Greatest Hits: San Francisco in Flames

By Elizabeth Lane

Thursday, April 18, 1906, 5:12 a.m.

San Francisco, the Paris of the West, was just awakening to a new day when disaster struck. The animals sensed it first--dogs barking, horses shifting and whinnying. Then, as a distant rumbling rose to a deafening roar, the quake thundered through the city.

Witnesses described how they could actually see the quake coming. "The whole street was undulating," police officer Jesse Cook recalled. "It was as if the waves of the ocean were coming toward me, billowing as they came."

The first shock lasted forty seconds, followed by a brief silence and another twenty-five second shock--little more than a minute in all. But to the million Californians who felt it, the quake seemed to last forever. The heaving, cracking earth toppled chimneys and towers, splintered rows of frame houses, twisted steel rails, bridges and pipelines. People and animals were crushed by collapsing buildings and falling brick walls.

In the silence that followed, survivors poured into the streets, gaping in horror at the damage. The scene that met their dazed eyes looked like the end of the world. But the worst was yet to come.

Fueled by broken gas mains, fires began to flare in the city. San Francisco's superbly trained firefighting crews, the best in the nation, rushed to do what they could. But the odds were stacked against them. Water was in short supply, the water mains broken, the cisterns in such poor condition that many of them were empty. And their beloved chief, Dennis Sullivan, who had trained and led his crews for years and who knew more about fighting fires than anyone in the city, lay dying in an emergency hospital, mortally injured in the quake.

Most of the structures in San Francisco, especially in the vast working class neighborhoods, were made of wood. They burned like tinder. One of the worst blazes, known as the Ham and Eggs Fire, was started when a woman lit her stove to cook breakfast. Soon much of the city was ablaze. The heroic firemen were driven back as fire swept toward the towering office buildings and hotels in the downtown area.

The wealthier neighborhoods had suffered little damage from the quake because they were built on solid rock. Now, with water gone, the military commander, General Funston, ordered that many of these homes be dynamited by the army to create firebreaks. Unfortunately the one man who knew how to use dynamite in fighting fires--Chief Sullivan--was gone. As a result, many buildings were blown up unnecessarily, and some fires were even started by the dynamite.

By that afternoon the downtown area was on fire, its tall buildings going up like torches. People were leaving the city by the thousands, burdened with their most precious possessions. Some were herded to refugee centers set up in the parks and in the Presidio, where the military base was located. Some took the long road south, out of the city. Others trooped toward the waterfront--saved by the navy fireboat crews--and lined up for the ferry to Oakland. From the safety of the water they looked back on a city ablaze from horizon to horizon.

The fire raged for three days. By the time the Saturday evening rain dampened the ashes, 490 blocks, totaling 2831 acres, had been burned and more than 450 lives had been lost.

But the spirit of San Francisco was undaunted. Within days, aid was pouring in, and the cleanup and rebuilding had started. The city was on its way to becoming even greater than before.

My April Harlequin Historical HIS SUBSTITUTE BRIDE, is set against the backdrop of 1906 San Francisco in the last days before the quake and fire. It's a story of devotion, danger and sacrifice. I hope you'll enjoy it.

Greatest Hits: So You Wanna Re-Create a Revolution?

By Anna C. Bowling

Long ago, in a not so faraway (for me) land called New York state, I gloried in the splendor of an autumn afternoon, my long skirt swishing about my ankles as I traversed the dirt road adjacent to the home of John Jay, the United States' first Chief Justice. To my left, behind a stone wall, an endless sea of identical white tents covered the green lawn. I felt a rumble behind me, and a deep male voice called out, "Make way for the king's men." I stepped quickly to the side, and a long column of scarlet-coated soldiers streamed by, posture ramrod-perfect, marching in step behind a Union Jack toted high.

The actual calendar year was of somewhat more recent vintage, 2003, but for that one particular day, I found myself swept back in time to when a native New Yorker could well have been a loyal British subject...and also to my own childhood, when the Bicentennial meant fife and drum corps everywhere, beginning a fascination with those gents in the red coats that continues to this day. Cue music. Leonard Bernstein British Grenadiers

The procession was only the start of the day's events, followed by a muster, where the historical interpreters demonstrated how their unit might attract new recruits. Hint; free liquor was involved for any able bodied male of adult years willing to sign or make his mark. This, apparently, was a valid recruiting technique. Speeches of the glory of king and country, of the sterling reputation of soldiers (which one may snort at without qualms once one mucks about the tents for a while, as I did) and thus swelled the ranks.

Being the nosy historical author I am, I took the first opportunity to venture into the tents and hunt down the interpreter playing the commanding officer. What was life really like after the free liquor wore off or commissions were purchased? What sort of men would have inhabited these tents two hundred plus years ago, and furthermore, what sorts of men recreate British Army life in the country where the redcoats were the antagonists during our revolution?

The answers to the above may surprise some readers. Reenactment units such as His Majesty's Tenth Regiment of Foot can give a different perspective on what we think we know about life in the eighteenth century British Army. Though the unit I saw that day was re-creating 1740s life, the gentlemen (and that they were, to a man) were more than happy to discuss Redcoat life up to and beyond the Revolution. Whatever the period, a soldier's life was seldom one of comfort. Even the officers' tents I inspected were of necessity small, to be easily packed up and moved to the next site at a moment's notice. A cot, a trunk for personal items, perhaps a few comforts of home such as a deck of cards or musical instrument, perhaps a book for those so inclined, but with space at a premium, functionality ruled over pleasure.

