"Grace's facial nearly put extra glow on her Easter" from the April 7, 1977 Door County Advocate
By GRACE SAMUELSON
Grace's facial nearly put extra glow on her Easter
By GRACE SAMUELSON
April is usually a hopeful month, suggesting "April showers bring May Flowers," fun for those who love to "April Fool", seeing signs of spring growing, putting away the heavy winter clothes and readying the garden, with hope for new miracles.
Now when news reports are immediately available on radio, television and the newspapers it's startling to remember that in girlhood days we often didn't hear of world-shaking events for quite some time.
I recall that in spite of hearing all kinds of rumors, the information that the U.S. had declared war on Germany. during World War I wasn't known till the city newspapers reached Sturgeon Bay.
I remember as a twelve-year old going-on-thirteen attending the Good Friday service at church and reading the huge headlines on the paper in the back pocket of Mr. Manke, a scout leader: WAR DECLARED. It was Apr. 6, 1917. I was to go into high school in September and many of the young men who would have been seniors then enlisted, along with others older, and the town was left more heavily populated with women.
Soon we saw posters of Uncle Sam, pointing and saying, "Uncle Sam Needs YOU." Mary Pickford and other famous people were selling Liberty Bonds; there was a scarcity of sugar and flour, and we were told to use barley flour, potato flour, and rice flour when baking bread.
"Over There" and "It's a Long Way to Tipperary" became favorite songs. We rolled bandages for the Red Cross, knit socks or scarfs for the soldiers. (My feeble efforts resulted in lop-sided string wash-cloths.)
Other Aprils brought more pleasant memories and our routine of living was never quite the same after that big conflict. Most years Easter came in April and there was much to do before that. The flurry of housecleaning, the marvel of watching that clutch of eggs the setting hen was keeping warm out in the chicken coop miraculously turn into a bevy of fluffy yellow chicks.
The birds were building nests; the lilacs and box elders were starting to bud, we cut branches from cherry trees and forsythia bushes for early blooms. If Papa gave permission we packed a lunch and hiked out to the hardwoods to hunt the elusive but fragrant and beautiful arbutus, hidden under the fallen leaves.
Even if we got sweater weather we were never allowed to discard our long-legged underwear; not till Memorial Day.
The year I was 16 the winter has been especially long and severe. I looked forward to Easter with more than ordinary eagerness. I had been promised that I could have a new spring hat this year.
Often I had inherited one of the girls' hats which was rejuvenated with a new grosgrain ribbon band, a bunch of artificial violets or daisies or a beaded buckle, and most likely transformed with "Colorite." (This versatile hat-dye came in various shades in a bottle like shoe-polish, with a dauber. You could brush the light natural straw with the desired red, navy, or lilac liquid, and — presto! a spanking "new" hat for a quarter. I can still smell the pungent odor of banana oil, and feel once more my satisfaction at the glossy newly-stiffened colorful creation.
But this year it was my turn to have a brand new hat. The two millinery shops in Sturgeon Bay displayed beautiful creations: flower or feather-trimmed, gauzy veils; wide or narrow brims.
I lingered at the windows yearningly, each time Mama sent me down town on errands. I dreamed of, for once, looking, if not like a fashion plate, at least like a well-dressed young lady. (No more of that kid-stuff, with streamers hanging down the back of my hat, or elastic fastened under my chin!) I made up my mind and changed it 50 times before our shopping day became a reality. I had saved up a dollar and a half towards the purchase from my baby-sitting jobs. (Twenty five cents earned for an evening). Papa would make up the rest.
When the day finally came when Mama was ready to go with me to choose it, I was thrilled beyond words. I finally decided on a hat of fine black straw. I thought it was perfect — simple, yet rich. Its only trimming was a wide black grosgrain ribbon, with a flat bow in front. The wide brim reached from sides to front only — a bit like a Quaker bonnet.
"It's a pretty hat," Papa said when he saw it, but it looks as if a cow chewed a piece out of the back. "Even this left-handed compliment didn't dash my spirits. I pressed the old-rose tweed coat that Vera had passed on to me, and each night I added a little prayer to my "Now I lay me" that the weather wouldn't be too unpleasant for spring hats or coats.
The Saturday before Easter — Holy Saturday — was a busy one for everyone. The fragrant smell of caramel rolls, hot brown bread, tangy smokiness of the Easter ham, simmering on the back of the range, to be skinned, studded with cloves, pineapple slices and brown sugar when we came home from church on Sunday. Mama's lemon jell cake stood tall and beautiful; lemon filling between the layers and under the fluffy boiled frosting on top.
We took turns in shaping marshmallows into bunny rabbits with long paper ears and dots of chocolate to paint on eyes and mouth and whiskers. Cocoanut, sprinkled with green sugar, represented grass, and sometimes tiny jelly beans were placed in nests in the "grass".
Our traditional [dessert was] Easter cake, even though there would be Mama's delectable lemon meringue pie for dessert too, or maybe feather-light "dandy pudding" — Mrs. Groenfeldt's recipe.
Potatoes were cooked in their jackets for Sunday night's potato salad, made with our favorite old-time boiled dressing A couple of dozen eggs hard cooked (for dyeing, later in the evening) and some of which would end up as deviled eggs on the supper table.
