Booze, Jazz, Flivvers And Flappers Dominated Cincinnati’s New Year In 1924
One hundred years ago, it was easy, despite three solid years of Prohibition, to get a celebratory drink on New Year’s Eve in Cincinnati. The new year began with multiple fatal accidents, many blamed on liquor. The Enquirer [1 January 1924] wryly observed that venerable customs were honored only when thirst compelled:
“The fashion of making New-Year’s calls has gone out of style EXCEPT in those homes where they still have well-stocked cellars.”
Reporters from Cincinnati’s newspapers rang up the doctors at General Hospital to get a status report on the city’s accommodation to a nominally “dry” existence. Doctor Arthur Charles Bachmeyer, superintendent of the city’s hospital, did not disappoint. According to the Enquirer [1 January 1924]:
“Whisky, good or bad, pre-war or bootleg stuff, did not affect as many persons, visibly, during the year 1923, as were affected by it in 1922, according to records at the General Hospital, which show that there were but 61 cases of acute alcoholism treated there last year, as against 188 in 1922. However, Dr. A.C. Bachmeyer, Superintendent of the hospital, declared it to be his belief that alcohol and its use played a much more important role with regards to automobile accidents in 1923, than in the preceding year, and more persons examined after being injured in accidents, or after having injured others through reckless driving, showed symptoms of being under the influence of alcohol, than in previous years, according to reports made to Dr. Bachmeyer.”
If anything put a damper on New Year’s Eve celebrations a century ago, it wasn’t a dearth of booze. It was the weather. New Year's Eve 1923 was unseasonably frigid, with temperatures coasting around zero degrees.
Cincinnati, along with most of America, was still trying to accept the changes that automobiles were bringing into daily life. With all the complaints about scofflaws guzzling Sweet Lucy and bathtub gin, the Enquirer noted:
“Automobiles killed the most people. Bootleg whisky came next in deadliness. Ordinary diseases ran a poor third.”
The Enquirer noted that, across America in 1923, one million homeowners had taken on a mortgage to finance the purchase of an automobile.
There was a lot of talk in 1924 about “poison rum” and there was a lot of substance to that apparent hyperbole. By 1924, bootleggers had begun smuggling gallons of Jamaican ginger extract into the United States, much of it adulterated with an additive that, while smoothing the taste, acted as a long-term neurotoxin. A generation of men, if they survived, were crippled with a condition known as “Jake Leg.” A number of classic blues tunes have memorialized this awful side-effect of Prohibition.
In reviewing the past year, the Enquirer noted, with derision, the state of music at the dawn of the “Roaring Twenties”:
“There was no improvement in jazz. The craziest song in history made a fortune for its writer. The saxophone continued to grow in unpopularity.”
An article in the Enquirer [30 December 1923] just before the New Year’s revelries, predicted the merciful demise of jazz:
“This season already has witnessed a decided turn to the conservative, with the revival of the tango, which rapidly is displacing the weird jumblings of the one-step, fox-trot, toddle, and what-not, to the wild gyrations of a discordant orchestra.”
Fat chance! This was the heyday of The Flapper. A humorous squib in the Enquirer [30 December 1923] reported the supposed compliant of a mother who thought her daughter needed psychiatric intervention:
“‘Why doctor,’ wept the poor mother, ‘she hasn’t bobbed her hair, refuses to use rouge on her cheeks, never has used a lipstick, wears heavy underwear and high shoes all winter, thinks modern sex novels are unfit for her to read, plays old classical pieces and doesn’t know a note of jazz, prefers going to church to going to bridge parties or the theater and never thinks of calling her father or me down.”
In reviewing the past year, the Enquirer observed that long skirts were never going to return to style, despite the wailing of mothers everywhere. Not a single pair of cotton stockings was sold in the city as silk sheathed the Flapper’s legs. A generation of barbers earned enough to retire after trimming the locks of young ladies who craved the bobbed and marcelled hairstyles.
It has since become de rigueur for newspapers to roust boffins and mavens from their New Year’s Day hangovers to forecast major developments of the ensuing months. Cincinnati reporters had a field day with predictions for 1924 and the following decade because all the greatest minds in America, nearly the entire membership of the American Association for the Advancement of Science, had convened in the Queen City for its annual convention.
Dr. Edward P. Warner addressed the punditry with grave fears about the state of aviation in the United States. Although America excelled on adopting air transport for the delivery of mail, European nations were far exceeding the United States in passenger travel. Dr. Warner attributed this to Europe’s creation of national airlines, while our country allowed private corporations to dither away opportunities in petty squabbles.
Moses B. Cotsworth of the International Fixed Calendar League, told the AAAS that, by 1928, every new year henceforth would begin on a Sunday. Cotsworth’s league proposed a simplified calendar of 13 months, each containing 28 days, each month starting on a Sunday and ending on a Saturday, creating a fixed year of 364 days. The thirteenth month, named Sol, would be placed between June and July. The additional day would be a holiday named “Year Day.” In leap years, the extra day would fall after Saturday, June 28, as an anomalous addition before Sunday, Sol 1.
We are still waiting. Perhaps wiser minds realized that Cotsworth’s calendar would have created a Friday the Thirteenths during every one of those thirteen months.
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