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chris gash

How WWII Saved The Great Gatsby From Obscurity

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chris gash

F. Scott Fitzgerald's great American novel was a flop—until it was deployed overseas.

One day in 1937, F. Scott Fitzgerald stepped into a Los Angeles bookstore hoping to grab a copy of The Great Gatsby. Scouring the shelves, he couldn’t find anything with his name on it. He stopped by another bookstore, and another. At each one, he ran into the same problem. His books weren’t in stock. In fact, they hadn’t been for years.

When The Great Gatsby was printed in 1925, critics roasted it resoundingly. “One finishes Great Gatsby with a feeling of regret, not for the fate of the people in the book but for Mr. Fitzgerald,” wrote Harvey Eagleton of the Dallas Morning News. “F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Latest a Dud,” chimed the New York World. A critic from the Brooklyn Daily Eagle was more pointed. “Why [Fitzgerald] should be called an author, or why any of us should behave as if he were, has never been explained satisfactorily to me.”

Readers agreed. The Great Gatsby sold a modest 20,870 copies—nothing like Fitzgerald’s previous best sellers, This Side of Paradise and The Beautiful and the Damned. The literary lemon put the brakes on the author’s extravagant lifestyle. As the decade wore on, his wife’s mental health deteriorated, his marriage collapsed, and his drinking became a disease. Three years after that disappointing visit to the bookstore, he died of a heart attack at 44. “The promise of his brilliant career was never fulfilled,” his New York Times obituary said. His funeral was rainy and poorly attended—just like Jay Gatsby’s.

History forgot Fitzgerald while he was still alive, so why do we think of The Great Gatsby as the enduring classic of the Jazz Age? That story begins, and ends, with a world war.

Fitzgerald started writing in 1917 because he thought his days were numbered. World War I was raging, and the Princeton dropout—now an Army infantry second lieutenant stationed at Fort Leavenworth in Kansas—was training to join it. “I had only three months to live,” he recalled thinking, “and I had left no mark in the world.” So every Saturday, promptly at 1:00 p.m., he headed to the fort’s officer’s club, a noisy room clouded with cigarette smoke. There he sat alone at a table in the corner and wrote feverishly. In just three months, he had finished the draft of a 120,000-word novel called The Romantic Egoist.

The story was largely based on his own heartbreak. For two years, Fitzgerald, who’d grown up in the Midwest and was the son of a failed furniture salesman, had traded love letters with a rich Chicago debutante named Ginevra King. But on a fateful visit to King’s estate, he reportedly heard her father say, “Poor boys shouldn’t think of marrying rich girls.” Soon after, the two broke up and King married a wealthier man. The experience scarred Fitzgerald, who became fixated on the social barriers—wealth and class—that had undermined what he thought was love.

He couldn’t get the book published, and soon he was transferred to a new base in Alabama, where he met and fell for another rich girl: Zelda Sayre. They courted and got engaged. As soon as the war ended, Fitzgerald left for New York City.

There, he settled for a job writing advertising copy for $90 a month while trying to write more ambitiously in his spare time. “I wrote movies. I wrote song lyrics. I wrote complicated advertisement schemes, I wrote poems, I wrote sketches. I wrote jokes,” he recalled in his essay “Who’s Who—And Why.” But all he had to show for it were the 122 rejection slips pinned to his wall. When Zelda learned how broke he was, she ended their engagement.

So Fitzgerald did what any rational twentysomething would do: He moved back in with his parents and tried writing a best-selling novel to win her back. Channeling both heartbreaks, he rewrote The Romantic Egoist. The finished product was This Side of Paradise. When Scribner’s accepted the book, he begged for a quick release. “I have so many things dependent on its success,” he wrote, “including of course a girl.” When it debuted in March 1920, This Side of Paradise sold out in three days. A week later, Zelda married him. At 23, Fitzgerald was suddenly a celebrity. And he’d learned an important lesson: Art imitates life. 

Three years later, in the summer of 1923, Fitzgerald started planning his third book. He’d just written The Beautiful and the Damned, a story largely inspired by his relationship with Zelda, and it had been an instant hit. Now, he wanted to write a story set in the 19th-century Midwest. It would have heavy Catholic themes; the characters would include a young boy and a priest. But Fitzgerald needed money. He dismantled that draft, sold bits and pieces to magazines, and started mining life for new ideas. 

