“Marion here is interested in becoming an actress,” Aunt Jennie said. “I haven’t seen her act, but if her voice is any indication, she’d be the bee’s knees onstage.”
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| Canton Palace Theatre |
Marion says about her search for a job, “It’s not exhilarating in the least. I didn’t get anything. I tried the Palace and the other theaters first, of course, but they weren’t looking for so much as a ticket agent, though I did notice the Palace has a stupendous lineup of shows and I’m more determined than ever to stay in Canton for that. Though a lot of good it’d do me if I don’t have any money!”
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| Broadway, 1916-17 |
The wind was against them as they descended the courthouse steps, snapping at their skin and clothes with ferocious bites. Canton’s brick and stone façades soared over them, every one impressing Ellen with her family’s insignificance and aloneness. She glanced left and right to watch for cars as she and her mother and sisters crossed the street. Even the Gothic church behind them was stern and cold. Bells clanged over the traffic noise, clock towers proclaiming twelve noon like any ordinary day.
Ellen looked back at the gold-bricked courthouse, glancingThe Dashiell family lives in Vassar Park, a neighborhood that sprang up in the 1920s when housing was booming. Today it’s one of the inner layers of Canton, but back then, it was near the outskirts. Their home is a fairly large Elizabethan. Rather close to where I imagined them living, I found this house:
at the angels trumpeting in the high tower. The trumpeters of justice? She’d always admired this palatial structure, but now it galled her.
It had been a dream house, this Elizabethan. She [Marion], Ellen, and Greta had squealed in delight when they saw it for the first time seven years ago. It was out of a fairy tale. Its maples, elms, and oaks were woods, its flowering plum trees enchanted brides, its gardens fairy courts, its yard a lawn where energetic imagination knew no bounds. Inside, the girls each got their own room, like true princesses, and the number of rooms felt mountainous. Four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a cellar, an attic, a kitchen, a laundry, a dining room, a living room! Everything was bright and new. What she wouldn’t give to go back to those days.
Ridgewood was a ritzier neighborhood than Vassar Park;
one step out from Canton, it was at least one step up in class, with red brick roads, spacious lawns, and large, strongly individualistic houses. The Depression had raided here, too, however; several mansions had the empty, haunted look of homes longing after their owners.
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| Jane Austen Watercolor, public domain |
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| Unsplash |
Ellen…preferred classics like A Tale of Two Cities and The Scarlet Letter, heavier fare that withstood decades of opinion. Maybe she was a snob, but why read unless one expanded one’s mind? That was her idea of enjoyment. Entertainment came from cinema and radio.
[S]atiating herself with a swashbuckling adventure novel put her in a happier state of mind and gave her sweet dreams.
And now for the fun stuff—Beautiful Books: The Writing Process!
The world was a mass of white, punctuated by trees … the evergreens were a welcome breach, having shaken most of the snow off their branches, but the deciduous ones stood naked and shivering. Ellen knew how they felt … a shudder traveled through her as the wind pounded on their long, boxy DeSoto, demanding to be let in. The sky was dingy white with domineering clouds. No amount of snow bathed in heavenly light, softening the angles and curves of the landscape, and making one think of purity, hearths, Christmas, and childhood fun, would ever make Ellen appreciate winter.
Her winters had been intolerable since the Depression had begun, because, like every other expense, the Dashiells needed to curb their coal use. Cold-natured Ellen might as well have been living inside an icebox from late November to March as she bundled up at home, froze on her way to work with Dad (or, for the past two weeks, on the bus), and shivered even in the office.
Marion … fastened a favorite necklace of hers—a long silver chain suspending a blue glass stone in a sunburst—around Ellen’s neck. “There. That tops everything off and you don’t look like such a secretary anymore.”
Ellen glanced in the full-length mirror. Her dress was light gray, circled with a narrow black belt, with a rippling collar, buttons down the bodice, and shallow pleats in the skirt. Conservative, and correct, and boring by Marion’s standards, it was the nicest dress she owned. The teal-blue one with lace overlays had snags, and it was too youthful for the look she was going for. She grinned. “What’s wrong with looking like a secretary? They have to look nice; not gorgeous like an actress, but dolled up all the same. Haven’t I been doing my job?”
“Sure you have!” Marion laid her hands on Ellen’s upper arms and slid her chin onto her shoulder; both brown-eyed, fresh-looking faces stared into the mirror side by side. “But there’s a secretary look and there’s a dinner date look. I’m going for the dinner date look. Ya need jewelry for that.”Ellen just wants to look decent and classy for her office job, but Marion pursues fashion. She has no money, but she’s a genius with a needle and can usually adapt her and her sisters’ clothing to keep up with the times. They have their preferred colors—Ellen, gray and blue; Marion, white, pink, mint green … anything bright. (I wish I had pictures, but I didn’t have enough time to find any. But take a glance at my book cover to see their faces, at least.)
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