Board to be Yld: Wilder's "Mystic Hand" Discovered!

There's a two-way street at the intersection of Researchtown and Collectingville.  One lane is bumper-to-bumper traffic, where we have new talking board discoveries driving searches for period print ads to confirm dates and locations. We just need the reappearance of a physical specimen to drive the research. The other lane, though, is a seldom-traveled freeway dotted with the stalled vehicles of old print ads of as-yet undiscovered items, endlessly enticing collectors to just go out and find these things. In some cases, like the Baltimore Manufacturing Company's "Spirit Finger," we're reading a billboard that's nothing more than a false lead to a device that's decidedly *not* a talking board as we'd hoped. In other cases, though...

The Mystic Hand ad that started the hunt! (Cover shown in inset)

 A chance eBay discovery years ago led me to a fantastic and promising print ad on the back of a 10-cent "Gypsy Fortune Teller and Dream Book" from the late 1910s. There, fully illustrated, was a definitive automatic writer: The Mystic Hand! Just as the ad proclaimed, the discovery was "truly wonderful." Of course, I always love it when a company embraces a device's spirit communication ambitions, instead of trying to conceal them in the vernacular of games, and the manufacturer even gave a nod to the early history of seances, so I was excited!

Wilder's "Mitche Manitou" talking board, 1910s-1920s, with Mystic Hand indicator, shown. Courtesy Vespia Collection.

The ad didn't provide the specific clue, but the Mystic Hand was not entirely a surprise. Wilder Manufacturing Company produced a Mystic Hand planchette as the stock indicator for their line of Mitche Manitou talking boards. But this was just an indicator conspicuously absent of a pencil, and not an automatic writer. But a Mystic Hand writing planchette? Well, that was an incredible and enticing find! And, experience tells us, you rarely see advertisements for items that never made it to market, so I knew that out there, somewhere, was a tattered and torn Mystic Hand with a sharpened pencil where a front leg was supposed to be. Or, you know, one new in the box. A boy can dream, can't he?

False starts and racing hearts: the Wilder Mystic Writing game. Beautiful, no doubt, but not an automatic writer. 

Imagine how my heart jumped early one morning when this Wilder "Mystic Writing" set appeared on eBay, and with a pretty reasonable (and, most importantly, unclaimed) Buy It Now. From that first thumbnail, I thought with a single click I'd be taking a hard left off of Ad Avenue and racing toward Collectingville. But a few more clicks revealed a mis-read map, and it turned out that the Mystic Writing set was more of a fortune-telling device than a piece of spirit communication apparatus. Despite the beautiful litho in the box top, my disappointment was manifest, and I let my good friend and collaborator Bob Murch--riding shotgun on the other end of the phone--nab it instead, with him all the while promising me that "Brandon, you're going to want this, so when you do I've got it." He was right. I eventually came around, had to have it, and it's resting here now mocking me that I owe Bob big for something in return. Thanks, Murch!

(The Mystic Writing set is actually an amazing find worthy of its own blog post--you scribble your name on the central pad, and the pressure of the pencil pushes a lever that drives the indicator around, arriving on your fortune. Ingenious little game!)

The man, the myth, the fullback: Allen B. Wilder, maker of the featured items.

It is hard not to get disheartened at the false hope and tugged-on heartstrings. As collectors, we stash the knowledge of these promising ads deep in our skulls, where they sit for just the right moment--that certain flash of recognition--to jump front and foremost in our minds again. Of course, once you drag those covetous thoughts back out again, they become hard to put away, and you can't even browse an antique shop without thinking every vintage ashtray and bookend is a glimpse of your hallowed prize.

It DOES exist! Wilder's Mystic Hand manifests in my inbox!

Luckily, I didn't have to suffer that indignity long. Weeks later, my inbox had an intriguing message: "Saw you needed a mystic hand. I have one." Sometimes, when you put something like that out into the world, it becomes a beacon. It retail we call it "putting your mojo" on something, a concept Mike Zohn of Obscura Antiques & Oddities recently discussed at a Parafest panel: you can have a piece of merchandise lay fallow in your shop for years, but the minute someone shows interest in it, everyone suddenly realizes it's there. It just happens that way.

Box detail: among the most beautiful planchette packages ever produced.

So, with a few emails back and forth and a fair price negotiated, the long saga to confirm the existence of Wilder's Mystic Hand Writing Planchette came to an end. It exists. They made it. And it is both beautiful and glorious, and one of the most finely-lithographed boxes in the planchette trade. An interesting observation was the previously unknown "YLDER" trademark you can see in the lower left--a clever sidestep to score a trademark for "Wilder" that someone else undoubtedly already held.

Topside and Bottom: the planchette puts a pencil where the leg should be!

The planchette itself is the exact same dimensions as the talking board indicator, which makes it a either a fantastic cross-promotional product making use of the same template to double-dip into the public's pocketbook, or a clever attempt to recycle leftover or excess stock of talking board pointers. Or neither. Or both. Either way, it is a fantastic find, and a really fantastic addition to my collection.  I know you'll enjoy checking it out!

Oh, Miley! NONONO!!! (Thanks, Mr. Rinker)

The Nicholl-Higginson Planchette

In my realm of collecting, it is incredibly rare to acquire items with any sort of significant provenance. Talking boards seem to come along with disclaimers of "this was my grandfather's board" far more often than planchettes, and given that there's a 2-generation gap between the initial popular peaks of the devices, and that planchettes faded into obscurity after their very-last-gasp in the 1930s, that should come as little surprise. And while my peers in the talking board world are often able to locate surviving family members with some recollection of their forebears' manufacturing activities, equivalent discoveries for an industry stretching back many decades further into the 1860s proves exceptionally problematic--there's just too much time and distance between the people and events--and the memories died with those who carried them a generation or two before I arrived to archive them.

But not all is lost. This past June, I managed to acquire a very special piece--one of a fantastic set of planchettes--with verifiable provenance, a rich family connection, and ties to Spiritualism in the UKand famous mediums of the pre-and-post-WWII period. And I must thank series regular Glenn Rinker for his recent astute observations that jarred me to the historical potential of this item after I'd shelved away the keywords for future follow-up. Thank you, Mr. Weatherman!

The Nicholl-Higginson planchette as solicited, its assigned name preserving both its family and Spiritualist associations.

When Mr. Nicholl-Morris first contacted me about the purchase of his family's planchette, there was no initial cause for excitement beyond that which a collector feels when they first see a new discovery. Exuberance, yes, but not the awe and reverence that comes with a provenanced item. In fact, it wasn't anything Mr. Nicholl-Morris felt obliged to pitch as part of the purchase, beyond the hints that the planchette had been in his family for some years.

