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A Long Habit

"A long habit of not thinking a thing wrong gives it a superficial appearance of being right."

- Thomas Paine

Rosalie – May 1932

My reflection stares back at me in the mirror. I like to believe I have seen my adoring reflection thousands of times. When little, my mother would place me in front of my miniature vanity table, and tell me to stare in the mirror. For one hour a day I would have to stare at myself. "It's part of your education," mother would claim. "One cannot take care of what they have if unappreciated, dear," she cajoles. My young eyes would follow her, trustingly.

When she would leave and I began my "education", I'd stare at my innocent face. My blonde hair would be in ringlet curls, falling over my slender shoulders. My eyes were big and expressive. The violet wasn't as pronounced as it is now; of course make-up helps to enhance my eyes, making them even more stunning by bringing out the fierce purple. My nose was dainty and symmetrically-centered. My lips looked too big and pink, but mother said it was a flawless feature and would only enrich my perfect face when older.

I would lean forward, wanting to get a good look. At times I would see what my mother saw, a gorgeous little girl that pulled gazes to her wherever she ventured. Other times, I couldn't figure out the fuss. I couldn't understand what made me entirely more special than other little angels.

In church we learned that we were all loved by God; so, why would he make me more beautiful than them? I often became confused.

As I stare at myself, now, I miss that unspoiled child. She wasn't expected impeccability, at least not until older. I watch my hairdresser, working my hair into an acceptable style. I wonder how much mother spends on her annually.

Wave after wave is created in my center-parted hair. Waving lotions are added to help keep the shape of the semi-curls. The irons feel hot against my scalp, but I don't complain; nothing ever comes out of it, anyhow.

Several shaping tools are used until my hair is finally finished. The long waves in the back of my head are pinned and secured along my neckline. Mary, my hairdresser, steps back and takes one more sweeping look. A soft smile overtakes her thin lips as she examines her seamless creation. She always smiles gently when she's done a wonderful job. My hairdo gives me the final touch.

I love the new style of 1932. Several years' previous, women were wearing their hair closer to the scalp, almost as if they had on a helmet. I always disliked when my mother insisted my hair be given the same treatment. She still claims it put all the attention on my gorgeous face (especially the eyes with long cascading lashes), instead of something else. I prefer the deep waves and luxurious volume. It makes ladies look more feminine.

My mother walks over as Mary steps back. I watch her critical gaze sweep over my entire head. She looks for any flaw, any curl out of place. Mary holds her breath as her employer examines. When mother nods her head and steps back, Mary exhales sharply.

"Honestly, Mary, no need for such dramatics," Lillian Hale, the perfectionist, claims. She fails to mention how she sent Mary into tears when just a year ago mother unraveled my hair harshly, alleging it was inferior to my stunning face and evening gown. Even I couldn't stop the tears as my hair was pulled callously, every which way.

"You've done a splendid job."

I pass a tiny smile to Mary as I see her small hands shaking. It's not easy to work with a dragon, breathing hot air down one's back, and I can empathize with her.

Mother goes on to explain – in great detail – how she wants my make-up artfully applied. "Natural . . . yet noticeable." I want to point out it seems self-contradictory, but bite my tongue. I don't want to spoil the 'sedate' mood.

"Silver eye make-up, I think," she continues to instruct Mary.

I let them chat as I drift away, but not too far unless my opinion is wanted. I am able to get myself ready, but the lady-of-the-house insists on making the monumental decisions for the grandeur of the Governor's Ball. I'm not even sure why this event is called the 'Governor's Ball'. GOV. Franklin D. Roosevelt doesn't even reside in our town.

A thought left for another time . . .

Instead, I start to prepare myself (mentally) for tonight. I start to clear my mind of frivolous things: thoughts that can put a fissure in the armor I've spent years perfecting; complaints that get me nowhere but where I already reside. It is very necessary for me. Not as even-tempered as I should be, I've learned to coax my emotions until they are where they are required to be.

"Block everything that doesn't fit into your end goal, Rosalie. Nothing matters but what you want to matter. Caddy comments from lesser, meager people means zilch. Allow it to roll off your exterior, like water off a duck's back. Don't let them bring you down. It's what they want, to see someone five times as lovely and refined as they to fall on their face. Never allow someone that power over you, darling," she whispers to my fifteen year old ears. It's the mantra I now carry with me.

