Curio Cabinet / Person, Place, or Thing

Have Pilgrims, will travel.

The Mayflower may not have been a warship or party yacht, yet the merchant ship managed to sail its way into history when it transported the Pilgrims to the American colonies in September of 1620. Stepping aboard the vessel's history gives us a unique perspective on how that fateful trip came to be, and how the crew survived the treacherous journey.
 

About 26 English vessels bore the Mayflower name in the early 17th century. Records for Captain Christopher Jones' Mayflower indicate the boat was about 90 ft long by 25 wide, with three masts and a cargo capacity of 180 tons—or more than enough weight capacity to serve as a merchant vessel. In its early voyages, the ship traversed Europe and Northern Africa to transport wine, salt, and hemp across various countries. But in 1620, it was contracted with its most precious cargo: Protestant Separatists and English investors, otherwise collectively known as the Pilgrims to the New World.
 

The voyage of the Mayflower is often associated with the Pilgrims seeking religious freedom—maybe because their first attempts to do so actually backfired. In 1608, the Protestant separatists sailed for the Netherlands with the expectation of religious tolerance in their future. What they found in the city of Leiden was actually too much tolerance: the Dutch were free to work on Sundays, join local guilds, and prosper among a wealth of economic opportunities. The Separatists returned to England and made preparations to sail to America.
 

The Mayflower and Speedwell ships initially departed on the River Thames in July of 1620 with approximately 60 merchants and non-denominational passengers accompanying the 40 Protestants in travel. There's a good reason we don't hear about the Speedwell in history books: it sprung leaks. As it became clearer that the Speedwell would not make the journey, the Mayflower took all but a few passengers aboard, where they would stay for the 66-day journey. Since the layout of the Mayflower was designed for non-human cargo, about 100 Pilgrims were stuffed in a cramped below-ground gun deck. There was no onboard latrine, and sailing in storm season meant that hanging out on deck was a rare option. To add to the misery, the Mayflower's square-rigged design was meant to save the crew and cargo in harsh weather; yet those same features caused horrible delays while sailing against the wind—which was precisely the direction they'd travel toward American colonies. It's a wonder only one passenger, by the name of William Butten, passed away during the entire voyage, and just three days before reaching Cape Cod off the coast of New England.

 

Landing in the New World on November 9, 1620, alone makes the Mayflower a historically important ship. Once the weather cleared and Captain Jones' crew were doing well again, the Mayflower returned to England in May of 1621. In the next few years, Jones died at sea and the Mayflower was retired. It was likely taken apart and used as timber for the Mayflower Barn in Buckinghamshire, England—no doubt where its life is much more, ahem, stable than its previous life at sea.
 

Below: a cross-section view of the Mayflower's ship design, and two views of the Mayflower Barn.
 

Image Credit: Art.co.uk, Pete's Walks, Mayflower History
 

After surviving a turbulent childhood, Elizabeth navigated several hurdles to lead England towards prosperity.

Ambitious young women could learn a thing or two from Queen Elizabeth I. Born September 7, 1533, the queen successfully led her country through religious strife, defended England from a Spanish invasion, and encouraged the development of the arts. (Many young playwrights benefited from her love of theater, including William Shakespeare.) A powerful public speaker, Elizabeth shrewdly cultivated popular support and was mourned by many fans upon her death. But good fortune did not fall into her lap; in fact, the queen faced upheaval and scandal years before her coronation.
 
Elizabeth lost both her parents before her teenage years: her mother was beheaded by her father, King Henry VIII, who then died when Elizabeth was 13. She then dealt with the turbulence of being moved from home to home and the suspicion of nobles who viewed her as a competitor to her half-brother, the heir apparent. She eventually landed at the home of her stepmother, Catherine Parr, with whom she had a good relationship—seemingly a welcome respite. But not soon after she moved in, circumstances took a dark turn: Elizabeth's 40-something stepfather began paying too much attention to her, entering her chambers before she was fully dressed, tickling and slapping her inappropriately—and at one point even holding her down and cutting up her dress. Only months later did his wife finally put her foot down, sending Elizabeth away and displacing her once more.
 
The incident with her stepfather may have shaped young Elizabeth's decision to remain a virgin queen. During her 44 years in power, Elizabeth received several bids for her hand in marriage. But she rebuffed each of them. "At present it is not convenient; nor never shall be without some peril unto you and certain danger unto me," she told Parliament in 1566, somewhat quelling the pressure from her advisers.
 
