Abelia's Talking Machine: Music on Vinyl in 1917

Abelia Brody had a love for music. One of the few people in Lily Springs to even own a phonograph, Abelia often sat on her back porch into the evening hours, melodies blossoming from the horn of her "talking machine" and carried beyond her yard by the breeze of a summer's night. People on the other side of town could sometimes hear the soft voice of Enrico Caruso through their open windows, the curtains moving in the light breeze as if dancing to the music. She had a ritual on summer nights: music on the porch, the morning's paper from Dubuque and a bottle of her home-made wine. Her elderly neighbor, Rose, also enjoyed the music, although she was loath to admit it.

Abelia lifted the tone arm from the disc and slid the brake, stopping the turntable in its rotation. Her talking machine was a Harvard model, purchased from the Sears catalog in 1906 for $15.90. It had a large external horn and a nice oak cabinet that was now scratched and faded. The player was well worn but still produced good sound---good enough, anyway, for quiet summer evenings on the porch. She thought about buying one of the newer models that no longer had the external horn, but most of those were heavier and harder to move. The Victrola, for example, was contained in a large, wooden cabinet. It sounded better, she was told, but she rather liked her old model in that it could be moved to the outdoors rather easily. It sounded good outside and even Rose commented that she sometimes liked to fall asleep to the sounds of Abelia’s machine on a summer’s night. Except when she played ragtime music, that is. So, once the sun went down, Abelia refrained from ragtime and played some of the music that Rose said she enjoyed. Although Enrico Caruso was Rose’s favorite, Abelia usually capped the evening with “Ave Maria,” by the famous castrato Alessandro Moreschi.

When I started to embark on this journey with Abelia and Robert, I had recently dusted off an old turntable and began going through my collection of records. I also began researching the history of phonographs and records. That's when I stumbled across Alessandro Morreschi. As a castrato, Morreschi had been castrated before puberty in order to retain his boyish voice. This was often done to boys since the middle ages and almost happened to famous classical composer, Haydn---that is, until his father stepped in and refused the request from the choral director in Vienna. Morreschi is the only known castrato to have made recordings. And, quite frankly, there is something amazing (and disconcerting) about his voice:

"Ave Maria" by Alessandro Morreschi

I love vinyl records. Unlike music today where everything is digital, listening to an album on a phonograph was a full sensory experience. Of course, you have the music. And unlike music today which is too perfect--too clean--music was always accompanied by hiss and crackle.  But in never seemed to matter.  You heard through the imperfections.  In addition to the music, there was also the tactile experience of gently holding the album and examining the record sleeve and album art. I often did that lounging in a bean bag chair with the record playing on the phonograph. And I imagined Abelia doing the same basic thing. Records at the turn of the century were, of course, played at 78 rpm. The records were a little smaller than the LP standardized during the 1950s and lacked album art. These records were thick--very thick. Luckily, one of my turntables is able to play 78's and I have several of them from my grandfather's collection. However, nothing as old as what Abelia would have listen to.

Abelia had quite a collection of music. I have scoured the internet trying to find some records that I thought would have pleased Abelia. One enormous collection of old records can be found at Archive.org. There, I discovered a tune that would become one of Abelia's favorites:

She had a box of records on the table and shuffled through them to find another one. She had been buying records since getting the Harvard and had acquired quite a collection over the last decade. Her love of music came from her mother, Colleen Brody. Her fondest memories were of her mother singing to her in bed or humming a tune in the garden.
     Near the back of the box she stumbled upon one of her favorite discs: “She is Far From the Land,” recorded by Irish tenor, John McCormack in 1911 on the Victor label. This was an old Irish tune that her mother sang to her when she was a child. Lifting it from the box, Abelia delicately placed the record on the turntable. After giving the arm a couple of cranks, she placed the needle onto the record and released the brake. Instantly, the melodic sound filled the porch. Abelia picked up her wine and turned down the lantern. Leaning against the porch post, she looked out over her garden, the light in the western sky fading into darkness. The first of the lightning bugs were out, glowing softly around the Evening Primrose.

