Hannah brightened right up. The Japanese jinrikisha cost double what the wheel-chairs did, a dollar an hour, and thus for the more affluent visitor it was considered de rigueur to utilize this convenience to get around the Pan.
Unlike everywhere else on the Midway, outside the Japan attraction there stood no emboldened ballyhoo, no strident barker promising more than could possibly be delivered. Its serene contrast to the garish Venice In America attraction built right next to it was startling.
“Chaos vs. serenity, vulgarity as opposed to refinement; it’s like night and day between the two,” opined Annie.
Next door to Fair Japan stood the Photographer’s Building, the studio of the man who had won the official designation as Official Photographer for the Pan American Exposition.
“I wouldn’t step foot in there, just to make my point. Why would I want to buy his photographs when I can take snaps of you standing in front of the same landmarks?” she said, patting her purse. “He wants a small fortune to come out with us and to make our portrait on the Esplanade? Ha! People want snaps of themselves and their children that they make themselves. Whose idea was it to have only him and his three employees to service the millions expected to visit?”
Hannah was uncharacteristically subdued. Annie waited for a strong opinion on the matter but it never came.
There was no fakery in the presentation or construction of the Japan exhibit as was the case on all surrounding sides, such as in the painted canvas icebergs of the Esquimaux Village, or the bizarrely fashioned papier-mache lunar inhabitants’ homes of the Trip To The Moon. The Japanese construction was genuine; a true replication made of legitimate Japanese materials imported especially for this exposition and fashioned in certified Japanese style, put up by Japanese workmen and built as an actual sketch of foreign life. Thick bamboo walls shut out the frenzy of the Midway crowds busy running around in frantic search of increasingly exciting diversions, the barrier keeping at bay the Midway’s idle bluster and fulsome nonsense. Inside, there was no artificial display of village life but rather a sublime serenity and beauty exhibited in its gardens, streams, arched bridge, tea house and beautiful Japanese maidens outfitted in stunning kimono.
In Fair Japan’s bazaar, in place of the cheap trinkets found in the showmen-owned shops set up everywhere else on the Midway, beautiful objects were displayed and reasonably priced. There was no disposition to force a sale, nor abominable quotes as elsewhere were charged for sadly ordinary goods. Rather curiously the Japanese sales girls were somewhat reticent and diffident, a bit reluctant to let their merchandise go, as if unsure whether the customer deserved such a treasure, concerned perhaps she might not properly care for it.
Annie paid for a small jade vase to add to her collection of similarly-colored objects displayed in her glass-doored hutch in her dining room. Then a gong sounded and a quartet of young boys appeared in shorts and leggings and what appeared to Annie to be an abbreviated kimono worn as a shirt, made of the most beautiful jewel-toned silk. They removed the colorful kimono shirts to reveal white blouses underneath, then immediately set about bouncing all over the place as if their limbs were made of rubber. The oldest looked to be no more than fourteen, the youngest six. The older boy lay on the ground on his back with legs raised perpendicular, whereupon the six-year-old hopped atop his upturned feet as if they were a chair. The older boy set to spinning, flipping and somersaulting the little boy into the air from this position so speedily and with such abandon that it was hard to believe the little one could remain aloft. But remain aloft he did, never faltering, never slipping from his brother’s feet until the older boy, completing the act, flipped the little one high into the ether in a complete somersault before the child landed squarely upright with his feet flat on the ground, without so much as a hitch or a wobble.
Hannah and Annie joined all the others standing and watching in enthusiastic applause, and Annie slipped each boy a dime.
“Let’s go eat!” Annie then cried, as the women hurried out the bamboo gate and plopped themselves into a rickshaw. The little man pulling it darted off, maneuvering through the crowds with an expertise borne of negotiating frenetic midday traffic in Tokio.
The ride was bumpy. The asphalt that had been laid along the Pan’s promenades was sunken and broken in many places due to the poor quality of the material itself and its incompetent installation. The paving contract having been awarded to the lowest bidder, the old adage ‘You get what you pay for’ was again proven. Plank roads had been laid in stretches where the delivery of heavy materials, such as the massive cannon for the Government Building, had torn up the paving altogether. The oriental conveyance halted none too soon at the north end of the Manufacturers and Liberal Arts Building, where a swarm of excited women thickly congregated.