Though Elizabeth's decision to remain single may have been motivated by personal reasons, it was also a shrewd political move. Without a spouse, royal power was centralized in her hands. Those hands turned out to be quite capable, especially in dealing with Protestant-Catholic strife early in her reign. King Henry's decision to break with the Catholic church in order to divorce his first wife had prompted religious conflict that continued to fester for many years. Elizabeth formulated a proposal that protected Protestant interests without harshly punishing Catholics, restoring some sense of stability to the country.
 
Over the years, the virgin queen successfully managed other challenges, leading Britain through a crucial period in which it began to develop a national identity and look outwards to begin exploring other parts of the world. In times of war, her strong oratory skills came in handy. During the Spanish Armada, Elizabeth arrived at the scene wearing a suit of armor in a symbolic gesture of solidarity with the defending troops. "I know I have the body of a weak and feeble woman; but I have the heart and stomach of a king—and of a King of England too," she said. Despite her turbulent childhood—or maybe because of it—Elizabeth I managed to handle the ups and downs of queendom and leave behind a powerful legacy.
 

Image credit & copyright: Royal Museums Greenwich
 

The infamous Supreme Court decision that bears his name remains a dark stain on U.S. history.

Dred Scott was a slave who fought for his freedom—all the way to the highest court in the land. In 1857 the Supreme Court declined to grant his freedom, concluding that African Americans were "so far inferior that they had no rights which the white man was bound to respect." The decision would help set the stage for the Civil War—and change the United States forever.  

Dred Scott was born into slavery in Virginia around 1799. As a young man, he was sold to Dr. John Emerson, a U.S. army surgeon who lived in Missouri. Scott accompanied Emerson when he traveled to army bases throughout the Midwest. After Emerson died, Scott attempted to purchase his freedom and that of his wife and two young daughters, but Emerson's widow turned the offer down. Scott then sued for his family's freedom, based on the fact that they had spent four years in Illinois, a free state, and in the free territory of Wisconsin. (Under Missouri law at that time, prolonged residence in a free state entitled an enslaved person to freedom.)  

The case went all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court. In 1857, Chief Justice Roger B. Taney ruled that African Americans had no claim to either freedom or citizenship. According to the decision, which was supported by seven of nine justices, the Declaration of Independence principle that "all men are created equal" did not apply to black people, who "were not and could never become citizens of the United States."  

The Dred Scott decision was applauded in the slave states but widely condemned in the North, and helped fuel the hostilities that led to the Civil War four years later. Scott didn't live to see the conflict—or the 1863 Emancipation Proclamation granting enslaved people their freedom. He died of tuberculosis 160 years ago this month, just one year after the Supreme Court ruling.  

Posterity has not been kind to the Dred Scott decision; it is widely considered one of the most shameful in U.S. history. It was recently denounced by Chief Justice Taney's own family. In 2017, Taney's great great grand nephew stood in front of the judge's statue and apologized to Dred Scott's family, acknowledging the inadequacy of the gesture: "Apologizing to the Scotts for the Dred Scott decision is like bringing a Band-Aid to an amputation," he said.  

Below:
Below: Supreme Court Justice Taney's descendants apologized to Dred Scott's family last year in front of Taney's statue in Annapolis, Maryland.
 

Image credit & copyright: top, uncredited, Wikimedia Commons; bottom, The Baltimore Sun.
 

Hot potato history.

Happy National Potato Day! Whether they're boiled, twice baked, stuffed in samosas, or topping a shepherd's pie, mashed potatoes are one of the best ways to enjoy the flavors of an ancient starchy veggie. Taking a look at the ways the humble crop became a regaled staple of the French courts also gives us insight into how the little spud became the fourth largest food crop in the world.
 

The potato was first cultivated from tubers (crops formed at the base of roots) by pre-Incan dwellers in the Andes region of South America around 8000 B.C.E. By the time Spanish Conquistadors arrived in the 16th century, thousands of varieties of potatoes were grown in the area. With their many methods of preparing "papas," it's likely the Incas were the original purveyors of the heated and pulverized potato—though the Europeans would soon have their own takes on the dish.
 