She is far from the land

Where her young hero sleeps,

And lovers are round her, sighing;

But coldly she turns

From their gaze, and weeps,

For her heart in his grave is lying.

"She Belongs to the Land" by John McCormack:

Like Abelia, I can sit for hours just listening to music (Abelia and I have a lot in common, actually). After cutting the grass in the summer, for example, I like nothing better than to sit on a bench, soaking in the sun with music playing through the iPod.  My iPod has become much like Abelia's box of vinyl 78s.  Pretty much every type of music can be found there.

Everything, that is, except Alessandro Moreschi.

I think Abelia would love iPods.  I can picture her in her garden, walking among the fruit and butterflies, the white cords dangling from her ears.  Abelia would fit nicely in the 21st century.

Writing the chapters in Lilac Wine dealing with record players and music awakened in me a desire to listen to my music on their original vinyl.  I recently fixed two turntables and have been cleaning and playing old albums. And I have taken it one step further: in addition to this blog, I have recently started an internet radio station dedicated to the playing of music on original vinyl. The radio station is called The Vinyl Voyage. There you can hear several different genres of music, just like the box of records in Abelia's dining room.

Gazpacho

    Today, I gathered fresh tomatoes from the garden and made one of my favorite summer dishes: gazpacho. I first had gazpacho while visiting a friend in Spain more than a decade ago. That memory lingers and the smell of the fresh tomatoes, cucumbers and cumin bring back some wonderful memories.
     In Lily Springs, gazpacho was Abelia Brody's favorite dish.  Not too well-known in the United States at the time, Abelia learned about the dish from a neighbor while growing up in Cincinnati:

