Strange Company: 2024

That's it for this week! See you on Monday, when we'll look at a mysterious Christmas Eve tragedy. In the meantime, here's Emmylou. My taste in Christmas music tends to be traditional--hymns, Handel's "Messiah" and the like--but I delight in playing this song every Yuletide. In fact, if you have a liking for country-folk, the whole album is terrific, but this one is my favorite.

Wednesday, December 18, 2024

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

Via Newspapers.com

It’s time for another peep at that ever-popular Fortean category, Mystery Fires! The “London Daily Mail,” February 5, 1921:

A remarkable series of fires, described in the official report as "of doubtful origin," caused the London Fire Brigade to pay four separate visits yesterday morning to Upper Frognal Lodge, Hampstead. A few minutes after 2 a.m. firemen were called to the lodge, where they extinguished with buckets of water a small fire in the front room on the second floor. At about 3.45 a.m. the brigade were again summoned and overcame a small outbreak in the back room on the second floor.
At about 5.30 a further alarm was given, and when the firemen arrived small fires were in progress in the front room on the first floor and the front room on the second floor. As in the two previous cases, buckets of water were used to extinguish the outbreak. Again, at 9.30, the brigade were called to Frognal Lodge, where three separate fires in the front and back rooms on the second floor had to be extinguished.
The house is a large one occupied by Lieutenant-Colonel R.S. Webber. With the first call there were two separate fires, one causing damage to an armchair and the other to a sofa and four chairs. The second outbreak was in a cupboard in the bathroom on the second floor; in the third case a cupboard in the front room on the first floor and window curtains in the front room on the second floor were dealt with.

A brief sequel appeared in the “Daily Telegraph” four days later:

More mysterious fires occurred yesterday morning at 67 Frognal, Hampstead, the residence of Lieut. Colonel R.S. Webber.
On the arrival of the fire brigade outbreaks were discovered in a cupboard in the bath-room on the first floor, a cupboard in the bathroom on the second floor, a bedroom front of the first floor, and another front room on the first floor There were, according to the fire brigade report, four separate fires. No appliances were used, the flames being quickly subdued. The cause is given as “doubtful." On Friday last, the fire brigade was called four times to the same house where ten separate “seats” of fire were discovered. The cause then was ascribed as “doubtful.”

I did not find any more reports of fires, “doubtful” or otherwise, at the home, which must have come as a great relief to both Lt. Webber and the overworked Hampstead fire brigade.

Monday, December 16, 2024

Helen Hulick, Famous Slacker

In the fall of 1938, the Los Angeles home of 29-year-old schoolteacher Helen Hulick was burglarized. A bad thing, to be sure, but this seemingly unimportant event was to catalyze a series of events which would turn Hulick into a nationwide newspaper sensation, provide a unique footnote in judicial history, and--last but certainly not least--earn our young teacher a place in the hallowed halls of Strange Company.

On November 9, Hulick appeared in Los Angeles Municipal Court to testify against the two men accused of the burglary. (As a side note, tell modern-day Angelinos that there was a time when burglary suspects were not only routinely apprehended, but, if convicted, sent to serve long prison terms, you will receive stares of wide-eyed wonder. But I digress.) However, before Hulick could take the stand, the judge in her case, Arthur S. Guerin, announced that he had a problem with the young lady’s attire.

Hulick was wearing slacks. Blue flannel slacks. Judge Guerin was not about to allow any woman to wear “pants” in his courtroom. A bailbondswoman offered to loan Hulick a skirt.

Our educator of young minds was having none of it. “I like slacks,” she retorted. “They’re comfortable. It’s my constitutional right to wear them.”

Judge Guerin was not happy. “I don’t set styles,” he told Hulick sternly. “But costumes acceptable at the beach are not acceptable in formal courtroom procedure. Slacks are not the proper attire in court.” He added plaintively, “It’s tough sometimes to be a judge.”

Regarding that last statement, the judge would soon learn that he didn’t know the half of it.

Hulick’s lawyer--naturally anxious to pacify the judge--motioned to postpone the hearing. Guerin rescheduled the hearing for November 14th, with the earnest hope that Hulick had learned her lesson about “maintaining the dignity in my courtroom.”

On the morning of the 14th, Hulick strolled into Guerin’s court wearing…slacks. Orange and green, this time. By her side was her attorney, William Katz, carrying a thick stack of law books containing various citations proving that Hulick had the right to wear whatever she damned well pleased.

Guerin was beginning to wish he had never laid eyes on Miss Hulick. He fumed, “The last time you were in this court dressed as you are now and reclining on your neck on the back of your chair, you drew more attention from spectators, prisoners and court attaches than the legal business at hand. You were requested to return in garb acceptable to courtroom procedure.

“Today you come back dressed in pants and openly defying the court and its duties to conduct judicial proceedings in an orderly manner. It’s time a decision was reached on this matter and on the power the court has to maintain what it considers orderly conduct.

“The court hereby orders and directs you to return tomorrow in accepted dress. If you insist on wearing slacks again you will be prevented from testifying because that would hinder the administration of justice. But be prepared to be punished according to law for contempt of court.”