When they first landed in Europe, spuds couldn't have been bigger duds. Cultivating the plants proved difficult, and many Europeans had to be tricked into eating the food—after all, old dietary habits of wheat and rice were hard carbs to break. Enter Antoine Parmentier, an eccentric potato-positive pharmacist. After having been captured, jailed, and forced to subsist on potatoes by the Prussian army during the Seven Years' War, Parmentier developed quite the taste for the tuber. And just in time: in 1775, King Louis XVI lifted price controls on grains, causing a massive spike in bread prices across France. With commoners up in arms, Parmentier set out on a number of potato publicity stunts. He prepared entire meals made out of potato dishes, even once regaling U.S. Minister to France, Thomas Jefferson, with deep-fried French fries. Dozens of potato crops were planted along 40 acres of the Parisian border. Legend even has it Parmentier brought the flowers of the potato plant to Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, who both began to wear the delicate buds among their elaborate rococo dress. For his contributions to the French diet, the pharmacist's name is attached to dishes like the hachis parmentier, or shepherd's pie with a generous layer of mashed potato topping.

 

As the potato spread its roots across Europe and North America, so too did recipes for mashed potatoes. The first printed one is attributed to Hannah Glasse's 1765 collection The Art of Cookery. With the invention of the potato ricer in 1887 by Jacob Fitzgerald and William H. Silver came efforts to create dehydrated mashed potatoes. All of these were notably unappetizing until the 1950s, when a division of the U.S. Department of Agriculture began experiments with a process called the "Philadelphia cook." Though instant mashed potatoes may lend themselves to nostalgic feelings, these days we're more likely to try a Julia Child recipe for perfect mashed potatoes, grab a triangle of stuffed Afghani Bolani, or any number of dishes that bring the starchy Thanksgiving side onto the center stage.
 

Below: a painting of Antoine Parmentier holding corn—but we know the potato truth. A sampling of the over 3,000 varieties of spuds grown in Peru.
 

Image credit & copyright: Once Upon a Chef, Raising Miro
 

The master of suspenseful films had a dark side of his own.

Alfred Hitchcock earned the public's admiration—and the respect of critics—with carefully executed thrillers like The Birds, Vertigo, and North by Northwest. Notoriously controlled affairs, Hitchcock's films often featured a charming villain and explored themes like guilt and sexual obsession. Yet Hitchcock did not merely explore these ideas in fiction; he embodied them in life, sometimes with disastrous results.
 
Born in a London suburb in 1899, Hitchcock had a traditional, middle-class British childhood; his father ran a grocery store, much like his grandfather had. Yet this relatively "normal" life included moments of terror. Hitchcock's grammar school regularly meted out corporal punishment—but waited until the end of the day to dole out the penalties, causing severe anxiety among students during the day. There were also dangers at home. When Hitchcock's father caught him disobeying a rule as a five-year-old, he sent young Hitchcock to the local police station with a note asking the constable to lock him in a cell for a few minutes as punishment. (The constable obliged, sparking a lifelong fear of law enforcement.)
 
Hitchcock's childhood ended abruptly when his father passed away in 1914. Just 15, Hitchcock took a job with a local telegraph company to support himself and his mother. The job exposed him to copywriting and drawing, his first professional creative pursuits, which he eventually used to land a role at motion picture company Famous Players-Lasky. By the 1930s, Hitchcock had moved to Hollywood and established himself in film. His movies Sabotage and Secret Agent had created a new subgenre of spy thriller, paving the way for the James Bond series. He'd also pioneered the use of the MacGuffin—an object that drives the plot forward because the main characters are invested in it, though it doesn't hold much meaning for the audience.
 
Over the next few decades, Hitchcock channeled his energy into some of his most disturbing films, like Psycho. But the director's darker impulses were largely contained to the screen—that is, until he met a model named Tippi Hedren. Hedren was an unknown quantity; Hitchcock had spotted her in an ad for diet soda, one of her few TV appearances. The working relationship started with high hopes. On the evening in 1961 when Hitchcock offered Hedren the lead role in The Birds—despite studio executives' concerns about her lack of experience—he presented her with a pin depicting three gold birds. (Perhaps a real-life MacGuffin.)
 
But by the time filming of The Birds was in full swing, Hitchcock had become so obsessed with Hedren that he had hired two crewmen to follow her and report her movements back to him. When Hedren rebuffed his overt advances, the rejection unleashed Hitchcock's vengeful side—culminating in a dark and violent fate for Hedren's character in the 1964 psychological drama, Marnie. The disturbing experience terminated a collaboration that had begun with so much promise, and brought to light Hitchcock's at times controversial treatment of the women he worked with (and problematic representation of them on screen). The director's dark side may have fueled some of the most lauded films of the 20th century—but there was certainly a huge cost associated with his particular brand of brilliance.
 