After gathering garlic and onions from the root cellar, she next headed to the kitchen and pulled a ceramic jar of cumin from the pantry. She had been making this gazpacho recipe for years. It was one of her favorite things to make and the ability to produce it in early summer was a bonus. And every time she crushed those plum tomatoes in her hands, she thought about Rima, her neighbor in Cincinnati back when she was a child. Although she and her mother stood out in the heavily German neighborhood of Over-the-Rhine, they found a common soul in this small yet feisty immigrant from Spain----Andalusia, to be specific. Rima Reiniger was her name. She was married to Heinrich Reiniger, a local brewer. Although Rima provided plenty of hearty German meals for her husband, she also introduced him to the finer aspects of Mediterranean cooking and, in the process, introduced Colleen and Abelia to the wonders of the tomato.
     Although tomatoes were always growing in the Brody backyard, it was Rima who gave the tomato character. She told Abelia stories of Aztecs and conquistadors, of Moors and Castilians, often while crushing the “wonderful fruit,” as Rima called it.
    “It was my people, the Moors who invented this dish,” she told Abelia while pounding herbs with a mortar and pestle. “But we didn’t have the tomato at first. It was the Aztecs who grew this fruit and the conquistadores who stole it.”
     She told stories about the Aztec penchant for human sacrifice, often punctuating the tale by squeezing a tomato over a bowl as if it were a human heart. The tales frightened, yet fascinated Abelia. And she sat long hours in Rima’s kitchen, watching her cook and listening to her stories.
     It was there, in that small kitchen in Ohio, where Abelia tasted her first spoonful of the fragrant and delicious Andalusian gazpacho. And she has been making it ever since, using the same progeny from the seeds of Rima’s tomatoes given to her on that very day. Those plants grew in her greenhouse and Abelia tended to them with special care.
     “When making gazpacho,” Rima told the young Abelia, “don’t worry about the tomato seeds. The tomato is the fruit of love and the seed------”
     At this point she held up a tiny yellow seed, coated in sweet red flesh that dripped from her fingertips.
     “----has tremendous power. Passion. It has the power to set our hearts on fire.”
     And with that, she crushed another in her hand, the chunky flesh oozing between her fingers, dripping into the large wooden bowl on the table. Abelia stared in fascination, her mouth and eyes wide.
     “The Church banned the tomato,” Rima continued, picking up another red orb from the counter. “They called it the ‘Devil’s fruit.’ And you know what? They were right. Eve picked this from the tree of knowledge.”
     Abelia frowned.
     “Ah,” said Rima. “You don’t believe me. You think that Eve stole an apple.” She smiled and leaned forward, her bosom hovering over the bowl. “That’s what they want you to believe. They don’t want you to be tempted by this fruit. So, it was banished from the Garden just like Adam and Eve. It was banished to the furthest reaches of the globe.”
     Rima was very theatrical. The kitchen was her stage; the only place she had true freedom and she used it.
    “The Aztecs were not afraid of this fruit,” she continued. “Neither were my people. The Spanish called this pome dei moro--- ‘apple of the Moors.’ And we used it to tell the devil that we were not afraid of him.”
     Although Rima and her husband were Roman Catholic, she often told tales of the Moors as if she were not merely of Moorish decent, but still actively fighting to conquer the Iberian peninsula in the early Middle Ages. Abelia knew that much of what Rima told her was highly exaggerated. No doubt her Moorish bloodline ran dry a thousand years ago or so and she wasn’t at all related to the Moorish general who was defeated at the Battle of Tours in 732, but she enjoyed the stories nonetheless. And Rima enjoyed telling them, that was for sure.
     “Before the tomato we made ajo blanco---which I will make for you one day. It is made from garlic and almonds. But the tomato----” She handed Abelia the last tomato from the counter. “The tomato changed everything. It is the fruit of life. It is the fruit of love.”
     She stood up and wiped her hands on her apron. “Go ahead. Crush it.”
     Abelia squeezed the firm fruit in her hand. The tomato exploded around her fingers as chunks of cool, red flesh fell into the wooden dish. Rima took hold of Abelia’s hands, submerging them in the viscous mound. She squeezed her fingers together and swirled her hands in the bowl, demonstrating the proper technique to thoroughly blend the mixture. The tomatoes, seeds and all, swirled against the dark wood, the chunks of tomato getting smaller, becoming absorbed into the liquid. Rima removed her hands, once again wiping them on her apron before pouring in the cumin and garlic. A fragrant cloud wafted from the dish, and Abelia felt sweat beading on her forehead. Rima then dropped cucumbers, onions and peppers into the bowl and drizzled oil over the mixture, scolding Abelia if she slowed down the mixing process. Finally, Rima added stale breadcrumbs and topped it off with a squeeze of lemon and a stream of red vinegar, which she poured from above Abelia’s head. It splashed off her arms and into the deep dish. She counted out loud to five and then told Abelia to stop her mixing.
     “It is done,” she said. “Now, we let it sit.”
     Rima handed Abelia a towel to wipe her hands. Before covering the bowl with a cloth, she placed a wooden spoon into the concoction and removed a taste. With a smile, she handed it to Abelia. “First, you must try,” she said.
     Rima studied Abelia’s face, anticipating her reaction as the red, clumpy mixture entered her mouth. Abelia closed her eyes, letting the spice penetrate her taste buds. The fragrance floated into her sinuses, a simultaneous sensation that was unlike anything she had tasted before.
     “See,” said Rima. “It’s powerful. Nothing compares to a good gazpacho.” She picked up the bowl, pulling the cloth over the rim. “How do you think I got my husband?” she added with a smile.

Gazpacho is the perfect summer dish.  Back in Abelia's day, everything would have to be diced and crushed by hand.  Luckily, food processors make the creation of gazpacho effortless.  The following is a traditional gazpacho recipe, modified from that first gazpacho I tasted back in Spain.   I think Abelia would be proud.

 Abelia's Gazpacho Recipe


3-4 large, ripe tomatoes
1 large cucumber, peeled and seeded 
1 medium white onion
1 large green pepper
1 large red pepper
1 large garlic clove
1/2 cup olive oil
1/4 cup red wine vinegar
1/4 teaspoon cumin
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 lemon

Grind together the salt and cumin with a mortar and pestle.  Crush the garlic clove and mix with the salt and cumin.  In a bowl, add the olive oil and red wine vinegar.   Add the garlic mixture to bowl and set aside.

In a food processor, blend together the peppers, cucumber, onion and tomatoes.  Add the oil mixture.  Mix until smooth.

For smoother consistency, add water.  For thicker consistency, add stale bread.

