Back to Top

Category: Research

Posts in which we talk about research

Male duds as in clothing.  Why? What were YOU thinking? If it’s colorful, please mention in the comments.

What Color Is your Boa?

Most of you know that last week was the Romance Writers of America national conference, in which Romance authors the world over meet to eat bon-bons, compare our boas, and send our assistants off to do all the work. I drove down to Anaheim with the marvelous Isobel Carr, by the way.
Anyhow, the weekend before the road trip, Isobel, Miranda Neville, and Pam Rosenthal drove up my way so we could have High Tea at Patisserie Angelica.  (OH MY GOD! I am officially a name dropper.) Have I mentioned that Jo Bourne once came to Patisserie Angelica for High Tea? She did. And then she won a RITA. Just saying.

Patisserie Angelica: where all the cool historical romance authors have High Tea.

I’m still working on Jennifer Haymore. I got Grace Burrows as far as Petaluma after RWA. We had an amazing dinner, but the meeting was a bit ad hoc and she had Big Trees to see so the jaunt to Sebastopol was not possible. Not so long ago, Liz Maverick was here and now her life is sparkly. Our very own Risky Megan has been here.

Sonoma County:  Where all the cool writers come to visit. Or live. (I am not kidding.)

 
If you’re ever in Sonoma County, hit me up and I will show you the awesome.

Right. So, Isobel Carr, on the pre-RWA trip to Sebastopol, was telling me all about this book about male fashion that was super cheap for some reason she couldn’t fathom. Isobel Carr is, as many of you probably know, something of a history of fashion expert, so when she identifies a great reference book, it’s wise to listen up.

Since I had my iPad handy I immediately went in search of the book, found it after a bit of trouble with the spelling of the author’s last name and saw it was indeed available for $5.00.

Dear Readers, I bought it.

My Book Has Come In

Today, the book arrived. It had to come all the way from Canada. I think a dog sled was involved. The Male Image, Men’s Fashion from 1300-1970 by Penelope Byrde. It’s hardback and in excellent condition since it has a library binding. And guess what??? This is so low tech I’m giddy.

It’s an old fashioned Library Book!
Look! The pink thing comes out.

I can’t wait to go through it looking for pictures of men in high boots (definitely not male duds!) or gentlemen in tights and that dead sexy frac. Also, I see there is a lengthy section on the history of the neckcloth.

Also, I can’t wait for publishers to get their acts together and start doing books like this in color.

Do I have links for you!  And stories.

Swallow!

Here’s the strange thing. This first link goes to the blog of my good friend SonomaLass. (Not her IRL name!). Her partner is British and they go to the family farm in Scotland or to Britain proper once a year. This year (and last, actually) they did a canal boat trip and her pictures are wonderful. You will love them. By the way, she brought me back the most beautiful coffee cup:

I LOVE that coffee cup. She says considered getting me the Blue Tit, but decided Swallow was better for a romance author. She is very wise.

Go look at her Canal Trip Pictures, think about Regency folk floating along, but also read about her trip. When you come back, I’ll tell you how we got to be friends.

Fun, eh? Yes, I want to go, too!!

How I met my Good Friend

Two or three years ago now, I kept seeing someone in the comments at Dear Author saying funny, smart stuff and given her handle of “SonomaLass” I finally replied to one of her comments and asked if, by any chance, she lived in Sonoma County. The answer was yes! So, short story even shorter, she lives about 20 minutes from me and works in my town. We’ve been meeting up for conversation and European Sipping Chocolate ever since. And, also as it turns out, someone else turned out to live very close by and now we all three meet regularly and talk about romance novels and all kinds of stuff. I love the internet.

All About Lace

My next link is to A Most Beguiling Accomplishment for a post about lace. I love her blog. Don’t forget to check out the side bar (left and right) for more great links.

When I was 16, our Italian-born neighbor took my sister and I with her when she went to Italy to visit relatives. Some of her relatives lived in VERY small villages in the Alps. It was like sitting in the middle of someone’s ridiculous fantasy about quaint Italian villages. We sat outside their stone house at a table shaded by enormous grape vines and I watched a plump old woman hand make this lace:

Hand tatted Italian Lace. Photo by Moi.

She was unbelievably fast at the lace making (done with bobbins). Like an expert knitter, she didn’t even have to look. She sat with us, chatting with her relative and her American visitors and her hands were constantly moving. My sister also got a lovely hand made lace doily.

Maps

From lace to maps: The David Rumsey Map Collection. Connected to Google maps, too.