In fact, my initial assessment of the planchette was that it was most likely handmade, though possibly a manufactured item, but if it was a production piece, I guessed from afar, the original castors had long been replaced with the sturdier and bulkier ball-bearing castors more commonly found in the furniture trade. If that were the case, I predicted the original castor holes would be visible beneath the newer encasements, and I'd be able to confirm if it was a production or homemade piece. Given the classic shape and seemingly-exquisite construction, my opinion was split.

And that remained, at least initially, the biggest question the planchette posed, and I otherwise acquired it with my usual zeal and gratitude to Mr. Nicholl-Morris.

The Nicholl-Higginson planchette on arrival, with Mr. Nicholl-Morris' letter behind.

When the planchette arrived from overseas, it contained a few surprises. Not the least of which was the discovered absence of other hardware marks or holes from previous castors hidden beneath the oversized ball-bearing housings, whose retention screws just barely protruded through the top-piece where they were cut or filed down. In other words, this was most likely a handmade item, and not a manufactured piece. But with the exception of the near-overlong screws, it was lovingly constructed--perhaps professionally so--with the bulky hardware seemingly betraying it as such.

But the box contained another surprise: the personal recollections of Mr. Nicholls-Morris and the history of the planchette, lovingly scripted in a 4-page letter. It recounts a fair bit of family history centered on his grandmother, Mrs. Lois May Nicholl (nee Dixon, b. 1877) who passed away at the grand old age of 81 in 1959. Mrs. Nicholl was a "life-long enthusiast" of Spiritualism, spirit communication, and psychic phenomena--a quality she implanted in her grandson, who remains a member of the British Society for Psychical Research. Mr. Nicholl-Morris's letter recounted how he recalled that the planchette had been in his family from at least 1942, and that he clearly remembered his grandmother "getting messages off it, but my mother, another, and brother mainly obtained only scrawl!"

Accounts of a planchette specimen's use are rare enough, but the letter contained other intriguing details of the item's history and Mrs. Nicholl's spiritualist involvements. The seance circle attended by Lois May was one hosted by famed trance medium Fanny Higginson at London, Stock-on-Trent, in the area of Staffordshire known as the "Potteries" for its established ceramics industry. Fanny Higginson is, of course, the mother and mentor of famous British medium Gordon Higginson, and a famous medium in her own right, so well-known for her accuracy that a large British mining company would not dig test bore holes without her consultation. Fanny was inspired to mediumship as a teenager when she attended a seance held by Annie Brittain at Longton Church, who insisted despite Fanny's protests that the young girl's still-living mother's spirit was there with them; Fanny returned home with her Aunt to discover the medium was right after all, and that her mother had died while she was away. This event (and the medium's prediction that both Fanny and her future son would lead the church into a new era of spiritual communion) sparked not only a lifetime of devotion to Spiritualism and mediumship, but also a strict relationship in the upbringing of her son, Gordon Higginson, who's ascent would eclipse that of his mother's and who would eventually assume the role of President of the very church whose visit inspired his mother toward mediumship.

The trance medium Fanny Higginson

Gordon Higginson manifesting ectoplasm.

It is in this context that Lois May Nicholl displayed her automatic writing talents. Her grandson recounts her enthusiastic involvement throughout the 1930s and '40s, until her participation was cut short in 1945 with the family's move to North Wales. While she remained in Staffordshire, it is said she "received messages at Mrs. Higginson's circle to pass on to relative of military personnel who had lost their lives--sometimes carrying resentment!" And there, in her hands to receive these messages, was this planchette. And for all these years since her passing, her grandson has kept the device, before seeking a good home for his family's history and heritage in the mysteriousplanchette.com vaults. And we are thrilled and honored to be able to provide that assistance and share his memories of this enigmatic device that has such close ties to Spiritualism in the UK! As our research into the life of Lois May Nicholl continues, so too will her unfolding story.

The Nicholl-Morris Planchette on display.

As a side note to our arrangement, Mr. Nicholl-Morris immediately offered another planchette--this one belonging to he and his wife, and purchased some 15 years prior when he temporarily misplaced his grandmother's planchette and was in need of an automatic writer. It, too, is a fine specimen, and this time immediately identifiable as a Two Worlds Ball-Bearing Planchette, offered by the eponymous magazine in the 1930s onward. They are among the finest planchettes ever constructed or offered by any firm, with smooth-rolling ball-bearings and as thin and fine of construction as one might hope--and likely manufactured by the scientific-instrument makers Weyers Brothers.  I am proud to display the pieces in tandem, and leave the leaves of history here so that the contributions of the Nicholl family to the research and dialogie of spirit communication devices, automatic writing, and Spiritualism will be remembered as long as I'm able to carry the torch.

Two Worlds Planchette Ad, 1938.

Antediluvian Automatism: Ignatius Donnelly & the Dempsey Speaking Dial

"Go! from the speaking dial learn/ 

A lesson all divine/
From faults that wound your fancy turn/

And mark the hours that shine."
"I Mark the Hours that Shine"--Sophia H. Oliver

I don't normally cross the streams of my various interests here on the MysteriousPlanchette blog, but today's an exception. I recently returned from my publisher's annual convention, and encountered quite the talking board revelation while there. For those who don't know, I write adventures for the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game by Paizo Publishing. I've long drawn on our real-world esotericism and occult topics for my subject matter, such as Edward Bulwer-Lytton's concepts of "vril" and Ignatius Donnelly's lost-Atlantis theories, inspirations of which appeared in my previous works Sunken Empires and From Shore to Sea. My most recent adventure for Paizo, Rasputin Must Die!, actually pits the players against the historical Rasputin set against the backdrop of 1918 Russia in the throes of revolution--quite a departure from the typical swords-and-wizards fantasy tropes. The book also contained no insignificant amount of rules and essays on the occult in Russia during the period, and it was this subject that caught the eye of one of my editors, Christopher Paul Carey, who, as it turns out, is an Ignatius Donnelly scholar. And he just so happened to have previously stumbled across an amazing revelation not only on the antediluvian theorist's spirit-communication activities, but also added a new talking board to the investigative vaults. Needless to say, we spent the whole weekend riffing on our various disciplines while we had the chance to do so in person, and I can't thank my friend enough for sharing!

Ignatius Donnelly (1831-1901), Antediluvian Theorist

Chris discovered typed transcripts of Donnelly's journals from the last decades of his life in the microfilm archives of the Minnesota Historical Society. Within, he found a fascinating personal portrait of the man, and a wealth of information on Donnelly's use and endorsement of a new-to-us talking board: the Dempsey "Speaking Dial."

St. Paul Daily Globe, July 13, 1895.

