Doctor’s bag, 1920s-40s

Today’s artifact is a leather doctor’s bag, owned and used by Dr. William Linthicum (1902-1991) of Rockville.  The “Top Grain Cow Hide” bag is 16″ long and 10″ tall, and was made by Kruse in the early 20th century.  Though currently empty (except for one last bottle), it originally held a variety of medicines and tools to aid the doctor in his housecalls.

A lifelong Rockville resident, Dr. Linthicum practiced as a GP and obstetrician for 60 years. He was the son of local doctor Otis Linthicum, and grandson of Dr. Edward E. Stonestreet; a 1982 article in the Montgomery Journal noted that the three generations “kept Rockville residents hale and hearty for 1.3 centuries.”  When Dr. Stonestreet’s office was donated to the Historical Society in 1972, Dr. Linthicum helped us furnish it – but he did not give us his own medical items. Instead, a large collection of his instruments and office equipment was donated by his daughter-in-law Karin Linthicum, after his death.

In 1977 Dr. Linthicum compiled a charming little memoir, “He Never Left Home.” Though he shared wonderful stories of life in Rockville, and ruminated on his chosen profession, he did not mention specific items from his career; thus, the exact history of the bag is unknown.  It’s clear, however, that it saw some action.  The bag is sturdy and built to last, with reinforced stitching, a steel frame, and five metal feet; but the folds are worn, the corners rubbed, and the interior straps (to hold bottles and instruments) are bent out of shape.  Dr. Linthicum estimated he’d delivered over 4,000 babies throughout his career, including a thousand or so home births; most likely, this bag accompanied him on those housecalls.

Though not often used today, the doctor’s bag was a necessity in the era of housecalls.  In his memoir, Dr. Linthicum mentions that his colleague Dr. Jacob W. Bird (1885-1959) of Olney “removed my tonsils in a front bedroom at our house.”  When you’re in the patient’s front bedroom, not a medical office or hospital, you need some supplies ready to hand.  A sturdy and capacious bag, with a nice wide opening (the frame locks into the open position for easy access), is the way to go.

The Indiana Medical History Museum has put together an online display, “What’s in a Doctor’s Bag?”, and the Canadian Medical Association Journal also took a look at the contents of an early 20th century medical bag.  But what of the bag itself?  Though the black bag has become something of an iconic symbol of the medical profession, its history has eluded me today.  Similar “Oxford” or “Boston”-style satchels and valises appear in Sears catalogs over the years, but none are specified for use by doctors; they must have been sold through more specialized means.  The Kruse company clearly made a lot of doctor’s bags, based on the number of vintage items for sale over the internet, but its origins are currently murky.  What I thought would be a relatively easy blog has instead turned into a rather more hardcore research project.

Sears, Roebuck catalog for 1902: “Fine Oxford Bags”

 

Twelves

In honor of today’s date, 12/12/12, here’s an assortment of ‘twelves’ – some deliberate, some accidental – from our collections. (And no, there aren’t twelve of them; that seemed excessive.)

First up: two twelve-candle molds, tin, late 18th or 19th century. The one on the left, in original (if well-used) condition, was donated by Mary Kingdon, and probably used by her family in Rockville. The one on the right - the handle has broken off, and it was painted black sometime in the late 20th century – came from the Tschiffely family of Gaithersburg, donated by Jean Seeback. Both of these make 10½” tapers, twelve at a time (we also have molds for 4 at a time and 6 at a time, but of course, today is 12 day).  In the interest of saving space, I refer you to either your favorite life-in-olden-times novel or YouTube to learn how to make candles with one of these.

These miniature metal soldiers were made by the Barclay Manufacturing Company of New Jersey; they’re “podfoots,” a style created in 1951 by Barclay to conserve metal (instead of standing on a flat base, they simply have flattened “pod” feet). They saw action in Bethesda, and only these twelve comrades survived. Owned, and donated, by Bill Allman.

