Anything You Can Do, Has Probably Already Been Done by a Fictional Character

On January 19, 2017January 20, 2017 By Sarah AngletonIn History, Journalism11 Comments

On November 14, 1889, journalist Elizabeth Bisland began an epic journey. Departing from New York with little luggage and only six hours notice from the owner of the monthly family magazine Cosmopolitan (yes, the same one that now embarrasses you in front of your family at the checkout), Bismuth headed west across the US. Her goal was to race around the world in less than eighty days, faster than the fictional Phileas Fogg.

But beating the eccentric Jules Verne character wasn’t all she had in mind, because the real purpose of Bisland’s trip was to outstrip fellow journalist Nellie Bly, dispatched by New York World the same day, heading east on a steamer across the Atlantic on her own Fogg-esque journey.

The difference between the two was that Bly had no idea she was competing against anyone. She didn’t learn of Bisland’s trip until December 24 when someone in Hong Kong told her they thought she’d likely lose.

A few weeks ago, I set out on an epic journey of my own. A friend proposed starting a group on Facebook to motivate people who wanted to resolve to be better versions of themselves in the coming year. She suggested we all attempt to walk 2,017 miles in 2017.

That breaks down to about 5 ½ miles per day, which is doable for a fairly active person who puts forth some effort to get there. This is just the kind of challenge I love. I told her to count me in. Soon, because my friend is married to the kind of handy guy you’d like to have around to fix your computer, we had an app in which to log our daily miles, complete with a leaderboard so we could cheer each other on.

There are twenty-three of us in total. Some I know. Some I don’t. And we are, so far, a friendly, encouraging collection of people just trying to inspire each other and reach our individual goals, which for some, is not actually 2,017 miles this year. And that’s perfectly okay.

bly — Nellie Bly, ready to win, even when she doesn’t know she’s playing. By Library of Congress (umsystem.edu) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

I love that we can encourage one another on our journeys. But if I’m being perfectly honest, I want to be on top of that leader board. Today, I am. Tomorrow is less certain, because there are two other participants jostling for that top position, and at least one other person has mentioned being a runner, which means that if we get a couple of nice days, that person could easily record a huge spike in mileage.

So every day I read all the motivational comments from my fellow travelers and I feel a little like Elizabeth Bisland, racing against someone who is (or was until they read this post) totally unaware of the competition. After Bly discovered Bisland, the tide shifted in the race. On her way to England, Bisland was informed that her fast steamship to New York had already left without her. This turned out to be false, but unaware of that, Bisland boarded a slower moving vessel.

In the meantime, Bly faced massive snows in the Western US, eventually overcoming them only at the tremendous expense of a chartered train on a southern route with purchased right of way across the country. Bly did manage to pull out the win, arriving in New York on January 25, 1890, 72 days, 6 hours, and 11 minutes after her departure. Bisland completed the trip on January 30, defeated, but still ahead of Phileas Fogg.

There are, I think, a few of takeaways from this story. First, writers make stuff up*. All the time. Sometimes it’s plausible. Sometimes it’s really not, but often the writer has convinced readers to trust him so they feel like it probably could be sort of plausible in the right circumstances. And then readers go out and try it.

This is how we ended up with submarines (inspired by a journey 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, made up by Jules Verne), rockets (inspired by War of the Worlds, famously made up by H.G. Wells), and those headphones you use with your iPod (predicted in Ray Bradbury’s made-up Fahrenheit451).

This leads us to the next lesson we should learn from the story. Writers need to stop writing dystopian novels about a terrifying zombie apocalypse or the inevitable rise of sentient, power-hungry robots. Right now. Seriously, just stop. We’re begging you.

terminator — The world does not need this. photo credit: dalecruse Seattle via photopin (license)

And the third thing we need to learn is that no matter how friendly, encouraging, or supportive the motivational group, if there’s a leaderboard involved, at least one person (and I’m guessing at least three or four in the case of my Facebook walkers), is gunning for that top spot. It isn’t that we don’t want you to meet your goal. We just want to do it better.

*There is an outside chance that Verne’s Phileas Fogg was loosely based on eccentric shipping magnate and one-time presidential candidate George Francis Train, who circumnavigated the globe in 80 days in 1870. But, really, by “eccentric,” I mean that his life reads much like a fictional story anyway. I suppose writers do sometimes borrow from life as well.

How Otto the Visionary Became a Well-Rounded Person

On January 12, 2017January 12, 2017 By Sarah AngletonIn Astronomy, History, Sports11 Comments

Several years ago when we were the mommies of much littler littles, a friend of mine asked me for some mommy advice. My friend grew up in Upstate New York, where winters are bitter cold and ponds form thick ice. Now that she found herself raising her own children in Central Illinois where winter can be bitterly cold for days at a time, and frozen ponds can sometimes be a touch unpredictable, she was looking for a place to teach her children the crucial life skill of ice skating. Exasperated at having to sign them up for lessons at a nearby ice arena, she shook her head and said, “Well I guess that’s just what you have to do so your kid can learn to skate. I mean, how did you learn?”

