A Heartbreaking Civil War Diary

Because it was Memorial Day weekend, I went yesterday to the Grafton Historical Society’s rooms in the former Town Hall on the Grafton Common in our little Massachusetts town to see a Civil War display that they’ve recently posted there.  It summarized the names, ages and occupations of the 65 young men  from Grafton who died in that war.

Featured on one wall were  entries from a Civil War battlefield diary of a Grafton soldier, Jonathan P.   Stowe, who volunteered with the 15^th Massachusetts Infantry, was taken prisoner on Oct. 21, 1861 at the Battle of Ball’s Bluff, Leesburg, VA, and kept as a prisoner at Richmond. In Feb. 1862, he was included in a group of prisoners who were returned under a flag of truce, but he continued fighting, and on 17 Sept. 1862 he was wounded at the Battle of Antietam.

Twenty three thousand soldiers were killed, wounded or missing after twelve hours of savage combat on Sept. 17, 1862 at Antietam, near Sharpsburg, Maryland. According to the Historical Society’s exhibit,  it was “a clash between North and South that changed the course of the Civil War, helped free over four million Americans, devastated Sharpsburg and still ranks as the bloodiest one-day battle in American history…The 15^th Massachusetts Infantry went into the Battle of Antietam with 606 soldiers.  318 were killed or wounded, the highest number for any Union regiment in the battle. “

I read with growing suspense the entries from Jonathan Stowe’s pocket diary that he wrote when he was wounded that day, and in the days afterward :

Sept. 17^th – Wednesday. Battle. Oh horrid battle.  What sights I have seen. I am wounded!  And am afraid shall be again as shells fly past me every few seconds carrying away limbs from the trees…Am in severe pain. How the shells fly. I do sincerely hope I shall not be wounded again.

Sept 18^th – Thursday.  Misery. Acute, painful misery.  How I suffered last night.  It was the most painful of anything have experienced. My leg must be broken for I cannot help myself scarcely any. I remember talking and groaning all night. Many died in calling for help ..Sergt. Johnson, who lies on the other side of the log is calling for water. Carried off the field at 10 AM by the Rebs who show much kindness but devote much time to plundering dead bodies of our men…Water very short. We suffer much.

Sept. 19^th –Friday. Rained only a little. I had a rubber blanket and overcoat. Rebs retreat. Another painful night. Oh good God, a whole line of our skirmishers are coming…There are lots of us lain out…By and by our boys come along.  What lots of the 15^th. Captain comes down to get the names and has coffee furnished us.—Twas the best cup I ever tasted. Dr. looks at my wounds and calls it a doubtful case. Get me on ambulance at 3 PM but do not get to the hospital till nearly dark.  Plenty of water  which gives us a chance to take down inflammation. Nurses worn out by fatigue. Placed on straw near the barn.

Sept. 20^th – Saturday.  Fearful it will rain. How cheerful the boys appear.  Many must lose their arms or legs but they do not murmur…Leg amputated about noon. What sensations--used chloroform. Hope to have no bad effects. There are some dozen or more stumps near me.  Placed in barn beside J. Hughes.

Sept. 21^st – Sunday. Very weak and sore…Hot weather by day cool at night. Hard to get nurses. Men beg for water. People come in from all parts of the country. Stare at us but do not find time to do anything.

Sept. 22^nd – Monday. Two men died last night…How painful my stump is.  I did not know was capable of enduring so much pain. How very meager are accommodations – no chamber pots & nobody to find or rig up one.  How ludicrous for 2 score amputated men to help themselves with diarrhea.

Sept. 23^rd – Tuesday.  Oh what fearful long nights. What difficulties we have to contend…Relief can hardly be found. I have at length got my limb dressed by volunteer surgeon. But never was so exhausted for want of refreshment.

Sept/ 24^th—Wednesday. No entry.

Sept. 25^th – Thursday. Such nights!  Why they seem infinitely longer than days. The nervous pains are killing two or three every night. All sorts of groans and pleadings… Many patients are leaving daily.  Some have gone today to H. Ferry.  I watch over J. Hughes nightly. Has had fever. Very cold last night & we are very short of clothing.  Sundown just rec’d blankets.

