December 31, 1899

The Globe-Democrat fondly recalls an old German tradition: huge piles of wood are placed in the town center and townspeople pile on the things they wish to leave behind with the old year, most commonly love letters and keepsakes. Alas, for tha writer, people in America were much more focused on the new year.

The faithful attended watch parties in the numerous churches. Typically, these began at 8 p.m. with music, prayers, and addresses, culminating in communion for the Protestants and a solemn high mass for Catholics at midnight.

The more social folks celebrated with festivities, either public ones like the masquerade ball given by the Car Wheel Molders and Helpers Union or private parties in homes. These differed depending on the interest of the host and guests but often included games, candy pulling, or euchre (fondly known as “the queen of card games”) followed by a midnight supper and dancing.

And then there were the “jokers,” who, after imbibing spirits, chose victims to dance for them. These unfortunate men were forced to remove shoes and socks and dance to the encouragement of bullets the men shot all around his feet. It being New Year’s Eve, the victims forgave the shooters. At midnight, revolvers cracked all about St. Louis, a noisy tradition still popular – but illegal — in some parts of the area.

What do you love most about Christmas? Advent calendars? Gingerbread houses? Carols? Trees decked in lights and ornaments?

No matter your choice, thank the Germans who brought these traditions with them when they settled in America.

President Eisenhower made the advent calendar popular when he was photographed opening one with his grandchildren, but German children knew them as early as the ninth century.

We owe the gingerbread house to the Brothers Grimm who published a book of fairy tales including “Hansel and Gretel.” Enterprising German bakers shaped the already- popular gingerbread into house shapes and decorated them fancily. German settlers brought their beloved lebkuchenhaeusle (gingerbread house) tradition with them. Here they became even larger and more elaborate.

Although carols date from the Middle Ages and were originally in Latin, they were popularized across Europe after the Protestant Reformation. When we sing “O Christmas Tree” and “Silent Night,” we’re singing translations of carols from the German “O Tannenbaum” and “Stille Nacht.”

Germans had for centuries decorated their homes with fresh greens, often placing small tree on a table. When they immigrated to the US, they found large trees in abundance, so cut trees large enough to reach the ceiling.. At first, they decorated these trees with homemade items such as paper ribbons and fruit like apples. When F.W. Woolworth imported elegant glass and wax ornaments from German factories, they became popular here, too.

In 1877 Missouri recognized December 25 as a state holiday; three years later, on June 28, 1880 so did the United States. Today Christmas is both a state and federal holiday, the perfect time to sing carols, smash the gingerbread house, and admire the ornaments on the tree.

Although the US had been sending food to our European allies since WWI began, we committed to sending much more after entering the war in April 1917. Herbert Hoover, the first director of the newly created Food Administration, encouraged Americans to conserve food so more could go to our servicemen and allies. Food wasn’t rationed, but Hoover publicized Meatless Mondays and Wheatless Wednesdays as patriotic activities and discouraged the use of sugar.

Newspapers and magazines published recipes to help home cooks comply, and most
did. Then came Thanksgiving.

Because Hoover pressed voluntary rationing, people soon began referring to their “hooverized Thanksgiving.” This meal looked familiar but had a few key changes as the use of wheat and sugar was discouraged.

Young turkeys were reserved for the men fighting or training, so homemakers bought old hens or gobblers or – the rare few – skipped meat. Since vegetables couldn’t be shipped overseas, they were encouraged for the table, with the traditional candied sweet potatoes being made with maple syrup instead of sugar. Cranberry sauce required too much sugar so most skipped it. For bread, cooks substituted cornbread or rye rolls for the usual yeast rolls. Instead of a cake and a couple of pies, the meal ended with one pie, preferably a single crust one like pumpkin. Mincemeat was out because it was an unnecessary use of meat.

After the armistice on November 11, Americans celebrated the end of fighting in Europe, but the war continued elsewhere and so did voluntary rationing. Thanksgiving dinner 1918 looked much as it did in 1917 but the people sitting around it must have felt great relief.

In the 19th century, the Tappmeyers and their neighbors depended on kerosene lamps, which were dangerous, required weekly cleaning, and at their strongest emitted 25 watts of light. They craved brighter, safer, cleaner light. Whether they knew it or not, they wanted electricity.

Electricity promised light for homes and barns, and Creve Coeur got it early. Electric wires began marching down Olive in 1904, connecting businesses and houses, including the Tappmeyer Homestead, then snaking north and south to connect the surrounding areas. By the end of WWI, when only 10% of the farms nationwide had electricity, 90% of our area was connected.