Outside the courtroom, Hulick told reporters (the affair was already becoming a local sensation,) “I’ve worn slacks since I was 15. I don’t own a dress except a formal. If he wants me to appear in a formal gown that’s okay with me.

“I’ll come back in slacks and if he puts me in jail I hope it will help to free women forever of anti-slackism.” She added that she refused to wear silk stockings “because the silk comes from Japan and every pair means a dead Chinese.”

"New York Daily News," November 19, 1938, via Newspapers.com

The following day, Hulick entered the court wearing a plaid coat, a red-and-white blouse, and…gray slacks. At first, Guerin ignored the outrage, concentrating on what by now was the nearly forgotten business of the hearing--namely, the two men who had robbed Hulick’s home. He ordered that the defendants be bound over for trial.

Then, Guerin got to the really important part. In seven typewritten pages, the judge came down on the erring schoolteacher like a ton of judicial bricks. He fumed that Hulick had, after all his warnings, appeared in “a tight-fitting sweater and tight-fitting pants, commonly known as slacks,” thus disrupting “the orderly procedure of the court.” He snorted that according to Hulick’s logic, nudists might come into his court, simply because they felt more comfortable sans clothing.” Guerin sentenced her to five days in jail.

Hulick--followed by a pack of reporters from newspapers across the nation--was taken to the county jail, booked, fingerprinted, and presented with a denim dress. An hour later, Katz saw to it that she was released on a writ of habeas corpus.

On November 17, two judges from the Appellate Division held a hearing on the controversy. Katz argued that Hulick had every right to wear slacks in Guerin’s court. Judges, after all, were not the fashion police. Prosecuting attorneys responded by saying that the real issue was not Hulick’s attire, but her attitude. She not only repeatedly defied direct orders from the bench, she did so with a “leering and contemptuous expression on her face.”

The following day, the Appellate judges issued their decision. They wrote, “While the court record indicates by way of recital that petitioner in a court room during proceedings indulged in a type of exhibitionism which may have tended to impede orderly procedure, and which she might have been required to discontinue on pain of disciplinary action, the commitment appears to be based solely on petitioner’s failure to obey the judge’s order to change her attire, which attire, so far as the record before us discloses, did not of itself interfere with orderly court procedure, but involved merely a question of taste, a matter not within the court’s control.” They ordered that her sentence be absolved.

In short, the judges ruled that while Miss Hulick may have been an irritating exhibitionist, Judge Guerin should have just kept his mouth shut about it. Guerin, wisely knowing when he was beaten, graciously announced, “I accept the decision as final and will be guided by it in the future.”

The coda to our little story took place on January 17, 1939, when Hulick finally testified against the two accused burglars. Our heroine appeared in court wearing what one admiring reporter described as “a close-fitting, rust silk dress, sheer hose, high-heeled shoes and a pert up-tilting hat with flowing veil.” Hulick explained to the press that she had come to believe that “Maybe there’s something to this dressing-up business after all. Because I’ve been stepping out every night since I decided to dress like the rest of the girls.”

After hearing this, Judge Guerin could surely be forgiven if he had decided to end his day with a few stiff drinks.

"St. Louis Globe Democrat," January 19, 1939

[Note: In her later years, Hulick--who specialized in teaching deaf children--gained a more conventional fame by developing what is known as the “auditory/verbal” technique for working with the hearing-impaired. By the time of her death in 1989, she was a renowned and respected educator. However, she remains best known as The Girl Who Wore Slacks.]

Friday, December 13, 2024

Weekend Link Dump

"The Witches' Cove," Follower of Jan Mandijn

This week's Link Dump is so big, it had to be hosted by a septet!

Yet another case of a spouse deciding to say it with arsenic.

Mr. Morgan's magnificent library.

The collapse of one of the world's first known governments.

The Ghoul of Gettysburg.

The healing power of music.

What we are learning about Neolithic architecture.

The pyramids at Giza are really eight-sided.

The link between a seal bag and Charlemagne's shroud.

Don't underestimate pigeons.

From Lord to cave-dweller.

The Vatican is opening up "sacred portals."

A solar system with three suns.

The journey of a state bed.

An exorcist tells all.

A sailor who died at Pearl Harbor is finally identified.

Some tips for everyone on your macabre Christmas list.

The disappearance of King Coal and the Silver Queen.

If you're a professional psychic, it's probably best not to use the words, "unforeseen circumstances."

The oldest named resident of a Roman city.

Maybe Venus isn't an Earth-gone-bad after all.

Judy, Grant Street Court cat.

The lost home of Doggerland.

The Hot Dog Santa Claus.

Some lost Christmas traditions.

Beatrix Potter was more than an author.

In 1394, one Eleanor Rykener was arrested, and things got very interesting for modern scholars.

The life of Margaret More Roper.

What's an ancient home without a Christmas ghost?

The big business of antiquities theft.

Out: "Prehistory." In: "Deep history."

Do organ donations also transfer memories?

