Depression-Era Ypsilanti Cooperates to Combat Its Children’s Rickets

Some of the Depression’s hardest-hit victims in Ypsilanti were its youngest.

In 1933, the city’s municipal Welfare League and the Red Cross provided needy families with food, stove fuel, small emergency stipends, ready-made clothing, and cloth yardage with which to sew clothes. Occasional shipments of federal flour arrived, and many area farmers donated surplus produce to the “city barn” behind the then-City Hall at 206 North Huron (the Showerman/Quirk residence). But the assistance, though sincere, was ad hoc–and the supplies unpredictable.

It would be two years before Franklin Roosevelt created federal welfare programs, including assistance to children. However, the government did have a Children’s Bureau, headed by social worker Grace Abbott. She estimated that in 1933, 20 percent of the country’s children suffered from inadequate medical care, housing, and food.

When cases of rickets began appearing in Ypsilanti children that year, it was clear an extra effort was needed.

Rickets is a dietary disease caused by a vitamin D deficiency which inhibits calcium absorption by bones. Children with rickets can develop a bow-legged look due to weakened leg bones. Left untreated, rickets can lead to permanent bow-leggedness, an increased risk of bone fractures, and even seizures and breathing difficulties in severe cases.

On February 7, 1933, the Ypsilanti Welfare League took out a large ad in the Ypsilanti Daily Press. It featured an image of two disconsolate children superimposed with the words “Gee, I’m hungry.” The ad said that of 425 children of city welfare families, 150 were preschoolers. The ad also said, “Several cases of Ricketts [sic] have been reported to health authorities in the city because of undernourishment.”

The Welfare League’s plan was to stage a night of fundraising carnivals held at local schools. Admission was to be 25 cents [$4.10 today]. The money would be pooled to purchase milk from local dairies to supply to needy children. Vitamin D-enriched milk had been available on the market beginning in 1931.

Participating schools included Roosevelt High School (now EMU’s Roosevelt Hall), Prospect School (now Adams Elementary), Central High School (now Cross Street Village), Harriet School (now the Perry Child Development Center) and the stately Woodruff School (now demolished).

Each school planned a different program of entertainment. After paying admission, attendees could visit multiple venues, not unlike Ypsilanti’s onetime New Year’s Jubilee festival.

“Prospect School’s program will be in the form of a Depression masquerade,” said a February 13 Ypsilanti Daily Press article. “Old time and modern dancing will be provided” to live orchestra music, with prizes for best mask.

Roosevelt School also planned a program of modern and old-timey dancing to live music, the paper said, as well as an additional performance by acrobats.

Harriet School planned a musical program with performances by the Harriet School band, the Golden Leaf Jubilee Singers, and the Charles Hughes Tap Dancers and Musical Revue. There would also be a minstrel show. Other performances among the schools included comedy skits, vocal soloists, and accordion music.

On the night of Monday, February 13, Ypsilantians flocked to the schools, with quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies in hand. “There was a generous response Monday evening to the call of [the] Ypsilanti welfare committee,” said a February 14 Ypsilanti Daily Press article. The paper noted that many people unable to attend had nevertheless bought tickets, to aid the effort.

The milk fund drive was a success, raising $315.91 [$5,200 today]. The Welfare League met and “arrangements were completed to immediately begin distribution among undernourished children of the city over 5,300 quarts of milk,” said a February 18, Ypsilanti Daily Press article.

The article said that city welfare director Fred Older, city nurse Helen Firestein, and city social worker Inez Graves would be in charge of arranging the milk purchase. “Several milk dealers in Ypsilanti have already declared their willingness to sell the regular standard grade of milk and deliver it in bottles for six cents a quart . . . exceptional care will be exercised in making up the list inasmuch as the fund must be made to reach as far as possible.”

At six cents a quart, 5,265 quarts could be purchased (1,316 gallons), close to the Welfare League’s estimate of “over 5,300 quarts.” If the milk was distributed only to the 425 welfare family children mentioned in the Welfare League’s initial ad, each child would receive about three gallons.