With strong light at their command, families could read, play games, or sew long after dark, and farmers could milk early in the morning without the danger of kerosene lanterns. Soon businesses installed fans and homeowners followed suit. Next came luxuries like electric washing machines, irons, cook stoves, dishwashers, even coffee percolators and toasters. For entertainment, people bought electric radios and phonographs.

Farmers installed electric water pumps and bought electric saws to cut wood quickly and grinders to sharpen tools. In the hennery, they used automatic timers to give hens more light in the winter so they would continue laying, and they raised chicks under electric brooders. Dairies, like Benbush and Krupka in Creve Coeur, invested in electric milking machines, chilling machines to keep the milk safe, bottle washing and filling machines, and cream separators.

We take for granted a utility which was magic to our ancestors.

Every self-respecting 19th century farmhouse had a root cellar, either underground near the house or beneath it, like the Tappmeyers’. Originally conceived to store root vegetables (hence, the name), cellars soon welcomed fruits, nuts, cured meats, canned goods, and – in the case of the Tappmeyers – people.

It must have been cold and dark for those folks, for those are the essentials of a cellar: a place that keeps food from freezing in winter and cool enough to prevent rot in the summer. Ideally, the cellar is consistently cooler than 45 degrees F, and, of course, without light.

So why were people in the Tappmeyer Homestead’s cellar? Blame the railroad. The Laclede and Creve Coeur Railroad was chartered to extend the line from St. Louis to Creve Coeur Lake, and the railroad hired the Tappmeyers to house and feed the workers as they built the line near their farm. Now living in the house, the Tappmeyers put up the workers in the granary, their former home, and gave them meals in the cellar. Frederick Wilheim Tappmeyer ate with them, and once they had finished the job and moved on, he swore he’d never eat in the dark again – and he didn’t, building an addition to the house that had windows in every wall (now the Heritage Room).

When not using the cellar as a dining hall or food storehouse, the family stored seasonal items there: apple butter kettles and paddles, wood cooking stoves used for sausage and butchering, wood buckets, and tables and chairs. Eventually refrigeration became common, and many cellars lost their original purpose, becoming simply the basement.

Before rural electrification in the 1930s, most farmers kept a few dairy cows for personal consumption, selling the excess milk to townspeople. Because it was difficult to preserve milk, they often separated it, churning butter or making cheese from the cream, and feeding the skim milk to calves or pigs, who thrived on it.

Electrification transformed dairying from small, labor-intensive operations into larger ones with bigger herds. Instead of milking by hand (which took ten to twenty minutes depending on the milker), farmers used machine milkers which took less labor and provided more milk; they replaced milk cans with bulk milk tanks, chilled milk to the proper temperature, and sanitized and filled bottles.

In the 1930s, the Schwendler Dairy offered home delivery, a boon to busy housewives. While most dairies raised Holsteins, the Schwendlers preferred Jerseys, an English breed, known for their rich cream.

Two large dairies, Benbush and Trupka’s Dairy, lasted into the 1960s when they sold their land for residential development. Benbush is now the site of Old Farm Estates; one of the subdivision streets is named Benbush. In its heyday, Benbush bought alfalfa from the Tappmeyers to feed their cows.

The largest dairy in the area, Trupka’s Dairy, also known as Creve Coeur Dairy, started in Brentwood and moved to Creve Coeur in 1920. That must have been a sight as they drove their Holstein cattle out Brentwood Blvd to Clayton Road, west to Lindbergh, and north to adue, coming to rest in their new home on the southwest corner of Ladue and Mosley. By 1964, land prices had become so high that the Trupka brothers sold the land and their herd of forty Holsteins, tanks, milkers, tractors, and other farm machinery. Where cows used to moo and chew their cud, people live in midcentury houses on Carriage Square Drive and Plantation Drive.

Now people get their milk and cream from big dairies, many of which use advertising that reminds us of the small local dairy with home delivery.

Few residential customers needed a hundred pounds of ice, but people who owned grocery stores and taverns certainly did and they bought huge iceboxes to store the ice and goods. These iceboxes looked like residential ones but were five or six feet tall and deep enough to store three kegs of beer, food such as cheese and cold cuts, and the ice. Some had a small window in the upper panel.

