The Flamingo

In the spring of 1995, I took a late flight to Las Vegas, arriving after dark. For the first time, I got an aerial view of the lights of the Las Vegas Strip at night. It was a wonder to behold.

The Las Vegas Strip is a 4-mile-long, half-mile-wide district along Las Vegas Boulevard. It is home to 15 of the 25 largest hotels in the world — a sprawling entertainment and tourist mecca and one of the gaudiest, tackiest, most opulent arrays of casinos, resorts, and teeming humanity known to man.

The Vegas Strip is larger than life and over the top — similar to Mardi Gras in New Orleans and Oktoberfest in Munich, except the Strip is permanent and continuous, around the clock, without end.

The Strip includes such big names as Caesar’s Palace, Bellagio, Mandalay Bay, The Mirage, Luxor, Treasure Island, The Venetian, Paris, The Flamingo, Bally’s, and New York-New York, as well as a plethora of less flamboyant properties.

Technically, the Strip is not in Las Vegas. It’s located just outside the city limits along a section of old U.S. Highway 91, seven miles south of the actual downtown. The site grew up years ago after the established “sawdust joints” in the city closed ranks to keep out competition.

Why and how did the Las Vegas Strip evolve? Therein lies a tale.

The first nightclub on U.S. 91, the Pair-O-Dice Club, opened in 1930. Other clubs followed, all in the small, “sawdust joint” category.

Then in 1945, Hollywood businessman Billy Wilkerson arrived with big plans. Wilkerson, the owner of the Hollywood Reporter and several Sunset Strip nightclubs, purchased 33 acres along U.S. 91, intending to build a luxury hotel and resort that would out-fancy anything ever built.

Wilkerson’s dream property began to take shape, but he faced a wartime economy. Material costs were prohibitive. The project quickly ran into financial trouble, and Wilkerson had to seek new financing.

Enter mobster Ben “Bugsy” Siegel.

Siegel, a nationally-known gangster who had left New York and established himself in Hollywood, wanted to expand his business interests to Las Vegas. So did the New York mob. Siegel’s influential friend Meyer Lansky, AKA the Mob’s Accountant, convinced the syndicate bosses to allow Siegel to be their point man.

Posing as a legitimate businessman, Siegel approached the anxious Wilkerson with an offer of enough cash to complete the project. Bankrolled by Lansky and others in the mob, Siegel made a deal that gave him two-thirds ownership of the property.

Siegel took over from Wilkerson during the final stages of the new resort’s construction. Between Siegel’s utter lack of experience, gouging by suppliers, and skimming by everyone involved, construction costs went off the scale.

When the Flamingo Hotel and Casino opened in December 1946, it was billed as the world’s most luxurious hotel. It was the first deluxe hotel on the Strip — but had cost about $62 million in today’s dollars.

Still, Siegel was optimistic. He described the Flamingo as “a real class joint” and was determined to make it succeed.

Siegel named the resort after his girlfriend, Virginia Hill, a native of Bessemer, Alabama, who grew up in Marietta, Georgia. Because of her long, skinny legs, Hill’s nickname was the Flamingo.

In her teens, Hill had left Georgia to seek her fortune in Chicago. While working as a dancer (some say a prostitute), she began dating a mob underling. From there, thanks to her good looks, brains, and moxy, she worked her way up to become what Time Magazine later described as “queen of the gangster molls.”

Bolstered by her connections, Hill went to Hollywood to become a star. It didn’t happen, but in Hollywood, she met Siegel, who was as brassy and tough and short of fuse as she was. The two began a fiery and passionate relationship.

Like Wilkerson before him, Siegel was in over his head with the fledgling Flamingo Hotel.

The business was showing modest profits, but not enough to satisfy the syndicate bosses. The Flamingo represented their debut on the highly-promising Las Vegas Strip, and they wanted results. They suspected that Siegel was stalling while helping himself to the profits.

By all accounts, that was true. And Siegel’s arrogant attitude only made his situation worse.

Three times, the mob chiefs met in Havana to address the Flamingo situation. Twice, Lansky convinced them to give the enterprise more time.

But by the third meeting, even Lansky relented. The mob voted to take over the Flamingo themselves — which could be accomplished by taking Siegel out of the picture and making an example of him at the same time, if you get my drift.

The deed was done in June 1947 in the Beverly Hills home of Virginia Hill. She had stormed out after a fight with Siegel and flown to Paris in a huff.

As Siegel sat reading the Los Angeles Times, shots from an M1 carbine came through a window and struck Siegel multiple times, including twice in the head.

Twenty minutes later, Siegel’s top lieutenant, accompanied by a representative of New York’s Genovese crime family, walked into the Flamingo Hotel and announced that they were in charge. Nobody objected.

In Paris, when told about Siegel’s murder, Hill reportedly fainted. Later, when the police interviewed her, she was typically unhelpful.

“If anyone or anything was his mistress, it was that Las Vegas hotel,” she said. “I never knew Ben was involved in all that gang stuff. I can’t imagine who shot him or why.”

Today, only a few decades after the mob bosses helped to build the Las Vegas Strip, the place is “family friendly” and going strong.

How much mob involvement remains? As a humble writer, I haven’t a clue. But it would be naive to think their influence has disappeared.

Over the decades, the Flamingo changed ownership often. It is owned today by Caesars Entertainment, an umbrella corporation that controls half the properties on the Strip.

As for the Flamingo’s namesake, Virginia Hill, she continued to serve as a mob courier and sought-after “companion” after Siegel’s murder. But soon, with the IRS closing in, she moved to Europe with her third husband, a former Sun Valley ski instructor.

In 1966, at age 49, Hill was living in Austria, nearly broke. She was still in fear of the IRS and some of her mob acquaintances, deeply despondent over the loss of her youth and ability to turn heads.

One night, she went outside, stretched out in a snowdrift, and swallowed a fatal dose of sleeping pills.

Today, one of the attractions at the Flamingo resort is a 15-acre wildlife habitat, where a flock of Chilean flamingos resides with a variety of ducks, swans, turtles, sturgeon, and koi.

In September 2012, two new residents were added to the menagerie: a pair of brown pelicans that were rescued in Hawaii after being injured by fishing lines. The birds were nursed back to health, but are no longer able to fly. The habitat is now their home.

When the two pelicans arrived, a contest was held among the Flamingo’s employees to name them.

The overwhelming choice: Bugsy and Virginia.

The Flamingo in 1946.

The Flamingo in 2012.

Ben “Bugsy” Siegel.

Virginia “The Flamingo” Hill.

Siegel’s final photo in the Los Angeles Times (misspelled ‘Seigel’).

Bugsy and Virginia, together again in the wildlife habitat.

Read Full Post »

The Mates in the Pub

Sometimes, an idea will snowball and take off in a way that exceeds your expectations.

Sir Hugh Beaver (1890-1967), founder of the Guinness Book of World Records, probably marveled about that concept on a daily basis.

Sir Hugh was a socially prominent British engineer who, in 1946, became managing director of the Guinness Brewery in London.

In 1951, Sir Hugh went on a hunting trip in Ireland with some of his aristocrat pals. After shooting at and missing a golden plover, Sir Hugh opined (no doubt to save face) that undoubtedly, the plover is the fastest game bird in Europe.

