Curio Cabinet / Person, Place, or Thing

A pragmatic engineer overcame gender bias to drastically improve train travel.

We can all thank Olive Wetzel Dennis for footrests and reclining, stain-resistant chairs. One of the earliest women to complete a civil engineering degree, Dennis's tenure at B&O Railroad left a lasting impression on the train travel experience for the average American. Dennis made introductions that were later mimicked by other railroads and, eventually, buses and airplanes. And she did all this while being one of the few female engineers in the industry.

 
Born on November 20, 1885, and raised in Baltimore, Dennis showed an early penchant for mechanics and locomotion; when her father gave her a woodworking set at age 10, she used it to make a model streetcar for her brother. It included folding seats, moving stairs, and poles in the center much like the actual streetcars that careened through her hometown of Baltimore. When presented with dolls, Dennis often chose to build furniture and houses for them, rather than playing with them outright.
 
Those traits would come in handy in the 1920s, when Dennis joined Baltimore & Ohio Railroad. Just a year into her tenure, the head of the railroad announced a new initiative: making trains somewhat livable rather than the simply functional spaces they had been previously. The first person charged with the task was Dennis, who had already proven herself by successfully designing bridges and laying out railroad lines. "I was told to get ideas that would make women want to travel on our line," Dennis later said of her surprise appointment.
 
Dennis threw herself into the role with gusto. Her hours spent traveling up and down the mid-Atlantic yielded some genius ideas. She created larger dressing rooms for female passengers, as well as ceiling lights that could be brightened or dimmed. Upholstery throughout the B&O trains was made stain-resistant. She even designed — and later patented — special ventilators to help prevent train cars from getting stuffy.
But it wasn't always easy getting the respect she merited. Once, when Dennis asked for a pass to go aboard a competitor's train, it was made out to "Oliver Dennis." When she asked them to correct it to "Miss Olive Dennis," they sent it back to her as "Miss Olive Dennis, daughter of Engineer Oliver Dennis." The incident came as no surprise to Dennis; as she'd walked across the stage to receiver her master's degree from Cornell in 1920, one of her classmates had called out: "What the heck can a woman do in engineering?"
 
Despite these challenges, Dennis soldiered on; she stayed with B&O Railroad into the 1950s, retiring just a few years before her death in 1957. Profiled by her hometown paper later in her life, she had a few pithy words to sum up her career and the challenges she faced: "There is no reason that a woman can't be an engineer simply because no other woman has ever been one."
 

Below: another image of Dennis at work; a china set Dennis designed for B&O Railroad's centenary; a train that Dennis worked on.

Image credit & copyright: B&O Railroad Museum
 

Gone and anonymous, but not forgotten.

Every Veteran's Day, the U.S. President ceremoniously lays a wreath at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier at Arlington National Cemetery in Virginia. As war monuments go, the tomb's simplistic design belies its significant part in remembrance ceremonies for those who died serving our country.
 

The first Tomb of the Unknown Soldier wasn't an American affair; instead, the tradition began across the Atlantic. World War I's staggering death toll of (at least) nine million soldiers devastated the Allied Forces. While on duty, the Reverend David Railton came across a makeshift grave with the title "An Unknown British Soldier" written in pencil on a cross; this became his inspiration for requesting a ceremonial burial for an unidentified soldier at London's Westminster Abbey. After the war, the French Parliament also debated whether to bury an "ignored soldier" at the Panthéon in Paris, though eventually settled on the Arc de Triomphe as the location. Both the U.K. and France first conducted services for their nameless soldiers on November 11, 1920—the day traditionally celebrated as Armistice Day, and the anniversary of the end of World War I in 1918.
 