The soldier's life might not always be a lonely one; those who could afford it could sometimes bring along wives, and where wives (and other women) go, babies could follow. Even bringing one's dog was not entirely unheard of, and visitors to reenactments can often see all of the above as important parts of the units as a whole. Add in camp followers, noting that "laundress" did not always mean laundress, wink wink, and my mind started to fill in those rows of tents with people who might have inhabited each one. Some aspects of the military life are universal, no matter what era or affiliation.

The soldiers themselves, on these colonial shores, could come from any walk of life. A younger son from a noble English family might have bought his commission, to find himself shoulder to shoulder with a young recruit born to laborers in the colonies, or during the Revolution, even a German Hussar or a former slave. Male slaves who enlisted in the British army would be considered immediately freed from slavery, certainly an extremely appealing incentive. After the Revolution, when British and Hussar forces returned home, several former slaves stayed with their units, making new lives for themselves in England or Germany. Great story potential right there, methinks.

Story potential as well in the Grenadiers, those gentlemen memorialized in the music above. Dealing with explosives at such close range takes a special sort of man; calm under pressure, willing to do what it takes to get the job done, knowing, as all soldiers do, that any engagement may be their last, but hoping to come through to the end of the day.

Why would a modern American choose to devote his (or her) free time to interpreting the other side of our country's first war? Perhaps the most succinct answer is that somebody has to. The British Army is part of our history, and those who comprised it were individuals who also deserve to be remembered. While some British (civilians and military alike) did oppose colonial independence, others were actually for it, but believed that a different time or method for that independence would be better for all involved. Some interpreters do also interpret patriot units, and I spoke to one, an actor by trade, who has appeared on the History Channel, in different productions, as both Benedict Arnold and George Washington. Talk about seeing things from both sides.

Which is, really, one of the best parts about historical reenactments. We can muck about in as close as we can get to the real thing, interact with those who study hard to get the feel of the era and convey it to those who may not be as familiar with the big picture. If the reenactment includes a battle, consider traipsing over to those re-creating the other side, whatever that might be, for a different perspective. Who knows, you might meet a new character along the way.

Greatest Hits: William Flinders Petrie

By Bonnie Vanak

He had the personality of a curmudgeon, was known for being eccentric (showing curious tourists at the Great Pyramid his pink underwear to scare them off), read Euclid and conducted chemistry experiments when he was just a lad of 15, and authored over 1,000 books and articles on the digs he conducted.

Sir William Matthew Flinders Petrie, born in 1853 and died in 1942, is considered the "Father of Modern Archaeology." The British Egyptologist and archaeologist was the first to insist on careful, meticulous excavations and examining each handful of earth. He censured the crude methods of using dynamite to blast into ancient tombs. His scientific and mathematical method of measuring the Great Pyramid of Giza set the standard for pyramid measurement.

Before writing my first book, THE FALCON AND THE DOVE, I was researching ancient Egypt and the 18th dynasty pharaoh Akhenaten. In 1892, Petrie excavated Akhetaten, the city the pharaoh built to worship the god Aten. Petrie's work inspired me to include the dig in my book when the heroine, Elizabeth, becomes part of the historical excavation. In THE FALCON AND THE DOVE, Elizabeth, a rebel at heart, breaks Petrie's rules by riding a donkey to the dig site. History tells us Petrie ordered all his workers to walk there. He led a very spartan life while on site.

I'm so fascinated with Petrie that I decided to interview him.

Bonnie: Sir William, is it true your expeditions meant sacrificing luxury and comfortable accommodations while at the dig site?

Petrie: Pah! Who complained to you about that? Bunch of lily-livered saps. Need to buck up. Nothing wrong with sleeping in an old tomb, and eating canned meat. The work's all that matters.

Bonnie: I read that you stripped off your clothing when outside Khufu's pyramid and showed off your Calvin Kleins for the tourists to scare them off. Your PINK Calvin Kleins.

Petrie: Who is this Calvin Klein?

Bonnie: He makes men's underwear.

Petrie: Useless profession. Yes, I did and I detest tourists. Get in the way, the whole lot of them. Worse than the flea-bitten donkeys.

Bonnie: So you did measure the inside of the Great Pyramid nude?

Petrie: Damn hot inside, what else was I supposed to do? Wear a fur coat? Have you ever been inside one? Stuffy as a tomb. Considering it was a tomb.

Bonnie: You worked with Howard Carter on the dig at Akhetaten. He was working as an artist, but made some important discoveries. You're partly to thank for Carter's training that led him to discover the tomb of King Tutankhamen.

Petrie: Carter? Insignificant sap, told him he'd never be more than an artist. Never would make a good excavator. I trained many gifted archaeologists much better than Carter.

Bonnie: Amelia Edwards, who authored A Thousand Miles up the Nile, was a great admirer of yours. She funded the Edwards Professor of Egyptian Archaeology and Philology at University College, London. You had the distinct honor of being the first to take the chair.

Petrie: Yes, yes, Amelia, lovely woman, bequeathed her collection to the college. Intelligent and a very good author.

Bonnie: So where did you take it? The chair, I mean.

Petrie: (silence)

Bonnie: That was a joke.

Petrie: Pah! Are you quite done? I have work to do.

Bonnie: Almost. It's said you never did quite get the hang of Arabic. But you changed the way excavations were conducted, and as a result, archaeologists after you understood the importance of examining every bit of debris at a site, every single potsherd. You set the standard, and because of your sequence dating at Naqada, we now have the Predynastic Period of Egypt's history. You, sir, are to be commended for all your wonderful contributions to history.