Image credit & copyright: Willi Schneider / Rex
 

Napoleon Bonaparte's monument to victory grows to wear many hats.

Vive la France! Few monuments carry such a drama-filled past as Paris' iconic Arc de Triomphe. Inaugurated on this day in 1836, the arch is located at Place Charles de Gaulle, the nucleus of the city's famous radiating avenues. The Arc de Triomphe once heralded Napoleon Bonaparte and his ill-fated First French Empire; two centuries later, it has evolved to embody a purer sense of liberation, freedom, and justice.
 

The origins of the arc lie in the Napoleonic Wars. In 1806, Napoleon returned to Paris from the Battle of Austerlitz, the greatest victory of his military career. The little general was riding a royal ego rush and decreed that an arc be built to honor his armies' accomplishments. Construction began on August 15, 1806—his birthday, of course.
 

French architect Jean-François-Thérèse Chalgrin labored to design his emperor's neoclassical monument. According to Napoleon, it had to rival the Arch of Titus in the Roman Forum. To this end, Chalgrin had the monument banded with friezes that depicted intricate scenes of war and peace; and the inner walls were to be inscribed with the names of battles and 558 generals. When Napoleon married his second wife, Marie Louise of Austria, only the arc's foundation stood. Evidently insecure—and likely in need of a hug—he had a mock Arc de Triomphe built out of wood for the express purpose of impressing his new bride. Unfortunately, the project faced a major setback when Chalgrin died in 1811. Construction slowed further when Napoleon abdicated three years later, and France focused its attention to restoring its monarchs to power.
 

Alas, the monument wouldn't be finished and inaugurated until July 29, 1836, fifteen years after Napoleon's death. (Construction of the arc had continued after he was dethroned and exiled on Saint Helena.) Its final dimensions were 164-foot-high, 148-foot-wide, 72-foot-deep. In 1840, Napoleon's remains were brought back to France and passed through the arc on the way to Les Invalides, his final resting place. It was the first and only time Napoleon put his grand arc to use.
 

The next century would see two very un-French armies stage victory marches at the arc: the Prussians led by Otto von Bismarck in 1871, and the Nazis led by Adolf Hitler in 1940. Thankfully, allied armies would liberate Paris in 1944, and the arc has been in the caring hands of the French ever since.
 

Today, the arc has come to represent much more than Napoleon's victory at Austerlitz. Every July 14th on Bastille Day, swaths of people parade around the monument to commemorate the French Revolution. Both in 1998 and earlier this month, elated soccer fans rejoiced at the arc when France won the World Cup. Despite these numerous celebrations, no parade has marched through the arc since the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier was added beneath it in 1921; an eternal flame has burned there since 1923 in remembrance of all the lives lost during World War I. Today, the Arc de Triomphe serves as a solemn reminder of the steep price of power, but also as a symbol of France's resilience and undeniable triumphs.
 

Below: a closeup of the Bastille Day March.
 

Image credit & copyright: Guillaume Chanson / Gunaxin
 

A young African-American woman defies the odds to come up with a groundbreaking treatment for leprosy.

The inhabitants of Marvel Comics' fictional Wakanda nation may have vibranium on their side—but this real-life African-American chemist made a contribution to science without help from a powerful metal! In 1916, while still in her 20s, Alice Ball came up with a treatment that improved the symptoms of leprosy—especially necessary in an era when such patients were still exiled to colonies.
 

There was no shortage of technical prowess among Ball's family. Ball's grandfather, James Presley Ball, Sr., was one of the first African-American photographers to master the daguerreotype. Born on July 24, 1895, Ball got an early exposure to the magic of chemicals, since her parents often used them to develop film. But her fascination had a more scientific bent, and by her early 20s, Ball had zipped her way through two degrees in pharmaceutical chemistry and pharmacy.
 

While working as a graduate student at the University of Hawaii, Ball got the scientific opportunity of a lifetime when Hawaii's public health official asked her to tackle the chaulmoogra plant (at the time used as an herbal treatment for leprosy). Though she had already conducted successful scientific research, Ball was up against a mountain this time. A big, sticky mountain of chaulmoogra oil, to be precise. The oil was the plant's active ingredient, but it was also thick and hard to inject into patients. Some even complained of the treatment causing abscesses to form under their skin. Over the next several months, Ball figured out a way to extract fatty acid compounds from the oil and mix them into a solution that could be injected without side effects. And she was just 23!
 

