Funeral Biscuits: A Creepy Culinary Custom

Victorian mourning culture really lends itself to Halloween, as visitors to the Governor Warner Mansion’s 4th annual “Ghost Night” quickly found out last Saturday, October 19. The dining room definitely ranked among the spookier parts of the tour. Beneath a cobwebbed chandelier, four veiled and black-garbed mannequins gathered around the table, somberly laid for a Victorian funeral or wake.

Volunteer Annika Taylor, the dining room speaker, reenacted Governor Warner’s daughter Edessa. “Some of you might not know me – I’ve been dead for quite a while,” she quipped as she entered from the kitchen, carrying a plate of funeral biscuits to offer to her motionless “guests.”

The little packaged cookies, served exclusively as Victorian funeral favors, looked the epitome of properness with their white paper wrappers and black wax seals. But don’t let their appearance fool you. Behind them lurk centuries of gristly gourmet.

A MORBID MENTALITY

The Victorians of the late 1800s and early 1900s were fascinated with death – think sentimental jewelry made from the hair of the deceased, black-draped windows, and elaborate mourning outfits, a trend popularized by Queen Victoria of England. After the death of her husband, Prince Albert, she wore black for the rest of her life.

Queen Victoria’s influence extended to the United States as well, ushering in the mourning culture for which the era became famous. Many funeral traditions took root, one of the most lasting being the funeral biscuit.

AN ANCIENT TRADITION

The Victorians may have perfected the funeral biscuit itself, but the tradition was centuries in the making. The symbolism behind eating at funerals predates the Victorians by thousands of years – and its origins were far from romantic.

In fact, the oh-so-proper Victorians would probably have been aghast if they realized that their tradition stemmed from a prehistoric cave dweller ritual: partaking in bits of a dead body before burial, in hopes of transferring that person’s good qualities to the mourners.

By the Middle Ages, corpse eating became more symbolic. Leavened dough was left to rise on the linen-covered chest of the corpse, ostensibly to “absorb” the good qualities of the deceased. These “corpse cakes” were later baked and served to funeral-goers.

BIRTH OF THE BISCUIT

Over the next few centuries, culinary customs at European and American funerals gradually lost the physical connection with the corpse. Instead, cookies – called biscuits – were served to simply symbolize the dead.

Europeans in the late 1700s favored spongy ladyfinger biscuits, while American colonists preferred dense shortbread biscuits flavored with molasses, ginger, or caraway. The cookies were usually wrapped in plain white paper and sealed with black wax, stamped with a skull, cross, heart, or cherub.

During the American Civil War, the height of Victorianism in America, funeral biscuits became a booming commercial enterprise. Unlike their coarse and seedy ancestors, bakery-made funeral biscuits were plain cookies, similar to today’s Lorna Doones. They were often advertised as “made to order on the shortest notice” – a necessity during the war, when news of a death could come at any moment.

SENTIMENTAL SOUVENIR

The Victorians loved ornate designs, so bakeries often custom-decorated the cookie wrappers with the dead person’s name and sad poems. One example begins: “When ghastly death with unrelenting hand cuts down a father, brother, or a friend, the still small voice should make you understand how frail you are, how near your final end.”

Wrappers like this were saved for years as souvenirs of the deceased and the funeral itself. In those days, photography was still in its infancy. A cookie wrapper may have been funeral guests’ only tangible memento of the dead.

Around World War I, funeral biscuits were replaced by full-scale funeral meals. But what goes around, comes around. Today, more than a century after the height of the Victorian funeral biscuit, light refreshments like punch and cookies are once again the norm. This time, though, there’s no black wax, no sappy poems…and no reference to the corpse.

Martha Warner: Wife of a Governor

If you’ve ever visited the Governor Warner Mansion, you’re probably familiar with its namesake, Fred Warner, Farmington’s only Michigan governor. You might have heard of P.D. Warner, Fred’s adoptive father, who built the house in 1867. But what about the Warner women?

Martha and her daughters. From left to right: Edessa, Martha, and Helen. Courtesy of the Farmington Community Library.

One of them – Martha Warner, Fred’s wife – is among 12 Farmington-area women featured in local author Joni Hubred-Golden’s newly-released book Farmington: A Women’s History.