His companions disagreed, asserting that the grouse is faster.

Everyone had an opinion, but no one had the facts. That evening at Castlebridge House, the toney residence of their host, Sir Hugh and his buddies searched through the extensive li-bry there, but failed to determine which is faster, plover or grouse.

Later, as Sir Hugh pondered the incident, he realized that similar questions were being debated every day in the 81,000-plus pubs across Britain and Ireland — and were going unresolved for lack of a convenient, reliable source of answers.

It occurred to him that a printed reference source containing facts, figures, records, and firsts, one that focused on topics that typically arise among the mates in the pubs, would be well-received and good for alcohol sales.

Two years later, Sir Hugh made a deal with the McWhirter twins, Ross and Norris, who ran a London company that furnished miscellaneous facts and figures to newspapers, encyclopedias, and businesses.

The McWhirters were commissioned to establish Guinness Superlatives, Limited, and produce the reference book Sir Hugh envisioned.

The first 198-page edition of the Guinness Book of World Records was released in August 1955. That initial printing of 1,000 copies was a marketing giveaway and wasn’t intended to be a money-maker.

But by Christmas, the book had shot to the top of the British best-seller list. In 1956, 70,000 copies were sold in the United States.

Sir Hugh’s brainchild went on to become a household name and one of the best-known brands in the English-speaking world. To date, it has sold over 100 million copies in 100 countries and 37 languages.

In 2001, Guinness Superlatives was sold to a conglomerate and is now independent of the Guinness brewery.

Further, the “Guinness Book of World Records” is known today simply as Guinness World Records, acknowledging that the operation has transitioned to an online presence. These days, the mates in the pub can settle their arguments with a smartphone.

Which brings me back to Sir Hugh’s original claim that the golden plover is the fastest game bird in Europe, and the assertion of his friends that the grouse is faster. Was Sir Hugh correct?

Nope. According to the Guinness Book of World Records, some species of grouse can fly at 70 mph. On a good day, the Golden Plover can manage only 60 mph.

Now we know.

Sir Hugh Beaver

The Red Grouse

The Golden Plover

Read Full Post »

Stinkers

Years ago, I had a friend who was Oscar-obsessed. When the Academy Awards came on TV, he hosted an elaborate party and handed out paper ballots. He made his infamous pig-in-a-blanket appetizers. He flitted around the room, giddy with anticipation.

I’m a film fan, too, but in a far less obsessive way. My friend would be crushed to know that I purposely avoid Academy Awards broadcasts.

Movies are a hugely complex art form and an amazing entertainment experience. A good film is a marvelous thing. In fact, depending on how the wind blows and the planets align, even an awful potboiler can be enjoyable.

Recently, I ran across this tidbit of movie trivia: in 1988, Tom Cruise starred in Rain Man, the Oscar-winning Best Picture, and also in Cocktail, the Razzie-winning Worst Picture. An amazing feat.

For the record, the Razzies are the Golden Raspberry Awards, presented annually in recognition of the worst in film.

The Razzies were dreamed up in 1980 by Hollywood publicist John Wilson. The award consists of a golfball-size representation of a raspberry sitting on a Super 8MM film reel, spray-painted gold.

An Oscar statuette costs about $500 to make; Each Razzie is said to cost $4.97.

When I read about Mr. Cruise’s notable achievement in 1988, I got curious about other Razzie winners over the years. So I did the research.

Here is the list of the winners in the Worst Picture category, including the star(s) to jog your memory. Note that 1986 and 1990 resulted in a tie.

1980 — Can’t Stop the Music (The Village People, Bruce Jenner)
1981 — Mommie Dearest (Faye Dunaway)
1982 — Inchon (Lawrence Olivier)
1983 — The Lonely Lady (Pia Zadora)
1984 — Bolero (Bo Derek)
1985 — Rambo: First Blood Part II (Sylvester Stallone)
1986 — Howard the Duck (Tim Robbins)
1986 — Under the Cherry Moon (Prince)
1987 — Leonard Part 6 (Bill Cosby)
1988 — Cocktail (Tom Cruise)
1989 — Star Trek V: The Final Frontier (William Shatner et al)
1990 — The Adventures of Ford Fairlane (Andrew Dice Clay)
1990 — Ghosts Can’t Do It (Bo Derek)
1991 — Hudson Hawk (Bruce Willis)
1992 — Shining Through (Michael Douglas)
1993 — Indecent Proposal (Robert Redford, Demi Moore)
1994 — Color of Night (Bruce Willis)
1995 — Showgirls (Elizabeth Berkley)
1996 — Striptease (Demi Moore)
1997 — The Postman (Kevin Costner)
1998 — Burn Hollywood Burn (Ryan O’Neal)
1999 — Wild Wild West (Will Smith, Kevin Kline)
2000 — Battlefield Earth (John Travolta)
2001 — Freddy Got Fingered (Tom Green)
2002 — Swept Away (Madonna)
2003 — Gigli (Ben Affleck)
2004 — Catwoman (Halle Berry)
2005 — Dirty Love (Jenny McCarthy)
2006 — Basic Instinct 2 (Sharon Stone)
2007 — I Know Who Killed Me (Lindsay Lohan)
2008 — The Love Guru (Mike Myers)
2009 — Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen (Shia LaBeouf)
2010 — The Last Airbender (Noah Ringer)
2011 — Jack and Jill (Adam Sandler)

A truly spectacular group of stinkers. I’ve seen only four of them, and I swear I was ignorant of their true nature at the time. Honest.

 

Read Full Post »

A Matter of Character

Columbus Day came and went last week. Most people celebrated by going shopping or doing what-not and giving Christopher Columbus no thought at all.

Except for the anti-Columbus people, that is. They came forward as always to revile the man, belittle his accomplishments, and bemoan the dismantling of the indigenous civilizations by European guns and diseases.

My favorite jab at Columbus this year was, “Saying Columbus discovered America is like walking into a grocery store and saying you discovered milk.”

For the record, I agree with the critics that Columbus was, if I may be blunt, scheming, ruthless, and downright villainous.

As for Columbus Day, however, I can’t decide. I’m not sure whether it should be renamed, done away with, or left alone.

When I was a kid, we learned in school that Christopher Columbus was an intrepid explorer and gallant captain who stumbled upon amazing new lands and exotic new people, and he opened up a new world that the European powers soon would civilize and make their own, and that’s why our great nation is here today.

As I got older, they fleshed out the story. They explained that the natives were susceptible to European diseases and died in droves, that they were used as slave labor, and that they never had a chance as waves of white settlers washed over two continents.

Those candid admissions addressed the consequences, but left intact the sterling image of the man himself. Only in adulthood did I finally get a better picture — that Columbus was as flawed as the rest of us, and then some.

Before I make my case about that, some points.

Point one: Columbus did not discover America. Not only was the place already occupied, but the explorer Leif Erikson had established a Norse colony in Newfoundland 500 years earlier.

At the time, Europe was distracted by the Crusades, so hardly anyone knew about it except the Vikings.

Point two: Columbus did not prove that the world is round. That story is a myth — mere fancy. As far back as Aristotle, educated Europeans understood that the world is round, not shaped like a pizza.

