June 28, 1914

I am not writing in my diary every day. My mundane life just is not that interesting. Yesterday, I jotted a couple lines for a poem.

Sweet lips I may never kiss. She is one perhaps I will miss.

I pushed it aside as drivel but write it in this diary today. It is worth noting Corina Engelhart rode down Brooklyn Road yesterday on her Golden Sunbeam three-speed safety bike. I saw her through my window. Her costume consisted of a white cotton twilled serge divided skirt, a blue waist blouse buttoned to her neck adorned with a red bow tie and a straw hat decorated with flowers. She carried a satchel with three words printed on it. The only one I could make out was perfume. I presumed she made good on her words and called on Liz the barmaid.

Today, I thought about going to church this morning, but decided to sit by the river and give thanks. I felt things were going well here. Again, the barmaid surprised me shouting from the road, “Thanks for talkin’ with Corina, Governor.”

Her hair was washed, combed, and pleated down the middle. With red lips and makeup around her eyes, she actually looked attractive, if she didn’t smile. Her decayed teeth were hard to forget. I waved and replied, “You’re welcome.”

The sun shined with few clouds. I decided to read a novel on my porch and save fly fishing for the long evening, cooler weather. Deeply absorbed in the story, I was distracted by Corina’s distant voice saying “Well, you are here Governor. I’ll stop and chat.”

Today she wore black Turkish bloomers, stockings and laced up boots. Her starched and pressed white shirt had puffed out sleeves which hid her muscular shoulders and arms. They were tied at the wrists with black ribbons. Her black bow tie matched the bowler hat which looked very much like mine.

She pedaled up and gracefully slipped off the dropped frame bicycle. “I just love this machine. It was a revolutionary deliverance and salvation to an active woman. I needed a radical change of costume to be suitably clad to enjoy the health benefits and quality underwear to maintain my womanhood and propriety.” She turned and gave me full length profile. “What do you think, Governor?”

I blushed and laughed, “Lovely indeed. I saw Liz this morning and her appearance was vastly improved. That was very kind of you, but you shouldn’t call me Governor.”

“Why not, she coined the nickname and I bet it sticks.”

“Charming.”

“Oh, I forgot, ding-dong, California Perfume Company calling.”

“I don’t need any perfume but thank you for calling.”

“Sir, we’ve had a full line of toiletry and make up products for men and women since 1902. Please accept this free sample of shampoo.” I smiled and put it in my pocket.

“I’m selling makeup door to door and I’ve got work on my sales spiel.”

“Really.”

She lifted the satchel. “The company name isn’t very descriptive; it offers more than perfume and the headquarters are in New York not California. Wouldn’t a romantic name like Avon be better?”

“Like Strafford-on-Avon?”

“Yes, dreamy don’t you think? The company has an interesting story. You want to hear it?”

“But of course.”

“In 1886 David McConnell was an unsuccessful book salesman. He concocted a rose-scent perfume as a gift to encourage book sales. He abandoned selling books because the perfume was more popular and established California Perfume Company. In the same year, a certain Mrs. Albee started selling the perfume door-to-door and recruited a team of saleswomen. My Mum sold cosmetics. I makeup dead people and they look pretty good. I might as well help the living too.”

“Nice job with Liz.”

“I’m walking a fine line selling in Brooklyn, but these women need the service. By buying from me, they can avoid the cat calls and embarrassment on the other side of the river. I bet I can sell a lot of shaving soap, safety razors and lotion to the men too. I need to be careful with going to men’s doors.”

“You’re at mine.”

She smiled, “You’re different, Governor.”

“Stop that.”

“I have to go sell. I’ll let you know how I’m doing.” She hopped on her bike and pedaled into Brooklyn.

A Proposal

July 1, 1914

I spoke with Corina Engelhart this week at the pool and today at her garden.  She had a cheerful disposition and a positive attitude.  I found myself crossing the river at the Second Street Bridge, on my way to the Cabin Hotel, just so I can walk near her house.  I saw her working in the garden.  She waved and walked to the fence. “Your hair looks lovely. You’re using the shampoo. How is your day going?”

“I did, thanks and doing well. It’s a beautiful day.”

“That’s good, Governor.”

“You know I’m called that at the pubs now.”

“I told you the name would stick, and I had nothing to do with it, honest.”

“It’s a bit bewildering.” Not knowing what to say next, I blurted out, “How is your Tuberculosis?” regretting it instantly.

She was surprisingly casual, “I have a 1 in 7 chance of dying from it. I feel healthy, Julius and rarely cough,” then she paused and asked, “Do you have time for a cup of tea?”

I pulled my watch from my vest pocket and clicked it open. “I do, but I need to be at work in a half hour.”

“I put the kettle on to boil a bit ago.” She ran in the house and came back immediately, “Here, look at this while you’re waiting.” Oddly, she handed a tri-folded sheet to me without looking at me. “It’ll be ready in a jiffy.” She was back in her house before I opened the sheet.

I read the large, bold headline “The Woman Rebel, No Gods No Masters” then Vol. 1 March 1914 No. 1

Titled “The Aim” and it stated, “This paper will not be the champion of any “ism.” All Rebel women are invited to contribute….   And the paper will obstinately refuse to adjust to the reader.” The article highlighted the present chaos of the sexual atmosphere and difficulty of young women to know what constitutes clean living without prudishness. Surveys of New York prostitutes showed their first encounter was with a sweetheart or simply the impelling urge of nature. Circumstances forced them to leave their town, be in the business and now they were shunned because they were no longer virgins. It went on to advocate sex education, stopping the slavery of marriage with contraception and free speech for all women.

“Your tea is ready. Shall we take it outside on the porch?”

“Um, yes.”

She looked me straight in the eyes and stated, “Margaret Sanger, the writer is the leader of the birth control movement. Her mother had 18 children in 22 years and died at age 50.”

“This paper was folded to the shape of an envelope, can easily be construed as obscene material and illegal to mail with the US Postal Service. I probably could be arrested for just holding it.”

“My aunt in New York mailed it and in 1909 it became unlawful to deliver obscenity by train. You are correct, in Colorado it is criminal misdemeanor to deliver it by hand.”

I just looked at her, she was sizing me up.

“I’m going to encourage contraception and sell makeup to the girls in Brooklyn. I’m sure the married women in town would welcome both too.”

I handed the newsletter back. “Why are you telling me you’re going to break the law?”

“Because I researched the obscenity law in Colorado and there is an exception for, if you will, birth control. The regulation provides that it, ‘shall not be construed to affect the practice of regular practitioners of medicine and druggists.’ I’m going to find a sympathetic doctor, support the use and perhaps deliver the goods.”

“Miss Engelhart, surly you jest!”

“Not at all, I’m already walking a fine line by going to Brooklyn. It will be building social capital and serving the community. I’ll tell you one thing Mr. Brandon. When the gentlemen go to the study to talk horse racing and drink whiskey, the gentlewomen go to parlor at my aunt’s New York home to talk about sex and contraception. Why is it available to the rich and not the poor?”

“I don’t know.”

“Heavens look at the time. I’m just carrying on and you’ll be late. You seem like a good sort, can I make a picnic basket lunch for you on Saturday, the Fourth of July?”

“Yes,” I’m sure I stammered, “I should finish at the Cabin Hotel before noon.”

“Good, I’ll meet you at the Soda Springs Gazebo. Now off you go to work.” She waved goodbye and sauntered into the garden.

My dear diary, what does this mean?