DIGGING FOR STORIES

Hubred-Golden said her goal in writing the book was to recognize the contributions of the countless local women whose lives helped shape Farmington into the community it is today. “I have a bone to pick with P.D. Warner,” she begins her introduction. P.D.’s list of early settlers, published in 1899, records that “men arrived with their sons, year after year, to settle the community,” she writes. Women were rarely mentioned except as relating to men.

Instead, much of what we know about these women’s stories comes from family histories, newspaper articles, essays, and birth and death records.

IN A GOVERNOR’S SHADOW

The Warner family on the front steps of their Farmington home in 1904. Courtesy of the Farmington Community Library.

“Searching for Martha Davis Warner’s history feels, at times, like chasing a wisp of smoke.” That’s how the chapter on Martha, titled “In a governor’s shadow,” begins. And it’s a sentiment echoed by many at the Mansion.

Whether or not Martha herself felt she was living in her husband’s shadow, much of her own story has been eclipsed by Fred’s.

“Martha’s Farmington Observer obituary mentions only that she had been ‘active in community and civic affairs,’ but devotes a full paragraph to her husband’s career out of the five paragraphs that encapsulated her life,” Hubred-Golden writes. “Surely, Martha contributed much more to her hometown.”

MARTHA’S STORY

Martha Davis Warner, age 23, the year after she married Fred. Courtesy of the Farmington Community Library.

Martha Davis Warner was born August 6, 1866 to Samuel and Susan Groft Davis and grew up on the family farm in Farmington Township. At 22, she married Fred Warner, an eligible Farmington bachelor whom she would have known since childhood.

The couple had four children: Edessa, Howard, Harley, and Helen, plus an infant who did not survive.

Edessa recalled of her mother: “She was a large woman, with dark hair and a happy disposition. I can’t remember my mom ever being cross. She was nice to everyone. She always wanted to help others.”

Martha Davis Warner in 1910. Courtesy of the Farmington Community Library.

She also remembered Martha as a “plain, every day person” who didn’t particularly care for social events. But as the wife of an aspiring politico, Martha certainly did her part. As Fred climbed the political ladder from village president to state senator, secretary of state, and finally governor, Martha entertained his guests, often hosting gatherings at their home. She once served a chicken dinner on the lawn to more than 60 members of the Republican Newspaper Association of Michigan.

Scene from the abovementioned press conference, at which Martha served the outdoor chicken dinner. Courtesy of the Farmington Community Library.

After Fred became governor, he split his time between Lansing and his home office. Martha kept busy raising their children, who ranged in age from 6 to 14 at the time of his election. But she still found time to volunteer with numerous community organizations, including the Methodist Church, Eastern Star, Cemetery Association, Farmington Improvement Association, and – during World War I – the local Red Cross.

She also participated in the Ladies Literary Club and was the only member granted the status of “member emerita.” In 1917, a meeting she hosted at the Mansion drew more than 100 women and made front-page Farmington news.

Martha was widowed in 1923. She died September 27, 1949, aged 83, and was buried in Oakwood Cemetery.

MONUMENT AT THE MANSION

The Warner Mansion has done its own part to memorialize the governor’s wife as well as the governor. While Fred gets a bust in the music room, Martha has been honored with a life-size bronze statue in the backyard gardens she loved.

Fittingly, it was crafted by a local female sculptor, Bernadette Zachara-Marcos.

Farmington: A Women’s History is available for $12 on Amazon (http://www.amazon.com/Farmington-Womens-History-Joni-Hubred-Golden/dp/1500471038) or at the Governor Warner Mansion.

Tea & Talk at the Warner Mansion

Hats were aflutter at the Governor Warner Mansion’s “Tea and Talk with Dolley Madison,” held on Sunday, August 24 from 3-5 pm. Despite overcast skies, local ladies – and two gents – turned out in force to the Mansion’s fourth annual summer fundraiser tea, held to benefit structural repair to the 1867 historic home.

TIME FOR TEA

Feathered fascinators dotted the lawn and porch as guests browsed pre-tea boutique shopping: jewelry, purses, hats, teapots, teacups, and – of course – tea of all varieties and flavors.

Under a yellow-and-gray striped tent in the backyard gardens, partygoers were treated to afternoon tea, or “fancy foods,” as caterer Vicky O’Neil of Victoria’s Tea Salon put it.

Places were laid for 65, each with its own delicate teacup filled with party favors: pink, blue, and yellow chocolate cameos.