Point three: A common story is that the rulers of Portugal and Spain balked at financing Columbus because they feared his ships would sail off the edge of the pizza.

Not so. They thought Columbus underestimated the distance to Asia and couldn’t possibly carry enough supplies to get there.

They were right. Columbus had enough provisions to cross the Atlantic Ocean. But, had the Americas not been in the way, he and his party likely would have starved somewhere in the Pacific Ocean.

Point four: Columbus is said to have called the native people he encountered “Indians” because he thought he was in India. Not exactly.

In the time of Columbus, the country of India was called Hindustan. The terms India and the Indies referred to all of South and Southeast Asia, from Pakistan to the Philippines. Ergo, Indians to Columbus meant Asians.

SO — what leads me to call Christopher Columbus a scheming and ruthless villain? The evidence does.

On October 12, 1492, Columbus and his men made landfall on an island in the Bahamas. Convinced he had reached Asia as intended, Columbus claimed the land for the Spanish crown.

Living in the region was a peaceful and friendly group, the Taino, who traded goods with the crew.

Columbus wrote that the Taino “brought us parrots and balls of cotton and spears and many other things… They would make fine servants… With fifty men we could subjugate them all and make them do whatever we want.”

Columbus also noted in his journal that the Taino adorned themselves with modest pieces of gold jewelry. It was the beginning of the end for the Taino.

After exploring the coast of Cuba, Columbus built a small settlement on Hispaniola (Haiti and the Dominican Republic), left 39 men to occupy it, and returned to Spain.

Ferdinand and Isabella greeted him with much pomp, named him “Admiral of the Ocean Sea,” and appointed him governor general of the lands he had discovered.

In October 1493, Columbus set sail again, this time with a fleet of 17 ships, 1,500 colonists, and 20 horseman for shock and awe purposes. His goal was to bring back to Spain “as much gold as they need” and “as many slaves as they ask.”

He returned to Hispaniola to find the Taino in open revolt, the settlement destroyed, and the 39 men massacred.

One of the officers later wrote, “Bad feeling had arisen and had broken out in warfare because of the licentious conduct of our men towards the Indian women, for each Spaniard had five women to minister to his pleasure.”

Columbus built a new settlement and a string of forts, then came down hard on the Taino. His soldiers invaded the interior of the island. Thousands of Taino were killed.

Columbus also put in place a quasi-feudal system called encomienda. The word means entrust in Spanish.

Under encomienda, each colonist was given legal responsibility for a certain number of the Taino. The colonists were to grant protection to the natives and instruct them in the Spanish language and the Catholic faith. In return, they extracted tribute in the form of labor, goods, and gold.

Specifically, Columbus required a quarterly tribute in gold from every Taino over the age of 14. If a Taino could not meet the quota, a hand was cut off, and the victim was left to bleed to death.

Not satisfied with the amount of gold being taken in, Columbus accelerated the shipping of Taino slaves to Spain.

In 1495, Columbus and his men raided the interior again and captured 1,500 men, women, and children. The 500 best specimens were shipped to Spain to be sold.

After 200 of the captives died en route, Columbus said, “Let us in the name of the Holy Trinity go on sending all the slaves that can be sold.”

Columbus had the Taino under control, but he began having trouble with his own men. The gold-obsessed colonists were near mutiny, claiming that Columbus was a an ineffective leader and had misled them about the riches they would find. Some of them commandeered a ship and returned to Spain to complain.

Apparently, they made a good case against Columbus. Spain promptly sent a royal official to Hispaniola who arrested Columbus and stripped him of his authority. He was taken back to Spain in chains to face the royal court.

The charges later were dropped, but Columbus lost his titles and much of the riches he made during his voyages. He spent the last few years of his life trying to repair his reputation and regain his lost titles and wealth. He died in 1506, still trying.

Without question, the four voyages of Columbus opened the door to European colonization of the Americas. They set in motion a huge transfer of ideas and commodities, known as the Columbian Exchange, that affected the entire world.

Potatoes and corn from the Americas eventually became staples in Europe. Wheat from Europe became a major food source in the New World. Sugar cane from Asia and coffee from Africa became important cash crops in Latin America. The horse enabled the nomadic tribes of the Great Plains to become hunters.

Diseases also were spread, but the effects hit the indigenous Americans hardest. The Taino population when Columbus arrived was between half a million and eight million. By 1542, a census showed that only 200 Taino remained alive.

Yet, the fate of the Taino was just a small part of the story.

Because of the scarcity of data, estimates of the pre-Columbian population of North and South America are iffy. Most scholars think it was between 30 and 50 million.

Within a few generations of the arrival of the Europeans, repeated outbreaks of disease (smallpox, measles, whooping cough, bubonic plague, typhoid, influenza, malaria, yellow fever) virtually emptied the Americas of their native inhabitants.

Largely because of disease, as many as 21 million indigenous Americans died.

As I said, I’m ambivalent about having a holiday that honors Christopher Columbus. The legacy is important, even if the man lacked the character we expect in a genuine hero.

I have one last anecdote about Columbus that I believe is revealing of that character.

On October 12, 1492, at two hours after midnight, a lookout on the Nina cried out, “Tierra! Tierra! (Land! Land!)”

Surely, the lookout was doubly ecstatic, because Spain had promised a huge reward to the man who saw land first — a pension equal to the annual pay of an able-bodied seaman for the rest of his life.

The lookout did not get the reward. Columbus announced that he had seen several lights the evening before, and he claimed the reward for himself.

“First landing of Columbus on the shores of the New World, at San Salvador, W.I., Oct. 12th 1492,” by Dióscoro Teófilo Puebla Tolín, 1862.

 

Read Full Post »

Renaissance Man

For a dude who never finished high school, Benjamin Franklin (1706-1790) accomplished remarkable things.

Franklin was an author, politician, scientist, inventor, editor, printer, musician, statesman, and diplomat. He not only dabbled in those fields and others, he excelled in them.

Many of Franklin’s accomplishments, you probably know. Others are more obscure. Here is a sampling…

A working class Pennsylvanian and proud of it, Franklin started out as a newspaper editor in Philadelphia. In time, he became co-publisher of the Pennsylvania Chronicle, a leading critic of the British monarchy.

Franklin rose to fame in the Colonies with Poor Richard’s Almanac, which he published from 1732 until 1758.

His scientific achievements were numerous. He was first to suggest the size of an atom, first to understand evaporative cooling, first to track a hurricane, and first to chart the Gulf Stream.

Those accomplishments, as well as the kite and the key thing, where he showed that lightning is the release of stored electricity, brought him international renown.

So did his many inventions, including bifocals, the Franklin stove, the lightning rod, the odometer, and — yikes! — the flexible urinary catheter.

Although Franklin’s inventions could have brought him great riches, he never filed a patent. He believed his work should serve the common good.

He wrote, “As we enjoy great advantages from the inventions of others, we should be glad of an opportunity to serve others by any invention of ours; and this we should do freely and generously.”

For many years, Franklin served as the British postmaster for the colonies.

He was one of the founders of the University of Pennsylvania.

He played the violin, the harp, and the guitar, and he composed classical music for string quartets.

He created America’s first library. Late in life, he freed his slaves and became a prominent abolitionist.

Franklin never served as President of the United States, but he was President of Pennsylvania, a post he held from 1785 to 1788.