“What’s this?” complained Hannah. I thought we were going to eat? I’m almost ready to faint.”
“We are going to eat, Hannah—right here...for free!” Annie happily replied as they entered the massive space over which hung a sign proclaiming FOOD SECTION.
“I thought we were going to rest our tired feet and sit and enjoy a leisurely meal, Annie,” whined Hannah.
“Oh Hannah…this is so much better!”
Hannah noted to herself that the Alderman’s skinflint ways seemed to be rubbing off on his wife.
Both women stood flabbergasted seeing the massive display greeting them upon entering the portal, an out-sized two-story confection of architectural ornament that overwhelmed all others around it, Henry D. Perky’s famed Natural Food Company of Niagara Falls exhibit.
A full-size building within a building, its entrance was crowned by a huge SHREDDED WHEAT emblem within an oval bearing a beautiful life-size painting of an Indian grinding grain on the banks of the Niagara River. Living Indian Maidens stood at the ready, extending saucers of shredded wheat products to all takers.
In height, frontage, architectural design, skillful workmanship and artistic arrangement, the Perky exhibit momentarily arrested their attention. Admiring it for a few seconds, Annie abruptly said, “Shredded Wheat? Hmm. I don’t think so. But I believe I smell gingerbread baking down this way a bit. Come on.”
With those words Annie grabbed Hannah’s hand and the two set out on their gastronomical adventure.
Up and down the aisles of all the many exhibitors women jostled each other anxiously to taste the wares.
“We can eat our fill here, Hannah, and at no cost!” Annie exclaimed. “Then after, we can walk over to the Electric Tower and take the elevator up to the roof garden and treat ourselves to a comfortable seat and a beer, or maybe some wine! We haven’t had a chance to see that view yet during daylight.”
Hannah felt a little uncomfortable in light of all the starving, albeit well-dressed creatures attacking the food counters, looking like so many baby birds craning their naked pink necks up from the nest in desperation to be fed.
“I don’t know, Annie…this looks rather desperate…”
Having felt diminished by having to accept charity as a child, Hannah’s old scars yet remained.
“Hannah! Let’s have fun! These companies want us—no, they fully expect us— to eat their food, because they believe once we taste their delicious wares, we’ll buy their goods in the stores next time we go shopping. We’re doing them a favor, that’s how they see it. They paid a lot of money for the privilege of feeding us a free lunch! The floorspace here cost them dollars per inch! So let’s not disappoint them. You’re a charitable sort, Hannah, so look at it this way. You can accomplish the two things you love most in life at the same time: eating, and helping those in need!”
Hannah couldn’t help but laugh out loud at Annie’s joke, as she had indeed become a bit more ample lately. But because Jim had made a similar joke not long ago, it gave her pause.
Nevertheless, free food at an international fair—and fine quality free food at that—was nothing to sneeze at.
They were at first surrounded by other
reticent souls much like themselves, well-brought-up women and girls of refinement holding back whilst the food-grabbers, those having no pride at all it seemed, gobbled away.
“Ladies,” Annie encouraged Hannah and those dawdling around them, “let’s not tarry back here when there are so many wonderful treats awaiting us at the food counters!” And with that she led the Charge Of The Timid to compete with the more aggressive hordes for their share of the bounty.
The ornate gazebo created for the Heinz Pickles pavilion—57 Varieties—displayed towering pyramids constructed entirely of jarred pickles, India relish, and bottles of catsup. One of the counter girls was being engaged by an insistent woman.
“Yes, these pickles are grown for us especially, ma’am. That’s why they are all of such an even size. No, really, I don’t believe I could give you our pickling recipe. It’s something like a patent, you know.”
Across the aisle, Heinz’ many other products attracted throngs of tasters, as did neighboring exhibits distributing gingerbread, crackers, prepared grain dishes, cough drops, coffee and candies of all kinds.