Sept. 26^th – Friday. Very cold last night. J Hughes had shakes again last night…the cold weather may all come for the best, certainly maggots do not trouble so much and air is some purer. 4 PM J. Hughes died…O there comes Mrs. Gray with refreshments. Such a treat…I got tomatoes…just what I wanted, Have since forgotten my stump first hemorrhage- it was very copious and tho I stoutly affirmed that I would not use Brandy, was now plainly told that if not should be dead in 3 days.

Sept. 27^th – Saturday. Commence taking Brandy none too soon. Dr. tells me I am dangerously ill and must take his prescription in order to change condition of blood. He is earnest & too good a man. Mr. Sloan a kind hearted chaplain telegraphs for me. Suffer continuously from position in bed.  Have to elevate my stump to prevent bleeding and be very still.

Sept. 28^th – Sunday. Oh what lengths to the nights. The horrid smell from the mortifying limbs is nearly as bad as the whole we have to contend. Mrs. Lee and another lady are here daily dispensing cooked broths…They seem to employ  their whole time for us.  Move outdoors in the PM. Excessively hot.

Sept. 29^th – Monday.  Slept little more comfortable last night. Got nice soups and nice light biscuit and tart also nice butter from Mrs. Lee. Also she gets me milk again this morning. How the quinine keeps me parched for water and so sleepy and foolish. Am much better off here than in barn.  10 AM my comrade died from the 18^th Minn. Regt. I rec’d 4 letters from friends or home but am so boozy it takes the whole AM to read them.  Mr. Dr. Kelsey dressed my stump admirably and am quite comfortable if the quinine does not choke me to death. It is far more quiet here but begins to rain.

At 7:45 that evening, Stowe sent a telegram to J.W. Stowe as follows:  “Dangerously wounded at Hoffman’s hospital near Sharpsburg. Come instantly.”

Jonathan Stowe died on October 1 from his wound and amputation.  He had lain on the battlefield for a day without food or water and was then taken to the Nicodemus farm by Confederates where he stayed another day without medical treatment.  The cumulative effects were too much. He was 30 years old.

         I was shocked by that last paragraph—somehow I had expected that Jonathan Stowe came out of the war alive and that’s how his diary got back to Grafton.  Also, I was surprised at how kind the local ladies and even the rebel soldiers were to the wounded Union soldiers.  Most of all-- in reading how Grafton’s soldiers died—I realized that many more died of infection than bullets. If they had proper medical treatment back then, they did not need to die.

In summing up the sacrifices made by Grafton’s soldiers in the Civil War, the Historical Society posted a few lines that I thought were very eloquent:

“The enormity of their choice, our choice as a nation, would not be fully understood until the brutality of the war was fully revealed. A heavy price was paid. It reverberates down through the generations to this day….They all died far, far from home in places that young school boys could only imagine during that time. But they served, many of them in multiple battles. They were and are a part of our Town’s tapestry, which includes strands of patriotism, fortitude, determination and a great desire to serve. Take a moment to thank them as you pass the Civil War monument on the Common.  We are one nation today because they served. They deserve our thanks and gratitude. Always.

New York City Street Art – Kids’ Stuff or Serious Business?

I spent last weekend (May 13 – 15) visiting Manhattan, doing chores and  seeing people. I fully intended to go to the Metropolitan Museum to take in some interesting new exhibits, but I never got there.  But while running around Park, Madison and Fifth Avenues,  I got a major dose of art which was just sitting around on the street. 

All of it was delightful and  the people drawn out by the fine spring weather were enjoying it as much as I was.  But when I got home and looked it up, I learned that a lot of the whimsical street art on display is serious business to the artists and the galleries and would  cost a major fortune to buy. 

I have no desire to spend ten million dollars to acquire a 23-foot-tall, battered, stuffed teddy bear (plus desk lamp), but I’m happy to enjoy it on the street for free. This big bear looks soft but he’s made of bronze and weighs 20 tons. Christie’s auction house had to get six city permits and reinforce the courtyard of the Seagram Building in order to install him in place.