The Thirteen Virtues

In 1726, at age 20, Franklin created a series of guidelines for personal character development that he called the Thirteen Virtues. Here they are, as listed in his autobiography.

Temperance — Eat not to dullness; drink not to elevation.
Silence — Speak not but what may benefit others or yourself; avoid trifling conversations.
Order — Let all your things have their places; let each part of your business have its time.
Resolution — Resolve to perform what you ought; perform without fail what you resolve.
Frugality — Make no expense but to do good to others or yourself; that is, waste nothing.
Industry — Lose not time; be always employed in something useful; cut off all unnecessary actions.
Sincerity — Use no hurtful deceit; think innocently and justly; speak accordingly
Justice — Wrong none by doing injuries or omitting the benefits that are your duty. Moderation — Avoid extremes; forbear resenting injuries so much as you think you deserve.
Cleanliness — Tolerate no uncleanliness in body, clothes or habitation.
Tranquility — Be not disturbed at trifles or accidents common or unavoidable.
Chastity — Rarely use venery but for health or offspring; never to dullness, weakness, or the injury of your own or another’s peace or reputation.
Humility — Imitate Jesus and Socrates.

Franklin’s Daily Schedule

Being one of those people (like me) who thrive on regimentation, Franklin followed a strict daily schedule. He put it in writing, of course.

Among the founding fathers, Franklin was a patriot without peer. He was a passionate advocate for the proposed United States, helping to define the emerging nation as a combination of (1) democratic values — education, community, thrift, hard work — and (2) opposition to political and religious authoritarianism.

Historian Henry Steele Commager said Franklin embodied “the virtues of Puritanism without its defects, the illumination of the Enlightenment without its heat.”

The Franklin Alphabet

Being the über-perfectionist and detail-oriented stickler that he was, Franklin was greatly annoyed that English spelling was so difficult and disorderly. And in the 1700s, spelling indeed was a mess. Even more so than today, what people read did not jibe with what they heard.

So, in 1768, Franklin introduced Benjamin Franklin’s Phonetic Alphabet, a reformed alphabet designed to make spelling easier. In it, each letter represented exactly one sound.

Clearly, Franklin had done exhaustive research on the matter. He explained his rationale thusly:

——————

It is endeavoured to give the Alphabet a more natural Order, beginning first with the simple Sounds form’d by the Breath, with none or very little Help of Tongue, Teeth and Lips, and produc’d chiefly in the Windpipe.

Then coming forward to those form’d by the Root of the Tongue next to the Windpipe;

Then to those form’d more forward by the forepart of the Tongue against the Roof of the Mouth;

Then those form’d still more forward in the Mouth, by the Tip of the Tongue, apply’d first to the Roots of the upper Teeth,

Then to the Ends or Edges of the same Teeth;

Then to those form’d still more forward by the under Lip apply’d to the upper Teeth;

Then to those form’d yet more forward by the upper and under Lip opening to let out the sounding Breath;

And lastly ending with the Shutting up of the Mouth or closing the Lips, while any Vowel is sounding.

——————

Got that?

Franklin’s alphabet dropped six letters he thought were redundant, and it added six new letters to better represent certain common sounds.

Franklin dropped the letters C, J, Q, W, X, and Y  because their sounds were accounted for by other letters. For example, the two sounds of the letter C (as in cake and city) are handled nicely by the letters K and S.

Further, Franklin added letters to represent the sounds au (as in caught), u (as in run), th (as in this), ng (as in ring), sh (as in she), and th (as in thing).

Franklin’s alphabet used double letters to represent long vowels. For example, the long a sound (as in ape) became aa. The long e sound (as in heed) became ii.

All great men are entitled to one Big Idea that fizzles. In Franklin’s case, it was the phonetic alphabet. In theory, it shined; in practice, it baffled all who saw it.

Consider this revealing example.

——————

A Letter from Mary Stevenson to Benjamin Franklin in His New Alphabet

FROM MISS MARY STEVENSON TO B. FRANKLIN.

Kensingtyn, 26 Septembyr, 1768.

Diir Syr,

yi hav transkryib’d iur alfabet, &c., huith yi hink myit bi av syrvis tu hoz, hu uih to akuyir an akiuret pronynsiehyn, if hat kuld bi fiks’d; byt yi si meni inkanviiniensis, az uel az difikyltis, hat uuld atend hi brigig iur letyrs and arhagrafi intu kamyn ius. aal avr etimalodhiz uuld be last, kansikuentli ui kuld nat asyrteen hi miinig av meni uyrds; hi distinkhyn, tu, bituiin uyrds av difyrent miinig and similar saund uuld bi iusles, ynles ui livig ryiters pyblih nu iidihyns. In hart yi biliiv ui myst let piipil spel an in heer old ue, and (az ui fyind it iisiiest) du hi seem aurselves.

With ease and with sincerity I can, in the old way, subscribe myself,

Dear Sir,

Your faithful and affectionate servant,

M. S.

——————

Even Miss Stevenson counseled Franklin to give it up. Ouch.

In the end, Franklin abandoned the proposed alphabet and focused on other matters. A smart move.

Benjamin Franklin died on April 17, 1790. 20,000 people attended his funeral.

Quite the rock star.

Read Full Post »

The Iron Fence, Part 2

In my previous post about the early days of the University of Georgia, I introduced you to the iconic cast iron fence that separates the UGA campus from downtown Athens.

The iron fence, which was built in 1857 to keep livestock from wandering onto the campus, is now being repaired and restored.

When the fence was built, its centerpiece was a massive, three-pillared, cast iron arch facing downtown Athens. The Arch was intended to be, and still is, the formal entrance to the campus.

The Arch is a replica of the Great Seal of the State of Georgia, whose three pillars carry the words of the state motto: “Wisdom, Justice, Moderation.”

(An ironic choice for a state that had to be dragged into modern times, and for a university that for its first hundred years admitted only white men. I’m just sayin’.)

In the old days, the Arch featured two iron gates that were swung shut at night. The gates disappeared in 1885, probably stolen by pranksters.

In 1946, the Arch was moved back about six feet inside the perimeter of the fence and placed at the top of a set of limestone steps. There it stands today.

In addition to being one of the most recognizable symbols of the University, the Arch also plays a major role in campus tradition.

According to UGA legend, when student Daniel Redfearn (Class of 1910) arrived on campus, he quietly vowed not to walk under the Arch until he had earned his diploma.

Redfearn didn’t say much about his pledge, but eventually, one of his professors found out and was so impressed that he announced it proudly to his classes.

As an undergraduate, Redfearn kept his word, even during hazing rituals, and he never walked under the Arch until after he graduated.

From that incident, a campus legend emerged that today has several forms.

One version is that no undergraduate who walks under the Arch will ever get a diploma from UGA.

Another version is that freshmen who walk through the Arch are doomed to academic failure and will not graduate on time.

Another is that freshmen who walk under the Arch will become sterile.

Take your pick.

Even though the legend is still well known, it isn’t followed as strictly as in the past. Spend 15 minutes watching students walk by the Arch, and you’ll see that about a quarter of them go through it, not around it.

But in the limestone steps on which the Arch stands, there is clear evidence of past adherence to the tradition.