Oarfish as earthquake harbingers.

The first battle of the American Civil War.

They may have just dug up Santa Claus.

The Sisters' Rebellion of ancient Vietnam.

The shops of Old London.

Mysterious Neolithic chalk drums.

An 18th century miniaturist.

Can goats predict earthquakes?

A really bad Yelp review from 1925.

The king of the pirates.

That's all for this week! See you on Monday, when we'll look at a court battle over slacks. In the meantime, here's a lovely Mexican Christmas song.

Wednesday, December 11, 2024

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

Via Newspapers.com

It occurred to me that, through some unaccountable omission, this blog hasn’t covered too many unexplained “ghost lights.” I hope this story from the “Raleigh News Observer,” December 17, 2006, will help balance out that deficit.

The mysterious Maco Light, also called the Ghost at Maco Station, is one of North Carolina’s most well-known and enduring supernatural phenomena. It dates to a fatal train wreck in 1867 at a small rural station then called Farmer’s Turnout, 14 miles west of Wilmington on the line serving Wilmington, Florence, S.C., and Augusta, Ga. Conductor Joe Baldwin, riding in the last car of a wood-burning train, discovered that his car had come uncoupled. He died waving a lantern from the rear of that car in a failed attempt to signal and stop a second train coming from behind. One witness saw Baldwin’s lantern fly clear of the train wreck, land and right itself in the adjacent swamp, and burn on.

Shortly afterward and for over a century since, a flickering light has appeared regularly along the railroad tracks in the vicinity of the 1867 collision. Legend attributes this light to the ghost of Joe Baldwin, who was decapitated in the wreck; the ghost is said to be looking for its head. From 1873 until after an 1886 earthquake, railroad workers reported a pair of Maco lights that would appear together. Over the years, the Maco light has been bright enough to fool many railroad workers into stopping their trains. To remedy the ghost’s schedule-thwarting attempts, signalmen at Maco used two lights, one red and one green.

While President Grover Cleveland’s train was wooding and watering up at Maco in 1889, the president saw the two signal lights, asked about them, and got the full story of Old Joe Baldwin.

In the spring of 1964, the South Eastern North Carolina Beach Association contacted parapsychologist and ghost-hunter Hans Holzer to come to Maco and investigate the mysterious light. After his visit, Holzer gave an apparent certification of the phantom conductor, citing the consistency of his return appearances. Since the railroad tracks were removed around 1980, sightings of the Maco Light have “greatly diminished, if not completely disappeared,” according to Cape Fear Museum historian Harry Warren. In its time the Maco Light has been the object of many a dark vigil at Maco Station, where anywhere from a few to dozens of people would frequently gather at night.

It has also been the subject of numerous newspaper stories and at least one narrative ballad, “The Maco Light,” which sums up the tale:

They found Joe’s body,
They found Joe’s head!
They buried ‘em both,
But he’s not dead!
On a dismal night in a dismal swamp,
You can see his lantern shine!

Monday, December 9, 2024

The Trouble With Ouija Boards

On the day after Christmas 1919, eighteen-year-old Jennie Moro was fatally struck by a hit-and-run driver just outside her hometown of El Cerrito, California. This tragic event would normally have soon been forgotten by everyone except the girl's grieving loved ones. However, Jennie's death proved to be a catalyst that would give the Moros a memorable place in the annals of California Weird.

The surviving Moros consisted of Jennie's widowed mother Maria and a married sister, Josie Soldavini. The family had, for some months, owned a Ouija board--a faddish novelty item of the era. They had never taken the board very seriously, but after Jennie's death, the Moros began using it try communicating with the spirit world, in the hope of discovering the identity of the driver who had killed Jennie. Shortly afterward, Josie had a dream where she pictured "a jumble of numbers." She believed they were the car's registration numbers. However, such a number could not be found in the automobile register. Undaunted, Maria and Josie continued their seances, becoming increasingly convinced that they were indeed contacting the dead. Two of Maria's nephews, Louis and Henry Ferrerio, a Mrs. Sangine Bena, and a neighboring family, the Bottinis, became drawn into these Ouija experiments.

Life became increasingly eerie for the Moros and their friends. A grave-sized hole mysteriously appeared near the Moro home. The family believed it was the work of spirits. Maria Moro, who had been planning to remarry, became obsessed by a fear that her late husband's ghost would punish her for her decision. The Bottini's fifteen-year-old daughter Adeline became convinced that she was possessed by the ghost of Jennie Moro, who "was completely in control of her body." The climax to their spirit communications was to take place on March 3, 1920, when the circle believed a great "Passion Display" would take place. Jennie's ghost, they declared, would cast out "the evil in all of them," and reveal the secret purpose of that hole.

As the great day grew near, the Moros, Mrs. Bena, and the Bottinis kept up a round of non-stop seances. Twelve-year-old Rosa Bottini lost the ability to keep down food. The others kept her alive with doses of holy water. Adeline informed the others that the only way to save the child was to cut off her hair and burn it. Adeline also destroyed most of her own clothes. In a further attempt to cleanse the house of "evil spirits," the group burned $700 in cash, but they continued to feel persecuted by demons they had unwittingly unleashed.