A box of H.B. Marking & Embroidery Cotton, still containing its original twelve spools, circa 1890. Until the 1880s, red was a notoriously unstable dye; the introduction of “turkey red” floss (developed in Turkey), colorfast and cheaper than silk, started a fad for redwork embroidery on everyday household linens.  These embroidered pictures were generally outline-stitch pictures of flowers, fruit, children, animals, humorous sayings, etc.; designs were published in magazines, pre-printed fabric squares were available for a penny, or you could of course draw your own.  Redwork stayed popular through the 1920s and ‘30s – examples can be found in antique stores everywhere – and is experiencing something of a resurgence in today’s retro-crafty communities. Purchased by MCHS.

Twelve hand-wrought iron nails removed from “Pleasant Hills,” a house in Darnestown, during gutter work in 2003. The center block of the house was built in the 1760s for Charles Gassaway; the wings were constructed in the 1870s and 1910s. Someone could probably tell us more precisely when these nails were made and used, but we haven’t yet made that attempt. Donated by Mary Wolfe.

And last but not least, a tin suppository mold, mid 19th century, with twelve holes.  The box is 5.5″ long and 3.5″ deep, with the ‘thimbles’ making suppositories a little less than 2″ long.  Yes, it makes exactly what you think it does; 19th century doctors and pharmacists made their own recipes using  these handy tools.  According to “The Art of Dispensing,” 1915, by Peter MacEwan, “an American style [of suppository mold] consists of a circular metal box pierced with holes into which thimbles fit. The box can be filled with iced water or a freezing-mixture. The thimbles are filled with the suppository-mixture, dropped into the box, and owing to the chill the contents of the mold contract, and are easily tapped out when solid.” This piece was donated to MCHS by John Bentley of Sandy Spring. Mr. Bentley served as the MCHS curator in the late 1940s-early 1950s, and many of the items credited to Bentley were in fact collected by him from other county residents; thus, unfortunately, the specific history of this item is unknown.

I hope you all enjoy your Last Consecutive Date Day (especially if today is your birthday) until 01/01/2101. Go forth, and do something twelve times!

 

This is not who you think it is

Many of the portraits and paintings in our collections are in what we’ll optimistically call “open storage” – that is, they’re hanging on the walls of our administrative office. One that frequently invites comment is this fellow, the comment usually being “Hey, there’s Teddy Roosevelt!”

Not only is there a strong resemblance, but he is also hanging next to two portraits of George Washington; the presidential association is understandable. However, our man here is in fact Col. Louis Mervin Maus, U.S. Army.

Note that the family pronounced their last name “Moss.”

Col. Maus was born in 1851 in the Colesville/Burnt Mills area, where his parents Isaac and Mary Maus owned “Mount Radnor.” (The senior Mauses moved to Rockville around 1870, so the family is frequently associated with that town rather than Colesville.) He had six siblings, including older brother Brigadier General Marion Perry Maus, whose own Army career rates him a wikipedia page. Col. Maus attended medical school at the University of Maryland and joined the Army as a surgeon in 1874, eventually attaining the rank of Assistant Surgeon General in 1907. He served in many locations, notably in the Dakota Territory in the 1870s and 1880s, in Cuba during the Spanish-American War, and in the Philippines in the early 1900s.

He married Anna Russell of Kentucky in 1876, and they had two daughters, Mary and Louise. In the 1880 census all four Mauses are living at Standing Rock, Dakota Territory; in 1900 Anna and the girls are at Fort Hamilton, Brooklyn, with the Colonel “enumerated in the Philippine Islands.” We can speculate that they moved around frequently, living a life similar to those experienced by military families today.

