My grandmother used to get homemade condoms from a nearby “hand-dipper.” We live in a remote, rural part of Michigan. The general stores and apothecaries didn’t carry commercial condoms; if they had, the Lutheran and Catholic church-ladies would have pitched a fit.

The saloon owners kept condoms behind the bar. The rubbers were purchased by mail from distributors in Chicago. The barkeeps didn’t care who knew they had them; they were already damned by the church-ladies for serving demon-liquor.

But grandma wouldn’t buy commercial condoms at a bar. Partly, it was because the ones back in the 1920s and 30s weren’t as reliable as homemade hand-dips. Mainly, it was because if you bought ‘em at a bar, neighbors were sure to see you do it. And then, at the speed of light that gossip travels, everyone in the area knew you and your man were “doing it.”