P.J. Dempsey was the patriarch of a large family in St. Paul, Minnesota, an avid Spiritualist, and inventor of the "Speaking Dial." The first recorded appearance of his unique talking table design arrived just one week prior to an important Spiritualist camp occurring near Lake Como, Minnesota, the week of July 13, 1895--important due to the featured appearance of famed trance medium Cora Richmond. The paper proclaimed the dial would "be in operation each day until the end of the month" at the camp, and, according to the accounts, the 12-hour exhibitions caused "something of a sensation" at these public appearances. Another interesting account hints that the Speaking Dial had been exhibited the year before by Dempsey at the state Capitol during previous Legislature in April of that same year:

St. Paul Daily Globe, June 09, 1895

The ads hinted at in the above story start with that issue--at first promoting the dial's appearance at the Como Camp--and proceed in a more commercial fashion through at least February of 1896 with local solicitations continuing to appear in the St. Paul Daily Globe. The ads, fittingly, typically appear nestled near familiar company: clairvoyants such as Madame Teitsworth and Mrs. Alice Austin, the "second-sight seer" Madame Moss, and "Dr." Harvey, the "trance, test, and business medium," among others.  

Assorted Speak Dial advertisements, St. Paul Daily Globe, 1895-1896

 The ads reveal some interesting markers as we try to decipher the mechanism and use of the Speaking Dial. The inventor proposed all manner of motive forces driving the dial's communication that run the gamut of pseudo-scientific explanations for spirit communication: "an unseen force," "an intelligence," "animal magnetism," "dear spirit friends," and "positive proof of spirit return" are found among the taglines to promote sales of the $2.00 device.

Luckily, we don't have to rely on unillustrated advertisements alone to determine the exact nature of the Speaking Dial's appearance and operation. Again, Chris has already done the discovery for us during the course of his Ignatius Donnelly research and, again, the Minnesota Historical Society, from whom he acquired the Donnelly journals, holds a revealing artifact among their archives. It is very likely a photograph of P.J. Dempsey's family, if the possibly-misspelled "G.W Dempsie" letterhead is any indication of a family relation in the Minneapolis photography studio business. Whatever the relation, a Speaking Dial is pictured in all of its glory.

Photo courtesy Minnesota Historical Society

  
Unless the Dempsey family was particularly diminutive, the Speaking Dial would be one of the largest dial plate devices on record. In imagining its operation, my first hunch was that it was suspiciously similar to the 1922 Swallow patent:

"Spirit Wheel" by William H. Swallow, #1,418,686, June 6, 1922

But the dates are obviously way off, and it is apparent from the Speaking Dial's photograph that the indicator is driven by a cord or elastic line--possibly some pulley mechanism--and an important hint. As I sat there with Chris over the weekend comparing notes and absorbing the clues he'd uncovered, I turned toward his subject--and his generously supplied copies of Donnelly's personal journal--to see if there were any answers contained within.

Ignatius Donnelly in 1898, one year prior to his
first recorded exposure to the Speaking Dial.

August 9, 1899 marks Donnelly's first mentions of the Speaking Dial in his journals. And it is a fortuitous occasion: he remarks that "We expect Miss Marie Dempsey of Minneapolis, daughter of the inventor of the "Speaking Dial," down to visit us, this afternoon." His next reference in the same entry is more obscure, noting that the "board says will sell 121 copies [of] book first week. First month between 500 and 600." The book mentioned is likely his just-then-released work, The Cipher in the Plays, and on the Tombstone.

On August 12, Donnelly records another visit with Ms. Dempsey, where he reportedly received communications from his brother, John, and his mother and deceased grandson. The communications are full of typically inspirational and encouraging words from departed family members, including his first wife, who offers a positive endorsement of his second and still living wife. It is curious that once the more obvious member's of Donnelly's immediate family and their fates are run through, a curious blockade manifests. With Donnelly and Marie Dempsey working the board cooperatively, there comes a message from Donnelly's mother that "many dear ones whose names are in memory" are present. But, when pressed to name other departed friends and family whose spirits are said to be in attendance, the board falls silent, leaving the question open of whether Ms. Dempsey--perhaps in an attempt to impress the former lieutenant governor and congressman--might have been guiding the indicator during their session to provide some impressive and easily-researched answers, only to find herself at a loss when pressed for more details. Donnelly himself notes that he was prepared to quiz the board, but wasn't given the chance. It is unknown if his own suspicions were aroused to Marie's possible implications in the board's dishonesties.

By his own account on January 12, 1900--less than a year before his death--Donnelly returns to the Speaking Dial "for the first time in many months "to commune with the unknown force that manifest itself through it." His questions are general, and typically focus on inquiries to book sales and reviews, with responses predicting a favorable on in England's Pall Mall Gazette. Other typical communiques of the times follow, with predictions of storms, the outcome of the Boer War, and even a prediction of Donnelly's own election as US President in 1904! Donnelly is impressed, but not convinced, remarking "I do not, of course, attach any confidence in these prophecies, but there is an intelligence here separate and apart from our own, and it is wortwhile to try to find out its characteristics and limitations."

It is curious to note in the next day's entry, January 13, Donnelly notes that they are visited by a Stanley Twitchell, who himself is mentioned as having purchased his own Speaking Dial before coming to Donnelly to learn how to operate it, and it seems Ignatius made be a bigger proponent of the device than he truly lets on. But his entries and inquiries constantly test the board's intelligence and answers, and he seems to be constantly attempting to trap the spirits in some contradiction.

The Speaking Dial in its natural environment.

On February 5, 1900, the Minneapolis Times featured an article on a lecture Donnelly presented at the behest of the State Spiritualist's Association of Minnesota--a standing-room only performance. The clipping, transposed in Donnelly's journal, details more of Donnelly's use with the Speaking Dial in a subtly mocking tone, but also exposes his public endorsement of the device. Donnelly's lecture revealed lengthy purported conversations with Napolean and Shakespeare (Donnelly would also later claim lively conversations with General Custer in his June 1900 entries), and he even defended the dial's often-incorrect answers by noting that the spirits with which he communed had heard the same false rumors as the living! Perhaps more interestingly, Donnelly hinted at spectral experiences in seances as a member of Congress--a facet of congressional life no doubt worth investigating further.

But it is Donnelly's February 20, 1900 entry that finally reveals and appears to confirm the board's mechanism--a mechanism hearkening back to the earliest days of spirit communication devices. That night, while he is apparently still living at Minneapolis' Hotel Waverly, Mr. Dempsey himself, accompanied by his daughter, Marie, visited Ignatius and his wife. With them, they carried a new Speaking Dial as a gift, which they claimed Dempsey's spirit "control" had advised them to construct and deliver to the author, since they had heard his old one was worn from use. The next sentence that proceeds a lengthy correspondence with a former rival politician (and an incredibly humorous aside as Donnelly references his January 13 entry to prove the dial was incorrect in its Pall Mall Gazette predictions!) gives us a vital clue to the Speaking Dial:

"He fastened it upon the little table, and Marion and Marie proceeded to operate it."

