Going Tiny in a Very Small Way

On January 14, 2016January 14, 2016 By Sarah AngletonIn History, Popular Culture13 Comments

In a few weeks I will celebrate the third anniversary of moving into my current home. This most recent move, from Salem, Oregon, was the fifth in my fifteen years of marriage, and I’m sincerely hoping it is the last for a while. I’d like to let my sons go through school with a consistent group of friends. I’d like to think that when someone asks them where they are from originally, they might know how to answer. And despite all the bad press of the last few years, St. Louis is a wonderful place and we are very happy to be living so near our favorite city.

But lately I’ve also been thinking about the one big disadvantage of staying put. Because I’ve become obsessed with the television shows that highlight the tiny house movement. There are several different ones, but each focuses in on a person, or couple, or sometimes even pretty good size family that is looking to either build or buy a home that is somewhere in the neighborhood of 400 square feet or less.

7440329382_18924e42d8_o — Tiny house. Big bludgeoning risk. photo credit: IMG_6224 via photopin (license)

I’ve tried for a long time to figure out what appeals to me about these shows. I know for certain that I do NOT wish to live in such a home. As much as I love my family, if I had to live on top of them every minute of every day, someone would get accidentally bludgeoned to death.

I think the reason these shows appeal to me so much is because of the stories of the people. Almost all of them say the reason they want to “go tiny” is, in part, because they want to rid themselves of the extra stuff in their lives and live more freely with less.

Doesn’t that sound amazing? So I’m a little scared to not be looking ahead to a move now that it’s been a few years, because every time we pack up to move, we pare down. And it’s amazing.

Without a move looming, the drawers are getting a little cluttered, the closets a little crowded, and the tower of boxes in the basement of outgrown clothes and toys and books that should be donated is beginning to teeter dangerously.

I’m afraid if this goes much longer, we risk becoming like Homer and Langley Collyer, a well-to-do pair of brothers that lived together in their family’s 5^th Avenue Harlem mansion, along with all the leftover equipment from their deceased father’s medical practice, the possessions from their deceased mother’s separate house, stacks and stacks of newspapers, and fourteen pianos.

4082110101_a077461c7e_o — So my closets don’t look like this. Yet. photo credit: bric-a-brac via photopin (license)

On March 21, 1947 the police received a call about a smell of decay emanating from the house. They dug their way in and discovered Homer Collyer dead. Nearly a month later, workers uncovered the body of Langley Collyer, crushed under the junk. Around 120 tons of debris was eventually removed from the house. The few salvageable things fetched $2000 at auction and the dangerous house was razed, making way for the small Collyer Brother’s Park at the corner of 128^th and 5^th Avenue.

There’ve been attempts to have the park renamed, in order to honor someone or something perhaps more noble than the famous hoarders, but as then NYC Parks Commissioner Adrian Benepe pointed out, “Not all history is pretty — and many New York children were admonished by their parents to clean their room ‘or else you’ll end up like the Collyer brothers.’”

20160114_101549 — A teetering tower of donations. But no pianos, so that’s something.

I think it’s safe to assume there were some underlying pathological issues that led to the lifestyle and tragic demise of the Collyers, but I’m going to try to learn a lesson from them anyway. I’m not facing an impending move, and because I love my family and would hate to have to bludgeon them, I am not going to attempt to live in 400 square feet.

But what I am going to do is make a concerted effort to pare down as if we were planning a big change. Call it my 2016 resolution if you will. I will sort out the junk drawers, reorganize the closets, and haul off that teetering tower of donation boxes. I will rid myself of the extra stuff and live more freely with less.

And it will feel amazing.

Santa Claus: A Fat, Jolly Kleptomaniac with a Raging Coke Addiction

On December 17, 2015 By Sarah AngletonIn History, Holidays5 Comments

In 1931, Michigan-born illustrator Haddon Sundblom was approached by the Coca-Cola Company to reinvent the image of Santa Claus. The artist had a lot to work with. The legend which had begun with the generosity of a 4^th-century bishop was Americanized by Washington Irving in 1809.

Coke and Santa Claus, forever linked by the efforts of Haddon Sundblom. That’s effective advertising.

In 1823, thanks to the poetry of Clement Moore (maybe), he became a jolly elfish figure with magical flying reindeer. During the American Civil War, artist Thomas Nash gave St. Nicholas his more familiar name. Santa Claus became an enthusiastic Union supporter dressed in fur from head to toe.

