THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, November 26, 1995 TAG: 9511230285
SECTION: CHESAPEAKE CLIPPER PAGE: 02 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: Random Rambles
SOURCE: Tony Stein
LENGTH: Medium: 84 lines
I need a new suit, so I checked out a Sears catalog. There it was - all wool, complete with vest, tailor-made to my measure, $22 complete.
The price was right, but the timing was wrong. I was looking at a Sears catalog from 1900. These days, 22 bucks wouldn't buy a coat sleeve for a leprechaun.
I found this time-warping catalog at that outpost of Chesapeake culture, the Great Bridge Book Store. See the friendly proprietor, Judy Kerr. See MacFred, the resident cat, who will stand on your lap and hug you like you were the Publishers Clearing House guy bringing a $100,000 check.
Also see lots of offbeat books like the Sears catalog. Actually, a miniature replica of the original designed to give you a hoot over the way things were 95 years ago. Plus some stern advice for consumers on the front cover. ``This book,'' it says, ``tells just what your storekeeper at home pays for everything he buys and will prevent him from overcharging you on anything you buy from him.''
Let's say it's November 1900 and you are a fashionable Norfolk County gent who wants a new derby hat. If your local merchant hits you up for more than a couple of bucks, be wary. Mr. Sears and Mr. Roebuck have a nifty model for $1.49. Or, ladies, if you are in the market for a ``handsome satin corset with long waist, short hips and medium figure,'' quibble if the price is more than $2.50.
If stylish ladies had to suffer corsets, high-toned gents were sentenced to wearing stiff collars. Fortunately, discomfort came cheap, like about $1.35 for a dozen. And if you wanted a dozen new scarfs ``in the latest shape'' to wear with your collars, they were $6 a dozen.
An item on page 16 of the catalog reminded me that muttering over federal regulations ignores what might happen if the feds weren't there. Especially the Food and Drug Administration. I'm looking at an ad for Dr. Hammond's Nerve and Brain Pills. The ad writer wasn't shy. ``No matter what the cause may be or how severe the trouble is,'' the cure is at hand. In fact ``Six boxes positively guaranteed to cure any disease.''
Not to worry, though. Page 24 of the catalog had a list of 24 other remedies and promised ``a cure for almost every disease.'' They were 15 cents each. Order a dozen and you got a case to keep them in plus a book entitled ``Our Family Doctor.'' It gave instruction on home treatment of ``all the troubles the human system is subject to.'' I wonder if it told us how to get rid of idiotically squabbling politicians.
While Mr. Sears and Mr. Roebuck were keeping you healthy, they also aimed to make you wealthy. How? See page 209 of the catalog. It detailed the wonders of the Optigraph, a motion picture machine. Buy an Optigraph and you were on your way to riches as you showed moving pictures to a marveling public.
Sears was right there with the moving pictures, too. ``Our list,'' the company said, ``is practically unlimited, from grave to gay, from the sublime to the ridiculous.'' Like battle scenes and trains and acrobats and ocean liners and, apparently, whatever moved within range of a camera. A mere $35 for the machine put you in business. Nothing was said, however, about a popcorn concession. Nor should you blame Sears, Roebuck if the list of movie subjects fails to burble your blood. The first movie with a story line, ``The Great Train Robbery,'' wasn't made until 1903.
A reflection of the way America lived then was the selection of farm equipment. Back then, farming was the country's major industry with almost 11 million people tilling the soil. So the catalog listed rural necessities like plows, hay forks and gadgets for treating sick animals, And, in those dawn-of-the-auto days, there were buggies plain and fancy. Like a handsome surrey for $69 or the company's finest open sleigh for $22.50. The horse to pull it, and the jingle bells were extra.
Yes, the prices were laughable by 1995 standards. But so was the income of the people who bought the goods. The average weekly wage in 1900 was $12.75 for an average work week of 59 hours. On the other hand, the Very Rich Folks loved to throw parties with price tags starting at $100,000. Or they built seaside mansions of 30 rooms that they - with a straight face - called ``cottages.''
Now we're winding down to the end of the century that opened with the publication of the funny old catalog. I was startled the other day to see the expiration date of a handicapped parking permit hanging in a car window. It was July 2000. Zip! Zam! And the 20th Century will be history. Considering how close we've come to blowing ourselves away with nuclear weapons and handguns for anyone past potty training, we ought to feel lucky that we've made it this far. by CNB