My friend was truly shocked when I answered, “I didn’t.”

january-scene-skating-early-1820s — I’m no human locomotion expert, but I think the guy in the yellow pants is just about to bite it on the ice. January Scene, 1820, Public Domain, via Wikimedia Commons

My family had a box of ice skates in various sizes shoved away in the basement, in case we ever happened upon a good thick patch of ice. As far as I can remember we never did. And though my town didn’t have an indoor (or outdoor) ice rink, we lived about thirty miles from a town that did have one. I remember attending an ice skating party one time. Or it might have been twice.

That was it. That’s the only experience I’d ever had with ice skating. Sure there were hockey leagues in the next town and I had friends whose families made the effort to get plenty of ice time. But we weren’t that family. I didn’t mind a bit. When I did make it out onto the ice, I mostly just fell. A lot.

No. I mean, A LOT. I think I made it around the entire rink one full time, death grip on the wall the entire way, before I gave up with very cold tears streaming down my cheeks.

I can honestly say that I never felt myself disadvantaged by my lack of this particular skill. Clearly there is a cultural difference between my friend and me. Ice skating is a skill she views as essential to becoming a well-rounded individual. It’s important to her.

It was also important to the people of Southern Finland as much as 4000 years ago. Historians believe that’s when someone (let’s just call him Otto the Visionary) first decided sliding across the slippery ice on a thin set of blades was probably a good idea. And it might have been, because according to human locomotion expert, Federico Formenti, the savings in energy and time while traveling on foot among the many lakes in the southern portion of Finland, might have been well worth the effort it took Otto to strap a couple of animal bones to his shoes.

skate-guy — Just saving some time, taking a shortcut across the ice. photo credit: R.A. Killmer How is this possible? via photopin (license)

The ice skate has, of course, been improved since those early years. Skating spread through much of Europe and by the 17^th century had become a beloved cold weather activity spawning skating clubs, competitions, and innovations that soon distinguished the sports of speed and figure skating. Then in the 19^th century, Canadians started playing ice hockey. It’s anyone’s guess what they did before that. Curling, perhaps?

Despite the wide range of ways to enjoy the sport, and even though I do become an expert on figure skating every four years as I comment “knowledgably” about the slight wobble on the landing of the otherwise flawless triple axel that will surely cost the favored skater the gold, I don’t feel the need to participate.

momskates — Evidence. Sorry it’s so blurry. That’s bound to happen when you just landed a sick triple axel. Or when you hand your 12-year-old your phone and say, “Take a picture of me looking awesome!”

Except this past weekend when I did. My twelve-year-old son, who has been skating a few times (and is obviously a more well-rounded individual than his mother), had the opportunity to go skating with a youth group he’s a part of. And because I’m super lucky, I got assigned as a chaperone for the outing.

When I chaperone, I generally like to participate. I get to know the youth better when I do, we share some laughs and make some memories. Fun is had. Trust is built. That’s all well and good. But remember the death grip on the wall and the cold tears streaming down my cheeks? I do. And I did.

I admit I was scared, but my son wanted me to give it a go so I decided I would. Sure I fell a few times, bruising both my hip and my dignity a little, and if I’m being perfectly honest, there was probably a slight wobble on the landing of my triple axel. But for a kid from Illinois, who has never felt the need to conserve energy or time by strapping blades to my shoes and sliding across the ice, I think I did okay. And, I’m probably now a more well-rounded person. Maybe even a visionary.

Even People With Bodies Buried In Their Basements Aren’t Perfect

On January 5, 2017January 19, 2023 By Sarah AngletonIn History, literature12 Comments

In 1726, when he was just twenty years old, young Benjamin Franklin decided to be perfect. His Puritan upbringing had provided a pretty good understanding of right and wrong, so he figured it wouldn’t be a problem to just do right all the time. To that end he developed a system. Consulting with several writings on morality, he opened up a fresh new journal and made a list of what he considered the thirteen most important virtues of man.

On the list were temperance, silence, order, resolution, frugality, industry, sincerity, justice, moderation, cleanliness, tranquility, chastity, and humility. Next to each, he wrote brief descriptions. Then he discovered what most of us do at some point or other: Perfection isn’t as easy as it sounds.

A lot of us can probably relate. Nearly a week into our New Year’s resolutions, our enthusiasm for regular gym attendance, careful diet, or meticulous organization, might be starting to wane. By this time next month, the people who research such things suggest, fewer than 70% of resolution-makers will still be plugging away at whatever it is they resolved. By six months out, the number drops below 50%.

But if you are the type of person who makes resolutions at the New Year (along with 50 to 60% of Americans, and me), then I suggest we learn some lessons from Benjamin Franklin.

