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I was working with our clippings collection the other day and came across the subject heading "Red-Headed Legion." Intrigued, I decided to explore this organization further. The trail led me all the way to the 1924 Republican National Convention which, like this year's, was held in Cleveland, Ohio. But let me start with the legion itself.
"Red-Headed Legion Holds Rally of Nine" announced a headline in the June 9, 1924 edition of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. The nine who attended the rally comprised "four red-headed women, four red-headed men and one man with black hair and a red mustache." (The latter was allowed to attend because "a red mustache will qualify for membership.") Two of those attendees were radio personality Wendell Hall and his bride of four days. Interestingly, their wedding is thought to be the first that was broadcast live on the radio, which must be why the article refers to Hall's wife as his "radio bride." The brief article says little of substance about the Legion, but I did find an excerpt from The Volta Review stating that one of its purposes was "urging that a national organization be formed to end the ridiculing of red-haired persons." The Eagle notes that at the meeting, the Legion pledged to support Calvin Coolidge's run for president "because it is said he has a brick top."
A slightly more extensive column in the same edition of the paper goes into more depth regarding the political affiliations of the Legion: "Neither Washington nor Jefferson was really 'red-headed' when he got to be President, though both are claimed by the Legion. Time's brush modifies occiput color schemes...the red ideas of youth...depart year by year as redness of hair becomes less vivid." So Coolidge was perhaps not a true "brick top," and after all, the article concedes, he "needs no assistance from the Legion." If that was the case, why were there two articles about their assistance in the paper?
Perhaps the newsworthiness of the Legion was because the 1924 convention was "chilly" and "few high jinks pepped up the proceedings," according to writer Edwin Palmer Hoyt, Jr. (p. 310). Among these "few high jinks" in the city of Cleveland was a drink called the "Keep Cool with Coolidge Highball" (ice, pineapple and grape juices, and a raw egg--blech!) and burlesque dancers called the Keep Cool Kuties. Some of the Coolidge supporters at the convention itself were the Hometown Coolidge Club of Plymouth, Vermont; Wellesley College alumnae; and of course, the Red-Headed Legion of America, announcing its support "for obvious reasons." Otherwise, the proceedings were sober, and Coolidge won the nomination without much fanfare.
After the convention concluded, the Brooklyn Daily Eagle reported, "Cleveland Frugal in All Convention Details" and further chided, "Decorations Meager." So meager, in fact, that there was not even a picture of Coolidge in the convention hall. Coolidge also preferred a non-confrontational style of politics, speaking on the issues rather than attacking his political opponents. While our current Republican nominee is known for his hair, the similarities with Coolidge's restrained 1924 convention end there. I can't imagine a small special interest group's support making headlines or ending up in the history books when it comes to this year's raucous convention. In 1924, Coolidge defeated John Davis by the second-largest popular vote margin in US presidential race history. Come November, we'll see if the 2016 candidate's very different approach will net the same result.
Hoyt, Edwin P. Jumbos and Jackasses: A History of the Political Wars. Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1960.
Sobel, Robert. Coolidge: An American Enigma. Washington, DC: Regnery Publishing, 1998.
The school year has finally come to a close but, before students and teachers rejoice at the long summer days that lie ahead, they take the time to pause and partake in that time-honored celebration of achievement: the graduation ceremony. How have Brooklynites celebrated this singular milestone throughout the years? We have numerous graduation programs in our collection, and by studying their content, as well as the physical program themselves, we see how the ceremonies were a reflection of their era, and how they changed with the times.
The early commencement programs were elegant, formal, and dignified, befitting the solemn ritual taking place. When the students graduated from Bushwick High School in 1922 the evening program featured a violin solo by Chopin, and a selection from "The Merry Wives of Windsor". The program cover was classic and minimal.
This trend toward formality continued throughout the 1930's, and 40's. There were some exceptions though. Both the 1940 and 1967 graduating class from Samuel J. Tilden favored the modern. Incorporating the Tilden owl, they featured a smart and contemporary design cover for their commencement.
By the 1950's schools had expanded their graduation repertoire to include Broadway show tunes. In 1950 the graduates of James Madison, which incidentally included future Supreme Court judge, Ruth Bader, selected Jerome Kern's "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes" from the 1933 musical Roberta.
The 1960's ushered in a sense of freedom, revolution, non-conformity, and ethnic pride. These societal changes were reflected in the commencement exercises as well. Sarah H. Hale high school graduates began the turbulent decade in 1960 with a program including the Negro national anthem, "Lift Every Voice and Sing" by James Weldon Johnson. In 1961 they selected "The Sound of Music" by Rodgers and Hammerstein as one their numbers.