Over time, the steps on each side have been worn down by foot traffic, showing where generations of undergraduates have detoured around the Arch.

But back to the iron fence and one final detail about it.

Actually, make that one finial detail.

For many years, each fence post was topped with a finial — in this case, a cast iron ball slightly larger than a softball.

The finials were screwed in place. I know this because over the years, most of the balls were unscrewed and spirited away as souvenirs, leaving a telltale threaded bolt pointing naked to the sky.

By the time I was a student at UGA in the 1960s, only about a dozen of the old round post-tops survived. Probably, they were rusted in place and thus stymied even the most determined of souvenir-hunters and inebriated fraternity boys.

As a student, I yearned deeply to possess one of those beautiful orbs. I dreamed of having the strength to unscrew one, and of having the courage to abscond with it in the dead of night.

What I would do with it, I didn’t know. But I wanted one with every molecule in my body.

That dream, as you might suspect, was never fulfilled. Whether to my credit or discredit, I never even attempted to swipe one.

But others did, and they succeeded. Today, not a single cast iron finial remains. I can attest to that, because I recently walked the perimeter of the fence to be sure.

Alas, if I had possessed enough fortitude as a youth, one of them would be mine.

So — now you know some interesting trivia about the old iron fence, the Arch, the UGA campus, and Athens.

You’re welcome.

Workers dismantle a section of UGA’s historic cast iron fence along Broad Street. The metal will be stripped, repaired, and repainted, and the sections will be reinstalled before classes resume in the fall.

 

Read Full Post »

The Iron Fence, Part 1

Right now, a project is underway at the University of Georgia to dismantle, repair, and repaint sections of the stately old cast-iron fence that separates the campus from downtown Athens.

The fence, erected in 1857, is a handsome thing, but admittedly is showing its age.

The University says repairs will be made using a more modern, longer-lasting formulation of cast iron. I guess they’re hoping it will last a while this time.

In this spot, the fence has been glommed up by a massive water oak. The University wisely decided not to mess with this section.

I’ve always been fascinated by the old fence and its role in UGA history. In fact, the entire “origin story” of UGA — how and where the site of the campus was selected and how UGA subsequently grew and evolved — is a tale worth telling…

In January 1785, the Georgia General Assembly granted a charter creating the University of Georgia as the country’s first state-supported university.

The distinction of first in that case didn’t mean much. By the time UGA was thought up, the colonies and the young United States already had plenty of colleges and universities. Harvard was founded in 1636, William & Mary in 1693, UPenn in 1740.

Even the University of North Carolina, chartered in 1789, built an actual campus before UGA did. That’s because the founders of UGA took their sweet time getting underway.

It was 1801 before a committee of the UGA Board of Trustees finally selected a site for the campus: 633 acres atop a hill in Jackson County, overlooking the North Oconee River and the small trading settlement of Cedar Shoals.

The hill was notable for a perennial spring that flowed from the ground near the top. In July 1801, The Augusta Chronicle described it thusly:

At least three hundred feet above the level of the river, in the midst of an extensive bed of rocks, issues a copious spring of excellent water; and in its meanderings, several others are discovered.

Southern historian E. Merton Coulter (who spent much of his energy glorifying the Old South and vilifying Northerners, but nevertheless knew his history) described how the site was deeded to UGA:

John Milledge, one of the committeemen, and a friend and follower of Thomas Jefferson, who must have been particularly pleased with the hill and especially with the fine spring of water flowing out of the side, bought the land and presented it to the University.

[UGA President Josiah] Meigs found out that the campus spring would flow 9,000 gallons of sparkling water in twenty-four hours in May or only 7,700 gallons in January.

In 1801, the 633-acre site was remote woodland. Today, that land is underneath the north end of the UGA campus and the considerable pavement of downtown Athens.

Yet, surprisingly, one remnant of the spring remains.

You’ll find it in an out-of-the-way warehouse district on (what else?) Spring Street, where a railroad siding ends in a culvert.

The culvert is tended, but not marked. It houses a small seep, and the spot is lush with grasses and wildflowers that grow year-round, even in the severest drought.

But back to the UGA campus.

After Committeeman Milledge donated the land, construction of the campus began immediately. The first buildings were made of logs, and, as trees were felled, the cleared lots were sold to raise money for additional construction.

By the time the first class graduated in 1804, a small civilian settlement had grown up next to the campus. Milledge named the settlement Athens after the renowned center of arts and learning in Greece.

Georgia’s Athens, however, was renowned for no such things. Among its populace were numerous thieves who pilfered from the University and countless squatters who freely cut down campus trees.

To stop the wholesale cutting, the Trustees made a bargain with the locals in which the University did the cutting and furnished firewood to each home for $8.00 per year.

Athens was incorporated in 1806. Like the University, the town grew rapidly, with cotton mills fueling the expansion.

In 1833, a post-and-rail wood fence was erected around the campus, partly for aesthetic reasons, partly to keep out wandering livestock.

Engraving of the UGA campus from a Boston periodical, 1854. Note the wood fence and the stiles used to cross it.

The fence kept out the cattle and pigs well enough, but it required constant repair; mischievous students and locals delighted in knocking down the rails.

So, in 1857, a new fence of durable cast iron, forged in an Athens foundry, was erected in its place. The iron fence resisted the best efforts of the mischief-makers to tear it down.

Photo from 1858 showing the campus and the new iron fence.

In 1833, the University had established a large botanical garden near the campus. By all accounts, it had become quite a marvel.

The garden displayed trees and shrubs from around the world, boasted a willow tree from Napoleon’s grave in St. Helena, and featured a pond stocked with perch and a token alligator.

But by the 1850s, UGA was having a rough time financially, and the garden was sold for $1,000. Part of the money was used to install the iron fence.

With the campus thus protected at last, and after a fortuitous upturn in its finances, the University embarked on a beautification binge, planting hundreds of trees and shrubs around campus.

That binge probably helped ease the pain of losing the botanical garden. And happily, it has continued unabated down through the years.

More about UGA and the cast iron fence in my next post.

Read Full Post »

Two Marketing Tales

Here are two interesting stories about audacious new business enterprises, both of which involved legal battles with giant competitors, and both of which used the human derriere as a theme…

Tale #1 — Lardashe Jeans

In 1984, Jordache Enterprises, Inc. was the designer jeans behemoth of its day, grossing about $400 million annually. Jordache had just launched a $30 million ad campaign to keep up the momentum.

That same year, two Albuquerque women, Susan Duran and Marsha Stafford, started a home-based company to market a brand of designer jeans for plus-sized women.

The two ladies were passionate about their new venture. Duran, 35 (5’8″, 190 pounds), and Stafford, 33 (5’7″, 170 pounds), had long wanted to create jeans for the amply-proportioned woman.

They considered a variety of brand names for the new company — Calvin Swine, Vidal Sowsoon, Seambusters, Buffalo Buns, Thunder Thighs. In the end, they chose Lardashe.

The symbol of Jordache jeans was an appliqué of a horse head on the back pocket; the symbol of Lardashe was an appliqué of a pig.

The new jeans, offering hip measurements from 44″ to 60″, were an immediate hit. The company scrambled to fill orders.

