Sunday, August 16, 2026

Coat Hangers- Abortion is Profitable

 

 


A Profitable Business 

The cost was $300 ($5,082 in 2018 dollars) per week plus board and medical costs.

To have the baby adopted into “good hands” was another $100. This was not a service for factory workers, maids or shop girls.

Unlike Madame Restell, Henry Dyer Grindle (1826-1902) was a real doctor. He graduated from the School of Medicine at New York University in 1867. And unlike Restell’s husband, Grindle’s wife, Julia Lockwood (1837-1900), acted as a midwife, although with dubious credentials. Like Restell and Lohman, the couple did abortions and adoptions at their illegal clinic.

Dr. Grindle’s first formal accusation resulted when Susannah Lattin (See Chapter 4) died postpartum in 1868 at the 6 Amity Place, New York City clinic. Grindle was acquitted because the death was during childbirth and not because of an abortion.

Three years later, 27 August 1871, reporter Augustus St. Clair wrote an article for The New York Times, challenging the Grindles. He mentioned they claimed to offer relief to women in trouble and for all female complaints. The advertisements mentioned the elegance of the environment as well as offering pleasant rooms for nursing.

St. Clair was not impressed with Grindle’s credentials, claiming his doctor title was obtained from New York University a mere four years before. Grindle claimed in his publicity he had 25 years of experience.

St. Clair mentioned that the couple had moved from the place where Lattin had died, which he described in detail: “He and his ‘Madame’ transact an immense amount of business, in which they are reputed to have amassed a handsome fortune. Formerly their premises were in Amity-place, but after the house becoming notorious they removed to their present locality in Twenty-sixth street, midway between Sixth and Seventh avenues. The house is of the three-story and basement style, with rear extension, and has a capacity for about twenty patients. It is appropriately surrounded by fashionable markets of infamy. A huge silver plate upon the outer door bears Dr. Grindle's name; a sign of similar pattern, bearing the ‘Madame's’ name, glares upon the inner door. The interior is furnished with taste and elegance. The parlors are spacious, and contain all the decorations, upholstery, cabinet-ware, piano, book-case, &c., that is found in a respectable home.” St. Clair continued: “A lady and gentleman who recently called there relate the following:

A neat-looking lad ushered us into a parlor, and went after the ‘Madame.’ A profusion of circulars were scattered over the centre-tables, some of them being folded as if intended to be mailed. Suddenly the door opened, and the Madame entered. She is fair, fat, forty, and evidently vigorous, and keen in all her actions. She addressed us with primping care, and in a voice as smooth as the flutter of a humming-bird. ‘My dear friend,’ she said, ‘we can do what you hint at. I understand the case. We have had hundreds of them. Poor unfortunate women! How little the world knows how to appreciate their trials. We think it our mission to take them and save them—a noble work it is, too. But for some friendly hand like ours, how many, many blasted homes, scandalized churches and disorganized social circles there would be. Why, my dear friends, you have no idea of the class of people that come to us. We have had Senators, Congressmen and all sorts of politicians bring some of the first women in the land here. Many—very many aristocratic married women come here—or we attend them in private houses.’”

The cost was $300 ($5,082 in 2018 dollars) per week plus board and medical costs. To have the baby adopted into “good hands” was another $100. This was not a service for factory workers, maids or shop girls.

St. Clair went on to report what happened if the alternative was used and quoted Madame Grindle, “We understand every branch of our business!” and talked about a second place with the best nurses.

There is no way to know if this article was yellow journalism or based on solid research. The cost of $300 a week for a week’s stay would mean their clientele had to be wealthy. No ordinary worker could have afforded the services.

When a woman complained that she had been charged for a $20 bottle of an abortifacient, the Grindles were indicted again. They were found not guilty in 1872.

The couple moved to Ramapo, New York. He was considered respectable enough to be president of the Blaine/Logan campaign for president against Grover Cleveland.

Dr. Grindle died in 1902.

Saturday, August 15, 2026

What happened to Tiger?

 


In the early 60s, I was living in Germany as my first husband did his obligatory military service in an Army band. I was lucky to have a job on the base nursery school teaching three-year-olds. 

I loved it and I loved them all: Robin with the big bow in her hair, shy Dawn, poor allergy-suffering Ernie, best-mates and almost hyper active Brett and Dirk to name a few.

After Christmas, a new little boy called Tiger enrolled, a beautiful boy with almost white blond hair cut Beatle-style before the Beatles were the Beatles. He had blue-eyes with lashes so long that they might be considered fake - but they weren't.

I've never met a child quite like him. He was what they might call an old soul. When we colored, his drawings were realistic and he combined colors and added shadows. At one point he asked if the music we played at rest time could be Bach, "The best music." 

At the same time he was still a little boy sometimes joining Brett-Dirk games, but when he did, their games became more complicated.

His mother was a newlywed and writer from New York City, married for the second time to a Lieutenant. She did not fit in with the other Army wives, doing only the minimum social things required. 

I had tea and/or wine with her where we talked about her writing and my desire to write. She guided me to authors, most of whom could be found in the base library. We discussed their styles. We discussed her frustration with Army life, but considered it worth it to live in Europe.

There was a new teacher at the school in September. I returned to the States and picked up on my interrupted college education, closing the door of the Army experience. 

Although I wonder periodically what happened to all "my kids" I'm most curious about Tiger.  Fat? Bald? Did he become an artist? Did the 60s have a major influence on him and if so how? Is he even still alive?

I'll never know. 

 

 

Handwriting

  

Handwriting-Putting  pencil, pen, paint brush to paper, creating a series of words with meaning.

 

Horrified. 

When we moved from Massachusetts to Bluefield, West Virginia, my mother was horrified at the schools. She was not going to entrust her daughter's brain, mine, to the school system.