Lunch over, kitchen floor scrubbed again, upstairs and downstairs cleaning and dusting finished, we were free to make our own personal preparations. I had a special dream. The big ads in the Ladies' Home Journal and the Woman's Home Companion had been describing a miraculous beauty aid. A Woodbury soap facial, used like a mud pack. It sounded so simple. First, though, I washed my hair, using the shampoo Mama made from Ivory soap: a jelly-like substance which left your hair soft and silky. While toweling my hair dry I also filed my nails and buffed them to a light shine. The girls had rituals of their own to get ready for the Easter parade.
When the bathroom was free, I gathered my paraphernalia together and set out to make myself beautiful for my new hat. The Woodbury soap had been expensive — all of twenty cents — so I followed directions carefully, first washing my face, then working up a thick lather, smearing it all over my face and neck, then letting it stay on for ten minutes.
I looked like a person in a green iron mask; I couldn't talk without cracks appearing in all directions. The girls laughed and teased me — told me it would never come off, and I'd have to go through life with crinkle crepe skin and slits for eyes, nose, and mouth. Privately a bit scared, I shook my head vigorously in defense; I was willing to suffer to be beautiful.
The ten minutes were up; I rinsed off the mask, though I did have to rub rather hard to get off all that lather. Our cistern had run dry of rain water. Mama had told us to pour a few drops of benzoin in the well water to soften it. It gave the water a milky look and a pleasing odor.
I fussed and struggled, carrying the teakettle of hot water back and forth between basin and coal range, since our faucets gave forth only cold water. Alternately, I steamed my face with hot washcloths, then cold, and I began to feel the sensation of glowing skin as described in the magazine ads.
But as I patted my face dry I was aware of an unusual burning and smarting of my face. Looking into the mirror I discovered to my horror my face was fiery red, with overtones of purple! I hadn't realized what the treatment could do to my sensitive skin. I tried patting it with ice-water, bathing it with witch hazel, but it stayed that angry red. I was almost hysterical. How would that face look under the brim of my new hat tomorrow? Nothing that Mama or the now sympathetic girls could say consoled me.
To make matters worse, I had to exchange my book at the library, and I just knew everyone I met would think me a freak. "Wear your new hat," Mama told me. "That wide brim will hide the irritation; no one will notice." I didn't believe it, but it did give a sort of protection. I strapped on my skates and skimmed down town, looking neither to the right nor left. At the library I hurriedly chose another book and brought it to the desk. Miss Lown gazed at me strangely. "You're not coming down with something, are you, Grace?" she asked. "Your face is so flushed." I mumbled something about getting chapped in the wind, and fled before I disgraced myself with tears.
All through the evening, as we helped dye Easter eggs and then laid out our clothes in readiness for the early Sunrise service, I was despondent. The four Easter baskets were brought down from the upstairs closet, and we divided the colored eggs and arranged them carefully. We knew from experience that Mama would put one of her luscious fondant, chocolate covered eggs in the center of each basket before she "hid" them in their usual spots; behind the piano, the big chair, the leather-covered mission davenport, and, Marian's in plain sight, under the center table.
When Mama called us at five next morning, for the Sunrise service, I jumped up and peered in the mirror. The inflamed look had receded — just two bright spots on my cheekbones. I sighed with relief, dressed in warm clothes — new finery was for the later service — and Mama and we four girls walked to church. As the sun was rising we were singing "He Is Risen."
We walked to church again, for the regular service. This time Papa was along, and as he looked approvingly at his four girls dressed in their Easter finery, he smiled at me and said, "You look mighty pretty, young lady." I felt an especial glow, not brought on by the facial.
The church was jammed. The colorful array of hats and wraps vied with the display of lilies on the altar. The choir sang a beautiful anthem, and the Halleluiahs rang out loud and clear.
And in my Easter bonnet I had a glimpse of ethereal beauty — the blessed assurance of life everlasting: the Risen Christ.
Courtesy of the Door County Library Newspaper Archive
[Ad for Colorite hat dye https://www.google.com/books/edition/Motion_Picture_Story_Magazine/yvQKAQAAMAAJ?hl=en&gbpv=1&pg=RA3-PA4&printsec=frontcover
FDA listing for benzoin preparations
https://www.google.com/books/edition/Preamble_Compilation/VPm0_SgzxZUC?hl=en&gbpv=1&pg=PA560&printsec=frontcover
Albany’s Dr. Woodbury and His Soap
https://friendsofalbanyhistory.wordpress.com/2018/10/25/albanys-dr-woodbury-and-his-soap-a-skin-you-love-to-touch/
Court testimony records the ingredients of Woodbury's Facial Soap as they were less than a decade before Samuelson used it. The soap was made of bichloride of mercury, tallow, cocoanut oil, caustic alkali, and borax: https://www.google.com/books/edition/New_York_Court_of_Appeals_Records_and_Br/ShN4tosHygMC?hl=en&gbpv=1&pg=PA142&printsec=frontcover
Cecil Frances Alexander's, "He Is Risen"; the tune Grace's family sang it to was most likely a different one: https://www.google.com/books/edition/The_Sunday_School_Chant_and_Tune_Book/a8i8SNk7mBwC?hl=en&gbpv=1&pg=PA81&printsec=frontcover ]
Articles by Grace Samuelson
https://doorcounty.substack.com/t/grace-samuelson