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The Woman Who Survived the Lowest Body Temperature Ever

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The Kjolen Mountains, site of Bågenholm's near-deadly plunge. (Photo: Tobias Radeskog/CC BY 3.0)

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Anna Bågenholm has spent much of her life at the University Hospital of North Norway in Tromsø. As a radiologist there, she performs MRIs and CT scans, checks up on patients, and makes rounds. But nearly two decades ago, in this same hospital, she also made history, on the other side of the operating table. A freak accident pushed Bågenholm to the brink of death, plunging her body temperature lower than any human's has ever been—and a team of quick-thinking doctors brought her back.

The day of the accident couldn't have been more normal. One morning in May of 1999, Bagenholm and a couple of friends finished up their shifts at a hospital in Narvik, Norway, grabbed their skis, and headed for the nearby Kjolen Mountains. All were devoted skiers, and had chosen to do their residencies in Narvik for its proximity to the slopes. They had already spent much of the season getting to know their new neighborhood, shaking off the storm and stress of medical school on the mountains' off-trail nooks and crannies.

Conditions were great—powder coated the runs, and the Arctic summer sun promised to shine long into the night. But a few runs into their trip, disaster struck. Bågenholm caught some snow the wrong way and tripped, losing her skis. She tumbled and slid until she hit a frozen stream. Then she cracked through the ice, and was pulled upside-down into the rushing water.

Seconds later, her friends reached her. They grabbed her boots, preventing her from sinking further, but they couldn't yank her out. As they phoned for help, Bågenholm struggled upward under the water, searching the undersurface of the ice until she found an air pocket large enough to let her breathe. Her clothes got heavier and heavier, soaked through with near-frozen water. Her core temperature plummeted. Eventually, everything went black.


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A Navy SEAL undergoes one phase of cold-weather training. (Photo: Erika N. Manzano/Public Domain)

The human body performs best at 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit. But the world is cold, and plenty of outside forces—air, wind, water—seek to draw the heat away from us. Whenever your body senses this happening, whether on a mildly chilly summer evening or just before the Polar Bear Plunge, it begins "defending the body temperature," explains Andrew J. Young, a military research physiologist, author of an academic paper entitled "The Physiology of Cold Exposure."

Like most good defenses, this happens from the outside in. Since air pulls heat away from the surface of the body, blood vessels in your skin begin constricting, shunting blood away from your arms and legs and back to the core, where it stays warm. This is good for overall survival, but not as great for the fingers, toes, and ears, common early victims of frostbite.

If this conserved heat isn't enough, the body begins making more warmth the best way it knows how: by working its muscles. If you can't (or won't) go run around on your own, the shivers will start up. You'll likely feel these involuntary shakes first in your chest muscles, then in your arms and legs. This is essentially the body's forced exercise program, generating waves of heat that rewarm the blood. But it, too, can backfire, depleting the body's nutritional stores, or jacking the heart up, putting the body at greater risk for a heart attack or a stroke.

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Robert Falcon Scott and his crew, close to the South Pole in 1912. (Photo: Henry Bower/Public Domain)

If the body temperature continues to drop, getting down to 95 degrees or lower, hypothermia begins to set in. Blood pressure drops. Breathing becomes shallow. As the brain loses oxygen, it can inspire some strange behavioral symptoms: slurred speech, confusion, nonsensical actions.

Early Arctic explorers didn't have a name for hypothermia, but they knew it when they saw it. "There can be no doubt that in a blizzard a man has not only to safeguard the circulation in his limbs, but must struggle with a sluggishness of brain and an absence of reasoning power which is far more likely to undo him," wrote Robert Falcon Scott in the records of his 1911 expedition, describing one of his men as suffering from a frostbitten hand and a "half-thawed brain."

This is when the brain can make a bad situation worse. Some hypothermia victims take their clothes off. Others hide in a hole in the snow. Deserted by their leader, the rest of the organs begin giving up, too.


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When keeping near-frozen patients alive, CPR is vital. (Photo: Rama/CC BY-SA 2.0)

Bågenholm was, by all measures, much too cold. By the time the rescue team showed up with a rope and a pointed shovel, hacked a hole in the ice, and pulled her out, she had been submerged for about 80 minutes. She had no heartbeat. Her skin was ghost white; her pupils huge. The emergency helicopter ride took up another hour, filled with fervent praying and near-constant CPR attempts.

When the helicopter landed at University Hospital, Dr. Mads Gilbert, the head of the emergency medical department, feared the worst. "She's ice cold when I touch her skin, and she looks absolutely dead," Gilbert later told CNN. "On the electrocardiogram… there is a completely flat line," Gilbert remembered. "Like you could have drawn it with a ruler. No signs of life whatsoever."

Even after a couple of hours out of the water, Bågenholm's core temperature was 56.7 degrees Farenheit, about 42 degrees below normal. As physiologist Kevin Fong writes in Extreme Medicine: How Exploration Transformed Medicine in the Twentieth Century, "This was genuine terra incognita. Any attempt to resuscitate Anna further could only proceed in the knowledge that in similar situations past medical teams had always failed."

But Gilbert and his team weren't giving up just yet. "The decision was made," he recalled. "We will not declare her dead until she is warm and dead."


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Lewis Pugh in his signature outfit, ready to take on polar waters in 2005. (Photo: Lewispugh/CC BY-SA 3.0)

Considered in its most basic form, coldness is simply a lack of energy. Heat comes from motion, and vice versa; when you don't have one, it's tough to make the other.

But if you're trapped in a chilly situation, there are ways to make sluggishness work for you. Asked for stories of cold and derring-do, arctic historian Russell A. Potter mentions the tale of 20th-century adventurer Peter Freuchen, trapped in a snowdrift: "Without any tools to dig his way out, so the story goes, he took a shit and shaped it into a knife," he says.

Slightly less creatively, studies have shown that when experienced arctic explorers are asked to stick their fingers in icy water, they feel less cold than average Joes do—their bodies have slowed down their responses, trained by repeated exposure into playing the long game. The body temperature of swimmer Lewis Pugh, famous for taking on the melting North Pole in a Speedo, jumps two degrees whenever he sees the water. "Before I swim my body becomes like a furnace," Pugh told The Lancet in 2005. "It realizes that I'm going to get cold, and so turns on the burners."

Bågenholm had been plunged directly into the stream. Her body hadn't had time to train itself, or to slowly acclimate. The best she could hope for was that her brain had been essentially flash-frozen, taken down to a state where it needed very little oxygen to survive. If the cold had slowed her down that far, when they warmed her up, she might still be in there.


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Mountains outside the town of Narvik, Bågenholm's favorite ski spot. (Photo: Tom Corser/CC BY-SA 2.0)

Gilbert and his team rushed Bågenholm into an operating room. They hooked her up to a heart-lung machine, pumping her blood out of her body to warm it and then routing it back through again. (This bears repeating: they had to warm her blood outside of her own body.) They watched her vitals. Slowly, over hours, her temperature rose. The EKG blipped, then flatlined, then blipped again. They kept waiting.

Around 4 p.m., Bågenholm's heart kicked back into gear, squeezing and releasing and pumping the now-warm blood on its own. Led by her reawakened heart, the rest of Bågenholm's body began the slow process of healing. After 12 days, she opened her eyes. It took much longer—years—for her to be able to move, walk, and finally even ski again. But eventually, through grit and determination and physical therapy, she did.

"We think of death as being a moment in time," Fong told NPR in 2014, "but actually, it is a process." Usually, that process happens over minutes. But cold slows down everything—even the progressive lack of oxygen that, in most circumstances, quickly kills a brain. For Bågenholm, he says, "it smeared it out to be hours long. Long enough that [the doctors] might intervene."

Gilbert's bet had paid off. Even as the frigid water had stopped her heart, paralyzed her muscles, and frazzled her nerves, it had preserved her brain. And so thanks to the very thing that might have killed her, Bågenholm didn't freeze to death. She just froze.


The Quiet Comeback of Istanbul's Hidden Sufi Lodges

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Whirling dervishes in Yenikapi Mevlevihanesi, Istanbul. (Photo: Ihsan Gercelman/Shutterstock.com)
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The whirling of the Mevlevi dervishes is one of Turkey's most iconic images, popularized in films and tourist ads for decades. Naturally, these ads do not mention that it has been illegal to perform this ritual for almost 100 years. In fact the Mevlevis are just one of a dozen Islamic orders—called tarikat in Turkish—whose activities are still banned in Turkey.

Luckily for tourists and Turks, selective application of the law means that we can still watch the Mevlevis' whirling ceremony inside state-owned museums. But for every lodge that has been turned into a cultural center or museum, there are hundreds that lurk neglected and crumbling in the backstreets.

According to historian Faruk Göncüoğlu, the number of Istanbul's lodges reached around 700 in the Ottoman era. Each of the orders that lived in these buildings had different rituals and professions: the Mevlevis were musicians and artists, the Bektaşis were soldiers, and the Nakşibendi were scientists, for example. Aside from the whirling dervishes, European travellers in the 19th century were spectators to the Rifaiyye “howling dervishes”, who practiced flagellation and piercing with needles. 

But Mustafa Kemal Atatürk's vision of a republic based on European positivism had no place for mystical orders. The outbreak of a southeastern rebellion led by Nakşibendi leader Sheikh Said gave the government a reason to act, and in 1925 all Sufi lodges and Ottoman tombs were closed by law. It also became illegal to use the titles of “sheikh”, “dervish”, “emir”, and “caliph”, to wear clothing associated with those titles, and more bizarrely to call oneself a coffee reader, sorcerer, or exorcist. The first cracks in this extreme secularism came with the defeat of Atatürk's party in the 1950 elections, and the Ottoman tombs were reopened to the public that year—with no change to the ban on Islamic lodges. 

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Entrance to ruined Kasimpasa Mevlevihanesi. (Photo: Joshua Allen)

Istanbul's first lodge was founded next to Rumeli Hisarı, the fortress that Sultan Mehmed I built in preparation for the conquest of 1453. Now on the grounds of Boğaziçi University, the lodge was rebuilt as a historical research center in 2015.

The Galata Mevlevihanesi, a two-minute walk from the Galata Tower, dates to 1481 and reopened as a museum in 2011. While the building is beautifully restored, the waxworks of cross-legged Sufis have all the mystical power of a natural history museum. Visitors are invited to watch the whirling ceremony every Sunday—as has been the case since the 19th century, with travelers such as Gustave Flaubert and Hans Christian Andersen writing their accounts of the dervishes.

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Inside Galata Mevlevihanesi. (Photo: © Nevit Dilmen/CC BY-SA 3.0)

Across the Bosphorus in Üsküdar, the 18th-century Uzbekistan Lodge has met a worse fate. Bukharan pilgrims built the lodge as a stop on the way to Mecca, but after the Ottoman defeat in World War I it began ferrying Turkish nationalists in the opposite direction. Future president İsmet İnönü was one of those who escaped the Allied occupation of Istanbul through the Uzbeks. Atlantic Records co-founder Ahmet Ertegün was descended from one of the lodge's sheiks, and he restored it in 1996 with the aim of opening a museum. Ten years later he signed the lodge over to the government, and it has since been occupied by a foundation for Islamic research. 

In recent years a number of high-profile writers have revived interest in the Sufi orders. Despite having no strong beliefs himself, Orhan Pamuk used Sufi elements in his novels The Black Book (1990) and Snow (2002). Popular writer Elif Şafak retold Mevlana’s relationship with Shams of Tabriz in her novel The Forty Rules of Love (2010), and she has talked widely about her respect for Sufism. However, neither Pamuk nor Şafak have declared themselves as active members of a Sufi order. 

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Outside Galata Mevlevihanesi in 1870. (Photo: Public Domain)

One symbol of continuity is the family of Mevlana Celalledin-i Rumi, whose 22nd generation descendant still lives in Turkey as president of the International Mevlana Foundation. President Faruk Hemdem Çelebi represents an unbroken line of over 800 years from Rumi's birth to the present day. 

Public interest peaked recently with news of celebrities joining one of Istanbul's Cerrahi lodges. The Nureddin Cerrahi lodge, close to the Byzantine walls of the old city, contains the tomb where the order's founder is buried, as well as a hall for zikir—remembrance of the names of God through music and dance. Cerrahi members dress in white robes and skullcaps with black jackets, rocking and turning to hymns accompanied by the ney (reed flute), tambur (long-necked lute), and def (frame drum). Similar to the nigns of Hasidic Jews, the rising tempo carries the Cerrahis into an ecstatic union with the divine.

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Galata Mevlevihanesi Museum. (Photo: Joshua Allen)

Also active in Istanbul is the Bektaşi order, which is considered a branch of Alevi Islam. Şahkulu Sultan Alevi-Bektaşi lodge is possibly the oldest Turkish structure on the Asian side of Istanbul, built in 1329 by followers of Anatolian mystic Hacı Bektâş-ı Velî. The Bektaşis perform their zikir mostly in Turkish, with few Arabic words—a consequence of the strong Central Asian influence on Aleviism. Unlike most Sunni groups, it is important for Alevis that men and women perform these rituals together.

Since 2010, politicians from both the ruling party and the opposition have proposed removing the 1925 law that closed the lodges. But others are uneasy about approving these heterodox and eccentric orders. Until a spirit of acceptance prevails, they will continue to pass on their secrets in the twilight between past and present.

The 1970s Monster Cereal That Caused a Pink Poop Panic

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Franken Berry himself, showing off his scary new cereal. (Photo: Youtube)

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Stephen King's Cujo is best known for its titular villain, a rabid, killer St. Bernard. But tucked into a side plot is an even scarier adversary—Red Razberry Zingers, an innocent-seeming cereal that sets off a nationwide panic. The breakfast contained a dye that, although harmless, caused children's intestines to become, in the words of one character, "as red as a stop sign." It sets off a chain of incidents, starting with this:

"About three weeks after Red Razberry Zingers went national… the first mother had taken her little one to the hospital, nearly hysterical and sure the child was bleeding internally. The little girl, victim of nothing more serious than a low-grade virus, had thrown up what the mother had first believed to be a huge amount of blood."