Luncheon dainties were served on a three-tier stand, starting at the bottom with mini sandwiches and working upward to apricot scones, chocolate hazelnut tarts, and tiny carrot cupcakes. Two kinds of tea – Governor Gray and an herbal citrus blend – topped off the luncheon.

HELLO, DOLLEY

Despite the tea’s Dolley Madison theme, one particularly notorious dessert was absent from the menu: the cream-filled chocolate cupcakes named in her honor.

Most of the cakes, ice creams, and other products to bear Dolley’s name have thoroughly bungled the spelling, as speaker Joan McGlincy – reenacting the famed First Lady – quickly pointed out. “My name is Dolley Madison – spelled ‘-ey,’ “ she said by way of introduction, prompting a laugh from the audience. A Farmington resident since 1969, McGlincy has spoken at several previous Warner Mansion teas, impersonating Eleanor Roosevelt and Mary Todd Lincoln.

“This reminds me of our Wednesday drawing room get-togethers at the White House,” said McGlincy, launching into character. “We called it ‘the squeeze’ because it was such a tight fit.”

FARM GIRL TO FIRST LADY

Although renowned as a Washington socialite, Dolley Madison grew up a Quaker farm girl in a bonnet and braids. Not until her second marriage, to Virginia statesman James Madison, did she enter into her famous role as a hostess.

But when she did, she certainly made up for lost time. Dolley threw herself into entertaining, serving as the unofficial First Lady for President Jefferson (a bachelor) and later claiming the official title when her own husband was elected. It was here where she developed her characteristic style of headwear, the turban, McGlincy added, touching her own burgundy velvet headscarf.

HEROIC HOSTESS

Dolley gained a reputation as a heroine as well as a hostess during Madison’s second presidential term. Before the British torched the White House during the War of 1812, she saved the country’s governmental documents, along with a painting of George Washington. And when she returned to the city’s charred remains, she cobbled together a set of mismatched dishes and threw a party to symbolize the young capitol’s resilience.

Dolley’s parties were very informal, and she was known for serving locally grown, American-style food – which sometimes garnered criticism, as society tended to favor European customs. She also loved to talk politics with her guests. At a time when women lacked basic civil rights, Dolley – nicknamed “Presidentress” – numbered among the country’s foremost feminists. “She knew what the boundaries were – and pushed against them,” said McGlincy.

McGlincy’s passionate presentation struck a chord with the audience. Haslett resident Joyce Benvenuto said her portrayal had a “feeling of authenticity.” And it’s no surprise. “Joan herself has always been an advocate of women’s rights,” said Farmington City Councilmember JoAnne McShane, a longtime friend of McGlincy’s.

As guests bid their goodbyes, Mansion director Jean Schornick said she received nothing but positive comments. Cindy Boychuk, a Farmington resident and Greenfield Village gardener, ordered several tins of Governor Gray looseleaf tea.

Governor Gray was produced at the Charleston Tea Plantation, America’s only tea garden. The herbal fruit tea was locally grown in Michigan.

Dolley Madison would approve.

The Victrola: Great-Grandpa’s iPod

Before iPods, there were CD players, and before that came records, record players, and the Victrola, the great-grand-daddy of phonograph history.

The Warners had a Victrola – reportedly Farmington’s first – and its presence made the Governor Warner Mansion quite a hotspot for turn-of-the-century teens.

THE TALKING MACHINE

Today, the word “Victrola” is often used to describe any hand-cranked antique phonograph from the early 1900s, regardless of brand or style.

But, as the docents at the Warner Mansion have learned, it’s a bit more complicated than that. The first phonograph was not a Victrola: it was invented by Thomas Edison in 1877, a byproduct of experimental efforts to play back recorded telegraph messages.

Edison’s device was the first ever that could reproduce sounds it recorded. His first recording was “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” and it was created on a tinfoil-covered cylinder that could be played only a few times before it wore out.

EARLY PHONOGRAPHS

Initially, the “talking machine” was promoted as an aid in business correspondence. By 1890, most major cities had “phonograph parlors,” where a nickel in the slot would play the listener a pre-recorded tune.

Phonographs began to appear in American households in the early 1900s. Although the Warners’ own phonograph – a Victrola – has been lost to history, the museum currently possesses two vintage phonographs that chronicle the instrument’s early development.

The older of the two, dating to 1902, is a tabletop cylinder player with an exposed horn, made by the Edison Speaking Phonograph Company. Turn the crank on the side, and it plays a lively patriotic tune. Sousa marches and Stephen Foster ballads were popular songs played by these instruments.