Word of France and Britain's ceremonies reached U.S. shores, and on March 4th the next year, Congress approved the burial of an unidentified soldier at the Memorial Amphitheater in Arlington National Cemetery. But how to ensure the inaugural soldier would really remain unknown years after WWI? The U.S. turned to France once again, requesting four caskets of anonymous American soldiers be exhumed from their overseas gravesites and lined up at city hall in Chalons-sur-Marne, France. On October 24, 1921, U.S. Army Seargent Edward F. Younger randomly chose the third from the left by laying a spray of white roses atop the casket. The first person to be buried at the American Tomb of the Unknown Soldier was transported home aboard the USS Olympia, with the remaining three returned to Meuse Argonne Cemetery.
 

The unknown soldier arrived in Washington, D.C., and was on display for the public at the Capitol Rotunda, with an estimated 100,000 visitors coming to pay their respects. The casket then traveled to its final destination; on November 11, 1921, President Warren G. Harding officiated the induction ceremonies at Memorial Amphitheater in Arlington. Since the initial ceremonies, an unidentified soldier from every major U.S. war has received the U.S. Medal of Honor and burials under marble slabs at the Tomb of the Unknowns—with the exception of a Vietnam vet, who was identified in 1998 through DNA testing as Lt. Michael Joseph Blassie, and reinterred at Jefferson Barracks in Missouri.

 

In 1926, architect Lorimer Rich and sculptor Thomas Hudson Jones won a competition to place a monument above the tomb. With the aid of the Piccirilli Brothers—who famously worked on the Lincoln statue at the Lincoln Memorial—work was completed in 1931. The rectangular cube featured north and south panels with three wreaths each, representing the six major battles WWI soldiers faced in France. The east panel features three Greek figures representing Peace, Victory, and Valor. On the western panel lies the inscription "Here rests in honored glory an American Soldier known but to God." Their names may be lost to us, but their deeds certainly are not.
 

Below: the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier at the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, France, the British tomb in Westminster Abbey, and a view of the three Greek virtues and wreaths at Arlington.
 

Image credit & copyright: Today I Found Out, Find a Grave, American Society of Landscape Architects, Dena Kennett
 

From its unlikely origins, Australia's first hospital weathered several storms.

Taking care of thousands of convicts is no small order. Starting in the late 1700s, the British government sent 162,000 convicts to penal colonies in Australia. Making up most of the region's settler population, the emigrants were largely convicted on petty crimes like stealing and brawling. Forced to serve their sentence by doing manual labor, they also struggled with illness like scurvy, smallpox, or dysentery. And until this hospital came along, they were receiving their treatment in makeshift tents set up near Sydney's busy streets.
 

But an unlikely solution wasn't far off. In the early 1800s, the region's newly-appointed governor schemed up a deal to finance the first proper hospital in the land down under—a legendary complex that would house thousands of sickly convicts as well as two other governmental institutions, and in the ensuing decades, bear witness to Australian history.
 

It wouldn't have happened without booze. Rebuffed by the British government when he asked for funding, Governor Lachlan Macquarie struck a deal with three businessmen this week in 1810: build the hospital in exchange for reduced import taxes on 60,000 gallons of rum as well as free convict labor to build the hospital. The agreement effectively gave the businessmen a monopoly on rum imported into Australia's rapidly growing market.
 

But the businessmen had to nurse their fair share of headaches related to the project. Construction of the hospital's three standalone wings lasted six years; one even had to be rebuilt after it collapsed. When noted architect Francis Greenway was brought in, he noticed dry rot, problems with structural beams, and weak foundations. It "must soon fall into ruin," he said. Despite these issues, the buildings stood on their own for a few decades; the main building was torn down in the 1880s to make way for a renovation. One wing hid several faults for decades, only discovered during restoration in the 1980s.
 

When the hospital first opened its doors in 1816, Australia's convicts were ready to leave the streetside makeshift tents where they had previously been treated. (Though, their stays would be far from pleasant; because bloodletting was used to treat many ailments, the hospital earned the nickname "Sydney Slaughter House.") By the 1850s, the hospital's two smaller wings were being used as a Royal Mint and as the home of the state legislature of New South Wales. Who knew rum could pave the way for something like this?
 

Image credit & copyright: J. Bar
 

A scrappy American warship proves a young country can defend itself.