Much like the ballyhooers along the Midway, except that these were decidedly more demure, the lady attendants hawked their wares.
“This is one of a score of ways in which our rolled oats is prepared. It’s the simplest way. So just think of what the others must be. Here, Ladies, try some.”
Hannah and Annie took the small saucers offered them, with cream and brown sugar, and judged the rolled oats excellent.
“It’s the way that our oats are rolled, recited the young miss attired as a Quakeress representing the Quaker Oats Company, “that gives that dish such a nice flavor. I thought you would like it. Just pour a little hot water on the oats, stir them up, and your breakfast is ready!”
Annie and Hannah moved on.
“This pineapple preserve is only one of eleven delicious fruits which are put up in the same way. This is merely to give you an idea of what our preserves are. We also have loganberry, cherry, peach, raspberry, strawberry, huckleberry…”
Annie reached out to take the tiny saltine, the size of a quarter and covered in pineapple preserves, between her thumb and index finger, as offered.
“No!” sternly admonished the counter-girl. “Palms up, ladies!” I’ll drop it into your hand lest the preserves end up all over the counter!”
The army of women obeyed the General of Pineapple Preserves.
“That one’s corset’s been laced up a bit too snug if you ask me,” Annie confided to Hannah, as they each dutifully extended a single gloved hand, palm up.
Plop! The little saltine landed as intended, with nary a drop wasted.
“This gingerbread is made of our famous flour,” extolled the lady at the expansive Gold Medal Flour exhibit. “Yes, of course we put real ginger in it, but it is our flour that makes the bread so nice and flaky. You can cook it in a few minutes in any sort of an oven.”
“‘This is hot rags,’ as Junior would say,” said Hannah, imitating her son’s slang. Can we please have another?”
“I’m sorry ma’am, we’re only allowing one slice per visitor,” the girl said loudly, looking around furtively before slipping two additional pieces to the ladies.
Hannah and Annie smiled their thanks and uttered pleasure sounds as they consumed their second helping of the delicacy.
“Is the recipe on the package?” Annie asked the girl.
“No—isn’t that odd?” she replied. “They make this delicious bread to show the world how wonderful Gold Medal Flour is, yet the recipe isn’t even printed on the package. I suggested on the day we opened that they have cards printed with the recipe, but as far as I know they haven’t done that yet. Everybody asks for it.”
“Well, thank you again, that was very sweet of you,” Hannah smiled. The Gold Medal girl gave them a wink before turning to face a fresh throng barreling down the aisle toward the heavenly smell.
And so it went as Hannah and Annie made their way up and down four long aisles of scrumptious samples, amused by the hawkers’ spiels.
“This apple butter is made from apples from our own farm, so you know just what you are eating. No, we aren’t giving away jars of fruit today. We are afraid our samples won’t hold out if we do that.”
“Our tea is especially imported by us in limited quantities once a year. Yes, I thought you were a person who would appreciate the flavoring. No, I can’t sell you a five-pound package today, but I can take an order for one.”
Hannah and Annie retraced their steps to try again those counters that were too mobbed to approach the first time around, as well as revisit their favorites. They heard the pineapple preserves wench complaining to a news reporter who wore a tucked a Buffalo Commercial newspaper card in his hat band. On his coat he wore his Pan American Exposition pass with his photograph on it.
“You wanted to know the worst trouble I have with the crowds?” she moaned to the reporter. “Why, the only real trouble I have is to make the people hold their hands right. ‘Hold your hands out straight, palms up,’ I tell them over and over. People will try to take these tiny crackers by the edge, just as they would a big one, and the women are wearing gloves much of the time to boot, making the task even more difficult. It’s too small to take that way. When they insist on doing it their way they usually get smeared with the preserve.”
At the Baker’s Chocolate booth, the girl was interrupted in her speech by a well-dressed middle-aged woman who said, “Are you Mrs. Baker?”
“No, I am not,” the Baker’s girl replied.
“Well, has she been here today?’
“No.”
“Do you expect her this afternoon?”