He carried a notebook everywhere, recording things he observed and overheard. Everyone he met became a potential character, every place a potential setting. He drove friends mad by stopping them mid-sentence and asking them to repeat what they’d said. He saved letters and used them for ideas—especially old letters from Ginevra, which he kept in a folder labeled “Strictly Private and Personal Letters: Property of F. Scott Fitzgerald (Not Manuscript.)” 

That stack of papers included a seven-page short story Ginevra had penned. It was about a wealthy woman who ditched an inattentive husband to rejoin an old flame, a self-made tycoon. If that sounds familiar, a similar plot became the central yarn of The Great Gatsby. That wasn’t Ginevra’s only influence on his work. Fitzgerald modeled practically every unobtainable upper-class female character after her, including Daisy Buchanan.

Daisy, like Ginevra, was a coy heartbreaker who turned down love to marry someone rich. When Gatsby reinvents himself as a rich man, she remains impossible to have—just as Ginevra was to Fitzgerald. But she wasn’t his only muse; life with Zelda was just as inspiring. One of the most memorable lines in Gatsby came straight from her mouth: The day their daughter, Scottie, was born, Zelda, in a stupor, looked at her newborn and said, “I hope it’s beautiful and a fool—a beautiful little fool.” In the book, Daisy says nearly the same thing.

Despite all the material, writing was slow. Fitzgerald sat in an office above his garage, working on the book while also cranking out short stories to pay the bills. The Fitzgeralds were rich, but their spending habits were out of control. The American economy, after all, was soaring. When the U.S. left World War I, it became Europe’s biggest creditor. People had more money than ever to spend on new amusements like dance halls and movie palaces. Lavish Long Island bashes and the lure of Manhattan speakeasies kept the Fitzgeralds distracted. The parties were wild. At one point, Fitzgerald even punched a plainclothes police officer. "Fitzgerald knocks officer this side of paradise," screamed a newspaper headline.

In a way, though, he was always working. Fitzgerald’s notes on New York’s decadent party scene would become one of Gatsby’s pillars. Fitzgerald apologized to his editor, Max Perkins, for the shenanigans. But he blamed the delay in his manuscript firmly on literary ambition. “I cannot let it go out unless it has the very best I’m capable of in it,” Fitzgerald told him. “The book will be a consciously artistic achievement.”

Fitzgerald had a hunch that to write the Great American Novel, he’d have to leave America. So that summer, he packed up his family, along with a complete set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, and sailed for the French Riviera. The trip afforded him the peace and quiet to finally commit Gatsby to paper. By September, the first draft was finished, and he was confident. “I think my novel is the best American novel ever written,” he wrote to Perkins.

Critics and fans weren’t so sure. Nearly everybody praised Fitzgerald’s lyrical style, but many, like Edith Wharton, didn’t appreciate that Jay Gatsby’s past was a mystery. Others complained that the characters were unlikeable. Isabel Paterson wrote in the New York Herald Tribune, “This is a book for the season only.”

For two decades, it seemed like Paterson was right. The book vanished into obscurity, taking Fitzgerald and his once-decadent life with it. Then, five years after he died, something unexpected helped launch Gatsby to the top of America’s literary canon—another war.

The United States had been at war for a year when a group of book lovers—authors, librarians, and publishers—had a brilliant idea. Wanting to promote titles that would maintain the country’s morale, they founded the Council on Books in Wartime. Books, they argued, were “weapons in the war of ideas.” In February 1943, they embarked on an ambitious effort: shipping titles to soldiers overseas. The concept was as simple as it was idealistic. While the Nazis were busy burning books, American soldiers would be reading them.

The program was perfectly timed. The latest innovation in publishing—paperbacks—had drastically reduced the cost of printing, and the first batch of Armed Services Edition (ASE) books were shipped to U.S. Army and Navy troops that July. Printed by magazine presses, the books were small enough to fit into fatigue pockets so they could be carried from the mess hall to the deck of a battleship to the trenches. A copy cost only six cents to make.

“Some of the publishers think that their business is going to be ruined,” broadcaster H. V. Kaltenborn said of the program in 1944. “But I make this prediction. America’s publishers have cooperated in an experiment that will for the first time make us a nation of book readers.”