THE VICTROLA

Of course, Edison wasn’t the only phonograph maker at the turn of the 20th century. Many companies joined the new industry, creating machines with names typically ending in “-ola” – for example, Metrola, Mediola, Centrola, and arguably the most famous: Victrola.

The Victrola, manufactured by the Victor Talking Machine Company, was responsible for transforming the phonograph from a piece of machinery into a piece of furniture. Unlike previous phonographs, the Victrola’s turntable and amplifying horn were located inside a wooden cabinet, tucked out of sight behind a pair of doors.

Introduced in 1906, the Victrola was an immediate hit, remaining the most popular home phonograph until the late 1920s. An extensive line of Victrolas soon developed, ranging from $15 tabletop models to $600 Queen Anne-style cabinets with gold trim, designed for use in elegant mansions.

According to Warner Mansion lore, Fred Warner and his family had one of the town’s first Victrolas, a popular draw among neighborhood children and teens, who reportedly enjoyed dancing to the instrument’s melodious strains. Today, a cabinet-style phonograph, similar to the Victrola but built by Edison, is on display in the Mansion’s music room. This particular instrument has a volume control – an unusual feature on early models.

A MUSIC LEGEND

The disc phonograph, later referred to as a record player, remained a common feature of American homes for most of the 20th century, undergoing periodic updates – for example, switching from hand-cranked to electric power, and gaining “hi-fi” (high-fidelity) and stereophonic sound systems.

In the mid-1980s, phonographs were largely replaced by compact discs and other digital recording formats. But memories of the Victorian Victrola live on in today’s popular culture. The Gramophone, another brand of phonograph, has survived in nickname form as the title of the Grammy Awards, given yearly for musical excellence.

And the Grammy trophy itself is a miniature rendering of an old-fashioned phonograph, gilded and – perhaps – still playing the golden oldies.

Warner Mansion Honors Military

When it comes to honoring our nation’s soldiers and veterans, Michigan residents can take pride in knowing that our home state has been at the forefront from the very start. In 1871, Michigan became the first state in the U.S. to declare “Decoration Day” – a forerunner of Memorial Day – an official holiday.

With this historic precedent in mind, the Governor Warner Mansion is doing its part to say “thank you” to our servicemen and women by offering them free admission to the historic house museum through the Blue Star Museum program, a collaboration among the National Endowment for the Arts, Blue Star Families, and the Department of Defense.

THE WARNERS IN WARTIME

This Memorial Day, hundreds of cheering spectators will line the curbs and sidewalks of Grand River for the holiday parade, a local tradition for almost 50 years. But Farmington’s reputation as a patriotic city goes back more than a century.

The patriotic spirit burned especially bright in Farmington during World War I, six years after Fred Warner’s third and final term as governor.

Like most families on the home front, the Warners threw themselves into the war effort. Fred Warner chaired numerous wartime committees, including the Farm Preparedness Committee, the Oakland County Red Cross, the Oakland County War Preparedness Board, and the Oakland County Patriotic League, whose purpose was to “eliminate waste in raising funds for various patriotic movements.”

As his personal contribution, Fred donated an apartment in his new “Warner Block” for the local Red Cross headquarters, where his wife, Martha, and eldest daughter, Edessa, both volunteered. Edessa made regular trips to Pontiac to deliver garments knitted or sewn by Farmington women.

Both of Fred’s sons joined the armed forces. Howard worked on military aeronautics in St. Paul, Minnesota. Harley, his younger brother, enlisted in the Army as soon as war was declared in 1917, shipping overseas to France after first marrying Dorothy Slocum, his college sweetheart. He survived 35 air raids and, for the final months of the war, had charge of the only American bombing groups to experience action. Upon his return, he was hailed as a war hero, and his war trophies – guns, grenades, a helmet with 24 bullet holes – were publicly displayed.

MANSION HONORS SOLDIERS

In honor of the amazing sacrifices by ordinary Americans across the country, the decades, and the generations, the Governor Warner Mansion has teamed up with the Blue Star Museum program to say “thank you” to America’s armed forces. Beginning June 1, free admission to the Warner Mansion will be offered for all active and veteran soldiers – plus up to five family members – with the presentation of a military ID card.