This may sound like one of King's macabre inventions. But it was almost certainly based on a real occurrence. This is the tale of Franken Berry Stool: an officially recognized ailment that, although it seems goofy now, sent more than one kid to the ER with technicolor pink poop.

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Three of the original "Monster Cereals," in rerelease retro packaging. (Photo: Mike Mozart/CC BY 2.0)

In March of 1971, hoping to piggyback off the success of Lucky Charms, General Mills introduced a new line of "Monster Cereals"—marshmallow-studded grain puffs with slightly spooky mascots. The first to arrive were Count Chocula, a cocoa-flavored vampire, and Franken Berry, a strawberry-tinted monster. In the advertisement announcing their arrival, the pair talk up their their nascent rivalry. "Don't be scared," Count Chocula says, popping out of a coffin-like cardboard box. "I'm the super-sweet monster with the super-sweet new cereal!"

Suddenly, a massive finger intrudes from stage left, followed by a big, pastel-pink brute—Franken Berry. "Piffle!" he yells, in a British accent worthy of Boris Karloff. "Here's the super-sweet new cereal." It was a tough call. Count Chocula's cereal had chocolate "sweeties." Franken Berry's had strawberry ones. Both were, indeed, super-sweet. How was a red-blooded American kid supposed to choose?

The answer, for some kids, was easy: only one of them made going to the bathroom fun. Franken Berry got its strawberry hue from Red Dye Nos. 2 and 3, synthetic colorants that pass through the body undigested. Red No. 2 was banned in the U.S. in 1976,  after it was tenuously linked to cancer in rats, but for decades, you could find it in everything from ice cream to hot dog casings.

Red No. 3 is still around, and is most commonly used in cake decorating gels, and the paint dentists use to show patients where plaque is on their teeth. A little dose of synthetic red can't counteract the many other colorful things going on in your bowels—but swallow enough of it, and it pinkens everything it touches.

Untold kids experienced this side effect for months before it made the leap to medical infamy. In February of 1972, a 12-year-old boy from Maryland started pooping pink. This particular kid had a history of eating what he shouldn't—according to his case report, he had gobbled down, and then thrown up, coffee grounds on two separate occasions—so after the pastel poops had persisted for two days straight, his mother took him to the hospital. Fearing some kind of internal bleeding, the hospital admitted him.

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A bowl of Boo Berry, shot in appropriately frightening lighting. (Photo: Jonathunder/CC BY-SA 3.0)

Doctors ran all kinds of tests before they finally hit on the potential culprit. "Further questioning of the mother revealed that the child had eaten a bowl of Franken Berry cereal 2 days and 1 day prior to admission," attending physician John V. Payne wrote in a case study later published in Pediatrics.

After letting the boy's digestive system clear itself, they set out to test this new hypothesis, giving him four entire bowls of Franken Berry. Sure enough, he pooped pink again. "The stool had no abnormal odor, but looked like strawberry ice cream," wrote Dr. Payne. They sent the kid home—where the mother found his sister also pooping pink.

Despite Dr. Payne's best efforts to spread the word, enough cereal-chomping kids showed up in ERs that the condition got a name: "Franken Berry Stool." By then, Red Dye No. 2 was already on the way out, and General Mills soon quietly switched their go-to dye to the gentler Red No. 40. Soon, boxes of Franken Berry may even be naturally tinted—the company has pledged to move to plant-based dyes by 2017.

For the moment, if you want your monster-themed cereal to provide a technicolor experience on both ends, try a bowlful of Boo Berry—a Franken Berry cousin that, according to reports, haunts its consumers with stool that ranges from blue to "glowing green."

The Name 'Lazarus' is More Popular Than It's Been in a Century

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A little baby Lazarus? (Photo: Avsar Aras/CC BY-SA 4.0)

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Sure, everyone knows a John, Paul, or Mark, but how many people have met someone named Lazarus?

While Lazarus is one of the most famous biblical figures, his moniker has never exactly set the world of baby names on fire. But according to some baby name tracking sites, it could be making a comeback.

“It's one of the third-wave biblical boys' names—first came Adam and Luke, next was Noah and Moses, once strictly longbeard names,” says Pamela Redmond Satran, baby name expert and co-creator of baby name site, Nameberry. Satran, along with the Social Security Administration, says that bible-sourced names have been on the rise since around the 1960s. Right now, the most popular baby name for boys in America is Noah.

“Their popularity is due to several factors: the fundamentalist movement, the hippies' revival of old-fashioned back-to-basics names, the taste for vintage and unusual names in general,” says Satran.     

The name Lazarus is usually associated with the biblical figure more accurately known as Lazarus of Bethany, who could be seen as one of history’s first zombies. According to his tale, found in the Gospel of John, Lazarus was a follower of Jesus who fell ill. Before Jesus could come and heal him, Lazarus died. When Jesus did arrive, finding Lazarus four-days dead, he rolled the gravestone aside and brought him back to life with a prayer.

Thanks to this famous tale, the name Lazarus has become synonymous with resurrection.

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The original Lazarus coming back to life. (Photo: Ducio/Public Domain)

However, there is another biblical Lazarus whose story is told in the Gospel of Luke, that is unrelated to the more famous undead figure. This Lazarus was a sore-covered beggar who died on the steps of a rich man’s house. When they both got to the afterlife, the rich man was sent to hell to burn, while the beggar got into heaven. When the rich man asked if he could get a little help, no less than Abraham himself told him it was too late. The rich man had it good in life, and the beggar had it bad, and now their roles were reversed.

Although there have been a handful of saints and other religious figures that have carried the name, these two tales are still the touchstones most people associate with the name Lazarus. But for modern parents looking to give their child this name, it can have an even more basic meaning.

The name Lazarus has its roots in the Hebrew name Eleazar, which translates to “God will help.” Lazarus is the Greek version of the name that appeared in The New Testament. Given the somewhat charmed fates of the two big biblical Lazaruses, this translation would seem to hold true. While naming your baby Lazarus isn’t likely to ensure the child an extra life, it could give them a single charmed life.

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Baby name inspiration? (Photo: Léon Bonnat/Public Domain)

In terms of modern occurrences, Lazarus, while often appearing as a surname, isn’t winning any popularity contests as a first name. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t making a comeback. According to another baby-naming site, Baby Center, which pulls data from reports from its users, as well as info from the Social Security Administration, the name is now more popular than it's been in over 100 years.

With yearly information dating back to roughly 1900, the site lists the name Lazarus as the 1,355th most popular male baby name in 2016 so far. While this seems like a pretty low ranking, it does show a rise over previous decades. Back in the 1990s, the name ranked around the 2,000s, while throughout much of the 1900s, Lazarus floated in between the 3,000th and 4,000th most popular names. The early 20th century was the last time the name Lazarus achieved a popularity like it is seeing today. According to the site, in 1900 it was the 1,105th most popular name in the nation.

Despite the numbers, it’s still pretty rare to find someone with the name in this day and age. “I actually love the name Lazarus and have recommended it several times, though no one has taken me up on it,” says Satran. In the 21st century, it won’t take a miracle to bring Lazarus back—just some brave parents.      

Watch a Behind-the-Scenes Tour of the Smithsonian's Natural History Collection

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Despite being the third most visited museum in the entire world, there is much more to the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History than meets the eye.

In fact, 99 percent of the museum’s 144 million specimens are hidden behind the scenes. For anyone who’s spent long hours inside the museum unsuccessfully trying to see everything on display, this is quite shocking.

The video, produced by Great Big Story, takes us inside some of the museum’s most interesting unseen collections. There are drawers upon drawers filled with fascinating specimens that include mollusks, birds, and butterflies. It's a natural history lover's dream. Enjoy the tour.

Every day we track down a Video Wonder: an audiovisual offering that delights, inspires, and entertains. Have you encountered a video we should feature? Email ella@atlasobscura.com.

Australia's Newest Beach Safety Tool is a Shark-Spotting Blimp

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Don't even think about it, shark! (Photo: 4bplusme/CC0)

Shark attacks don't happen very often, but when they do, they tend to be in Australia. Over the past year, down-under swimmers and surfers have reported 16 attacks, nine of which resulted in some kind of injury (two were even fatal). 

To address this issue, lifeguards at Surf Beach in Kiama are bringing out the big guns: blimps. More specifically, one five-meter-long, shark-spotting blimp, equipped with survey cameras and hooked up to a lifeguard-monitored laptop, the Illawarra Mercury reports.

Twenty-two-year-old lifeguard Kye Adams is the man behind this blimp, as the centerpiece of what he is calling Project AIRSHIP (Aerial Inflatable Remote Shark Human Interaction Prevention). The Australian government is constantly exploring initiatives to limit unwanted shark-human contact. Adams sees the blimp as a cost-effective, minimally intrusive way to keep an eye on swimming areas—especially compared with drones, which are expensive and can't stay up very long.

Adams will soon test the blimp by flying it over water seeded with shark-shaped plywood cutouts. Its first real trial will coincide with the summer school holidays, which span from late December through February. 

Good luck, floating protector, and don't get too close to the water. Those teeth are sharp.

Every day, we track down a fleeting wonder—something amazing that's only happening right now. Have a tip for us? Tell us about it! Send your temporary miracles to cara@atlasobscura.com.

9 Tombs That Prove You Don't Have to Be a Pharaoh to Be Buried Under a Pyramid

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The pyramid has been a symbol for burial and the afterlife for some 5,000 years—from the ancient pharaohs to Nic Cage, who commissioned his own pyramid vault just this decade. How this particular shape became linked with the realm of the dead is, however, still a matter of some mystery.

The most common theory is that the first Egyptian pyramids were designed to resemble the mound that, according to ancient religion, arose from the primordial waters with the creator god upon it, and from which the Earth was created. As a burial monument, the symbolism of new life represented the transition to the afterlife. In fact, some theories even suggest that the pyramid shape, particularly the early step pyramids, were meant as a literal stairway to the heavens, to help guide the pharaoh’s soul after it left the body on its ascent to join the gods in the sky.

Whatever the origins, the burial pyramid stuck, and not just in Egypt. As cultures became more connected and Egyptomania spread through the Middle East and beyond, the pyramid tomb spread with it. The ancient Nubian pyramids (in modern-day Sudan), were inspired by the entombed pharaohs of the Valley of the Kings, and eventually became so seeped in the culture every wealthy merchant wanted a pyramid to house their mortal remains. 

The trendy tomb spread through Europe and into Asia and the Americas, and now several thousand years later the globe is dotted with burial pyramids serving as gateways to the afterlife.


1. Nicolas Cage's Pyramid Tomb

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

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Potential proof of Cage's immortality. (Photo: FrugglePants/CC BY-SA 4.0)

The most recent example of a pyramid tomb belongs to actor Nicolas Cage. Long known for his eccentric behavior both in front of the camera and in the real world, it seems he plans to continue this legacy into death as well, having purchased an odd pyramid mausoleum in New Orleans' beloved St. Louis Cemetery No. 1.

The unnamed, empty grave is a stark, nine-foot-tall stone pyramid emblazoned with the Latin maxim, "Omni Ab Uno," which translates to "Everything From One." Some think the pyramid is evidence of the actor's ties to the probably-fictitious secret Illuminati society. Because of antique portraits bearing an uncanny resemblance to Cage that have surfaced online, the more paranormally minded suggest that the pyramid is where Cage will regenerate his immortal self. The actor himself has chosen to remain silent about his reasoning for the flamboyant tomb.

2. Pyramid of Cestius

ROME, ITALY

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Pyramid of Cestius in Rome. (Photo: Joris/CC BY-SA 3.0)

Egyptomania first gripped Rome in the wake of the conquest of Egypt in 30 BC, and soon massive original artifacts and inspired copies cropped up all over the city. But only two actual pyramids were known to have been built, and only one remains.

The Pyramid of Cestius was most likely built between 18 and 12 BC as a tomb for a wealthy Roman under the sway of all things Egyptian. Little is known about the man who may have once been buried here since the tomb was long ago ransacked and the land around it has changed dramatically over the centuries. Originally the interior of his tomb was decorated with lively frescoes, described in detail by early travelers, but now mostly gone. Between 271 and 275 the burial site was built into the fortifications of the Aurelian walls, which likely helped it survive the centuries.

3. Kinnitty Pyramid

BIRR, IRELAND

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Pyramid tomb in the Kinnitty Church of Ireland graveyard. (Photo: Courtesy of Ardmore Country House)

Pyramid-shaped tombs spread as those with means to travel were inspired by the awesome sight of the Egyptian wonders. A few thousand years after the ancient Egyptian pyramids were erected, a 19th century Irish nobleman may have seen the pharaoh’s extraordinary mausoleum and thought, “I could use one of those myself.” And so Ireland's Kinnitty pyramid was built. 

The Kinnitty pyramid is a made-to-scale replica of the Great Pyramid of Giza. It is the burial tomb of six members of the Bernard family, once the wealthy landowners and owners of the nearby Kinnitty Castle. It’s thought that the master of the Castle, Lt. Col. Richard Wesley Bernard, did a tour of duty in Egypt in the early 19th century where he likely saw the architecture of the ancients. Being trained in engineering and architecture himself, it may have inspired his embarking on the construction of a 30-foot pyramid in the graveyard of Kinnitty’s village church.