Regardless if I agree with everything the Madam has spoken, I know I'll follow the advice. I have goals of my own and endeavor to see them to fruition. It's how I've been built and molded. Don't let people see my weakness, only my blinding superior magnificence. Don't let them see my hard mask, only my elegance and genteel mannerisms.

My life seems like a walking contradiction, a paradox if you will. But, it's all I know and therefore gets me what I want. If I have to be the vainest person breathing, it's what I'll do.

My golden-haired little ones will be well worth any discomfort and pretense.

I stand up at the insistence of mother and wait for her and Mary to bring my amazing evening gown over. I know some of mother's lessons in vainness have stuck with me, especially when I see the dress. I shiver, thinking of being a pauper, being adversely affected by the Depression. Money and beauty has its advantages. I'm kept far away from the shantytowns, but that doesn't stop me from seeing some of the indigent people, begging for money in the streets of town.

"Lift your arms, dear," the Madam bades, and I obey. Louis Armstrong's 'All of Me' plays in the background as I dress. My mother isn't the biggest fan, but she understands the soulful voice helps to, somehow, calm me.

The peachy-peril silk shimmers in the light as the gown (with a built-in slip) shimmies down my curvy frame. The tulle with vine-leaf sequin embroidery overlay and capelet is placed over the gown. I slowly twirl in the mirror and truly take my own breath away. In all my fashionable years, I've never felt as regal as I do now.

"You look beyond breathtaking, my daughter." Mother's voice sounds almost fragile. It's something utterly uncommon. "No one will be able to hold the sun, yet alone a candle to you. They're all inferior," she finishes on a whisper.

I look to Mary and see a little bit of envy lighting her eyes. It is understandable. She is a plain girl, not really noticeable. She isn't entirely without looks; she'll make some man content, one day. Eat one's own heart out.

And the mask is rigidly in place . . .

. .

It is how I'd image it would be. All though elegant affairs, these functions are all the same. Regardless of the monotony, I'm still the most dazzling one in attendance.

We arrive fashionable late. Mother wants to make an entrance. It's not as if our own house is far from this estate. If needed, we could have walked, but that's improper for a family in our position.

Our car pulls up to the mansion and we wait for our driver to open the door. Mother readjusts our ensembles, making sure we are at the very height of respectability. I pull my fur stole tightly around my shoulders. Even though it's late spring-early summer, the evenings in May can be cool.

We step out, father first so he can assist us. When all is situated and our car drives away, it's show time. I make sure my mask is tightly in place, exhibit my 'socializing smile' and make the grand entrance.

After our wraps and such are taken and our names announced, we enter the West Ball Room. Many guests are already milling around. There aren't as many people as usual; some of our affluent acquaintance having lost their wealth in the Depression.

It's less people for me to compete with, I think uncharitably. Mother would be pleased.

As expected, many people who see me become speechless. I can't say I fault them. It was also my reaction, although they will never know that. My dress is bona fide silk and awe-inspiringly stunning. My features and outward appearance only match my finery.

We start to mingle and I also observe my supposed competition.

I ponder, in the deep recesses of my mind, how some of these "ladies" think they can pass off their imitation dresses. At least to the Governor's Ball one would think an accomplished lady of considerable monetary means would wear true silk. At smaller, more intimate parties, it is more appropriate to wear lesser dresses; however, this isn't the evening to skive off. Rayon fabric dyed well still cannot pass for true silk, crafted by the most talented of designers.

The cheaper fabric speaks of the woman's class, her husband's failure in not being able to provide the best. I understand we are in the depression and wages must be spent wisely, but one would think a little indulgence on such a grand night would go a long way. If the right people thought you were more than appeared, previously closed doors could become opened.

It's one of the vain thoughts passing through my mind. Mother would be proud.

She teaches me to have an eye for fashion and all things vogue. I can imagine the slightly haughty deride on my face as I take in the different evening gowns and sparkling diamonds. It is a face practiced many times to perfection in the mirror. Even though there is a slight downturn to my lips as I look down on others, it doesn't look mean-spirited, but inquisitive.

Oh, yes, mother is proud.

The conversations continue and I keep my vigil.

. .

I am allowed no more than two glasses of Champagne at parties. I'm not much of a drinker anyhow. However, the feeling of French champagne bubbles bursting on my tongue is quite exquisite. There is no other feeling like it. Though it can taste somewhat bitter at times, it is an acquired taste. I don't mind the flavor so much; I endure it to savor the tiny sparkling bubbles effervescent on my tongue. I want to giggle from the reactions, but know it will be frowned upon.