By the 1920s, Ball's discovery had been incorporated into commercial pharmacology. The solution was being shipped to medical facilities around the world; it would be used for the next two decades to ease the symptoms of thousands of people. Between 1919 and 1923, it also helped out closer to home; for the first time ever, leprosy patients who received the treatment were released from Hawaii's Kalaupapa colony instead of being left there to languish. Unfortunately, Ball herself did not live to see the amazing results of her work. She passed away at the age of 24; the cause of death was unclear, but could have been linked to chlorine poisoning from her time in the lab. One thing is certain: Ball's contributions, though not recognized in her lifetime, left their mark—in the world of science and beyond.
 

Image credit & copyright: University of Hawaii
 

This notorious con artist was anything but squeaky clean.

For Jefferson Randolph "Soapy" Smith, the 19th century American West presented the opportunity to get rich—not by working the land or mining gold, but by tricking people into handing over their cash. His money-making schemes paid off, too—until they didn't. 120 years ago today, rough frontier justice put an end to Soapy Smith's cons once and for all.  

Smith was born in Georgia in 1860, and made his way to Denver at the age of 17. A Denver journalist described him as a gentleman who was "neatly dressed and groomed, and spoke eloquently in a soft Southern drawl." These traits, a flair for banter, and no apparent morals made Smith the perfect confidence man.  

For his most notorious scam, which earned him his nickname, Smith hawked soap—with a twist. Standing before a suitcase filled with neatly wrapped soap bars, he beckoned passersby with a pious pitch: "Cleanliness is next to Godliness!" His product was special, he boasted: he'd concealed $5, $10, and even $100 dollar bills in the wrapping of some of the bars. Smith's cronies, planted among the passersby, would pretend to purchase a bar and excitedly wave the bills they'd "won." Soon patrons began buying multiple bars, hoping to get lucky.  

With earnings from this and other grifts, including sales of bogus "remedies" made of Chinese herbs, Smith was able to open a saloon, which became a gathering place for the city's gangsters and lowlifes. He became a local heavyweight, bribing policemen and threatening city leaders who tried to get in his way. Smith even helped orchestrate the Denver mayoral election of Wolf Londoner in a race so obviously rigged, Londoner was forced to resign.  

In 1898, when reform politics in Denver threatened Soapy's reign, he moved on, this time following the Klondike gold rush to the town of Skagway, Alaska. Determined to cash in on gold fever, he opened a saloon and gambling hall. He also set up a telegraph operation, even though he didn't have access to a telegraph wire. Homesick miners paid Smith to send telegrams to loved ones; he would pretend to send the messages, then produce counterfeit replies requesting money—which he would then pocket himself.  

Skagway citizens eventually grew tired of Smith and his fellow gangsters, forming a group called the Committee of 101 to bring law and order to the fledgling community. Smith attended one of the vigilante group's meetings, perhaps hoping to sweet talk them into leaving him alone. But a city engineer named Frank Reid challenged Smith, and the argument turned violent. Reid shot Smith, who died almost immediately.  

The con artist was buried outside the town cemetery, the gravesite enclosed in iron bars. Smith, ever the canny businessman, would likely appreciate the fact that his final resting place is a popular Skagway tourist destination—and may even be scheming a way to profit from beyond the grave!  

Image credit & copyright: Denver Public Library Western History Department via Denver Post
 

Meet the French general who won the American Revolutionary War.

We've all heard the story of the American Revolution before: the First Continental Congress, the ride of Paul Revere, and George Washington's crossing of the Delaware River. But among the rockets' red glare remains an unsung hero with an unwieldy name: Jean-Baptiste Donatien de Vimeur, comte de Rochambeau. This suave French count would befriend Washington and, from outside the limelight, guide the colonies to independence.
 

Born on July 1, 1725, in Vendôme, France, Rochambeau seemed customarily destined for the clergy until his older brother's death, which allowed him to instead pursue a military career. At 15, he saw action as a cavalry cornet; as a young man, he fought in both the War of Austrian Succession and the Seven Years' War. The latter saw him swiftly rise up the military ladder, replacing the squabbling leaders who allowed Britain to royally stomp France. After the disaster, King Louis XVI tasked Rochambeau with reorganizing the French army.
 

In 1778, shortly after the 13 colonies declared independence from Britain, Louis XVI eagerly aligned France with the colonists, hoping to inflict revenge on the English. Initially, Rochambeau was to lead an amphibious invasion of southern England, but the attack was quickly aborted due to storms. In 1780, Rochambeau instead sailed to Newport, Rhode Island, with 4,000 French troops in tow.
 