“No, I don’t. To tell the truth, I don’t even know if there indeed is a Mrs. Baker. For all I know, Mr. Baker is a bachelor, or a widower. I’ve never met him.”
“Well,” the matron sniffed, “Why do you need an entire Baker’s Chocolate Building out there,” she waved vaguely toward the Esplanade where the fantastically ornate Baker’s Cocoa Pavilion was located, “and take up valuable space in here as well? I should think he would have a wife to organize such affairs as this. That Mr. Baker needs a woman to straighten it all out,” and immediately she turned on her heel to head off for some free gingerbread.
Then the same Baker girl was interrupted by another woman who asked, “Is that Oscar Astor who went to the Philippines to fight for his country?”
“Oscar Astor?” repeated the girl cluelessly. “Why of whom are you talking?”
“Oscar Astor, I said. There is a picture of a man in the next exhibit and his name is given as Oscar, and Astor is also mentioned.
“Oh, that’s a picture of Oscar, the chef at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in New York,” explained the Baker’s girl.
“And he isn’t the rich man who went to fight in the Philippines?” she insisted disappointedly.
“No, he isn’t any relation,” said the Baker’s girl, trying her best to dismiss the pest.
As the bothersome woman walked away, the Baker’s girl cursed under her breath, “Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Some people!”
There was a war of words being waged between the American Coffee Company purveyors and the Postum true-believers, each trying to convince Exposition attendees that theirs is the healthier hot drink.
The coffee purveyor recited the pertinent facts as he knew them:
“There is a strange idea abroad in the land that it is much more wholesome to drink a hot liquid made of barley and wheat and molasses than to imbibe in an extract of pure coffee. If cereal coffee is drunk for any length of time, however, it breaks down the tissues in the stomach and induces a flatulent condition.”
“It is a curious fact that real coffee has no injurious effect whatsoever on the man who smokes tobacco. The effect of either one seems counteracted by the effects of the other.”
“The Portuguese who said he wanted his coffee as black as ink, sweet as honey and hot as hell had the right idea.�
��
Hannah and Annie stopped what they were doing every now and then to take it all in. Every type of women seemed present here, huddled together, rich and poor, outlandish and plain, accomplished and commonplace. Women wearing diamonds elbowed women who might well have been their kitchen maids just to grab a free biscuit baked from the “finest baking powder on earth,” free pancakes served by Aunt Jemima herself made from the only pancake flour guaranteed not to produce “sinkers,” free soup from the only cans containing real tomatoes, free cheese, free mincemeat sandwiches, mustard and jam, free chow-chow, plum pudding, clam broth, baked beans, free sponge cake, Welch’s grape juice, Kato, the “World’s First Instant Coffee,” free dinner rolls and biscuits, pudding and pickled lobster.
“So, what is it that my Mazie said to you,” asked Annie suddenly. Hannah’s comment had been bothering her. “I won’t stand for any disrespect from that girl,” said Annie.
“Oh, it was nothing. I corrected her, and that was that.”
“Hannah, I know my Mazie, and if you corrected her, I cannot picture her being humbled. Quite the opposite. I don’t believe ‘that was that’ at all. You have to tell me. She’s only ten years old and getting more spoiled and snippy with each passing day —and I don’t know what to do with her anymore.”
Hannah let out a deep sigh.
“Annie, Mazie’s been treatin’ your girl Sophie like Sophie’s her own personal slave. And by that I mean she’s nasty and mean and orders her around. It’s vindictive behavior. It’s meanness solely for the joy she’s gettin’ from bein’ mean. I promise you, if someone comes along who offers her a better position, Sophie will take it. You know how lucky you are to have her. She’s loyal and sweet. She loves you and the children. But your Mazie is causin’ her a lot of unhappiness. You need to have a talk with Mazie. You cannot afford to lose Sophie.”
Annie felt like she’d been punched in the stomach. She had never witnessed Mazie’s mistreatment of Sophie, yet nothing Hannah said sounded far-fetched or out of character. With seven children, she couldn’t imagine how complicated her life would suddenly become if Sophie quit.
Fingy Conners & The New Century Page 22