He didn’t tackle his full list at once. Instead, he started with one and didn’t move on until he felt he could reasonably add another. In his little journal, he kept track each day whether or not he had successfully carried out his goal. Sometimes he did, and sometimes he didn’t, but over time, he began to succeed a little more and fail a little less.

Now, I don’t know that I’m as motivated toward perfection as Franklin was, but last Christmas (not the one we just celebrated, but the one before that), one of my nephews gave me a very thoughtful gift. He picked out for me a very nice, high-quality, leather-bound journal. A great gift for a writer, no? The trouble is, it’s so nice, that now, more than a year later, I haven’t written a single word in it.

I scribble notes and thoughts almost constantly on pieces of scrap paper or notebooks bound by wonky bent spirals and repurposed from last year’s school supplies. But those aren’t high-quality, leather-bound journals selected just for me. And what if I fill it with something silly only to discover a perfect noble purpose for it later on? It’s been a lot of pressure.

So this year, in 2017, I decided to pull the empty journal from the drawer in my nightstand and turn that first page. I’m going to follow in the footsteps of Benjamin Franklin, to pursue my version of perfection, and list the virtues I’d like to work on this year, loosely based on his original thirteen:

noose — If a man is hanged, it’s not very pleasant. If a man is hung, well, polite people don’t mention such things. photo credit: WatchTheFlash_Photography via photopin (license)

Temperance. More carrot sticks. Fewer French fries.
Silence. Less insufferable correcting of other people’s grammar. Unless they use “hung” when what they really mean is “hanged.” Because there’s only so much a person can do.
Order. Empty the dishwasher after it runs so that dirty dishes don’t pile up indefinitely in the sink.
Resolution. Work through the toppling stack of to-read books on my nightstand. And on the bookshelf in my office. And in the box in my closet. This one may take a while.
Frugality. Remember words are precious. Tweet more regularly. If 140 characters is enough for the soon-to-be leader of the free world to discuss important policy (which, admittedly, it might not be), then surely it’s enough for me to sound occasionally clever.
Industry. Spend less time staying up late to watch Netflix, after I’m done binge-watching iZombie, of course. Perfection takes time.
Sincerity. Do a better job of feigning interest in Minecraft when my children are talking to me. Alas, truly sincere interest is not attainable.
Justice. Spend less time criticizing my children, and more time feigning interest in Minecraft.
Moderation. Stop yelling at talk radio while sitting at stoplights, and recognize the idiots truly cannot hear me, but the guy in the next lane might be able to and he’ll probably have a better day if he can’t.
Cleanliness. Clear out the more than 900 e-mails in my inbox that pertain to flash sales, old publication rejections, and sign-ups for events that happened nine months ago.
Tranquility. Take the dog for more walks.
Chastity. Actually I’m going to practice more silence on this one.
Humility. Here Franklin wrote, “Imitate Jesus and Socrates.” I don’t think I can improve on that one.

journal — Doesn’t it look nice? Maybe I’ll just start with writing my name in it. I won’t regret that. Right?

If this list, or your version of it, seems too daunting for you to tackle in 2017, or if are already thinking of giving up the resolutions you made a few days ago, don’t fret. You still opened that fancy new journal year and took a chance. The people who study such things tell us that if you make New Year’s resolutions, you are already ten times more likely to reach your goals than is someone who didn’t bother.

Even Franklin, who once electrocuted a turkey to amuse his friends and who died with fifteen bodies buried in his basement, admitted he never actually reached perfection. Still he kept track of his progress and was convinced he’d become a better man for the effort.

From Ox-Drawn Wagon to Airplane: Sharing Dysentery for Thanksgiving

On December 1, 2016 By Sarah AngletonIn Games and Toys, History17 Comments

In April of 1852, a twenty-one year old husband and new father named Ezra Meeker, set out with his wife and infant son on a trip to the West. The journey began in Eddyville, Iowa and ended more than 2000 miles away in what would become Washington State.

The Meekers certainly weren’t the only ones to make the journey over what had come to be known as the Oregon Trail. In fact, an estimated 400,000 folks loaded up their ox-drawn wagons and made the trip over at least part of the same well-worn trail west during about a thirty year span in the middle of the 19^th century.

By all accounts it was a difficult journey, leaving an estimated 80,000 emigrants dead from starvation, exposure, disease, or accident. But the Meekers made it alive and well, establishing a brewing business that made them a fortune they eventually lost.

meeker_in_omaha — 76-year-old Ezra Meeker in Omaha, on a mission to preserve history. Public Domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

And like I imagine most of the survivors of the Oregon Trail would claim, Ezra Meeker remembered the dangerous move westward as a transformative experience, perhaps even THE transformative experience of his life. So when it came to his attention that much of the old Oregon Trail had been plowed over and forgotten, he set out on another journey to preserve it.

In 1906, at the age of 76, Meeker put together a team of oxen and an authentic wagon to make the journey once again, in reverse, this time for the purpose of establishing monuments along the original trail. Again the trip wasn’t easy, but he made it all the way to Washington DC to meet with President Theodore Roosevelt. Then he wisely took a train back home.