He was right. Bored and homesick, servicemen and women devoured the novels. One GI stationed in New Guinea said the books were “as popular as pin-up girls” and read until they fell apart. Sometimes, GIs tore out chapters so their friends could enjoy them at the same time. Before D-Day, commanders ensured that every soldier had a book before setting sail for Normandy.

“You can find boys reading as they’ve never read before,” wrote one Army officer to the council. “Some toughies in my company have admitted without shame that they were reading their first book since they were in grammar school.”

There were a lot of books to read: Altogether, the council distributed 123 million copies of 1,227 titles— The Great Gatsby among them. In 1944, only 120 copies of Gatsby sold. But the ASE would print 155,000. Free to soldiers, the books dwarfed two decades of sales.

Gatsby entered the war effort after Germany and Japan surrendered, but the timing was fortuitous: While waiting to go home, troops were more bored than ever. (Two years after the war ended, there were still 1.5 million people stationed overseas.) With that kind of audience, Gatsby reached readers beyond Fitzgerald’s dreams. In fact, because soldiers passed the books around, each ASE copy was read about seven times. More than one million soldiers read Fitzgerald’s Great American Novel.

“There is no way to determine how many converts to literature—or less elegantly, to reading—were made by the ASE. The fix was free,” Matthew Bruccoli writes in Books in Action: The Armed Services Editions. “Moreover, it seems highly probable that some postwar reputations were stimulated by the introduction of authors in the ASE to readers who had never read them before.”

For Fitzgerald, it was a great reawakening. The author’s death in 1940 had rejuvenated academic interest in his work, and many of his literary friends were already trying to revive his name. But the military program sparked interest among a wider, more general readership. By 1961, The Great Gatsby was being printed expressly for high school classrooms. Today, nearly half a million copies sell each year.

These new converts—and the generations that would follow—saw in Gatsby something that Fitzgerald’s contemporaries had dismissed as short-sighted. Now that the Roaring Twenties were nothing but an echo, the value of Fitzgerald’s work became obvious. He had captured an era that was long gone, but still loomed large in the American psyche. Few people had written about the Jazz Age so colorfully, and few people had captured that feeling of longing for something you couldn’t have. Fitzgerald did it all so well because he had lived it.

Perhaps that feeling of longing resonated with soldiers. Far from home, surrounded by the remnants of war, a book like Gatsby was a means to escape. It had the power to transport a reader back to a prosperous, hopeful world where the champagne flowed freely. Even now, nearly a century later, it still does.

Ralph Heimans/Buckingham Palace/PA Wire via Getty Images
Pop Culture
The Cult of Prince Philip
Ralph Heimans/Buckingham Palace/PA Wire via Getty Images
Ralph Heimans/Buckingham Palace/PA Wire via Getty Images

For seven decades, Prince Philip has been one of the more colorful figures in Britain's Royal Family, prone to jarring remarks and quips about women, the deaf, and overweight children.

"You're too fat to be an astronaut," he once told a boy sharing his dream of space travel.

British media who delighted in quoting him are still lamenting the 96-year-old's recent retirement from public duties. But the people of the Pacific Island nation of Vanuatu are likely to be optimistic he'll now have the time to join them: They worship him as a god and have based a religion on him.

Followers of the Prince Philip Movement, which started in the 1960s, believe that the prince was born to fulfill an ancient prophecy: that the son of an ancient mountain spirit would one day take the form of a pale-skinned man, travel abroad, marry a powerful lady, and eventually return to the island. When villagers saw the prince’s portrait, they felt the spirit in it, and when he visited Vanuatu in 1974, they were convinced.

Chief Jack Naiva, a respected warrior in the culture, greeted the royal yacht and caught sight of Philip on board. "I saw him standing on the deck in his white uniform," Naiva once said. "I knew then that he was the true messiah."

True believers assign large world movements to the machinations of Philip. They once claimed his powers had enabled a black man to become president of the United States and that his "magic" had assisted in helping locate Osama bin Laden. The community has corresponded with Buckingham Palace and even sent Philip a nal-nal, a traditional club for killing pigs, as a token of its appreciation. In return, he sent a portrait in which he’s holding the gift.