Mrs. Bena's husband, Tony, became increasingly alarmed by what was going on in the Moro house. Not knowing what else to do, he went to the town marshal, A.W. MacKinnon, and informed him that the group had barricaded themselves in the Moro home and were "acting queerly." Complaints were also made that neighborhood children had been lured into the house and were being held prisoner. (It emerged that the group had shaved the children's heads and burned the hair, as part of their efforts to drive off the malevolent forces.)

When six police officers arrived at the Moro's door, they learned that this description was no exaggeration. The residents refused to let the police inside, but they were persuaded to allow in J.J. Hennessy, a Catholic priest. He found the group half-starved and near collapse from "nervous exhaustion." They had not eaten or slept in days. When the police finally forced their way in, Mrs. Moro screamed that her late husband's ghost would kill them. Mrs. Bottini told them that "she had gone through the torment of the crucifixion, and then, being addressed by the Deity through her daughter, she had been brought back to Earth." After a "lively tussle," the spiritualists were all hauled off to the county hospital.

"San Francisco Chronicle," March 5, 1920, via Newspapers.com

The next day, the County Lunacy Commission examined the group. After hearing their story, the doctors ruled that Maria Moro, Adeline Bottini, Mrs. Bottini, and Josie Soldavini had gone insane, and the women were committed to local asylums. (However, they were released within a few weeks.) Their menfolk, who had "disavowed their belief in the alleged messages of the board," were set free. Curiously, however, Mrs. Bottini's husband afterwards told reporters, "We believe in the Ouija board and our faith is unshaken. The board will drive away evil spirits." He rather unwisely added, "Do you think we look like maniacs?"

Ministers and psychiatrists used the incident as proof that Ouija boards were "an instrument of evil." A mass meeting was held in El Cerrito's town hall addressing "the Ouija board craze." It was proposed that all the town's citizens should be examined by mental health professionals, to make sure they had not been infected by the "craze." There was also talk of barring the boards from the city limits, as a danger to public safety.

Meanwhile, the would-be spiritualists, chastened by their frightening experience, reportedly burned their Ouija board, and life in what the newspapers called "The House of Mystery" slowly returned to a measure of sanity.

The strange hole near the Moro home was never explained. And the driver of the car that killed Jennie Moro was never found.

Friday, December 6, 2024

Weekend Link Dump

"The Witches' Cove," Follower of Jan Mandijn

Welcome to this week's Link Dump!

Let the show begin!

Watch out for the White Things of Appalachia!

Watch out for the ruched widow!

A young woman's unsolved murder.

The works of a medieval female poet.

A visit to the Museum of British Folklore.

What you could eat at an 1845 London Christmas market.

George III's regency crisis.

Letters from the real "Wolf Hall."

When clothing wasn't boring.

When the Knights of Malta had an air force.

A duel that wound up being an unexpected medical treatment.

One of the odder footnotes in the world of publishing.

Sir John Pryce, who really should have stayed a bachelor.

A medieval countess enters a convent.

An early female photographer.

The actor and the sea serpent.

Orcas are back to wearing dead salmon hats. Carry on.

A death from a broken heart.

A mysterious ancient stone slab containing an unknown language. H.P. Lovecraft, call your office.

A look at Hogarth's "cruelty."

History and haunted places.

Victorian letters to Santa.

The cat came back!

Jim the Wonder Dog.

The literary landscape of 19th century Paris.

A line of ancient humans who may have been more intelligent than we are. Low bar, I know.

Chinese Emperors and supernatural horses.

That time when wild monkeys terrorized New York.

The origins of the phrase, "tuckered out."

The mysterious Hellenikon Pyramid.

The latest theory about the Loch Ness Monster.

A fountain that may have once been a clock.

Hitler's disastrous "halt order."

The latest "rewriting history" discovery.

A Roman dinner of death.

The history of the bidet.

Archaeologists have found an ancient clay head, and everyone's a bit creeped out by it.

The graffiti of Tower of London prisoners.

A woman who reshaped the Canadian frontier.

That's a wrap for this week! See you on Monday, when we'll look at the sort of thing that happens when you start messing around with Ouija boards. In the meantime, here's Percy Sledge.

Wednesday, December 4, 2024

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

Via Newspapers.com

This is one of those news items that is brief, ambiguous, apparently completely unresolved, and just plain weird. The "Wilmington Sun," February 25, 1879:

Three weeks ago a lady died in Straitsville, and her body was buried in the cemetery. About a week subsequent, a lady and gentleman called upon the sexton who has charge of the cemetery, representing themselves to be the brother and sister of the dead woman. They requested the sexton to open the grave. Supposing that they wished to identify the remains, this request was complied with. The coffin was exhumed, the lid was removed, and the two parties stepped forward, and, to the astonishment of the sexton, proceeded to lift the corpse from the coffin.
Having accomplished this, they made a minute examination of the shroud and grave clothing, carefully removing every pin which was used in fastening the clothes. These, together with a finger-ring which they removed from a finger of the corpse, were thrown far off into the surrounding snow. Then, after rolling the corpse over several times, they replaced it in the coffin, screwed down the lid, assisted the sexton in replacing the same in the grave, and expressed themselves satisfied. Not a word of explanation was given to the bewildered sexton relative to their strange procedure. The twain are said to be from Hartford.