The ascent of popular music along with revolutionary fervor continued into the 70's, with schools choosing any mixture of pop, folk, Broadway, and classical music for their programs. Simon F. Rotschild Junior High School marched in on Elger's "Pomp and Circumstance" in 1974, but any semblence of tradition flew out the window after that. Black pride and Broadway were on full display with the featured songs of "Lift Every Voice and Sing," "To Be Young Gifted and Black" by Nina Simon, "There's a Place for Us" from West Side Story, and the gospel/jazz song by Billy Taylor that became a civil rights anthem, "I Wish I Knew How it Feels To Be Free."
The commencement program at I.S. 218 featured a Pop Art commencement cover for their 1971 ceremony. Featured solos were Burt Bacharach's "What the World Needs Now," Michael LeGrand's jazz standard, "Watch What Happens," and Roto and Mancini's "A Time for Us."
Since then the digital world has come to dominanate the landscape, transforming music, and graphics. It was inevitable that this technology would also alter the graduation ceremony as schools seek new ways to project sound and visuals. Even with all of todays technological wizardy, students, parents and teachers still need to come together and celebrate their hard work, and as the graduates of MS 340 confirmed last year, todays schools still want to keep the ceremony classy.
A few months back, the Brooklyn Collection provided some images and expertise to ABC News for a story about Brooklyn’s Dead Horse Bay. The story was most excellent – if you missed it you can check it out here. I used the video as a source for a note taking lesson and, during the lesson, my students kept peppering me with questions: What was life like for the people who lived and worked on the island? What was school like? How did the island's inhabitants navigate all that garbage?
I could only answer their questions in adjectives: smelly, exhausting, backbreaking, dangerous, filthy, putrid, infested. So, I went on a quest looking for answers in complete sentences.
Colton, J.H. Map of the country thirty three miles around the city of New York. 1852. Brooklyn Historical Society blog, 16 Mar 2012. Web. 9 Jan 2014.
Long story short: Barren Island went from being an uninhabited island good for fishing and burying (alleged) pirate treasure to a hub of offal factories -- harboring the largest concentration of them on the planet -- within a twenty year span. Offal refers to the internal organs of animals, usually those not consumed by humans. These factories rendered animal waste, similar to today's rendering plants, where they turned carcasses, bones, and intestines into glue, fertilizer, buttons, etc. In the above map you can see the island in the bottom right-hand corner.
In the mid-19th century, both Brooklyn and New York City had messes on their hands. Horses routinely died in the street, butchers slaughtered cows in the alleyways, and packs of feral pigs seemed to be in continuous turf wars with packs of feral dogs. Garbage and manure, both human and otherwise, were collected and taken to dumping piers on the waterfront alongside the waste from tanneries and offal factories. Thus, the shoreline of the East River was slowly morphing from a sandy beach to a goopy sponge of entrails and blood. It. Was. Super. Gross.
Barren Island was the solution. Offal factories, rooming houses, saloons, and single-family homes were built and then populated, creating a multi-ethnic community amidst the hordes of flies and the putrid smells.
"Barren Island Factory." 1911. Print. Brooklyn Collection, Brooklyn Public Library.
In 1877, a Brooklyn Daily Eagle reporter went on an excursion to the island and noted the "the faint odor of decayed horses and putrid dogs" that hit him as he approached. "The stench is something to be feared, even by persons having very strong stomachs." (Side note: We melted a TON of dogs.) In the late 1870s, the population was noted at roughly 500: one hundred gaunt and semi-feral dogs, nine horses, some thirty most likely tubercular cows, about one hundred hogs, 270 men, and 10 women. Most of the humans were Irish, Swedes, and English.
Brooklyn Daily Eagle 20 Aug 1877.
Although the island was bustling in the summer months, many factories went dark during the winter, leaving only eight permanent families. Permanent or not, none of the island's residents received a lot of press unless they were involved in a drunken saloon fight; part of a gang of toughs called the "Bone Gang"; kicked off a train for smelling horrible; one-eyed; or sick with cholera, diptheria, or any number of other illnesses. The newspaper lumped all of the island's inhabitants and the garbage with which they worked together. Rarely was there discussion of the conditions of the factories or the families of the workers, but constantly there were discussions about how the offal runoff was ruining the beaches for the middle-class across the bay.
Jump to the 1890s. Benjamin Miller's Fat of the Land has a pretty succinct description of the island and its amenities: "In 1897, there were five factories and four saloons on Barren Island, one store, one road, no doctor, nurse, or pharmacist, no church, no electricity, no post office, no social hall, no reading room, and a one-room school (on the first floor of a Polish tenement) into which some fifty of the school-age children on the island crowded for daily lessons." By that time, the population was said to be mainly Italians, Poles, and African-Americans.