Petrie: Thank you.

Bonnie: Afwan.

Petrie: What's that?

Bonnie: It's Arabic for "You're welcome."

Petrie, grumbling: Bloody show off!

Greatest Hits: Get Out the Wash Board!

By Vicki Gaia

The domestic arts were essential for keeping a decent house in Colonial America. Even so, men gave little regard to women's chores, offering a third or fourth less wages for domestic help compared to a man's wages for agricultural labor.

The majority of Americans clothed themselves in homemade woolens, linen, and "towcloth" made from flax. Daughters often took the task of spinning, and unmarried women of the household, hence the term 'spinster'. Once the thread was ready, it was usually taken to a weaver in the village in exchange for goods or labor. Weaving wasn't as widespread as spinning, and not ever household had a hand loom. The cloth had to be cut and sewn into garments. Skill with a needle and thread, and sewing, were synonymous with womanhood.

"I somehow or somewhere got the idea," wrote Lucy Larcom, "when I was a small child, that the chief end of woman was to make clothing for mankind." [The Reshaping of Everyday Life by Jack Larkin]

The process of making butter and cheese still had a mysterious air about it. This attitude lingered from the witch hunt days, when trouble with cattle and milk was enough to accuse a woman of witchcraft. While women were safe from the pyre for curling milk, the process remained a magical transformation. In a corner of the kitchen, shed, or springhouse, women churned milk into butter and cheese without worries.

Butter took over an hour to churn, and then it was kneaded and pressed into solid consistency. A talented dairywoman could make good money by packing her flavorful butter into tubs or crocks, marking it with a distinctive butter stamp, and selling it or trading it for goods. Cheese-making was more widespread north of Pennsylvania and also provided a decent trade for women.

Cooking was the center of a woman's daily life. "Women needed to know the craft of salting, pickling and smoking meat to preserve it, of making wheat or "rye and Indian" bread, johnnycake or hominy, of stewing, roasting and frying. Salt, sugar, sugar, spices and coffee had to be taken in bulk form, ground and pounded." [The Reshaping of Everyday Life by Jack Larkin]

Can you image lifting heavy iron pots to set on the hearth, or hooking it to a crane which swung over the fire? This visual is enough to make my back hurt! The quantity of kitchen equipment depended on the family's wealth. If you were lucky to be affluent, you'd have various pots and kettles, gridirons and toasting forks, and a large fireplace oven. If not, often bread was baked in ashes and there'd only be one pot to cook in.

I'm doing a load of laundry as I type this post, and usually, I complain about having to wash clothes. Spoiled me! Back then, women rose before sunrise to begin their washing day. In the morning, they scrubbed and pounded their clothes in tubs of near-boiling water and homemade soft soap - washing, rinsing and repeating the cycle. In the afternoon, the washed clothes were spread out to dry.

The Industrial Revolution was about to change the lives of women by providing convenient appliances to shorten her work load.

Greatest Hits: Schuylkill

By Isabel Roman

I'd started plotting a new American Colonial-era romance. I'd visited Williamsburg, VA and spent two unbelievable days there, with people who were so knowledgeable that no matter where they worked and what questions I asked, they knew the answer. I can't tell you how much fun I had. It was just great.

So when this topic came up, I though "Oh, I'll do something on the Revolutionary War battles." People in the know about American history can probably name several Civil War Battles--Gettysburg, Shiloh, Bull Run, and Sherman's march through Georgia, which wasn't technically a battle. But the Revolution?

Interest in it kind of dies off after Washington's crossing of the Delaware and the winter of 1777-1778 spent in Valley Forge, PA. The beginning of that war is ever so exciting: you've got Lexington & Concord and the shot heard round the world. You've got the siege of New York, the barricade of Boston, the threat to the then-capital, Philadelphia. Treason, sedition, Tories and Patriots, and all sorts of political maneuverings.

After all that? It's just a war. Eh, we won. I challenge you to name five commanders who were not Washington or Benedict Arnold. Go ahead...I'll wait. And no cheating with the internet!

There were tons of battles. I mean tons! And they were everywhere. From Quebec to Ogeechee River, Georgia. My Revolutionary War has everything you'd ever want to know about these battles and more. Much more...my eyes crossed.

But let's talk Valley Forge, Pennsylvania. Granted, you probably have heard of it, especially if you live within driving distance of the National Park. It's not the most esoteric of places, and is one of the more widely known locales of the Revolution.

But does anyone really care about The Battle of Ogeechee River, Georgia on July 12, 1781? Let's see.

On July 12, during the night, Capt. Anthony and 20 men from his privateer proceeded up the Ogeechee River. They wanted to capture a schooner loaded with rice. Anthony captured the ship, but before he get it out to sea, a British galley, commanded by Capt. ?? Scallan, intercepted him. Anthony's force escaped to the shore.

Hmmm. Not very exciting.

But Valley Forge National Park is gorgeous. And the winter spent there truly was the turning point of the Revolution. The official blurb on their site says:

Valley Forge National Historical Park commemorates more than the sacrifices and perseverance of the Revolutionary War generation; it honors the ability of citizens and their leaders to pull together and overcome adversity during extraordinary times.

So after all this research, my blog entry morphed into: What you might not know about Valley Forge.