Miss Blanche's private school was the solution. She had a kindergarten in the morning and Grades 1-3 in the afternoon. There were only a few pupils. She was the only teacher.

I only remember Bobby with his curly light brown hair. He messed his pants because Miss Blanche wouldn't let him go to the bathroom.

The problem to my being enrolled was Miss Blanche considered me woefully behind for her first grade.

Dar (grandmother) to the rescue. By March I knew my times tables through to the 12xs, could spell hundreds of words and could read interesting stories. No more boring "Dick run, Run Dick run."

Dar made it fun. Miss Blanche did not. 


Back in Massachusetts my third grade teacher, Miss Berry did not want my adult handwriting. Nor did she want my neat printing. I was told to go to large printed letters and I couldn't learn handwriting until late in the year and even then it was to be larger than I learned.

By fourth grade the school system had changed the type of handwriting but at least it was smaller. I don't remember the different names of the systems.

Now many schools are debating teaching handwriting at all. It may go the way of the stick shift. People won't be able to drive cars that aren't automatic nor will they be able to read letters and documents from the past. It's an even greater seeping of knowledge into ignorance than we are now experiencing. 

Granted, I don't often sit down with medieval manuscript. Because of a course I took way back, I recognize the letters, but I'm woefully ignorant when it comes to Latin as I am of many languages. Computers can translate for me, just as they speed up my writing as words go from my brain through my fingers onto the keyboard where auto correct helps me perfect them.

At the same time, I can handwrite everything from a grocery list to a condolence note, and a manuscript from long ago if I so want. It's not an either/or but a both. If the computer goes down, I can still leave a note for my husband on where I've gone and better yet he can read it.

Many school systems no longer want to teach cursive writing, a pretty name for handwriting. There have been articles that handwriting does something good to the brain that is lost. 

https://annsmyth.com/blog/handwriting-neuroscience-brain-connectivity                           

https://www.neuroetpsycho.com/en/handwriting-cognitive-power/                                   

https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/why-writing-by-hand-is-better-for-memory-and-learning/ 

I'm relieved that I'm not just a COW (Cranky Old Woman) on the subject. Don't try and take my laptop away. I want all that word processing does including auto correct. I remember the short stint I had long ago as a legal secretary when every typed document had to be perfect or you started over.

Don't take my beautiful pens away.

Don't limit children's future ability to do more than hit keys hoping the server isn't down. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Friday, August 14, 2026

Free Write - The Waiter

The Waiter

 

We were not able to get together until Friday this week. Rather than find a "victim" for the prompt we selected one of three photos. After next week we will go back to doing the exercise from two countries thanks to sharing a prompt over the internet. Confession, I cheated and changed the last sentence.

Rick's Free Write 

He wanted to be an actor. That hadn’t happened. And now with AI it was even less likely.

Now that he wasn’t good looking. Not Cary Grant or George Clooney. More Chevy Chase but without the goofy expressions.

He managed to work his way across the country from Iowa to Los Angeles. Waiting tables. Picking vegetables. Grand Canyon tour guide for awhile.

He’d been in California for three years now. Had a few parts as a non-speaking crowd extra. But never a real role. Never more than a token payday.

As he served the espresso to the sidewalk table, the redheaded customer asked, “Are you an actor?”

“No, Ma’am,” he politely replied, and started to head back to the kitchen.

She called to him in a sultry voice. “Would you like to be?”

Julia's Free Write

He noticed his hands first.

Sitting on a terrace in a lovely little town in Southern France, having on the spur of the moment stopped to take a break in his long drive, he observed.

He reveled in the sun as at home it was still icy and cold. April in Northern Scandinavian can still be brutal.

A proper French terrace, the waiters and waitresses could have been the same as 200 years ago: white, long-sleeved shirt, black or black and white striped vest, black trousers. Slight accent though.

This one was of an indeterminate age: he could have been 50 (graying in his mid-50’s) or 64 and a half and almost retired.

His espresso was served as is de rigueur on a silver platter and held by a freshly washed and ironed linen napkin.

The hands, however, were not those of a waiter. Intrigued, he started a conversation - not usual but. as he was a “foreigner”, tolerated.

It turned out that before landing in France the waiter had been a logger, where?

Next county over from the traveler’s hometown!

D-L's Free Write

"Espresso," the waiter said as he put the cup on the table. 

He had the most beautiful blue eyes, Elizabeth Taylor eyes, Sandy thought. 

Her first morning in Paris, her trip of a lifetime.

Her first sip burned her mouth, but she didn't know how to ask for water.

The man at the next table offered her his glass of water. Should she take it? Was it poisoned? Drugged?

Her mother was aghast that her daughter would go to a foreign county not knowing anyone, not knowing whatever language they spoke.

Sandy wanted an adventure. Worked two jobs and saved for six months. Now she was here, watching people at sidewalk cafés, watching people walk by. 

The waiter had left the bill, a little scrap of paper on a tiny, round black tray. She looked in her wallet. Maybe they would take American money. All the world loved American money.

She asked the waiter in English. "We take only Euros." His beautiful blue eyes said, "another dumb tourist."

Rick Adams is an aviation journalist and publisher of www.aviationvoices.com, a weekly newsletter reporting the airline industry  top stories . He is the author of The Robot in the Simulator. AI in Aviation Training.  

Visit D-L.'s website  https://dlnelsonwriter.com, She is the author of 15 fiction and three non fiction books. Her 300 Unsung Women, bios of women who battled gender limitations, can be purchased  at https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/300-unsung-women-d-l-nelson/1147305797?ean=9798990385504 

Visit Julia's blog. She has written and taken photos and loves syncing up with friends.  Her blog can be found: https://viewsfromeverywhere.blogspot.com/