One of the factories was used for the melting down of animal carcasses: horse dog, pig, cat, goat; another said to boil down over one million fish weekly. The fish were used for oil and fertilizer, but first dried on massive platforms. The waste wasn't just from New York City and Brooklyn, but also towns in New Jersey. Often, the offal washed back on shore when the tide was high, creating pools of perpetually soggy waste along the shoreline.
Brooklyn Daily Eagle May 9 1899.
In 1897, Barren Island's PS 120 was shut down. Held in a multi-family dwelling, the children packed into one of the lower rooms for their schooling. The closure was ordered by the Heath Department, as it had come to their attention that a man was dying of diphtheria in an upper apartment. Aside from that, the physical structure wasn't safe. "The school sits in a depression that fills up with water at every tide," wrote a reporter. "After the tide goes out the damp ground is left to dry by evaporation, with stenches of all kinds arising from refuse matter thrown out and left to decay... In front of the school house and about 400 feet from it is McKeever's plant, in which he makes fertilizer out of the carcasses of horses." The school's floors were rotten, the building slanted, and the windows were always shut to keep out the smell.
Brooklyn Daily Eagle 17 Sept 1897.
The reporter goes on to list other factories and odors, culminating in the description of a particularly dangerous puddle: "All sorts of things have been thrown into it... pigs and cows use it at will; dead cats and dogs lie in it and the people who live near it have made it a general dumping ground for all their refuse. One of the objects noticed in it was a large straw tick and the reporter was told that it was the tick on which two children died of diphtheria a short time ago. It has been thrown out to the air and left to scatter germs with every passing wind."
After much debate, money was put forward to build a new school building. When the structure opened in 1901, the Eagle sent a reporter to cover the story. In this reporters eyes, the school was "the only bright spot for children of that desolate place." Not even the teachers could stand the island for very long, choosing to make the long commute by boat every morning rather than live amongst their students. One educator, described by the reporter as "a pretty teacher," explained how even getting a drink of water was an ordeal: "The water tank in our house was in an indescribable condition of filth, and there is not any water fit to drink upon the island. There are a number of wells on the island from which is must be carried to the house. It usually tastes like oil, though sometimes by way of variation it is flavored much more horribly."
"PS 120." Board of Education Collection. 1905. Print. New York City Municipal Archives.
"Barren Island." 1912. Print. Brooklyn Collection, Brooklyn Public Library.
*This is another photograph of PS 120 from 1912, a slight alteration having been made to the front of the building.*
The island's inhabitants lived "in small wooden houses which might be called huts." Here is where the reporter makes choice use of quotation marks: "A few bedraggled sunflowers serve to decorate their 'gardens' and the houses all in a row, each having a number, like a convict settlement or the outdoor wards of a pest house. Amidst such an enviornment these little children are being 'raised'. Down at the opposite end of the island and near the crematory is a dance hall, where a monthly 'soiree' takes place."
He goes on to talk about the plentiful liquor used to dull the sorrows of the "drunken workman of the garbage heap," and the fact that fruit doesn't grow in the sandy soil. Not that it would matter, writes the reporter, as "it remains a doubt whether the inhabitants would find it of interest. They find amusement in the saloon and the dance hall." The parents would bring their children to the parties with them; "the young white women frequently choose negro partners and the children look on and drink in, as children do, all the sights and sounds of the seamy side of Barren Island society." The saving grace was the school, which provided refinement "unknown in their homes."
What a glowing review, right?
So often, this is where the story ends. An outsider tells us how it is and, because we lack an opposing voice, we accept it. This particular reporter painted a picture of filth, both human and otherwise. The adults were morally inferior, the children tragedies, and the "pretty teachers" martyrs. We don't get to hear about the community that formed on the island, the culture and connections that these immigrant and African-American people made amongst themselves.
Thank goodness for Daniel Edwards, principal at PS 120. (This man is my new favorite.) Edwards wrote to the Eagle the following Sunday with a letter to the editor directly rebutting the claims made by the reporter and systematically breaking down the false description of the island community.
Brooklyn Daily Eagle 25 Aug 1901.
Edwards admitted that the island has an odor, but claims it nowhere near as bad as reported. He also made clear that the squalid huts mentioned are actually "respectable cottages," that the inhabitants of the island were "hard working, thrifty people," and that the children were "remarkably healthy and bright."