Back then, war was not fought in the winter, hence the term Winter Quarters. So Washington, searching for winter quarters for his men, and having just fought the Battle of White Marsh (now Fort Washington State Park), decided on Valley Forge, Pennsylvania. Named for an iron forge on Valley Creek, the area was ideal: Close enough to the General Sir William Howe and his redcoats to keep them out of the Pennsylvanian interior and, more importantly, only 18 miles from the Philadelphia capitol, and far enough away so the British could not spring any surprise attacks. The high ground of Mount Joy and the adjoining elevated ground of Mount Misery combined with the Schuylkill River (pronounced SKOO-kull), to the north, made the encampment defensible.

On December 19, 1777 the army limped into Valley Forge. They were cold, tired, hungry, poorly equipped, and poorly trained. It was frigid out, and the 12,000 soldiers of the Continental Army pretty much collapsed. But they'd collapsed on cold ground, so they built cabins and huts, and began foraging. But this was winter during the Little Ice Age when the Delaware River actually froze--that painting of Washington Crossing the Delaware wasn't imagined. This was one of those winters on the east coast where it's freakin' cold!

It snowed--then melted...and snowed again. They weren't dry. They were sick and disease festered. So what made it the turning point of the Revolution?

Time. They had nothing else to do but complain and train. While not the deserter army many picture, they weren't the British either...no one was. But Americans had something the British Army did not: determination. And they had Baron Freiherr Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben>. Formerly on Frederick the Great of Prussia's elite General Staff, and now unemployed, Friedrich was hired by the American Army to train the troops.

He worked directly with the men, drilling them every day all day. Before that winter was over, American soldiers moved smartly from line to column, column to line. They loaded muskets with precision and drove imaginary redcoats from the field by skillful charges with the bayonet. When the Army paraded on May 6, 1778, to celebrate the French alliance with America, Friedrich received the honor of organizing the day's activities.

Still at the site today is Washington's military headquarters, recently restored. Also on the south side of the Schuylkill River are the Grand Parade, the Welcome Center, and the paved Joseph Plumb Martin Trail. They have original cannon lining the park, and you can take pictures on it. Or you could last time I was there which was...ah, a very long time ago.

Other than the history, there's the nature aspect of it. The 3,500 acre park boasts a river, numerous streams and forested wetlands, eastern deciduous forest, and tall-grass meadows. In addition to wetlands and archaeological sites, you can bike, hike, or picnic along permitted paths. It's a wonderful way to spend the day, or better, a long weekend so you can really see everything. There's also a restoration project going on, whose goal is to improve trout habitat and angler access.

So maybe you've heard of Valley Forge after all, but now you know more about it!

Greatest Hits: Life in Victorian Prisons

By Jennifer Linforth

That last pint was not a good idea.

He stared at his unraveled cravat and the ruby stains marring his vest. Flexing his hand made the wounds on his swollen knuckles split and pour fresh blood.

Yes...he definitely regretted that last drink.

The doors of 'her majesty's carriage' slammed shut in his face. Within minutes it rumbled down the cobbled road, jostling its newest prisoner. There was nothing he could do now but reflect on his foolish temper. His life was pulled down the road toward inevitable change. And changed roared around him like a hungry lion the instant he set foot on the grounds of his new home.

Bathed in water not unlike mutton broth, the newest prisoner of Kirkwood Goal began his new life with humiliation. Where was his valet now, he wondered, as his privacy was raped by men scrutinizing his naked body for distinguishing marks. His anger flared when his hair, once tangled by a woman's fair fingers, was cut to the scalp. His bloody vest and cravat were removed and bundled up, his breeches and waistcoat replaced by ill-fitting uniforms. The boots he once took such pride in were sold to a dealer and replaced by ones heavier than lead. (He tried to guess the weight. 14 pounds seemed accurate.)

He caught his reflection in a dusty window. Who he had been before was of little importance. The markings on his uniform designated his standing in the hierarchy now. He was a convict. Gone were the days of climbing social ladders in salons and country balls. Here social isolation was his dance partner. All too often he would see the dark interior of separate confinement or be forced to adhere to the strict silence rule. All because he tried to garner a bit of humanity and speak to a fellow convict.

He would find ways to break the unearthly silence imposed upon him. He tapped messages on the walls or water pipes. The chapel he found was ripe with opportunity. He was a quick student, learning to use hymns (meaningless to him before) to his advantage. Emphasizing the first word of each line then quickly dropping to a lower tone, he could carry on a conversation with his neighbor. The longer the hymn, the longer the conversation he could murmur between lines. Sign language useful as well. The isolation was a forlorn hope. Man was not designed to live alone...

Morning noon and night his belly rumbled for the succulent soups, roasts and puddings his crime denied him. Three-quarters of a pint of cocoa was his breakfast, a sludge of flaked cocoa mixed with molasses. Dinner was four ounces of meat, a half-pint of soup and one pound of potatoes. Supper: a pint of gruel sweetened with molasses with one and a quarter pounds of bread and salt.

Tired and hungry, he retreats to sleep. But the silks of his pillow are gone and the down that warmed him is a distant memory. Nothing is so aptly designed to depress than his prison cell. Thirteen by seven feet (4 by 2 meters) and nine feet high, only a tiny window offers a glimpse of freedom. But standing on a stool to look out was a punishable offence.

He was cold in the winter, hot in the summer and his eyes constantly fighting the poorly lit conditions. Why not just go blind? Maybe he would not be reminded of this hell. His isolated room seemed private, but the spy hole in the door made him uncertain as to if whether he was being watched or not.

Perhaps he could sleep? Wake up and this nightmare would be over? The year was 1865, a few months previous a new Prison Act was initiated bringing with it the hard plank bed. Part of a severe regime introduced where punishment and deterrence took precedence over reform. Not that he thought he needed reform.