4. Pyramid of Stjärneborg

ANEBY, SWEDEN

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Stjärneborg pyramid in Sweden. (Photo: Atlas Obscura user Henrick)

The Swedes have a nickname for the eccentric nobleman who built himself a pyramid tomb in the middle of the south Swedish highlands: “Mannen som gjorde vad som föll honom in,” or “The man who did what he wanted.”

Georg Malte Gustav August Liewen Stierngranat was expected to stick around the manor house and take over the family farm. Instead he traveled the world, acquiring along the way the title of “engineer,” a reputation as an expert art restorer, an invitation to the White House from President Roosevelt, a wealthy wife, and a castle. Nearing the end of his life he completed one final feat: a burial pyramid modeled after those he had seen during a trip to Egypt. Malte Stierngranat carried his eccentric spirit into the afterlife. Until the very end, he remained a man who did what he wanted. 

5. West Xia Imperial Tombs

YINCHUAN, CHINA

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West Xia Imperial Tombs. (Photo: ullrich.c/CC BY-SA 2.0)

Egypt's Valley of the Kings may have had the biggest influence on the ancient necropolis world, and its monumental structures are justly celebrated. But many other rulers around the world were buried in extravagant tombs and vast burial complexes. Some of these alternate pyramids come in even more original shapes, and it's high time we gave them our attention.

The West Xia Imperial Tombs in Yinchuan, China, for instance, are shaped like giant beehives and dot the valleys of the region. In the entire burial area there are nine massive mausoleums, along with 250 lesser tombs. The mausoleums hold the remains of the imperial leaders of China’s Western Xia Dynasty.

6. Chaukhandi Tombs

KARACHI, PAKISTAN

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Chaukhandi Tombs. (Photo: Adnan Arain/CC BY-SA 3.0)

Equally marvelous are the Chaukhandi Tombs near Karachi, Pakistan. They are constructed out of huge sandstone slabs, which are delicately stacked into a finessed pyramid shape. The slabs were then painstakingly carved with intricate patterns, drawings, and relatable scenes. Built between the 15th and 18th centuries, the Chaukhandi Tombs now form a remarkably well-preserved necropolis.

7. Pyramid of Senusret II

AL LAHOUN, EGYPT

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Pyramid of Senusret II. (Photo: Atlas Obscura user Roger Noguera i Arnau)

Egypt is well-known for its famous block pyramids, but they are not the only pyramids in the country. There are also less photogenic examples of triangular tombs that have not weathered the ages quite so well, like the Pyramid of Senusret II. Senusret II ruled Egypt at the end of the 18th century BC. When he died, he was placed in a pyramid tomb like many Egyptian rulers before and since. However Senusret II's tomb, like his father's, was a bit of a cheat architecturally.

Unlike the pyramids of Giza, which were made with limestone blocks, the tomb of Senusret II was made of mud bricks supported by a limestone base. Were the pyramid left intact, it likely would have survived somewhat better into the modern age, but unfortunately the outer casings were later scavenged by Ramses II for his own monumental purposes, leaving the mud brick exposed. Over the centuries, chunks of it fell away. But not all was lost, and miraculously the remains of the weaker brick pyramid remain to this day. 

8. The Dorn Pyramid

SAN LUIS OBISPO, CALIFORNIA

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Dorn Pyramid in San Luis Obispo. (Photo: Map Data © 2015 Google)

One of the more mysterious examples of American pyramid tombs is the Dorn Pyramid in San Luis Obispo, California. In 1905 a wealthy lawyer, Fred Adolphus Dorn, lost his wife and son during childbirth and in their honor erected a mysterious pyramid tomb. The front of the tomb bears the eerie words "DISTVRB NOT THE SLEEP OF DEATH." Two stones lie in front of the door waiting to be cemented in place once all the Dorns are laid to rest inside.

9. William MacKenzie's Tomb

LIVERPOOL, ENGLAND

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The pyramid where MacKenzie is interred. (Photo: NeilEvans/Public Domain)

The story of this 19th century Liverpool obelisk, often told as a sworn truth, goes that William MacKenzie was a keen gambler and left instructions that he should be entombed above ground within the pyramid, sitting upright at a card table and clutching a winning hand of cards. Some tellers go one step further, believing that MacKenzie decided against committing his body to the earth as a means of cheating Satan out of claiming his immortal soul.

In truth, several such monuments can be seen in graveyards across the British Isles, some of them even having remarkably similar tales attached. In fact, MacKenzie was buried beneath the pyramid, rather than entombed inside like the ancient Egyptians so many centuries before him.

A Religious Cult Believed They Could Be Reborn Inside Mount Fuji's 'Womb Caves'

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Around 1848, Japan's tallest peak, Mount Fuji, was depicted in a multicolor panoramic woodblock map. Amid the intricately illustrated trails, vegetation, and turf, this print featured an unusual paper flap. When flipped over, painter Utagawa Sadahide reveals the network of lava caves hidden deep inside the core of the active 12,388-foot volcano.

For centuries, religious devotees, or ascetics, looked towards Mount Fuji as a place of worship, trekking up the mountainside to reap its spiritual powers. The mysterious lava caves (labeled 3 on the map above) were thought of as “human wombs,” and those who journeyed through the dark passageways could experience rebirth.

“Mountain ascetics in Japan, including those devoted to Mount Fuji, experience ritual death and rebirth in their rites in the mountain,” says Fumiko Miyazaki, who analyzed the unique map of Mount Fuji in the book Cartographic Japan: A History in Maps. By practicing and passing through the caves, “an ascetic imagined that he or she gives up his or her old self stained with sin to reappear as a better person in the world.”

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Mount Fuji, one of the Three Holy Mountains in Japan. (Photo: skyseeker/CC BY 2.0)

There are hundreds of caves on the flanks of Mount Fuji. Many of the caves formed as the mountain continued to shift and change over years of volcanic eruptions and activity. When lava flowing down from the crater reached the forest on the lower regions of the mountain, it coated trunks of large trees which collapsed and were coated with lava. As the trees cooled, they rotted away and left behind caves. Many caves on the northern side of the mountain, including the caves close to the Yoshida entrance Sadahide drew in the map, are said to be a byproduct of a large-scale eruption in 937, explains Miyazaki. 

Devotees and pilgrims of the cult of Mount Fuji often ventured through the chain of caves either on their way to Mount Fuji or on their descent back. While many of the caves were used for spiritual practices, there was one “womb cave” that has been singled out as the mother of all caves at Fuji, writes H. Byron Earhart in the book Mount Fuji: Icon of Japan.

The cave known as Tainai, which translates to "womb," is said to be the birthplace of Sengen, the deity of Mount Fuji.  It was common for the religious followers of the Mount Fuji cult to associate terrestrial features of the mountain with parts of the human anatomy, Earhart explains.

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Pilgrims collected "milk" from the stalactite "breasts." (Photo: Public Domain

Certain rocks were called navel cords or placentas, while bell-shaped stalactites were referred to as breasts, the water dripping down considered milk of the mountain. A person who crawled through the cave carried a white cotton cloth that was used to collect the milk dripping from the rock breasts.

Once soaked, the cloth was brought back down and used for several purposes for pregnant women and new mothers. The cloth was placed in a mother’s drinking water so the powers from the mountain could aid in delivery or help mothers or nursing women who could not produce breast milk.   

The dark cavern of Tainai had low ceilings, and the pilgrims would place straw sandals on their knees to protect them while they crawled. They lit candles to find their way through the cavern, and brought the candles home when family mothers gave birth. Shorter candles (ones that burned for longer in the cave) were thought to aid in short labor and quick delivery.

article-imageOne of the caves in Mount Fuji. Pilgrims carried sacred candles to light their way through the dark spaces. (Photo: Soramimi/CC BY-SA 4.0)

Sadahide was very familiar with Mount Fuji’s terrain and lava caves. He had climbed the mountain several times, and sketched all his observations for the 19th century panoramic map. In addition to the topography of the mountain, Sadahide was interested in what was inside the mountain. He had also published a three-sheet painting titled “Fujisan tainai meguri no zu” that shows pilgrims journeying within the caves.

Practicing meditation and prayer inside caves was an integral part of Japanese mountain religion. Sadahide’s map highlights two holy men sitting in caves in the center of the woodblock. Kakugyō Tōbutsu and Jikigyō Miroku (labeled 2 on the map) are two important founding figures of the Mount Fuji cult.

Sometime around the turn of the 17th century, Kakugyō (the man on the left) founded another famous spiritual cave on the western flank of the mountain called Hito-ana, literally “man hole.” According to legend, Hito-ana was believed to be the deity's residence and an entrance to another world. Kakugyō, who has been deemed the father of the Mount Fuji cult, sought the power of the mountain and received a prophecy to go to the cave. He became known as the man in the cave, residing and practicing in the Hito-ana for seven days.

article-image“Complete Portrayal of the True Features of Mount Fuji.” Here, a replica by the Kanagawa Prefectural Museum is folded into a cone. (Photo: Kohga Communication Products Inc., Yokohama, Japan)

The "Portrayal of Mount Fuji" can also be folded into a three-dimensional cone that better represents the mountain and its features. When laid flat, you can see Kakugyō and Jikigyō sitting in two caves. Then, when transformed into its cone shape, the two men disappear into the mountain where they belong.

“I am impressed by the device of the painter to make a three-dimensional map,” says Miyazaki. “I have never seen a three-dimensional picture of a famous mountain except for it.”

Not everyone could revel in wonders of Mount Fuji’s lava caves. Until 1868, women were banned from climbing higher than the middle zone of the mountain, ascetics worrying that they would distract men from their religious duties and other traditional taboos. Some male devotees also couldn’t climb due to physical or economic reasons.

“For such people, the picture-map could function as a medium for imagining more fully the sacred places that they could never see in reality,” Miyazaki writes in Cartographic Japan: A History in Maps.

Map Monday highlights interesting and unusual cartographic pursuits from around the world and through time. Read more Map Monday posts.


Never Fear, Pet Owners: There's Now An Oxygen Mask For Your Cat

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A demonstration of an oxygen mask fitting for a dog. (Photo: Helen H. Richardson/ The Denver Post/ Getty Images)

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When the call came in about the fire on Duff Avenue, the second that day for the Ames Fire Department, in Iowa, the emergency operator checked first that no one was in the house.

"No, but our cat is," said the caller.

"Okay, we'll take care of the cat," the operator assured her.

After the firefighters arrived, two went in the building to look for the cat, Cleo. They searched the first and second floors. No cat. They consulted again with the homeowners. They went back inside. Still, no cat. Finally, the team working in the basement found her, passed out. They brought her outside, and started to revive her.

They were prepared for exactly this situation: in the engine, among the equipment, blankets, and teddy bears used to comfort kids, they had an oxygen mask designed especially for small animals.

Usually, in a fire, pets get out before humans. "The dog is going to be scratching at the door, saying—come on, let's go," says Lt. Jordan Damhof, one of the Ames firefighter who helped rescue Cleo. But when pets don't flee from burning buildings, they're likely to suffer from smoke inhalation. Often, by the time they're rescued, they're stunned or passed out, and without help, they're in danger of dying.

Previously, firefighters might have improvised by using oxygen masks designed for babies to revive pets, but over the past 10 years or so, it's become increasingly common for fire departments to equip themselves with oxygen masks designed specifically for animals.

Since 2008, for instance, the public safety company Wag'N O2 Fur Life has distributed more than 7,250 mask kits to fire departments across the country, and the donation program Project Breathe has provided some 10,000 masks to fire departments. Wag'N estimates that roughly one-quarter of fire departments in the U.S. have at least one of these pet masks. The masks were originally designed for veterinarians to use; the New Zealand manufacturer who makes a popular model first set out to make resuscitators for calves.

There are no reliable numbers about how many animals have been saved using this equipment: the systems that fire departments use to track their work don't have fields for animal saves. (It seems like there’s a code for everything except for that, says Damhof, the Ames lieutenant.) But local news outlets regularly report on pets rescued from fires and resuscitated using this equipment. Most of the pets treated are dogs and cats, but the masks have been used to help rabbits, ponies, and at least one guinea pig, too.

Human faces and animal faces are shaped very differently. "People are short-snouted. You can compare us to a pug," says Ines de Pablo, the founder of Wag'N, who has a background in emergency management. "Most dogs and cats have protruding snouts." A mask designed to cover animals' noses can deliver oxygen more efficiently and effectively.

In recent years, as the rise in pet health care spending can attest, Americans have been willing to go to greater lengths to keep their pets alive and healthy. There are pet emergency rooms that stay open around the clock, and a growing awareness of pet needs in emergency preparedness planning. After Hurricane Katrina, the federal government passed a new law that instructed the Federal Emergency Management Agency to address the needs of people with service animals and household pets.

Firefighters working in dangerous conditions still have to weigh the dangers to human lives (including their own) when they're deciding whether they can save pets. Wag'N's de Pablo emphasizes that they're not trying to put firefighters at risk: "We never ask the fire department to choose a dog over a person," she says. But firefighters do choose to save pets, and when they do, she says, the masks are a tool they can use to improve those animals' chance of surviving the ordeal.

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Pet masks are becoming more common. (Photo: Surrey County Council News)

"Pets become a part of the family for a lot of people," says Damhof. Firefighters in his department make rescuing them a priority, but that decision must be balanced against other responsibilities. In less dangerous situations, they regularly help out non-human species; in Ames, for instance, the department brought over long ladders to help animal control rescue birds from a building slated to be knocked down. Damhof was once part of an operation moving a woman's pets from her house when she needed to leave an unsafe situation.

Sometimes, the firefighters get more credit for saving animals than people. "It makes people feel they’ve gone above and beyond their normal responsibility," says de Pablo. Shortly before they saved Cleo, though, the Ames fire department rescued six people from a balcony during an apartment fire. That story go no press coverage, while Cleo the cat became an instant celebrity; PETA gave the department an award recognizing their compassion.

