Not until artist Haddon Sundblom illustrated Santa Claus for Coca-Cola advertisements in 1931, did Americans associate a large snowbearded man in a red suit with the image of Kris Kringle. Below is Sundblom, enjoying a frosty bottle of his labors.
Most of us grew up with the image he created and cannot fathom a slender Santa, much less one with dark hair or no facial hair at all. In 2015, this model tried to offer a trimmer version at Yorkdale Shopping Center in Toronto.
What do you think? Should Santa be svelte and hipster, rocking a Beat It jacket? Possibly even vegan?? I don’t think so. I like my Santa jolly and obese, and borderline diabetic from all that Coke and plates of cookies we leave out. I’d tell skinny Santa to beat it.
by Russell Lee for the Farm Security Administration
This rollerskate-clad lady doesn’t seem too shy with the slick-haired fellow at a rink in Southside, Chicago, Illinois in April 1941. Looks like there’s a good chance they’ll “find us a new recipe,” in the words of Ol’ Hank. Not sure what to do with that onlooking third wheel, though…
These lovelies sat adjacent to the shopping carts yesterday, ensuring that no one was spared the somewhat unsettling gourds. Not exactly choice specimens for carving, but still a sign of the autumn we long for.
And just to be clear–it’s NOT beginning to feel a lot like autumn. Hot and dry with no end in sight. When will it ever end?
Today we pay homage to the costumes of Old Sweden. The ladies above were from Rättvik, a Swedish lakeside locality adjacent to a bunch of words that sound like the Swedish Chef said them. They were waiting for a “conveyance” to take them back home. Who says that anymore? Probably not even the people of Sweden at this point.
Next, we see another three dolls, Dals to be precise, in Boda, a locality situated in Rättvik Municipality. Already, you can notice the Swedes liked red horizontal stripes, which flatter almost none of us.
They were also fans of hats, as you can see in this next pic of a native of Södermanland, the duchy of then-Prince William. No, not that William. And no, not douchey, but duchy, which is a territory of a duke or duchess, or a dukedom. But not a dumb duke.
Speaking of fetching hats, this next trio sported three different variations. Mora’s hat, on the left, was “staidly Puritan.” Mora is a place, not her name. The middle girl, from Rättvik, wore a peaked cap with red stitching, perched atop the back of her head. The Leksand girl on the right wore a white cap only if she was married, and red if not.
Not to be outdone, men also sported old costumes and winter sleeping caps.
This bloke from Hälsingland is wearing something that reminds me of Rip Van Winkle. The quote below him says,
Therefore my age is as a lusty winter,
Frosty, but kindly.
– William Shakespeare
Children were not immune from donning gay apparel as well, while the women of Lake Siljan held tools.
by Wilhelm Tobien
As you can see, they could not get enough red stripes.
Rare were the outfits that strayed from the norm. But always, the head was covered.
Two maids stood in the doorway of an old farmhouse at Leksand, one hopeful and one bitter.
In modern-day Leksand, natives still sport traditional folk costumes as a nod to their past. Way to keep the history alive, ladies!
The stuff of nightmares. A workman wearing a newspaper hat and his pal chill at the steps of the Palazzo Zuccari, a 16th century building in Rome. It houses the Bibliotheca Hertziana – Max Planck Institute for Art History, a German research institute that isn’t even in Germany.
Evidently, newspaper hats were a thing. They would be great in central Texas because we have no wind and no rain, so they would never blow away. And if your phone ran out of juice, you could just grab your hat and read Garfield.
flickr
As you can see, the ghastly ghoul door remains nearly unchanged after 82 years, right down to the steps. With no visible door handle, I wonder how one enters.
No, it wasn’t bad breath that caused Marie Micholowsky to pass clean out in her brother Frank’s arms. Believe it or not, this image was snapped at HOUR 3327 into a Chicago dance marathon. The seated woman shares my sentiment exactly. Girl, what were you thinking?
Now most of us have heard of dance marathons, especially popular during the 20s and 30s. But did you know that some lasted for weeks, even months? This particular one began on August 29, 1930 and ended in 1931. And yes, they did get intervals in which to nap. But can you imagine having started dancing TWO WEEKS AGO, only to ultimately finish next January? I guess these couples didn’t have jobs? Or families?
This next pair had the benefit of not being siblings in embrace, but you can see the pickle petite Anna Lawanick is in, having to support slumbering Jack Ritof, aka the failure.
Library of Congress/Corbis via Getty Images
What had begun as opportunities for the glow of youth to show its endurance and immortality eventually morphed into the exploitation of those who desperately needed the cash reward given to the last couple standing. As you can see, the onlookers (who paid an entrance fee to gawk) kept their eyes on the dance floor.
But what of the pain in their feet? Rules often allowed for one partner to visit the restroom or nap as long as the other partner continued dancing, so the feet were only briefly spared their dancing duties. The contestants below received medical attention for their tootsies during a Madison Square Garden marathon in June of 1928, where the prize was $5000, more than an average annual income.
Spectacle it was, as folks pushed themselves past the point of exhaustion, and in the case of Homer Morehouse, heart failure at the age of 27.
rawstory.com
The predecessor to today’s reality shows or movies like Hands On A Hard Body, dance marathons proved both cruel and entertaining. Ultimately, the fad passed as fads do, and Americans moved on to the next big thing.
While it will remain 103 degrees in central Texas well nigh into October, the rest of y’all will soon be enjoying autumn weather. If your neighborhood pool remains open (as our does here, though never would we ever stick a pinky toe into it), I suggest you soak up the last bit of sun, carpe diem, and do not go gently into that good fall by taking advantage of the sun’s warm rays with a friendly game of Mah Jongg. Why sit in the shade of a cozy house at a card table with cocktails and salted cashews when you could stand in a public pee pavilion, trying desperately not to let the Chinese tiles fall into the water, yelling at nearby kids to leave you be, constantly looking over your shoulder to make sure you’re not in the path of an errant cannonball? These ladies at Wardman Park Pool, Washington seem absolutely ensconced.
This bloke from Hälsingland is wearing something that reminds me of Rip Van Winkle. The quote below him says,
I Don't Get It 