American artists Rockwell, Wyeth, and Leyendecker captured the essence of Santa Claus in the early 20^th-century. The jolly fat man received a fur-trimmed stocking cap, wide black belt, black boots, and a large bag of toys. This is also when red and white became his undisputed favorite colors.

By the time Sundblom got hold of him, Santa already resembled a Coke can in the American imagination. But Santa was still elfish, stern, and a little bit too much like a random fat guy in a funny suit. Evidently, that didn’t make people want to run out and drink Coca-Cola.

Sundblom solved the problem by recruiting his neighbor, a fat, jolly salesman, to model for him. The result was a magical looking image of a warm and friendly man people the world over began to identify with. For thirty years, Sundblom breathed life into his Santa. He played with toys, relaxed by the fire, and pilfered the Christmas feast from the refrigerator.

Coca-cola_truck_fragment — A jolly Sanata demonstrating for an innocent child that it’s perfectly okay to snag a drink from someone else’s fridge without asking permission. By User:Husky [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons

All this he did with a warm smile and a bottle of Coke. The images captured the imagination of the world, even in nations where “Santa” was more often portrayed as a wiry bishop. The rumor spread that Sundblom and Coca-Cola invented the iconic red and white suit of the American Santa Claus.

But it isn’t exactly true. What they did was standardize Santa as a fat kleptomaniac with a friendly face and a raging Coke addiction. And Christmas has been all the jollier ever since.

6463743173_00a2eb0804_o — Creeptastic. Seriously. photo credit: Elf on a Shelf Playing with Knives via photopin (license)

My kiddos have outgrown their Santa years, and thankfully we never got into that creeptastic Elf on a Shelf thing. But they appreciate the magic of the legend, and they’ll have a hard time getting to sleep on Christmas Eve. Because our stockings are still hung by the chimney with care, and my boys know St. Nicholas soon will be there.

He’ll be jolly-ish as he assembles surprises late into the night (maybe we could use an elf on our shelf). He’ll drink the Coke left for him on the hearth because he’ll need the caffeine. And before he stumbles bleary-eyed into bed, he might even raid the fridge.

No Historical Figures were Harmed in the Writing of this Book: A Review of The Magician’s Lie

On November 19, 2015 By Sarah AngletonIn Books, History9 Comments

On the night of January 19, 1897, illusionist and recent widow Adelaide Herrmann stood before a firing squad at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York. In front of a large crowd of people that I imagine were sitting on the edges of their seats, the squad opened fire. When the guns were silent, Herrmann still stood, revealing to the audience that she had successfully caught six bullets and was completely unharmed.

110243467_59d8186c30_o — Famous performers of the simultaneous bullet catch, in which neither has yet died. But they’re not revealing how they do it. photo credit: Penn & Teller via photopin (license)

Not every magician who has performed a version of the bullet catch illusion has been so fortunate. The earliest performance that I could find reference to occurred around 1580, and was accomplished by a French magician who lived long enough afterward to be killed by a disgruntled assistant more than thirty years later. But there have been a fair number (both verifiable and not) of magicians injured and possibly more than a dozen killed in the course of performing the catch.

How exactly the illusion is accomplished I couldn’t tell you (though plenty of people have offered explanations on the Internet) and even Penn and Teller aren’t revealing this one. What is clear to me is that it’s both dangerous and enduring (and quite possibly stupid), as iconic to the illusion performance industry as sawing a woman in half.

Harvard_Theatre_Collection_-_Hermann_TCS_28 — Adelaide Herrmann, the Queen of Magic, levitating, which is not nearly as dangerous as catching a bullet. Public Domain, via Wikimedia Commons

What makes Adelaide Herrmann’s performance notable is that this marked her debut as a headlining magician, taking the place of her deceased husband, illusionist Alexander Herrmann who’d been scheduled to perform it. Adelaide never included the illusion in her act again (an indication that she was not stupid), but she went on to become a highly successful illusionist in her own right, performing in Vaudeville circuits until finally retiring in 1928 at the age of seventy-four.

Her long and successful career as the Queen of Magic, highly respected by fellow illusionists, including Harry Houdini (a man who once announced that he would perform the bullet catch and later cancelled the performance citing concerns over the danger), in a field that was (and still is) male dominated, makes her a truly fascinating person in my book. But until recently I’d never heard of her.

And that is why I love to read historical fiction, because sometime I encounter truly interesting people with great stories. I was introduced to the Queen of Magic by the novel The Magician’s Lie by Greer Macallister. The story follows a fictional young female dancer turned illusionist named Arden at the turn of the century, who possesses a bit of true magical ability as well as a fascination with illusion and a love for the stage.