I wonder what these gatherings would be like without "refined" alcohol. Prohibition is still effect in the nation, but hardly enforced, at least among the elite and those who have money to sway heads. Father believes legislation will soon be passed to amend the Constitution, overturning alcohol being illegal to buy and sell.

The affluent don't really concern themselves with such limitations, even the politicians in government drink at social obligations. My father likes to point out their blatant hypocrisy, but only in the company of his gentlemen friends and associates, or when reading the newspaper during meals. Mother tries to remind him of decorum, but he hums in acknowledgement while continuing to read his newspaper. He looks up when she starts off on another topic and rolls his eyes good-naturedly and winks at me. I pull my napkin from my lap to cover my mouth. It wouldn't do well for my mother to see me laughing for no apparent reason.

"It makes one look like a crazy person. Decorum must be kept, Rosalie." And so I remember that lesson, pulling my mind from frivolous thoughts. I take a quick, dainty sip of my champagne and swallow. I retain the small euphoria the bubbles elicit in my mouth and move on.

All around me people are conversing and chatting: the men converse and the women chat. I don't see the real difference. Men gossip about their contemporaries, those affected detrimentally by the Depression and what our lawmakers are doing to combat such harrowing times. The women gossip about the latest "lady" (a slight ridicule taints their refined tones) to have lost her home, clothes, jewels and standing in society.

We may reside in Rochester, New York, but class distinction and Aires are observed here. This place is no Hooverville. I mull all these thoughts in my head before I am pulled into the chitchat.

"Hasn't your friend, Vera, just married a carpenter?" Evelyn Smith asks, somewhat derisively. I keep my mask firmly in place, never allowing them to see me slip. It's what they want.

My mother, standing next to me, smiles. I know that smile well, it's the same one she has taught me, and I also now wear. Under the thin veneer it states: do you really want to approach such a topic with me; aren't I of higher rank and one little tall-tale about you can be quite unfavorable; you are to watch your place, dear. The smile may seem beguiling, saccharine, but women of our class know what it truly means.

"Rosalie and Vera are hardly friends, Evelyn," mother answers for me. Her tongue is sharp, eyes sparkling, warning sent. "Isn't that correct, darling?" Mother looks to me, sweetly, tilts her head to the perfect angle and waits for me to give the proper answer.

"You'd be correct, mother," I respond. Rosalie Lillian Hale is the perfect and most upstanding daughter. She answers her mom with timely and approved ripostes in public. "I would hardly call her a friend. We were acquaintance before her father lost his position at the bank, but now I scarcely speak to her." I don't let my mask fall. Shards pierce something deep in me, but I stay firm.

"Sorry, dear, didn't mean to make libels claims," Evelyn apologizes to me, but she looks to my mother. We may not be the richest guests or have the most linear pedigree, but my mother is close to Queen Bee. It is a position she works to maintain. One cannot say Lillian Hale is a lay-about in the world of class-distinction.

"No offense taken," I say amiably. The line has now been drawn and warnings given.

Kathleen Watson and Elise Graham start to speak, and, once again, I'm able to stand there and look beautiful. It is the main purpose of my being present. I allow the inane nattering to flow around me as I take another sip of my drink. I feign looking over the décor of the West Ball Room, while clandestinely glimpsing at the gentlemen.

It is another talent mother has taught me. "One must be diligent, Rosalie. It behooves you to know who is most interested, has the most money and will be able to provide you the best. No one else is worth your time or effort. I only tell you this out of love. I never want you to be without, and a lady can never be too careful."

I observe from the corner of my eye all the handsome gentlemen. Like the ladies present, they come in different sizes, colorings and superiors. Some are overly weight with their dinner jackets straining to maintain buttoned. Others are fit, svelte and revered. I spot my father from across the hall and smile delicately.

Even in his late forties, he is a striking man. More grey is dispersed in his dark hair, but it gives him a distinguished and illustrious look. The Depression turns many a men's hair grey.

He speaks with the local business owners and colleagues from the bank. Though my father is established and recognizable, he is still modest and unpretentious. It aggravates mother at times, but he is immoveable. By day he is a member of the Board of Directors and Trustee for the Depositors at the central bank.

But that is not all my father is: on Sunday's he is a true God-fearing man, giving fairly to our church offerings and tithes; in the morning and evening meals he is a devoted and hands-on father (keeping up with our lives and schedules, making sure to have the proper input); on the third Saturday of every month he is volunteering at a local men's shelter. He is a renowned member of our community and truly respected. Oh, yes, my father can hobnob with all the best, but he can also play baseball with his children.