It's hard to imagine the U.S. lacking any degree of naval supremacy, but in the years following the Revolutionary War, the freshly-minted United States struggled to protect its merchant ships. Barbary pirates were kidnapping Americans in the Mediterranean, while European kingdoms broadly menaced the seas. The wooden-hulled frigate USS Constitution, aka "Old Ironsides," was the solution—and with 33 wins and no losses, it wasn't to be trifled with.
 

Launched on today's date in 1797, the Constitution was commissioned after President George Washington signed the Naval Act of 1794 into law. The bill, which provided funding for six new frigates, was a response to the widespread piracy that followed the Revolutionary War, when Britain ceased its protection of American merchants. Barbary pirates off the coast of North Africa pounced on the opportunity to raid American trade ships and ransom their crews.
 

The 1,576-ton Constitution, designed by shipbuilder Joshua Humphreys to remain sturdy for 10 to 20 years, would serve as a remedy. Armed with 60 cannons, the frigate possessed unusual features: a long keel, narrow width, and a 25-inch oak hull. And though it was smaller than European heavy frigates, its special schematics afforded it a balance of firepower, evasiveness, and durability. Named by George Washington himself, the Constitution launched from Edmund Hartt Shipyard in Boston Harbor.
 

The ship quickly saw minor engagements, but wouldn't meet a true test until the War of 1812 against Britain. On August 19, 1812, a month after the vessel managed a harrowing escape from a gang of Royal Navy ships, it sighted the HMS Guerriere off the coast of Nova Scotia at about 2 p.m. The enemy frigate quickly raised its British ensigns, an invitation to duel, and rushed forward. Wry Captain Issac Hull had the Constitution raise four American ensigns.
 

For the first four hours of the duel, the Constitution held its fire, before closing within a pistol shot of the Guerriere and firing all of its cannons. During the 35-minute maelstrom, a bewildered sailor watched 18-pound iron cannonballs bounce harmlessly off the Constitution's 25-inch oak hull. "Huzza! Her sides are made of iron!" he cried. The Guerriere sank the following day, to the horror of Brits across the Atlantic Ocean.
 

Five months later, the Constitution—now known as "Old Ironsides"—engaged the HMS Java off the coast of Brazil. The exchange of cannon fire shattered Old Ironside's helm, but the ship managed to maim the fore of its enemy. Afterward, victorious American sailors boarded the Java, stole its helm, and used it to replace Old Ironsides'. The Royal Navy, traumatized again, ordered that British warships were to only engage American ships if they outnumbered them two or more to one. But that didn't work out so well.
 

Three days after the War of 1812 officially ended—unbeknownst to most seafaring craft—the Constitution simultaneously battled two British warships, the HMS Cyane and the HMS Levant, off the coast of Spain. The 45-minute fight resulted in the defeat and capture of the two prized British vessels. Needless to say, the U.S. Navy had firmly established its presence.
 

In 1881, after 58 years of service and a circumnavigation of the globe, the USS Constitution retired from active service for use in training exercises and ceremonies. Today, the ship and its crew function to educate the public about naval history through tours of the ship and historical exhibits in the adjacent USS Constitution Museum. Old Ironsides is now the oldest commissioned naval vessel still afloat—not too shabby for a boat meant to last a few decades.
 

Below: more photos of the USS Constitution, including how it appears today, a shot of it sailing unassisted for the first time in over a century, and a look inside its haul (2015).
 

Image credit & copyright: Michel Felice Corne / Steven Senne / AP / U.S. Navy / Todd Stevens
 

A fortress at the crossroads of living and the undead.

Halloween season is all about the haunted houses, though few offer more intrigue than Bram Stoker's inspiration for Count Dracula's estate. Bran Castle sits on the border between Transylvania and Wallachia in Brasov County, Romania. But exactly what ghosts and vampiric creatures' histories lie behind these fortified walls and in the nearby region?
 