20151119_094911 — Seems like a good week to take a break from the news and read a good book.

In the novel, Arden is mentored by Herrmann and eventually takes over her circuit, adding her own flare to the show, including an act in which she (a woman) has the audacity to saw a man in half. When one performance ends in the discovery of a murdered man stuffed inside her equipment, Arden attempts to convince a small town police officer (with plenty of issues of his own) to hear out her story before deciding her fate.

The novel does play with history a little (like by shortening the career span of Adelaide Herrmann) but I don’t think any historical figures were particularly harmed by those choices. All in all, this was a beautiful story, ultimately about the illusions we can create for ourselves, the lies we must believe in order to misunderstand our own predicament, and the very real danger of playing with magic and sometimes catching a bullet.

Hyperactive Goats, a Pragmatic Pope, and the Bitter Red Cups of Satan

On November 12, 2015July 8, 2017 By Sarah AngletonIn Food, History9 Comments

According to legend, sometime in the tenth century or so, Ethiopian goat herder Kaldi made a discovery that would forever change the course of the world. He noticed that his goats were suddenly acting kind of like two-year-olds at bedtime, annoyingly energetic and determined not to sleep.

These guys look like they could use some coffee beans. photo credit: little bobbies via photopin (license)

Kaldi traced the behavior to a berry the goats ingested and alerted the local abbot who decided to try the magic berries himself. The abbot used them to brew a bitter drink that gave him the boost of energy he needed to make it through his evening prayers. Delighted, he passed on his secret.

Soon people (and goats) across the Arabian Peninsula were gathering in cozy coffee houses, discussing politics and the weather while sipping steaming cups of coffee and staying up way past their bedtimes.

By the 17^th century, coffee reached Europe and while some rejoiced, adding sugar and cream to make the stuff more palatable, others were suspicious because whereas other popular drinks of the day, like wine and beer, made you sluggish and stupid, this new beverage instead made people thoughtful, productive, and pretentious.

20151111_125114 — But no way would you have caught Pope Clement VIII drinking coffee from a plain red cup. I bet.

And so coffee was deemed the “bitter invention of Satan,” with the local clergy in Venice condemning the drinking of the dangerous stimulant. But the people weren’t having it, convinced as they were that if they didn’t start their day with a cuppa, then they might commit homicide. So Pope Clement VIII decided to step in and settle the issue once and for all. He hopped into the pope-mobile, headed to the corner Starbucks, and ordered himself a venti Iced Caffé Latte with skim milk. And you know what? He liked it!

With Satan’s drink safely exorcized, it quickly spread to the Americas. Then in December of 1773, a group of liberty-minded men got all hopped up on coffee and dumped a whole lot of tea (which, as far as I am concerned is at least Satan’s second favorite beverage) into Boston Harbor. Thomas Jefferson then boldly declared (among other notable things) that coffee is the “the favorite drink of the civilized world.”

And for many people, it is. Personally I’ve never been much of a coffee drinker (though I do make the occasional exception for a Starbucks vanilla Frappuccino, but that’s really more milkshake than coffee), so maybe this isn’t my war to wage. But recently, Satan reclaimed the civilized world’s favorite drink.

Because nothing says Jesus like levitating under the mistletoe. photo credit: Starbucks 'Red Cup' 2005 (mistletoe) via photopin (license) — Because nothing says Jesus like levitating under the mistletoe. photo credit: Starbucks ‘Red Cup’ 2005 (mistletoe) via photopin (license)

In case you’re not familiar with the controversy, earlier this week a video went viral of a self-declared “former pastor,” and “disciple of Jesus” explaining how he pranked Starbucks. The company, which has traditionally changed its cup designs to reflect the holiday season with pictures of sleds and snowflakes, revealed that this year its holiday cups (clearly designed by Satan himself) will simply be red with a Starbucks logo.

The “prank,” in which video guy was encouraging Christians to participate, was to tell the barista that his name was “Merry Christmas” so she’d have to write that on his cup. His claim is that by eliminating reindeer from the outside of his coffee cup, Starbucks is somehow persecuting Christians and that it is time to stand up and fight back.

I can’t follow the logic either. But there’ve been a surprising number of people who have taken to Twitter with images of Starbucks coffee cups with “Merry Christmas” written on them. (Ha! Take that, Satan!). I think it’s safe to assume, most of these people have had entirely too much coffee because they’re behaving kind of like hyper goats.

Of course, I’m also happy to report that a larger number of Christians have taken to social media to say, “Um…what?”