I may not be a lot alike Richard Hale, but is doesn't mean I don't respect and love him. I love my father, and, most especially, love the violet eye-coloring he passed onto me. It is the most memorable and inimitable shade and contrasts pleasingly with my golden tresses and fair skin.

As I release thoughts about my father I watch as he sees me grins. He gives me his trademark wink and for a mere second, I am his little girl with the golden braids, sitting in his lap on Sunday afternoons. I give my father an elegant smile, making sure not to crease my forehead or brows. His smile turns a little wistful, but there's nothing to be done. He loves me regardless.

I make sure my mask is still firmly in place. I cannot afford to let it drop. I turn from my father's group and take in the fluer-de-lis wallpaper decorating the walls, the patina on the chandeliers, the shiny Italian marble beneath my feet, the slight wave to the many windows allowing the light of the moon to peer in and the many men looking my way.

I readjust the sheer capalet on shoulders, calling attention to my delicate shoulders and slender neck. Even though my dress is backless in a deep v-cut and there's a slight plunge to my neckline, it is still relatively demure. It isn't meant to show skin, but to faintly inveigle and allure.

I watch as some men's eyes glaze over. I would be lying to myself if I say I don't feel some pride. I may be extremely attractive, but mother is right, it's something I work on. Day after day, week after week, and year after year, for as long as I can remember, I've been tutored and berated sharply about what beauty means and how one is suppose to preserve it. I may never find a cure for the common-cold or solve the world's most staggering problems, but I know how to be, act and exploit my looks. It may be vain of me to think such thoughts, but I've earned the right and privilege.

Gentlemen's cheeks turn red as I pass them, gracing them with a courteous smile. My full lips are heavy and painted coral; men and boys alike stare at my mouth. I wonder if they imagine the taste that would await them if they were to sample.

I glance over my shoulder and bat my eye lashes prettily, making sure to keep it as an innocent gesture. I pretend to look for someone and carefully worry my pouty lower lip. Gentlemen start to creep closer to me. I know my effort is paying off.

I turn my head around and start to glide again. The music will start shortly and my dance card is properly full. Some of the future partners I look forward to, and some I could do without. It's a shame, at times, that good-looking isn't tantamount with wealth.

As I make my way back over to my mother, many people greet me.

"Good evening, Miss. Hale," the future heirs to their father's wealth calls out. "You're looking quite stunning." As if I need any of them to tell me so, I think vainly. I outshine even their mother's jewels.

"Thank you," I reply demurely. Men may say they want a spirited woman, but many of them lie. Perhaps in the confines of the bedroom it is true, but not at public functions. None of their last names want to carry a stain, a scandalous stigma. "You look handsome, yourself," I say to them all.

Kenneth Hayward, Raymond Harrison, Oscar Little, Phillip Roberts, Frederick McAlister, Albert Wallis, Michael Edmonson and Lawrence Andrews were among the most prominent of the community.

When each of them is given my pleasantries, I make my way back to my mother. Her face is shining with triumph; I can tell she is proud of me. Before I reach the circle my mother is frequenting, I stop in my tracks.

To my right I catch a couple that looks as if they are literally sparkling in the light. They are surrounded by people, and even though some of them seem skittish and nervous, they can't seem to look away.

It is usually me having that sort of reaction. The beautiful woman with caramel-colored tresses whispers into her husband's ear before moving away. I wonder what she is going in search of, or perhaps running from. Some people's conversation can be quite tedious.

She makes her way around the large crowd that is being entertained by her escort, and walks nearer to me. I want to turn away from her. Such beauty should never be placed next to mine. I should outshine everyone. As if she can hear my vainglorious thoughts, she turns towards me and simply smiles. I catch her eyes and they appear to be Impearl topazes. They sparkle brighter than the champagne she picks up from a passing waiter.

Her evening down is quite beautiful and the emerald silk is offset by her very pale skin. Instead of looking washed out, she looks luminescent. Her evening gloves are a pale while blending in seamlessly into her skin. She's quite breathtaking. I wonder if this ethereal human thinks I'm as glorious as her.

"Hello, Miss. Hale," I hear spoken directly in front of me. Before I can make my escape, she reaches me. I am too lost in my musings of her. "You look beyond angelic tonight," she compliments me. I shake my head minutely.

Is she genuine? I replay her words in my head, listening for any derision, but I can't hear any.

Perhaps she is honest in her praise . . .