When morning dawned and he choked down the cocoa, a question was poised. Was this labor he faced meant to encourage fulfillment in honest work, or break him body and spirit?

The tread wheel was an ominous beast. He would climb the wheel as if trying to summit an endless mountain. As the wheel fell way beneath his feet, he was forced to lift his body into the next step.

All this for grinding corn? He thought not.

If not at the wheel he would be at the crank, turning a handle until his shoulders ached. There was no harder or more degrading work. He would do his work, eat his meals, live in silence and fight for a small scrap of interaction with the other convicts. Prison officers were products of their own draconian regulations. They lived in a powder keg, where one spark could set off a symbiotic relationship between guards and convict. Each could make the other's life difficult.

And life would be difficult.

Staring down at calloused hands in a sweat soaked uniform, isolated, angry and questioning his "reform"...he definitely regretted that last pint.

Greatest Hits: Aimee Semple McPherson

By Delia DeLeest

Back before Jimmy Swaggart and Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker brought their scandals to the religious world, there was Aimee Semple McPherson.

After spending years as an itinerant Pentecostal minister in the early 1920s, Aimee pulled into Los Angeles with her mother and two small children in tow. Her husband, Harold McPherson, had filed for a separation in 1918 and was granted a divorce in 1921 on the grounds of abandonment. She was a woman called on a mission and she couldn't let something like a reluctant husband slow her down.

Within five years, her ministry had grown from going from town to town in her "Gospel Car"--a 1912 Packard decorated with religious sayings painted on the sides--to a multi-million dollar business. Starting off by giving sermons wherever she could find crowds, including boxing rings before and after matches, she raised enough money to fund the Angelus Temple for her church, The International Institute of Four Square Evangelism. The temple cost $1.5 million and included a $75,000 radio studio, seats for over 5,000 people, a nursery, a lonely hearts club, and a miracle room for the discarded wheelchairs and crutches of those followers who were healed of their earthly afflictions. Aimee had a good thing going.


In 1926, the world was shocked by the disappearance of Mrs. McPherson. Aimee had gone for a dip in the ocean. The last her secretary had seen of her before heading out on an errand, Aimee had been joyfully frolicking in the waves. When the secretary returned, Aimee Semple McPherson had disappeared. The faithful gathered to pray for her deliverance while others, spurred on either by evangelical zeal or the $25,000 reward for her recovery, diligently searched the area for their missing leader. In the resulting clamor, one man drowned, one died of exposure, and a young girl killed herself, distraught at the loss of her idol.

Finally admitting to the loss, a memorial service was held. Shortly after the service, Aimee's mother received a ransom note, asking for half a million dollars for the release of the evangelist. Believing her daughter to be dead and the note a fraud, she threw it away.

On June 23, 1926, thirty-five days after her disappearance, Aimee Semple McPherson stumbled out of the desert and into a small Mexican town just south of the Arizona border. She'd been held hostage, she claimed, trapped, drugged and tortured in a small desert shack. She'd only escaped after making her way thirteen hours through the desert to civilization. The world rejoiced.

But...(you just knew there was going to be a 'but,' didn't you?) Aimee's story had more loopholes than an afghan made by your far-sighted great-aunt Millie. Though she supposedly made her way thirteen hours across the desert, her shoes weren't worn and had grass stains on the sides. Grass stains in the desert? The shack she described could never be found, and even though she had disappeared while swimming, she returned fully dressed and wearing a watch given to her by her mother, which she'd not had with her when she'd gone to the beach. Aimee's house of cards was beginning to topple, but it wasn't over yet.

Coinciding with Aimee's disappearance was another missing person. Kenneth Ormiston, a married radio operator for the Four Square Church with whom Aimee had developed a close friendship, had also gone missing. After tracing his whereabouts, the District Attorney found that Ormiston, along with a female companion matching Sister Aimee's description, had been visiting various hotels and beach resorts all along the West Coast. Handwriting analysis matched some of the entries in the hotel registers with Mrs. McPherson's own penmanship.

Oops.

An investigation ensued and though the prosecution could find no clear-cut proof that Sister Aimee had committed fraud or obstruction of justice, there was also no proof she'd been kidnapped, either. The DA produced an array of witnesses, hotel chambermaids, bellhops, etc., who could identify the amorous couple, but then he mysteriously moved for an acquittal without any explanation. So, Sister Aimee got off scott free...or did she?

After the scandal, she went back to proselytizing, but things just weren't the same. She was no longer a media darling and people no longer blindly followed her lead. Her subsequent marriage in 1931 to a musician and actor further riled up her congregation, as it was, against one of the tenants of The Four Square church which stated that a person could not remarry while a previous spouse was still alive--Harold McPherson was still around and kicking, though he'd had no part in Aimee's life for years. She and her latest husband were eventually divorced in 1934. Aimee and Harold's son, Rolf, took over the running of the church, though Aimee was still around to give her standby sermon, "Story of my Life".

In September of 1944, Rolf went to Aimee's hotel room to pick her up for a scheduled preaching session and he found her dead in her room, an open bottle of pills next to her. Aimee's death was not believed to be a suicide, despite how it looked. The barbiturate that was found in her room was commonly found to cause a hypnotic effect that could easily lead up to accidental overdose.

So now you know the story of Sister Aimee. Isn't it interesting to know that in a decade known for its wild abandonment, even the religious leaders of the 1920's weren't immune to its lure?