You are not allowed to touch the bear, but a pleasant young man was happy to explain that the person who created it is Swiss Artist Urs Fischer.  He has also carved nudes out of wax and put candles on their heads, so they would melt if you lit the candles.  This would be a major disappointment if you bought one of those nudes at Sotheby’s for $1 million.

The Teddy Bear work of art is called  “Untitled (Lamp/Bear)” and if the artist knows what it means, he’s not telling.  Christie’s went to all the trouble of installing it in front of the Seagram’s Building, because they hoped to sell it at auction on May 11 for ten million dollars.  To their disappointment, it only reached  $6.8 million (they did not disclose the name of the buyer) but that was a new record for the artist.  They’re leaving the bear in place until September, so you can still go see it for free.  (Just don’t try to touch it.)

 A few blocks away, on Madison and 51st,  in the courtyard of the  New York Palace,  I ran across this  colorful dog standing defiantly in his coat of many colors.  Visiting tourists were loving him and were sitting at the tables in the courtyard where you can order a specially created cocktail called “Hair of the Dog.”

  

There was no mystery about the artist or the name of this piece, because a plaque at the dog’s feet read:  “Doggy John XXL, Julien Marinetti, 2011.”  A fancy reception was held on May 10 to honor the French artist, who has made a lot of  “Doggy Johns.”  When asked at the opening party what his art means, he remained as vague as the creator of the teddy bear.

According to a social commentary site called “Panache Privée”, Marinetti replied to the guests at the opening who asked “Why a dog?”-- “It could be a dog, a duck, a skull – the shapes are experiments and a surface for my painting.” The writer for Panache Privée then opined,  “For the viewer, association to Marinettti’s painted expressions makes the Doggy Johns immediately intimate, they tease and what appears as a physical manifestation of our secret psyche is a springboard for universal connection.”

(Both quotes in the paragraph above are perfect examples of the kind of arty double-talk that makes me want to tear out my hair. It sounds profound but it means nothing and you encounter it everywhere.)

Thinking about Doggy John and the Teddy Bear reminded me of two other famous works of art that I have seen in Manhattan in past years—Jeff Koons’ “Balloon Dog” and “Puppy”, which was covered in flowers when I saw it  presiding over Rockefeller Center. (The one below is at Bilbao.)  All these contemporary works of art cost a gazillion dollars, they all evoke toys and pets from childhood, and they all are taken very seriously in the art world.  Are contemporary artists hung up on  their childhood?  Are they just promulgating a gigantic scam reminiscent of the “Emperor’s New Clothes?” Please discuss.

The good news about Doggy John is that you will be able to see him for free and order yourself a “Hair of the Dog” in the Palace courtyard until September.

 As I rambled around, I passed Rockefeller Center and stopped as I always do, to admire the amazing Art Deco statues and carvings that always fill me with joy.  Here is a young woman tourist who was getting up close and personal with the statue of Atlas holding the world on his shoulders.

 Here are the beautiful spring flowers in the heart of Rock Center .

Here is a fabulous relief over one of the doors. (In New York you must always look up—that’s where the good things are.)

 And here is a nice group of three women that I saw while looking up at an antique store’s facade—two women garden statues juxtaposed with a Lichtenstein (I think) woman in an ad for MOMA.

Speaking of Art Deco—here are some friezes just inside the Waldorf Astoria.  The same paintings were being featured in its windows, along with the information that the artist was Louis Rigal, so I went inside for a look. 

As I’ve said before—New York is a festival of art, even if you don’t go into the museums. You just have to remember to look up.

Pregnancy—It Ain’t What it Used to Be

 (These are "Mod Mom" paper goods from Hallmark for a Mocktail/Cocktail party tonight in NYC honoring Eleni and her friend Neela, who both managed to be pregnant at approximately the same time.)

Women have been getting pregnant and birthing babies ever since Eve gave birth to Cain and Abel, and you’d think every woman’s experience of pregnancy was fairly similar, but I’ve recently learned that there are lots of new-fangled aspects to being pregnant that I never heard of back in the 1970’s when I gave birth to three children spaced three years apart.