"Thank you," I whisper, not out of practice, but real affection. "I'm sorry, but how are you acquainted with my name?" I enquire politely. Her tinkling laugh fills me with a sort of warmth. I haven't formally been introduced, yet I could be real friends with her; my heart yearns. I make sure to keep those rogue thoughts from my head. They could shatter my mask, and I've already allowed a little crack in it.

"It's difficult to escape the whisperings of the many men who have slipped your name from their lips," she murmurs conspiratorially. An easy smile comes over her mouth. I will myself not to blush. I'm use to these compliments and have come to expect them. They are the solid truth, after all.

No one here can compete with my beauty, I remind myself. It's something my mother encourages me to think. "It will eventually become your truth, Rosalie."

"Something one must endure, I'm afraid," I say modestly. She stares at me longer than what is considered polite. Can she see past my armor?

"But true, nonetheless, dear." I want to melt at her sincerity, but I push past the destructive thoughts.

"Thank you, Mrs. Cullen." She gives me the same searching look I gave her earlier.

"And how did you come by my name?" There is a laugh to her tone, but not mocking.

"Your husband, Dr. Cullen, is quite the skilled physician. His talents are appreciated all over Rochester." There is nothing modest in my speech; Dr. Cullen is the most skilled physician. I can see the pride she has for him radiating in her jewel-shimmering orbs.

"Your volunteer service at the hospital, as part of the 'Rochester Plan' under Ms. Baker has been pioneering. You cannot be outstripped by your husband, Mrs. Cullen," I slightly tease, but still honest in my praise. She looks at me in awe. I wonder if she thinks me a vapid, senseless socialite, not familiar with current events.

I may be vain and self-centered, but I make sure to keep up on current events and new-worthy stories. It's part of my daily regimen. My father insists that I am knowledgeable in things other than decorum and beauty, even though many women of my station are not really informed.

"I find myself flattered beyond words, Miss. Hale," she gushes.

"Please," I beseech her. "I speak the truth." She gives me a wide, endearing smile.

"Be that as it may, I wonder how we have not met as of yet. Rochester isn't the smallest of places, but I know we have some acquaintances in common." She's right. The Cullen's may not have as much money or prestige as the Hale's, but they are still readily accepted. It's not often when they attend social events or dinner parties, therefore, their company is sought after and a welcomed addition.

"Our schedules must not align properly. Have you met my father and mother?"

"I have . . . your parents are both lovely." There is a little tightness around her eyes. My father is often lovely company, but mother can be quite trying. If she wasn't among the elite ladies, I'm not sure she'd be as welcomed. I don't call her out, but let it lay.

"Thank you. Should I pass on your regards?"

"Please do, dear."

"It was delightful to have met you, Mrs. Cullen, and long overdue," I add endearingly. I haven't spoken so much truth to 'competition' in a great while. There is something about her that brings out the veracity in me.

No one here can compete with my beauty, I play on repeat in my mind. I cannot allow her to disintegrate my armor completely.

"And you as well, Miss. Hale." The ethereal beauty looks over her shoulder and to her husband. I watch as they share a secret, loving moment. "I best be off. One can never tell the trouble Carlisle will get into with me not there to take care of him." Her words are said with jest, but there is a deep adulation there. I feel almost as if I'm intruding on their époque.

I look over her shoulder and glance at her significant other. I'm almost as speechless as when I look at her. It isn't the first time I've seen them, but one's memory seems to never do justice to their looks.

His blonde hair is combed neatly to the right and falls into his eye. It only improves his appearance, which seems all but impossible. His complexion is the envy of every woman and his tall, fit frame makes them want to swoon.

My finger traces the outline of my bottom lip; I need to be sure no drool is seeping out.

Utterly embarrassing. These Cullen's have me tossing out my social norms.

The Doctor's gaze slides over to me and he grins handsomely. The unconscious urge to squeeze my legs together quickly flitters through my head. Strange things are these.

I return the smile and turn away. I will be on the brink of wholly stupid if I look at him any longer.

"Enjoy the rest of your evening, Mrs. Cullen," I rush ineloquently. My mother would have been horrified. I turn and start to walk away. I can only imagine how angry she'd be if she knew my body's reaction and my spilt-second naughty thought.

"You too, dear." She sounds as if there is a tinkling giggle stuck in her throat, and perhaps she susses out my reaction to the handsome doctor. I can't be the only one to behave as stupidly.

No one here can compete with my beauty, I tell myself over and over. By the time I reach mother, my face is composed and lacking uncertainties. I am Rosalie Lillian Hale again.