On Sunday, June 1, join us at the Warner Mansion for a special ceremony to kick off the summer season as a Blue Star museum. Held at 1 pm on the Mansion grounds, the event will include an appearance from Farmington’s Groves-Walker American Legion Post 346 honor guard, a welcome from a City of Farmington official, and the National Anthem, sung by Miss Farmington 2014 contestant Stephanie Vietor.

Inside the museum, historic Army and Navy uniforms from World War I, World War II, and the Korean and Vietnam Wars will be on display, along with memorabilia including Civil War bullets and buttons.

On the front porch, Farmington’s Artisan Knitworks will demonstrate how to spin yarn on a retro spinning wheel. The house will be open for tours from 1 – 5 pm, and refreshments will be served.

Victorian Wedding Superstitions

Bring out the rice – it’s wedding time at the Home of Farmington History! When warmer weather arrives, the Governor Warner mansion is a popular spot for outdoor marriages and photos. But at the museum’s spring open house last Sunday, April 6, Victorian weddings stole the spotlight.

Rice, veils, the color white…many time-honored wedding traditions originated in the late 19th century. The Victorians were highly superstitious and had a ritual or rhyme for practically every occasion. Marriage, considered the high point of a young woman’s life, was accompanied by a multitude of customs.

BRIDAL GOWNS

Upstairs in the mansion’s master bedroom, a “bride” is dressing for her big day. According to Godey’s Lady’s Book, the fashion magazine of the mid-1800s, a reasonable price for a wedding dress was $500, with a veil costing an additional $125.

While frontier brides simply donned their Sunday best, upper-class folks like the Warners would have purchased a special gown for the occasion. A stylish Victorian wedding dress had a fitted bodice, tiny waist, and full skirts. The train appeared in the 1890s, as did large sleeves and a sheer veil topped with a coronet of orange blossoms, symbolizing purity.

White, popularized by Queen Victoria, had become the color of choice for wedding dresses. In the fashion lingo of the day, white meant “chosen right.” Blue meant “love will be true,” and pink meant “of you he’ll always think.” But yellow stood for “ashamed of your fellow,” and black foreshadowed “wish yourself back.” Gray meant “travel far away” and was the traditional color of the going-away gown.

On display in the Warner mansion sewing room is a silk wedding dress from the 1880s. Over time, the fabric has faded to black, but a colorized historic photo reveals the original hue: deep green.

SOMETHING OLD, SOMETHING NEW

Along with the obligatory “something blue” and lucky sixpence in the shoe, bridal accessories included white kid gloves, a handkerchief, and embroidered silk stockings. Jewelry, often family heirlooms, was worn as a symbol of wealth.

Into her petticoat, the bride would sew a tiny pouch of charms: a piece of cloth, a bit of bread, a sliver of wood, and a single dollar bill. This was supposed to ensure that the couple would always have clothing, food, a home, and money for the future.

GOING TO THE CHAPEL

The wedding day itself was rife with superstition. The very date held significance, as did the weather on that day.

Surely southeast Michigan’s fickle skies had brides-to-be anxiously peering out their windows. Sun or snow, or rain followed by sun, meant good fortune. But cloudy or stormy days were said to foreshadow a turbulent marriage. So would hearing a rooster crow after the break of dawn – not exactly a comforting thought, as Farmington in Victorian days truly lived up to its name.

Marriage ceremonies took place at home or at church, usually in the morning. Good luck symbols such as bells, doves, wishbones, and horseshoes were hung over the spot where the couple would exchange vows.

THE WEDDING BREAKFAST

The reception was traditionally a breakfast, held in the bride’s parents’ home. Guests were normally served standing, as space would be limited, and entertainment and dancing were rare.

The wedding cake was an important omen. The bride never baked or cut it herself, lest she be childless. Charms were often baked into the cake, each with its own meaning: “The ring for marriage within a year – the penny for wealth, my dear – the thimble for an old maid or bachelor born – the button for sweethearts all forlorn.” The girl who was served the biggest piece of cake was said to marry next.

The newlyweds usually departed directly following the breakfast. To bless the couple with many children, rice and slippers were thrown after them as they drove away. A slipper landing in the carriage predicted a lifetime of luck.

Calling Cards and Victorian Visits

The Governor Warner Mansion is closed for the winter. If you were to trudge up the front steps and knock on the door, no one would answer. No one would know you had visited.

But if you were calling on the Warners during the mid-1800s, your visit would have been known even if the family were away.

You’d have left the Warners a calling card.