I can't even guess what this was all about, but I'm betting this family had quite a history.

Monday, December 2, 2024

The Colonel and the Civilian: A Wartime Ghost Story

Bernhard-Georg Meitzel fought in the German Army during WWII, reaching the rank of SS-Obersturmführer. British forces captured Meitzel after the Normandy invasion, leading him to spend some months in an internment camp. After the war, while in Germany awaiting his “denazification” trial, Meitzel--who was fluent in English--wrote an eerie tale which appeared in the Winter 1949 issue of “Fate” magazine, describing the time that he was an indirect witness to a ghostly vengeance.

While Meitzel was in the camp, he made the acquaintance of another prisoner, whom he simply described as “the Colonel in the threadbare uniform of a General Staff Officer.” The two men discussed books and did a bit of horse-trading over their rations of cigarettes and black bread. (As Meitzel did not smoke, he gave the Colonel his cigarettes, getting some bread in return.)

On the third day, the Colonel told him a grim story. In 1942, the Colonel was commanding officer of a reconnaissance battalion. They were advancing toward Demjansk to relieve a German garrison under siege from Russian forces. When they were in Kobylkina, two corporals took a civilian prisoner when they saw he had a gun. The man had no identity card, no other military equipment, and did not appear to know Russian.

The Colonel saw that the man was--hardly unreasonably, given the circumstances--very frightened. The Colonel tried questioning him in both Russian and German, but got only the replies, “Nix Russian. Nix German.” The Colonel did not know what to make of the man. Was he a civilian agent? Or had he merely picked up a gun left by the retreating Russians in the hopes of trading it for food? Unfortunately, no one there could speak the man’s language, so getting any story out of him was impossible.

The Colonel pitied the man, but did not see what could be done with him. His battalion could not take him with them. As the man was conceivably a guerrilla fighter, they could not turn him loose, either. And the Colonel had strict orders to continuously advance. A decision about the stranger had to be made immediately. The Colonel decided there was only one thing he could do. He gave the man bread, a cigarette, and a glass of vodka. He then made a surreptitious gesture to his adjutant.

The prisoner was taken out and shot, desperately shouting, “Nix Russian! Nix German!” until the bullets quieted him forever.

The Colonel felt a sense of guilt over the man’s execution, but rationalized to himself that during war, one had no choice but to do some ruthless things. Before long, he was able to dismiss the matter from his mind.

In 1943, the Colonel flew to Army HQ in Pleskau. An armored car was on the tarmac, about to leave the airfield. The driver told him, “I’m in a hurry, please get in.” As the Colonel was about to follow the driver, he saw a man in ragged civilian clothes on the far side of the road, waving to him. The Colonel couldn’t hear anything over the loud car engine, but he thought the man was shouting something. The Colonel ignored the increasingly impatient driver and went towards the man. As he drew nearer, he suddenly recognized the waving, shouting figure. It was the man whom he had ordered killed at Kobylkina. As the Colonel stared in increasing horror, the man entered a control-booth. The Colonel followed him into the room, only to find it empty.

When he came back out, the Colonel asked a passing soldier if he had seen a civilian hanging around. “No sir. No civilians are allowed on the airfield, sir.”

The shaken Colonel began walking back to the armored car. An ambulance raced past him. And the armored car was gone. A few moments later, the ambulance returned. He heard the ambulance driver shout to a medical officer, “Dead. All of ‘em.”

The Colonel asked him if he was talking about the car that left the airfield just a few moments earlier. He was.

The Colonel told Meitzel, “Since then, I’ve kept asking myself why did it happen? Why was I saved by a man whose execution I had ordered? Was he sent by my guardian angel? Was he my guardian angel? Why was my life spared at all? To get another chance in life? To try to prevent a recurrence of the madness of the last war?

“I don’t know the answer yet. But after spending three years in this internment camp I am about to believe that I was only spared to meet a more dreadful fate. Who knows when they are going to turn me over to the Russians or to the Jugoslavs?”

The Colonel stared into space for a moment, and went back to his book.

The following day, Meitzel did not see his friend around the camp. He was told that the previous night, the Colonel left the camp under guard. Nobody knew where he had been taken.

Meitzel never learned what became of the Colonel. He guessed the man had been taken to a Soviet concentration camp to meet the “more dreadful fate” he had predicted for himself.

Friday, November 29, 2024

Weekend Link Dump

"The Witches' Cove," Follower of Jan Mandijn

It's time for this week's Link Dump!

Let's dance!

A Neanderthal glue factory?

Ice Age bespoke tailoring?

Neolithic seasoned focaccia?

A banjo becomes a murder weapon.

Perkin Warbeck's attempt to claim the English throne.