What is so important in this entry is the inclusion of a table in the dial's operating mechanism. This, together with the earlier clue from the following advertisement, indicates that the board did not operate independently like most dial plate mechanisms, but more than likely relied on a tipping table to operate, finally explaining the cord running to the dial's indicator.

   

More than any other mechanism of this period, this would make the Speaking Dial a nearly-direct spiritual descendant of the earliest manufactured means of spirit communication: Isaac Pease's Spiritual Telegraph Dial which, as we know from Dr. Robert Hare's descriptions of the device, was an independent mechanism that relied on the lifting of a table to operate its counterweights and pulleys to drive its indicator. It seems most likely that Dempsey's device harkened back as a refinement of this system.

The "Sage of Nininger" made a final dial-relevant entry on June 9rd, 1900, from transcripts of a June 3rd sitting. Before dropping another enticing hint that he has been experimenting with a rival to the Speaking Dial, the so-called "Odic Telegraph" presented by a friend from St. Paul, Donnelly opens himself up to a sincere personal moment that reveals his subtle interest in the device even at times of despondency, and truly reveals what must have been his well-informed thoughts on the whole Speaking Dial matter.

"Tonight, feeling somewhat dejected over the probable failure of our crops, and the general gloomy outlook, Marion and I, to kill time, got out the Dempsey "Speaking Dial," to see if we would get anything to instruct or amuse us. There is certainly  a power behind it, and a remarkable intelligence, even though it is generally used in the construction of falsehoods I sometimes think it is a mysterious emanation from our own vitality; but if it is it is an intellect growing out of an intellect, and differing from its parent source in many respects." Finally, Donnelly closes his record of the Speaking Dial with a fitting epitaph:


"It is all very strange and mysterious."

It appears the Speaking Dial held on for some time past its 1895-96 prime and even Donnelly's turn-of-the-century endorsements. Though advertisements and references fade after 1896, there is a brief revival in the May 27, 1905 edition of the Washington Post, with a .50 cent price drop, under the heading "A Minneapolis professor wrote," where it was said the Donnelly-endorsed Speaking Dial "proves immortality and spiritual communion":

Of course, any endorsement by Donnelly at this time would have had to come from the Speaking Dial itself--Ignatius died as the new millennium turned on January 1, 1901, at the age of 69 years--which, had he answered if called, may have been proof indeed.

For more fascinating information on the incredibly life of Ignatius Donnelly and a glimpse into the life of a passionate researcher and author, please head over to Christopher Paul Carey's blog, and I can't thank him enough for his contributions and revelations to the talking board's history. We've got a new one to find, folks, so eyes peeled wide!

Two Early Contrivances: The EHB Revelations

Sometimes the truth is hiding in plain sight.

Emma Hardinge's incredible opus Modern American Spiritualism is the great survey of Spiritualism's earliest days, so it is not surprising for me to find, despite years of thumbing through during bedside perusals, previously-unexplored hints of early spirit communication devices beyond tipping tables and spirit rappings that otherwise fill up the intimidating volume. And it is no wonder my friend Marc spends every waking hour investigating every gleaming facet of the woman's incredible life.

And what a couple of surprises did I discover in one of my random perusals last night!

The first is an account from Wilson's Grove, Iowa. Now a ghost town, Wilson's Grove was a small hamlet that--like much of the rest of the country--had some citizens intensely interested in the trend of spirit communication that had been sweeping westward in America. But like so many others, the tediousness of rapping and alphabet calling could drain the enthusiasm of even the most ardent believer, and, thus, in the early 1850s, many sought to expedite this process--the most famous early  innovators being Isaac Pease and Aldolphus Wagner--both of whom, in 1853, marketed spirit communication devices to ease the burden of tedious discourse with the dead.

But the idea was not unique, and there are instances of homemade expeditious inventions during the period, two of which Hardinge is kind enough to illuminate for us from the pages of the Spiritual Telegraph. The home circle of Oliver T. Fox (no relation to the sisters) was kind enough to report their efforts in the Fall of 1856, with the note that their contrivance had been in use for some "five or six years past," which, if true, would actually place the innovation 2-3 years prior to the competing efforts of Pease and Wagner, in the 1850-51 date range.

The account isn't as clear as we'd like to see, as we always hope for descriptions a touch less vague and, well, something more solidly reconstructive in nature. But it is nonetheless fascinating, and shifts the dialogue once again on precursors to the talking board back several years. This particular device, like those of Hare in subsequent years, was meant to modify the table which was the center of most spiritual circle's activities, using cooperative action to achieve communication via tipping and rapping in a similar way that later users would place their hands' upon Ouija's planchette to spell out messages. By adding the counter-pulley mechanism to indicate sequential letters on a wall-mounted board, rather than relying on perpetual repeats of the alphabet in anticipation for answering raps, the sitters are able to utilize the table's movements more efficiently as their cooperative action on the tabletop points out messages on the nearby wall.

The two important elements are there for a true talking board precursor: an alphabet board and a means of cooperative indexing. The comparatively complex pulley mechanism and reliance on the table's tipping to drive the index make it a curious transition piece, but nonetheless it is a wonderful revelation lurking right there in front of our eyes in one of the most well-known books on the subject!

But Emma is not done revealing other mechanical means of communication. Another letter from the pages of the Telegraph--this time from South America--appears in the book. Written by Mr. Seth Driggs of Caracas, editor of El Espiritualiste, it gives an additional account of a fascinating contrivance for spirit communication he witnessed performed by his "Caracas Circle" in Venezuela. 

The construction and use of this device is somewhat more clear, and its operation wholly unique in the world of spirit communication devices: its planchette runs on rails. In plain language, the sitters took a round pedestal table, arranged an alphabet on the perimeter of the tabletop, then used what seems to be the tracks and car of a toy train set inside that perimeter, with the modified train car becoming the device's index. While captive planchettes and even running grooves are not unheard of in both the physical and patent record for talking tables, this is the first appearance I can call to mind of rails. The light touches of the finger rings familiar bells to modern readers familiar with the use of planchettes both ouija and otherwise, and the sitters were prepared to gather messages by similar means in the absence of the prepared table by using another to cooperatively point out letters arranged around it on the floor.

This letter is undated, but given that the Telegraph ceased publication in 1860, we can be sure that this episode dates between 1852 and 1860.

It just goes to show us that we should never stop looking, even in those places we though long exhausted of any evidence. In subsequent weeks--likely writing after my wife gives birth to our new baby girl--I promise to explore other early contrivances; some well-recorded, and others only recently discovered as these, in a multi-part series breaking down everything we know about what we know.



 

A Fix Called Wanda

Though my last post began with an overview of the Auburn Company, it ended with a survey of what talking boards collectors have long surmised was the eventual evolution of their Syco-Graf board: Grover Haffner's “Wanda Tipping Table.” Though that connection has now been called into question with the recent information revealed in that post, we shouldn't dismiss the important discovery it also reveals—the recovery of the only currently known surviving example of a Wanda.