With orders to regard Washington as his superior—whom he referred to as "my Dear Général"—Rochambeau made a pleasant first impression on colonial leaders, properly disciplining his soldiers as any well-mannered guest ought to. Still, Washington was skeptical, as prior French aid had proven less than adequate. He sent a letter to a relative complaining about his new French companion; to his embarrassment, it was intercepted and published. Red-faced, Washington pled for Rochambeau's forgiveness, which was readily given.
 

The two set to work. Washington expressed his desire to first retake New York City; he had lost the trade hub in a 1777 blunder, and retaking it had become a personal matter. Rochambeau—in a decision critical to the outcome of the war—implored Washington to instead liberate Virginia from Lord Cornwallis. Heavily fortified New York City would be a slaughter, he objected. With some persuasion, Washington eventually agreed. In 1781, the Franco-American coalition marched on Virginia.
 

While Washington and Rochambeau engaged Cornwallis on land, French Admiral de Grasse—with whom Rochambeau had been in correspondence—arrived with 30 warships from the Caribbean and mauled the resident British fleet, trapping Cornwallis and his 8,000 soldiers (a large army for the time). Washington, marveling, realized America would actually win independence. With the French lined on one side, the Americans on the other, the British marched solemnly past thousands of soldiers. When Cornwallis' assistant attempted to surrender his lord's sabre to Rochambeau, the Frenchman deferred the lord's show of submission to Washington, much to Cornwallis' chagrin.
 

The war unwound from there, ending in 1783. Both Washington and Rochambeau would go their separate ways. The two friends attempted to keep in touch, but the chaotic French Revolution would bring Rochambeau within inches of the guillotine. At one point, he wrote to Washington expressing worry that the French would not be so patient, nor civil, as the Americans had been in their pursuit of democracy. It was the last they communicated. Before an 81-year-old Rochambeau died in 1807, a newly-crowned Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte would attempt to place his generals under the tutelage of the aged count as "pupils." Graciously—and perhaps forlornly—Rochambeau replied: "The pupils have far surpassed their master."
 

Image credit & copyright: Ann Ronan Pictures / Print Collector / Getty Images
 

Paper, rock, circles.

Thursday marked this year's summer solstice, when thousands of visitors flocked to Wiltshire in southwest England to watch the sun rise through the perfectly-aligned Heel Stone at Stonehenge. The sight has inspired awe in generations of tourists, archaeologists, and heavy metal bands, to name a few. And it's just the first of many wonders that lie chiseled in Stonehenge's history.
 

If modern construction projects seem to move slowly, it's nothing compared to what the Stonehenge builders went through. Work began on the monument around 3100 B.C.E. and was completed in three main stages. The first stage saw the building of a circular enclosure containing a bank, ditch, and the Aubrey holes—round pits named after 17th-century antiquary John Aubrey, who discovered them. The second stage began in 2150 B.C.E., when 82 igneous bluestones were hauled in from Wales' Preseli mountains, 200 miles away, on rollers and sledges. 150 years later, the third stage saw the 50-ton sarsen stones dragged from the Marlborough Downs in northern Wiltshire—a task that would have taken roughly 500 men over a 25-mile journey. At that time, the sarsen stones were arranged into Stonehenge's iconic trilithon arches—two vertical stones supporting a large horizontal stone—which align with summer and winter solstice sunrises.
 

How Stonehenge was built has been a matter mostly resolved by radiocarbon dating. What exactly it was used for is a mystery still being unraveled. Twelfth-century Arthurian legends attribute the site' construction to Merlin the magician, who was said to have removed the healing rocks from Ireland and rebuilt them in Wiltshire with the help of giants. Other myths point to Celtic druids, UFO landings, or a site of ceremonial coronations for Danish kings. One particularly grisly theory stems from the etymology of the name: the Old English word hencg has close ties with "hinge" or "hang," with the trilithons resembling medieval gallows. Excavations have uncovered remains of humans, fine trinkets, animals, and large deposits of burnt coals, suggesting that even before building began, the grounds were likely used for ceremonial sacrifices and sacred burials.
 