I’ve been hinting and nagging and moaning about my desire for grandchildren for many years now, so when daughter Eleni announced, on the day before Christmas, that she and her husband Emiliio were expecting our first grandchild next August, it was the best Christmas present ever.

Since then, I have been following her pregnancy week by week – it’s a lot more fun being the future Grandma, because you don’t have to  suffer the morning sickness and the stretch marks and all the other bad stuff.  But as someone who hasn’t even thought about  pregnancy for over thirty years, I was astonished to learn how being pregnant has changed—partly due to all the technology, which  brings us so much more information about what’s going on in the womb. (I frequently call it “Too Much Information” – as when my daughter cheerfully announced “This week the baby lost its tail”).

I’m passing on what I’ve learned for the edification and amusement of fellow crones – those of you under fifty  probably know this stuff already.

Here are some things that I never heard of during my pregnancies:

A babymoon—a romantic trip you’re supposed to take as a couple in the second trimester (when you have more energy than in the first and third)  because this is the last chance you’ll get for a romantic getaway – ever.

A push present—sort of self-explanatory – a lavish gift for producing  a baby. I figure I still have three coming even though my kids are approaching middle age.

A birth plan—something you write out and print in multiples so,  when you go into labor,   you hand it out to your doctor and other health practitioners so they know how you want to go about this.  Nowadays the majority of couples seem to prefer a home delivery with a midwife—maybe under water  in a birthing tub. Eleni says she’s the only person in her prenatal pilates class who plans to go to a hospital. (This subject can lead to very animated arguments, I’ve learned.)

in my day, it was the doctor, not the  pregnant couple, who made out the birth plan—he just did what he wanted.  I had three deliveries by Caesarean—because the first baby was still breech after 14 hours of labor. Each time I got pregnant,  I begged the doctor to let me stay awake to see the baby born.  He would mumble “We’ll see which anesthesiologist is on duty” but in the end, I have never seen a baby born—not mine or anyone else’s. (Of course I could watch a video on You Tube -- illustrating all the new-fangled ways of giving birth.  People keep sending them to me.)

A music mix –this is something the pregnant parents prepare ahead of time so they can have their favorite music playing during labor and delivery.  This is also a refinement on the birthing process that I had never heard of till now.

A doula—that is a person (usually female) who  has been trained to help the midwife or doctor , mainly, I gather, by encouraging the laboring mother-to-be and helping her.  Luckily, our second daughter, Marina, has already trained as a doula, so she will be in the delivery room to help her sister.  The baby daddy (another new term) is also expected to be in the delivery room, helping, producing ice chips and encouragement (and DJing the appropriate music mix)  for the baby mommy. He is also expected to tug on one leg, I have heard, and to cut the umbilical cord at the proper moment.

During the one delivery when I actually was in labor (for 14 hours before the doctor decided I was getting nowhere and it was time for a Caesarian), my husband stayed by my side from about 8 p.m. to midnight, when he and the doctor both decided it was time to go home and get a good sleep.  I must say that my labor pains decreased dramatically when my husband left. (He was making me nervous).  He loves to tell the story of how he got home to discover no supper waiting for him and so he whipped up a five-star meal for himself out of frozen shrimp, heavy cream, and wine that he found in the refrigerator.

A final new-age improvement to pregnancy is all the web sites (the Bump, Fit Pregnancy etc.) that, after you sign up, happily e-mail you every week news of exactly what your baby looks like (they always compare it to a fruit or vegetable – this week it’s an eggplant) , its stage of development, possible problems that you may be  experiencing, and  they put you into chat rooms with other mothers who are exactly at your stage of pregnancy. 

I realize that these web sites exist to sell you things you don’t really need – like a baby monitor system that costs hundreds of dollars, and equally expensive  breast pumps. Breast pumps?  I never saw one back in the day—but now they really are a boon because they  free the breast-feeding mom from the occasional night-time feeding, which can be a real life-saver.)

All the refinements on pregnancy and delivery mentioned above are undoubtedly  improvements on old-fashioned pregnancies, but there are a lot of disadvantages to pregnancy in the 21^st century.  There all sorts of things that you MUST NEVER do—all of which we crones did  and still the babies came out okay.  Nowadays the baby daddies seem to act as the pregnancy police to make sure the baby mommies never indulge in:

Drinking  alcoholic drinks. (Well, I knew that back in the seventies—I also knew, unlike Jackie Kennedy, that smoking during pregnancy was verboten.)