Cleo herself, by the way, ended up just fine. The Ames police transported her to a facility at Iowa State's veterinary medical college with round-the-clock staffing, and within a day, it was clear she hadn't suffered any neurological effects. Her little cat lungs needed a bit more time to recover, but she was lucky—if the firefighters hadn't found her or been equipped with the right gear, she might never have woken up.

The Incredibly Disturbing Medieval Practice of Gibbeting

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Old Parr Road in Banbury, Oxfordshire is sweet: picture lush gardens, low-slung rock walls, and brick homes with brightly painted front doors. It is unlikely many who live there know that the road was named for a convicted murderer named Parr (his full name since lost to history) who was hung in 1746, and then his body was closed up in a human-shaped cage, suspended from a post on the roadside, and left to rot where all could observe it.

In other words, Parr had been gibbeted.

Among the horrors our ancestors visited upon the dead, gibbeting is a highly specific one, although by no means unique in its brutality. It dates back to medieval times, when desecrating body parts was de rigueur. Someone who came to a bad end might find their head plunged on the end of a spike. After a horribly protracted execution, the body of a traitor could be divvied up and scattered across the land to decorate the walls of treasonous towns. (That rebellion doesn’t seem like such a great idea, now, right?) Gibbeting punished criminals even in death and warned the living to tow the line.

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Captain William Kidd, hanging in a gibbet, early 1700s. (Photo: Public Domain)

“It’s a grotesque thing,” says Sarah Tarlow, professor of archeology at University of Leicester and head of the Harnessing the Power of the Criminal Corpse research project. “The chains, the gibbet cages, are person-shaped and they are designed to hold the body together and hold the body into the shape of a person—and there are other features of the gibbet that put it into this really creepy zone between living and dead.”

Tarlow knows her gibbets. She has studied and written about themextensively, and in 2014 she undertook a quest to visit all the remaining gibbets in England, of which there are 16, most held by small museums, and one which still holds the skull of its unlucky occupant.

“What’s interesting about gibbeting,” says Tarlow “is that it didn’t happen that frequently. But it made a big splash, a big impression when it did.”

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A gibbet on display at the Leicester Guildhall Museum. (Photo: Lee Haywood/CC BY-SA 2.0)

In England, gibbeting (also known as “hanging in chains”) peaked in the 1740s, even though it was officially mandated later by the 1752 Murder Act, which required bodies of convicted murderers to be either publicly dissected or gibbeted. Between 1752 and 1832, 134 men were hung in chains. It was formally abolished in 1834.

When a gibbet was erected, it attracted big, jubilant crowds, sometimes in the tens of thousands. But, not surprisingly, actually living near a gibbet was not cause for celebration.

“It would smell bad,” Tarlow says. The stench of rotting flesh was so potent, people would shut their shut their windows against it when the wind blew from a certain direction. “You can imagine what it was like just to have a decomposing body there, especially at the beginning when there was still soft tissue.”

In addition to the odor, gibbets were engineered for maximum horror. They twisted and swayed in the wind and creaked and clanked eerily.

Also unfortunately for its neighbors, the gibbet was not a fleeting visitor. They remained in place for decades sometimes, as the corpses inside were eaten by bugs and birds and turned into skeletons. Steps were taken to prevent people from removing them; the posts were often 30 feet or higher. One was studded with 12,000 nails to keep it from being torn down. They became landscape features; gibbeted criminals lent their names to roads (like Parr) and became boundary markers.

Because gibbeting was so rare, blacksmiths had little to go on when called upon to make a gibbet.

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Artist Thomas Rowlandson's Crowd by a Gibbet, c. late 18th century. (Photo: Yale Center for British Art/Public Domain)

Some were heavy, some were very loose, some were adjustable. One had a notch where a nose would go. In some cases, the gibbet held only the torso, allowing the arms and legs to dangle outside its confines. After a gibbet was removed (or fell down from wear) the gibbet and its components were sometimes turned into souvenirs, such as a post that was carved up into tobacco bowls.

Women were not gibbeted, but this wasn’t out of some kind of respect for the female corpse. On the contrary, says Tarlow, women’s bodies were a “hot property for surgeons and anatomists” and thus female criminals were offered up for dissection. 

There were always some who objected to gibbeting for its barbarity, but the courts saw it as a way to prevent crime. This, Tarlow says, did not work. In fact, there are records of crimes occurring at a gibbet, such as the time a 16-year-old girl invited a friend to a picnic at the site of a gibbet and fed her a poisoned cake because the companion had been offered a job she coveted.

By 1832, gibbeting had fallen out of fashion, which only added to the public interest when two men were ordered to be gibbeted in August for unrelated crimes. Both gibbets were removed not long after being erected; the first by friends and the second by officials when chaotic crowds overwhelmed the scene, completely blocking the roads. This was the final nail in the gibbet post and two years later the practice was officially banned. Only the names of places like Old Parr Lane remain.

In 1926, Houdini Spent 4 Days Shaming Congress for Being in Thrall to Fortune-Tellers

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Harry Houdini with Senator Capper on 26 February 1926, during hearings on the fortune telling bill, with mediums seated in the background. Capper was among the senators implicated as a client of astrologer Madame Maria. (Photo: Library of Congress/LC-DIG-npcc-27498

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Harry Houdini, testifying before a subcommittee of the United States Congress in 1926, brandished a sealed telegram and demanded that someone in the audience tell him the contents of the message inside. The chamber was packed with spiritualist mediums, psychics, and astrologers who had turned out to fight against Houdini’s bill, House Resolution 8989, which would ban the practice of “fortune telling” in the District of Columbia.

If the mediums couldn’t read the telegram, Houdini argued, they belonged in jail for hawking fraudulent psychic powers.

None of them took the bait, but Representative Frank Reid of Illinois piped in with a phrase that turned out to be correct. “That's a guess,” Houdini scolded, “you are no clairvoyant.” “Oh yes, I am,” was Reid's unexpected rejoinder, met with chuckles from the audience.

This was no laughing matter for Houdini. The famous illusionist claimed that America’s elected officials were in thrall to psychic mediums, and that this posed a danger to the nation. At the time, most people saw nothing harmful about seeking clairvoyant advice; it seemed amusing and potentially useful. Indeed, spiritualism and the occult enjoyed renewed popularity after World War I.

The congressional hearings on the matter careened on for four raucous days. Order in the chamber disintegrated, police were repeatedly summoned, and the husband of a medium nearly punched Houdini in the face. Meanwhile, newspapers nationwide had a field day with headlines like “Hints of Seances at White House” and “Lawmakers Consult Mediums”.

Yet it was Houdini's crusade that helped swing popular opinion on spiritualism, turning belief in psychic powers into a sign of gullibility or even madness that would spell doom for any political campaign.

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Houdini leaving the first day of Congressional hearings on H.R. 8989. (Photo: Library of Congress/LC-DIG-npcc-27425)

In advance of the first hearing on February 26, Houdini sent his undercover investigator, Rose Mackenberg, to comb Washington's underbelly for mediums. Armed with this evidence, the celebrity magician rolled into town to deliver a case against the supernatural that he'd made many times, part skeptical exposé, part witty entertainment. Word of the bill had spread through the spiritualist community by way of sympathetic lawmakers, and local mediums turned out in force, led by spiritualist minister Jane B. Coates and astrologer Marcia Champney.

H.R. 8989 would impose a $250 fine or six months in prison for “any person pretending to tell fortunes for reward or compensation” within the nation's capitol. Of course, the bill was premised on the assertion that it’s scientifically impossible to see the future, therefore all mediums are “frauds from start to finish,” in Houdini’s words; either “mental degenerates…[or] deliberate cheats.”

Spiritualists, however, defended psychic communion with the dead as a matter of faith: “prophecy, spiritual guidance, and advice are the very foundation of our religion,” proclaimed Coates, pleading for protection under the First Amendment.

The congressmen, though often bemused, were relatively unbiased; they alternated between defending the supernatural and spoofing it, ribbing Houdini and mocking the mediums. They found many spiritualist practices laughable, but few agreed with Houdini that banning psychics was a matter of life and death—that spiritualism drove followers to the insane asylum with its “contagious moral degeneracy.” Rather, they fit spiritualism into a characteristically American religious patchwork.

“I believe in Santa Claus and I believe in fairies, in a way,” Representative Ralph Gilbert of Kentucky declared, “and [Houdini] is taking the matter entirely too seriously.”

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Houdini demonstrating how is it possible to fake a "spirit photograph", by documenting himself with Abraham Lincoln. (Photo: Library of Congress)

It soon became apparent, however, that many political families also took psychic predictions quite seriously. The wife of Senator Duncan Fletcher testified that she hosted mediums “in my own home circles of some of the most prominent people in Washington.”

To prove that Capitol Hill was corrupted by psychic influence, Houdini quoted statements that his opponent, Madame Marcia, made to an incognito Rose Mackenberg the previous day: “[Marcia] said a number of Senators were coming to her readings; in fact, most of the Senators…almost all the people in the White House believed in spiritualism.” If politicians, supposedly the nation's best and brightest minds, were vulnerable to such delusions, then psychics were not just “innocent fun” – they posed a serious threat to democracy.

Coates, the spiritualist minister, had also boasted to Mackenberg of her power and influence in Washington. “Why try to fight spiritualism, when most of the Senators are interested in the subject?” she reportedly said. “I know for a fact that there have been spiritual seances held at the White House with President Coolidge and his family.”

The room erupted into chaos as Mackenberg proceeded to name names: Senators Capper, Watson, Dill, Fletcher. Houdini theatrically underscored her claim – the corruption went all the way to the top.

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From Houdini's stage show, c. 1909: "Do spirits return? Houdini says no - and proves it". (Photo: Library of Congress/LC-DIG-var-1627)

With this proclamation, Houdini perhaps unwittingly embroiled himself in a larger political drama. It was public knowledge that Florence Harding, wife of Coolidge's predecessor Warren G. Harding, regularly consulted a psychic who predicted her husband's election victory as well as his unexpected death in office. The former First Lady's psychic advisor was none other than Madame Marcia. Marcia Champney eventually wrote her own exposé, When An Astrologer Ruled the White House, claiming that her foreknowledge played a pivotal role in the Harding administration.

After Coolidge stepped up to the presidency in 1923, he worked hard to put Harding’s many scandals and intrigues behind him. So when Madame Marcia and Jane Coates appeared in Congress trumpeting their psychic services to the White House, they brought with them Harding's unsavory ghost. The same day as Houdini’s accusation, the evening edition of the New York Times carried an official denial “that seances had been held at the White House since Mr. Coolidge became president.”

Even Houdini realized that he had gone too far by dragging Coolidge into the dirt. On his way out of town he would hand-deliver his best attempt at an apology letter. “It was no desire of mine to embarrass the President,” he wrote, “but I am accustomed to accept the facts without garnishment, no matter how unpleasant they may be.”

While trying to smooth things over, Houdini couldn't drop his righteous posture of exposing credulity among the powerful. He still suspected the 30th President of being a believer. Regardless of Coolidge’s private inclinations, his actions show how public stigma around the occult was becoming very real.

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Madame Marcia, psychic adviser to President Harding's wife Florence. (Photo: Library of Congres/LC-DIG-npcc-03755)

Meanwhile, debate over H.R. 8989 had jumped the rails, marred by ad hominem attacks and constant outbursts. The mediums lashed out at Houdini, calling him a liar and traducer, while the magician unrolled reams of tangential evidence, including an actual 50-foot long scroll. During breaks intended to restore order, the antagonists scuffled in the hallways. The theatrics reached a crescendo when Houdini issued his notorious ultimatum, defying all of the mediums present to produce a single verifiable psychic phenomenon.

He waved around an envelope stuffed with $10,000 in cash, declaring, “This is my answer to anything they say. If they can, here is the money.” Usually, this challenge produced a telling silence among his audience. However, the mediums of Washington were not so easily cowed.

“That money belongs to me,” Madame Marcia declared, saying she foresaw both Warren G. Harding's election and his death. Though it's not clear how Houdini could ever verify a prediction made six years earlier, at that point the testimony had become pure rhetoric on both sides, and the spiritualists broke into wild applause.

Madame Marcia was not awarded the cash. However, in the heat of the moment she made another prophecy, that the great illusionist would be dead by November. Houdini perished under mysterious circumstances on October 31, 1926. 

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Houdini exposes the techniques used by fraudulent mediums on stage at the New York Hippodrome, 1925. (Photo: Library of Congress/LC-USZ62-66388)

Despite Houdini's best efforts to brand psychics as frauds and spiritualism as “a contagious mental degeneracy,” Congress declined to outlaw what followers claimed was a religious practice. It looked like a major defeat for the strident magician, but Houdini's strategy never really hinged on legal enforcement.

Using his talent for showmanship and persuasion, he aimed to turn popular opinion against spiritualism. This change was far from instantaneous, but Houdini's fame, combined with the scientific authority of psychologists like Joseph Jastrow, G. Stanley Hall, and Hugo Munsterberg, ultimately triumphed.

Taking his case to Washington was especially masterful: Houdini started at the top by outing elected officials, with lasting repercussions for the role of faith in American politics. Some beliefs—the mainstream kind—are still mandatory to prove a candidate's moral character. But believing in less conventional forms of supernatural agency, like clairvoyance or astrology, is a serious liability.

In 1988, when President Reagan's former Chief of Staff publicly outed his boss for using the predictions of an astrologer, an international controversy erupted; it was seen as an embarrassment and a security risk. But the fears and criticisms leveled against the Reagans were right out of Houdini's anti-spiritualist playbook.