Everyone around the world hears loud noises, and scientists don't have a clue.

Letters from the front lines, WWI.

An unhealthy submarine.

Winston Churchill in contemporary newspapers.

When food was used for party games.

The menu of the first Thanksgiving dinner.

The story of the Eleanor Crosses.

The last of the Cromwells.

A fossil that rewrites human history.

Mysterious lights and a Neolithic tomb.

The time-traveling watch and the fake detective.

A look at 18th century stationary trade cards.

A UFO mystery in Australia.

The somewhat complicated origins of "beyond the pale."

The tragic Hilton sisters.

A member of the Georgian-era Establishment.

Thanksgiving at the poor house.

Ancient Alexandria's anatomists.

America's first prima ballerina.

The once-influential Sogdians.

In case you've been wondering why we have toenails.

Yes, we're still trying to find the identity of D.B. Cooper. Aaaaand...it looks like this story has already been debunked.

The mystery of the quacking New Zealand coast.

Manuscripts you won't find in the British Library.

UCLA meets a poltergeist.

An 18th century captain of the East India Company.

The markets of Old London.

That's all for this week! See you on Monday, when we'll look at a sinister WWII ghost story. In the meantime, take it away, boys:

Wednesday, November 27, 2024

Newspaper Clippings of the Thanksgiving Day

I always say, what better way to spend tomorrow’s holiday than by musing on the various ways your dinner can kill you? The “Blue-Grass Clipper,” December 10, 1903:

Be careful when you go to kill your Christmas turkey. George Whitmore was scratched by the claws of the one he was preparing for his Thanksgiving dinner. Blood poisoning ensued which resulted in his death a few days later.

This next story can be summarized in two sentences: Mrs. Frank T. Kuhen thought she knew how to properly can asparagus. She didn’t.

The "Spokesman-Review," December 1, 1910, via Newspapers.com

The “Daily Milwaukee News” for December 1, 1866, noted that one Thanksgiving turkey nearly accomplished a fatal revenge:

Thanksgiving dinners, like all other events with which human agency is connected, are subject to catastrophes. On Thursday a gentleman residing in the Third Ward, having returned from service at the Union Baptist church, sat down with his family to accomplish the consumption of a turkey formidable in size and desperate to the last, as the conclusion very nearly proved. Having served the remainder of the family at table, he helped himself to a generous thank offering and proceeded to consume it.
While engaged in eating he attempted to swallow a mouthful which contained a fragment of bone. The hard substance lodged in the larynx and nearly produced death by suffocation. A physician was immediately sent for, and the bone extracted by a painful operation. The sufferer is now doing well, although yesterday morning his throat was so swollen that he could hardly speak.

Another Thanksgiving feast that ended prematurely appeared in the “Cincinnati Enquirer,” November 26, 1910:

Logansport, Ind., November 25.--Contrary to the advice of her physician and relatives, Mrs. Rose Blouser, aged 69, who has been bedfast for a year, insisted on sitting up and eating Thanksgiving dinner with the family. While at the table she collapsed and died a few minutes later.

This next story carries a moral: If one of your dinner companions appears to be choking to death, do not instantly assume they are joking. The “Times and Democrat,” December 2, 1886:

Chicago, November 27.- -A fatal accident occurred Thanksgiving evening at the Centre House on Blue Island Avenue. A number of young men there were celebrating Thanksgiving dinner when one of them. Mr. Frederick W. Charlis, a French-Canadian, accidentally swallowed a part of the breast bone of a turkey. The young man's companions, observing his distress, but considering it more assumed than real, sent one of their number for a veterinary surgeon residing in the vicinity. The surgeon promptly responded, and taking a humorous view of the situation proceeded to apply a stomach pump, to the evident amusement of all present. Fred Sawyer, a half-brother of the afflicted young man, appeared upon the scene at this stage of the proceedings, and interposed an indignant protest against the method of treatment pursued by the surgeon, and that gentleman gathered up his instruments and beat a retreat.
By this time the young man's condition became painfully apparent to his companions and a regular physician was hastily summoned, but before he arrived the young man died in the arms of his half brother.

One doctor’s involuntary contribution to medical science was reported in the “San Francisco Examiner,” December 9, 1906:

NEW YORK, December 8. Noting with professional interest every phase of his malady, Dr. Edward J. McDonough of 304 East Seventy-ninth street, died yesterday of acute indigestion, caused by injudicious eating of Thanksgiving dinner.
The physician, whose reputation, professional and charitable, was very high, ate heartily of turkey on Thursday. At 11:33 p.m. he returned to his home, and with his two sisters, with whom he lived, ate of the cold bird. He then retired. Yesterday morning he was heard groaning. He could scarcely rise from bed.
At his request the sisters got his instrument case. Dr. McDonough diagnosed the attack, took his own temperature, and then sent for a colleague, who agreed with him that acute indigestion was the trouble. The physician bravely bore up, and until insensibility overtook him observed every symptom and reported to Dr. J. L. Wollheim, who had been called. Knowing that death was imminent, Dr. McDonough determined that his last acts should be directed toward furthering the knowledge of his profession.

