While modern voices find much merriment in decrying systemic racism, declaring the US a consistently racist environment, despite the fact that millions of immigrants have moved here over the last 200 years to pursue (and succeed) in one of the few countries affording them that freedom, no one could argue that America seemed to get it 100% right in this 1938 LIFE article, slamming the Anti-Semitic sentiment which mirrored the growing Nazi party. Very woke indeed.
Gordon Foods–for all your nut meat and potato stick needs!
Atlanta was super progressive, offering international albums–even at night!
If you weren’t into modern Boogie Woogie, RCA Victor might be more your style.
Next up: refreshment!
The College Inn looks like the place to be, if you want to sit at the bar and sling back far-flung milkshakes.
And if too much brewski had gotten you soused beyond function, it might be time to call the White Cross.
This gal throws much attitude, but I honestly can’t tell if she’s 13 or 23. Huge Jackie O sunglasses, permed bob, lip gloss, tight waist. Love it! While her shirt cuffs are reminiscent of my own tees in 1985, this was actually September of 1975, exactly 45 years ago. That was the year emissions testing on the exhaust analyzer went into effect, and she was watching her go through testing at an inspection station in Cincinnati, Ohio.
What I don’t get is the possessive S after banana. Is the world going bananas? Sure, that’s solid. But banana’s? Certainly it doesn’t own her. She looks like the boss of herself.
Looking très French in his beret and silk apron, sculptor Rene (of course his name is Rene) Shapshak adds the final touches to his clay model of former President Harry S. (“You Dropped A Bomb On Me”) Truman in early 1956 at the Federal Reserve Bank Building in Kansas City, Missouri, the state from whenst Truman sprang. While interweb sources all declare that this would become a bronze bust, to be unveiled in Israel on Truman’s 73rd birthday, I can find no such bronze bust. It would seem the bust itself was a bust.
My minor was in history, and I admit I’ve never heard of Hannibal Hamlin, the first Republican Vice President. Or perhaps the memory of him was replaced by the cannibal Hannibal in the movie I saw my freshman year, forever cursing the name. I can promise you no one in public school will ever learn his name. But how could we be expected to know the names of the Vice Presidents? We don’t even know what they do. Neither he nor Lincoln look particularly psyched for union preservation in this poster. A former member of both the House of Representatives and the Senate, Hamlin left the pro-slavery Democratic Party in 1856 for the newly-formed Republican Party that aligned with his anti-slavery views. He served only four years, during all but the very last month of the Civil War, and was replaced during the 1864 election by Andrew Johnson. Among other positions that followed, Hamlin returned to the Senate and served two terms, then became the US Ambassador to Spain. Que bueno!
In this picture, I think he bears a passing resemblance to another double H, Howard Hessman, aka Johnny Fever. But that’s just me.
You know how magazines have those sections where they stuff all the cheapo ads together, and you wonder if anyone ever grabs a magnifying glass to read their teensy font? Well, today we’re checking out those ads.
These all come from April of ’54, and you can see that hippity hoppity, Easter was on its way. Seriously, that’s a weird car, right?
Anacin has been around longer than anyone reading this page, and you can still get it. She sure looks glad that she did.
Some ads are so tiny, you wonder what was the point. And was it really necessary to spell kiwi phonetically?
Vernell sounds like that great-aunt who lost her husband 30 years ago and wouldn’t think of remarrying, but she’s a really good cook and could definitely score a spouse if she would just move on with her life.
This next one is so fun with our friendly Nirc making his debut on this blog. Not to be confused with Narc, this little guy is concerned with the cleanliness of your rugs. They needed a mascot for that?
And speaking of weird acronyms, this next ad is for NCB, accepted from pole to pole. So odd!
We’ll wrap up with something none of us ever thinks about, fine driving lights. I knew cars were usually feminized, but I didn’t know headlights were as well. Now that I type that, it makes sense. Do you ask your husband to run to Auto Zone and grab a couple Lorraines?
Does Lorraine make you think of quiche or Newman?
Isn’t it eerie how similar Mr. Crockwell’s paintings look to Mr. Norman Rockwell’s? It’s even the same subject matter. I mean, the style is nearly identical. Check out another Crockwell. From beer to Coke, two of my favorite things!
Honestly, it sounds like an SNL skit, like changing Mr. Rogers to Mr. Robinson’s Neighborhood. Stranger than fiction. Crockwell also did this fun outdoor scene.
In any event, I can appreciate both artists. I wish our summer looked more like this one!
Must … wear … Laconian Debs.
Y’all, it is rare indeed when a Google search turns up with zilch, nada. But such is the case for Laconian Debs. I guess they only existed for this one moment in my 1947 Seventeen magazine, which evidently could hardly contain their foot fetish. Apparently, those weren’t the only Debs around. Polly Debs were climbing up the charts.
I just don’t get this. These are NOT super flat. They have at least a one inch heel. And what a metaphor! Is a Coke comfy? That’s an odd word choice. You’ll love them like Mink? What? Are we talking about fur now? I’m so confused. But it’s good to know they’re live. All shoes should be live. Shouldn’t they?
Let’s move on to Kickerinos. That’s just fun to say, like Vinnie Barbarino. Anything -ino. It must be eye-talian!
Next up are the musical Monomacs, in either elk or Bucko Calf. Bucko Calf? There’s another thing Google’s never heard of. What a banner day!
I don’t know what music has to do with moccasins, or why tiny elves are handstitching the seams, but there you go. Now on to something south of the border!
Finally, something I’ve heard of. Huarache sandals, too …. A bushy, bushy blond hairdo … Surfin’ USA. ♫♪♫ Calf skin? I’m familiar with it. I get it. Wait, they come with foot shortening vamp? What the heck is that?
Who knew shoes could be so complicated?
Before a cutter was a person who took a knife to their skin just to “feel something” in a world of apathy, Cutters were shoes worn to catch men’s eyes. Maybe he’s not a breast or a thigh man; maybe he’s more interested in your arches. Super. And these would have been the choice for any butterface gal back in ’47 (that’s a woman who looks lovely everywhere “but her” face).
Let’s enjoy the symmetry of this next ad.
Three shoes, six gals, three shoes. Finally, some order. Everyone needs a few smooth, young Connies. Wouldn’t you agree? But smooth, young Connies grow up to become Old Town Trollers. It’s inevitable.
Soft and supple. By the way, I’ve heard about Teena’s “brilliant night play.” Now, THAT’S something Google understands.
Back in 1947, folks weren’t meeting up at Starbucks for $6 coffees. They were meeting at diners for nickel Cokes. Never coined Sprite nor Big Red nor Fanta Dates, this ad hyphenates it as “Coke-Dates.” No gal worth her salt would show up to sip soda in a t-shirt and jeans. Perish the thought! So Joan Miller made this fantubulous dress of men and women, gussied up in hats and suits, drinking Cokes themselves. Add a ruffled collar, and voila! Coke-Date material. Literally.
But it wasn’t just ensembles that needed vetting for dates of Coke. No, siree, Bob. You needed bonafide Coke-worthy shoes as well. And what better to marry that fizz than with leather moccasins, in five gay colors? You could get the traction you needed on asbestos-infused linoleum flooring. After all, you don’t want to spill the very drink for which you came.
The boys were home, Hitler was dead, and all was well on the western front. Time for snazzy frocks and fizzy drinks. Time to celebrate!