Centuries before the "v-word" was associated with the location, the site was a contentious one: early Hungarian, Germanic, Romanian populations established trade routes there, with the Ottomans making many attempts to gain a foothold in the region. King Andrew II of Hungary formally gave the land to the Teutonic Knights in the 13th century—only to have their settlement later destroyed by Mongols. Germanic Saxons of Kronstadt would rebuild in the area, with the first mention of a completed Bran Castle in 1377. At the time, the space served as a customs checkpoint and fortress against the Ottoman Empire. In 1407, Sigismund, the Holy Roman Emperor and King of Hungary would gift the region to the Romanian ruler Mircea the Elder.
 

Bran Castle's most famous resident could give Game of Thrones royalty a run for their money. Vlad III (aka Vlad Dracula or Vlad the Impaler) was the grandson of Mircea the Elder, but had little time to enjoy the prosperity his grandfather established in the region. In 1440, six years after Vlad Dracula's father, Vlad II, became the ruler of Wallachia, Vlad Dracula was taken hostage by the Ottoman Empire. Later, his father and brother were killed on the orders of Hungarian regent-governor John Hunyadi. Taking no prisoners past this point, a vengeful Vlad Dracula recruited the Ottomans to defeat Hunyadi and his own second cousin to retake Wallachia in 1456. He purged the autocratic Wallachian boyars of dissenters and tore through the Saxon villages of enemy sympathizers, impaling residents as a warning to any potential threats entering the area—hence his famous moniker. Vlad Dracula, whose title translates to both "dragon" and "devil," aided in casting Bran Castle in a foreboding light.
 

After Vlad's death in 1477, Bran Castle changed hands over the centuries between the Germanic Saxons and Hungarian rulers, until the location eventually fell out of favor as a trade location. Major renovations came in 1920 when Queen Marie of Romania turned it into her summer residence. The queen updated the infrastructure with natural spring-piped water, electricity, and an English Park with a Tea House on the outskirts of the castle. If that all seems too rosy for such a macabre locale, don't worry: when Queen Marie passed, her heart was placed in an ornate gold box, then buried in a sarcophagus at Bran Castle.

 

After changing hands between communist leadership and the heirs of the Romanian crown, Bran Castle is currently under the rule of the Archdukes and Archduchesses of Romania. But if there's ever a desire to relive the bloodthirsty history of Vlad, or Bram Stoker's horror masterpiece, don't fret: AirBnB once offered up a contest for "A Night at Dracula's Castle in Transylvania." House rules stated no garlic or silver allowed indoors, though!

 

Below: playing up the haunting aspects of Bram Castle with dark corridors, candlelit dining spaces, and even bedrooms—with complimentary coffins to keep out the sunlight.
 

Image credit & copyright: Bran Castle, Condé Nast Traveler, AirBnB
 

A porridge competition turns comfort food into a competitive sport.

Carrbridge, Scotland, is home to the food contest we never knew we needed. Every October, the town of 700 draws thousands of people in a celebration of porridge, that classic comfort dish. The contest, which has been running for 25 years, is also a testament to the culture of Scotland—the same country that popularized shortbread, haggis, and other notoriously simple foods.
 

Oats have been a staple in Scotland for centuries. Most Scots farmed oats in the Middle Ages, and the food served as their primary source of carbohydrates until the introduction of potatoes in the 18th century. Oat flour is a primary ingredient in shortbread, and Scots are even known to drink a beverage called Atholl Brose, made from mixing soaked oats, honey, and whisky. Suffice it to say that the Scots have a long and close relationship with this hearty grain.
 

But the Golden Spurtle Contest—named after the wooden mixing stick that porridge aficionados say is the key to getting just the right consistency—takes that relationship to a whole new level. The many participants, who mostly hail from Scotland and other parts of Europe, face a hefty challenge. Allowed only three ingredients—water, oats, and salt—they must whip up something that meets judges' standards on color, taste, and consistency. Serious contenders spend months hunting for the right type of salt and often bring large jugs of their own water sourced from local springs. The purity of the oats is taken seriously. Only untreated grains are allowed; anyone who uses rolled oats or oat flakes is immediately disqualified. While most competitors enter in the traditional oatmeal category, the Golden Spurtle also includes a "specialty" category where competitors are allowed to work with a few other ingredients.
 