For some children, the milk’s arrival may have been too late to arrest or ameliorate their rickets. For others, it was the first sip of milk they’d had in over four months–and, when the 3 gallons was gone, their last, perhaps until spring. That was when the Welfare League planned another fundraising event, one that would again reveal the milk of human kindness.

Laura Bien is the author of “Tales of the Ypsilanti Archives.” Have an old-time story to share? Contact her at ypsidixit@gmail.com.

The Trials of a City Directory-Writer in 1883

In the days before online people-finding search engines or even the yellow pages, yearly city directories offered information on business and residential addresses. For many years the Detroit-based firm of Polk’s compiled directories for Ypsilanti.

In 1883, however, a different company compiled the city directory—Coldwater-based Wendell Directory Company.

Unlike any of the Polk guides, the Wendell directory was prefaced by a poem about Ypsilanti that offers an outsider’s view of the city the company investigated.

Poets are numerous now-a-days, and so
It’s not surprising we should cut a caper
In noble verse; it don’t cost much you know,
For pens and ink are cheap and so is paper,
And even if we do hunt Webster thro’
What matters it if we can make it do? . . .

Ypsilanti has thriven, and is now a city,
Numbering about six thousand population—
(There should be ten, but is not more’s the pity—
A census always is an aggravation,
Which, instead of giving cities a fair showing,
Seems made on purpose to retard their growing!)

Many small local factories and mills of the day ran on hydropower. Wendell’s poem took note of that, and mentioned in passing the onetime strategy of dust control for the town’s many dirt roads. In later years, Ypsilanti’s dirt roads were treated with oil, in an effort to tamp down the ever-present dust.

Its greatest feature is its water power,
Which is magnificent and very fine.
And one that is as good and rich a dower
As nature could bequeath; it proves a mine
Of untold wealth, a bank that cannot “bust,”
And one effectual for laying dust!

The poet took note that local businesses were full of entrepreneurial vim.

Its merchants are most enterprising men,
And don’t believe in sticking in the mud;
Their maxin’s go ahead, excepting when
Being stationary does them the most good!
Taking them all in all they know their “biz,”
And never call things pop unless they fizz.

Such merchants in 1883 included the Huron Street Hardware store. Their November 10, 1883 ad touted the “Iron Acorn” stove, the “Union Churn,” and the “Bench Wringer” for wringing out freshly-washed clothes: “It makes the Wash Women Smile.”

According to another 1883 ad, the Ypsilanti Bazaar on North Huron offered tin and glassware, photo albums, lamps, ladies’ and gents’ underwear, hoopskirts, corsets, and stationery.

Down at the Depot, George Neat’s variety store sold sugar, tea, coffee, and canned goods that included vegetables, lobster, whitefish, trout, and mackerel.

Cleary’s school of penmanship downtown on Michigan Avenue offered “Superior Advantages to Gentlemen and Ladies who are desirous of acquiring a rapid, graceful style of writing, either for business advantages or for successfully teaching Spencerian and Ornamental Penmanship.”

On the present-day Water Street site, the onetime Parsons Brothers lumberyard advertised lumber, flooring, moldings, fencing, and “Scroll Sawing neatly done with our new Deflecting Scroll Saw.”

And the Opera House on Michigan Avenue advertised an evening with a spiritualist. “An evening in the Spirit World,” said the November 17 ad. “Prof. Chas. N. Stein will give a Religious Illustrated Lecture, assisted by the Empress of Mediums, Mrs. Martha E. Steen, Presenting the whole of Modern Spiritualism in open light. Is it true or false? Come and see.” Admission was 25 and 35 cents [$5.70 and $8 today].

Getting around to these and other places, however, wasn’t always easy for a directory-man trying to catalogue the city. Some of the outlying streets weren’t labeled with street signs, a condition that must have been frustrating to anyone attempting to collect addresses.

For instance, there are streets within the city
Unnamed, or if they are the name’s unknown,
Especially in the suburbs food for pity
In this particular. We all must own
There’s much occasion for a man to swear,
When hunting for a street which isn’t there!

Equally vexing to the directory-man was the somewhat haphazard house numbering system. Some years later downtown residence and business numbers were overhauled and renumbered in a more systematic fashion. In 1883, however, a random element made things difficult.