Before the age of 93, Meeker managed to make the journey several more times, once by Pathfinder automobile and once by airplane, making him the only person known to have traveled the Oregon Trail by wagon, train, car, and plane.

Ezra Meeker spent more than twenty-five years of his life advocating for the preservation of the Oregon Trail, afraid that this epic journey undertaken by so many brave pioneers would fall away from the collective memory of the American people.

But what Meeker didn’t realize was that, thanks to the genius of Minnesota educator Don Rawitsch, such a thing could never happen. A student teacher in an 8^th grade history class in 1971, Rawitsch was looking for a way to help his students grasp the dangers inherent in the 19^th century American westward migration. What he came up with was a simple computer game in which the player leads a wagon party from Independence, Missouri to Oregon’s Willamette (which rhymes with d@#n it!) Valley.

calamity — The trail is fraught with peril.

And most likely dies along the way.

If you were an American elementary school kid in the eighties, nineties, or early 2000s, you most likely played a version of the educational game Oregon Trail. And you most likely got dysentery and died. Or maybe you drowned while attempting to cross a river, or your wagon broke down and you died from exposure, or you caught cholera or typhoid or you ran out of ammunition and you starved to death. Or maybe, like Ezra Meeker, you actually made it to the end of the trail.

If you never played the game, you now have another chance. There are some recent electronic versions available, but none, I’m sure, that are as fun as a card game based on Rawlitsch’s original idea. My sister-in-law brought a copy of it to family Thanksgiving, and let me just tell you, it provided hours of hilarious entertainment, as well as a lot of death.

The card game is filled with nods to its electronic predecessor, complete with bad computer graphics, instructions to “press the space bar,” and frequently doled out calamities, including immediate death by snakebite. Players work together as a team of as many as six pioneers, and if even one person reaches the Willamette Valley alive, everyone wins.

oregontrail — I braved the Black Friday crowds to buy my own copy of the game, because my sister-in-law won’t be here for family Christmas, and dysentery is something to be shared.

But that probably won’t happen.

Even Ezra Meeker finally met his match. In 1928, on the verge of yet another Trail journey, this time in a Model A Ford, specially designed with a top that resembled a covered wagon, the 97-year-old fell ill with dysentery (or possibly pneumonia) and died.

Dear Coffee Shop Dudes: The Blogger Recognition Award

On November 17, 2016November 17, 2016 By Sarah AngletonIn Awards, History, Journalism11 Comments

First published in London by editor John Dunton on March 17, 1691, The Athenian Mercury, ended with the following announcement:

All Persons whatever may be resolved gratis in any Question that their own satisfaction or curiosity shall prompt ’em to, if they send their Questions by a Penny Post letter to Mr. Smith at his Coffee-house in Stocks Market in the Poultry, where orders are given for the reception of such Letters, and care shall be taken for their Resolution by the next Weekly Paper after their sending

The publication was something wholly new to the English-reading public, whose own questions made up the content of the biweekly paper.

The public response was overwhelming, prompting Dunton to seek help from his mathematician friend Richard Sault, and eventually the allegedly well-read Dr. Norris as well as Reverend Samuel Wesley. Together this group formed the Athenian Society, know-it-alls who gathered over coffee to wrestle with the deepest concerns of their anonymous readers.

athenian-oracle-front — Everyone knows a good emblem makes you seem far more authoritative. Frontispiece to the Athenian Oracle, a collection of issues of The Athenian Mercury. Public Domain, via Wikimedia.

Questions were often of a scientific nature, like What becomes of smoke? (it dissipates), What do you think of the Milky Way in the Heavens? (it’s made up of a bunch of stars and it’s pretty neato), or Whether when a horse neighs, it is rejoicing or because he is angry? (He’s just sayin’ “hey!”, or possibly “hay!”).

Some were more philosophical, such as, What is death? (no longer alive, more or less), Why do men dream of things they never thought of? (minus Divine influence, they don’t), or Whether truth is always to be spoken (yes, of course, unless it shouldn’t, but definitely mostly yes).

Still others had to do with issues of the heart, including such gems as, A lady who is extremely troubled by corns desires to know the reason? (probably Divine punishment for breaking some poor fella’s heart) and Where is the likeliest place to get a husband in? (an advertisement in this paper would be a good place to start, but besides that, anywhere there are likely to be more men than women).

Often given credit for being the first advice column, the forerunner of Dear Abby and Ask Ann Landers, The Athenian Mercury ran for seven years, dispensing wisdom and advice, and even spawning a brief spin-off called The Ladies’ Mercury devoted only to questions pertaining to the concerns of the fairer sex.

coffee-shop-dude — Dude in a coffee shop getting sage advice from the Internet. photo credit: Jerome Olivier thinkers via photopin (license)

Of course today print media has an uncertain future and its parts, including the traditional advice column, are falling by the wayside, but if you are in need of advice, there is certainly no shortage of it on the Internet. Upstart fake media outlets, weirdly specific discussion forums, and smarty-pants bloggers abound, ready to solve your biggest, most intimate problems.