Finally, squeeze juice from 1/2 lemon into mixture.  Let sit in refrigerator for at least an hour before serving.


Enjoy.

Lily Springs

When the novel was in it's infancy, the title was simply Lily Springs, named after the town in which Abelia Brody lived.   Located just north of Dubuque, Lily Springs was a town trapped between two eras:

Carl and Otto Springer, twins from Germany who wanted to strike it rich in America, founded Lily Springs in 1856. After failed attempts at saloon ownership, beer-making, cattle raising and even a brief stint as minstrel performers, the Springer brothers trekked out west to Dubuque responding to an ad offering for sale land rich in mineral deposits. They purchased seven acres, some equipment and started digging. The lead vein they discovered instantly brought moderate wealth to the brothers and soon the town of Springer grew around the mine. Unfortunately for the Spingers, smelting was a process that they could not fully grasp and after failing in that endeavor and almost losing their lives in a small furnace explosion, they ended up simply selling the raw ore they mined to a smelter in Dubuque who ran one of the five blast furnaces in the area.

The lead mine brought prosperity to Springer for several years. Soon, the town had an ice warehouse, a post office, a creamery, a lumber mill and several businesses to support the families that had moved there. The mine ended up employing some fifty people in its heyday and became the object of attempted takeovers by rival mining companies. But the prosperity of the mine was not to last. Like so many mines in the area, the Springer mine penetrated the aquifer and quickly filled with water. Not wanting to buy expensive pumping equipment, the Springer brothers abandoned the mine, selling the deed to Charles Smithhouse, an entrepreneur newly arrived from the Albany area. Smithhouse saw potential in the waterlogged mine and set to build a steam pump to pull the water out and deliver it directly to the homes in the area, much like what was happening in the larger cities throughout the country. As a result, the town was renamed Lily Springs and soon almost every resident had fresh water flowing directly into their houses. That was in 1888, twenty years before even the prestigious Hotel Julien in Dubuque had running water in every room of the hotel. Lily Springs was billed as an “oasis of modernity in the country.” Although most homes still used outdoor privies, many of the newer homes in Lily Springs had modern water closets and plumbing installed. Even so, the water business was not profitable for Smithhouse and he went bankrupt; the pump works taken over by the city.

Gas came to Lily Springs before the water and, even though electrical lines were strung up along the railroad using the existing telephone and telegraph poles, few houses were electrified by the summer of 1917. The only automobile service station in town was recently wired for electricity and some farmers near the tracks purchased transformers and ran lines into their barns and homes. Other than that, few people saw a necessity for electricity. And many didn’t trust it. The three street lamps at each tip of the town triangle were run off of gas and were lit most evenings by Tom Brooks, except during the nights of a full moon. There was some vigorous debate at city hall in recent years about changing the gas burners to incandescent electric lamps, but the discussions never resulted in any definitive decisions. And that was the problem with Lily Springs: it was trapped between the 19th and 20th centuries---between being an “oasis of modernity” and a throwback to another era. People began leaving Lily Springs and the once vibrant small town grew smaller, until not more than 70 homes remained occupied within the city limits. Those who stayed, however, were proud of their small town and its traditions. 

(Lilac Wine, Chapter 10)

A few months ago I traveled to Dubuque to conduct some research and travel the country.   Although a fictional city, I wanted to go to Lily Springs.  It had become such a part of me, I wanted to walk the streets, stand underneath the Civil War statue in the town triangle and drink a soda bought from the Lily Springs Pharmacy.  I wanted to stand on the bank of the Mississippi, near the railroad tracks and smell the air.   Of course, I was doing that everyday.  But the physicality was missing.  It wasn't completely tangible, more like a memory or distant dream.

After spending the day between the library and the Museum of the Mississippi River, I set out in the car and traveled North, not knowing where I was going in particular but knew instinctively I would recognize my destination when I saw it.  Traveling the winding roads through the bluffs around the Mississippi River, I found it near the town of North Buena Vista.

Standing on the bank of the Mississippi, breathing in the moist air, I knew I had arrived.  Lily Springs had always been real for me.  Now, it had become tangible.