The portrait was donated, along with many family photos and archival materials, by Col. Maus’s grandson Laurence Halstead, Jr. Among those materials is Mr. Halstead’s somewhat partisan summary of his grandfather’s career:

“Col. Lewis [sic] Maus joined the Army as a contract doctor in 1874. He served at many western army posts, even Ft. Apache, where he lived in a sod house. He was recommended for the Medal of Honor by his Commanding General Nelson Miles of the 7th Calvary, for saving a small hunting party of officers and men from sure death when they were surrounded by a band of Sioux Indians on the war path outnumbered about 30 to one, unarmed he left the party and talked the war party into leaving without harming the soldiers. Later he was given the Distinguished Service Medal (2nd highest award) for this act of bravery. He is given credit for stopping the cholera epidemic and the bubonic plague in the Phillippines during the Spanish American War. He should have been made Surgeon General of the Army when he had the seniority and magnificent record but he was blocked by high ranking officers and I believe because of his strong belief that the use of alcohol was detrimental to the solider (he was one of the first to make studies of the effects of alcohol on the human body). It was he who was responsible for having the whiskey and beer removed from the Post canteens. This naturally made him enemies in the hard drinking army of that day.”

Other non-relatives have echoed these sentiments, including some of Maus’s contemporaries – collected in a small booklet (cover shown below) – and modern historians. Lt. Robert D. Gorodetzer of the Walter Reed Army Medical Center wrote in 1971, “Throughout military history recognition has not always been given men for their achievements, but every so often an oversight is corrected. This should be considered in the case of Louis M. Maus, Colonel, MC, U.S. Army, who served on active duty for 41 years. . . . Maus’ stand on alcohol made him unpopular in many quarters. He was an ardent prohibitionist and favored the removal of beer from all Army facilities. Some believe this stand on alcohol may have been the reason he was never promoted to the grade of general. In an era that saw many advances in medicine, Colonel Maus should be remembered for his accomplishments.”

Col. Maus retired from the Army in 1919, and he and his wife moved to Washington, DC. He died in 1939, and is buried in Arlington Cemetery.  If you’re looking for more information on his life and career, stop by our library, or read his own words; a few works, including “An Army Officer On Leave in Japan” (1911), are available as ebooks.

As for the portrait itself, it measures 20″ x 24″ in a (somewhat banged-up) gilded frame, 27″ x 31″. It was originally cataloged as an “oil painting,” but in fact it is a hand-tinted photograph, or at any rate a hand-tinted print, on a panel. The tinting is skillfully done, but a closer look (above) shows what looks like both paint and pastel over top of the original image. Some cursory research on my part indicates that there were 20″ x 24″ large format cameras available around the turn of the last century. The image is undated, but perhaps an eagle-eyed reader can tell me what rank his uniform indicates? I see the medical insignia on his left sleeve, but I’m not sure if this portrait shows him as Lt. Col., Chief Surgeon (promoted 1898), Lt. Col., Deputy Surgeon General (1902), or Colonel, Assistant Surgeon General (1907).

A gentlemanly calling card, 1902-1907.

 

Nursing diploma and certificate, 1911

The time between May 6 and May 12 is National Nurses Week, and that seemed like a natural for A Fine Collection. Looking through our medical collections in search of nurse-related materials, I found these two pieces from Mayna Dwyer of Unity. I’ve long meant to do more research on Mayna, and this seemed like the perfect time.  (Note to fans of the history of nursing: this is not that post.  (Feel free to lobby for a future exhibit!))

Mayna Dwyer’s diploma, dated May 27, 1911, certifying that she had “completed Three Years in The National Homeopathic Hospital Training School for Nurses, and that she is now qualified to take charge of Medical, Surgical and Obstetrical Cases as a Graduate Nurse.”

Mayna Dwyer was born in 1882, the only child of Dr. John D. Dwyer (a dentist) and his wife Sue Burton Dwyer. Both Dr. and Mrs. Dwyer were from Triadelphia; Dr. Dwyer built his home, Bleakwood, in 1877 in Unity. (For those less well versed in the tiny towns of Montgomery County, Unity is just northwest of Sunshine, on Route 108; Triadelphia is, basically, underneath the Triadelphia Reservoir.  I believe Bleakwood is still standing, on Damascus Road.) Mayna was named after local doctor and friend of the family Henry Maynard of Laytonsville. Bleakwood remained Mayna’s home, on and off, for most of her life; she died in 1981.