A Brief History of the Evolution of Locker Room Talk

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A Navy ball team in 1943. (Photo: U.S. Navy/Library of Congress/LC-USE6-D-008506)

Republican presidential nominee Donald Trump has characterized his comments about grabbing women by genitals, caught on tape 11 years ago, as "locker room talk." Where did this concept come from? The phrase "locker room talk" has its origins in the '20s and '30s, and, in the beginning, it mostly seemed to be about golf. It wasn't until the '80s that locker room talk came to be associated, publicly at least, with sex and the objectification of women.

Here is a short selection of the content of "locker room talk" over the decades.

1929: Gossip About Golf

"Is the gentleman in knickers so weak minded that he cannot take his stance unless death silence prevails? .. funereal tees and hushed greens would indicate that he is… locker room talk and golf clothes only help to strengthen the evidence!" (New York Life, 1929)

1937:  Still About Golf

"There was locker room talk of a possible "sit-down strike" by some of golf's older heads should the committee reverse its early ruling, but the treat subsided when it was announced the ruling stood" (Boston Globe, 1937)

1943: Teen Fashion

"We'd like to know what fads are sweeping your crowd—overalls and big plaid shirts, straw farmer hats and pigtails braided with daisies—and all the rest of the things that drug store-locker room talk." (Chicago Daily Tribune, 1947)

1947: Labor Strife

"The strikes the took place after VJ Day...develop from a different set of roots...First the feeling on the part of management that the time had come to put unions back where they were in 1922. A drive similar to the one following World War I was in the locker room talk of more than one top executive. (The New Leader, 1947)

1961: "Unconscious Murderous Impulses"

"By contrast, in the locker room after a match there fewer social restriction and the facade of politeness is removed. Her the intense competitive spirit of each player is revealed. It is especially interesting to note the terms used to describe defeat: "It was murder." "He slaughtered him." "he killed him."... In the fantasy of the player, the match was the "killing" expressed in locker room talk. (Psychoanalysis and the Psychoanalytic Review, 1961)

1963: Still Golf

"Locker room conversation usually reflects the playing conditions  of the course. Proper equipment in reliable running order is essential to good playing condition." (Golf Superintendent, 1963)

1983: Sex and Makeup

"Men have been talking about sex in locker rooms since they were 14. While women were discussing 'feminine' things — makeup, relationships, feelings —men were doing the manly things — counting conquests, keeping score." (Redbook, 1983) 

1991: Women as Objects

"Conversations that affirm a traditional masculine identity dominate, and these include talk about women as objects, homophobic talk, and talk that is very aggressive and hostile towards women." (Sociology of Sport Journal, 1991)

What 'Locker Room Vulgarity' Meant in the 1984 Presidential Campaign

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After a tape surfaced last week of Donald J. Trump, the 70-year-old Republican nominee who has long been accused as having very short fingers, bragging in 2005 about grabbing a woman's "pussy," he repeatedly dismissed the lewd comments by invoking a phrase used as shorthand for sexually explicit male communication. It was nothing more, he said, than "locker room talk."

"Locker room talk" has a long history—one which, it should be said, hasn't usually included sexual assault—and that history includes another presidential campaign, and another female candidate.

The year was 1984. Vice President George H.W. Bush was debating Congresswoman Geraldine Ferraro, the first woman on a major-party presidential ticket. Their debate was judged to be mostly a draw, though Bush afterwards, in a candid moment caught on tape, apparently left the stage feeling pretty optimistic. 

"We tried to kick a little ass last night," he told a longshoreman on the campaign trail. 

The remark caused an uproar, with the New York Timesreferring to it as a "locker-room vulgarity," while a campaign official for Ferraro said Bush had "gone beyond decency." 

But Bush defended it, saying that it was an "old Texas football" expression, and an aide called the criticism "utterly ridiculous." 

The episode soon blew over, and Bush and President Ronald Reagan later went on to defeat Ferraro and her running mate Walter Mondale in one of the biggest landslides ever. 

And while Bush's remark seems a bit quaint these days, other comments that year might not be as surprising spoken in 2016. 

On the day of the debate, for example, Bush's press secretary said Ferraro was "too bitchy," for voters, while Bush's wife, Barbara, also got in the mix.

From the New York Times

Mrs. Bush, while bantering with reporters on Monday, characterized Mrs. Ferraro as a ''four-million-dollar - I can't say it, but it rhymes with rich.'' Mrs. Bush later apologized and said she had not meant to suggest Mrs. Ferraro was ''a witch.''

She definitely meant to say "witch." Looks like women have locker rooms, too. 

The Worst-Tasting Flavor in the World Was Accidentally Discovered in a Lab

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A pool of anti freeze, which contains the chemical bitrex. (Photo: ms.akr/CC BY 2.0)

A version of this post originally appeared on Tedium, a twice-weekly newsletter that hunts for the end of the long tail.

We love things that taste good. We hate things that taste bad.

Perhaps it's for that reason we don't spend a lot of time talking about terrible-tasting things. Generally, when we do, it involves encounters like Anthony Bourdain's taste of the Icelandic delicacy hákarl, or fermented shark.

(Iceland is Not Impressed by this attempt. In a Reykjavik Grapevine piece last year, former food editor Ragnar Egilsson mocked Bourdain's complaints. "Celebrity chef Anthony Bourdain famously called 'hákarl' the worst thing he had ever eaten," Egilsson wrote. "This may have been coloured by an overall miserable visit to Iceland or by the fact that Anthony Bourdain is a huge sissy.")

But, getting past the stunt food, there's plenty of reason that we should talk about terrible tastes.

The biggest is this: Sometimes, hiding in that terrible taste might be something so important that it can change the world in a noticeable way. In fact, there's a really terrible flavor that's hiding all over your home. Why haven't you tasted it yet? Well, let's just say that, if the flavor does its job right, you never will.


In 2007, Aqua Dots, a toy manufacturer, had a bit of a disaster on its hands when it was discovered that at least some of the beaded toys it produced were coated with a chemical so dangerous that, when it metabolized, it turned into the "date-rape" drug GHB.

Beads are small, and they're edible. So you can imagine what happened. The U.S. Consumer Product Safety Commission quickly recalled more than 4.2 million toys in an effort to control the problem.

But eventually, these toys came back on the market in a different form, under a different name. And when they did, they were covered with another kind of chemical—this one designed to prevent kids from eating the beads.

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Aqua Dots, a toy that was recalled after the manufacturer discovered that parts were coated with a chemical that, when ingested, metabolizes to the "date rape" drug GHB.  (Photo: Anathea Utley/CC BY 2.0)

That chemical, denatonium benzoate, goes by the brand name Bitrex, and it's been around since the 1950s. It's currently used in substances as diverse as antifreeze, perfumes, household cleaners, and pesticides. Only recently has the chemical come to the world of toys. But it packs a hell of a punch—a single molecule of Bitrex can make a million molecules of water taste horrible.

If that level of bitterness sounds like fodder for a series of YouTube-style challenges, YouTube is already way ahead of you. Here's a G-rated taste-test from a radio-station morning show crew that was put up to it by a nonprofit organization; here's an R-rated test from a guy who runs a YouTube channel dedicated to eating weird things.

But as we learned in the case of Aqua Dots, this material has some important uses. One of those was discovered by the U.S. Army, which filed a patent describing "compositions and method for degrading foodstuffs."

Other methods for turning the enemy's food into untouchable junk were highlighted in the patent, but none were quite as memorable as Bitrex.

"This compound is several magnitudes more bitter, and the bitter taste persists in the mouth for a considerable time," the patent stated. "Rice which is contaminated with this chemical in amounts of 0.10 pound per ton is inedible. The bitter taste was so nauseating that no one who tasted the boiled rice was able to consume as much as a teaspoonful."

The incredibly potent flavoring of Bitrex didn't have a ton of uses at first, but eventually, it proved handy for a problem that arose in the early '80s, when reports of children being hospitalized for accidentally ingesting household chemicals became commonplace.

The logic is simple. If you make dangerous chemicals taste bad, kids won't eat or drink them.

As New Scientist explained in a 1985 article:

The sensible answer, then, is to make these household chemicals taste so repellant to a child that its immediate reaction if it puts some in its mouth is to spit it out. What is required is a compound so vile in taste that it cannot be tolerated. There are, in fact, several such substances, both natural and man-made, but one that stands out above all others is denatonium benzoate, or Bitrex, as it is commonly known. This white, non-toxic powder, which is soluble in both aqueous and organic solvents, is listed in the Guinness Book of Records as the bitterest substance known. Adding just one teaspoon of powder to a tankerful of water would make the water undrinkable.

Problem was, it wasn't a given that household cleaner manufacturers would use this substance, particularly in the U.S.

That's where the hard work of an Albany, Oregon, woman named Lynn Tylczak came into play. Tylczak heard about Bitrex getting used in cleaners made in Europe, but found out that the issue was getting ignored in the U.S.

In the 1980s, well before the days of email, she started a letter-writing campaign—first with chemical manufacturers, then with politicians, neither of which she had much luck with. She had a much better track record, however, when she and 20 of her neighbors started reaching out to the media and various consumer groups about the problem.

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Bitrex is added to household cleaners so that they taste bad. (Photo: Mike Mozart/CC BY 2.0)

"I wrote to about 20 of the big newspapers, then I wrote to consumer groups, magazines, health magazines, insurance magazines, the people I thought would pick it up," Tylczak told the Los Angeles Times in 1989.

The media notice worked; soon, the politicians (including New York Sen. Chuck Schumer, then a member of the House) were knocking on her door pledging support. Noted consumer advocates, like Ralph Nader, were singing Tylczak's praises, and the National Safety Council quickly called on manufacturers to add Bitrex to their products.

As it turned out, at least one company, Procter & Gamble, already had. After doing market research in the early '80s, the company added the chemical to two varieties of laundry detergent after it was found that children were more susceptible to drinking those kinds of detergents over others. But its comments highlighted the fact that resistance lingered.

''We don't advertise the use of Bitrex because we don't want to communicate the notion that our products are not safe if they don't have Bitrex,'' company spokeswoman Jennifer G. Bailey told The New York Times. ''All of our products contain an emetic that would induce vomiting.''

Procter & Gamble was nothing compared to the antifreeze industry, which apparently got a PR firm to spy on her operation, according to a Covert Action Quarterlyreport.

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Bottles of anti-freeze. (Photo: Anthony Easton/CC BY 2.0)

She recalled in comments to The Giraffe Project: “One major antifreeze manufacturer saw the Poison-Proof Project on CNN and decided to use bittering agents. His comment was, ‘It would cost us more to fight this than to do it.’ Doesn’t anybody just plain want to make a safe product?”

Within a year and a half, the success of Tylczak's grassroots efforts were bearing fruit—she quickly became a fixture on television talk shows, her efforts had gotten notice in Congress, and the industry started changing its ways. And in 1995, a law requiring antifreeze to contain the chemical was passed in Oregon.

These days, Bitrex is commonly used in all sorts of products you shouldn't drink. So if you accidentally have a toxic chemical in front of you and you feel like taking a swig, you can thank Lynn Tylczak for ensuring that you spit it out almost immediately. (Not that you should even try to drink a toxic chemical. That's stupid.)


Bitrex's discovery may have a bit of accident, but the world of chemical production doesn't have a monopoly on terrible-tasting things. And, as any foodie knows, "bitter" doesn't necessarily mean "terrible." Author and chef Jennifer McLagan, for example, wrote an entire cookbook playing up the appeal of bitter foods. In an interview with Publishers Weekly, she emphasized that the decline of human taste buds actually does adults a favor.

"As we age, we don’t have as many taste buds, and we can get used to bitter flavors," she explained. "As we experience more bitter flavors, we are more likely to crave and appreciate the digestive powers of bitter, which can, for example, balance fatty foods."

In other words, bitter is an acquired taste.

Consider, as well, durian, an incredibly smelly fruit that some people either love or hate.

One food writer, Richard Sterling, describes the smell as "turpentine and onions, garnished with a gym sock. It can be smelled from yards away.”

Smithsonian magazine, in a piece on the bizarre fruit, says that scientists have analyzed that smell, in an attempt to nail down why it's so pungent, and have found a situation unlike that with Bitrex. It's not a single chemical compound—but numerous ones, each evoking different kinds of smells. At least 50 different ones, many of them things you wouldn't want to smell individually, let alone mashed into one super-smell.

If you truly wanted to mess with someone, obviously, you would put Bitrex on a durian. Sounds like an endurance test I'd watch on YouTube.

A version of this post originally appeared on Tedium, a twice-weekly newsletter that hunts for the end of the long tail. 

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How to Incorporate Human Remains Into Your Dinner Party

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Your bones can be repurposed into this ceramic bowl. (All Photos: Morgan Capps and Ash Haywood)

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Every day, Justin Crowe pours himself a cup of coffee in the same mug. While the wide-brimmed cup’s ghostly white color and glassy glazed finish may look like any ordinary piece of ceramic ware, it is made from something more macabre.  When he takes a sip, he is drinking from the bones of 200 people.

The 28-year-old artist and potter crafted the human bone mug about a month ago in his studio in Santa Fe, New Mexico as a part of an art dinnerware series called “Nourish.” Crowe started the project in the summer of 2015. He purchased 200 human bones from a bone dealer, crushed them into a fine powder, distilled the bone ash into the glaze of functional plates, cups, bowls, and then hosted an unusual dinner party—the guests eating off of repurposed human remains.

“It’s kind of an anonymous way to fold these people into everyday life and memorialize them,” Crowe says. “In my opinion, it’s way less creepy than having a jar of ashes.”

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Crowe's coffee mug made of human bone ash.

Finding bones in ceramic and pottery recipes isn’t uncommon. As early as the 1600s, porcelain fine china from China had become a high-priced, royal treasure in Europe, causing a rise in production of imitation ware. English potters experimented with a variety of techniques to get red clay to look like the beautiful translucence of porcelain, which led to the invention of "bone china."