Caffeine—no coffee, not even tea during the first trimester.

Smoked meats, raw fish, unpastureized cheeses

Hair dye , even  manicure chemicals during  the first trimester.  (Eleni wouldn’t even get a pedicure until the second trimester.)

No airline travel during the third trimester.

This is just the first look  from “A  Rolling Crone” at the new-fashioned , modern-day pregnancy my daughter is so conscientiously participating in these days and that I’m watching in awe.  She has all kinds of milestones ahead, as she’s only in week 26, and I clearly have lots to learn.  One thing that I know already is that I’m not permitted anywhere near the delivery room.  That will already be  crowded with the  doula/sister,  baby daddy and  various health practitioners, all working to the background music of the birth mix.

I will keep you posted on what I’ve learned as things progress, but in the  meantime, check out the essay below, which Eleni wrote for a contest asking for articles about life in southern Florida.  I think it’s funny.  It’s called, “I’m Having a Bebé – Maternity in Miami.” 

http://wlrnunderthesun.org/2011/01/maternity-in-miami/

Folk Art Treasures in Nicaragua

(please click on the photos to see the whole thing)

(A wonderful painting of Granada--wish I could remember the  artist's name)

I have always been drawn to folk art, collecting it when I can and photographing it when I can’t.

To me “folk art” embraces a whole lot of categories—everything from Haitian voodoo flags to textiles woven and embroidered by Mexican women to wooden  statues and furniture carved in fanciful ways by Greek carpenters.

 (These are 2 of the sinks in our hotel - La Gran Francia)

I even count architectural elements and graffiti on public walls as folk art and photograph them wherever I travel (if I like it.)

Because, for the month of May, I’m laboring on a long writing project with an impending deadline, I’m going to turn my blog posts for the duration into “stories without words”.  (It’ s a real challenge for me to say anything briefly—but I have to learn!)

Some will be photo essays about folk art that I’ve encountered in countries  where I’ve traveled.

Much folk art is inspired by religious beliefs.  Often the icons, milagros, statues, paintings and textiles are created for semi-magical properties they are believed to have.  These objects are meant to serve as intermediaries between a petitioner and a saint or deity in hopes of obtaining a favor.

Today I’m showing examples of folk art I found in Nicaragua—especially in the beautiful colonial city of Granada.

Pre-Columbian art has a special place in my heart because it’s mystical, magical, amusing and sinister all at the same time. These fantastical vessels for example.

The crèche scenes that come out at Christmas (naciementos) also count as folk art, I think. Below is a little girl looking at the one in the main square in Granada, and a smaller creche scene in our hotel.

And here is a small collection of  santos in someone's home.

What do you consider to be folk art?  And what do you collect?

May Baskets & May Wreaths

Some sixty years ago, when I was a little girl in (first) Milwaukee, Wisconsin and then in Edina, Minnesota, on the first of  May we would make May baskets out of construction paper and fill them with  whatever flowers we could find in the garden or growing wild. We would hang the baskets on the doorknobs of neighbors—especially old people—ring the door bell, then run away with great hilarity and peek out as the elderly person found the little bouquets on their door.

 Thirty-some years ago, when we moved  to Grafton, MA, I continued the same tradition with my three kids, but then they grew up and moved away.  Just today I looked out at all the flowers popping up in our yard and reflected that all the old people in our neighborhood had died.  In fact, I realized, the only old people left were my husband and myself, so I picked a small May Day bouquet for us out of what’s growing—white violets and purple violets, cherry blossoms, forsythia, wild grape hyacinth--  and here it is.

 In 1977, when the children were all small (the youngest was one month old) we moved from New York City to a suburb of Athens, Greece, courtesy of The New York Times, which had made my husband a foreign correspondent there.  In Greece, even today, whether in the country or the city, on May 1 you make a May wreath of the flowers in the garden.  Roses are in full bloom by then in Greece, along with all sorts of wild flowers.  You hang the May wreath on your door.  It dies and dries and withers until, on June 24th, St. John the Baptist’s Birthday, the dried May wreath is thrown into a bonfire.  The boys of the town leap over the flames first. In the end everyone leaps over the fading fire saying things like  “I leave the bad year  behind in order to enter a better year.”