Sikor Natuan, the son of the local chief, holds two official portraits of Britain's Prince Philip in front of the chief's hut in the remote village of Yaohnanen on Tanna in Vanuatu.

The picture is now part of a shrine set up in Yaohnanen in Vanuatu that includes other photos and a Union flag. In May 2017, shortly after the Prince announced his retirement, a cyclone threatened the island—and its shrine. But according to Matthew Baylis, an author who has lived with the tribe, the natives didn't see this so much as a cause for concern as they did a harbinger of the prince's arrival so he can bask in their worship.

To date, Prince Philip has not announced any plans to relocate.

A version of this story ran in a 2012 issue of Mental Floss magazine.

John Ueland
How a Single Mom Created a Plastic Food-Storage Empire
John Ueland
John Ueland

On an unseasonably warm day in April 1954, hundreds of women in cowboy hats gathered outside Tupperware’s Florida headquarters to dig for buried treasure. There, in a nearby swampy area dubbed the “Forest of Spades,” 600 shovels stood at the ready. The excitement was palpable. At the appointed signal, the women raced for the roped-off soil, grabbed shovels, and began to hunt frantically for loot.

It was the pinnacle of the inaugural Tupperware Jubilee, a five-day, gold-rush-themed affair celebrating all things Tupperware. No expense was spared: To give the event a Western feel, frontier-style buildings with false fronts had been erected and bulls and horses were trucked in. The women, and a smattering of men, had traveled from all across the country to participate. A collection of Tupperware dealers, distributors, and sales managers, they made the pilgrimage for the motivational speeches, sales instruction, and especially for the bizarre bonding rituals.

For five hours that day, they prospected for mink stoles and freezer units, gold watches and diamond rings. One of them, Fay Maccalupo of Buffalo, New York, dug up a toy car. When she saw the real Ford it represented, she planted her face against the hood and began to weep, repeating, “I love everybody.” Four women fainted and had to be revived with smelling salts. It was understandable, considering that the total cash value of all the prizes buried in the Florida dirt was $75,000.

Presiding over the treasure hunt was the general sales manager of the Tupperware Home Parties division, a 40-year-old woman named Brownie Wise. For hours, she cheered on the ladies from a loudspeaker with an air of royalty. As she watched them hop on shovels and unearth the rewards of their labors, she couldn’t help but feel proud. Wise took satisfaction in seeing her hard work pay off—once again. The jubilee, which she had organized, had all the pizzazz and spirit expected of an official Tupperware event. The media agreed: Network news was there to cover it, and Life magazine ran a photo essay highlighting the excitement and glamour.

Clearly, there’s more to Tupperware than leftovers. The story of the ubiquitous plastic container is a story of innovation and reinvention: how a new kind of plastic, made from an industrial waste material, ended up a symbol of female empowerment. The product ushered women into the workforce, encouraging them to make their own money, better their families, and win accolades and prizes without fear of being branded that 1950s anathema, “the career woman.”

Digging in the dirt for a gold watch may not mesh with today’s concept of a successful working woman, but at the time, the near-religious fervor seen at the jubilees and other Tupperware gatherings demonstrated just how ground-breaking the company’s sales plan was—the product became a multimillion dollar success not by exploiting women, but by embracing and boosting them. All of this was because of Brownie Wise. The story of Tupperware is her story.

Brownie Wise, named for her big, brown eyes, was born in rural Georgia. Her parents divorced when she was young, and as a teen she traveled with her mother, who organized union rallies. While touring the Deep South, Brownie started giving speeches at her mother’s rallies and soon proved to be a gifted and motivating orator. She “awed people,” writes Bob Kealing in his biography Tupperware Unsealed. “[They] were surprised that someone so young could deliver a speech like a pastor.”

Wise was married briefly, but by 27, she was a divorced single mom in suburban Detroit. During World War II, she worked as a secretary at Bendix Aviation, a company that made parts for navy torpedo planes. It was a decent but unfulfilling job. On the side, Wise penned an advice column for the Detroit News, writing under the alter ego “Hibiscus.” A housewife who led an idyllic life with her child and husband in a home called “Lovehaven,” Hibiscus had everything Wise did not. But what Wise did possess was an endless fountain of determination. As she wrote in a journal at that time, “I wanted to be a successful human being.”