In 1748, Thomas Frye, owner of the Bow porcelain factory in East London, got the idea to use cow and oxen bones from the nearby cattle markets and slaughterhouses of Essex, creating the first iteration of white bone china. Bone china consists of approximately 33 to 50 percent burnt animal bone, which is mixed directly into the clay. The added ingredient makes the china much more durable, and gives it a high mechanical strength and chip resistance.

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A set of Crowe's "Nourish."

Instead of incorporating the bone ash into the clay like the English bone china potters, Crowe mixes it into the glaze of his pieces. However, he isn’t the first to come up with the idea of using human bones. Crowe has heard of potters having their ashes thrown into wood kilns after they die, their cremated remains coating pots and pieces.

“Within the pottery community, it’s always this kind of thing that’s joked about,” he says. “Then, it’s really beautiful because everyone who loves them then gets to take a piece out of the kiln and have a piece of that person in their home, and in their life.”

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Care to drink a glass of wine from a cup glazed with human ash?

The inspiration behind “Nourish” stemmed from the death of his grandfather. Crowe began thinking of his own death, mortality, and memorialization conventions on a daily basis as he watched someone he loved die, he says. His grandfather had passed away in his home, which was a place that held a lot of his childhood memories.

“It was also a place that was really average, but at the same time really sacred,” he says. “I had experienced mortality in a really unexpected place which had an ultimately positive impact on my outlook.”   

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Cheers!

To create “Nourish” as a symbol of death and mortality, Crowe wanted to represent the lives of hundreds of individual people. At first, he put an ad on Craigslist in Santa Fe to purchase human ashes—asking for about two cups of ashes for $35. Within a day of posting the ad, he had received three responses, two which reacted on two extreme ends. One was from a man who was looking for interesting things to do with his best friend's ashes, having already used some to create a diamond. The second was from a woman who threatened to have Crowe investigated. She wrote that he was going to hell and quoted the Bible.

“That was really good for me,” says Crowe. “Not just to understand what a sensitive issue, but what a polarized issue it was. People who react really negatively keep me conscious of how I’m approaching this.”

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Each of Crowe's pieces are handcrafted.

After running into barriers obtaining human ashes, he turned to bone dealers. Typically, bone dealers sell specimens to hospitals, medical students, or collectors. The dealer that Crowe worked with had a box of unsellable fragments, broken and deteriorating abandoned bones that were perfect for his project. He purchased 200 bones, each piece belonging to an individual person with an individual story, Crowe says.

Crowe then pulverized the bones into a fine powder and used it in his glaze recipe. While he hadn’t ever handled bones before, working with the human remains felt like working with any other art medium, he says. “It was really kind of average,” he says. “I looked at them very preciously. I wasn’t wasting them or disrespecting them, but at the same time they were just this pile of fragments that had this massive idea within it.”

 

Its amazing what thoughts surface when you're pushing the ashes of 200 people through a sieve. #Chronicle #morality

A photo posted by Justin Crowe (@justincrowestudio) on

The chemical makeup of the human bone ash causes a second type of glass to form in addition to the glaze glass, but it’s not something that can be seen on the finished product. The complete “Nourish” dinnerware is a simple, but beautiful white and tinted-blue set of plates, bowls, cups, mugs, and whiskey glasses.

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Guests at Crowe's dinner party.

About two weeks ago, Crowe gathered a group of six brave friends to dine on his repurposed human bone creations. Crowe prepared the meal himself, serving wine, asparagus, quinoa salad, and pork loin topped with blueberry sauce (after learning that pork meat is supposedly the closest to human meat). “You wouldn’t look at [the meal] and think gross, but within the context of where it was there was an unsettling feeling that’s kind of questioning this meat and questioning what you’re eating off of,” he says.

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Crowe specifically chose pork because of its semblance to human meat.

The guests knew what the dinnerware was made of, which caused the conversation to be filled with a slew of death puns and thoughts on mortality, he says. Surprisingly, the guests felt that the party and the meal felt mundane in comparison to how powerful it was to have dinnerware made of human bones. In other words, the meal felt normal.

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A quality meal on beautifully designed bone dinnerware.

Crowe is in the process of developing a short video that captures the bizarre dinner party, and is also focusing on expanding the art series into a cremation business, called Chronicle Cremation Designs. The company will accept a loved one’s ashes and use it to coat a variety of ceramic objects from an intricate art piece to coffee mugs. It’s an alternative service to the traditional cremation urn, he says. As far as he knows, Crowe is the first to attempt to commercialize human bone ceramics.

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People will be able to send human ashes to Chronicle Cremation Design to commemorate deceased loved ones.

“I definitely want to make this a new, novel, and different way to memorialize people, integrating and folding their memories into everyday life in this beautiful way,” he says. “If you use a coffee mug every day that represents your mortality, does it normalize the idea that you’re going to die someday?"

Object of Intrigue is a weekly column in which we investigate the story behind a curious item. Is there an object you want to see covered? Email ella@atlasobscura.com. 


An American Boat Sailed to Vietnam During the War. Then It Disappeared

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Al Hugon was lying on the carpet of his vacation home in Santa Cruz, California, staring up at a bookshelf. It was late summer, 1997, and news coverage of Princess Diana’s death was the only thing on TV. Hugon, who ran a printing business in the Bay Area, was gently pestering his girlfriend to move onto his 50-foot sailboat with him.

When Hugon had purchased the boat seven years earlier at an auction, a piece of plywood covered a hole in its hull. Lumber was piled on the deck. But despite its sorry shape, Hugon says the boat “just felt right. It smelled good and it felt right.”

He bought it for $2,500, then spent $8,000 swapping out rotten planks, the rudder, and hinges. He rebuilt the engine and replaced the water tanks. Once, while the yacht was dry-docked, an old-timer asked if he’d found any bullet holes in the hull—there were rumors the boat had been fired at during the Korean War—but Hugon never spotted any. He did notice that the stairs, the archway, and the original planks were all carved by hand.

Hugon’s girlfriend was firmly opposed to moving onto the yacht. She couldn’t envision her three kids, Hugon’s daughter, and the pair of them crammed inside a cabin the size of their living room. “We’re not all going to live on that boat,” she insisted. As she spoke, Hugon noticed a title on his bookshelf: All in the Same Boat.

Written by American anthropologist Earle Reynolds and his wife, Barbara, All in the Same Boat describes the around-the-world trip their nuclear family took in a 50-foot sailboat named Phoenix of Hiroshima. Living on a yacht smaller than a subway car, they visited major ports and uninhabited islands.

Hugon picked up the book. The descriptions of the Phoenix sounded familiar. He flipped to the photographs and saw that the roof and the planking were hand carved. “I knew it all,” Hugon says. “I’d sanded it and painted it.”

He turned to his girlfriend, astonished: “This is my boat.”

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Leaving Japan, 1954. (All Photos: Courtesy Jessica Renshaw)


 

The story of the Phoenix begins with a man named Earle Reynolds, who had always dreamed of sailing around the world. In 1951, the physical anthropologist left his job at Antioch College in Ohio and moved with his wife and three children to Hiroshima, Japan, to study the effects of radiation on atomic bomb survivors. For the first time in his life, Earle lived by the ocean. By day, he examined survivors of the blast. By night, he fantasized about setting sail.

Born to circus performers in 1910, Earle was naturally equipped with a sense of adventure. He was also ambitious: He often told people he was the first child in his big-top “family” to get a college degree, earning a Ph.D. and becoming an expert in human growth and development. In Japan, he’d return home from work every night and research sailboat construction. A boat maker in Miyajimaguchi built a ship according to Earle’s plans, working by hand with saws, adzes, chisels, and hammers. Eighteen months of labor later, the family moved onto the Phoenix of Hiroshima. They planned to sail around the world.

“We gave the dog away—traded it in for a tricolored cat—sold our woody station wagon,” says Earle’s daughter, Jessica. As the skipper, Earle assigned each shipmate a role. Barbara, a published author, was in charge of cooking, provisioning, and education. Ted, their 16-year-old son, was the navigator. Jessica, 10, was the “ship’s historian” and kept a journal. (She embraced the voyage after her father promised that her dolls could have their own cubby.) Three Japanese men with some sailing experience signed on as crew members.

Before a crowd of well-wishers, the Phoenix left Hiroshima Harbor on October 4, 1954.  The first stop was Hawaii—about 4,000 miles away.  
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Jessica Renshaw with her father, Earle Reynolds. 

“To our hundreds of friends the whole venture was nothing less than a gallant form of suicide,” Earle wrote in All in the Same Boat. He had no sailing experience. He didn’t know if he’d get seasick. He’d only recently discovered that boats don’t have brakes. Earlier that year, when the Phoenix touched water for the first time, Earle crashed the yacht into another boat watching in the harbor.

Then, in an early test run, the crew failed to realize the anchor had been dragging the whole time. “I never put it together that they didn’t know what they were doing,” Jessica says.

Within 12 hours of setting sail for Hawaii, the barometer fell. A storm rocked the ship as waves crashed over the deck. Anything that wasn’t tied down went airborne. Jessica and Barbara stayed below deck and listened. “The ship groans with a thousand voices,” Barbara wrote in her journal. She found Jessica in her bunk buried under toys that had fallen from their cubbyholes.

The crew settled into a rhythm during calmer weather. They watched dolphins play in bioluminescent waters and made a game of lassoing albatross. In Bali, they watched a 17-year-old girl get her canine teeth filed down. In Huahine, a French Polynesian island, they held the skulls of former chiefs. Earle got a permit to take two animals of every kind from the Galapagos Islands, and the family sailed with a baby goat and a tortoise named Jonathan Mushmouth, whom they acquired in exchange for instant milk, hot pepper sauce, and a can of shortening.

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Near Tahiti, 1955. 

The Phoenix traveled from Hawaii to the Polynesian Islands, through the Tasman Sea into the Indian Ocean, around the Cape of Good Hope in South Africa, to South America, the Caribbean, New York City, through the Panama Canal, the Galapagos Islands, and back to Hawaii. They stopped in ports like Sydney and Cape Town and dozens of sparsely populated, relatively undeveloped places where people spoke pidgin and native languages.

Most locals they encountered were curious and hospitable. The Japanese crew members, however, were often regarded with disdain and barred from entering white-only yacht clubs. On board, there was less racial animus, though the family did refer to the Japanese crew members as “boys.” Earle—who knew that the crew saw him as “cautious to the point of obsession”—chastised the sailors for not following orders. The final straw came when he reprimanded a crew member for steering the boat while sitting. Two of the men left the yacht and returned to Japan.

“In many ways Earle was a cynic,” his friend Bob Eaton says. “A cynic with high hopes.” All in the Same Boat gives occasional glimpses of those “high hopes.” Cruising from the Java Sea to the Indian Ocean, Earle describes “the thrill I sometimes felt, lying in my bunk and listening to the whisper of water flowing past, in thinking, ‘I’m doing it!’ ” He continued, “This is my ship, my life, my adventure, and nobody can take it away from me!”

But the ship could, and would, be taken away from Earle. Before the final leg of its trip, the Phoenix would be wrenched from his control and thrust into the Atomic Age.

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The arrival of the Phoenix in Hawaii made headlines. 


 

The Phoenix sailed into Hawaii on April 9, 1958. The boat had been at sea for three and a half years and traveled 50,000 miles, but “we were disappointing copy—no shipwrecks, no brush with cannibals, no mutiny, no piracy—we just sailed around the world and came back,” Earle wrote in his 1961 book, The Forbidden Voyage.

Nearby, the Quaker crew of a 30-foot sailboat called the Golden Rule was generating more exciting press. A Christian denomination with a legacy of pacifism, Quakers had been conscientious objectors to the First and Second World Wars. Now the Golden Rule was planning to sail some 2,500 miles to Bikini Atoll to protest nuclear weapons testing. It was a direct response to an Atomic Energy Commission regulation forbidding American citizens from sailing through the zone.

Earle thought the crew of the Golden Rule were “crackpots” for taking on the government. He was uncomfortable with religion and civil disobedience, but Barbara disagreed. She invited the Quakers for dinner. “Nuclear explosions, by any nation, are inhuman, immoral, contemptuous crimes against all mankind,” one member explained to the family.

Having lived in Hiroshima, Earle had seen the damage an atomic bomb could do. He suspected that nuclear weapons testing was unsafe and believed that the United States could not legally restrict sailing on international waters. His feelings began to change. On May 1, 1958, the crew of the Golden Rule left Ala Wai Harbor, only to be stopped five miles offshore and sent back. A month later, on June 4, they tried again. This time they were arrested and sentenced to 60 days in prison.

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The Golden Rule in Hawaii,  1958, just prior to its departure for the Bikini Atoll to protest nuclear testing. 

Now that the Quaker crew was in jail, Earle considered carrying on their protest. After all, the Phoenix had been built in Hiroshima. Niichi Mikami, the remaining Japanese sailor, was a native of Hiroshima. Jessica and Ted threw their support behind the mission. “It was like we were the only people in the world that knew about these dangers, the only people who could do anything about them,” Jessica says. Earle knew that protesting the government would end his academic career. Still, he and Barbara decided to sail.

Feeling “the pressure of the world,” the Phoenix took off June 11. They brought charts, a medicine chest, a radio, and a box of respirators from the Golden Rule. “What a pitiful protection against radioactivity!” Earle wrote. “How does one divide four masks among five people?” He knew he’d never open the box.

For three weeks, the Phoenix sailed in mild weather. When they approached the test zone, Earle announced his intention to enter. No response. The next day, a military ship approached—they’d been monitoring the Phoenix all day but had ignored their calls. Armed officers arrested Earle and ordered him to sail to Kwajalein military base. Shortly thereafter, they saw a dirty orange flash, illuminating the clouds.  