And why not? They are probably just as qualified four dudes hanging out in a coffee shop, debating life’s greatest questions, like, Whether birds have any government? The answer, obviously, is yup.

Recently, I was asked to share some advice for newcomers to the blogosphere as part of the Blogger Recognition Award. The rules of accepting the award are as follows:

Write a post to display your award.
Give a brief story of how your blog started.
Give two pieces of advice for new bloggers.
Thank the person that nominated you and link to his or her blog.
Pass the award on to 15 more smarty-pants bloggers.

So, here it goes. I started blogging because, appropriately enough, I took the advice of a friend who said I should. If I’m qualified to give advice (and again, using the measuring stick of four dudes in a coffee shop, I might be), then it would be:

Blog consistently (as much as possible) according to a realistic schedule that you can maintain in the context of your life.
Find a consistent niche that offers you lots of material that you’re good at writing about.
Okay, this one is just a bonus, because I like you all so much. Don’t blog overtly about politics. Unless of course that’s just your thing, but if that’s the case, I don’t envy you.

And now for the best part. In answer to the question, What is worse than ingratitude? the Athenian Society was uncharacteristically quiet (literally answering “__ __ __ __ __”). I agree with them on this one and I am very grateful to Jasmine of How Useful It Is for passing this award on to me, along with the advice (and I’m paraphrasing here): If you get a blog award, pass it on already! Sorry it took me so long.

And now for the other best part. I’d like to pass the Blogger Recognition Award on to the following folks:

thekitchensgarden

witlessdatingafterfifty

The Book of Secrets

Cooking With a Wallflower

Zombie Flamingos

Cleopatra Loves Books

Serendipity

Reading Recommendations

Recipe in A Bottle

A Generous Helping

Maverick on the Move

What Should I Read Next?

James Harrington’s Blog of Geek and Writing

The Monster In Your Closet

History Present

Pat Wahler, Author

Okay, so that’s sixteen, but they are all well worth checking out. You can trust me. I’m a smarty-pants blogger.

Yes! Wonderful Things! Fashionable Man-Cardigans and the Mannequin Challenge

On November 10, 2016November 10, 2016 By Sarah AngletonIn Fashion, History4 Comments

In 1907, the 5^th Earl of Carnarvon hired Egyptologist Howard Carter to aid him in his excavations in the Valley of the Kings. Carter worked for years, with a brief break caused by World War I, but it wasn’t until November 4, 1922, with Lord Carnarvon growing impatient and about to pull the plug on the whole operation, Carter got his big break.

That’s when he found stairs that led to a tomb he thought likely to be undisturbed. On November 26^th, with the excited Lord Carnarvon by his side, Carter chiseled a small hole leading to the antechamber of the young, and fairly insignificant King Tutankhamun. When asked if he saw anything, the Egyptologist answered, “Yes! Wonderful things!”

It took months to catalogue everything in the antechamber and it wasn’t until 1932 that Carter was finished removing the thousands of wonderful things buried with the pharaoh. Among those were musical instruments, chariots, weapons, and a mannequin.

449px-mannequin_of_tutankhamun — Life-size bust of Tutankhamun, found in his tomb. And possibly, the world’s oldest fashion mannequin. By Jon Bodsworth [Copyrighted free use], via Wikimedia Commons

At least that’s the purpose Carter suggested for the life-size, armless bust of King Tut, that it was used to model his jewelry, and robes, and fashionable man-cardigans. And dating from around 1350 BC, it may have been among the first of its kind.

Since then mannequins have gone through a number of changes. They’ve been life-size dolls shipped between European Aristocracy to exchange fashion trends, whicker dress-forms, and awkward 300-hundred pound sculptures with false teeth, glass eyes, and real hair.

At times they’ve been made from easily melted wax, have become the celebrated date on the arms of the occasional disturbed artist, and have come to life as the love interest in a bad eighties movie. Mannequins have been both curvy and slender, to reflect the fashion ideal of the era. They’ve been mangled by Salvador Dali, and they’ve often appeared in shop windows with no arms, no legs, and no heads. But longer than we’ve had big shop windows to put them in, and maybe even longer than we’ve had fashionable man-cardigans to display, mannequins have been around to creep us out.

Recently, a new kind of mannequin has taken over the Internet. Scores of people are now rising to the mannequin challenge. And by scores, of course, I mean high school students, athletes, and probably very soon, people old enough they probably ought to have better things to do.

The way it goes is that a group of people stand, completely still in mid-activity, as if they are mannequins, while another person with a camera moves among them filming close-ups of their stunningly (or not so) executed poses. And usually there’s music, because let’s face it, people standing still is not, on its own, necessarily an exciting thing to watch.