It all started with a bad door-to-door salesman. When a Stanley Home Products salesman knocked on her door and proceeded to deliver a terrible sales pitch for cleaning supplies, Wise scoffed that she could do better. At the time, Stanley was experimenting with a peculiar sales model: home parties. A New Hampshire mop salesman had watched his numbers fly through the roof after he invited a bunch of women over for a party that included a mop demonstration. The company encouraged other salesmen to try the strategy, but many of them delegated the party-hosting to their wives. Thinking it’d be a fun job on the side, Wise started selling Stanley products at parties too. Before long, she was making enough money to quit her job at Bendix.

Wise was blessed with the gift of gab, and her special blend of folksy real talk and motherly encouragement helped her rise through Stanley’s ranks. Soon she was in management and hoping to ascend even higher. But those illusions were quashed at a meeting with Stanley head Frank Beveridge, who told Wise she’d never become an executive. Its halls were “no place for a woman,” he said. Wise returned home furious. The rejection lit a fire in her—she vowed that someday, somehow, she would prove Beveridge wrong.

She didn’t know that the key to fulfilling this dream would be in plastic food-storage containers. Wise first glimpsed Tupperware at a sales meeting. One of her coworkers had seen the products gathering dust in a department store and decided to bring them in. At first, Wise didn’t think they were anything special. But when she accidentally knocked a Tupperware bowl off the table, she realized its full potential: Instead of breaking, it bounced.

It seemed like magic. Tupperware was unlike any home product she’d seen before. It was attractive, coming in pastel colors and flexible shapes, almost like art. More importantly, it was functional—no other competing product even came close. Convinced of its potential, Wise traded in her Stanley brooms in 1949 and started throwing parties to sell Tupperware. What she didn’t intend, exactly, was to kindle a revolution.


The most amazing thing about Tupperware wasn’t that it extended the life of leftovers and a family’s budget, although it did both remarkably well. It was, above all, a career maker. When women came to one of Wise’s parties, they were more than just convinced to buy the product— Wise was such a charming host that she persuaded many buyers to also become Tupperware salespeople. The more parties Wise hosted, the more tricks she learned to convert women into Tupperware faithful. Putting people on waiting lists, for instance, made them more eager to buy, so she signed them up regardless of whether the product was available. She also discovered that throwing containers full of liquid across the room made customers reach straight for their checkbooks. Amassing more and more saleswomen, Wise encouraged her followers to do the same. By October 1949, she had 19 recruits, enough to move her supplies out of her house and into a larger warehouse. Driven by the idea of making money simply by throwing parties for friends and neighbors, the women in Wise’s workforce ballooned in number. Soon, other Tupperware parties were taking place across the country. Wise’s team in Detroit was selling more Tupperware than most department stores. This soon attracted the attention of the no-nonsense founder of the Tupperware Corporation, Earl Silas Tupper.

Tupperware, true to its name, was Tupper’s masterpiece, and he was counting on it to make his dreams come true. Having grown up in a poor Massachusetts farm family, he had vowed to make a million dollars by the time he was 30. He hadn’t. He did have a host of esoteric inventions—among them, a fish-powered boat and no-drip ice cream cone—under his belt. But with a wife and family to support, he’d concentrated on a practical career in plastics, first at DuPont and then at a company of his own, which made parts for Jeeps and gas masks during World War II. When the war ended, Tupper decided to buy cheap surpluses left over from wartime manufacturing. He figured he’d be able to do something with them.

That’s how he ended up with a glob of greasy black polyethylene, a smelly waste product left behind when metal is created from ore. Tupper took it and, after months of trial and error, wrangled the slag into submission, creating a light-weight plastic that refused to break. Tupper dubbed it “Poly-T,” and, taking inspiration from the way paint cans sealed, created a flexible container with a noiseless lid that snapped on. He called the box Tupperware. He patented the seal in 1949 and rolled out 14 products he called the “Millionaire Line.” The only problem? He couldn’t get anyone to buy it.

At least not until Wise came along. Her sales record was remarkable—in 1949, she’d rung up $150,000 in orders and was offered a promotion: distribution rights to the entire state of Florida. In the spring of 1950, she moved south with her son, Jerry, and her mother. She found a store space, and by May she’d opened her business and was scouting for new salespeople.

