give him a slight box on the ear and replace the article in his mouth.” A handle basket is just right, being “of such a form as to be grasped easily by him without hurting his mouth or teeth” and light enough so as to be “never more than he can easily carry.”

Clearly, this wouldn’t work for the average basset hound or dachshund—dogs that are just too low to the ground to hold a basket clear. [But think of the saddlebag space!—Ed] Even a larger dog wouldn’t be able to safely carry a week’s groceries, or even a day’s groceries for a big family. But for small-scale, daily shopping, this must have been a win-win for dog and owner alike. Youman notes that “most dogs will take a real pleasure in carrying articles in this manner.” It’s not hard, he says, to teach the dog to carry a basket of food—whether people food or dog food—without being tempted to steal. In kindly fashion, he advises that “if a dog ever deserves a reward for well doing he certainly does in this case, for it is too bad to tantalize him with the smell of some dainty and then not to let him finally have something for his good conduct.”

Eighteen seventy-two comes alive for me most vividly, though, in Youman’s final suggestion: “Suppose you wish [your dog] to go to market for you of a morning; take him with you regularly for a few mornings, letting him carry the basket. In a few days he will understand when you start where it is you propose to go, and will, perhaps, run on ahead and arrive there some minutes before you do.” In a world without cars, trucks, and traffic, it was actually safe for the dog to do so. How I’d like to walk out the door some Saturday morning, hand my dog her basket, and give her the command Youman recommends. “Tink,” I’d say, “go to market!”

Too bad Youman didn't include any helpful tips on this trick, which would definitely change my life for the better.

Guest Want: Less Bad Poetry

Ever-erudite contributing blogger LAW reports from the depths of the Dictionary of Every-day Wants:

When, at the end of his book, Youman turns to “Writing for the Press,” he gives a ten-point list for what, and what not, to do. As we’ve come to expect from him, he begins by exhorting writers to take responsibility—for their grammar, spelling, and facts. Curiously, his second point is a warning: “Do not write poetry.” Whyever not? His response is brutal: “Ninety-nine one hundredths of the rhyme written is good for three things”—to give to friends, to use for kindling, or for pulp at the paper mill.

What may seem like simple literary prejudice on Youman’s part is easier to understand if we see what he was up against in the literary world of his day. An easy, and highly amusing approach, is through the memorable anthology compiled by the brother-and-sister team of Kathryn and Ross Petras, published in 1997 by Vintage Books as Very Bad Poetry. Unlike most other such publications, the Petrases focused on poetry that was written in good faith, by people who believed themselves to be poets. As they note in their introduction, “A compulsion to write verse, and a happy delusion regarding talent—that is the beginning of a very bad poet.”

Among the worst poets in Youman’s day was one William McGonagall of Dundee, Scotland, who self-published more than 200 poems in his lifetime. The Petrases quote McGonagall’s own description of how he began:

“I seemed to feel as it were a strange kind of feeling stealing over me, and remained so for about five minutes. A flame … seemed to kindle up my entire frame, along with a strong desire to write poetry … It was so strong I imagined that a pen was in my right hand, and a voice crying, ‘Write Write!’ So I said to myself, ruminating, let me see; what shall I write? then all at once a bright idea struck me.”

McGonagall was often inspired by current events of his day, such as the railway accident on the Tay River Bridge in 1879 (just a few years after Youman’s book appeared):

The Tay Bridge Disaster

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay!
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember’d for a very long time.
’Twas about s
even o’clock at night,
And the wind it blew with all its might,
And the rain came pouring down,
And the dark clouds seem’d to frown,
And the Demon of the air seem’d to say-
“I’ll blow down the Bridge of Tay.”
…………….
Oh! ill-fated Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay,
I must now conclude my lay
By telling the world fearlessly without the least dismay,
That your central girders would not have given way,
At least many sensible men do say,
Had they been supported on each side with buttresses,
At least many sensible men confesses,
For the stronger we our houses do build,
The less chance we have of being killed.

 You can enjoy more of McGonagall’s memorably awful verse (which he referred to as his “poetic gems”) by visiting the website consecrated to him.

[Check back soon for more on Youman’s other 8 tips for aspiring writers. —Ed]

Want: Raising the Dead

Today’s want is too fabulous for just one commentator. So, without further ado, I present comments from two.

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LAW

Basically, I see the “drowned man” want as a perfect example of mid-nineteenth-century faith in science, technology, and progress. The emphasis on measurement, for example, and on the technical and procedural details of the process, offers a “real world” example of the mindset portrayed in nineteenth-century speculative fiction (think of Dr. Frankenstein, or the works of Jules Verne). Scientific experimentation is open to amateurs in all walks of life, and a “scientific” way of proceeding ensures effective results—whether in the lab, on the farm, or in the household. How many agricultural manuals and manuals of “domestic science” share Youmans’ mindset as shown in this “want”?

AMANDA

In contrast, Youman’s can-do attitude (“Missing corpse? I’m so on it.”) makes me think of the can’t-do attitude I share with many modern Americans (“Missing corpse? If they haven’t posted about it on Gawker yet, I don’t know anything about it”).

In the days of slow travel and even slower communications, people were really on their own. A lost swimmer today would be the realm of official search parties, helicopter pilots, and professional divers—not a mad bomber risking a Tarantino-esque tidal wave of gore on the off chance that an explosion might free a hung-up corpse.

  

Self-sufficiency was clearly more common for Youman and his contemporaries—they were up for sowing the grain, making the soap, and shoeing the horse, even if they needed a book to tell them how. On the other hand, we modern types are so embedded in and dependent on our culture and government that self-sufficiency is the most terrifying of boogeymen. No 911? No Price Chopper? No income tax return? No thanks.

This entry actually makes me think of today’s crazed proliferation of end-of-the-world-ism. From The World without Us to vampire apocalypses to yet another rehash of Nostradamus’s more dire prophecies (complete with “tasteful” reenactments), you can’t read a book or turn on a television without running into doomsday portents. At the heart of this fascination with the end of all things, I think, lurks a fond dependency on the status quo that Youman probably couldn’t even imagine.