I say, why not rise to it? Because Internet challenges have been with us for years (not like actual mannequins, or man-cardigans, or King Tut, but still, a while) and this one might have come at just the right time. I think after the week the US (and to some extent the world) has had, and is having, we might all be feeling a little frozen anyway.

So go ahead, give it a try. I would, but I’m old enough I probably ought to have better things to do.

Crime Doesn’t Pay. Neither Does Poetry.

On November 3, 2016 By Sarah AngletonIn History, Writing11 Comments

July 26, 1875 wasn’t a great day for John Shine. The man who would later become a US Marshal and a California state senator, at the time, worked as a stagecoach driver for Wells Fargo. That day, only a few miles outside of Calaveras County, he encountered a man standing in his path. He wore a flour sack over his head and he held a shotgun leveled at Shine’s chest.

In a commanding voice, the flour sack asked politely for Shine to throw down the locked strong box, and happily reminded his accomplices hiding behind the boulders with nothing but their deadly shotgun barrels showing, to shoot the driver should he refuse to comply. Shine didn’t need to be asked twice. He threw down the box.

The gentlemanly outlaw allowed the stagecoach to move on down the trail. Only later, when Shine returned to the scene, did he realize that the flour sack’s accomplices were nothing more than well positioned sticks.

This was most likely the first stagecoach robbery committed by the outlaw who would come to be known as Black Bart. Named (by himself) after a dime novel villain, Black Bart would go on to pull close to twenty-five robberies of Wells Fargo stagecoaches, netting himself a total of around $18,000. The sum was a small drop in the big bucket of about $415,000 Wells Fargo lost to stagecoach robberies over a fifteen year period.

But Black Bart set himself apart. He always worked by himself, never rode a horse, and refused to behave in an ungentlemanly manner. Not once did he fire a shot or steal so much as a dime from a passenger.

And on at least two occasions, he even wrote poetry:

To wait the coming morrow,

Perhaps success, perhaps defeat

And everlasting sorrow

Yet come what will, I’ll try it once,

My conditions can’t be worse

But if there’s money in that box,

It’s munny in my purse.

And there was this one:

I’ve labored long and hard for bread,

For honor and for riches

But on my corns too long you’ve tread,

You fine-haired sons-of…

Well, you get the idea.

The robber signed both poems as “Black Bart, the P o 8.” Get it? Because he’s a po-eight! I assume that’s the idea anyway. He was also pretty great with a license plate. And that, it turns out is a good thing because in November of 1883, Black Bart’s reign of crime came to an end.

During what became his final robbery, Black Bart took fire and a bullet grazed his hand. He managed to escape, stemming the bleeding with a handkerchief that bore a laundry mark. Then, somewhere along the way, he dropped the handkerchief.

diligence_wells_fargo — The 19th century version of the armored car. By PRA (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0) or GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons

Because Wells Fargo detectives are evidently well versed in every crime drama ever, they conducted an extensive search and traced the handkerchief to a laundry in San Francisco where they learned that it belonged to Charles Bowles, a mild-mannered, gray-haired gentleman who lived a quiet, but elegant life in a boarding house nearby. Mr. Bowles was sentenced to six years in prison for his string of robberies.

The moral of the story, obviously, is that the only way to make money writing poetry is to also rob a stagecoach, and even then, only if you don’t get caught. And that, my friends, is why you should stick to writing novels. It just so happens it’s National Novel Writing Month. So you better get started. These days, a good stagecoach robbery is a hard thing to pull off.

And That’s Why You Shouldn’t Mess with a Babylonian Pig

On October 13, 2016October 13, 2016 By Sarah AngletonIn Astronomy, History, Law5 Comments

This year my oldest son began middle school. It’s going well, for the most part. He’s thriving in the world of increased social opportunities, having found a group of buddies that all seem to get one another pretty well. And despite the increase in workload, he’s enjoying the academic challenges middle school is bringing. He’s even almost a little more organized and responsible than he used to be. Well, he’s working on it anyway.

We’ve had a few hurdles to jump, but it’s more or less off to a good start. Or at least I thought it was until he came home the other day and as he ran down his list of homework and other tiny scraps of information he occasionally lets slip out, he casually mentioned that his classmates had sentenced him to death.

big-pig — Actually I’m pretty impressed with his skills if he managed to run off with one of these things. photo credit: jpellgen Largest Boar via photopin (license)

As you can imagine, a number of follow-up questions flashed though my mind. The answers to some of them were that he stole a pig, his accuser was a landowner, much wealthier and more important than he was, and that she tried to shoot him as he fled the scene, but the law didn’t seem to care about the attempted murder. Just the pig thief, even though he requested leniency and so did a number of character witnesses who swore he would never do such a thing unless he were starving. And, you know, he’s a middle school boy, so he might feel like he’s starving most of the time.