Despite the obvious parody of the Jordache name, Stafford claimed that Lardashe actually came from a nickname she was given as a child. “I was chubby,” she said, “and my grandpa called me ‘lard ass.’”

Soon, Jordache unveiled its own line of jeans for larger women. In 1985, Jordache sold 60,000 pairs of plus-size jeans, while Lardashe sold a mere 1,000.

Nonetheless, Jordache sued to block the use of the name Lardashe, claiming that Stafford and Duran had ripped off the Jordache name and were sullying its reputation.

As soon as the lawsuit was filed, most of the banks in Albuquerque stopped making loans to Lardashe. Temporarily, the company was forced to halt production.

During the three-day trial, an attorney for Jordache said, “The term Lardashe, which everybody understands to be lard ass, is an offensive, insensitive term to use to apply to overweight women.” He claimed that potential customers might think Lardashe jeans were a Jordache product and could take offense.

Stafford disagreed. Jordache, she said, “didn’t think a woman consumer would know the difference between a pig and a horse.”

The courts sided with the pig.

The District Court in New Mexico held, and an appeals court later affirmed, that no trademark infringement had occurred.

Said the District Court, “It is unlikely that the public would assume that the same manufacturer would use quite different marks on substantially the same products.”

Said the Appeals Court, “Our review of the record convinces us that the public will not associate Lardashe jeans with the appellant or, if they do, they will only make the association because of the parody and not because they believe Jordache Enterprises manufactures Lardashe jeans.”

Although the ladies won, the legal battle proved to be particularly costly for Stafford. She developed an ulcer and lost 60 of her 190 pounds, making her too svelte for Lardashe jeans.

She and her partner solved the problem by creating a new line of Lardashe junior sizes.

Tale #2 — The South Butt

In 2007, a 19-year-old freshman at the University of Missouri started a business to make money to help cover his college costs.

Jimmy Winkelmann, a biomedical engineering student, said the idea for the business originated while he was attending high school in St. Louis. There, he and his pals often poked fun at classmates who wore the latest fad — jackets and vests by The North Face — to satisfy their need to belong.

“People thought it was so cool to wear The North Face fleeces,” Winkelmann said. “Everybody had to have them.”

So, as a parody of the sheep-like behavior of his classmates, Winkelmann came up with a clothing alternative to The North Face — The South Butt.

Winkelmann said his intention was to get people to think about the alternatives, not to rip off The North Face. It started as a joke, he said, “and then it just, like, escalated.”

The logo of The North Face is a red square featuring the company name in white, next to a half dome with three ridges; the logo of The South Butt is a red square with the elements reversed. The upside-down half dome consists of two ridges, which according to Winkelmann denotes butt cheeks.

The slogan of The North Face is Never Stop Exploring; the tagline of The South Butt is Never Stop Relaxing.

Winkelmann’s uncle, who owned a novelty printing company, manufactured the first South Butt t-shirts. His father, a stockbroker, helped get the business incorporated.

South Butt t-shirts were sold for $19.99 online and at a small pharmacy in St. Louis. Soon, the company added ladies’ track shorts ($19.99) and fleece jackets ($75.29). Winkelmann said the company made about 200 sales in its first year.

Inevitably, The North Face Apparel Corporation stepped in.

In a letter, a North Face attorney said the two logos are similar enough to cause “consumer confusion as to the source, sponsorship or affiliation of particular products and services that could dilute or tarnish the distinctive quality of the famous and distinctive TNFAC marks.”

The letter claimed The South Butt marketed apparel that “infringes and dilutes The North Face’s famous trademarks and duplicates The North Face’s trade dress in its iconic Denali jacket.”

Winkelmann’s attorney (a friend of his father who received a bottle of burgundy as payment for his services) disagreed. “The consuming public is well aware of the difference between a face and a butt,” he said.

The attorney wrote, “The sense of parody employed by Jimmy within the context of his South Butt undertakings clearly demonstrates a respectful, if not flattering ‘anti-North Face’ posture designed in all respects to distinguish itself from any and all North Face products.”

Through his attorney, Winkelmann also gave The North Face an opportunity to acquire The South Butt for $1 million. The offer was not accepted.

In his first year, Winkelmann made about $4,000 in profits, most of which went back into inventory. In his second year, he was able to apply about $2,000 to his college costs.

Everything changed when The North Face took legal action. Winkelmann went from selling 200 items per year to 200 items per week. He was rushing to fill back orders and get new inventory manufactured.

“I don’t think I was really a threat to them,” Winkelmann said. “Now, I’ll be a threat, maybe.”

In January 2010, the two companies went to court. The judge sent them away to negotiate, and in April, they reached a settlement, the terms of which were not disclosed.

“The matter has been amicably resolved between the parties,” said Winkelmann’s attorney. He declined further comment.

For a few months, The South Butt continued operation, but its website soon was taken down. The website is now registered to The North Face Apparel Corporation.

Today, Jimmy Winkelmann is completing his junior year as a biomedical engineering student at the University of Missouri. Presumably, he is doing so on The North Face’s dime.

Winkelmann will spend the summer as one of 12 interns with the Institute for Biomedical Optics in Massachusetts, a program sponsored by the Harvard-MIT Division of Health Sciences & Technology. His team will study methods of detecting melanoma cancer cells in blood samples.

Smart kid.

Read Full Post »

Not With a Bang

I’ve been a fan of science fiction since age nine.

To me, the appeal isn’t the gung ho action — the alien invasion/interstellar war/space opera stuff — although some of that is great fun.

Nor is it the softer, more philosophical side of the genre — tales about time travel, alternate universes, artificial intelligence, or the imagined technology of future societies — all of which can be fascinating and thought-provoking.

No, what I really dig is the science in science fiction. The science that, wearing the mantle of fiction, is really pondering and trying to make sense of — well — life, the universe, and everything.

I dig the science because I think science is the most important, most valuable attribute of the human species. Science doesn’t profess to be the Undisputed Truth. It is merely the best guess of our best minds, based on what we know at the moment.

And crucially, science is happy to reach new conclusions based on new evidence.

Consider this example: a cosmic year is the time it takes a star to complete one revolution around the center of its galaxy. For us Earthlings, one cosmic year is somewhere between 225,000 and 250,000 earth years.

That’s based on the estimated size of the Milky Way Galaxy (diameter of about 100,000 light years) and the estimated speed of the Sun as we zip through space (around 515,000 mph).

At the moment, 225,000-250,000 years is about as precise as we can get. But, as new evidence refines the number up or down, science will be cool with that.

Likewise, if space aliens showed up, claimed that they put us here in the distant past, and presented irrefutable proof of that claim, science would be cool with that, too.

The rest of society probably would not. Typically, outside the disciplines of genuine science, minds are not open to new information and a new conclusion — not if it runs counter to preconceived notions.

Which is why I firmly believe that science equals real knowledge and real understanding, and everything else is just blather.

I was a journalism major, not a math or physics person, and it shows. I struggle to understand Einstein. I labor through books by Steven Hawking. When Michio Kaku comes on TV to explain a bit of theoretical physics, I may or may not get it.

But, even though I am woefully unprepared, I’m still deeply curious. I want to understand the big picture. I mean, what is this cosmos thing really all about, anyway?

Well, consider the scientific thinking of the moment.