Again the numbers on the houses are
A little mixed, and no one can be sure
But what is “sixty” is a “forty-four,”
In fact it may be less, or may be more;
It isn’t nice to hunt for “nine” you see
And have ’em say, “why, this is fifty-three!”

Of course not, consequently we suggest
A revision of the system, all throughout it,
The cost is trifling, and it’s the best
To have a thing correct, when one’s about it,
And then, how nice, to feel securely sure,
That number forty-eight ain’t twenty-four.

As the directory man tramped through town, perplexed by absent street signs and mixed-up house numbers, his quest wasn’t made easier by the somewhat rough sidewalks.

There also are some sidewalks here and there
That somehow like to have you “take a seat,”
The trouble is, it looks so awful queer,
That no one cares to do it in the street;
Its not “in style,” and people have a passion For doing nothing but what’s “in the fashion.”

And so we think (we’re very fond of talking)
Another kind of walk would better please,
One that confines its usefulness for walking,
And not for sitting down, as some of these! Still, we can truly say there’s very few Bad sidewalks in the city, but one or two.

After the information had been laboriously collected and returned to Coldwater for printing and binding, the directory man in his poem bade farewell to Ypsilanti.

Just so. And now our book being ended,
There’s nothing left to do but bid good-bye,
With thanks to those who have our work befriended,
We take our leave with a regretful sigh,
And in the words of foreign lore—Au Revoir,
Because we hope again to meet your eye.

Have an old-time story to share? Contact Laura at ypsidixit@gmail.com.

Ypsilanti’s Glaswegian Cobbler-Inventor

The Scottish-born immigrant contribution to 19th-century Ypsilanti life is undersung. Farmer-poet William Lambie published numerous poems in the Ypsilanti Commercial and shared a correspondence with Quaker poet John Greenleaf Whittier. Helen McAndrew was a doctor maintaining her own hospital in an era when few women worked outside the home. Archibald McNicol did not allow his humble occupation of cobbler to prevent him from becoming an inventor.

Born in Glasgow on February 8, 1839, Archibald apprenticed as a shoemaker. He emigrated at age 27 just after the American Civil War. After stints in Canada, Detroit, and Romeo, Michigan, he settled in Ypsilanti. He married Michigan-born Helen Treat in 1872 at age 33.

As a cobbler, Archibald spent his days cutting shapes from leather, stitching scraps together, and nailing on soles. However he had a creative and problem-solving mind. Two years after his marriage he filed a patent for an invention connected with his trade. He named his creation after himself.

“McNicol Cement” was compounded of India-rubber, gutta-percha, balata, and chloroform. The concoction was a glue for leather and a waterproofing agent.

The antique terms deserve explanation. “India rubber” is probably most familiar to old-timers as gum elastic, derived from a tropical tree and at one time common in pencil erasers. Gutta-percha and balata were other forms of rubber also derived from trees. The chloroform Archibald mixed into his concoction was likely purchased from a downtown drugstore.

“To cement pieces of leather together,” read Archibald’s patent description, “skive [pare down] each piece of leather to a wedge-like edge, apply the McNicol cement to both pieces, and after lapping them together pound slightly with a hammer or mallet to bring the pieces into close contact, and give ten minutes to thoroughly dry.” Skiving the edges of the leather before gluing them together increased the surface area and made for a smooth joint without a ridge.

McNicol Cement seems to have had some success. In his 1881 book “History of Washtenaw County,” Charles Chapman included mention of the cobbler-inventor. “In 1867 he came to Ypsilanti,” said Chapman, “and soon after invented the well-known McNicol cement, and traveled and sold the county and state rights for over 11 years.” However, Archibald did not abandon his occupation of shoemaker.

By 1880, Archibald and his one-month-older wife Helen were 41. They lived on Summit Street with their 7 year old daughter Jeanie and their 3 year old son. Helen’s 79 year old mother Sarah shared their home, as did a 28 year old apprentice shoemaker, Wentworth.