Unfortunately, these iceboxes became a lure for robbers who soon developed a routine: two men entered the tavern during a lull, ordered drinks, and when the barkeep turned around to serve them, held him at the point of their revolvers, directing him into the icebox and closing the door securely, after which they leisurely finished their drinks and cleaned out the till. If there were any unfortunate customers in the tavern they too went into the icebox. Few robbers allowed them to take their coats and one truly unfortunate man who was barefoot was forbidden to take his shoes and socks with him. Asphyxiation was even more of a danger than the cold. The inhabitants were trapped until a passerby or customer heard them shout and let them out.

These robberies became so common that companies began putting a latch on the inside of the door so it could be opened from the inside, much like the emergency release common in the trunks of contemporary cars. One butcher stored a shotgun in his icebox and used it. Once the robbers had locked the door and turned away, he used the gun to break the window in the upper panel, then shot the men, felling one of them, who was soon arrested. Unfortunately for the butcher, the other robber escaped with $115 from the till.

Eventually, thanks to electricity and Prohibition, tavern iceboxes disappeared and so did the robberies

The popularity of iceboxes meant a huge demand for ice, and Polar Wave Ice Company met it by harvesting ice from Creve Coeur Lake. First, they built a massive icehouse on the west side of the lake, and then every winter they waited for the water to freeze. When it was at least eight inches thick, men worked around the clock to cut it with ice saws drawn by horses. As they cut, they created channels so newly cut pieces of ice could be floated through the channel to the conveyer belt that took the ice to the icehouse where it was packed in sawdust to await shipment in insulated freight cars on the Missouri Pacific Railroad to St. Louis.

The train stopped along the way to replenish small icehouses which supplied residences. Each morning ice drivers arrived at their designated icehouse and picked up their loads. The ice, cut into blocks of 25, 50, 75, or 100 pounds, was loaded onto the wagons. Each driver checked the ice card displayed in the house’s front window to see how much ice was needed and delivered that amount. Using ice tongs, he pulled the correct size out of the wagon, slung it over his shoulder protected by a sheepskin or leather pad, took it into the house and wedged it into the icebox. If it didn’t fit properly, he used a pick to shape it.

Before the icebox, people constructed ice houses. Although the dimensions and ambition varied, the basics were a pit in the ground, often lined with stone, and a structure above. Farmers, especially those who lived near water like Creve Coeur Lake, built relatively small ice houses while commercial ice harvesters like Polar Wave Company built massive ones. Regardless of the size, the ice house led to the creation of the icebox.

Like many inventions, the icebox solved a specific need. In 1802, Thomas Moore, an American farmer, wanted to take his butter to market and have it still be firm, not the usual soft tubs his competitors offered. So he made a portable icebox. His first one was an oval cedar box with a tin container inside, all packed with ice and covered with rabbit fur. That evolved into a larger icebox for home use.

Usually rectangular and made of wood, the box had hollow walls that were lined with tin and packed with cork, sawdust, straw, or seaweed for insulation. Some opened from the top for ice to lie across the whole box, but most, like ours, had a compartment high on one side for the ice block and wire shelves to allow free circulation of air. Finer iceboxes had drains and spigots to remove the melting water. Less expensive models had drip pans, which had to be emptied at least once a day.

The ability to chill food and thus retard deterioration changed the ways homemakers cooked. Instead of cooking one meal, they now planned for leftovers which would become the next day’s dinner. Indeed, newspapers and magazines promoted this reuse by offering recipes to turn them into delicious meals. For instance, roast beef could emerge as stuffed peppers or croquettes while chicken became molded chicken salad or stuffed tomato salad.

Of course, the iceboxes spurred the craze for icebox desserts, which could be prepared in the cool mornings and chilled until supper time. These were usually custards or gelatin-based such as this recipe for Chocolate Charlotte:

Line a mold with lady-fingers and then melt one two-ounce
cake of sweet chocolate in one-half cup of water, adding one
tablespoon of gelatine which has been soaked in three
tablespoons of cold water. Strain and cool. When just
beginning to set, whip until stiff, then fold in one cup of
sweetened whipped cream. Pour into the prepared mold and
set in the icebox to chill.

The icebox, though convenient, chilled food to only about 45 degrees, making it a welcoming place for bacteria, so it required thorough cleaning at least once a week to prevent food-borne illnesses such as ptomaine poisoning and lesser intestinal upsets. Newspapers regularly posted the recommended weekly procedure:

Remove any ice and all trays.
Wash thoroughly in boiling water in which washing soda has been dissolved.
Be particular about cleaning the corners as that is where food particles hide.
Wash again in plain boiling water.
Pour disinfectant in the drain.
(Occasionally remove the cups, traps, and other removable parts for a
thorough washing in a pail of hot soapsuds to which some washing soda has
been added. Then scrub and scald before replacing.)
Air thoroughly before putting in new ice and closing.