Let’s step back in time and pay a visit to P.D. Warner and his wife Rhoda in February 1872. You’re new to the village of Farmington and eager to meet your neighbors – especially the prosperous Warners. P.D. (short for Pascal D’Angelis – he hates the name, you’ve heard) is a prominent businessman and former Michigan state representative.

VICTORIAN VISITS

Like most aspects of Victorian life, “calling” – paying formal visits to neighbors and acquaintances – is governed by strict etiquette. Typically, calls are made by women, and between noon and 5 p.m.

Around two o’clock in the afternoon, your carriage pulls up in front of the Warner’s stylish Italianate home on Grand River, splattering snow and mud. Knocking on the front door, you remove three calling cards from your card case: two of your husband’s – one each for Mr. and Mrs. Warner – and one of your own, as a lady only presents a card to a lady. A hired girl answers the door, takes your cards, and invites you into the entry hall.

IN THE HALL

She departs to see if Mrs. Warner is taking calls, and you hang up your coat and hat on the stand in the hallway, then smooth your hair in the mirror. It’s very quiet. Rhoda’s 7-year-old son Fred is in school today, so the only sounds in the house are the ticking of the clock and the plink-plink-plink of water dripping from your umbrella into the tin tray below the hat stand.

As you turn from the mirror, you can’t help noticing the Warners’ ornate card receiver, packed with calling cards from previous guests. Nobody’s looking, so you sneak a glance through them to see who has called lately. It’s snooping, but after all, you’re new in town and still trying to find out who’s who – and Rhoda Warner would certainly know.

A CARD SPEAKS

While most calling cards, including yours, list only their owner’s name, their design speaks volumes about the bearer. Some ladies and gentlemen decorate their cards with gilding, fringe, and colorful artwork, vibrantly printed through a process called chromolithography.

You, however, shy away from such adornments: gaudy, over-embellished cards often denote lower social standing. As an aspiring member of the upper class, you have always preferred an elegant, simple, off-white card with engraved script type. The sole exception was right after the Civil War, when you bought a fashionable set, printed with portraits of generals and Mary Todd Lincoln, from a door-to-door salesman.

HIDDEN MESSAGES

Many of the cards in the Warners’ receiver are folded down at the corners, sending a private message to the recipient. A folded upper-right corner indicates that the caller is simply paying respects and does not expect admittance; the lower right, leaving town; the lower left, condolences; and the upper left, congratulations.

A card with a crimped upper-left corner sits atop the pile. Something noteworthy must have happened in the Warner household.

But it’s doubtful you’ll find out what: conversation during formal calls rarely includes personal events. And it’s even more unlikely, you realize in dismay, as Rhoda’s hired girl returns and announces that Mrs. Warner is not “in.”

Your cards are placed in the receiver, and you don your wraps and step outside into a February gale. But although the wind brings tears to your eyes, you smile with inward satisfaction, for your visit has not been in vain. Rules of etiquette dictate that Rhoda Warner is obliged to return your call with a personal visit of her own.

Keeping Warm with the Warners

Polar vortex. White hurricane. Normal Michigan winter. Call it what you will, but this season’s snowstorms and sub-zero temperatures are already making 2014 one for the books.

Next time you go to crank up your thermostat, take a moment to imagine spending this winter without your heating system. Back in 1867, when the Governor Warner mansion was first built, indoor heating as we know it simply didn’t exist.

As a matter of fact, the home didn’t even have any fireplaces. That’s P.D. Warner’s fault. Realizing that fireplaces weren’t the most efficient method of heating, he opted instead for charcoal-burning potbellied stoves, which the Warners used throughout the mid and late 1800s.

Around 1910 or 1911, Fred Warner decided to replace the stoves with a brand new, state-of-the-art hot water heating system that used radiators and a coal-fired furnace. Put on a coat and hat, grab a coal shovel, and come downstairs with Mansion Musings to check it out!

HEATING WITH COAL

Descend the narrow stairway from the dining room to the mansion’s basement, turn the corner, and you’ll find the coal room behind an unobtrusive doorway in the white paneled wall.

As the old door squeaks open, you get your first glimpse of the room. It’s small – about 8 feet wide by 10 feet long – with walls of rough stone and one small, high window, barred in the center. By the light of a single bulb above the door, you notice years of cobwebs, clotted with dust and bits of old leaves, dangling from the coal room’s grimy walls and ceiling.

