Nina makes a long distance deal with a dear friend, and George finds a new use for old memories.
Nina arrived early at the coffee shop near campus in Tempe. The drive up from Tucson was faster than she expected. Nora slid into the booth at 9am sharp. “You’re glowing,” Nina said.
“Nerves.” Nora grinned. “Two years in Taipei, three weeks to learn Mandarin.”
They ordered. Nina nudged a package across the table. She’d wrapped the book of postcards the night before, Navajo Textiles, each page a detachable card with a different striking design. Almost too good to take apart.
Nora opened it and smiled. “These are perfect. They will remind me where I came from. And, we can keep them! I’ll send them back to you.”
She flipped through the cards. “My grandmother did this. Sent us postcards from every trip. Maybe that’s why I love to travel.”
“I want to hear all about it,” Nina said. “Something to look forward to in the mailbox.”
“Deal.”
They talked until Nora had to leave for meetings. Nina hugged her friend outside, watched her disappear into the parking garage. On the drive back to Tucson, she thought about when she might travel again. Someday.
In Minnesota, George came across a box of old stationery while cleaning out a drawer in the office. He’d been ignoring this stuff too long, but it had to be done. He was surprised to find a bunch of notecards and envelopes, postcards from their own travels, even some stamps. Jennie must have tucked them away years ago, then forgotten.
He shuffled through the stack, smiled, and thought about their grandchildren.
Emma, sixteen, newly licensed, texting him sunset photos. Jack, thirteen, reading everything, and his own library growing. Lily, nine, from whom he routinely received animal drawings in manila envelopes.
He wrote to Emma first:
Found this sunset and thought of you – keep your eyes on the horizon! Love, Grandpa
Then, to Jack:
You can find a library in every place. Hope you go some day, and your collection grows. Love, Grandpa
Finally, to Lily, though his hand was aching:
For my favorite artist: a cat to inspire your next drawing. Keep sending pictures. Love, Grandpa
He addressed the cards and peeled the Forever stamps from their yellowed backing. The afternoon sun was glinting off the glassy surface of the snow as George walked down the drive and out to the mailbox. These should get there before Christmas, he thought. Next he’d knock the icicles off the eves over the porch steps, then make dinner.
The Northern Cardinal’s migratory range is rather small. Unlike this postcard, sent from Nina in Tucson to Uncle George back home.
The postcard arrived on a Tuesday in December, slipped between the electric bill and a catalog he’d never seen before. George set it on the kitchen table while he made coffee, the red bird on its front catching the weak winter light through the window.
He’d lived seventy-three winters in Minnesota and he could remember nearly as many cardinals. One visited his mother’s feeder every winter morning. A pair of birds nested in the honeysuckle behind their first house, and a solitary male appeared each January at the cemetery where his wife rested.
The bird on the card was just ink and paper, a cheerful holiday visitor perched on a cactus. George smiled at all the memories. Standing at the kitchen window, watching that splash of red move through the frozen world.
He propped the card against the sugar bowl where he could see it while he drank his coffee. That small red bird sent from a warmer climate, it was good company.
Nina stepped onto her back patio in Tucson as the December sun softened toward an early evening. She was carrying her phone and the stack of work she was supposed to ignore. The hospice had been short-staffed for weeks, and even her days off felt heavy with other people’s grief. She sank into the patio chair and her eyes rested on the saguaro at the property line, its arms raised like a benediction against the pale sky. Then, an impossible red against the green ribs of the cactus, a cardinal turning its crested head to stare right at her.
She watched it hop from one arm to another, so vivid it seemed painted there, and suddenly thought of her uncle George. He’d be preparing for snow about now, making sure the feeder was stocked, the northern cardinals waiting through the bare branches. She’d bought that card weeks ago. She meant it to be funny, a little bit of desert sunshine for the cold country.
The bird tilted its head once more, then lifted away toward the neighbor’s tall gate. Nina set down her phone and went to find the card on the table inside. She’d send that postcard tonight. A small bright thing traveling north, carrying a moment of real rest and a reminder of the joys that appear in the landscape.
The connection between George and Nina, between Minnesota snow and Arizona sun, traces a geography that cardinals themselves understand.
The Northern Cardinal’s range stretches from southern Canada through the eastern United States and into Mexico, reaching west through Texas and into Arizona. Unlike many songbirds, cardinals don’t migrate. They remain year-round residents wherever they establish territory. A cardinal in Minneapolis endures the same winter as the people who watch it, while its southwestern cousins never know deep cold at all.