Still, not everything was going smoothly. Along with disputes over turf with other distributors, she was constantly contending with botched orders, shipping delays, and product shortages. In March of 1951, Wise had had enough. She called Tupper in a fury. It was the first time they’d spoken, but she was too livid for niceties; she ripped into him immediately. This was hurting not just her bottom line, but also his. Did he not understand how crucial it was that the problems be fixed immediately? Tupper assured her that he’d fix any issues and then asked a favor: He wanted to hear her sales secrets.

The next month, the two met at a conference on Long Island and Wise explained her selling technique. It was pointless, she explained, to think that people would see Tupperware on store shelves or in catalogs and want to buy it. Instead, people had to touch it, squeeze it, drop it, seal it. They had to experience Tupperware from a trusted friend or neighbor. She gave a bold prescription for saving Tupper’s business: Ditch department stores altogether and focus entirely on throwing home parties.

Tupper took the advice to heart. So much, in fact, that the day after their meeting, he created a new division just for home parties and asked Wise to be the general manager. Wise had reached her goal: She had become an executive. It was a perfect fit, too. She had a stellar track record—she was selling more Tupperware than anyone anywhere—and Tupper was bowled over by her charm. “You talk a lot and everybody listens,” he said.

“She was the yin to Tupper’s yang,” Kealing writes. “Where he was fussy and reclusive, Wise lived to mingle with and inspire the dealer workforce.” They were a match made in sales heaven. Or so it seemed.


In 1952, the first full year of Wise’s watch, Tupperware sales rocketed. Wholesale orders exceeded $2 million. During the last half of the year, sales tripled. Tupperware parties did exactly what Wise promised they would, and she became the company’s shining star. That year, Tupper gave her a salary of $20,933.33, more than she had ever made. For her birthday in 1953, he presented her with a gold-dyed palomino horse. Even more remarkably, he gave her the freedom to do practically whatever she wanted. So Wise traveled the country recruiting, presiding over sales conferences, and announcing contests and doling out prizes for incentive—including, sometimes, her own clothes.

By the looks of it, most of Wise’s Tupperware recruits fit neatly into the stereotypical role of a proper housewife. But, in reality, they surreptitiously represented a new kind of female empowerment. During World War II, many women had no choice but to enter the workforce. At its end, many of them had no choice but to leave it. Suddenly, selling Tupperware at parties allowed women to straddle both worlds. They were employed, yet they didn’t appear to challenge their husbands' authority or the status quo. This pioneering entrepreneurial model allowed them to inhabit a workforce outside of the one the hustling salesman inhabited, and, in many cases, to do even better than he did. And that power relied specifically on a network of female friends and neighbors.

The parties weren’t just a way for women to keep occupied—it was a way they could contribute to their family’s bottom line. Most women who worked outside the home had low-paying jobs in fields like light manufacturing, retail, clerical work, and health and education. The money—committed dealers could bring in $100 or more per week—was a revelation. The opportunity for success was so great that the husbands of some Tupperware ladies left their own jobs to work with their wives.

Wise was something of an early Oprah, giving away fantastic prizes, operating in a grass-roots, word-of-mouth fashion and showing rather than telling other women how to succeed in the comfort of their own homes. The fact that she made many women understand the benefits of becoming salespeople, building the brand further, simply made her a fantastic executive.

Wise embraced the spirit of female entrepreneurship wholeheartedly. In her prime, she wrote a morale-boosting newsletter called Tupperware Sparks, published a primer called Tupperware Know-How, and had a 52-minute film, A Tupperware Home Party, made as a training tool. She even convinced Tupper to move the company headquarters to Florida. When Tupper bought property in Kissimmee, Wise turned it into a Mecca-like pilgrimage site for Tupperware devotees.

Part of the power of Wise’s sales technique, which at times seemed more faith than business, was that it gave the impression that the sky was the limit, and it relied on collective power. This wasn’t just the traditional salesperson’s dog-eat-dog world: Instead, the group was a “family” that helped one another climb to the top. Women who had previously only had their names in print upon birth or marriage were being recognized for their success, with their names, photographs, and accomplishments appearing in Wise’s newsletters. Along with making their own money, they received rewards—top distributors got cars—and the chance to collaborate with other women in a friendly but competitive environment. Wise increased the fervor with her annual jubilees, which had their own rituals, like candlelit graduation ceremonies and group sing-alongs featuring choruses of “I’ve got that Tupper feeling deep in my heart.”