In the middle of the room sits a huge wooden bin, as big as a hot tub, piled high with black coal. Hard to believe, but this tiny cell was the source of all warmth in the house.

“How did all this heavy coal get down the narrow basement stairs?” you may wonder. Never underestimate the Victorians! Coal was delivered through the window, which opens to the driveway at the side of the house. To feed the coal-burning furnace in the adjoining room, one merely uses the metal bucket and shovel, both of which still occupy their original homes on top of the coal bin.

As it turns out, the coal that’s in the bin today is directly linked to the Warner family. It’s the last load they purchased before switching their heating system over to a gas-fired furnace around the late 1940s or early 1950s, still in use today.

WARNER WARMERS

The furnace may have changed, but the home is still warmed by the original system of radiators and pipes. Keep your eyes out next time you visit, and you’ll notice a metal radiator of ornate, curved pipes, about three feet high, in the corner of every room.

Many of the radiators are painted to match their surroundings. The music room has a gilded radiator that blends in with the yellow wallpaper and curtains, while the radiator in the Sunday parlor is painted the same shade of pink as the walls.

In several rooms, a narrow pipe leads up the wall from the radiator and disappears through a hole in the ceiling, carrying heat to the second floor. It looks a little odd, but the Warners didn’t want to tear down their walls in order to install the new plumbing.

KITCHEN FEATURE

The kitchen radiator includes a special feature: a built-in warming oven, with two doors and a shelf inside. When the radiator heats up, so does the metal compartment atop it.

Frequently used for keeping food warm, the oven found a second use in the snowy months: drying wet winter wear. Woolen mittens, sopping from a snowball fight, could be put into the warming oven to dry while chilly children gathered around to warm up with steaming mugs of hot chocolate or eggnog.

Don’t you feel warmer already?

Gazebos Past and Present

Visitors to the Governor Warner Mansion may recall the gazebo – the little white structure on the side lawn – in one of several main functions. It’s a frequent site for wedding ceremonies and photo shoots. It usually hosts the refreshments at the mansion’s summer and fall events. And it’s the site of the 14-foot-tall Christmas tree at the holiday tree lighting ceremony, held in conjunction with the Farmington Area Jaycees every December.

GAZEBOS IN BYGONE DAYS

Gazebos have been around since ancient times, falling in and out of fashion as the centuries progressed. Back in Victorian days, when Christmas trees were lit by candles instead of strings of electric lights, gazebos often served a very specific function: musical concerts.

By today’s standards, a gazebo isn’t the greatest venue for an outdoor concert. While it’s picturesque, audiences can’t always see the performers very well. More importantly, the sound gets cooped up in the roof instead of being projected toward the audience.

But these very features made the octagonal covered pavilion an ideal band shell for a certain kind of mid-19th-century musical group called the saxhorn band.

PAVILION FOR A BACKWARD BAND

A Civil War saxhorn player. Courtesy of the Library of Congress.

Saxhorns, named for Adolphe Sax, looked different than brass instruments of today. Unlike modern horns, with their forward-facing bells, saxhorns had rear-facing bells that opened over the performers’ shoulders and projected their sound backward.

These over-the-shoulder instruments were popular during the Civil War, as they allowed soldiers marching behind the band to hear the music. Using them for concerts, however, posed a challenge, because in order for audiences to hear the music, the band would theoretically have to play with their backs to the listeners.

Gazebos remedied the issue. Inside a gazebo, musicians could sit in a circle, facing inward, and the sound from their instruments would project over their shoulders and into the surrounding gardens, where listeners could dance or stroll and enjoy the music.

Saxhorn bands eventually fell out of fashion, but the gazebo endures as a staple of elegant outdoor venues.

The Warner mansion’s gazebo was actually added around the 1980s, after the home was converted into a museum. Surrounded by blossoming bushes and trees, it’s a popular spot for weddings, receptions, and photos.

HOLIDAY LIGHTS

But the gazebo’s true time to shine comes at Christmas, during the mansion’s December open house and tree lighting ceremony. This year, it will be held Saturday, December 7 from 5 – 7:30 p.m., the evening of Farmington’s “Holly Days” Christmas festival.

Open for tours, the magnificently decorated Victorian home transports guests back in time to an era of opulence and enchantment. Candles glow from every window, and a stately, pink-and-white ornamented Christmas tree sparkles in the parlor. Garlands of greenery and red velvet bows festoon every doorway. Old-fashioned carols on the century-old grand piano complete the festive scene.