This winter persistence made cardinals natural companions to a tradition that took hold in late 19th century America: backyard bird feeding. As cities grew and winters seemed harsher, people began setting out suet and seed, transforming their yards into small refuges. The cardinal, bold and willing to visit feeders, became a regular presence at kitchen windows during the season when color disappeared from the world. That bit of red against white snow or dark evergreen wasn’t just beautiful—it was companionship. Nature’s daily offer of simple joy.
Holiday card publishers recognized this quiet bond. As postcards surged in popularity in the early 1900s, designers increasingly turned to the natural world for their winter imagery. American cards featured the birds people actually saw at feeders, perched on snow-laden branches, bright against winter skies. These cards created a secular holiday vocabulary, a way of marking the season that felt both celebratory and true to the world outside the window.
Nina was right. George had set out the feeders, with enough seed on hand to get through the cold months. He’d been to Jennie’s grave, and he’ll write back to Nina soon. Maybe visit Tucson. Maybe see a cardinal on a cactus.
Against a star-strewn midnight sky, a girl in white stands fearless in front of a gleaming full moon while impish red devils perch on bat wings around her. This whimsical scene, printed in Germany in 1913, captures the magic of Halloween’s golden age, when postcards were miniature works of art and All Hallows’ Eve still balanced precariously between spooky and sweet.
The story of Halloween postcards mirrors the evolution of both holiday celebrations and the printing industry through the 20th century. Through these distinctive cards, we can trace changing artistic styles, printing technologies, and cultural attitudes toward this magical and mysterious holiday.
This century-old collection opens a window into an era when German printers, American artists, and local publishers like Salem Paper Company competed to create the perfect Halloween greeting. From dramatic witch flights to cheerful pumpkin-peeking children, these cards tell the story of a holiday—and an industry—in transformation.
A Starry Halloween in the Golden Age of Postcards
The John Winsch-published “A Starry Halloween” (1913) represents a pinnacle of German chromolithography and American holiday marketing. The card’s verse playfully describes “black Bat aeroplanes.”
“Hallowe’en’s a starry night, You’ll see the Goblins in flight, Perched on their black Bat aeroplanes, They flit about the weather vanes!”
This aeronautical reference demonstrates how postcards of the era incorporated modern technology into traditional Halloween imagery. This whimsical text combines traditional Halloween motifs with early aviation enthusiasm, placing the card squarely in the 1910s zeitgeist.
The card’s detailed execution showcases why German printers dominated the global market before World War I. The deep blue starry sky creates a dramatic backdrop, while the precise color registration and subtle shading of the figures demonstrate the technical excellence of German printing houses.
The postcard’s personal inscription—”From your Teacher, Dee Seaton, 1913-14″ to “Georgia Long, Pleasant Hill, Mo.”—reveals how these cards served as important social connections, particularly between teachers and students. The one-cent domestic postage rate, clearly marked on the divided back, reminds us of the affordability of this medium for everyday communication.
Frances Brundage’s Gentle Halloween
The Frances Brundage Halloween cards present a markedly different approach to the holiday in the same era. Known for her sweet-faced children and gentle compositions, Brundage brings her characteristic style to what could be frightening subject matter. The large orange pumpkin dominates the compositions, while a cheerful child with curly hair and a red bow plays with a black cat. The clean white background and red border create a bright, appealing presentation that contrasts with darker Halloween imagery.
Brundage (1854-1937) was among America’s most successful illustrators of children, and her distinctive style—rosy-cheeked, innocent-looking children with expressive faces—is immediately recognizable. Her work appeared on postcards, in children’s books, and in advertising, published by major companies including Raphael Tuck & Sons and Samuel Gabriel & Sons. This Halloween greeting card demonstrates how her gentle artistic approach could make potentially scary holiday themes appropriate for even the youngest children.
The Salem Witch: Local History Meets Holiday Trade
“The Salem Witch” postcard, published by the Salem Paper Company of Massachusetts, represents a fascinating intersection of local history, holiday celebration, and tourist commerce. The dramatic nighttime scene features a witch in traditional pointed hat and flowing cape, riding a broomstick across a turquoise sky filled with pink-tinged clouds and a crescent moon. A black cat balances behind her on the broomstick, while a bat flies nearby. Below, a small village with lit windows and a church spire creates a sense of scale and setting.