Archibald wasn’t through with inventing. In 1886, when he was 47, he filed a patent for a “door check,” a spring-loaded device that slowed the closure of the door upon which it was mounted, preventing it from slamming.

At the turn of the century, Archibald was 61. He continued to work as a shoemaker and along with his son, who worked as a grocer, supported an entire household that included Archibald’s wife Helen, his 23 year old son and his son’s wife Maud, Archibald’s 17 year old daughter Helen, and Maud’s 6 month old infant, also named Helen. Archibald owned the home, at 717 Congress Street.

He shared a shop downtown at 128 East Michigan Avenue with the candymakers Schiappacasse and Bullo and with insurance agent Edmund Hewitt. The shared shop’s neighbors included the F. C. Banghart meat market and the Senate Saloon.

In his 60s, Archibald was still not finished with inventing. In 1902, he filed for a patent for his improved hook and eye fastener, an intricate wire contraption that appears to have been intended for use on clothing, not shoes. Soon afterwards, Archibald turned 70. The art of shoemaking that he’d learned as a boy in Glasgow had enabled him to make a living, maintain a downtown shop, and successfully support a family in America for many decades.

Archibald’s wife Helen passed away and was buried in Highland Cemetery. Shortly after his 71st birthday, Archibald fell ill. He was taken to Ann Arbor’s Homeopathic Hospital and there died.

On Archibald’s death certificate, the coroner wrote as cause of death “autointoxication.” The period term did not refer to alcohol but to a theory of the day that self-poisoning resulted from incorrect nutrition or malfunction of the digestive system. Archibald’s daughter Jean signed the death certificate.

Archibald was buried with Helen in block 54 of Highland Cemetery.

Have an old-time story to share? Drop Laura  a line at ypsidixit@gmail.com.

Ypsilanti Thanksgivings During World War Two

“Any prisoners confined in the jail on Thanksgiving Day will be served the usual menu of bologna and bread,” said the November 20, 1941 Ypsilanti Daily Press in an article about Thanksgiving Day menus in the city’s public institutions.

The article went on to say that Beyer Hospital, the Ypsilanti State Hospital southwest of town, and Leland Sanitarium north of town could expect the traditional turkey dinner with all the trimmings. Beyer also planned to serve celery and pear pickles and Leland would serve tomato bouillon and celery hearts. At the State Hospital, staff received a turkey dinner but patients made do with pork chops and mashed potatoes.

But the austere jail repast, served only about two weeks before the attack on Pearl Harbor, was an augury of rationed Thanksgiving meals to come.

Sugar was the first food to be rationed in May of 1942, and would be the last item to leave the ration list in 1947. By the fall of 1942, the price of turkeys was soaring. “The housewife shopping for turkey and trimmings today is realizing the high cost of being thankful,” noted an article in the November 25, 1942 Ypsilanti Daily Press. “Turkeys are fine this year, but high! They’re also plentiful but not for civilians. The Army, Navy, Coast Guard, Marines, WAACS and WAVES have gobbled up so many gobblers that many markets in the larger cities won’t have a turkey left on Thanksgiving eve.”

The article continued, “You can be thankful if you have coffee on hand otherwise tea will top off your meal as all coffee sales are frozen this week.” Three days later on November 28, 1942, coffee joined sugar on the ration list, to be purchased with stamps from one’s personal ration book.

The Ypsilanti Archives safeguards former Ypsilanti Press editor Eileen Harrison’s World War II ration books. At the time, Eileen was 40 years old, single, and living at 413 Washtenaw. The Archives contains her gas ration book, showing that she had an “A” rating for her 1935 coupe. This was the smallest ration (about 3 or 4 gallons a week) and was allotted to those whose driving was deemed nonessential to the war effort. “B” and “C” ratings offered greater amounts of gas, “T” was given to truckers, and “X,” the category allowing unlimited use of gas, was given to civil defense workers and public safety officials.

The Archives also contains Eileen’s ration book for food (at left), with an array of blue stamps used to buy processed and canned foods. Red stamps were used to buy meat. Stamps could not be saved up for a big Thanksgiving meal. Every week the Office of Price Administration in charge of the rationing program published lists of the specific stamp numbers that could be used that week and that week only to purchase specified quantities of food such as coffee. The office was trying to prevent hoarding.