At 5:30 p.m., everyone gathers on the side lawn to carol by candlelight and await the moment when Santa Claus arrives to light the gazebo’s outdoor Christmas tree. To the rousing strains of “Here Comes Santa Claus,” merry old Saint Nick gives a wave of his hand, and the dark gazebo and gardens are filled with color, twinkling lights, and joyful voices joining together in a last resounding chorus.

JOIN THE CHORUS

Speaking of singing, you are cordially invited to join a Victorian caroling group for Holly Days. Let your voice help bring the vision of a nostalgic Christmas festival to life in your hometown! Caroling will last from 10 a.m. to noon on December 7. Music will be provided. Victorian-era or “Dickens” costumes are encouraged. (We can help you with outfits.)

Plan to meet at the Sundquist Pavilion at 9:30 a.m. An optional rehearsal will be held December 3 at 7 p.m. No experience necessary! All that’s required is a heart full of holiday cheer. For more information, contact Marilyn Lennis at marilynlennis@gmail.com or (248) 303-0809.

A Delightfully Macabre Evening

Evening visitors to the Governor Warner Mansion on Saturday, October 19 were met with a scene of ghastly splendor.

A full moon was shining behind flying clouds, and tiki torches flared in the wind, lighting pathways across the darkened lawn. Eerie music echoed from the porch. The lights of a hearse flashed across the yard, illuminating a row of candlelit tombstones bearing the name of Warner.

It was the third annual Ghost Walk, and the Victorian mansion was haunted.

SUPERSTITIONS AND TRADITIONS

“Enter if you dare” read a sign on the mansion’s front door. Those who dared – about 200 visitors total – stepped back in time to a Victorian home where a death had recently occurred, experiencing the tradition and superstition that reigned supreme during the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

Although the event had no fake blood or spooks jumping out from behind curtains, the atmosphere proved eerily macabre.

Lights were dimmed, and the costumed tour guides were garbed in black from head to foot. Many of the ladies wore dark veils over their faces. The house, like the inhabitants, was arrayed in black.

Windows, mirrors, and portraits were covered, for Victorians feared that the deceased might look through them and beckon the living to the Great Beyond. Clocks were stopped at the time of death to keep the deceased from wandering the earth.

A casket, bearing a shrouded figure with coins covering its eyes, lay in state in the mansion’s formal parlor. After all had paid their last respects, the body would have been carried out of the house feet first, so that the spirit could not return to haunt the home.

WARNER FAMILY HISTORY

The ghost walk also highlighted the lives – and deaths – of Warner family members. Governor Warner’s mother, Rhoda Botsford (played by Marilyn Lennis), remembered her children and her marriage with P.D. Warner. “It’s almost our 168th anniversary!” she recalled, holding a single black rose from her wedding bouquet.

Upstairs in the nursery, Jean Schornick rocked an ailing child and introduced visitors to Harold Warner, the governor’s first child, who died when he was only 17 days old. His tombstone in Oakwood Cemetery reads only “Our Baby.”

Governor Fred Warner (played by DPW director Chuck Eudy) stood in the music room – where the real Fred Warner was once laid out – and reminisced about his final days.

“If you listen very quietly, you can hear the hymns that the Knights Templar sang at my funeral,” he said, bowing his head as the solemn notes of “Abide with Me” and “City Foursquare” were quietly played on the candlelit grand piano.

In the dining room, Fred’s daughter Edessa (portrayed by Annika Taylor) – offered guests a sponge cake baked from an old family recipe. But something was wrong: When she turned to pick up the cake, it had transformed into a wrinkled, snarling head!

“Perhaps I should have tried letting it rise on the linen-covered chest of the corpse, like they did in the Middle Ages,” she mused, deciding to serve paper-wrapped funeral cookies pre-ordered from the local bakery instead.

FALL FESTIVITIES

The spooky celebration continued outdoors, with fortune-tellers on the porch and a presentation by the Michigan Ghost Watchers in the adjacent carriage house, where a team of paranormal investigators played audio clips of ghostly voices recorded at the mansion this spring. (All the spirits were very friendly, they reported.)

Around a roaring backyard bonfire, Anne Gnagi’s ghost stories of demons with eyes that glowed like red-hot embers kept listeners of all ages on the edge of their seats. Cider, donuts, and hot chocolate in the gazebo rounded out the evening of fall festivities.