The Beginning

Science believes that about 13.7 billion years ago, at the literal beginning of the universe, nothing existed except a Singularity.

The Singularity was a point of super-intense gravity. It was infinitely dense, infinitely hot, and infinitesimally small. Where this theoretical something came from, we don’t know.

Nor do we know why it suddenly exploded/inflated in a cataclysm — the Big Bang — that generated space, time, and all of the energy and matter in the universe.

As the cataclysm expanded, pockets of basic elements (hydrogen, helium, lithium) became more and more dense. Stars ignited, galaxies formed.

Heavier elements (carbon, oxygen, iron) were created, some inside stars and others when larger stars depleted their hydrogen, collapsed, and exploded.

Elements of all kinds were flung out into space. Some of this “star stuff,” as the late Carl Sagan called it, collected and coalesced and became the building blocks of new stars and their planets.

All of us, and all things around us, are made of elements created out there somewhere, inside the furnaces of stars. That process continued today.

The Present

So here we are, 13.7 billion years later, somewhere in the universe, on board Planet Earth. If we could get a bird’s-eye view of the entire cosmos, what would it look like, and where inside it are we?

Science says that the universe is still expanding from the Big Bang, and it is populated by gazillions of stars, all in motion.

When stars get close enough to be gravitationally attracted, they form into galaxies — swirling masses that may contain billions of stars each.

Our star, the Sun, is inside the Milky Way Galaxy, which is made up of some 200-400 billion stars.

The name Milky Way comes from its appearance from Earth as a faint band of light across the night sky. We see it as a band because the galaxy is disc-shaped, and we see it edge-on. We see the glow of multitudes of stars.

The Sun is located in one of the spiral arms of the Milky Way, about 30,000 light years from the galactic core.

The cosmos is so vast that our puny minds can’t truly comprehend it. But we can try to get oriented.

Because interstellar distances get huge fast, science expresses distance in light years. One light year is the distance light travels in one year.

The speed of light is 186,282 miles per second. If you do the math, one light year equals about 6 trillion miles.

Light from the Moon takes 1.3 seconds to reach the Earth.

Light from the Sun takes eight minutes to reach the Earth.

Light from Proxima Centauri, the nearest star beyond the Sun, takes 4.3 years to reach the Earth.

Light takes 100,000 years to cross the Milky Way Galaxy from edge to edge.

Looking outward from the Milky Way, we see other galaxies — and galactic groups — and clusters and superclusters of galactic groups. In all directions are galaxies by the billions.

The immediate galactic neighborhood of the Milky Way consists of 30-50 galaxies (depending on who’s counting) called the Local Group. Most of these galaxies are gravitationally connected to the two most massive members, the Milky Way and the Andromeda Galaxy.

Drawing of the Local Group of galaxies. Note the white bar (top) that denotes a distance of one million light years. Also shown is the Triangulum Galaxy, the third largest galaxy in the group. 

To get a handle on the scale of things, consider an analogy used by NASA astronomer Sten Odenwald.

A penny is about one inch in diameter. Odenwald points out that if the Milky Way were the size of a penny, the Andromeda Galaxy would be about 23 inches away.

The Virgo cluster, a separate group of galaxies beyond the Local Group, would be 50 feet from the penny.

The most distant galaxies detected by the Hubble Space Telescope would be about 20 miles from the Milky Way “penny.”

Essentially, that is the edge of the observable universe. The light from galaxies beyond that point has not yet reached us.

Science believes that the universe we cannot yet observe stretches thousands of miles, maybe millions of miles, beyond Odenwald’s penny.

No matter which direction we look in space, we see clusters and superclusters of galaxies, all moving away from us. As hard as it is to grasp, the experts say that the universe is expanding in all directions, has no center, and would look the same to any observer anywhere.

Image from the Hubble Space Telescope showing one tiny wedge of the visible universe. This image, a mere pinhole view, depicts about .002 percent of the panorama in all directions. You’re looking at about 1,500 galaxies. 

The Future

So science believes that the universe began with a bang, and matter and energy spread, and life appeared, and we humans evolved to the point of our present awareness.

Being a curious lot, we want to know what will become of us, our planet, our star, and ultimately, the cosmos itself.

For years, scientists debated whether the universe will keep expanding indefinitely (an open universe) or eventually will slow down and re-collapse into a “Big Crunch” (a closed universe).

The answer, they now believe, is open. 

Most speculation ended during the 1990s, when evidence mounted that the universe will not re-collapse — cannot re-collapse — because the expansion of the cosmos actually is accelerating.

The evidence of which I speak comes from deep in the realm of theoretical physics.

According to Einstein’s equation E = mc², the mass of a body is a measure of its energy content. But when the equation is used to calculate how much matter the universe should contain, only four percent of it can be found. Where is the missing matter?

Furthermore, by the law of gravity, large objects such as galaxy clusters should attract each other, and their gravity should pull in other objects. However, most galaxy clusters are moving apart and accelerating to boot. Why isn’t gravity getting the job done?

New theories about dark matter and dark energy are trying to answer those questions.

Dark matter is a theoretical form of matter that for the moment is undetectable, but whose presence can be inferred from its gravitational effects. Theoretically, the missing 96 percent of matter could exist in the form of dark matter.

Dark energy is a theoretical force that repels — the opposite of the force of gravity, which attracts. If dark energy exists, and if it outweighs gravity, it could account for the accelerated expansion of the universe.

The study of these theories and others will occupy science for a long time. But the latest evidence is compelling that the universe will continue to expand.

That being the case, what, in the long run, will happen?

– About 1.5 million years from now, the sun will burn up the last of its hydrogen. It will expand in size beyond the orbit of Venus and become a red giant. 

At that stage, the Sun will begin to burn its helium until that, too, is gone. In a series of bursts, the outer layers of the Sun will fly off into space. The remaining core will be a white dwarf, an Earth-sized chunk of carbon and oxygen.

– About 2.5 million years from now, the Milky Way and Andromeda galaxies will begin to collide.

– About 100 billion years from now, the galaxies of the Local Group will have sped away into space, and the Milky Way will be alone.

– About a trillion years from now, all of the stars in the Milky Way will have exhausted their fuel and cooled to cinders. Only white dwarfs, neutron stars, and black holes will remain.

Neutron stars are remnants of collapsed stars composed almost entirely of neutrons. In that state, they are relatively stable. But eventually, they will collapse further and become black holes.

Black holes are objects so dense that nothing, not even light, can escape. They grow by glomming up nearby mass and retaining it.

But one theory says that a few particles can, in fact, escape near the very edge (the event horizon) of a black hole.  Thus, even black holes eventually will decay and vanish, too.

– About 100 trillion years from now, the universe will be nearly inert. The only energy remaining will be from protons decaying into subatomic particles.

– About a zillion years from now (or some other crazy number), the last black holes will have evaporated, and all of the protons will have decayed. Only scattered electrons and random bits of cold, inert matter will remain.

And that, as they say, will be that.

That timeline may prove to be accurate, or it may wildly miss the mark. Regardless, it will be adjusted, amended, and changed freely as new evidence is found.

Science will be cool with that.

A composite by the California Institute of Technology of the entire sky in infrared, showing the distribution of galaxies beyond the Milky Way (shown at center). Blue indicates the nearest galaxies, green sources are at moderate distances, and red sources are the most distant. 