I grudgingly join in on the conversation, but hide the reluctance behind my mask. Five minutes pass before the small-piece orchestra starts to play the first stanza of the opening dance.

And the Governor's Ball continues . . .

. . .

"Yes, Lillian," I hear my father answer. I can imagine him undoing his tie and pulling off his dinner jacket as he speaks. "Royce has mentioned that his son is returning from Harvard, but why does it matter so?" There is silence, and all I hear is slight shuffling.

My mother's voice starts to speak, but I cannot make out her words. She whispers softly; I can feel my aggravation pick up. I know it is wrong of me to ease-drop, but I feel as if mother is arranging something.

"He'll be coming the middle of September, starting out as an executive." Why would mother be concerned about father's boss's son? "He's said to be high-spirited, yet dedicated to things he sets his mind to. I only hope he settles in nicely at the bank. We don't need more upheaval than necessary, especially with the Depression still grasping the Nation."

They start to talk about other things and the nature of my father's business. Usually I find interest, but I'm tired and my eyes are staring to droop. The night has been long, successful and slightly surprising.

I tip-toe back to my room and close the door slowly so it doesn't squeak. I remove my night robe and place it on the day bed. I crawl into bed and let out a relieved breath.

Once again, I was successful in not embarrassing my family, father's name and myself. Several rogue thoughts came into my mind, but I was able to push them away; I am positive no one was able to see through my mask, my society armor that's been polished to perfection.

Well, not all. Esme Cullen seemed to see more than I desired. It's past, and neither here nor there.

The other women at the party probably think me vain, intentionally so; and the men either thought I was beautiful to the extreme, well-mannered, or a proper wife they would like to obtain. I have a role to play and I've mastered it to completion.

I never doubt I am absolutely stunning. I've even had talent scouts try and woo me (mother claims that isn't befitting for someone like me and I tend to agree), but they don't matter. Everything is a means to an end, and I have my end goal. The moon knows the intimate details of said goal: I want to be a mother; plain and simple.

I want to cuddle a baby in my arms and nuzzle their soft head. I want to watch my little one takes nourishment from me before falling sleep in my arms. I want to love and adore a child that is the product of my affection and attention. And unlike my mother, I want him or her to be simply happy. Of course I never want my child to need anything, but being born into wealth should help him or her along.

Many socialites only want to wine, dine, party, and hobnob to their heart's content, but it is only a means to an end for me. Oh, yes, I'll be forever proud – it's been drilled into me for as long as I can recall – but I'll love my little one's more than my beauty. It is what I was born to do; Rosalie Lillian Hale (my innate version): mother extraordinaire.

My eyes drift close and my mind begins a familiar replay of golden-haired little children reaching out to me, begging me to simply love them.

Le sigh.

Author's Ramblings:Hope you liked the second chapter. It was fun, but challenging to write. So much research went into this chapter, it isn't even funny. I'm trying to make things are accurate as possible. Also, I know Rosalie seems very vain, but stick with the story. I'm just laying the foundation. We will see a lot more of her mindset.

I like to thank those who reviewed the first chapter. They were most appreciated. They caused my writer's heart to swell! Truly, thanks, lovelies. If you have the time, my readers, please leave a review. They are so inspiring, and I can't even intimate how much in writing!

Thanks again. Lots of love to all the readers!

Some relative facts:

(1) This is the dress I imagined Rosalie wearing. It is quite stunning. Even though it was made in 1933, the fashion was still the same one year earlier. Fashion didn't evolve as quickly back then, due to lack of funds during the Depression and the War.

http: / / www (dot) philamuseum (dot) org / collections / permanent / 65180 (dot) html?mulR=2663%7C59

(2) Franklin D. Roosevelt was Governor of New York at the time until elected President in November 1932.

(3) It wasn't against the law (Prohibition) to drink alcohol, only to buy and sell it; although law enforcement hardly enacted the law. Politicians did indeed drink, often at social functions and such. Prohibition was constitutionally amended at the end of December 1933.

(4) The "Rochester Plan" (as it was known outside of Rochester) is indeed very real. Under the direction of Marion Bradley Baker at Rochester General Hospital, Ms. Baker took a group of volunteers and made them into a nation-recognized organization – The Volunteer Aide Service. It became a model for other hospitals nationwide.

(5) The information on hairstyles and such is also fact. Women's hair was molded closely to the head in the 1920's ending in 1931, until more volume and curls started being added. Womanly curves were also more in vogue.