“No woman got praised for scrubbing floors,” Elsie Mortland, who became Tupperware’s Home Kitchen Demonstrator, told Kealing in an interview in 2005. “But when they got praised for selling Tupperware, they had something to be proud of.”

Wise was the head of the household, and the Tupperware ladies all wanted to be a part of her extended family. Success was limited only by how hard a person was willing to work, a belief that Wise preached passionately. Unfortunately, she had been duped into thinking her boss shared that opinion.


As Wise became the face of Tupperware, sales and press continued to skyrocket. In 1954, she was the first woman to appear on the cover of Business Week. But as glowing as the magazine’s profile was, it contained warning signs about the future of her partnership with Tupper. The piece credited Wise and her sales technique with Tupperware’s estimated $25 million in retail sales and seemed to downplay Tupper’s role as president of the company he had created.

Tupper had never craved the spotlight; in fact, he was known to use the back door of his office to avoid attracting attention. But he was keen to ensure that his product, not an employee, received the lion’s share of any attention. And somewhere along the way, Wise had started to upstage the plastic containers she helped make famous. After the Business Week article, Tupper wrote a note to Wise that contained a glimmer of the storm that was to come: “However, good executive as you are, I still like best the pictures ... with TUPPERWARE!”

The good press continued but, in 1955, after several powerful distributors left the company, sales began to lag. Hard times strained Wise and Tupper’s relationship. By 1956, angry letters were flying back and forth between them, and at one point, Tupper stopped taking Wise’s calls. Her complaints and frank criticisms, previously helpful, had become jabs he couldn’t endure. He also started to believe that she was costing him money, irked that she had her own side business selling self-help books at company events. More to the point, he started to suspect that if he tried selling the company—which he was planning to do—having a female executive would get in the way.

Finally, in 1958, Tupper flew to Florida and fired Wise. After a heated legal battle, she received only $30,000 as a settlement. She didn’t own her house and was ordered to vacate. She had no stocks in the company; she didn’t even own many of the clothes she wore. The man she’d helped make a millionaire didn’t seem to care: Tupper ordered her name expunged from the company history and buried the 600 remaining copies of her book in an unmarked pit behind Tupperware’s Florida headquarters. Later that year, he sold the company to Rexall Drug for $16 million, divorced his wife, and bought an island in Central America. He died in Costa Rica in 1983. Wise, on the other hand, tried starting new companies but never achieved the same success she had with Tupperware. She led a quiet life with her horses, pottery, and her son until she died at her home in Kissimmee in 1992.

Her influence, however, has not waned. Today, according to the PBS American Experience documentary Tupperware!, the product is sold in about 100 countries, while “every 2.5 seconds, a Tupperware party is held somewhere in the world.” In this respect, the Golden Age of Tupperware hasn’t ended so much as it has solidified. When was the last time you stored food in a plastic container with a sealing mechanism? Tupperware is so much a part of our food culture that we don’t even think about its continuing influence, and yet we still rely on it daily.

This story is one of reinvention too: a useless plastic reimagined into something needed, of food being stored in wholly new ways, of women emerging from their kitchens to showcase their worth and proclaim their identities, of sales techniques evolving to embrace the customer, and of the singular character of Brownie Wise, who changed what it meant to be a woman in the workforce. Because of that, as Houston Post writer Napoleon Hill wrote in 1956, “It has been estimated that Brownie Wise has helped more women to financial success than any other single living person.”

Early in Wise’s tenure at the company, Tupper presented her with a piece of the raw polyethylene he’d used to make Tupperware. She saw it as poetic proof of his vision: He had created something beautiful from this unappealing glob of plastic, using nothing but imagination and persistence. It was “the best sales story I have ever heard in all my life,” she wrote. She considered “Poly,” as Tupper called it, a prized possession and would have her women touch it for good luck, telling them, “Just get your fingers on it, wish for what you want. Know it’s going to come true, and then get out and work like everything ... and it will!”


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