“Enough coffee will be available during the life of the first coupon, but if everyone tries to redeem all of his stamps, the first day or the first week, there simply will not be enough to go around,” said an article in the November 28, 1942 Ypsilanti Daily Press. “Because of the perishable nature of the roasted and ground bean, the administration pointed out that excessively large household stocks would mean that people would be drinking stale coffee.”

On March 29, 1943 the rationed-foods list added many more foods, including cheese, butter, edible fats, canned fish and milk, processed foods, and just about every imaginable variety of fresh, frozen, smoked, canned, or preserved meat, including turkeys. The March 12, 1943 Ypsilanti Daily Press listed the new weekly limits per person:

“Meat—2 to 2 ¼ lbs.
Butter—4 ½ oz.
Lard—4 oz.
Margarine—1 1/3 oz.
Cheese—slightly less than 2 oz.
Shortening—3 oz.”

The paper pointed out that this was far more than was being rationed to the British, who could get only 1 ¼ pound of meat and 2 ounces of butter per week.

Ads in the Ypsilanti papers reflected food concerns. A March 12, 1943 ad for the Savage Community Store off Holmes Road says, “Don’t waste food: store it properly, prepare it carefully, buy it sensibly.” In the same edition, a Morton’s Salt ad proclaims, “Salt on grapefruit makes it sweeter.” A November 26, 1943 ad for Warner Dairy at 928 West Michigan Avenue said, “Hitler’s Children Don’t Get Milk Every Day—Be Thankful That You Do!”

Ypsilantians preparing for Thanksgiving that month were helped by an easing of meat point requirements. “Despite the fowl shortage,” said an article in the November 25, 1943 Ypsilanti Daily Press, “Ypsilanti’s soldiers and civilians apparently have not suffered and Thanksgiving menus today appear equal to those of previous years with roast turkey the favorite . . .”

It wouldn’t be until Thanksgiving of 1945, months after the surrender of German and Japanese forces, that the two-and-one-half-year federal rationing of meat ended, on November 24. For some Ypsilantians that post-war Thanksgiving was likely the first lavish meal in years.

At other homes, the feast table had empty chairs.

Ypsilanti merchants planned an end-of-November Christmas shopping event. “‘The lights will be on again’ marking the end of wartime restrictions,” said an article in the November 27, 1945 Ypsilanti Daily Press. “Ypsilanti merchants will do their utmost to make this a real old-time Christmas. Toys are here in profusion, and gifts for adults too, in such quantity and assortment as the limited market permits.” The event would feature strolling musicians, a performance by the Drum and Bugle Corps, the Boy Scout Drum Corps, and a torchlight parade to the Post Office where Santa would hold court.

After privation and sorrow, worry and loss, rations and restrictions, the city was thankful for peace.

Laura Bien is the author of “Tales from the Ypsilanti Archives.” Have a WWII story to share for a future column? Contact her at ypsidixit@gmail.com.

Thank Goodness for Laundry

When was the last time you were thankful to do laundry?

Right after World War II, electric washing machines were an exciting new possibility for Ypsilanti families. Detroit Edison advertised them in its November 26, 1945 Ypsilanti Daily Press ad. Next to the image of a presumed housewife’s face, the ad copy read, “My electric life is wonderful—and it will be still better.”

The war was over. During it, production of consumer appliances had all but ceased, in favor of steering raw materials to bombers, tanks, and soldiers’ supplies. At war’s end, many of the appliances in Ypsilanti homes dated from the Depression, or earlier.

Factories reverted from wartime production to consumer goods. Metals, rubber, and other resources again became available to domestic manufacturers.

The washing machine in Detroit Edison’s Press ad resembled a barrel. “A peek into my basement,” reads the ‘housewife’s’ narration, “would reveal . . . an all-electric laundry that washes, rinses, and damp-dries [spins] my clothes . . .” Clothes still had to be hung on the clothesline or a rack to dry. But the electric washer was a big step up from hand-cranked wooden washing machines resembling a lidded half-barrel, such as the one in the Ypsilanti Historical Society’s kitchen.