Barren Island Houses. 1936. Brooklyn Collection, Brooklyn Public Library. Print.
*The above image was taken in 1936, a few years before the residents evicted and the houses demolished. I'm not sure if these are the "respectable cottages" mentioned by Principal Edwards, but they very well could be.*
And my favorite part, "Some of the children, it is true, go down to the 'Klondike,' as the garbage dumping ground is called. Here they find brass, silver, gold, and once in a while a diamond. But are they not to be commended for thus earning a penny, rather than engaging in more questionable pursuits?" A 1918 article from the Eagle described a special "brass apron" worn by children on their treasure hunts, essentially an embroidery apron folded into a big pocket.
Brooklyn Daily Eagle 4 May 1918.
Barren Island was filled in and is now part of Floyd Bennett Field. All of the inhabitants were evicted in the late 1930s and, as the ABC News story mentions, you can still find treasure out at Dead Horse Bay. If you go, you can leave your "brass apron" at home, as the rangers at the Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge discourage treasure hunting. With that said, if you do visit and walk away with a diamond, I won't tell.
This spring, one of the most hotly anticipated arrivals to Brooklyn is a herd of eight goats. The animals are here on the loan from a Rhinebeck farm for the summer months during which they will help control invasive weeds in the Prospect Park. They will be deployed in the Vale of Cashmere (between Flatbush Ave and the East Drive) to graze on poison ivy and goutweed which have been taking over the area after Hurricane Sandy damaged it. The goats are already hugely popular; the park's free “Fun on the Farm” event this weekend – with a "bleet and greet" tour every 30 minutes – is booked to capacity!
Yet, goats are nothing new to the Prospect Park (shown here in a picture by George Bradford Brainard taken in 1870s) ...
… or to Brooklyn itself.
A quick scan of old Brooklyn newspapers reveals that the animals were widely held by Brooklynites when the city was a “vegetable basket” for Manhattan. “Lost and Found” sections of the newspaper were peppered with pleas to return a stray goat (for a reward, like beloved dogs or cats of today) or to collect one (and pay expenses!) -- sometimes in the same breath, as in this segment from the Brooklyn Daily Eagle on January 29, 1867:
In the good old days, one could not just own a goat. An owner had to obtain a license (yes, this is correct!) to own a goat. The reports of sting operations against illegal goats proliferate in the police dispatches, such as this one from the Brooklyn Daily Eagle, May 17, 1867:
Goats were kept for milk (“especially useful of the anemic”), leather and wool, but also, evidently, as a companion animal:
I came across a hilarious story that appeared in the paper on October 11, 1893, where a wily goat inserted himself into the legal machinery of the city:
“An ordinary, every day goat, with no outward marks of distinction beyond unusually long chin whiskers and an air of reckless daring, has hopelessly mixed up two families in a snarl, which Justice Connelly and the district attorney have been trying to unravel between them. The animal in question resides on Hale avenue, in a very respectable neighborhood, and like all Twenty-sixth Ward quadrupeds has learned to despise the restraining influences imposed upon the less favored of his species by the more conventional customs of other sections of the city. Sometimes he grazes on the sunny acclivities of Cypress Hills, and again, with the rapidity of the lightning change artist, appears an hour or two later in the very heart of fashionable Brownsville.
The goat is owned by Mrs. Christine Dowling, an elderly woman, whose husband only figures as a background incident in the difficulty which necessitated the appearance of Mr. and Mrs. William Commoda, in the role of defendants, before Justice Connelly this morning. The Commodas and Dowlings are neighbors. Some time ago, it appears from the records, the Dowling goat chewed up portions in the fence surrounding the Commoda estate and also macerated a quantity of old shoes which have been slowly ripening underneath the rays of a long summer’s sun in the secluded spot near the Commoda gates. Mr. and Mrs. Commoda objected, but the goat resumed his luncheon day after day, disturbing himself every now and again to dodge a flying brick […] Relations between the Commoda and Dowling families became so strained in consequence that when both parties met Mr. Dowling was threatened with death and his wife with some lesser form of punishment. The Commodas were arrested and placed under bonds by Justice Connelly. They swore that they owned a house and a lot on Hale avenue which were nominated as a security in the bond to keep the peace, the execution of which then released the couple from the impending penalty. Today they were re-arraigned for repeating the old offense, and also for assault. Once more the goat was at the bottom of the trouble. He broke out again unexpectedly and his goings-on revived the old feud. During the trial of the Commodas, the attention of the district attorney’s representative was called to the fact that the representation of the proprietorship in the Hale avenue house and lot, made by the defendants at the previous arraignment, was false. The house and land belong, it is claimed, to a Mr. Rosenberg. Today Commoda was sent to jail for twenty days, […] while his wife received a similar sentence, which was afterward suspended. Justice Connolly is determined that the Dowling goat shall henceforth enjoy his meals undisturbed.”