Still, perhaps it’s time to call on Pope Francis to hop into the pope-mobile and settle this mess once and for all. Because I could sure go for a vanilla Frappuccino. But don’t worry, I’ll get the last laugh. I’m going to tell the barista my name is “Snowman.”

Dave Glover Spews Pea Soup?

On October 29, 2015October 29, 2015 By Sarah AngletonIn Halloween, History, Superstition4 Comments

In 1949, Jesuit Priest Walter Halloran was a student of history at St. Louis University who also served as a driver for William Bowdern, then pastor of St. Francis Xavier College Church. On the night of March 9, Bowdern asked Halloran to drive him to a charming two-story brick house in the northwestern suburb of Bel-Nor.

Halloran assumed he would wait in the car while the priest conducted his business at the home, but when they reached their destination, Bowdern surprised him, saying, “I’ll be doing an exorcism. I want you to hold the boy down in case it’s needed.”

As the story goes, in January of that year, a thirteen-year-old boy from near Washington DC (perhaps the most frightening place on earth), began exhibiting some very strange behavior after attempting to contact his recently deceased aunt with the aid of a Ouija board.

St. Louis's own Exorcism House, the last remaining location of the 1949 exorcism that inspired the novel and movie. Picture via Destination America, which will air — St. Louis’s own Exorcist House, the last remaining location of the 1949 exorcism that inspired the novel and movie. Picture via Destination America, which will air “Exorcism: Live!” at 9 pm EDT, on October 30. 2015.

Fearing he might be possessed, the family contacted their Lutheran minister, who directed them to Father Albert Hughes, a local Catholic priest. It seems Hughes knew only slightly more about exorcism than did his Lutheran counterpart and managed to get himself injured by the boy, who still appeared very much possessed.

After that, the family decided a change of scenery may be best (because nobody wants to exorcize a demon in their own house) and they headed to St. Louis where the boy’s mother had grown up and where there are evidently priests who know more about exorcisms than do their DC counterparts.

The demon seems to have agreed because the word “LOUIS” allegedly formed on the boy’s chest. The family (in a demonstration of the same kind of good judgment that led them to allow their son to attempt to contact the dead in the first place) took that as a sign.

And that’s when Bowdern and Halloran entered the scene, along with assistant and priest Raymond Bishop who kept a detailed diary of the proceedings. After more than a month of prayer and ritual, and moves both to the rectory of St Francis Xavier Church on the campus of St. Louis University and to the psychiatric ward of the Alexian Brothers Hospital (neither of which still stand), the exorcism was finally successful on April 18, 1949.

The boy and his family returned to their Maryland home where, his true identity safely obscured, he is said to have gone on to enjoy a normal, productive, and likely Ouija board-free life. But his ordeal became the basis of William Peter Blatty’s 1971 novel, The Exorcist, and the 1973 film adaptation, most well known for the spectacular spewing of pea soup.

Terrifying. photo credit: Fresh Pea and Ham Soup via photopin (license)

But the neat little brick house in Bel-Nor, Missouri is still here. The house is occupied, though the homeowners don’t seem to want to comment about the story. Neighbors and some previous owners have associated strange, unsettling feelings with the northwest upstairs bedroom where the exorcism is said to have partly taken place. Still, others are more skeptical.

All the priests who participated in the exorcism, with the exception of Halloran remained quiet on the subject in the interest of protecting the privacy of the possessed boy. Halloran never gave details either, but he did admit that he wasn’t quite sure what he had witnessed and that the entire episode may have been attributable to mental illness rather than true demon possession.

Others remain convinced that the house itself possesses an unusually large amount of spooky presence. Tomorrow night (October 30, 2015), on Destination America, television ghost hunters the Tennessee Wraith Chasers will join psychic and medium Chip Coffey, and Archbishop James Long (of the United States Old Catholic Church) in an attempt on live television to rid the house of lingering evil. With them will be local St. Louis radio talk show host Dave Glover.

5165775210_428bb0aa15_o — This is what I’m hoping my Halloween will look like. photo credit: Walking via photopin (license)

And probably not tuning in will be me.

Because there are some things, whether real or not, I think probably ought not be messed with. Instead, I plan to enjoy my weekend of handing out candy to Disney Princesses and tiny Darth Vaders. Then on Monday, I’ll flip on my radio to find out if Dave Glover is spectacularly spewing pea soup.