Greatest Hits: Great Storm of 1703

By Lisa Marie Wilkinson

"No pen could describe it, nor tongue express it, nor thought conceive it unless by one in the extremity of it." -- Daniel Defoe

The southern part of Britain was devastated by the most catastrophic storm it had experienced in five hundred years on November 26–27, 1703. Believed to be a revitalized Atlantic hurricane, the storm began as a series of gales earlier in November, and brought with it a prolonged period of unseasonably warm weather and high seas.

A warm front from the hurricane moved from the West Indies, traveled along the coast of Florida, and swept into the Atlantic prior to reaching England. The warm front collided with cold air, creating wind speeds estimated at over 120 miles per hour, and establishing conditions for a tempest that would peak during a six- to eight-hour period beginning at midnight on November 26. Although very little rain was reported, strong winds and a North Sea surge elevated tides by nearly eight feet, causing severe flooding.

There was significant loss of life. On land in England and Wales alone, collapsing roofs and chimneys killed more than one hundred and twenty people, and injured more than two hundred. Eighty more were drowned in marshland cottages surrounding the Severn Estuary.

Those at sea during the storm fared even worse. It is estimated that between eight and fifteen thousand people lost their lives along the coast and in over one hundred reported shipwrecks at sea.


Britain was at war and three fleets were assembled to aid the King of Spain against the French. By dawn, the majority of the vessels were destroyed, and fifteen hundred seamen had lost their lives. Twelve warships with thirteen hundred men were lost while still within sight of land. On the Thames, hundreds of ships were driven into each other in the Pool, the section downstream from London Bridge.


The Eddystone Lighthouse, in the direct path of the storm when the hurricane was at its most powerful, was destroyed. Its designer and builder, Henry Winstanley, was working on the structure at the time, and he was swept away with his creation.

No segment of the population was untouched. It was reported that Queen Anne stood at a window and watched as the trees in St. James's Park were violently uprooted by the force of the wind. She was forced to take refuge in a cellar when falling chimney stacks and a partial roof collapse damaged St. James Palace. The bodies of the bishop of Bath and Wells and his sister were discovered amid the ruins of their palace.

Property losses estimated at £6 million exceeded the £4 million loss suffered as a result of the Great Fire of London in 1666. In and around London alone, two thousand chimney stacks were blown down, and over a hundred church steeples in the capital were damaged. The heavy lead lining on the roof of Westminster Abbey was lifted and tossed some distance from the building.

All over southern England, streets were covered with tiles and slates. Rural village causeways and paved London roads alike were buried in slates and tiles from demolished buildings; even on hard ground they amassed to a depth of as much as eight inches. More than eight hundred houses were blown away or destroyed by the collapse of a central chimney stack. The majority of the houses left standing were partly or completely stripped of roof tiles.

Windmills, common structures at the time, were particularly vulnerable. More than four hundred windmills were destroyed. Many burned to the ground after their cloth sails rotated at such speed that friction led to fire. Millions of trees were uprooted or damaged. In the county of Kent, over a thousand barns and outhouses were destroyed. There were reports of men and animals being lifted into the air by the force of the wind. Tens of thousands of sheep and cattle were lost.

Restoration would prove to be slow and costly. The day following the storm, in one of the first recorded instances of price gouging, the price of tiles jumped from twenty-one shillings per thousand to one hundred and twenty shillings per thousand. English merchants were hard-pressed to keep a ready supply on hand; many had suffered the loss of company ships whose cargo holds had been burgeoning with goods.

The storm would remain in the collective consciousness of the British people as "The Great Storm" for many years to come.

Greatest Hits: Covent Garden Ladies

By Anita Davison

In Georgian England, for a man about town to enlist the services of a prostitute was an accepted part of life. London in1797 contained a total of 50,000 'Ladies of the Night,' which was around one in ten of the total female population. Covent Garden theatres were built with 'retiring rooms' connected to the boxes in order for the entertainment of clients while they enjoyed an evening out at the theatre. Even the vocabulary used to describe them was colourful.

-- Prostitutes who waited outside theatres for the plays to finish were called 'spells.'
-- Lower class streetwalkers were 'flash mollishers.'
-- Covent Garden Ague was a term for venereal disease.
-- Covent Garden Nun was another name for a prostitute.
-- Covent Garden Abbess was a bawd (madam) most of whom started out as whores themselves.

Between the years of 1757 and 1795, a publication was produced each Christmas entitled Harris's List of Covent Garden Ladies. This book was handwritten to begin with, but soon went into print and sold a quarter of a million copies during the thirty eight years it was produced. The List, priced at two shillings and sixpence, was a catalogue of around eighty up-market prostitutes. It included biographical details of each lady, together with a description of her appearance, personality and her sexual specialties, together with their charges.


The name "Harris' referred to a Jack Harris, the head waiter at the Shakespeare's Head, a Covent Garden tavern frequented by sea captains and the directors of the East India Company. Harris christened himself the "Pimp General of All England," but in 1757, he was in Newgate prison for debt. He gave an impoverished, heavy drinking Irish poet by the name of Samuel Derrick, permission to use his name for the book.

A 'common whore' could be purchased in London for a shilling, perhaps two or three shillings to enjoy her company in a bedroom in a local tavern or lodging house. The average wage at the time was around a pound a week, and two pounds was a fairly large sum of money. With some of the ladies on Harris's Lists charging a guinea a time, the lists represented the top end of the market.


An account of one young woman from the 1773 edition reads:

Miss M__tague is a well-shaped girl, about twenty-three, good-natured and said to be thoroughly experienced in the whole art and mysterie of Venus's tactics and as soon reduce a perpendicular to less than the curve of a parabola. She is rather generous and you may sometimes find your way in there free of expence.