Finally, after enjoying my mystified expression for a moment, he went on to explain that his social studies class had been studying Hammurabi’s Code. Just in case it’s been as long since your middle school social studies days as it has since mine, I’ll explain.

stele_du_code_dhammurabi — What a constitution looked like in 1754 BC. CC BY-SA 2.5, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=818801

In 1901, while working on a site in the ancient city of Susa (in modern day Iran), Egyptologist Gustave Jéquier discovered a stone stele, over seven feet tall, covered in cuneiform script. When translated, the 44 columns and 28 paragraphs were shown to contain a total of 282 laws, which, dating to somewhere around 1754 BC, form one of the oldest written codes of law known.

Established under the Babylonian king Hammurabi, the laws cover a wide range of issues, including contract terms, liability, fraud, divorce, and the theft of a pig by a starving sixth grader in social studies class.

The code is also the first good example history has thus far offered up of a system of presumed innocence, with court proceedings that allow for both prosecutor and defendant to present evidence. Of course it’s not all rosy, because the code also spells out a hierarchical application of the laws. For instance, a doctor successfully treating the injuries of a high-ranking man will make more money than if he successfully treats a slave, but he will also face a much stiffer penalty for unsuccessful treatment of a wealthy man, and if it’s say, your run of the mill freed man, well, it officially just doesn’t matter.

And if a landowner steals livestock from another landowner, he is required to pay ten times the value of the stolen property to rightful owner. If, on the other hand, a starving middle school boy steals a pig from the rich girl who owns the desk next door, the punishment is unquestionably death.

As his mother, I might complain about this sad injustice, perhaps start a tablet writing campaign to the Babylonian elders, or petition the king for a pardon. But, I suppose the law is the law, and I’m completely thrilled that my kid has such a great social studies teacher. At least for the few days he has left.

Being Discovered for Discovering a Viking Discovering Boston in a Metal Bra

On October 6, 2016October 6, 2016 By Sarah AngletonIn Art, History, Travel9 Comments

In 1837, Carl Christian Rafn published his book Antiquitates Americanae. In it the Danish historian most known for his work translating Old Norse literature, suggested a location for Vinland. What many scholars assumed to be only a land of legend, Rafn placed in North America. And at least one North American was listening.

800px-eben_norton_horsford — Eben Norton Horsford. Brilliant chemist. Not as brilliant archaeologist. Responsible for Boston’s “Dude in Metal Bra” statue. By Unknown – [1], Public Domain, via Wikimedia Commons

In fact, Harvard professor and wealthy inventor of double-acting baking soda, Eben Norton Horsford, became obsessed with the notion. This brilliant chemist turned less brilliant amateur archaeologist confidently declared his discovery of the onetime foundation of a home belonging to Leif Erikson. Conveniently, the foundation stones were discovered along the banks of the Charles River, not far from Horsford’s Cambridge, Massachusetts home.

Other, more established archaeologists, determined that the alleged Viking foundation stone was more likely a pile of relatively insignificant rocks. But that didn’t stop Horsford from producing a great many books about the huge amounts of evidence he found made up of a Viking settlement in the Boston area that predated Christopher Columbus by about five hundred years.

At least a few North Americans listened to him, too. That’s why, since 1887, there has been a statue of a young, thrusting Leif Erikson on Boston’s Commonwealth Avenue Mall, even though there is no evidence whatsoever that Vikings ever visited Beantown.

pile-of-rocks — This might be a pile of construction rubble at my neighbor’s house. OR it could what’s left of the foundation of an Old Norse Starbucks. You be the judge.

Legitimate archaeological evidence did finally surface in Newfoundland in 1960, which places Vikings in North America a good 500 years before Christopher Columbus made the trip. And since 1964, the sitting US President has issued an annual proclamation, calling for the October 10^th observation of Leif Erikson Day.

But despite all that, I have to admit, I never knew there was an alleged Viking connection to Boston. That little tidbit of fabricated historical fun I picked up from middle grade author Rick Riordan, of Percy Jackson fame. As the mother of two voracious middle grade readers who both gravitate toward the fantasy genre, I have become a big fan of Mr. Riordan’s work, which playfully borrows from the world’s great mythological stories and introduces a new generation of thoroughly modern young heroes.

One of his newest series, Magnus Chase and the Gods of Asgard, is set in Boston, where the hero, who dies at the beginning of the book only to find himself in Valhalla, discovers that Boston is a stronghold of Norse Mythology, which he probably should have always known because of that statue of the man with the leather bra.

This summer, as part of a crazy road trip adventure, my family and I spent about half a day in downtown Boston. The first thing my oldest son wanted to do was to set out to see if we could find the “dude in the metal bra.” And since the request was inspired by literature, what could we do? Of course, we found him!