The publisher’s choice to produce this card in Salem was no accident. The city’s notorious witch trials of 1692-93 had by the early 20th century become a tourist draw, and the Salem Paper Company cleverly capitalized on this connection. The card’s dark, moody color palette of deep blues, blacks, and browns creates an appropriately spooky atmosphere.
The card’s reverse reveals additional historical details through its markings: PUBLISHED BY SALEM PAPER CO., SALEM, MASS., card number 105355, and the TICHNOR QUALITY VIEWS designation. Tichnor Brothers of Boston was renowned for high-quality postcards, particularly New England scenes, making them an ideal partner for Salem Paper Company’s locally themed Halloween products. The technical quality suggests it was likely also printed in Germany, as were many premium postcards of the era, even those designs that were distinctly American and regional.
The Spooked Kid: From Original to Reproduction
The final card, showing a startled child in white nightclothes against an orange-lit room, represents a later reproduction of Halloween imagery. Produced for Lillian Vernon and printed in Hong Kong, this card likely dates from the 1970s-1990s. But, it draws heavily on early 20th-century artistic conventions. The scene’s elements—a black cat in a window pane, yellow crescent moon, candlestick holder with lit candle, and fallen GHOST STORIES book—all reference classic Halloween postcard motifs. This card’s production history tells the story of significant changes in the postcard industry.
When Lillian Vernon, born in Leipzig, Germany, used her $2,000 wedding gift to launch a mail-order handbag business from her kitchen table in Mount Vernon, New York, in 1951, she could hardly have imagined she would revolutionize American gift retail. That first offering—a matching monogrammed handbag and belt set for $6.98—established the winning formula that would define her business: personalized items at affordable prices. The company name itself, taken from her new hometown, would become synonymous with accessible luxury and thoughtful gifting for generations of American shoppers.
Through the boom years of the 1980s and 1990s, Lillian Vernon catalogs were a fixture in American mailboxes, eagerly anticipated by parents and children alike. The company mastered the art of “catch-penny” items—small, impulse-buy treasures that seemed irresistible at their price points. Their most beloved offerings included personalized school supplies (from pencil cases to lunch boxes), holiday decorations, monogrammed doormats, and children’s toys. The company’s success made history in 1987 when Lillian Vernon became the first woman-owned company to be listed on the American Stock Exchange, a milestone in American business history.
By the time the company began sourcing products like Halloween postcards from Hong Kong printers, Lillian Vernon had transformed from a small mail-order business into a retail empire that included multiple specialized catalogs, retail stores, and eventually an online presence. The company’s choice to have the card printed in Hong Kong reflects the late 20th-century shift of printing operations from Europe and America to Asia, prioritizing cost-effective production over the artistic merit and technical excellence that characterized the German chromolithography era.
Though the company would ultimately close in 2016, unable to fully adapt to the digital age, its influence on American retail culture remains significant. The Lillian Vernon story represents both the American dream and the evolution of modern commerce—from kitchen-table startup to national brand, from personalized service to mass-market appeal, from mail-order catalogs to the small business opportunities of the internet era.
The Evolution of an Industry
These postcards trace the evolution of Halloween greetings from the golden age of German printing through the modern reproduction era. The Winsch card represents the height of pre-WWI German chromolithography and original holiday artwork. Frances Brundage’s contribution shows how established American artists adapted holiday themes for children. The Salem Witch card demonstrates the growing commercialization of local history and holiday traditions. Finally, the Lillian Vernon reproduction reveals how these vintage designs found new life in the mass-market retail era.
Together, they tell a story not just of changing printing technologies and business models, but of the evolving relationship with Halloween itself. From the elaborate artistic productions of the 1910s through the mass-market reproductions of the late 20th century, Halloween postcards have both reflected and shaped how Americans celebrate this fascinating holiday.
The Halloween postcard industry’s journey from German printing houses through American publishers to Asian manufacturers parallels larger trends in American commerce and holiday celebrations. These cards remain valuable historical documents, preserving not just artistic styles and printing techniques, but also the personal connections and social customs of their eras. Whether sent by a teacher to a student in 1913 or purchased as a souvenir in more recent decades, each card represents a tangible link to the holiday and shared heritage.
The Posted Past 