In the 1930s, Shirley Temple was America’s sweetheart.
Ah, but there was only one Shirley. There were five Dionnes.

Ninety years ago, on May 28, 1934, the Dionne sisters, the first—and so far, only—set of identical quintuplets, were born in Canada. In this day of advanced fertility treatments, multiple births are nothing to get goggle-eyed over. In the 1930s, the odds were one in 57 million. The “five most adorable little girls in the world” made headlines.

Cécile, Marie, Yvonne, Emilie, and Annette Dionne first saw light in a ramshackle farmhouse near Corbeil, Ontario. Their mother, Elzire, had already given birth to six children. She was just 25. Their father, Oliva, with whom the quints had a turbulent relationship, was... well, as he remarked in an early news report, “I’m the kind of fellow they should put in jail.”

The initial survival of the Dionnes was credited to “the country doctor” who delivered them, Dr. Allan Dafoe. The quints weighed in at just 10 pounds, 1-1/4 ounces—total. Dafoe was so uncertain of their fate that he baptized them before the arrival of the parish priest.
Oliva Dionne quickly explored his options. Within three days of their arrival, he’d agreed to exhibit his daughters at the Chicago World’s Fair for $250 a week (plus 23 percent of ticket receipts, if all five lived.)

At that point, the government of Canada stepped in. A court order prohibited Papa Dionne from exposing his daughters to “certain death in some vaudeville show,” and appointed guardians. With their parents sidelined, the Dionnes were on their way to worldwide celebrity.

The “Dafoe Hospital” was built near the family farmhouse. There, the sisters took up residence in a communal crib. As the girls grew, they were photographed constantly, in staged replications of their daily lives: toasting with glasses of milk on their birthday; peering through heart-shaped cutouts on Valentine’s Day: pulling the beard of Dr. “Santa” Dafoe on Christmas. Hollywood came calling, and the quints starred in three films loosely based on their lives, beginning with The Country Doctor in 1936.

And there were the visitors. Each summer brought more than 100,000 guests to “Quintland.” Upon arrival, the curious could view the quints at morning and afternoon “showings” through one-way, soundproof glass. Meanwhile, outside his farmhouse Papa Dionne ran a souvenir stand, complete with personally autographed “fertility stones.”

Dionne souvenirs were big business. If you couldn’t afford a trip to Canada, you could at least buy a Dionne hankie, douse yourself with Dionne perfume, wash up with Dionne soaps, or sing along to “Fifty Chubby Tiny Toes—The Quintuplets’ Lullaby.” There were Dionne picture books, Dionne spoons, paper dolls, fans, calendars, games, and dolls. Lots of dolls. The most famous of these, designed by Madame Alexander, jumpstarted her dollmaking career. Advertising endorsements ranged from Karo Syrup to Palmolive Soap. Since so many Dionne collectibles were produced, they remain remarkably affordable. Most sell for well under $50, except for those Madame Alexander dolls, still a pricey $300-plus/set.

Donald-Brian Johnson is the co-author of numerous Schiffer books on design and collectibles, including “Postwar Pop,” a collection of his columns. Please address inquiries to: donaldbrian@msn.com

Here’s a memory-jogger: it’s Valentine’s Day in mid-20th century America, and across the country, nearly every elementary school classroom has something in common. Atop each weatherbeaten desk sits a “valentine box.” It began life as just another old shoebox, but now, carefully covered in colorful construction paper, and festooned with cutout red hearts, it’s been transformed (For the less artistically inclined, there were “valentine bags”—grocery sacks, minus the construction paper, but still sporting an array of drawn or pasted hearts).

Each receptacle had an opening cut into it, ready to receive its quota of cards — and there was a quota. Everybody gave a valentine, and everybody got one. That included the tough kid across the aisle who, every so often, “borrowed” your lunch money—and that girl with the braids, who accidentally mushed your favorite Crayola.

Lessons over, the teacher finally announced, “you may look at your valentines.” Box covers came off, bag tops were unrolled, and each student eagerly perused his or her “take” (after carefully counting them first). There were generic “to a friend” valentines, with illustrations of romping cats or puppies.

There were funny valentines, with chortle-provoking corny puns. There may even have been a valentine with an innocent romantic message — one that had you looking at that girl with the braids through different eyes.

Then, the school bell rang. Your valentines were packed up, brought home, and piled in a box of “school papers,” alongside their compatriots from previous years. Out of sight, and out of mind. Remember?

According to legend, the first valentine greeting was sent by the man himself: St. Valentine (Actually, there are at least three “St. Valentines,” each clamoring to be recognized as the day’s patron saint, but here’s the most romantic story).
A third-century clergyman, this Valentine was imprisoned for performing marriages in defiance of Emperor Claudius II, who’d decreed that all men of military age must remain single. While in prison, Valentine fell in love with his jailer’s daughter, declaring his feelings in a note signed “from your Valentine.” Since Valentine was eventually beheaded, the story lacks a happy ending, but nonetheless, a tradition was born.

The oldest-known written valentine dates from 1415, a poem the Duke of Orleans sent to his wife while imprisoned in the Tower of London. Shortly thereafter, King Henry V began sending valentines to his favorite, Catherine of Valois, although Henry hired a professional poet to do the heavy lifting.

By the 1700s, kings and dukes weren’t the only ones dispensing valentines. Each Feb. 14th, handwritten valentine messages made their way across all levels of society, often accompanied by small gifts. The dawn of mass printing and inexpensive postal rates meant that, by the early 1800s, just about anyone who wanted to could send, (and hopefully, receive), a valentine.

In the 1840s, ready-made valentines swept the United States, thanks to Esther A. Howland (now hailed by grateful retailers as the “Mother of the Valentine”). Her creations were quite lavish, incorporating ribbon, lace, and colorful bits of material. Joining the traditional visuals of hearts and flowers was “Cupid,” that little winged fellow with the bow and arrow. It was a logical choice: in ancient Roman mythology, Cupid’s the son of Venus, goddess of love.

Donald-Brian Johnson is the co-author of numerous Schiffer books on design and collectibles, including “Postwar Pop,” a collection of his columns. Please address inquiries to: donaldbrian@msn.com