Pickled History Scraped from the Bottom of the Barrel

On September 24, 2015September 24, 2015 By Sarah AngletonIn Famous Quotes, History5 Comments

On October 21, 1805, the British Royal Navy, under the leadership of Admiral Horatio Nelson, achieved what has been often identified as its most decisive naval victory of the Napoleonic Wars, at the Battle of Trafalgar. But the victory came at a price, because Admiral Nelson had been shot by a French marksman, and soon died with the words, “Thank God I have done my duty,” on his lips.

Admiral Nelson had previously lost his right arm in battle. It is not clear in which liquor barrel it was stashed. Oil on canvas by Lemuel Francis Abbott [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons — Admiral Nelson had previously lost his right arm in battle. It’s not clear in which liquor barrel the arm was stashed.
Oil on canvas by Lemuel Francis Abbott [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Like most important men of the era who had the misfortune to die at sea, the admiral was placed in a barrel of brandy for safekeeping on the trip home aboard his ship, Victory. Then the HMS Pickle, a schooner that had been present during the battle, was sent ahead to deliver the news that the navy had been victorious and that the admiral had been, well, pickled.

King George III was delighted with the news of the victory, but was purportedly sad to have lost Admiral Nelson, a hero whose memory lives on in the country for which he so nobly fought and died and that is still dotted with tributes to his heroism.

Perhaps the most bizarre tribute to the memory of the admiral is not a monument, however, but instead comes in the form of a tale that evolved from his final voyage, the one he took soaking in a barrel of brandy.

By the late 19^th century, a strange saying had emerged from the Royal Navy. If one were caught sneaking an illicit drink, he would be said to have been “tapping the admiral.” I can almost hear you saying, “Oh, that’s where that comes from.” And now I can almost see the disgusted face you’re making as you realize what the rest of that story must entail.

Ship physician William Beatty faced some criticism for choosing to put the admiral's body in brandy rather than the more customary rum. In some versions of the tale it was a rum barrel that was used, which makes this particular branding just a little bit disturbing. — Ship physician William Beatty faced some criticism for choosing to put the admiral’s body in brandy rather than the more customary rum. In some versions of the tale it was a rum barrel that was used, which makes this particular branding just a little bit disturbing.

Apparently, sailors flush with victory, and probably mourning the loss of friends as well, like to get their drink on. Never having served in the navy myself, I will just have to take the tale-tellers’ words for it. As the story goes, these sailors really needed to get their drink on and they weren’t about to let good brandy go to waste over one dead admiral.

As the ship sailed, the crew took turns siphoning off bits of the brandy, so much so that when the admiral finally arrived home and the barrel was opened, he was still perfectly preserved, but there wasn’t a drop of brandy left.

First of all, gross. Second of all, I think it’s pretty safe to assume it never really happened. Again, I’ve never served in the navy, but I’m acquainted with several people who have, and what I do know is that most of them like to tell tales.

Though various versions of this story are splashed across the Internet, I first encountered it a while ago in a book I was reading as part of my research for the novel I’m currently writing. And then very recently, as I was reading through another (quite different) source for the same project, I stumbled on it again.

When you head into the liquor barrel of history, there's really no telling what you might find. photo credit: Aging Barrels via photopin (license) — When you dive into the liquor barrel of history, there’s really no telling what you might find. photo credit: Aging Barrels via photopin (license)

I find that one danger of writing historical fiction is that often the story I want to write gets hijacked by my research, by the stories I find along the way (sometimes again and again) that really want to be shared, but that have no place in the book I’m working on. I’m sorry to disappoint any of you out there who might one day read my book, but Admiral Nelson and his barrel of brandy are not in it.

The story behind “tapping the admiral” is fascinating not because it’s true (again, gross), but because someone was devilish enough to make it up in the first place. And I would hate to think, dear reader, that you might someday find yourself at a party, sipping a drink (perhaps even brandy) without this story handy to pull out and share.

So here it is, one of the little legends drifting around in the great barrel that contains the tale I’d rather tell. Someday, after I’ve reached the end of the long, winding road toward a final published work, I hope you’ll enjoy the pickled remains. In the meantime, I will occasionally have to siphon off a little of the excess, because unlike the sailors who tell them, good stories should never be wasted.

Give Me My Seventeenth Day!

On September 3, 2015September 3, 2015 By Sarah AngletonIn History, Law1 Comment

Today is the sixteenth day of my children’s school year. Sixteen days of getting to know their teachers, running from the bees that invaded to school playground over the summer, re-establishing homework and study routines, and deciding that maybe summer isn’t as long and boring as they thought it was sixteen days ago.