Oh, my goodness. I have a thing for maps. It’s almost worse than my thing for looking at vacation photos.

Extraordinary People

My next link is outside our period but it’s an article well worth reading about an American woman physician who also did some early sex research beginning in 1892. Celia Mosher was an extraordinary woman, and this Stanford Magazine article makes me wish I’d know her or that she’d lived miraculously long enough to know that other women came after her and they did not have to make the sacrifices she did. Because of women like her, other women got to have bigger dreams and to see them come true.

What strikes me about this article about Dr. Mosher is the sense of how isolated she felt. How many extraordinary women of the past also felt isolated by their ambition and brilliance? It’s a tragedy.

Which leads me to my last post, which is totally outside our period because it’s from just a few days ago (August 2012). An Unexpected Ass Kicking. A touching and inspiring article. I hope you take the time to read it.

Stories

When I was young, my grandmother came to live with us for a few years. She got homesick and eventually went back to Oregon where, a couple weeks after locking herself out of the house and climbing through a window to get in, she passed away of a heart attack at age 87.  She was a woman who talked a lot. And I mean a lot. It could be very tedious, to be honest.  As a young woman, my grandmother, not that it matters, was heart-stoppingly beautiful. She certainly is in her wedding picture.

But over several evenings, I sat with my grandmother (who was in many ways an extraordinary woman) and listened to her talk. I didn’t have to say much, but I learned an awful lot about her her family that no one else knew. In fact, I was the first one to hear the story of the family ax murderer, later confirmed by my sister who found the article about his trial. But I LOVE listening to stories.

In fact, I once went to a party where I sat next to a man I figured was probably approaching 80, and he started telling me all about his life growing up in Poland. His family tried to rescue me, but I didn’t want to be rescued. I’m sure they’d all heard the stories before, but they were new to me. It turns out he was 104. Which is why all his stories had no cars or electricity.

I hope to make it to a doddering old age without doddering, and I hope there’s someone around to listen to my stories.

Got any stories about extraordinary people? I would love to hear them!

Super Secret Surprise for people who read this far:

I’m giving away a copy of my September historical Not Proper Enough here.

Rules: Void where prohibited. Must be 18 or older to enter. No purchase necessary. Post a comment to this post by Midnight Pacific on Friday August 17, 2012. International OK.

 

The Day Job Project from Heck has been woefully behind on every aspect of my life. I’m having a hard time catching up.

So, today you get a post from 2010 on tea. Enjoy.

As most of you probably know, the English drink tea. Tea was introduced in England after 1650. I’m sure that most of us have read a historical in which the phrase “a dish” of tea is used rather than the more familiar “cup” of tea.  This site tells us that the first tea cups were Chinese in origin and were shallow saucers, and did not have handles. From the same site:

100  years after the introduction of tea in England, handles were not yet  seen on tea cups, but English potters had introduced saucers to the  bowls. The tea-drinkers thought the saucer was there to pour the tea  into to cool it and then they would sip the tea from the saucer. Later  the saucer was used to hold spillage and the use of the cup and saucer  became the tradition used today with the addition of handles.

Britain Express has a good overview of the history of tea and coffee houses. Tea was taxed by 1676. A hundred years later, we know how that taxation thing worked for the British when they were across the pond. According to this site, the tax rose to 119% and guess what?!  Tea smuggling, that’s what. And guess what else! People put stuff that wasn’t tea in the tea. What’s that thing the French say about change and the same old thing?

Check out The United Kingdom Tea Council for their amazing History of Tea, including the The London Tea Auction
And there’s this from 1826:
My favorite tea ever is Lapsang Souchang. I love the smoky flavor. At work, however, I drink Lipton. It gets my day going.  What about you guys? Do you drink tea? What kind?  If you were a tea smuggler where would you hide your tea?

In my internet perusing I came across this post at one of my favorite websites: Letters of Note.

Picture via Wikemedia. Charles Lamb by William Hazlitt

Two things:

One: Lamb was a hottie.
Two: He could wax effing eloquent about a cold. Who among us hasn’t felt like this:

If you told me the world will be at an end to-morrow, I should just say, “Will it?” I have not volition enough left to dot my i’s, much less to comb my eyebrows; my eyes are set in my head; my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they’d come back again; my skull is a Grub-street attic to let—not so much as a joint-stool or a crack’d jordan left in it; my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little, when their heads are off. O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, toothache&-an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs; pain is life—the sharper, the more evidence of life; but this apathy, this death!