And I'm lucky enough to have it.

Wanda was rediscovered by my good friend Denise—as lovely and fine a woman you could ever hope to meet—in the attic of her 1920s bungalow just outside of Albany, New York, some 10 years before our first contact in late 2012. As Denise tells it: “It was among dirty old newspapers and rubbish up in the attic, among other things on top of an old built-in cabinet...dusty...dirty.”

If only with a single wish I could empty every New England attic and pore over their summoned contents, I'd be the single happiest collector that ever lived. 

She DOES exist! Like an elusive actress finally caught by paparazzi, the first photo of Wanda surprises my inbox!

My courtship with Wanda was a long one. She, Denise, and her three pugs had become fast friends, and Denise was hesitant to allow just anyone in to sweep Wanda off her feet. Most importantly, Denise wanted to know as much as possible about Wanda before seeing her off into the wider world, and that helped drive an incredibly fruitful period of research into her history. By that time, the Lon Chaney Tipping Table picture had already revealed Wanda's name and broken open most of the preliminary research that brought Grover Haffner's creation from the 2D patent drawing and into the real world. Bob Freeman's great "The Occult Detective" blog helped us delve even further and led us to the 1928 Photoplay article, revealing some of Haffner's thoughts on his device and revealing the source of her name (Wanda was named after Haffner's Indian spirit guide). And her rediscovery led to corporate stock certificates in UCLA's library and, later, a new picture of a later-era Wanda in USC's collections.

Wanda's company since her early 2000's discovery: Denise's "girls!"

But what of Wanda's broken and incomplete corpse? Was their life in the old bird yet? I would say most assuredly so.

Denise insisted that should I become the lucky fellow to take Wanda home, that she would not only be revealed to the wider world in all of her glory, but that she would have to do so whole once more. It was an intimidating task. After months of negotiation and thoughtful encouragement, Denise said goodbye to Wanda, and by plane, train, and automobile she came, at last, to Texas, where I marveled at her abused form and despaired at her reconstruction.

Luckily, I'm quite experienced in the repair of talking boards, but this went far beyond the occasional warp-reversal or pried-up-ply regluing. But as my experience would have it, in my years as a musician, I repaired, built, and rebuilt many of my own instruments, from drums to guitars to upright basses, so manipulating wood and associated mechanisms is something I've not only educated myself about, but also something I'm comfortable with, which to me has always been the bigger obstacle.

But you enter a new world when you are attempting to repair or restore a rare and valuable antique. Not only do you run the risk of damaging it further, there is also the potential to do more harm than good, destroying its value as an antique and representative vintage specimen. With that danger in mind, I always approach such “restorations” with an eye on one thing in mind: preserving the historical integrity of the item. In other words, I try to always repair things in ways that can be undone. I'm not talking about the minor repairs of re-gluing raised veneer or rejoining broken components, but rather the more controversial actions of replacing parts and retooling mechanisms with modern tools. The last thing you want to do is something that can't be undone, and such idiocy isn't my idea of the right way to leave my mark on history.

So, with that in mind, let's take a look at what it took to undergo Wanda's repair and get her back in full form and function in a way that wouldn't be irreversible. Let's take a look at the state of the starlet when she arrived, and how we got her back on stage.

Wanda as she arrived. Note missing base, missing cord and disengaged mechanism, and missing indicator.

When Wanda arrived from New York, I was already prepared for the two most obvious challenges. Her legs were intact, but her base missing entirely, and her indicator was long since lost. That much I could handle. What was less sure was the state of the internal mechanism and the general overall operation of the device. Pictures just didn't reveal anything about that, so I had to roll the dice when acquiring Wanda that it wasn't anything I couldn't overcome.

The base repair was first on my list, since it would be needed to eventually decipher the mechanism's inner workings, and it wasn't as easy as you might think. How do you arrive at the proper dimensions? How do you match not only the color, but the aged patina of the wood beneath the paint, which is exposed in some places on the top? 

I elected to go with period wood. I often salvage choice pieces of wood from demolished period homes around Austin and keep them labeled for future use. I was lucky enough to have some old plywood of the same ply count and thickness as Wanda's top board, the wood salvaged from a workbench found in the garage of a 1920s-era home. And it already had an orange-ish patina (particularly compared to modern bright-white wood) that was a good head start to get a match to Wanda's original wood peeking from beneath her worn paint spots. But having used up most of that salvaged batch over the years, I didn't have much more of that wood than I needed, so I had to be extra careful, because I was only going to get two shots at most to use the scrap I had or lose the opportunity for wood of the same vintage.

The base, cut from salvaged, perfectly-aged wood that matched Wanda's ply count. Note patent beneath.

Uncovering the dimensions involved some algebra skills I haven't exercised in a few years. I only had a few markers. The patent was the obvious start, but had to compare it with the period photos I had on hand to make sure that the final production designs didn't deviate too much. With some quick back and forth, I was confident that the manufactured items followed the patent pretty closely. So, I did some measurements and arrived at the patent drawing's ratio of depiction versus real-life Wanda, and found the top was really, really close in comparison. With that assurance, I simply applied the same ratio to the patent drawing to arrive at the dimensions for Wanda's new base. After a final comparison with period photos, I was confident I'd nailed it. And so I cut it. Slowly. Carefully. Success!

Before I worried about matching paint, I had to catch the baseboard's patina up with the dark one of Wanda's exposed parts. It already had the aged orange-ish tint I needed, but still needed some soiling. This was accomplished with a mixture of Old English and a few other stains, not to mention a bit of gray ash I keep around for this sort of thing. I experimented on some of the leftover scraps from cutting until I got it right, as you can see below.

Wanda ventures, incognito, into the wilds of Home Depot.

And modern technology just makes matching paint ridiculously simple. I needed to scan Wanda, so I wrapped her up in my friends Andrew and Peggy Vespia's wedding gift—an awesome handmade talking board sleeve—and clipped off to Home Depot. Yes, as you can imagine, a little crowd gathered around in the paint department when I pulled a talking board out to be scanned, and there were even a few folks with the heebie-jeebies, but since I didn't have an operational Wanda to properly show off, I demurred, had the skeptical clerk scan her in, and waited for the results. I ended up having to buy a whole quart of this army-green paint to match her. Turns out I needed exactly one brushful. 

So I returned home, and painted her new base up! I honestly thought this was going to be a meticulous process, but I briskly brushed it on, left a few bare patches, made some marks with my fingertips and rubbed some of the edges raw in the same sort of places Wanda had wear, and, in literally about 2 minutes, the baseboard was painted and aged. That was almost too easy. 

The matching process: base aging, painting, and final match to Wanda's vintage wear-and-tear.

