January 25, 2014

Annie's Victorian Bedchamber

written by Rosa Morgan 
Annie had come from humble beginnings in a home of eight, with four to a bed. And when she went into service at the manor house, she again shared a bed with two other scullery maids. 


Marriage to Cornelius, a publisher of a wildly popular penny dreadful, brought her good fortune and prideful ownership of a West Street terraced house. 




When Cornelius handed over her weekly pin money, she set it aside instead of indulging in yards of pretty ribbon or a new hat.  
Her dream was to
fit out her own bedchamber in similar fashion to her previous employers. She no longer scrubbed the grates and emptied the slops; she was respectable now and wanted everyone to know it. Besides, the bedchamber was sacrosanct to the home where she would give birth to her children and most likely be laid out at her death.



With her Sears Roebuck Catalog in hand, she studied the items necessary to create an atmosphere of luxury and good taste. A bare room was considered to be in poor taste, so every surface was to be filled with an excess of ornament to display her new-found wealth.


Every element was thoughtfully considered, beginning with the ceiling. She was limited in paint colors because there were only so many organic pigments available. White of course was not available and though rich dark colors would disguise soot and grime of gas and charcoal lighting, she instead chose a dove grey. For wallpaper, she chose "Pickfair" and it's accompanying frieze to run above the picture rail.
 
She happened upon a well-priced Chamber set including an oaken bureau, a counterpane stand, two chairs, which would would create a cozy sitting by the fire, and a washbasin stand. 

As for the wooden bed; she would use it, but having recently heard Florence Nightingale speak of germs causing disease, she would have preferred a more hygienic brass bed. And she would still open windows each day to rid the chamber of noxious air.


Adoring pattern, she found an Oriental rug to cover the drafty floorboards and a crazy quilt for the bed. She had a long list of bibelots for the mantle: a stuffed peacock, Dresden figurines, an ivory fan, a daguerreotype of themselves, and a clock. She had a delightful chamberpot for underneath the bed, which her thoughtful mother-in-law had given them upon their marriage.

She needed a wardrobe to store their clothes, a standing screen in the corner for disrobing, and a vanity for her toiletries.

Most importantly, she wanted to create a reading nook with a damask covered fainting couch for herself, a leather club chair for her husband with a footstool, in case he suffered gout, and a reading lamp.
After adding up all the costs for creating her bedchamber, she realized she had been living a fool's dream and that never would her pin money obtain her lofty goal. So hiding away her dogeared catalog, she let go of her dream and carried on with her chores.


Annie's yearnings had not gone unnoticed, verily, Cornelius had studied each of her marked pages and when he received a bonus at work, he ordered every item and had it delivered posthaste. Tears of joy flowed as did kisses of gratitude when Annie saw her bedchamber completed, for it exceeded her vision and no better husband could she have asked for.




October 1, 2013

The Collyer Brothers Revisited





Salutations Gentle Reader,

I was recently contacted by Dr. Darnita L. Payden who has a Ph.D. in counseling psychology and is a featured expert on A&E’s hit show “Hoarders” in which she compassionately helps those living with this disorder. To my pleasant surprise she had discovered a post I had written back in January of 2012, called “The Hoarding Collyer Brothers” and asked to use it as part of a series of trainings she would be giving in the Washington, DC area.
In the post I tried to humanize the cold facts of the story I had researched, showing the different rationalizations Homer and Langley had utilized and which ultimately resulted in their being buried alive by their stuff.

Though my blog receives approximately 200 hits a day from around the world, it is the rare reader who acknowledges my writing, and so I was gratified and honored when Dr. Payden asked to use this cautionary tale. I admire her work and the help she brings to those who try to fill their lives with things.

You can find out more information about Dr. Payden’s work at http://drdclutter.com/
and if you missed my previous post on hoarding you can read it at
http://thevictoriantimes.blogspot.com/2012/01/hoarding-collyer-brothers.html

Best regards,
Rosa Morgan

September 17, 2013

Victorian Barbershop

written by Rosa Morgan


 
Because of my spectacles I am often taken for being much older, but in truth, I turn eighteen today. To commemorate this rite of passage I am venturing to the barbershop. Up until now, my dear mother took shears to my head and there being no moustache to speak of and only peach fuzz upon my chin, I had no previous use of that establishment. But I am now clerking at Goslings & Sharp of Fleet Street and appearances are everything as I aspire to one day seek promotion.

And so with sweaty palms I entered the cigar smoke filled bastion of gentleman grooming and affected an air of experience and confidence whilst taking a seat on the bench to await my turn.
On the shelves were the customers' personal shaving cups each decorated with their name. There was a section entirely devoted to clientel who were Masons and I could only hope that one day I would have my own cup up on that shelf.
Nervously studying the diagrams of possible haircuts, I felt the other chaps' eyes upon me and when one asked my occupation, my voice broke as I declared my newfound position. This was a respected establishment and I knew they accepted no customers lower than a baker, but my answer seemed to be accepted without any qualms. When I was finally asked to take a chair, my heart skipped a beat and I slid giddily on the hair clippings littering the tiled floor.
With an abruptness I had not expected, my collar was ripped off, a starched sheet draped over me and my body flung backwards. A steaming towel infused with witch hazel was wrapped around my jaw and then as if examing the contours of my face,

he chose a brush from his collection, dipped it into a bowl of bubbling water and whilst pinching my nose sharply, lathered my face with the hot soapy mixture.

With almost diabolical gusto he ran the blade a few times along the pigskin strop then brought it up to my extended neck. I feared how he would navigate my Adam's Apple without making me a permanent falsetto, but my trepidation was for naught for like an artist with his paintbrush, the barber deftly manipulated his tool throughout an incessant chatter.
"Lilac water, sir?" he asked when he had finished
I nodded and felt a tingling, slightly burning sensation of the fragrant tonic. I handed him the two pence payment, nodded to the other gentlemen, and sauntered out, ready to take on the world.