Over the past century, Stonehenge's cultural significance has become far less carnal, with emphasis on scientific study and conservation efforts. It was only in 1915 that the monument finally came under the care of the British state, when Sir Cecil Chub donated the land he won at auction. Over the years, preservation work has included righting falling stones, and sometimes placing them in more stable concrete bases. In the 1900s, tourists were banned from chiseling off pieces of the ancient stones, as well as climbing them in 1977. Just in time, too, to prevent the remaining structure from sinking further into the ground or being destroyed by careless behaviors. In 1986, the location became a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and shortly after, the British House of Commons ordered archaeological research on the site. Its past may be recovered and its future secure, but Stonehenge's ancient secrets remain anything but set in stone.
 

Below: a reconstruction of what Stonehenge looked like in its completion; a map of the area around Stonehenge, which had two pits along the Cursus, a dug out line that was part of a ritualized entry point to the structure; the summer solstice sun viewed through the Heel Stone.
 

Image credit & copyright: Smithsonian Magazine, Henrik Knudsen / English Heritage, October Films, David Preiss, Rex
 

When the gloves came off, "the Greatest" showed himself to be a complex man gifted with many talents.

"Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee." When Muhammad Ali spoke those iconic words, he was referring to his unrivaled fighting style. Nevertheless, they speak truth to his equally impressive, if not overshadowed, brilliance. Inside the boxing ring, his was the story of athletic domination; outside, it was the legend of a man born at the bottom, beneath suffocating strata, who set his eyes on nothing less than the top.
 

Ali was born on January 17, 1942, in Louisville, Kentucky, and named Cassius Clay after the white abolitionist. A descendant of antebellum slaves, he experienced unbridled racism. When a store clerk denied little Clay access to a water fountain, the boy was deeply affected; when the story of Emmett Till reached him in 1955, he and his friends let out their stifled frustrations by vandalizing a railyard.
 

Clay's fury found expression when his precious bike was stolen at age 12. He promised a police officer, Joe Martin, that he would pummel the perp. Martin, a boxing trainer, recommended Clay take lessons with him first. Only six weeks later, Clay won his first fight against a local amateur boxer. He went on to win the Golden Gloves tournament in 1956, and three years later, was the Amateur Athletic Union's lightweight division champ.
 

In 1960, 18-year-old Clay traveled to the Rome Olympics, where he walloped Zbigniew Pietrzykowski, before allegedly tossing his gold medal into the Ohio River to protest racism in his hometown. In 1963, after beating Sonny Liston in the World Heavyweight Championship as a 7:1 underdog, Clay actively partook in the Civil Rights Movement. He converted to Islam and swapped his "slave name" for Muhammad Ali (though journalists refused to print it). He also recorded a politically-charged album of poetry in iambic pentameter with Columbia Records, I Am the Greatest. In 1967, he dodged the draft, refusing to fight for a country that grossly persecuted African Americans. His world heavyweight title was revoked and he was barred from boxing. Ever the Renaissance man, Ali preoccupied himself by playing the title role in the Broadway musical Buck White.
 

His boxing license was reinstated in 1970, and his conviction overturned in 1971. From there, Ali successfully defended his title six times against big names like George Foreman and Ronald Lyle. He also engaged in the most infamous boxing rivalry of all time with Joe Frazier after Frazier beat him in the "Fight of the Century" in 1971. Ali won their rematches, "The Rumble in the Jungle" and "The Thrilla in Manila." In 1984, after years of domination, an aging Ali would retire after a loss to Trevor Berbick, finishing his career with 56 wins (37 by knockout) and five losses.
 

He spent the rest of his years as a philanthropist, aiding organizations like the Special Olympics and the Make-A-Wish Foundation. In 2005, he received the Presidential Medal of Freedom, and in 2009, the President's Award from the NAACP. In 2016, he died after succumbing to septic shock. In regards to his tenacity, in the face of such adversity, Ali once wrote: "When I proclaimed that I was the greatest of all time, I believed in myself, and I still do."
 

Below: Ali looming over Sonny Liston after knocking him out in the first round; Ali recites poetry inspired by the controversial Attica prison riot.
 

Image credit & copyright: John Rooney / AP / Neil Leifer /Sports Illustrated / Getty Images
 

A Civil War hero remembers veterans.

In the Illinois state song, only three people are mentioned by name: two are Presidents Abraham Lincoln and Ulysses S. Grant. The third might be lesser known, yet arguably as important to our national history: General John A. Logan, the Civil War general, U.S. Senator, and founder of Memorial Day.
 