She is not always an easy woman to trace through history. She married three times, and sometimes reverted to her maiden, or a prior married, name; census takers didn’t always know what to do with the unusual name “Mayna,” misspelling it or writing the wrong name altogether (e.g., Marion), and she sometimes went by Maynard. The items in our collections – including the diploma and certificate shown here, other archival material, and a large collection of postcards and greeting cards received by her and her mother – help make sense of the slightly confusing records.

Mayna attended the small Unity School, the Fairview Seminary in Gaithersburg, and Western Maryland College.  She married Walter Smith Lanning in 1901; they had one daughter, Sue Madesta Lanning, born in 1903. Walter and Mayna divorced shortly thereafter.

Informational circular for the Training School for Nurses, found in Mayna Dwyer’s archival collection. The name “Maynard Dwyer” is noted on the back. Click the images to enlarge and read!

In the 1910 Federal Census, Mayna Dwyer (back to her maiden name) is counted twice: once at Bleakwood with her parents and her daughter, and once as a nurse at the National Homeopathic Hospital in DC.  (The Library of Congress has several photos of the NHH Nurses Home from this era.)  The diploma indicates that she graduated in May, 1911. In June of that year she was certified as a Registered Nurse by the Nurses Examining Board of the District of Columbia.

“Be it known that Mayna Dwyer has met all requirements prescribed by law or by the Nurses Examining Board ordinances for a registered nurse and is therefore entitled to append to her name the letters R.N. to show that she is a Registered Nurse According to act of Congress approved Feb. 9 1907. [signed] . . . eighteenth day of June 1911.”

By 1920, the census shows that while Madesta is living with her grandparents at Bleakwood, “Maynard Dwyer” is working in DC as a “trained nurse, registered, in private family” (specifically, for Edward and Gertrude Long). In 1928, Mayna married a second time, to Nathaniel Elkins; the 1930 census has the newlyweds at home at Bleakwood with the widowed Mrs. Dwyer, and oral history evidence suggests that Mayna was by then retired from her nursing career. Nathaniel Elkins died in 1943. In 1950, shortly after the death of her mother, Mayna married Charles Henry Smith; he died in 1964. Mayna Dwyer Elkins Smith (she seems to have completely dropped Mr. Lanning) spent the rest of her life at Bleakwood; her 1981 obituary points out that she was survived by one daughter, three grandchildren, eight great-grandchildren and five great-great-grandchildren.

The correspondence collection, which includes cards between Mayna and her mother as well as many cards sent to the former by friends, nursing colleagues, and relatives, will help fill in some of the gaps in this census-heavy history. They have not been completely cataloged yet, but I’ve read a few when searching for Christmas cards and the like, and I think they’ll add some fantastic details about the lives and careers of both Mayna and her equally-long-lived (1852-1949) mother. What we don’t seem to have, unfortunately, is a photo of Mayna. For now, we have only this snapshot of unidentified nurses, perhaps some of her classmates at the Homeopathic Hospital; maybe Mayna is one of these young women?

 

Child’s dress, 1842-46

This little red cotton dress was worn by Ann Maria Jones, who was born in 1840 and died in 1846.

The handmade dress is simple, but not plain. The six buttons up the front are decorative (the dress fastens in the back with five plainer buttons), and piping was added at the neck, waist and arms. The skirt is full, and would have fitted over a petticoat and, most likely, a pair of bloomers. (Click here to see the overall effect, albeit with a fancier gown.)

In the mid 19^th century, both boys and girls under the age of 6 wore dresses like this one. Children’s clothing followed fashions just as adult wear did, but relatively simple dresses like this one were made for several decades. How, then, do we know that it was worn by a little girl in the 1840s? A previous owner took the time to write us a note – and not just any old note on paper, but a message written on the lining of the bodice: “Little Ann Maria’s dress. She was Grandma Jones’s oldest child. Died with typhoid and effects too much calomel. Age 6 years.”

The clues given here point us to Ann Maria Jones (1840-1846), daughter of David Trundle and Mary Ann Dawson Jones. Mary Ann (daughter of James Mackall and Ann Nancy Allnutt Dawson) grew up in “Mother’s Delight,” in the Boyds/Dawsonville area, and married David in January1840. Ann Maria was the oldest of their seven children; she, her mother, and three of her siblings are buried in Monocacy Cemetery, along with earlier family members who were moved from the graveyard at “Mother’s Delight.” Since the donor, Lawrence Elgin, is also descended from the Allnutt/Dawson family, Ann Maria Jones is almost certainly the original owner of this little dress.