Here is daughter Eleni in 1980 wearing the wreath that was about to go on the door. Next to her is her sister Marina.

 In Greece, even today, you’ll find May wreaths hanging on the front doors of homes and businesses, although I don’t know if anyone still throws them into a St John’s fire.  In Massachusetts, the tulips and forsythia are out, the bleeding hearts are starting to bloom, and soon the lilacs will open, filling the air with their beauty and perfume.  But today I gathered a small bouquet of May flowers and remembered the years gone by.

Guilt about the Royal Wedding and Motherhood

Daughter Eleni, who studied Folk Lore and Mythology  at Harvard, recently launched her blog “The Liminal Stage”. (As she explains: “Liminal stages are psychological thresholds, times of transition when we stand ‘betwixt and between’ one state and another. The biggies are birth, marriage, death.”)


 Yesterday she posted about the Royal Wedding under the title “Will Kate Middleton Eat My Daughter?” (She was riffing on the current best seller “Cinderella Ate My Daughter” by Peggy Orenstein.)  From the topic of the Royal Wedding, she segued into pregnancy and motherhood and how  guilt is an inevitable ingredient in these major liminal stages—especially in the United States, where everyone is so uptight about what a pregnant woman should or should not do.

 Eleni began her post with the story of how I apologized to her for not watching Diana and Charles’ wedding with her 30 years ago, and maybe that's why  I found her essay hilarious while at the same time very wise and insightful about what a guilt-ridden state is motherhood these days.

So I got her permission to reprint her post today on “A Rolling Crone”. 

Now you’ll know why we’re not getting up at five a.m. tomorrow to drink tea and eat scones together, although we both  hope—along with every other woman waiting to see The Dress, that Kate will find her marriage guilt- and worry-free, unburdened by all the expectations and complications that Princess Diana dragged down the aisle along with her 25-foot train three decades ago.

Will Kate Middleton Eat My Daughter?

April 27th, 2011

That Royal Wedding, July 29, 1981, Getty Images / Fox Photos / Hulton Archive (borrowed from an about.com page on Princess Diana's wedding photos).

This morning my mother apologized. It’s a rare occurrence, but what was even more remarkable was the topic about which she felt guilty. “I was reading somewhere a woman remembering her mother waking her up to watch Princess Diana get married 30 years ago, and now the writer is going to wake up her own daughters to watch the Royal Wedding on Friday,” she reported. “And I felt sort of bad I didn’t wake you girls up.”

I told Joanie not to worry, that I actually thought it was a good move not to teach her five-year-old daughter (not to mention my then two-year-old sister) to fetishize a 19-year-old girl marrying a laconic older man who was in love with someone else.  I didn’t watch that royal wedding and I didn’t grow up expecting to marry a prince, ride around in Cinderella carriages and grace the covers of magazines.

In fact, in light of the current culture of princess parties, and Disney domination (its darker sides are discussed in Peggy Orenstein’s bestselling book Cinderella Ate My Daughter) and the fact that I’m due to give birth to a baby girl on August 19^th, I’ve decided to try to keep my daughter in the dark about Disney princesses for as long as possible. I don’t want her wearing clothing or diapers that advertise a film franchise if I can help it, and I’m guessing that I’ll still be in charge of what she wears until she’s about three.

Does that sound naïve? Defensive? Hypocritical, given the fact that the bandaids in our house already have Elmo on them, in anticipation of the baby’s birth?

Portrait of Amalia of Greece, by Joseph Karl Stieler

The truth is, I have no issue with princesses, real or fictional. The name we’ve picked for our daughter, Amalia, was the name of the first queen of Greece. (I’m not a Royalist, I just like the way the name sounds, that you can say it in Greek, English and Spanish—Amalia’s key cultures–and I have very positive associations with the name, as it also belongs to a dear friend of mine.)