Dude. That was one miserable cold. Go read the entire letter.

Here’s one of his poems:

A Timid Grace Sits Trembling in her Eye

A timid grace sits trembling in her eye,
As loath to meet the rudeness of men’s sight,
Yet shedding a delicious lunar light
That steeps in kind oblivious ecstasy
The care-crazed mind, like some still melody:
Speaking most plain the thoughts which do possess
Her gentle sprite: peace, and meek quietness,
And innocent loves, and maiden purity:
A look whereof might heal the cruel smart
Of changed friends, or fortune’s wrongs unkind:
Might to sweet deeds of mercy move the heart
Of him who hates his brethren of mankind.
Turned are those lights from me, who fondly yet
Past joys, vain loves, and buried hopes regret.

And another

A Parody

Lazy-bones, lazy-bones, wake up and peep;
The Cat’s in the cupboard, your Mother’s asleep.
There you sit snoring, forgetting her ills:
Who is to give her her Bolus and Pills?
Twenty-five Angels must come into Town,
All for to help you to make your new gown-
Dainty aerial Spinsters & Singers:
Aren’t you asham’d to employ such white fingers?
Delicate Hands, unaccustom’d to reels,
To set ‘em a washing at poor body’s wheels?
Why they came down is to me all a riddle,
And left hallelujah broke off in the middle.
Jove’s Court & the Presence Angelical cut,
To eke out the work of a lazy young slut.
Angel-duck, angel-duck, wingèd & silly,
Pouring a watering pot over a lily,
Gardener gratuitous, careless of pelf,
Leave her to water her Lily herself,
Or to neglect it to death, if she chuse it;
Remember, the loss is her own if she lose it.

A Dramatic Fragment

‘Fie upon’t!
All men are false, I think. The date of love
Is out, expired, its stories all grown stale,
O’erpast, forgotten, like an antique tale
Of Hero and Leander.’

-John Woodvil

All are not false. I knew a youth who died
For grief, because his Love proved so,
And married with another.
I saw him on the wedding-day,–
For he was present in the church that day,
In festive bravery decked,
As one that came to grace the ceremony,–
I marked him when the ring was given:
His Countenance never changed;
And, when the priest pronounced the marriage blessing,
He put a silent prayer up for the bride–
For so his moving lip interpreted.
He came invited to the marriage-feast
With the bride’s friends,
And was the merriest of them all that day:
But they who knew him best called it feigned mirth;
And others said
He wore a smile like death upon his face.
His presence dashed all the beholders’ mirth,
And he went away in tears.
What followed then?
O then
He did not, as neglected suitors use,
Affect a life of solitude in shades,
But lived
In free discourse and sweet society
Among his friends who knew his gentle nature best.
Yet ever, when he smiled,
There was a mystery legible in his face;
But whoso saw him, said he was a man
Not long for this world–
And true it was; for even then
The silent love was feeding at his heart,
Of which he died;
Nor ever spoke word of reproach;
Only, he wished in death that his remains
Might find a poor grave in some spot not far
From his mistress’ family vault-being the place
Where one day Anna should herself be laid.

I keep forgetting how much I like poetry. It’s good to be reminded.

 

It’s Tuesday night as I write this and in the US, as you may know, there’s an election. I am distracted. A wee bit.

Brooke’s Gazeteer to the rescue.

Ilminster, a town in Somersetshire, with a market on Saturday; seated among hills, 26 miles  SW of Wells, and 137  W by S of London. Google maps confirms this.


View Larger Map

Wikipedia tells us the following:

Ilminster is a country town and civil parish in the countryside of south west Somerset, England, with a population of 4,781. Bypassed a few years ago, the town now lies just east of the junction of the A303 (London to Exeter) and the A358 (Taunton to Chard and Axminster). The parish includes the village of Peasmarsh and the hamlet of Sea.

Peasmarsh. That is awesome.

Also from Wikepedia:

Ilminster is mentioned in documents dating from 725 and in a Charter granted to the Abbey of Muchelney (10 miles to the north) by King Ethelred in 995. Ilminster is also mentioned in the Domesday Book (1086) as Ileminstre meaning ‘The church on the River Isle’ from the Old English ysle and mynster. By this period Ilminster was a flourishing community and was granted the right to hold a weekly market, which it still does.

Barrington Court is nearby. This is a National Trust house, and the pictures here are worth a click.

You REALLY need to see the before and after restoration pictures. Wow.

 

Follow
Get every new post delivered to your inbox
Join millions of other followers
Powered By WPFruits.com