Why was this dress saved? We don’t know. I know that typhoid (and other) patients were quarantined, but did you get rid of all their clothes and belongings while you were at it? (Or do I only think that because of The Velveteen Rabbit?) This dress seems a little small for a six year old; maybe it was an earlier gown, untainted by association with the disease. . . but in that case, why didn’t Ann Maria’s younger siblings wear it? Or maybe they did, but the lasting association was with Ann Maria. The message in the dress provides some good clues, but it doesn’t tell the whole story.

As for the mortal “effects of too much calomel” – calomel was a common remedy in the mid 19^th century, a heroic medicine used for many diseases (especially bowel illnesses like typhoid fever). Unfortunately, calomel contained mercury, and too much of it caused mercury poisoning; you might survive the illness but die of the treatment. Poor Ann Maria, not quite six years old, probably didn’t have much of a chance.

 

Sphygmomanometers, early-mid 20th century

Raise your hand if you know what a sphygmomanometer is. Now raise your other hand if you can spell it without looking. Very good! I confess, I did not know what it was until recently (and we’ll see how many different ways I can spell it before this post is through).

A sphygmomanometer measures blood pressure.  Throughout the 19^th century, physicians looked for new and better ways to accurately measure a patient’s blood pressure. The use of mercury in a glass tube was developed early in the century, but the problem of getting and maintaining uniform pressure against the patient’s artery (so that the mercury could do its work) persisted until the mid 1890s, when Scipioni Riva-Rocci added the inflatable cuff that is familiar to us today. For a more detailed explanation of how these devices work (not written by non-medical me), click here.

This circa 1920 Baumanometer Desk Model sphygmomanometer (at left and below) was owned by Dr. Gilcin F. Meadors, Jr. (1915-1989). Dr. Meadors practiced in Damascus from 1955 until the mid 1960s, when he moved to Frederick. In addition to his practical, modern-day equipment, he also collected antique medical devices, of which this would seem to be one. However, the canvas cuff (which closes with hook-and-loop tape) and rubber squeeze bulb are circa 1960 replacements; that, plus the fact that the cuff has Dr. Meadors’ name written on it in ink, could indicate that he used this particular example despite its age. . . or it could mean that he had no more need for the cuff, and wanted his antique piece to look complete. Apparently the mercury Baumanometers were well regarded for their accuracy and reliability, and never needed recalibration. Any patients of Dr. Meadors recognize this piece as one used in his office?

In contrast to the Baumanometer, with its wooden case and hand-inked markings, this plastic and metal German-made Erkameter 280 (right) looks more modern, but both pieces function in very much the same way. This kit as a whole is later than the Baumanometer, but earlier than Dr. Meadors’ replacement cuff; sadly the internet is letting me down, and I haven’t yet figured out when the 280 model was being manufactured and sold. (The company is up to the 3000 model, though, so maybe I can calculate backwards from that?) This piece of equipment was used by Dr. Washington Waters Stonestreet* (1875-1965 ), a Rockville native who practiced medicine in West Virginia from 1906 until his retirement in 1960. This sphygmomanometer, along with many other instruments from his career, was donated by his daughter Ouida Stonestreet MacDonald.  Unfortunately, Dr. Stonestreet did not mark his name anywhere on this instrument, although there’s a metal plaque on the lid for just that purpose.

* This is not “our” Dr. Stonestreet – that would be Edward Elisha – but rather his nephew, son of Dr. E.E. Stonestreet’s brother Thomas. He was probably named for Dr. Washington Waters (1804-1882) of upper Montgomery County, though the reason for this is uncertain.