Okay, maybe not THAT creative. photo credit: Lunchbots bento for 5th grade boy - puzzle cheese for autism via photopin (license) — Okay, maybe not THAT creative. photo credit: Lunchbots bento for 5th grade boy – puzzle cheese for autism via photopin (license)

I’ve been pretty busy, too. I’ve packed a variety of creative lunches (not just the slapped together peanut butter sandwiches my children can expect every day by late March), signed and returned every form that’s come home wadded up in the bottom of a backpack, and filed away roughly a billion flyers, making note of PTA fundraiser dates and soccer practice schedules.

And since I work from home, which means that when my children are home, I don’t really get to work (or at least I do a very different kind of work), I’ve had a remarkably productive sixteen days without the constant interruption of, “MOM!”

I have submitted two new short stories, added another 12,000 words to my current novel project, posted to my blog two Thursdays (and now three) in a row, attended my weekly critique group meeting three times (where I both gave and received both brilliant and terrible advice), and disappeared down several research rabbit holes. I’m even getting a start on my reading list.

You could say I’m on something of a sixteen day roll. Sixteen glorious days! That makes two entire weeks, and it would be three tomorrow.

If they had school tomorrow.

They don’t because it’s Labor Day weekend. Monday is a national holiday and all that and our school district, like many, decided to put a teacher planning and in-service training day on Friday, giving students a four day weekend. It’s probably a good idea. Families can travel or whatever. And I certainly don’t begrudge teachers their planning and in-service days. I realize those are important.

But I feel like we were just starting to hit our stride. I want my day back!

I imagine this is kind of how the people of Great Britain felt when they woke up on the morning of September 3, 1752 and realized the day didn’t actually exist. That year, British citizens (including those in the American colonies) went to bed on September 2 and woke up on September 14, skipping over eleven days in the process.

The calendar change was proposed by Philip Stanhope, the 4th Earl of Chesterfield whose birthday is on September 22. Guess he got to open his presents a little bit earlier in 1752. Portrait by Allan Ramsey. Public Domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

It was probably a good idea. Great Britain had been following the Julian calendar, introduced in 46 BC. That would have been all well and good except that the calendar was based on a solar year that had been miscalculated by 11 minutes. What wasn’t such a big miscalculation in 46 BC, had after a while become a very big deal, sending the calendar completely out of sync with the seasons and wreaking havoc on the Catholic feast schedule.

In 1582, Pope Gregory XIII decided he’d had enough and proposed the Gregorian calendar which is much more accurate as long as you add a day every few years and a second or so once in a while. While Catholic nations were quick to adopt the new system, Protestant nations were less enthusiastic.

But in 1750, Parliament decided that doing business with the rest of Europe was somewhat difficult when no one could figure out what day it was, and the plan was set in motion. Two years later September got the shaft.

Rumors have swirled across the pages of history books that the people rioted in the streets because their government had the audacity to steal 11 days of their lives. The source of that rumor, as it turns out, is probably a satirical work by William Hogarth. During the next election season in which the Tories drummed up distaste for the Whigs by publicly blaming them for cancelling the first half of September and ruining everyone’s year, Hogarth produced a painting depicting the rioting horde with placards that read: “Give us our 11 days.”

An Election Entertainment by William Hogarth. Public Domain, via Wikimedia Commons

And history was invented.

I may be no William Hogarth, but...nope, I got nothing. I'll just stick to writing. — I may be no William Hogarth, but…nope, I got nothing. I’ll just stick to writing.

I imagine the change did make some people grumble for a while (especially those with birthdays in early September) but others didn’t seem to mind so much. In America (where people were evidently less prone to riot for no real purpose than they are today), Benjamin Franklin wrote of the calendar change, “It is pleasant for an old man to go to bed on September 2, and not have to get up until September 14.”

So as the school district steals what should have been my seventeenth productive day, I will try to channel my inner Ben Franklin and tell myself that it is pleasant for a mom to pack creative school lunches on September 3 and not have to do it again until September 8.

Dark Nights, Bad Decisions, and a Litterbug Comet

On August 13, 2015August 15, 2015 By Sarah AngletonIn Astronomy, History9 Comments

Just a little while ago I dropped off my two boys for their first day of school. And a few hours before that I made a questionable parental decision. You may have heard that this is the week of the Perseid meteor shower.

It happens every year around this time, usually peaking out somewhere around August tenth or so as the comet Swift-Tuttle makes its way past the earth flinging rocks at us like a thoughtless driver might flick a smoldering cigarette butt out his driver side window onto the interstate. Except much cooler to witness.