Baby aside, and back to Kate Middleton, I’m taking advantage of a local spa’s Royal Wedding special—half price manicure/pedicures all day, plus they’re serving tea and crumpets! And I am excited to see what Kate wears—I hope it will put to rest the 15 year tyranny of the strapless wedding dress, and offer future brides more interesting options.

But the whole Royal Wedding brouhaha, and my mother’s guilt over opting out of the first one, has got me thinking about motherhood, and how a mom starts feeling guilt and fear before the baby is even born. Part of this is biological I think….I can’t read a People magazine without worrying about bringing a child into a world filled with tsunamis and wars and sex traffickers.

But I think part of the motherhood guilt is cultural, given the way American doctors tell us not to let anyone know we’re pregnant for the first trimester (if something were to go wrong, I’d be devastated either way, plus I’d want the support of my family and close friends–so whose feelings was I safeguarding by staying mum?).  In my first trimester I was painfully aware that something could go wrong at any moment—and then I realized that I will never again be free of that fear—at 96 I’ll be worrying about my 60–year–old baby.

Then, there’s the American culture of blame when it comes to every single thing you put in your mouth. In England, Kate Middleton will be glad to know, food safety is so good pregnant women get to eat sushi and smoked salmon and turkey, whereas here undercooked fish and smoked or cured fish or meats are strictly off limits. A Greek friend’s doctor told her she should drink a glass of red wine a day for the antioxidants, whereas here we’re not even supposed to have feta cheese, much less booze. I think all these US rules are overcautious, Puritanical and just plain wrong (for all our rules, the US has a higher infant mortality rate than most industrialized countries), but of course I’m following them—I couldn’t handle the guilt if I didn’t and something went awry.

Pomegranate--a lucky fruit--from www.flowers.vg

But I remember years ago, an Indian friend’s mother told me she ate a certain fruit or spice during each of her pregnancies, to ensure that her first child be handsome, her second joyful, her third brilliant. And I can’t help but think that is such a healthier, more positive attitude for mothers and babies—believing that by carefully choosing what you eat you can give your child blessings before they even greet the world, rather than fearing that if you put the wrong hors d’oeuvres in your mouth you are dooming your child to a lifetime of failure.

Once the baby’s born there’s the culture of competition—the race to the smuggest, to see who can feed (or diaper) their child more organically, shoe their baby’s tiny toes with the smallest carbon footprint. Before that there are so many loaded conversations about birth itself…I’m the only person in my prenatal pilates class giving birth in a hospital, and I have to admit that fact makes me feel wimpy.

The mother of Amalia the elder (not the Greek queen, but my BFF) likes to say that being a mom means being a punching bag—it’s part of the job description. And while right now I feel that quite literally—Amalia II likes to kick my hand off my stomach if I rest it there while watching TV—she means it figuratively; whatever choices you make as a mom, some of them will disappoint or hurt your children, and they’re sure to blame you. Just look at the first two lines of this blog for an example.

In the end, all you can do, I guess, is try to make the sanest, most loving choices possible, and forgive yourself for the times you fall short. And try not to judge other moms for not seeing parenting exactly as you do.

My non-royal, but rather princess-y carriage

So Joanie, thanks for not raising me expecting to become Princess Diana; it turns out she had a pretty hard row to hoe, despite the lovely tiara. And even though at 19 I was busily pursuing my degree in Folklore and Mythology and blaming my mom for making me wait until I was 13 to get my ears pierced, although my younger sister got hers pierced the exact same day—what’s that about?—I’ve had plenty of princess moments in my day.  I did marry a prince among men, eventually.  And I rode to the first of our two wedding ceremonies in a horse-drawn carriage, because we wed on the island of Corfu and that’s how they roll.

As a commoner without a title (until she’s married), Kate Middleton will ride to Westminster Abbey in a Rolls Royce (although she gets to leave in a carriage). Nevertheless, I hope she is surrounded by just as much love and laughter on her wedding day as I was on mine. I hope the little girls who get up early to watch her wed never forget doing so, and that those who sleep right through it have pleasant dreams of futures that don’t depend on the man they will marry, even if those dreams involve them turning into mermaids or having mice and bluebirds or seven little dwarves sew them fabulous couture gowns—and even if those gowns are strapless. Maybe Kate will have a daughter less than a year after her wedding, too. And when our daughters grow up and blog about us—and they will—I hope they will be kind.