For some people, the maintenance was more trouble than the benefit. One offered a swap: “ICEBOX — Used short time, good condition. Will swap for chickens value to $10 or anything else. “

Our icebox was purchased from the Oberwein estate and refinished by Doug Meadows. Although it doesn’t display a brand name, it was sold by Shapleigh Hardware, a St. Louis company on Main Street in St. Louis that provided a wide variety of wares from nails and hammers to toys and iceboxes.

When electricity became widely available in the 1930s, housewives traded in their beloved, messy, labor-intensive iceboxes for electric refrigerators which did not require so much maintenance and which kept food colder.

When the Tappmeyer family moved from their four-year stay in the barn’s granary
to their beautiful new house, they must have wanted to celebrate, perhaps with
music. If so, they and their friends made it themselves, singing and playing
instruments. A couple of decades later, they might have strolled into the parlor,
turned the crank, and listened to opera, classical, blues, or pop. The age of the
phonograph had arrived.

But, first, there was the “talking machine,” accidentally invented when Thomas
Edison inadvertently taped his voice as he was demonstrating his new invention, the
telephone. He knew immediately that this technology would be popular and that it
was perfect for music, but its first use was recording voices: jokes, monologues,
songs. These sounds were captured on wax cylinders and played in coin-operated
talking machine parlors. A patron would drop a coin into the machine, then listen to
a few minutes of recorded sound and do it again and again. The machines were so
popular that they paid a month’s rent in three days’ time. One on Olive Street in
downtown St. Louis welcomed 10,000 visitors on a single Saturday.

Naturally, these parlors made people want a talking machine of their own, so
companies began making home machines and calling them phonographs. Ministers,
often wary of new inventions, embraced them because they recorded sermons and
hymns for parishioners to listen to if they couldn’t get to church. In Missouri, at
least one church arranged for all the people on a party line to pick up the phone
while the person with the phonograph played the sermon and hymns.

Soon, though, just as Edison predicted, music ruled the phonograph world and
changed the way we listen to music. Before, people made music themselves or went
to a place to hear others perform. Now, they could listen to whatever music they
wanted, whenever they wanted, as often as they wanted. There was, however, a
problem: the shellac discs which had replaced the wax cylinders could hold only
three minutes of recorded sound. Hour-long symphonies had to be cut to three
minutes or a collection of three-minute movements. When Stravinsky wrote
Seranade in A in 1925, he created each movement to fit a three-minute side of a disc,
ending with four movements on two discs.

Record companies promoted music many people had never heard – opera, jazz, and
the blues joined popular songs and became popular themselves.

People clamored for their own phonograph and companies eagerly complied,
combining the phonograph made by one company with the case made by another.
Then Brunswick, the maker of our phonograph, upended the market.

John Moses Brunswick immigrated to the US from Switzerland at 14, apprenticed to
a wagon maker, opened his own shop, and quickly diversified making also billiard
tables and the balls and pins for bowling, both commonly found in taverns. He
recognized that the impending Prohibition would end tavern life and that he needed
a new product. Noticing the popularity of phonographs, he first made cabinets for
other companies but quickly realized that if he controlled the entire process, he
could make much more money, so he had a contest for his employees to develop the
components. When he was satisfied, he offered his own phonograph in his own
cabinet, selling it for $150, 40% less than comparable models.

Soon he was offering a variety of models ranging from $125 to $320, ten percent
down and easy payments. Our phonograph, donated by Doug and Barbara
Meadows, is a Brunswick model 120, selling for $295 in 1921. Designed to fit
comfortably in a parlor, it has elegant lines, a front grille, vertical drawers for record
storage, a lid, a crank, and two needle cups. Because the Brunswick played all
records, not just their own, people needed a lot of needles. Many records required
specific needles to play. Additionally, because the manual machines did not have
volume control, Brunswick provided needles that would provide soft, medium, or
loud sound.

Manual phonographs evolved into electric ones, then transistor and battery-
operated ones, and now many people get their music from on-line streaming
services. The music world has come a long way since the first scratchy records, but
one thing of that era remains: the three-minute pop song, a legacy of those long-
forgotten wax cones and shellac discs.