We saw a few like this. By Nick Ares from Auburn, CA, United States (Perseid Meteor 8/12/08) [CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0) or CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons — We saw a few like this.
By Nick Ares from Auburn, CA, United States (Perseid Meteor 8/12/08) [CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0) or CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons

That’s especially true this year because Jupiter and its mighty gravitational pull was in a location on its orbital path to come closer than usual to Swift-Tuttle’s path, which, according to the people who know about such things, nudges the comet and its wake a little closer to Earth. This, along with the deep dark of a moonless night and a stunningly clear sky over my great state of Missouri, sets the stage for a great show.

You might say the stars aligned to make this some of the most spectacular viewing of the Perseids in years, though if you do, I’m pretty sure the people who know about these things would make fun of you.

The only factor out of alignment for us was the looming first day of third and fifth grades which happened to immediately follow the peak viewing of the meteor shower. Because my third grader doesn’t care for surprises and we thought might lead us toward wisdom in this particular instance, my husband asked him before he went to bed whether hypothetically he would wish to be awakened at 3:00 in the morning to watch the meteors, if we could see them well. He answered with an emphatic no.

Smart kid. Alas, we are not as wise and so we set our alarm for three and checked it out. Where we live there is a fair amount of light pollution, but Jupiter, the moon, and the litterbug comet did not let us down. I’m sure it would have been better in the country somewhere, but for a suburban backyard meteor viewing, it was pretty amazing.

By 3:30 we made the decision to wake our fifth grader and invite him to join us, an offer he gleefully accepted. As far as questionable parental decisions go, I suppose this one wasn’t so bad. It’s not like we’re Edward Claudius Herrick’s parents who in 1827 decided their highly intelligent son shouldn’t go to college because of his weak eyes.

Instead, Herrick, the son of a Yale graduate and a descendant of one of Yale’s founders, became a clerk in a bookstore that served Yale students, because as everyone knows, reading, sorting, and cataloguing books is much easier on the eyes than say, studying them.

Then on the night of August 9, 1837, Herrick was closing up shop when, with his weak eyes, he noticed a large number of meteors in the sky. He wasn’t the first to observe the Perseids, not by thousands of years. He wasn’t even the first person to take serious note of them in the 19^th century, but still, he studied and published a great deal on them, faithfully observing the shower every year for the rest of his life. His body of work on the Perseids gained the attention of Yale which eventually awarded him an honorary Master of Arts degree and appointed him to the position of college librarian, a job to which he, despite his weak eyes, was particularly well suited.

My son did wake up a little bleary-eyed this morning for his first day of fifth grade, but he also woke up excited to tell all of his friends and his new teacher (to whom I have to offer an apology and a promise not to pull him out of bed in the middle of the night again without a really good reason) about the meteor shower that his parents woke him up to see.

It was an experience I imagine he will remember for a long time, much more clearly than his first day of fifth grade, and not only because he’s tired. The experience, I think, was well worth the discomfort it will cause him today and questionable or not, I’m pretty sure I’d do again.

NOTE: A reader who evidently knows about such things recently contacted me to point out that Swift-Tuttle actually zooms by Earth only every 133 years and that in fact it’s Earth that runs into the comet’s trail of discarded cigarette butts every year in early to mid-August producing the Perseid Meteor Shower. Next I suppose he’s going to try to tell me the earth revolves around the sun.

I pass this information on to you, dear reader, because I would hate for you to embarrass yourself at a cocktail party by spouting erroneous information you read on this blog. And I want to remind you that it’s always a good idea to mention this blog at a cocktail party.

Dancing with the Squares

On May 28, 2015May 28, 2015 By Sarah AngletonIn History, Hobbies8 Comments

In 1923 America’s dance floors were headed for trouble. Ladies were just beginning to wear almost sensible clothing that allowed them to move and swing, jazz was emerging as a fast-paced and exciting music style, and the kids were snuggling close with a good fox trot or waltz and then dancing themselves silly with the Lindy Hop and the Charleston. The morals of a bygone era were fast crumbling away.

Henry Ford. This man knows his way around a Virginia Reel. [Public Domain], via Wikimedia Commons — Henry Ford, who once famously said, “You can dance any way that you want, so long as it’s square.” [Public Domain], via Wikimedia Commons

One man decided he was going to do something about it. The father of the auto industry and master of the assembly line, Henry Ford, figured if he could put together a car one piece at a time, then he could put wholesome American culture back together the same way, one dance step at a time. And so he set out on a crusade to bring back the good old-fashioned square dance.