Read Full Post »

“That Which Providence Hath Destroyed”

In 2002, the BBC conducted a poll to determine the 100 greatest Brits in history — as chosen by the British public of 2002.

The results were skewed accordingly. Princess Diana placed third, one place ahead of Charles Darwin. Vice Admiral Horatio Nelson was number nine, trailing John Lennon, number eight.

Although the top 10 did include Churchill, Shakespeare, Isaac Newton, and Queen Elizabeth I, it is notable that farther down the list, Boy George placed higher than Sir Frances Drake, and David Beckham placed higher than Thomas Paine. Sigh.

Somewhat to my surprise, 10th place went to Oliver Cromwell, who led the overthrow of the monarchy and served as “Lord Protector” of England from 1653 until 1658.

Cromwell strikes me as an unlikely fellow to place so high in a popularity contest, but historically, he may well deserve it.

Here was a man who helped bring down the monarchy, refused the crown himself, and proceeded to reign as regally as any king. When he died after five years in power, his government fell apart, and the monarchy was restored under the deposed king’s son.

In one sense, Cromwell was only a hiccup in the nation’s history. In another sense, he ruled over a complex period of factionalism and civil war that ushered in important changes in the society.

Some say Cromwell was ruthless and villainous. Others say he was righteous and honorable. Whatever the truth is, the story of his rise and fall is dramatic and fascinating.

Oliver Cromwell was born to a nouveau riche family in 1599. By the time Charles I became king in 1625, Cromwell was a young farmer and landlord, prominent in the Puritan movement.

The Puritans were Protestants who advocated greater “purity” and piety in both church and politics. They believed the Church of England (which had broken away from the Catholic Church in 1534) was too tolerant of practices associated with Catholicism.

Although the Puritans had been gaining power in Parliament for decades, Parliament was a far weaker institution then. It effectively controlled the treasury, but it wasn’t permanent; the king could convene or disband Parliament at will — which he did to keep it from interfering.

For years, Charles’s father, James I, had fenced with Parliament for power. As a result, Scotland, England, and Ireland all were in turmoil, deeply divided in their religious and political loyalties.

England in 1625 was a tough place to live. Europe was still feeling its way up from feudalism. New elements in society, such as the merchants and artisans in the cities, were demanding concessions that the monarchies gave reluctantly. Sparks flew. Battles were fought.

In England, Charles I was supported by most of the nobles and the gentry, as well as many of the rural folk who depended on them for jobs and protection. These were the Royalists or Cavaliers.

Most people in the cities and towns supported Parliament. The Puritans and related groups often were called Roundheads — so named because they preferred closely-cropped hair to the long ringlets popular among the nobility.

Unlike his more politically savvy father, Charles was arrogant and combative. He believed he was king by divine right — chosen by God and therefore infallible — and he missed no opportunity to infuriate his enemies.

Both sides had standing armies, and neither was willing to back down. In 1642, a series of battles began.

Parliament’s army, the New Model Army was assembled and led by Oliver Cromwell. Cromwell’s soldiers were chosen on ability and merit, not birth or wealth. At least outwardly, social class didn’t count.

Cromwell had no military experience, but he proved to be very capable as a leader and strategist. In 1648, Cromwell’s army prevailed, and Charles fled the throne. He was captured in 1649 and put on trial.

A panel of 59 judges found Charles guilty of high treason as a “tyrant, traitor, murderer and public enemy.” Subsequently, Charles was publicly beheaded in front of the Palace of Whitehall, the official residence of kings.

With the monarchy thus deposed, the Puritans/Roundheads declared England to be a Commonwealth ruled directly by Parliament. They intended to create a new, ideal government ruled by “godly men.”

Easier said than done. Squabbling among the factions derailed every effort, and England was left in more chaos than ever.

In 1653, citing its ineffectiveness and failures, Cromwell forcibly dissolved Parliament with armed soldiers. Taking the title Lord Protector of England, he convened a new Parliament made up of his allies.

He then divided England into 15 military districts commanded by his major generals. The generals supervised the militias, collected taxes, imposed Puritan morality, and enforced Cromwell’s authority. Across the country, the grumbling increased.

In 1657, Cromwell’s Parliament offered him the crown, but he refused it. He said, “I would not seek to set up that which Providence hath destroyed and laid in the dust.”

With great ceremony, he was reaffirmed as Lord Protector (for life) and given other new powers. For the event, he wore a purple, ermine-lined robe and held a scepter aloft.

His opponents called the ceremony nothing more than a coronation. They condemned his rule as “a period of tyranny and economic depression” propped up by armed force. Cromwell’s England was, in fact, a military dictatorship.

In 1658, following a sudden bout of malaria complicated by a kidney infection, Oliver Cromwell died. He was 59.

Cromwell was buried with great pomp at Westminster Abbey, and his son Richard, a gentleman farmer, succeeded him.

By all accounts, Richard was competent, but the generals never accepted him. After seven months, the army removed him and convened a new Parliament. Immediately, the army and Parliament were at loggerheads. England’s power elite dissolved into angry factions.

With England on the verge of anarchy, the Governor of Scotland brought forth a plan. Charles II, the exiled son of the beheaded Charles I, would become king under a restored monarchy — with key restrictions on his power. England embraced the idea with great enthusiasm and relief.

Charles II took the throne, and Parliament decreed that the Commonwealth under Cromwell had never happened. Charles II, Parliament asserted, had reigned as the lawful monarch since the execution of his father.

Together, Parliament and the monarchy went forward with a new sense of polite cooperation and ginger respect that has lasted to this day.

In January 1661, on the 12th anniversary of the execution of Charles I, The corpse of Oliver Cromwell was exhumed from Westminster Abbey and publicly hanged in chains, where it remained for an extended period.

Ultimately, the body was thrown into a pit. For the next 14 years, Cromwell’s severed head was displayed on a pole in front of Westminster Hall.

Of the 59 judges who in 1649 had signed the death warrant of Charles I, most of those still alive were arrested. Some were hanged, drawn, and quartered. Others were sent to prison for life. A few escaped to Germany and Switzerland. A few were pardoned.

Cromwell has been characterized often in literature, music, and film. As early as 1731, he was depicted in a French novel as a scoundrel and a womanizer. Victor Hugo wrote a play about him. Alexandre Dumas wrote about him in a novel set during the Second Civil War.

In recent years, Cromwell has been mentioned in songs by Elvis Costello, The Pogues, Morrissey, and Monte Python. He surfaces regularly in film and television, especially on the BBC. In modern literature, he has been depicted as a vampire and woven into the plot of a science fiction novel.

So — was Oliver Cromwell an evil hypocrite motivated by power, or was he a champion of liberty and the people in a time of civil war? I don’t presume to know.

But I think it’s clear that Cromwell, like Ronald Reagan, has become an almost mythical figure — with supporters and detractors seeing in him what they want to see.

Oliver Cromwell, by Samuel Cooper, circa 1650.

Cromwell Before the Coffin of Charles I, by Hippolyte Delaroche, 1849.

Cromwell's death mask in the British Museum, London.

The Coronation of Charles II, by John Michael Wright, 1661.

Read Full Post »