Ophelia--A New York Deb and her Artwork

(The story behind the photo)

Collectors of antique photographs take special pride in finding an identified antique portrait, taken before 1900, and then unearthing something that belonged to the subject—for instance, inheriting great-grandmother’s portrait as well as the brooch she was wearing when the photo was taken.

Whenever I examine a cased image (housed in a small hard case that opens like a book and generally has a velvet  lining opposite the image) I always gently pry the image “sandwich” –  a daguerreotype or ambrotype protected by glass with a brass mat and a metal edge to hold it all together—and look behind the image.  That’s where you can find many treasures—names, dates, an obituary, love poem, maybe an advertising card for the photographer, or even a lock of the subject’s hair.

Through dumb luck I managed to find this portrait of a young lady with the unusual name of Ophelia Merle, taken in New York in the 1850’s by Jeremiah Gurney, the most celebrated photographer of the daguerreian era. Then I discovered and bought a drawing by the same young lady.

Gurney is my favorite daguerreotype artist, bar none.   He worked up the street (Broadway) from Matthew Brady, won more awards than anyone else and was considered the pre-eminent photographer in the United States throughout his long career.  He photographed New York’s high society and most of the eminent men of his day (and with his son scooped the other photographers to photograph Lincoln’s body after the assassination.)

In 2006 I was delighted to find on E-Bay this ¼ plate Gurney portrait of a young woman --identified as “Ophelia Merle” by a contemporary paper label pinned to the velvet.  The mat was stamped “J Gurney, 349 Broadway”. This was Gurney’s second studio, which he occupied from 1852 to 1858— nine rooms where New York’s most distinguished citizens came to have their portraits taken and to lounge around the palatial reception room, admiring the daguerreotypes on display.

The portrait of Ophelia illustrates the chair, the tablecloth and the exact pose that Gurney used for nearly all the women he photographed during this period. (He used different props and poses for men and children.) Every photographer labored to find the pose that would most gracefully display a woman’s face, body and hands.  The subject had to hold the pose for quite a few seconds, and many photographers used a head brace to make sure they didn’t move.  Children were often strapped into their chair and babies sometimes could not be kept still until the photographer had to throw a sheet over the mother and then place the tot in her lap for what I like to call a “hidden mother” portrait.  I doubt that Gurney every was reduced to such measures.

As soon as I bought this image from a woman in Florida, I googled the unusual name and discovered that someone else on E-Bay was selling a pencil drawing by one Ophelia Merle.  He called it “England 1849, Romantic Castle View, Woman Artist”. He wrote that he had earlier sold “another drawing from this artist, that one dated 1849”.

So I bought it.  For under fifty dollars!

Since then I’ve learned more about Ophelia Merle. She was clearly not a beauty, but she was well-placed in New York’s social hierarchy, with French-speaking parents and ancestors from Switzerland. Her full name in New York’s “Who’s Who” was  “Ophelia Merle d’Aubigné.”  She was born on Sept. 28, 1835, married in 1862 to Lyman Beecher Carhart of Peekskill, New York, gave birth to two children (also listed in  “Who’s Who in New York City & State”), and she died on July 7, 1893 at the age of 57.   

If Ophelia did create this drawing in 1849, she was only 14 at the time. Clearly she was older when Gurney photographed her (in the studio he used from 1852 to 1858).  At that point she was a young lady being introduced to society, and having a Gurney portrait wouldn’t hurt her chances of finding a suitable match.  She was married to the young man from Peekskill, N. Y.  in  1862, when she was 27.

In those days, young women from the best families were educated in music, art, languages and etiquette.  Ophelia seems to have been an especially skilled artist, and was probably traveling (with her father Guillaume?) to visit relatives, including her uncle, the Rev. Jean H. of Geneva, Switzerland, when she saw and drew this pastoral scene.

I suspect Ophelia would be pleased to know that today, more than 150 years after she made it, her drawing and her Gurney portrait are together again.