 

Veterinary anesthesia face mask, 1950s

February is, among other things, National Pet Dental Health Month. As the postcard from my veterinarian reminds me, dogs have 42 permanent teeth and cats have 30; like human teeth, those pearly whites need care and attention. Today’s artifact, then, comes from our veterinary collection (a subset of our medical collections): an anesthesia face mask, used on cats and small dogs in the mid 20^th century.

The mask is made of a light, flexible metal, wrapped into a cone shape, with mesh across the smaller opening and surgical tape around the larger end (2.25″ diameter), to protect the animal’s face. A cloth soaked in the chosen anesthetic agent was put inside, and then the cone was placed over the patient’s nose and mouth until the animal breathed enough and fell asleep. (No doubt a veterinary textbook would explain that better, but that’s the gist.) It’s very similar in shape and function to the masks used for modern face-mask induction anesthesia, although those masks are rubber or plastic.

This instrument was used, and donated, by Dr. Bill Gay, a veterinarian who worked at the National Institutes of Health in Bethesda. The photo below shows Dr. Gay and an assistant working at NIH in the 1950s. (In the interest of full disclosure I should point out that the image shows Dr. Gay removing a foreign body from the cat’s throat, not actually cleaning his or her teeth, but it’s such a great photo that I’m using it anyway.) According to Mrs. Gay, her husband “always got along well with cats” – and the assistant shown here was “very good at holding the cats” – so Dr. Gay did not always use anesthesia when doing a basic dental cleaning, although it was necessary when performing extractions and other surgeries. With the advent of sharper tools like ultrasonic scalers, most vets today use anesthesia for cleanings, for the safety of both the patient and the doctor.

Dr. Gay at NIH, circa 1950s. Photo owned by, and courtesy of, Bill and Millicent Gay.

There are at least two animal hospitals in Montgomery County that have been around since the 1950s, but they were not the first in the county. Specialization in small animal (i.e., domestic pet) medicine became more common in America in the 1930s, and we followed that trend; many local vets found themselves focusing on small animals by default, as the county became more suburban and there were fewer large farm animals that needed their care. The 1949 Montgomery County telephone directory included five animal hospitals, ten single-doctor practices and one veterinary supply store, and the numbers have only been increasing since then. Next time you bring your cat, dog or guinea pig in for a dental check-up, take a moment to think of all the many veterinarians who have done the same for county pets over the decades.

Horses can be pets, too. This equine dental float, also used and donated by Dr. Gay, was used to file down horses' overgrown molars. The instrument is 17 inches long - a little more hardcore than what you need for a cat.

Thanks to Bill and Millicent Gay for the additional information, and the use of the fabulous photograph.

 

Eyeglasses, case and prescription card, 1915

In 1915 Gladys Benson (1905-2000), daughter of John William and Elizabeth Settle Benson of Unity and Rockville, acquired a pair of spectacles in Washington, D.C.

This is a delightful little set: glasses case, with her name written inside; a small pair of gold-rimmed glasses; and prescription card. Miss Benson, who according to a relative did not wear glasses as an adult (at least not in front of anyone), saved her ten-year-old self’s eyeglasses for 77 years before donating them to the Society. We have several pairs of glasses of varying ages in the collections, some in (possibly original) cases, most with identified owners/wearers, but Miss Benson’s are the whole set. (If only we had a photo of her wearing them!) The optometrist’s card requests the owner to “kindly keep this record,” and Miss Benson obliged.

The optometrist was Dr. Edwin H. Silver, and the glasses were purchased from the Columbia Optical Company. Both offices (according to the addresses on the card and on the case) were located at 908 F Street – the case specifies “south side” – in northwest D.C. The glasses are “Silver Lens” brand. After learning that Gladys apparently did not wear glasses, I wondered if these weren’t original, but they do seem to be sized appropriately for a ten year old girl (four inches from hinge to hinge).

There were many doctors in Montgomery County in the early 20^th century, including some specialists, but a number of County residents seem to have preferred to make their way into D.C. for their more specialized needs. Diaries are one way to learn about the medical habits of our predecessors; for example, Caroline Farquhar of Norbeck wrote on November 15, 1902, “Alice and Aunt E. went to Wash., to see about A[lice]’s eyes” and Catherine Dawson of Rockville noted on April 26, 1922, “At 2:00 I went to Washington to see a chiropodist about my foot.”  Miss Benson’s carefully saved prescription card and glasses case are another way to get at that information. Artifacts are primary sources, too!