Despite the humble ingredients list and niche food on offer, hundreds of attendees descend upon Carrbridge to sample some of the best oatmeal in the world and listen to the sweet sound of bagpipes that accompany the kickoff parade through the village's quaint streets. For three hours, judges travel from stall to stall to sample entries in four heats. Five points are allocated for color and consistency each, with 20 points set aside for taste. Contestants are eliminated in each successive heat, until a final cookout with five finalists takes place in the late afternoon.
 

Those who make it to the final round are often passionate about porridge because it evokes special memories. The winner of the competition in 2017, a Swedish woman named Ellinor Persson, said that she first became fascinated with oatmeal as a child while watching her father prepare some before going to a forestry job every morning. "I will always remember my father for this," she said.
 

There are two ultimate winners: one in the traditional category and one in the specialty category, which features experimental dishes like sticky toffee porridge and pinhead porridge with lemon, thyme, and parmesan. The winner of the traditional category walks away with a golden spurtle; both get to take home bragging rights and get called upon by cooking blogs and shows for their oatmeal expertise. Now where can we get one of these magical spurtles for ourselves?
 

Image credit & copyright: Johnny Spence
 

It was one of the fiercest hurricanes to ever strike the U.S.—and over 400 World War I veterans were caught in its path.

It turned out to be a perfect storm in the worst sort of way. In September 1935, at the height of hurricane season, few realized that a deadly hurricane was building off the coast of the Florida Keys. When the hurricane hit land, it created 20-foot waves, blew the clothes off of people's backs, and smashed a veterans' camp to smithereens.  

It was the Great Depression, and jobless World War I veterans were demanding help from Washington. To give the men work and to provide some much-needed infrastructure in the Florida Keys, President Franklin D. Roosevelt sent approximately 400 veterans to the area to build roads and bridges. Flimsy shelters were hastily constructed near the beach to house the veterans, who were paid $30 a month plus room and board.  

In late August of 1935, a storm began developing east of the Bahamas; but it was weak at first and didn't seem to pose a threat. This was before the days of weather satellites, so tracking hurricanes was an extremely inexact science. Few realized that the storm was gathering strength until it hit the Florida Keys as a Category Five hurricane—the highest rating on the Saffir–Simpson hurricane wind scale.  

The administrators of the work camp had an emergency plan in place: in case of a hurricane, they would send for a train in Miami to evacuate the veterans. But as the hurricane was building, administrators held off ordering the train because the Weather Bureau predicted the storm was heading for Cuba. By the time administrators realized the predictions were wrong, it was too late. Precious time was lost as workers assembled the train; when it finally headed for the work camp, it was slammed by winds of 160 miles per hour and gusts up to 200 miles per hour. Train cars were tossed into the air, and only the engine was heavy enough to stay on the tracks.  

Meanwhile, the veterans at the work camp had little protection as the storm plowed through their camp. As shelters were blown apart, flying lumber speared and buried many of the men. Others were hit by raining coconuts; still others were swept away by the sea. When the storm retreated, an estimated 259 of the veterans had lost their lives.  

Many blamed camp administrators for the victims' fate, including the writer Ernest Hemingway, who wrote an article for New Masses titled, "Who Murdered the Vets?" published just a few weeks after the storm. Hemingway ended his angry piece with the question, "Who left you there? And what's the punishment for manslaughter now?" But a government investigation determined the deaths were "an act of God"—and no one was ever charged. A monument to the veterans, the Florida Keys Memorial (known locally as the "Hurricane Memorial"), was constructed to honor the victims, and ceremonies are held at the site every year on Labor Day and Memorial Day.  

Below: the relief train sent to rescue the veterans was derailed by the hurricane.
 

Image credit & copyright: Bettman, Getty Images; Wikimedia
 

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