But that was as far as I got on the base at that moment, and set it aside to dry thoroughly. I was ready to get to work on Wanda's mechanism, but knew to test it properly, I would need a new indicator. I studied the thickness and composition of Wanda's other metal components, and set off again to the scrap heap to find something that would work, emerging with a nice gauge of aluminum that would be easy to work with, particularly since the other components were only *painted* to appear brass, and were likely of pot metal constitution, I knew I could get a correct texture and color match. Like the base, I figured out the ratio, did some projections, and deciphered the indicator's proper length to make sure that both the long and short indicators fell where they needed to. After cutout and a quick punch (as opposed to drilling, a punch pushes the metal outward from the hole, leaving some material to provide tension against the post, like a clock hand), the raw and unfinished indicator was ready! 

Signs point to "Yes!" Deciphering the pointer size ratio via patent.

With the pointer in play, I was really getting anxious to decode Wanda's mechanism—because I still didn't know exactly how she worked. I did know from the patent drawings that the base was key to anchoring the pulleys that drove the device. So, with another quick trip to the scrap corner, I returned with a 1x12 that would serve as a mock-up base to figure out where everything went. Instead of watching paint dry, it was time to get brave and decipher Wanda's innards, like an oracle unstringing the bowels of a dove.

Playing around with the mechanism, it was obvious that it still worked. In other words, it still had tension, as turning the indicator's post caused it to snap back fairly briskly on release. It was obviously spring-loaded, though without patent drawings of the mechanism to assure me otherwise, my biggest concern became taking off the faceplate only to have parts-and-pieces under tension go flying in every direction. I flipped Wanda over, and slowly loosened the two retaining screws holding it all together.

Mechanism detail. Note rough pot-metal texture, faux-brass finish, and cord remnants.

It was surprisingly simple, and luckily it all stayed in place. The gut's of Wanda's encasement comprised of only 4 pieces, not counting the 2 nuts and bolts: the top plate, the lower encasement, the flywheel with post, and the spring. The spring itself was anchored to both the posted flywheel and the underside of the top plate, and the mechanism's tension could be reset with a few twists. There was another surprise, and a vital clue to period restoration: a 4-inch scrap of original braided cord, still wrapped around in place, revealing not only how the cord was anchored internally (with a simple knot facing down) but also how many wraps around were expected for original functioning! It was brittle and brown from age, and had remnants of a good waxing, not to mention being generally worse for wear, but now I knew what to look for in a replacement cord, and I had a perfect match on hand: the braided belt for an antique dental drill, and in army green, to boot!

Wanda's disassembled mechanism on trial baseboard with test cord attached.

With the mechanism decoded, now it was a matter of resetting a somewhat working base setup. I knew from the patent drawing and period photos that the mechanism's pulley was operated by the push-and-pull of the table's tipping action and the tension that granted to the anchored cords, but the placement of the anchors and the route those cords would take proved to be somewhat problematic to not only get right, but also match up with all available evidence. The best example of this was the joint of the dual cords, which merge into one just before the single cord enters the pulley mechanism to wrap around the flywheel. They are joined by a metal crimp, which if placed too close to the mechanism, interferes with the indicator resetting to the start point, and if placed too far away, get hung up on the anchor, which was still present on the board.

Trial & Error: Rediscovering the proper workings of Wanda's mechanism. Left: A simple pulley doesn't work! Center: Carefully dialing in tension and setting crimp retainers Right: All calibrated to start and ready to go!

Resetting the mechanism was the longest, hardest endeavor of the entire project. I tinkered for hours to discover the optimal number of cord wraps around the pulley, struggled to provide a tight, unobtrusive knot for the cord to attach it to the flywheel, labored forever to make sure the base anchors and crimped cord-binders were in the right place, and meticulously adjusted to get an accurate “return to start” reset point for when the table was back at rest, before finally tightening everything down. I looked up, and hours had passed and my base paint was dry. I compared it with my test base to find it had dried to a perfect paint match, carefully lined up the anchors where I'd discerned they belong, and carefully screwed them into place. 

Wanda's restored indicator.

I was almost there! I just had to get a successful match on the indicator's finish, which turned out to be relatively easy. I scuffed the raw aluminum with some sandpaper to arrive at the same rough texture of Wanda's other metal components and to make finish application hold better, then discovered to my delight that the old “Antique Gold” Rub'n Buff I had on hand was a *perfect* match. Almost before I realized it, I had everything in hand for final assembly. I slowly eased the new indicator onto the central post and secured it with a vintage brass nut salvaged from a 1920s radio, placed Wanda's legs into the shallow-drilled recesses of her new base, and looped the tight new cord around Wanda's new anchors. 

Wanda awaits her turn to talk for the first time since being shut await in Denise's attic!

I placed my hands upon her and gave some slight pressure. For the first time in many, many years, life again breathed into Wanda, and she began talking once more! And the best part, from an antiquarian's viewpoint, her historical integrity hasn't been compromised. Every ounce of restoration, if viewed as unfit by some future collector, can be removed to return Wanda to her original unrestored state. Why anyone would want to silence her is, of course, beyond me, but it also leaves the door open to more accurate restorations should any new discoveries come to light in the future.

Wanda's public debut took place at the Phenomenology 105 in Gettysburg, where she was the belle of the ball. In fact, I'm not sure a startlet like Wanda has had hands on her like that since Johnny Weissmuller groped Esther Jane Williams on the set of the World’s Fair Acquacade.

Many, many thanks to my good friend Denise for rediscovering Wanda and giving me the chance to let her not only talk again, but walk again the wider world!

I Wanda. I Wa-Wa-Wa-Wa-Wanda!

"I wanda how many times you've been had
And I wanda how many plans have gone bad

I wanda, I wanda--wanda I do."

--Sixto Rodriquez. "I Wanda"
 

At least I think that's how it goes.

Ebay always proves an elusive and confounding beast for collectors and researchers alike. Each day brings a new flood of historical antiquities to pick and preen through. Every so often an item shows up that rewrites previous conclusions or opens up new avenues to explore. Most recently, that item was the Auburn Company's “Syco-Graf” board.

I have a long love affair with the Syco-Graf. Back in my poor college days when I had little other option but to choose between ramen, rent, or talking boards, and regrettably more often than not chose food, warmth, and shelter over rare collectibles, I fell head over heels for the item in a rather ratty, torn-up specimen that appeared at auction in eBay's nascent days. I didn't win it, of course, but I thought the auction picture was unique enough to save for later reference. That little low-res thumbnail became the cornerstone of a new digital talking board photo folder I then made on my desktop. To really date it, consider that the picture culled from that auction was eventually saved to a floppy disk inserted in my A: drive, and was lovingly transferred from computer-to-computer in successive years, changing formats as I went, and where it still lies buried among so many others that have come along since.