Then in a moment of pure inspiration, I got famous. I decided to tweet a picture of the statue to Rick Riordan. My buddy Rick (who I happen to know reads my blog whenever he’s not busy writing a gazillion books, which, just to be clear, is never), liked and retweeted my tweet. And soon some of his followers (he has just a few more than me), also liked and retweeted my tweet. Even now, several months later, I get a new notification every week or so that someone else has found and liked my tweet of discovering Leif Erikson discovering Boston in a metal bra. It’s gotten more action than anything else I’ve ever sent out into the Twittersphere, and the activity stats tell me that it’s been seen by around 45,000 tweeps.

On a recent trip to Boston, my son HAD to check out the dude in the metal bra! #magnuschase @camphalfblood pic.twitter.com/nsDSRnzo2P

— Sarah Angleton (@SarahAngleton) June 21, 2016

So the naysayers may tell you that the Vikings never settled in Boston, but I know better, because I’ve seen the proof. Thanks to the wonders of instant Internet fame, so have nearly 45,000 of my closest friends.

And that’s the almost sort of true story of how Leif Erikson and I became famous discoverers in Boston.

Take a Walk, Ya Scurvy Dogs

On September 15, 2016 By Sarah AngletonIn History, Holidays, Travel6 Comments

A couple weeks ago, I had a run-in with a pirate. It was a sunny, post-tropical storm day in Charleston, South Carolina, a place that takes great pride in its pirates. We’d been in the area to celebrate the wedding of a niece and decided to take in a little bit of the colorful local history.

That’s when the pirate showed up. He was everything you’d expect with tall boots, a real sword, and a trusty parrot sidekick named Captain Bob. He knew everything there was to know (or at least everything I’d ever think to ask) about the swashbuckling personalities that graced the waters from North Carolina to Barbados during piracy’s Golden Age.

pirate-eric — Eric the pirate and Capt. Bob of Charleston Pirate Tours.

We walked with our pirate companion quite a few city blocks and along the oceanfront park where convicted buccaneers were once hanged for their crimes. This same site today still hosts scores of Charlestonians engaging in unsavory acts. Like yoga.

But the true treasure of the experience was the vast knowledge shared about real people from history including Stede Bonnet, the gentleman pirate who gave up a life of privilege in Barbados to play pirate with his hired friends. And Anne Bonny, a society girl gone wild, with a preference for scallywags. And that most famous of all pirates known sometimes as Edward Teach, or less commonly as Edward Beard, or more commonly as Black Beard. Boy, that guy didn’t turn out to be quite what we (or Wikipedia) thought.

You might begin to wonder how I, a respected practical historian, could simply trust the word of a pirate, not necessarily assumed to be the most honest of men. But I think I did mention he had a parrot, right? Also, never once did he utter the sound Arrrr.

079 — My only previous encounter with live pirates, at the St. Louis Renaissance Fair. These were somewhat less concerned with historical accuracy.

Well, okay, that’s not entirely true. He did say it once, when he informed us that to the best of his knowledge (and that of everyone else that knows about these things) pirates didn’t actually say Arrrr.

That, along with that uniquely gruff Piratey accent and the stubborn reluctance to correctly use a possessive pronoun or conjugate the verb “to be,” is an entirely fictional construct, popularized mostly by British actor Robert Newton in his role as the one-legged Long John Silver in Disney’s 1950 version of Treasure Island.

It turns out that though they were probably a little more well-versed in nautical terms for boat riggings and sea monsters than was the average landlubber, pirates most likely talked like, well, guys of their era. Their language, like ours, was shaped by their various heritages and experiences, and would not have been particularly uniform.

And I’m sorry to be the one to tell you that no pirate ever said the words “Shiver me timbers!” without getting laughed off the plank.

800px-pyle_pirate_plank_edited — Actually plank walking has a somewhat dubious history, too. Illustration by Howard Pyle, Public Domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Now I know that like me, this revelation must concern you somewhat. After all, International Talk like a Pirate Day is rapidly approaching (on September 19, which you no doubt already knew) and you haven’t a thing to say.

The holiday, begun sort of unofficially in 1994 by two guys playing racket ball and talking like guys of their era, became slightly official when columnist Dave Barry gave it a rousing stamp of approval in 2002.

What started as friends having a little fun irritating the heck out of their coworkers, has blossomed now into a truly international event prompting (if you can believe the handy pirate map on the holiday’s official website) perhaps dozens of organized events designed to annoy the heck out of way more people’s coworkers.

But beneath all of the irritation, the day really is about having fun, together with your friends, talking like average guys of your era, the kind of guys who think that pirates said things like, “Arrr, treasure I ain’t got nor knows wheres, but ye be cutthroats and ye better serve up yer peace or I’ll feed ya piecemeal to the rats, ya scurvy dogs.”

So join in the fun and celebrate the day like Long John Silver would, says I. Plunder some booty, shiver some timbers, and irritate the heck out of your coworkers with your creative grammar and imaginative slang. But if you ever find yourself in South Carolina, look up Charleston Pirate Tours and take a walk with Pirate Eric and Captain Bob. I promise it’ll be worth ye the hour, me mateys.

Author Sarah Angleton

Category: History