American square dance has a muddy history, but it generally traces its roots back to the coordinated group dances of England in the early 1600s. Of course when settlers brought it with them to the new world, it took on a uniquely American flavor. A caller announced the moves, which were given French names (because that seemed likely to irritate the English) like “promenade,” “allemande,” and dos-à-dos” (which quickly became “do-si-do,” because that seemed likely to irritate the French).

As America became more urbanized, square dancing faded, but Ford saw the dance as a way to promote exercise as well as genteel manners. He hired a square dance caller by the name of Benjamin Lovett to teach square dance full time in Dearborn, Michigan and required his employees to engage in the activity. He also sponsored square dance programs in many public schools, on college campuses, and over the radio waves.

It worked. The dance started to catch on. Soon ladies and gentlemen were lined up in groups on the dance floor to bow to their partners and perform coordinated dance steps with very little touching and plenty of room for the Holy Spirit. The dance’s popularity continued through World War II and the following decade before it began once again to fade. But I think it’s going to surge again, led by an army of enthusiastic Missouri 4th graders.

My kids are officially out of school for the summer now, but these last few weeks leading up to the last day have been busy.

Making car parts for the American working square dancer, because that's who they are and that's who they care about. [Public Domain], via Wikimedia Commons — Making car parts for the American working square dancer, because that’s who they are and that’s who they care about. [Public Domain], via Wikimedia Commons

There’ve been awards ceremonies and book fairs and pizza parties and field days. And, yes, square dancing.

Last week, my fourth grader (now officially a 5th grader!) participated in Missouri Day at school. I don’t know if this is a state required thing or if it’s just something our school does, but the kids were taken through a series of activities to help them learn about all things Missouri. Because I am a ~~sucker who can’t say no~~ dedicated parent, I volunteered to help.

It turns out the official state folk dance of Missouri is the square dance (as opposed to other kinds of American folk dances….go on, try to name one). In fact, twenty-four states have declared the square dance their state folk dance, and it would be twenty-five if Minnesota would just bite the bullet and make it official since it was proposed in both 1992 and 1994, but I suppose something this important shouldn’t be rushed.

Go ahead. Just try to do this without making any physical contact with your partner. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons — Go ahead. Just try to do this without getting cooties. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

So I went to the school to help the fourth graders learn to square dance. Of course I don’t believe I’ve ever square danced. I went to fourth grade in the state of Illinois (where the square dance is also the state folk dance) and no one seemed to care whether or not I learned this critical life skill.

Basically my job was to try to help two groups of eight kids interpret the instruction given by the elderly square dance caller. Allegedly.

What I really did was attempt to convince a bunch of ten-year-olds that they probably won’t die from touching another ten-year-old of the opposite sex, and failing that, how they might effectively swing their partner without actually coming into contact with him or her.

And I think once they figured it out, the kids had a pretty good time. Henry Ford would have been proud.

Baltimore through Stanley’s Eyes

On April 30, 2015April 30, 2015 By Sarah AngletonIn Books, History5 Comments

In 1964, Stanley Lambchop had a tragic accident. Just that day his father had given him a new bulletin board to hang on the wall of his room and as he slept, the bulletin board fell, squashing him. Luckily young Stanley survived the near tragedy, but it left him changed. Poor Stanley had become flat. The Lambchop family had enough spunk to transform Stanley’s new disability into an opportunity and soon he found himself posing as a painting on the wall of the local art gallery where he assisted the police in catching a burglar.

By User:Miwillans (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

This is the plot of children author Jeff Brown’s Flat Stanley. The character would go on to have five more crazy adventures during the author’s lifetime, and since Brown’s death in 2003, has been guided by other authors through at least a dozen more. But Stanley’s biggest adventure was orchestrated in 1995 by third grade teacher Dale Hubert of Ontario.

Hubert assigned his students to design a Flat Stanley and send him through the mail in order to both practice writing letters, and to learn about the various places Stanley visited. Recipients of Stanley were asked to report back on his adventures and include pictures of Stanley in various locations along the way.

The assignment was a great success and earned Hubert the 2001 Prime Minister’s Award for Teaching Excellence. Soon the Flat Stanley Project spread and now teachers all over the world participate in it with their students. My youngest son’s class is working on a Flat Stanley Project right now and a week or so ago, he received his first pictures.

I want to share a few of them with you because his Stanley traveled to visit a friend of mine in the Baltimore area. I know in the past few days we’ve all seen a lot of images of Baltimore, of protest demonstrations, of violence against police, and of buildings engulfed in flames. So, I thought maybe it would do us all some good to see the place in a different light, as a beautiful city full of a rich heritage and deep-rooted history.