After all these warnings about the dangers of eating turkey, you’re probably thinking you’ll be safe sticking to dessert, right? Well, just to completely ruin your Thanksgiving, I present the most epic anti-holiday pie rant I have ever been privileged to read. The “Santa Cruz Weekly Sentinel,” November 25, 1882:

Thanksgiving Day is the one national festival which is peculiarly and thoroughly American. Other nations undergo annual sufferings from noise and gunpowder which are analogous to those which are associated in our minds with Fourth of July. Christmas is the common property of the Christian world, although Russia celebrates her Christmas some weeks later than other nations, in order that Russians residing in foreign countries may obtain a double supply of Christmas presents. Thanksgiving Day, however, was the invention of the New England colonists, and though it has since been universally adopted by the American people, no other nation has imitated it. We alone express our annual gratitude by the sacrifice of turkeys, and it is, hence, greatly to be desired that the one exclusively American festival should be in all respects perfect and beyond reproach.
It is impossible to deny that in active practice our method of celebrating the day is open to one serious objection. In spite of the progress which we have made towards a higher morality than that of the last century, we still adhere, on Thanksgiving Day, to one barbarous and demoralizing ceremony. To a great extent the hot New-England rum of our forefathers is banished from our dinner-tables, but the no less deadly and demoralizing pie forms part of every Thanksgiving dinner, no matter how moral and intelligent its consumers may believe themselves to be.
The Thanksgiving array of pie is usually of so varied, as well as lavish a nature, that it seems cunningly devised to entrap even the most innocent palate. If mince-pie alone were set before a virtuous family, it is quite probable that many of its members would have the courage to turn in loathing from the deadly compound, but the Thanksgiving mince-pie is always accompanied or preceded by lighter pies, in which weak-minded persons think they can indulge without injury. The thoughtless matron—for thoughtlessness, and not deliberate wickedness, is indicated by the presence of Thanksgiving pie—urges her guests to take a little chicken-pie, assuring them that it cannot injure a child. The guest who tampers with the chicken-pie is inevitably lost. The chicken-pie crust awakens an unholy hunger for fiercer viands, and when the meats are removed, he is ready and anxious for undiluted apple or pumpkin pie. From that to mince-pie the transition is swift and easy, and in nine cases out of ten the man who attends a Thanksgiving dinner and is lured into touching chicken-pie abandons all self-restraint and delivers himself up to the thraldom of a fierce longing for strong and undisguised mince-pie. Hundreds of men and women who had emancipated themselves by a tremendous effort of the will from the dominion of pie, have backslidden at the Thanksgiving dinner, and have returned to their former degradation with a fiercer appetite than ever, and with little hope that they can find sufficient strength for a second effort towards reformation.
The chief evil of the Thanksgiving display of pie is, however, its terrible influence upon the young. It is a well-known fact, however revolting it may seem when rehearsed in cold blood, that on Thanksgiving Day many a foolish mother has herself pressed pie to the lips of her innocent offspring. To the taste thus created thousands of victims of the pie habit ascribe their ruin. It is a common spectacle on Thanksgiving evening to see scores of children, mere babes in years, writhing under the influence of pie, and making the night hideous with their outcries. Physicians can testify to the appalling results of the pie orgies in which children are thus openly encouraged to take part. The amount of drugs which is consumed by the unhappy little victims on the day following Thanksgiving Day would fill the public with horror were the exact figures to be published. How can we wonder that children who are thus tempted to acquire the taste for pie by their own parents grow up to be shameless and habitual consumers of pie! The good matron who sees a haggard and emaciated man slink into a public pie shop, and presently emerge brushing the tell-tale crumbs from his beard, shudders to think that the unhappy wretch was once as young and innocent as her own darling children. And yet that very matron will sit at the foot of a Thanksgiving table groaning with pie, and will deal out the deadly compound to her children without a thought that she is awakening in them a depraved hunger that will ultimately lead them straight to the pie shop.
All the efforts of good men and women to stay the torrent of pie which threatens to engulf our beloved country will be in vain, unless the reform is begun at the Thanksgiving dinner-table. Pie must be banished from that otherwise innocent board, or it is in vain that we try to banish it from shops, restaurants, and hotels. May we not hope for a great moral crusade which will sweep pie from every virtuous table, and unite all the friends of morality in a vigorous and persistent attack upon the great evil of the land.

I hope this post has inspired all my fellow Americans to celebrate the holiday in appropriate style. I think we’re allowed a few peas and a glass of water.

Monday, November 25, 2024

The Disappearances of James Cole

"Idaho Statesman," August 13, 1976, via Newspapers.com

It’s generally strange enough when a person mysteriously vanishes. But when they pull off the feat of disappearing twice…

James Thomas Cole of Boise, Idaho, seemed to have a perfectly ordinary middle-class life. He was 24 years old, married, and a father of a small son. Since 1970, he had been working as a warehouse foreman at Mountain States Wholesale. He was a good worker who was liked by everyone who knew him. In short, Cole was one of the last people you would expect to see get into some very shady business.