From the 1780 edition, the entry for a Miss B____rn. of No. l8 Old Compton Street, Soho:

This accomplished nymph has just attained her eighteenth year, and fraught with every perfection, enters a volunteer in the field of Venus. She plays on the pianofort, sings, dances, and is mistress of every Maneuver in the amorous contest that can enhance the coming pleasure; is of the middle stature, fine auburn hair, dark eyes and very inviting countenance, which ever seems to beam delight and love. In bed she is all the heart can wish, or eyes admires every limb is symmetry, every action under cover truly amorous; her price two pounds.

The list also alerted its readers to those women who were best avoided, a Pol Forestor was reported as having "breath worse than a Welch bagpipe" and warned against the "contaminated carcase" of a certain Miss Young from the Turk's Head Bagnio. And warning them off Miss Robinson, at the Jelly Shops, "a slim and genteel made girl--but rather too flat."

A review of one resident of Drury Lane reads, "Very impudent and very ugly; chiefly a dealer with old fellows. It is reported that she uses more birch rods in a week than Westminster school in a twelvemonth."

And another:

Known in this quarter for her immense sized breasts, which she alternately makes use of with the rest of her parts, to indulge those who are particularly fond of a certain amusement. She is what you may call, at all; backwards and forwards, all are equal to her, posteriors not excepted, nay indeed, by her own account she has most pleasure in the latter. Very fit for a foreign Macaroni - entrance at the front door tolerably reasonable, but nothing less than two pound for the back way.

A Mrs. Crosby of 24 George Street, for example, "being particularly attached to the sons of Neptune," (sailors) had married an elderly sea captain. When he died he left her a small annuity. This was enough to keep her off the streets, but not enough to live on--so she worked as a part-time prostitute. Harris's List says, "Mrs. Crosby could be contacted at home during the day or in the theatre at night. She has dark hair flowing in ringlets down her back, languishing grey eyes and a tolerable complexion." She charged one guinea (£1.05).


Of a Mrs. Grafton of Wapping, her "...best customers are sea officers, who she particularly liked, as they do not stay long at home, and always return fraught with love and presents." At 40 years old, the lady "...could give more pleasure than a dozen girls half her age. Her price was 5 shillings (25p). Most naval officers could afford that, as a day's pay for most captains in this period was about 20 shillings (£1.00).

Harris often used nautical terminology when describing the charms of the women. Miss Devonshire of Queen Ann Street had "...fair complexion, cerulean eyes and fine teeth," and "...many a man of war hath been her willing prisoner, and paid a proper ransom…she is so brave, that she is ever ready for an engagement, cares not how soon she comes to close quarters, and loves to fight yard arm and yard arm, and be briskly boarded."

The mood turned against such 'immorality' when a Mr. Aitken was convicted at the Kings Bench for the offence of publishing Harris's List in November 1795, which hereafter went out of print.

A copy of the 1790 edition was sold for £5,170 at auction in March 2008.

Greatest Hits: Victorian Medievalism

By Sandra Schwab

It's not quite clear exactly whose fault it was. It might have been James MacPherson and his Ossian books, or Thomas Percy and his Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, all published in the 1760s (though to be fair, these publications were at first much more popular and influential on the continent). It might have been Horace Walpole and all the other writers of gothic novels. It might have been the antiquarians who started to become interested in medieval life and medieval objects in the late 18th century.

Sir Walter Scott, whose historical novels filled with knights, adventure and romance (Ivanhoe anybody?), certainly has to shoulder a large part of the blame.


Whoever or whatever it was: from the late 18th century onwards the British rediscovered the Middle Ages--with a vengeance! At first it was all quite innocent: one enjoyed a gothic novel or two; an old ballad, perhaps; if you were rich, you might have fancied putting some fake ruins in your gardens, or why not have your country estate remodelled in the neo-gothic style? Add to that portraits of people in (fake) armour and other sort of medieval clothing, and the odd collector of medieval knick-knack.

The two black-and-white drawings are from Punch.

But then somebody got it into his head that these outward trappings were simply not enough. No, on top of these one ought to revive the spirit of the Middle Ages, the great ideals of "the days of old when knights were bold" (or at least what were thought to be the ideals of the knights of old)--in one word: CHIVALRY. As a result of this, the ideal of masculinity radically changed in the course of the 19th century: a man had to be tough, brave, show no sign of cowardice, save / protect women and children, and meet death without flinching.

The Victorian Age saw an immense production of history books, ballads, novels, music and paintings that celebrated this chivalric ideal and thus taught it to whole generations of boys and young men. It proved to be so influential that at the beginning of the 20th century the founder of the boyscout movement, Baden-Powell, claimed that the boyscouts were the modern descendants of the knights of old:

You Patrol Leaders and Scouts are therefore very like the knights and their retainers, especially if you keep your honour ever before you in the first place, and do your best to help other people [...] Your motto is, 'Be Prepared' to do this, and the motto of the knights was a similar one, 'Be Always Ready.'

The knights of old were particularly attentive in respect and courtesy to women. When walking with a lady or child, a Scout should always have her on his left side, so that his right is free to protect her.

(Both quotations are from an abridged version of Scouting for Boys, which was first published in 1908.)

Protect her from what? we might ask. For even in the early 20th century it wasn't all that likely that a dragon would hide behind some bushes in the park, waiting to snatch a tasty little woman. As you can see from this example, the medieval revival and the romanticized version of the Middle Ages offered the opportunity to glorify old genderroles--this became particularly important towards the end of the century when these old genderroles came under increasing attack and women started to demand more rights.