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The USS Collett alongside the Phoenix as they sailed to Kwajalein. 

Earle was charged with “violating, attempting to violate, and conspiring to violate a regulation”—a crime that carried a possible 20-year prison sentence. Newspapers wrote regularly about Earle’s legal battle, and while some called his actions un-American, donations poured in from across the country. Earle was convicted but won an appeal, and was acquitted without serving jail time. The family left Hawaii for Hiroshima and arrived on July 30, 1960, making Mikami the first Japanese person to sail around the world on a recreational vessel.  

The Phoenix didn’t stay in port for long. The family took a trip across the Sea of Japan to Nakhodka, Russia, to protest Soviet nuclear weapons testing. When they couldn’t dock, Barbara made the decision to turn around without consulting her husband. On the way back, the rudder broke, and the boat almost crashed into rocks.

“When we went into the test zone, expectations formed,” says Jessica. “Japanese people said, ‘You’re our voice in America. We look to you for nuclear war to end.’ We internalized that.” Barbara and Earle’s relationship fractured, and the couple divorced in 1964. According to friends and family, once the relationship ended, Earle rarely spoke of Barbara or his children. The family would never sail aboard the Phoenix together again.

But the Phoenix’s adventures were hardly over. As the Reynoldses were splitting, the boat was on the verge of becoming an international symbol for peace.

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An Honorary Crew Member card that Reynolds and his family had printed and sent to supporters. 


By 1967, the United States had nearly 200,000 troops in Vietnam. Quakers around the world had condemned the conflict and feared it could lead to hundreds of thousands of deaths. A rebellious new organization called A Quaker Action Group, or AQAG, believed taking direct action—dangerous and illegal protest in Vietnam itself—was the only way to stop the war.

Most Quaker groups were service-oriented and law-abiding. They provided medical care or lobbied the government. But service groups were already delivering aid in Vietnam’s American-supported South, and AQAG wanted to sail medical supplies into North Vietnam.

When Earle was in Hawaii fighting the charges against him, he  began attending Quaker meetings and eventually converted. In 1966, one of the founders of AQAG, who had been on the Golden Rule in Hawaii, reached out to him: They wanted to use the Phoenix to sail into Vietnam. Earle agreed.

George Lakey, a founding AQAG member, thought sailing to Vietnam was “a drippy, corny idea,” but he didn’t have a better suggestion. He was “not a boat person,” and seeing the Phoenix for the first time didn’t change his mind. He shakes his head remembering the yacht. “It was so sloppy and tiny.”

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Phoenix in Hong Kong harbor, en route to North Vietnam, 1967.

AQAG faced opposition from the United States government (who froze its bank accounts, stopped accepting packages for the organization, revoked members’ passports, and threatened 10-year prison sentences under the 1917 Trading With the Enemy Act), the North Vietnamese (who refused to grant them visas), and other Quakers (who felt an illegal voyage would erode support for the organization’s more established service efforts).

The idea of bringing medical supplies to North Vietnam on a boat, against the wishes of the U.S. government and in the path of the Navy’s Seventh Fleet, was controversial. “I never felt it was flippant,” Lakey says. “I just thought it was warranted under the circumstances. I saw no chance of getting the U.S. out of the Vietnam War unless we were forced out.”

The crew launched on March 22, 1967. During the five-day journey, “hearts were in people’s mouths,” says Lakey, who followed the voyage’s progress from afar. “It wasn’t a great chance for reevaluation of the Vietnam War; it was, ‘Oh my God, these people are going to die.’ ”

Tension on board was heavy. Earle, who served as captain, wanted to carry a gun, despite it being against Quaker beliefs. He barked orders and was impatient with the group’s insistence on making decisions through consensus.

“On a boat you obey the skipper. It is not a democracy. It’s not a Quaker meeting,” Jessica explains. Earle was autocratic and irritable, and the Quaker crew did not cherish his beloved boat. “This was the first time in my 13 years of association with the Phoenix that there were on board people who disliked her, to whom the boat was a necessary evil,” Earle wrote in a letter to AQAG leadership. The Phoenix and her crew spent five days seasick as they traveled from Hong Kong to the city of Haiphong.

While they waited in the Gulf of Tonkin to dock, the harbor went dark. Someone shouted, “Air raid!” and flames streaked across the sky. The activists watched in horror as five surface-to-air missiles crawled overhead. The Phoenix shook as the bombs exploded. They were told an American plane had been shot down.

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Reynolds' book The Forbidden Voyage of the Phoenix into the A.E.C prohibited zone. 

Ten minutes later, the North Vietnamese navy piloted the boat down the river to Haiphong. For the next two weeks, the Quakers, always accompanied by the North Vietnamese, attended banquets, met patients in hospitals, and visited bombed villages. Earle tried to stay on the boat. According to Jessica, he felt it was a “huge propaganda ploy that made the crew of the Phoenix seem extremely anti-American.” He declined to go on another trip, but he continued to loan his boat to the Quakers.

The press covered all of it. Like the Reynolds’ trip to the nuclear test zone, the public and media response to the voyage was mixed. Those opposed to the war applauded the Quaker efforts to aid civilians and raise awareness. Those who supported the U.S. intervention claimed the protests were aiding the enemy and putting U.S. soldiers’ lives in danger.  But Lakey and the rest of AQAG considered the trip a success.

When the Quaker group tried to arrange a second trip to Haiphong, the North Vietnamese asked the Phoenix not to return. The group decided to deliver medical supplies to the South Vietnamese city of Da Nang, demonstrating they weren’t taking sides.

Lakey, who says that God called on him to make the second voyage, was miserable during the trip. Seams had opened and the cabin “was like crawling into a wet sponge,” he says. The crew arrived in Da Nang on November 19, 1967, but the South Vietnamese would not let them dock because they were also bringing medicine to the Unified Buddhists.

A standoff ensued. The Quakers refused to leave without delivering their medical aid, so the South Vietnamese tried to tow the Phoenix out of Da Nang Harbor. The crew had spent hours deciding what to do if this happened. With the floodlights of gunboats illuminating the yacht, Lakey and Harrison Butterworth, an English literature professor, jumped into the water.

Butterworth “took off swimming like Tarzan in a movie,” captain Bob Eaton says. Onshore, he got a face-to-face meeting with a Vietnamese general, but the answer was still “no.” They kept trying. At one point, the Vietnamese set up a fire line: If the Phoenix crossed, they’d be shot. They sailed through it anyway.

“We called their bluff,” says Eaton, his voice cracking, nearly 50 years later. “If we’d all been shot, I guess people would have said how brave we were, or how stupid. But we were stupefied. It didn’t calculate as a threat.”

Still, the crew was unsuccessful. They took the supplies to Hong Kong and sent them to the Unified Buddhists via freighter. In January 1968, the Phoenix made a final trip to North Vietnam, but officials cut the visit short. The Viet Cong had launched the Tet Offensive and expected the South Vietnamese or Americans to “bomb the port to ashes” in retaliation, Eaton says. “We didn’t want to add to the confusion having to protect us. We left with a very heavy heart.”

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The Phoenix at sail. 


The natural inclination of every boat everywhere is to sink. Every vessel that is floating is floating because of the work, time, and money someone—usually many someones—invested to keep it from going under. It’s here that the Phoenix began its most harrowing journey.

After the Vietnam War, the Phoenix was returned to Earle, who twice attempted to sail it to China. He envisioned a goodwill voyage of “friendship and reconciliation,” since Japan and China had no diplomatic relations. Neither nation was interested. The Phoenix was forced to turn around 20 miles from China, and when Earle returned home to Japan, the government kicked him out of his adopted country.

Earle took the Phoenix across the Pacific Ocean a final time and sold it to a man named Tomas Daly for $20,000. Daly, who is now 75, was in awe of Earle. On the phone from his home in Mexico he compared Earle—favorably—to Bernie Sanders and Edward Snowden. He too wanted to circumnavigate the world in the Phoenix, but after pulling tons of pig iron out of the bilge, stripping the wood, and repairing the dry rot, he realized it was never going to work. In 1977, Daly sold the Phoenix to a man named Norman Sullivan for $10,000.

By 1990, the boat was up for sale again. It had fallen into disrepair, but Al Hugon bought it, unaware of its past. He owned the ship for nearly 20 years, sometimes living on it, but his printing business struggled, and by 2007, he could no longer afford the upkeep or fees.

“You have to live on it,” Hugon says. “You can’t even just go down to clean and work on it on a Saturday or Sunday. You have to keep the engine and the gearbox running, the bilge pumps working. You have to haul it out of water every two, three years.” He tried to get surviving members of the Reynolds family to take it. He approached Greenpeace and some museums. When no one had the money or will to fix it, he put the Phoenix on Craigslist for free.

John Gardner, a 31-year-old recovering meth addict with no money or sailing experience, saw the ad. He knew the boat’s history and imagined “helping humanity,” specifically teenage gang members. He took it. “I just want to save this historical boat and save some kids. I want to put them in uniform and sail them around the world,” he told the Stockton Record.

As Gardner lugged the Phoenix out of San Francisco Bay, the boat ran aground twice. Then, as he towed it up the north fork of the Mokelumne River in Northern California, the boat hit a dock. Water rushed in. Gardner bought a solar panel to power a bilge pump, but someone stole it and, days later, he tried to pump the vessel manually. By then, the Phoenix was more submarine than sailboat.

Just off an overgrown island, the Phoenix—a civilian boat that had sailed around the world, been designated a national shrine in Japan, traveled to two nuclear testing zones, and made three wartime trips to Vietnam—now rests in muck, 25 feet underwater.

Last year, a group of volunteers finished a five-year restoration of the Golden Rule. Some of the people involved in that restoration have turned their attention to the Phoenix. Donations are trickling in. One person even pledged $25,000 to raise the boat if the Reynolds family can form a nonprofit for its restoration. In July, a local sheriff located the boat and took a sonogram. A diver examined it more closely and told the family that “every minute it’s down there, it’s deteriorating,” says Jessica. Getting it out of the water will be “just like a baby being born. As soon as it’s out there are going to be people there to wrap it, cuddle it, get it to [a salvage company in] Washington.” The whole restoration could cost $750,000.

The task of forming a nonprofit and raising money for the restoration has fallen to Naomi Reynolds, Earle’s granddaughter, who lives an hour and a half from the boat’s resting place. She wants to save the boat because it’s a family relic that represents something bigger—“that intersection of a major historical thing with a normal American family: mom and dad and 2.5 kids and the white picket fence,” she says. However, by her own description, she is “not an extroverted person,” and she worries she can’t generate enthusiasm for the project.

Others are hopeful. Eaton, who captained the Phoenix’s second and third trips to Vietnam, says that when people first started talking about restoring the Golden Rule, he was skeptical. It wasn’t until he saw the ship sailing again that he realized its value. “I don’t buy into relics in a church sense, for worship, but in fact they are important. They us tell us who we were; therefore who were are; therefore who we might be,” he says. “The question about bringing the Phoenix back is whether there’s a community of people who can breathe life into it.” After all, if there’s anything a phoenix is good at, it’s rising back to life.  

This story was co-produced with Mental Floss. A version of this appears in their latest (and last!) issue. 

Watch People Paddle a Pumpkin in These Unusual Boat Races

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Pumpkins can grow into gargantuan behemoths, some easily fitting one or two full-grown adults. And all around the world, pumpkins are carved and pitted not to make jack-o-lanterns or pumpkin pies, but to carry people in squash gourd boat races.  

In the video of last year’s Windsor Pumpkin Regatta in Nova Scotia, competitors paddled their brightly colored pumpkin artworks in a 20-minute journey across Lake Pesaquid. Boaters decorate their vessels and dress up in the spirit of Halloween, trying with all their might to stay afloat. The bulky pumpkins, which can weigh over 600 pounds and reach 12 feet in circumference, are extremely difficult to control and steer.

“It’s pretty hard,” says a competitor donning a pirate outfit in the video. “They like to spin around a lot because they’re not really seaworthy.”

Countless costumed pumpkin boaters end up flailing into the water, sometimes before the race even begins, says the reporter. Tens of thousands of spectators flock to watch the hilarious fall celebration. Boaters can compete alone or in pairs. The Windsor Pumpkin Regatta even has tiers of pumpkin boat racing: experimental, traditional paddling, and motor.

In southern Germany, the International Pumpkin Boat Championships feature elaborate motorized pumpkin boats that blaze across a 200-meter water course. 

The race at Windsor began in 1999, and celebrated its 18th competition on Sunday October 9.

Every day we track down a Video Wonder: an audiovisual offering that delights, inspires, and entertains. Have you encountered a video we should feature? Email ella@atlasobscura.com.

Ask Zardulu: Why Can't I Stop Shoplifting?

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(All illustrations by Matt Lubchansky.)

Welcome to the third installment of Atlas Obscura's new advice column, Ask Zardulu—read the first two here and here. Zardulu is an expert in all things mythic and has been known to do a media hoax every now and then. If you have a life, love, money, family, spiritual, moral or myth-based dilemma, please email your question to askzardulu@atlasobscura.com, and specify if you want your name to be used. (For more information on Zardulu's mysterious work,look here.) Questions are edited for length and clarity.  Enjoy!


ZARDULU: I started going on some dates with this nice, wonderful young lady a couple weeks ago and it seemed to be going pretty well. I liked her a lot and knew she was different from me, but that's usually a good thing.

Recently, though, I noticed and confronted her about her sort of disconnecting emotionally and physically. I don't mind her wanting to rethink or change our physical or emotional direction, but I wanted to understand what was going on. She had been in an emotionally confused and perhaps abusive relationship for 3 years up until a couple months ago, so I get that she's going through some stuff. But she seemed unable to actually voice what was going on for her and how I fit (if at all) into that process.