1921 Syco-Graf Dial Plate

I first detailed the Syco-Graf on mysteriousplanchette.com on the page dedicated to Grover Haffner's business concerns, but with some new revelations, I want to revisit the device and the penultimate form it may—or may not—have ultimately evolved into: the Wanda Tipping Table.

The real revelation of this recent listing was a previously-undisclosed business name stamped in the yellow-stained oval above the board's missing dial attachment: The Auburn Company, along with “Providence, RI.” Though it seems that information had been shared with me as early as 2010, I had failed to notate it, and so thanks to that “new” little revelation—and to my good friend Bob Murch of williamfuld.com, whose thoroughness is rivaled only by his boyish charm and glare of his shiny bald pate—we now know a lot more about this little business than we once discovered and discarded.

A man by the name of Whitfield J. Hainer of 227 Sackett St. registered “The Auburn Company" as a sole proprietorship manufacturing novelties at the City Hall of Providence, Rhode Island, on March 1, 1920. By that time, Whitfield already had two patents on record: his 1915 "autographic register" mechanical receipt machine and his 1919 caulking device. The business headquarters then differed from that printed on the company's ads, with a given location of 35 West Minister Street. There is a partner listed, which confuses the sole propriety of his endeavors, but the name C.H. Martineau of 147 Elmwood Avenue is also given. According to the 1921-22 Providence House Directory and the board's manufacturer stamp, the duo's company was located at 64 North Main Street, in Room #2.

Another Syco-Graf Specimen: missing dual indicator.

The board itself is a fantastic design, with “inlays” of birch highlighting the various message areas that seem to rather be stamped-and-lightly-stained areas contrasting with darker-stained blank space than actual inlays. In fact, depending on a particular photograph's contrast setting, the workaround stain job seems evident, with darker patches of the red stain deeper in outlying areas that thin to blotchy-ness as you get closer to the black-line segregated yellow-stained areas, perhaps as the worker applied the stain trying to avoid over-applying stain where it wasn't needed.

The Syco-Graf is a classic dial plate board in line with the Electra Company boards of the same era, with a curious new feature never before seen in spirit communication devices: a dual-index.(To be fair, the 1918 Sullivan patent has a two-pointer index, but doesn't work on the same long/short two-level arrangement) With the two-tiered arrangement of the letters on the face, the rotating wheel contains two indicators—a short one that points to the lower tier of numbers, days, times, and messages; and a long index, which points to the upper tier of letters and the Yes and No messages between them.

Syco-Graf Advertisement, Overland Monthly, November 1920

The earliest advertisements on record show up in November of 1920—just in time for the holiday season—and in the pages of both monthly and weekly publications such as The Californian and Overland Monthly, as well as The Independent and Motion Picture Classics. By August of 1921, advertising diminishes and then ceases—as far as we can observe—in Overland Monthly only. Whether or not the heavy spread of advertisements targeted at a California audience is indicative only of the surviving or digitized record, or if they are a clue to eyes cast longingly Westward is unknown, but it is a curious observation that may play into the board's continued evolution in the West that we'll soon discuss, if any.

The Syco-Graf was advertised as a “micro-psychic” machine that “amazingly increases the strength of the feeblest psychic impressions.” It sold for $5.00, or, approximately $60 in current dollars. We haven't seen many pop up over the years, and few with intact indicators. So they're nice and rare.

Kyro Psychic Writer advertisement, The Independent, March 1921

By March of 1921, The Auburn Company was offering a new enticing product: Kyro: The Psychic Writer. It was described as “a modernized and supersensitized planchette.” It was constructed of 3-ply mahogany and “birch inlay” that arouses my suspicions that it was a similarly deceptive contrasting stamp-and-dye-job (like the Syco-Graf) than an actual inlay. It also featured “adjustable bronze fittings” and—if I'm reading this right—“gelo-lithic floats” which may be some sort of insulator like we've observed on the Bang Williams Insulated Planchette. Or the blurry texts says something else (other interpretations are invited). The Kyro sold for .80 cents, or about $10 in modern equivalent currency.

If the surviving digital advertising record is anything to go by, the Syco-Graf didn't make it to the 1921 holiday season. Hainer's partner, in fact, left before the first season was even over, with the incorporation papers noting his departure from the company on December 9, 1920. It seemed the Syco-Graf had suffered the same futile fate as so many talking boards before it, disappearing into the ether before that “Patent Pending” stamp most boards seem to bear bore fruit.

Or did it?

With only pictures of the board's top and no physical specimens to observe, the communicative collecting community had for years tentatively assumed the Syco-Grafs we had seen at auction were simply less refined versions of another enigma we knew of that *did* show up on the patent record: Grover Haffner's patented “tipping table.” After all, the traits just have too much in common to ignore. There's the segmented alphabet sections. The lower arch of letters flanked by the days of the week and the unusual AM and PM markers. And the general layout of the design and the mechanical reliance on that new feature I mentioned: the dual index with the long and short indicators.

The proposed evolution: 1921 Syco-Graf > 1921/23 Haffner Patent Drawing > 1923 Wanda Tipping Table

As historical photographs began to surface of Haffner's tipping table, it was easy to jump to the conclusion that his patent and the boards it spawned were simply refined versions of the Syco-Graf. But there were a few problems with that.

For one, this week's auction showed us for the first time the flipside of the Syco-Graf, and it was surprisingly absent of the legs, base, and pulley mechanism we expected. Rather, it was just a straight dial plate mechanism, casting its role in the evolution of the tipping table into doubt.

Then, of course, we expected—or at least hoped—to see Grover Haffner's name somehow connected to the Auburn Company's incorporation papers, which Murch wasn't able to secure until we had a company name the eBay auction's item revealed as the Auburn Company. But we don't get Haffner—we get Hainer and Martineau instead.

Haffner Patent Drawing Detail: filed November 1921, approved December 1923

At least we have some breathing room. Haffner's patent for his “psychic instrument” is filed on November 26, 1921, so we have some time before the last Syco-Graf advertisements on record and his filing date for his tipping table. (As an interesting side-note, Haffner used the same attorneys: Hazard & Miller, that T.H. White used for his I-D-O PSY-CHO-I-D-E-O-GRAPH board and subsequent "Card Board" patent.) So it could be that Haffner—perhaps acting as the Elijah Bond to Auburn's Charles Kennard—had time to borrow, license, or steal (or, you know, use legitimately, but that's so boring) the design scheme for the Syco-Graf, head West, and set up shop to produce the revised version. Or maybe the design similarities and dual-index operation are all one big happenstance. We really just don't know, but that doesn't make the design similarities any less suspicious.