 

Wall telephone, ca. 1909

This week’s “museum spotlight” artifact can be found in the Stonestreet Museum of 19th Century Medicine: a Western Electric wall telephone, model 317 (introduced around 1909).   This phone was donated to us in 1973 by the Chesapeake & Potomac Telephone Company, for display in the newly-opened Stonestreet Medical Museum (as it was then called). 

Why do we have a telephone in a 19th century doctor’s office?  The museum shows the many changes in medical knowledge and technology that took place during the late 19th and early 20th centuries.  Dr. Edward E. Stonestreet (it’s his office) practiced medicine in Rockville and environs from 1852 until his death in 1903; a lot happened in those 51 years, not the least of which was the invention of the telephone.  For most of his career, Dr. Stonestreet was summoned in person: Run, Timmy, go find the doctor!  (Or maybe, Run, Lassie?  For some reason, my tours of the museum always involve Timmy or Lassie running for help… and I’ve never even seen “Lassie.”)  However we know that before his death, Dr. Stonestreet had a telephone installed in his Rockville home, making him a little easier to find. 

This particular telephone’s history, prior to its donation, is unknown.  It is a model 317, patented in 1907, but with a few design details that indicate it’s a ’2nd generation’ introduced by 1909.  Ours has had some work done – it’s almost certainly been refinished, and there are a few shiny new screws through the door that might mean it was put together from a variety of old parts.  That’s okay, though; it’s meant to serve as an example, something to spark our visitors’ interest, to make them ask “why is there a telephone in a 19th century doctor’s office?”

Interested in learning more about the career of Dr. Stonestreet, and medicine in the 19th century?  Visit the Stonestreet museum on the 2nd Sunday of each month when Dr. Stonestreet holds “Office Hours” (in the person of interpreter Clarence Hickey), or stop by the shop to purchase Mr. Hickey’s new book on the good doctor.  [Hey, I've gone almost a year without plugging our merchandise, and it's a great book!]

This schematic phone diagram wants you to call your mother on Sunday.

 

Insulated medical box, ca. 1890

Dr. Elisha Cornelius Etchison (1848-1916), who practiced in Gaithersburg, made himself this traveling medical case in the late 19th century.  It is lined with lambswool, designed to keep his medicines from freezing when he was out making housecalls in the winter.

Dr. Etchison was born in Claggetsville (one of those Montgomery County towns that most people haven’t heard of nowadays).  He taught in the public schools for a few years before attending the University of Maryland medical school; after graduating in 1874 he moved to Gaithersburg, where he was one of the first (possibly the first, although I have not confirmed that) doctors to live and practice in that city.  In addition to his medical career, he was also elected to three terms as the Mayor.  One of his sons, Dr. Neal Etchison, also practiced in Gaithersburg, and another son, Garnett Waters Etchison, was a long-time pharmacist in that city. 

The nice little painted box (I love people who paint or engrave their names on their things!) was donated by Dr. Etchison’s granddaughter, who added some details about her grandfather’s winter work.  “Inasmuch as there was no snow removal in the early days of Gaithersburg, Dr. Etchison drove a horse and sleigh at least six weeks in the winter.  [As he drove,] over his legs was a heavy bear rug and underneath was a hot soapstone to keep the medicines in the box warm and himself warm.”   I have a feeling a lot of people in the DC area are wishing they had a horse and sleigh right about now.

…An early post this week, partly to make up for last week’s delay and partly to cover my bases in case our power goes out tonight in Snowpocalypse 3: This Time It’s Personal.   (For more info on some historic storms in the DC area – including a great anecdote about the 1899 storm, when Montgomery County refused to do any snow removal because it had drifted into the county from Frederick (!) - check out our website.) I hope Dr. Etchison’s insulated box helps you think warm thoughts as we all weather the storm!

Toasty warm lambswool!