I asked her if her family talked about their emotions and she said that they absolutely did not. This was not super unusual, but what set off a flag for me was that she herself did not see a problem with this (besides the fact that she gets that other people think it's a problem). She said that you could keep emotions inside and "make them disappear" eventually. I heartily disagree with this—I think you can certainly let go of emotions and move on but that you need to bite the head off the monster before you can eat and digest it.

I'm not sure where the relationship goes from here, but it got me thinking: is it ever is possible to actually disappear trauma or emotions? And, if you could, would this ever be a good thing to do?

Emotional Rollercoaster

EMOTIONAL ROLLERCOASTER:  As I pondered your question, I brewed some tea in my favorite cup. I allowed the leaves to settle around its interior and, using the ancient art of tasseography, I’ve interpreted the images to gain insight into your future.

Starting at the handle we see two figures next to each other, they represent you and your girlfriend. Being the beginning and end of the reading, positioning at the handle is an indication that this is not a passing fling and you will be together for some time. 

Moving clockwise around the cup we come to the image of an eagle in perched position. As with you, hasty action would reduce his chances for success. I agree that it's important to be able to share feelings with a partner, for the health of you as individuals and your relationship. However, getting to a place where your girlfriend is comfortable opening up to you will require patience. 

Next, we see a hand with its palm up meeting a second closed hand. This represents you in the future, beginning a dialogue with your girlfriend in a calm and centered manner. When there's something you'd like her to open up about, bring up the topic without placing any blame. Encourage her to share, show your appreciation when she does and resist the temptation to explain your position. It can be difficult, but this more passive approach will lead to a willingness to engage in increasingly emotional conversations.

Lastly, toward the center we see a crumbling building with a bat flying above and a toad at the doorstep. There will come a time that moving in together seems like a good option but these images are a warning that you should resist this. Give yourselves time to build a more solid foundation because, like the building, a faulty one will surely lead to collapse. 

Blessed Be


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DEAREST ZARDULU: I crave your wisdom in facing the inevitability of my own mortality. I am in my mid-60s and am increasingly anxious and depressed over the possibility of debilitating illness and certain death.  Thirty years (at best) seems such a terribly, terribly short time. Unfortunately, I find the prospect of individual consciousness perpetuated into some kind of afterlife unlikely at best. I am in despair and seek your guidance. Is there some spiritual or philosophical practice that you in your cosmic wisdom might recommend to alleviate this distress.

Thank you for your kind consideration,

Jack 

DEAR JACK: You are not alone. When our instinct to survive is met with the inevitability of death, an intense psychological conflict emerges. This is something that humans have always struggled to reconcile and, as you've suggested, we've done so with the belief that eternal life is achievable through religion.  Fortunately, for those that do not share this belief, there are other ways to achieve reconciliation. 

There's surely something that you're proud of doing in your life. I suggest volunteering your time as a mentor to those embarking on a similar journey. Your experience will live on in those you've shared it with and, as you see the positive effect your work is having, you'll gain a sense that you're part of something greater than yourself, which is the essence of eternal life. 

Blessed Be


DEAREST ZARDULU: I am currently studying Arabic and finding it exceedingly difficult to rewire my brain into this foreign language. My grades are suffering, and there is a choice young lady who sits behind me that I desperately want to impress. I am guessing you have studied various ancient languages in your quest to become a mystic. How did you do it? Is there a spell or some occult wisdom I could use to assist me in my efforts? 

Starving American College Student 

DEAR STARVING AMERICAN COLLEGE STUDENT: On one of my travels to South America I became acquainted with a group of young adults who spoke English as a second language more fluently than anyone I'd ever encountered. I was so impressed I had to ask how they achieved this level of mastery and one of them replied, "friends." Seemed like a simple enough answer until I realized that they weren't talking about other English speaking friends, they meant Rachel, Ross and the rest of the cast of the American ‘90s sitcom. By watching American television, the learning became a passive experience and by using a culturally relevant source, they learned many subtleties not available from a book.

So, my suggestion is to find a few television shows that are produced in an Arabic-speaking country that you might enjoy. Start with the subtitles on and slowly start to remove them as you become more comfortable. 

Blessed Be


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DEAR MADAME Z: My question concerns my dreams. For years, when I sleep, I often visit an alternate world. In this world I have a different home, clothes and life adventures. This dream life of mine has occurred for decades. I like visiting this secondary world but sometimes get events that occur there, confused with events in my present life. Do you have any explanation for this dream world of mine? 

Dream Traveler

DREAM TRAVELER:  In the Bible, Ezekiel had a dream of flaming angels, each with the head of a man, bull, lion and eagle, standing next to wheels covered with eyeballs. He was receiving a message, but the messages in dreams are not always easy to understand because they appear as symbols. I recommend keeping a journal next to your bed, recording your dreams and spending some time thinking about what they might mean.

Though your dreams may not be as dramatic as the cherubim of Ezekiel, there is still a great deal of knowledge you can gain from them. If you've never thought about dreams in this way, it can be difficult to known where to start so if you or anyone else would like me to interpret a specific dream, please send a detailed description along with some related personal background and I will do my best to interpret them here.

Blessed Be


DEAR ZARDULU: I am basically a nice person, however sometimes when I am in a bad mood I take stuff from department stores without asking. What should I do?

Basically Nice Person

BASICALLY NICE PERSON: To represent your journey through the past, present and future I have drawn from the tarot the Tower, the Hanged Man, and the Sun. In the Tower, its namesake is being struck by lighting and the inhabitants tumbling to the Earth. This tells me that there was an abrupt change in your life that had a profound effect on you. Like a bolt of lightning, it was beyond your control, leaving you with a feeling of vulnerability. 

As we move toward the present we have the Hanged Man. His foot is bound and he hangs upside, carrying on the theme of vulnerability. Your desire to steal is a common psychological mechanism that is used to cope with this as it can help establish a sense of control over one's life. The only problem is, even though you're stealing from companies that pay children pennies a day to make their products, it's still illegal, and even the best thieves eventually get caught. 

 As we move toward the future, we have The Sun. It shows a jubilant child with outstretched arms and golden rays beaming down on it. This tells me that you will soon be enlightened in some way. Be open to opportunities for personal growth, especially ones you might otherwise have dismissed. Your desire to steal will soon subside along with your chances of getting pinched.

Blessed Be

The Ballad of Ol' Rip, the Horny Toad That Wouldn't Die

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The Texas horny toad. Adorably tough. (Photo: Joe Farah/Shutterstock.com)

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Gather round to hear the tale of Ol’ Rip, the lizard who beat death! Well, at least once. After being entombed in stone for 31 years, Ol' Rip emerged alive and... somewhat groggy, briefly becoming the most beloved horned lizard in Texas. Today, the body of Ol' Rip can be found under glass at the Eastland County Courthouse, but the story of his miraculous recovery has been marveled about for nearly nine decades.

The Texas horned lizard, the state’s official reptile, is a devilish-looking little critter that could once be found all over the Lone Star State. Commonly known as “horny toads,” they are covered in severe-looking spikes, and look like miniature dragons. These prickly lizards have come to be a beloved Texas icon.

In a 2007 story in the Matagorda Advocate, Texas senator John Cornyn described their mystique, saying the horny toad seems to "reflect the land itself—rugged, fearsome, spiny, tough—and wondrously friendly, all at the same time.” So of course, when officials in Eastland County looked for something iconic to place in the keystone of their very first courthouse, this creature came to mind.

"[Native American] legend said that horned toads could hibernate for up to 100 years," says Cecil Funderburgh, Executive Director of the Eastland Chamber of Commerce. "The placement of Old Rip in the cornerstone of the Courthouse seems to be a test of that theory."

In 1897, Eastland County was finishing work on its third courthouse by adding a marble keystone to the edifice. There was a cavity in the stone where things could be placed as a sort of time capsule. According to the Texas Parks and Wildlife Magazine, Eastland County Clerk Ernest E. Wood suggested placing a horny toad in the block to explore the legend. 

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Ol' Rip rests at the Eastland Courthouse. (Photo: QuesterMark/CC BY-SA 2.0)

To commemorate the final step in completing the new county seat, onlookers came to watch the ceremony and listen to musical performances. Wood even produced a horny toad his son had captured. The reptile’s name was “Blinky.” 

However, Wood wasn’t sure if Blinky ever got placed in the keystone. “Objections to putting anything alive into the stone came up,” he was quoted as saying, in a later story in the Woodville Republican. “I went away to play in the band and do not know if the frog was placed in the stone.” 

Despite the ethical issues about entombing a live animal, it seems like the assembled locals overcame their reservations, and according to all accounts, the living horny toad was placed in the keystone along with some other assorted memorabilia, like a Bible and some coins. Then the stone was bricked into the wall.

Fast forward 31 years to 1928. Eastland was getting ready to demolish its old courthouse and replace it with a new, Art Deco-inspired building, and it was time to crack open the old keystone to find out what sort of treasures had been left back in 1897. Word about the lizard had spread, and over 1,000 onlookers arrived to see if the rumors were true.  

Using a pick, a construction worker pried open the stone, and sure enough, multiple witnesses said that they saw a horny toad (presumably Blinky) lying inside, looking, quite understandably, dead. Finally someone reached in and took the little body out of the stone. The lizard slowly lurched back to life, much to the astonishment of the gathered Eastlanders.

The Lazarus lizard became an instant celebrity, and was soon renamed Ol’ Rip after Rip Van Winkle. After recovering for a few weeks, Ol’ Rip was given a new home in a fishbowl in the window of a shop. Visitors from around the world, including President Calvin Coolidge, came to see the famous animal, as he happily chowed down on harvester ants. But not everyone was convinced.

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The keystone that once held the horny toad. Was Ol' Rip a Mason?! (Photo: QuesterMark/CC BY-SA 2.0)

While horned lizards hibernate during the winter months, their average lifespan is around five years, making the story of Ol’ Rip seem more than a little suspect. Most skeptics figured that one of the locals officiating the event slipped in a live lizard to make a good story for the massive crowd. However in the 1928 article in the Woodville Republican, a county judge, a local reverend, and even the man who pulled him out of the stone, insisted that there was no way the toad could have been tampered with.    

But even in the face of massive skepticism, Ol’ Rip’s popularity continued until the day he died of pneumonia in 1929, less than a year after his rebirth. The popularity of the horny toad waned somewhat, but claims of fraud did not.

After his death, Ol’ Rip’s body was taxidermied and placed in a little glass-topped coffin and put on display in the Eastland County Courthouse. In 1973, Ol’ Rip was kidnapped from the courthouse, and later found at the local fairgrounds with a note that claimed to be from one of the original perpetrators of the resurrection hoax. It called for the other conspirators to reveal themselves, although no one stepped forward.

The coffin was returned to the courthouse, but suspicion persists to this day that the reptile inside is a replacement Ol’ Rip, based on the condition of the little body. "Due to the entombment of Old Rip, accounts tell of the horned toad’s spikes being worn down from attempts to escape from the cornerstone," says Funderburgh. "The body currently on display has horns and spikes that appear to be in pretty good shape." The motive for such a crime has not been determined.   

Original horny toad or not, Ol’ Rip is still a celebrity in Eastland and the surrounding area, where his story is taken as gospel. "Ask the folks around Eastland what they think, and the majority believe it is a true fact," says Funderburgh. "A few believe it’s a publicity stunt. Me?  I believe!"

In addition to acting as a sort of mascot for the area, his name also adorns a number of local businesses. The legend of Ol’ Rip is remembered and reinforced every February 18th, when local officials invite children and guests to the courthouse to recite the Ol’ Rip Oath, which has them pledge that they will continue to keep the story of Ol’ Rip alive. This way, the lizard that couldn’t die, never will.  

Can Asgardia Become The First Space Nation?

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Could a space station like this be our newest nation state? (Photo: iurii/Shutterstock.com)

This morning marked the announcement of the wildly ambitious Asgardia (no relation to the Marvel Comics location) project, which promises to not only create a defensive shield for our entire planet, but also to establish the very first sovereign “space nation.” Which all sounds very, very awesome, assuming it’s even legal.

Spearheaded by led Russian scientist Dr. Igor Ashurbeyli, the sci-fi initiative would entail designating an area of space that would be the home of Asgardia, where space science could be tested free from the conflicts and restrictions that terrestrial borders place on our space sciences. They even plan on one day joining the UN, if they can legitimately create a brand new nation, that is.

“Starting a nation is not an easy feat, and I am skeptical that any existing nation will recognize Asgardia as sovereign,” says Jacob Haqq-Misra, Research Scientist with the Blue Marble Space Institute of Science. “International agreement stipulates that anyone launching into space is an emissary of the nation from which they launch, so I'm guessing that Asgardia would be regarded as an extension of whichever nation the members hold citizenship of and from where they choose to launch.”

Then there is the Outer Space Treaty (OST) that is the bedrock of all international space law, which states that no nation can claim ownership of parts of space or celestial bodies. However, Asgardia might be above that.

“Technically, if Asgardia is recognized as an independent nation, then it will not be bound by the OST, as it has not formally signed the treaty,” says Haqq-Misra. “But I doubt that anyone will recognize Asgardia as independent, so the provisions of the OST will likely apply.”

All Earthly laws aside, should Asgardia manage to get off the ground, so to speak, the first proposed project would be to create a cutting-edge orbital shield that would protect the planet from both human-made space junk, and such stellar threats as asteroids. Although, few details of exactly what form this shield would take were not provided.

The effort is backed by the Aerospace International Research Center, and Asgardia aims to have its first satellite in orbit by 2017. With the announcement, Asgardia has also placed an open call for flag designs, and compositions for the national anthem. They are also currently holding an open registration for new citizens. If this election season’s got you down, forget moving to Canada, sign up to immigrate to space.

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