Just after 4 a.m. on the morning of August 12, 1976, Cole drove a semi to the Boise Fruit & Produce Company, four blocks from his workplace. It was expected that he would then walk back to work. Instead, at around 4:30, a co-worker, Gary Anchustegui, got a startling phone call. It was from an unlisted number. A “jovial” sounding man informed Anchustegui that he had kidnapped Cole, and was demanding a $200,000 ransom. Although Anchustegui assumed the call had to be some sort of childish prank, as a precaution he phoned the night supervisor, Ivan Edney, to check if Cole was there. He was told that Cole had left for Boise Fruit an hour previously, and had yet to return. When 8 a.m. arrived with no sign of Cole, police were called in. When Albertson’s Food Centers, the parent company of Mountain States, was informed of what had happened, an emergency Board of Directors meeting was called, where it was decided that the company had no choice but to pay the ransom.

Around 5 a.m. the following day, the police received a phone call from none other than James Thomas Cole. Cole said that as he was walking back to work after delivering the semi, someone had abducted him. He was then drugged and taken to Mission Manor Apartments in nearby Nampa. Later that day, police arrived at the apartment building to investigate a drunk and disorderly complaint. Their presence so unnerved his captors, they again drugged Cole, and fled. When Cole recovered his senses, he went to the Nampa Chief Motel three blocks away, where he contacted the police.

When officers searched the apartment where Cole said he had been held, they found a brand-new Honda motorcycle, as well as a new TV and a motorcycle helmet. Cole told them that the men who abducted him had been driving a 1972 turquoise pickup truck with a white camper shell. This was an identical description of Cole’s own car. Odd, that. The “odd” factor only increased when police found out that the registered owner of the Honda motorcycle was Gary Anchustegui. Two employees of the shop where the motorcycle was sold identified the purchaser as James Cole.

But wait, there’s more! Around the time Cole was abducted (although by this point, everyone was probably putting scare quotes around that word,) over $1600 disappeared from the safe at Albertson Food Center. Both Cole and Anchustegui had access to that safe. After the two men both failed polygraph exams, Cole was arrested on August 18 and charged with attempted extortion, embezzlement, and forgery. (The last charge was because police believed Cole had forged Anchustegui’s name on the forms to buy the motorcycle.) Police decided that there was not enough evidence to charge Anchustegui with any crime.

Cole initially pleaded “not guilty,” but he eventually admitted guilt to extortion, in exchange for the other charges being dropped. However, he continued to insist that he genuinely had been kidnapped. In August 1977, Cole was sentenced to three years in prison (although he only served 30 days) and a $3,000 fine.

So far, we have nothing more than an idiotic petty con gone wrong. But a year later, Cole’s life took another, even weirder turn. In March 1978, Cole told people that he had been phoned by someone who claimed to know who had kidnapped him in 1976. On March 13, Cole was seen going to a pre-arranged location where he was to meet his mysterious informant.

After that, Cole disappeared again--this time for good. Considering that his car was found abandoned at the Boise Airport, and that he had taken out a $25,000 life insurance policy just one month before he vanished, it was generally assumed that Cole had left voluntarily, but as he was never heard from again, his fate remains unknown. (After seven years, Cole’s wife was able to have him declared dead, and she finally collected the insurance money. She remarried, and went on with her life.)

There is a postscript to this case, one that deals with another mysterious event. On December 4, 1982, a man walked into the Sacred Heart Church in Boise. He seemed to want to use the confessional, but it was already occupied, so he merely sat silently in a pew. A few hours later, as parishioners began to gather for the 6 p.m. mass, they were stunned to find the stranger lying on the ground, dead. It was later discovered that he had swallowed cyanide.

The man was young, dressed in Western attire. His wallet carried no identification--just $1900 in cash and a note reading: “In the event of my death, the enclosed currency should give more than adequate compensation for my funeral or disposal (prefer to be cremated) expenditures. What is left over, please take this as a contribution to this church. God will see to your honesty in this.” The note was signed “Wm. L. Toomey.”

No record could be found for anyone by that name, and as it was also the name of a company that manufactured ceremonial clothing for priests, it was presumed the man was using a pseudonym. Police were unable to trace any of the man’s relatives, or even anyone who knew him, so the church had no choice but to bury him under the name of "Toomey." (The permission of relatives would have been needed to cremate him.)

There is one haunting clue that may solve the twin mysteries of the disappearance of James Cole and the identity of “William Toomey.” In 2021, an anonymous letter was sent to the “Idaho Press" about the Toomey case. The writer suggested “This man may be James Thomas Cole who went missing in 1978. Compare his picture to that of ‘William Toomey’ and compare the resemblance.”

Some believe that the police sketch of “Toomey” does bear a resemblance to James Cole, and it is not implausible that after four years of being away from his old life, Cole felt he had had enough of a solitary existence. All one can say is that if Cole was indeed “William Toomey,” he certainly paid a terrible price for his 1976 escapades.