Born on February 9, 1826 in Jackson County, Illinois, Logan spent much of his life on the battlefield, and battling in Congress. He first enlisted in the army as a clerk with the First Illinois Infantry during the Mexican-American War in 1847. After returning from the war, Logan was elected to the House of Representatives in 1858, where his skills as an orator helped shift many of his constituents' positions from secessionists to Union supporters in the months leading up to the Civil War.
 

When war broke out against the Confederacy in 1861, Logan enlisted immediately, serving with the Michigan regiment at the First Battle of Bull Run on July 21st. The event was a disastrous loss for Union forces, and demonstrated how unprepared both sides were for combat. In an effort to drum up more support for the Union, Logan returned home to Illinois to recruit soldiers, who would later serve under him when he became colonel of the 31st "Dirty-First" Illinois Infantry. Logan would work his way up the ranks to a major general of the Union army, playing key roles in a number of victories, and earning the name "Black Jack" for his darkly-colored hair and beard. For a time, Logan would even serve as the military governor of Vicksburg, Mississippi, during General Ulysses S. Grant's 1862 Vicksburg Campaign to overtake control of the Mississippi River.

 

When the Civil War ended, James A. Logan became instrumental in founding a veterans network called the Grand Army of the Republic in 1866. When Logan became their second elected national commander, he issued General Order No. 11 on May 5, 1868, calling for a national "Decoration Day" on May 30th to honor fallen veterans with flowers and other decorum; "Let pleasant paths invite the coming and going of reverent visitors and found mourners. Let no vandalism of avarice of neglect, no ravages of time, testify to the present or to the coming generations that we have forgotten, as a people, the cost of free and undivided republic." Though decorating the graves of soldiers was not a new tradition at the time, James A. Logan's decree was the first to establish Memorial Day as a day of remembrance occuring at the end of May.
 

James A. Logan would continue his service to the nation as a U.S. Senator in 1871, with an attempt at the Vice-Presidential ticket as James Blaine's running mate in 1884 (they lost to Grover Cleveland). Still, with Logan's impressive legacy—which boasts statues, museums, and schools—his greatest achievement can be said to lie at the adorned headstone of each and every soldier who is remembered on Memorial Day for their selfless sacrifice.

 

Below: The Illinois state song's last verse contains the lines:

Not without thy wondrous story, Illinois, Illinois,

Can be writ the nation's glory, Illinois, Illinois,
On the record of thy years,
Abraham Lincoln's name appears, Grant and Logan, and our tears, Illinois, Illinois,
Grant and Logan, and our tears, Illinois.
 

Animal-shaped formations in the Peruvian desert defy explanation.

Who knew scratching around in the dirt could be an art form? Created sometime before 500 C.E., the Nazca formations in Peru depict hundreds of intricate figures including monkeys, jaguars, and the hummingbird above. The formations have piqued the interest of alien enthusiasts and inspired everything from a Nancy Drew novel to the 2008 movie Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, released 10 years ago this week. Yet no one is quite sure what they mean.
 
Obscure to most of the world for centuries, the Nazca lines got noticed by more people in the 1920s thanks to commercial airplanes flying over the arid region. Archaeologists observed that the etchings—some as long as the height of the Empire State Building—were created by removing a layer of reddish-brown pebbles and soil covering this area. Underneath was a lighter-colored clay. The lines were created by the Nazca people, who lived in the region centuries ago; to make a stencil to guide their elaborate projects, they had driven wood stakes into the ground and tied long pieces of rope in between them.
 
By the 1940s and 1950s, experts had documented enough of the formations to tackle the million-dollar question: why had the Nazca gone to these lengths? After an American archaeologist found that the sunset stood in alignment with one of the lines on the day after the winter solstice, he suggested that the Nazca people had used the shapes to track the movement of the sun. German scholar Maria Reiche continued this research, getting a grant from National Geographic to document the connection between the lines and the skies above.
 
By the 1970s, little new evidence had appeared to confirm that hunch. Instead, archaeologists who had carefully studied the Nazca society proposed they had set up the lines as part of a ritual to encourage rainfall in their dry homeland. This idea is supported by the animals depicted; in Nazca culture, a hummingbird was a symbol for fertility, while monkeys were associated with the Amazon, an area full of water. And then there was the fact that the Nazca were passionate about water; after all, they had set up an elaborate system of aqueducts still being used in Peru today.
 
All that international research has had another important outcome: in 1994, the area was designated a World Heritage Site by the United Nations. Though we may never know for sure why these lines exist, we hope they'll be preserved for another 1,500 years.

 

Below: more Nazca line formations.
 

Image credit & copyright: Ancient Summit