And, as usual, there were intervening discoveries made that shed new light on the whole theory and propelled the dialogue forward toward new discoveries. Gene Orlando of the museumtalkingboards.com had archived some photographs of the tipping table in use in some unidentified film or performance, complete with a wiry-haired professor and showgirls at play with the device, and we'd assumed we had a refined Syco-Graf on our hands. But another film-related still broke the whole case open: a photograph discovered by Murch, this time of Lon Chaney and Tod Browning on the set of the lost film London After Midnight, playing with a tipping table as well. Fortunately for us, as I sat there staring and wishing, I cocked my head to the side as I scrutinized the photo, and realized I could see the name of the board in this particular frame.

And it wasn't Syco-Graf. It was a board called “Wanda.”

1920s Film Stills: Browning & Chaney on set of London after Midnight, right, with Wanda mark clearly visibile.

This little clue led us to Harry Lang's 1928 article in Photoplay magazine, Exposing the Occult of Hocus-Pocus in Hollywood,which features not only a picture of a perfectly intact specimen of this “Wanda Tipping Table,” but informed us that Haffner's company was by now known as the Wanda Tipping Table Company of Hollywood, California, which is not only a long way from Providence, Rhode Island, but matches Haffner's location given in his patent information, as well as his only appearance in the census record.

And that distance, not to mention the short span between the final appearances of the Syco-Graf and the first hints of the Wanda, casts speculation on the theorized relationship between the East Coast-produced "Syco-Graf" and its supposed West Coast incarnation. But a patent application does not a product make, and it would be some time yet before Wanda would finally be unveiled. The patent would not actually be approved for another two years, on December 4, 1923. But not that a company ever needed a patent to make a product. And we know the wheels were rolling well before the patent's approval, as the unissued stock certificate from the Henry E. Carter Papers in UCLA's collections (issued for 7% of the company) displays with its February, 1923 issue date. It may be that it took that long for the manufacturers to obtain funding and get established.

Before too long, and like any attractive young starlet, the board was suddenly showing up all over Hollywood, in the aforementioned films, at the very least, and the Photoplay Magazine article even says of it “The famous old ouija board, in its heyday, was so popular that 35,000,000 of them were sold! The tipping table is out after the same record.”

The 1928 Photoplay Revelation: The Wanda Tipping Table!

Regardless of the evolutionary link or no, the Wanda Tipping Table is every bit of machine the patent and film stills promised, and is a marvelous good time to toy around with. Ouija collectors finally had their first chance to get their hands on one at the Phenomenology 105 conference in Gettysburg this year, when I brought the sole-known-surviving and only-just-then-restored specimen along for its public debut. And what a task the restoration was (and a topic for another blog post). The “Kennedy Table,” as it has come to be called after the lovely woman who discovered it in her attic some years ago—was missing a base and indicator, but with the missing parts restored, she's back to talking, and has a lot to say. As the film stills demonstrate, tipping the table back and forth draws the pulley to and fro, turning the dual-indicator back and forth to point out messages with similar ideomotor movements we've come to expect from moving planchettes on talking boards. And she was a big hit at the conference!

The Kennedy Wanda: discovered in an East Coast attic.

Oh, and if you're wondering, like so many are when they pose the question: “Why “Wanda?”” Well, Grover Haffner claimed it was the name of his Indian spirit guide.

If Haffner was involved with the Auburn Company in some sort of secondary role (some East Coast census on Grover Haffner would be a particularly choice confirmation), later press makes it keenly obvious that this is not the case with the Wanda Company, as he is listed as key to the device's existence in promotional materials with the board as well as press of the period. The Photoplay article also gives us some indication of the popularity of the devices in Hollywood:

“Perhaps the same reverent attitude of the Valentino group finds an echo in the increasing numbers of those in filmland who have “tipping tables” in their homes. Then again, perhaps not. But at any rate, Dr. Grover C. Haffner, an accomplished osteopath, and the Wanda Tipping Table Company of Hollywood, are finding their fortunes from the tipping table.” Dr. Haffner invented it, and the company is manufacturing and selling it—and they're selling so many of them that it doesn't need a fortune teller to tell that they're reaping a fortune."

"The tipping table is a sort of first cousin to the old ouija. It's faster—it has an indicator that works quickly like a pointer, in stead of the slow old traveling plaque of the old ouija board. The idea is for two people to sit at one with their finger tips pressing lightly on it. They ask it questions, and it's supposed to answer.”

The article continues with its derision:

“Talking about table tipping, there's that good old séance trick of moving heavy tables about. Houdini, who in his lifetime delighted in nothing so much as exposing fake spiritualistic phenomenon, exposed the table-moving trick repeatedly. But it still goes “hot” in Hollywood séances.”

We got some life out of Wanda, and her career wasn't as brief as other actresses who sojourned to Hollywood seeking fame and fortune. We know by 1923 the wheels were rolling toward the company that would manufacture her. We know by 1927 she's showing up on the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer studio lots, and by 1928 she is well known enough in Hollywood to be derided in the press—the mark of an arrived star if there ever was one! And she keeps going. In 1931, The Wanda Company commissioned a special 8x10 portrait of her—perhaps for use in advertisements—by the “largest and finest photography studio in the Los Angeles area” at the time: "Dick" Whittington Studios, a photograph now in the USC Digital Library.

Wanda Psychic Tipping Table: the 1931 incarnation. Photo courtesy USC Digital Library.

 The photograph reveals some changes to Wanda, as well. Her design has blossomed from the rather utilitarian scheme of previous years into arguably one of the most beautiful talking board designs ever witnessed. An all-seeing eye now surrounds the indicator, “psychic” has been added to her title, and a nice border and cornerwork adds to the appeal of the board. Like any fading Hollywood starlet who has had her time in the limelight, it looks as if Wanda may have had a little work done, because the photograph does raise some questions: if the baseboard and metal supports pictured are part of the board, and not simply a stand used by the photographer to capture her beautiful new makeup, then how has the mechanism changed? If the base and frame pictured is not a stand, Wanda's mechanism has undergone a serious revision. There is no indication of cables or their anchors on the base, which means her index tipping system has been totally reworked in some fashion. That would mean the regrettable discarding of her beautiful fold-out wooden legs, having been replaced by a pair of metal frameworks, but maybe that's the price of progress.

So, in closing, what to make of all this? It is a question I leave to you, dear reader, and invite you to weigh in in the comments section below. Is it happenstance that the Syco-Graf and Wanda share so many design similarities, or does one seem to be a natural evolution and refinement of the other? The collusion evidence is compelling from a design viewpoint: the dual index mechanism, the AM/PM and weekday messages, and the segmented letter sections that for years led us to believe they were family. But there's no evidence to place Grover Haffner in any sort of relationship with the Auburn Company. What do YOU think?

As researchers, we always wish we had all the answers for you, and we try to assemble all the available evidence into the best working theory we can, but, for now, and until more information comes to light, this one sloughs back into the less-than-certain bin.