Perhaps the hero of the story looked something like that:
Goats were held as domestic animals in Brooklyn well into the 20th century.
This runaway goat boarded the Independent Subway System train at Church Ave and “butted into everybody’s business. The goat ran along the platform with its head down, butting inoffensive people waiting for trains and thus convincing one and all that the goat was going to business. Captured after boarding the crowded train, the goat was taken to Jamaica S.P.C.A. Shelter where he is shown with Fred Kusterbeck, kennel man.” (BDE, Nov 19, 1936).
This goat named Harry lived in a backyard of his owner’s house in Canarsie in 1939.
But sometimes, in a search for all things goat, one comes across a mysterious statement in a paper. Perhaps it is a subject of a future blogpost, but here it is, in all its glory:
We are pleased to announce that we have completed a finding aid for our collection of Brooklyn letterhead stationery. The Brooklyn Letterhead Collection spans 200 years of business in our borough, from 1802 to 2002, with the bulk of the collection representing the 1850s to the 1960s. Several thousand different businesses, institutions, and organizations are represented in the collection, including carpenters, plumbers, painters, city agencies, religious institutions, and more. The finding aid includes a complete listing of the names, addresses, and dates from the letterhead collection, which should prove useful to genealogical researchers, those interested in the history of various industries in Brooklyn, neighborhood historians and many others. Explore the finding aid here.
Using just the finding aid, it is possible to tease out interesting stories. For example, we can see that Robert Clarke was a plumber in the 1860s:
But by 1875, he was a manufacturer of his own patented pipe type, indicating that Clarke was able to transition from plumbing work to full-time manufacture of his apparently useful and popular invention:
There are many instances of businesses being passed down through generations, as indicated by name changes such as "William M. Shipman" to "William M. Shipman's Sons." There are also times when cooperatively owned businesses change their partners, making one wonder about what potential drama might lie behind the name changes over the years. For example, the Ray Brothers, who sold stoves and ovens, combined forces with at least three other partners during their more than 25 years in business. The finding aid also indicates when businesses moved, either from one part of Brooklyn to another or simply down the street.
Sometimes, the letterhead includes imagery related to the profession of its owner, as in these examples on our Tumblr, and sometimes the typography and design is just beautiful and interesting in and of itself, as in these examples.
Some Brooklyn businesses lasted for many years, decades even, such as Longman & Martinez, which existed at least from 1852 to 1940 based on the evidence in this collection. Some are even still around today, like James Weir Florists, which used to be housed in the now-landmarked greenhouse across from Green-Wood Cemetery and is now located on Montague Street in Brooklyn Heights. We even have early letterhead from the now-national brand of paint, Benjamin Moore. The company was founded in Brooklyn in 1883; this collection has examples of their letterhead from 1887, 1892, and 1903.
Beyond information about the businesses themselves, these documents also provide other historical insights, such as evidence that immigrants retained the use of their native languages. This letterhead from Ogni Bros has "Gennaio" in the date field instead of January:
This 1889 letterhead from Kenny & Murphy, bill posters, states the population of Brooklyn (still an independent city at that time) as 300,000. Compare that to today's population of over 2 million!
This letterhead from Sprague National Bank shows us the interior of the bank building--quite different from banks today!
As a fun side note, the bank's vice president is BPL's own David A. Boody (former president of our Board of Trustees).
There are also street addresses that no longer exist, from several downtown Brooklyn locations that were eliminated in the creation of Cadman Plaza, to streets that simply changed names. These include Gwinnett Street (now part of Lorimer Street), Oakland Street (became McGuinness Boulevard), and Magenta Street (now McKinley Avenue).
Sometimes there are funny instances of the use of language. I know this letterhead from Coalankok Retail Corp. is referring to fuel, not drugs, but the phrase "Coke bulk bagged" is a bit funny to modern eyes:
Or how about Alfred E. Horn, bungmaker?
Who knew there was enough need for "bungs" (stoppers/corks) to devote a whole business to them? Plus, the word "bung" has another, quite rude, meaning.
In addition, there are some fun surprises, such as these thread samples from Commonwealth Color:
There is also one receipt, from H. & G.W. Rich, that measures a staggering 42 inches long, demonstrating that today's extra-long drugstore receipts are nothing new.
In short, our Letterhead Collection is full of fascinating insights and is awaiting your discoveries! Explore the finding aid here.