Electric clothes driers, also from Detroit Edison, wouldn’t appear in Ypsilanti newspaper advertisements for another decade. “For the price of a laundry basket you can do 50 loads in your electric clothes dryer,” read a September 4, 1956 Ypsilanti Daily Press ad. “No more heavy clothes baskets to lug outdoors. Just turn the dial to get soft, fluffy laundry every time. No wonder smart homemakers say: ‘You can live Better . . . Electrically.’”

The electric washer wasn’t the only new postwar appliance advertised in the 1945 Detroit Edison ad. Another was a home freezer that offered “fresh foods at any season of the year,” as opposed to seasonal eating. Mention was also made of a “safe” refrigerator.

This echoes earlier ads for GE refrigerators, whose cylindrical compressors on top led to the public’s nicknaming them “Monitor Top,” due to the visual similarity to the famed Civil War ironclad vessel the “Monitor.” One 1927 Monitor Top ad read that it is now “safe to be hungry,” suggesting that food spoiled relatively quickly in old-fashioned iceboxes.

The other two appliances in the 1945 Detroit Edison ad are a “clean” electric range (as opposed to a sooty wood or coal stove) and an air conditioner that is the size of a modern fridge and dishwasher combined. The ad also read “No more worrying about hot water in the morning, for my husband’s shaving, or during the day for the hot water needed for a thousand and one chores, and at night for the refreshing baths we all look forward to so much.”

Reliable hot water that didn’t need to be heated on a stovetop was also a selling point for the Ypsilanti City Gas Department. The YCGD, headquartered at 111 Pearl Street (now the site of Congdon’s Hardware) also jumped into the postwar business of selling appliances. Its April 23, 1946 Ypsilanti Daily Press ad promises, “all the hot water you need from an automatic GAS water heater on 24-hour service for kitchen, laundry, bath.” This device was an early iteration of what is now known as a tankless water heater.

The gas company ad’s main selling point, however, was that the kitchen would be cooler without a cast iron stove.

The electric or gas range wasn’t new. As early as 1933 electric ranges were advertised in local papers. “Enjoy these advantages of Electric Cooking!” read one November 6, 1933 Detroit Edison Ad in the Press. The ad listed the five virtues of electric cooking. The first was “clean.” “There is no smoke or soot to blacken utensils or soil kitchen walls or curtains.” The next benefit was “waterless cooking.” “With your electric range you use no water for roasts and only half a cup for vegetables.” The remaining 3 virtues were “modern,” “healthful,” and “full flavored.” The ad offered a trial period of six months for a dollar a month, after which the user could buy the range or have it removed from the home at no expense.

Even earlier, in 1907 the Washtenaw Light and Power Company held its “Great Free Electric Cooking Demonstration” downtown, as noted in an article in the April 18, 1907 Ypsilanti Daily Press.

“The audience at the cooking demonstration grows larger with each succeeding day and each lady who has attended is greatly enthused over the wonderful things that are being accomplished with the agent electricity.”

The article continued, “The demonstration of cooking is made at a very attractive booth, and here also are exhibited and used the different utensils, such as combination liquid beaters, cereal cookers, coffee percolators, chafing dishes, broilers, frying pans, and ovens, all of which are extremely serviceable. A huge Japanese umbrella, studded with variously colored electric lights, is suspended above the booth, giving the display a brilliant appearance. Attendees sampled tomato rarebit, tapioca pudding, coffee, and cake.”

But electrical devices didn’t find widespread acceptance in town until the post-WWII period. Then, the new crop of mechanized household aids put money in Detroit Edison’s pocket and gave housewives some reprieve from long days of backbreaking labor.

It’s hard to imagine being grateful for laundry. But after the long desperation of the Depression and the food and fuel rationing and shortages of World War Two, the postwar tide of new home helpers gave new freedom to Ypsilanti housewives.

Something as prosaic as an electric washing machine was a miracle for which to be thankful.

Laura is the authos of “Tales from the Ypsilanti Archives.” Have an idea for a column? Contact Laura at ypsidixit@gmail.com.

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