Forgotten Ladies of Yesteryear

on the delights of discovering fresh voices in old books

One of the hazards of having survived mortal peril a few years ago is… middle age, which comes with a whole host of indignities. I essentially lost November to a kind of medical Wac-A-Mole. Every time I got one uncomfortable ouch settled, up popped another. All normal womanhood stuff, but in aggregate, just debilitating enough that I didn’t write a whole lot. And the election took the wind out of many sails, I’m sure — not just mine.

But! I’ve been reading. I thought I’d share a quick and dirty overview of the delights I’ve enjoyed in the last while.

I’ve been fascinated by forgotten books for decades, since I found a copy of Whirligig House by Anna Rose Wright, who sometimes published under the name Anna Perrott Rose. (One of her books was made into a ghastly movie with Cary Grant. Do not recommend.) I was cleaning out a closet at the church where I worked at the time, and amongst the dried up glue sticks and reams of mimeographed worksheets with cartoon images of Jesus in Birkenstocks, there it was. I brought the book home, read it to the boys, and we loved it, reading it again and again every winter for several years.

Eventually I read all the books by Anna that I could find. More about her another time.

Fast forward a bit, and I discovered Gladys Taber. I happened across her Stillmeadow Road in a thrift store, and have since collected (again), everything I could find. She survived the Great Depression by setting up house in an ancient farmhouse in Connecticut with her childhood bestie, Eleanor, and their children, while the husbands stayed behind in New York City. Gladys and Eleanor were lifelong companions.

In November I read the first two memoirs by Betty MacDonald, The Egg and I and The Plague and I. The first of which contains the only literary reference I’ve seen to the Man Cold.

When he was in high school, for three years, I schlepped my son up to the Port Townsend Aero Museum twice a month so that he could trade his labor for flight lessons. And on the way, we passed The Egg and I Road, into town, out of town. I’m embarrassed that it took me ten years to finally getting around to reading her work.

Finally, last week I discovered Louise Baker.

Louise evidently lost a leg when she was nine, and worked for “crippled children” as an adult. The opening scene is a whirlwind, describing the reason she went into teaching after obtaining her degree. Again, it was the Great Depression, and she baldly and hilariously discusses being hungry.

I realized that I am missing some background, so I finally started reading Freedom From Fear, which has been on my shelf for about fifteen years.

Anna Rose Wright was born in 1890, Gladys in 1898, and the other two just before 1910. They all enjoyed moderate success as writers, all published many books, all leaned into their brand (like proper influencers today!), and they are all largely forgotten. But I cannot overemphasize that they could write. I wonder what their careers might have been if they’d been given the space and opportunity to spread their wings a bit.

More about these ladies later.