St. George and Princess Sabra
(Whom he has saved from the ghastly dragon)
By Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Greatest Hits: Sappho & Co.

By Lindsay Townsend

Sarmatia in my BRONZE LIGHTNING, which begins in the Mediterranean of 1652 BC, would surely have known of the the Muse. Homer called her 'Daughter of Zeus' in The Odyssey, but the poetry we have left from ancient Greece comes much later and mostly from men: Alcman, Pindar, Theocritus, and the great playwrights of the fifth century BC, Callimachus of Alexandria.

The sources for women's writing in ancient Greece at first appear to be much more scarce. Women do appear in Greek plays: Klytemnestra, Antigone, Lysistrata. In these works they have lively voices but their words have been written by men. Where is the literature written by women? Where do Greek women speak directly to us?

Sadly, little has survived. Manuscripts were copied by men and they selected what to copy. It could be there are more papyri in the Egyptian desert--thousands of them still remain in the ancient rubbish dump still being excavated at Oxyrhynchus after a hundred years--or in some yet undiscovered cache that will give us more authentic women's voices. So far the pickings are thin, but there's real quality there.

Foremost amongst the poets is Sappho, whose life on Lesbos in the early sixth century BC, at the centre of a group of girls worshipping Aprodite and the Muses, gave her material for nine books of poems full of affection, admiration and longing. Only a few poems have survived, but their directness is appealing. 'As pale as summer grass,' she (or her narrator) describes herself, a flame playing under her skin, as she gazes hopelessly at one of her girls chatting with a man. Another fragment:

The moon has set, and the Pleiades.
The night is half gone.
Time passes, and here I lie alone.

Later in the century came Korinna, who lived in Boiotia and wrote in the local dialect. One poem talks of her own voice, 'as clear as a swallow's', which gave delight to the 'white-robed ladies of Tanagra', her home town. The ancient world thought she was a rival of the great Pindar himself.

Some, like the fifth-century poets Praxilla of Sicyon and Telesilla of Argos, have left so little writing intact that we can hardly judge their work. Another, Erinna, lived on Telos, an island near Rhodes, and died before she was twenty, leaving us a reputation based on The Distaff, a tribute to her dead friend Baukis, whose father lit her funeral pyre with the torches intended to light her wedding. Only a few tantalising lines remain out of three hundred.

We have more complete poems by Anyte, who lived in Tegea on the Greek mainland in the third century BC, than by any other Greek woman, even Sappho. Even so, there are just eighteen certainly by her, a poor legacy for a poet very highly regarded in her day and for long afterward. One tells of children playing with a billy-goat, one of the sadness of a small girl, Myro, at having to make graves for her pet cricket and cicada. Here’s another, describing a statue of the goddess Aphrodite:

This is the place of the Cyprian, where she fulfils her pleasure
Looking out for ever from the land over the shining sea,
To make voyaging kindly to sailors. All around the ocean
Trembles, staring at her image of oil-glistening wood.

There's a useful anthology here which only underlines the scarcity of ancient Greek women's writing which survives. Maybe one day the papyrus mounds of Oxyrhynchus will give us more.

Greatest Hits: When Continents Meet

By Michelle Styles

Iceland is one of the most geographically interesting places on the planet. Besides, the thermal springs, the glaciers, and the volcanoes, it boasts of a land-based rift valley. A rift valley is formed when two continental plates are physically tearing apart. Mostly this happens in one of the world's oceans, but in Iceland, the Eurasian and the North American plates are moving apart and have created a rift valley at Thingvellir.

The region around Thingvellir is an other-worldly landscape, where ropes of lava cut through the walls of the valley. Two great rock mountains--Hrafnabjorg and Armannsfell, where the mythical guardian of the region, Armann Dalmannsson, is supposed to dwell--rise above the valley. It looks as if nothing ever changes. Nature at one of its most majestic. However, every year the plates continue to drift apart by approximately 1.5 cm. This means that the valley floor is constantly changing, generally dropping by a few millimeters each year. In 1789 after an earthquake, the floor dropped by half a meter.

For Icelanders, it is hard to underestimate the historical importance of Thingvellir as it is where the Icelandic chieftains or godar first met to form the Althing or General Assembly. One man was elected as the lawspeaker. The great Icelandic poet, Snorri Snorrisson served as the law speaker in the 12th century, for example.

The Althing was held for two weeks every summer, and everyone who could attend did so. They lived in tented camps called buds and disputes were settled, laws given and democracy flourished. In the year 1000, it was here that Christainty was proclaimed as the national religion.

As various Icelandic sagas make clear, the Althing did not necessarily posses the power to enforce its laws, and sometimes, such as in Njal's saga, the disputes led to bloody feuds. Public executions began to take place in the 16th century. For example in the pools of Oxara, women convicted of witchcraft or sexual offences were drowned.

The last Althing met in 1798 in Thingvellir and was replaced by a national court and parliament in Reykjavik (also now called the Althing), but despite the move, the valley has never been forgotten. It served to inspire poets as well as the nationalist movement in the nineteenth century. When Iceland was granted its independence from Denmark in 1944, the declaration was read out at the historic site of the Althing in Thingvellir.

Today, it is a popular tourist destination and many come to marvel at Nature's power. But to Icelanders, it also represents the soul of their nation.

Greatest Hits: Wartime Flyers

This month on Unusual Historicals, we're going to re-post some of our greatest hits, as chosen by each of our fantastic contributors. Since so many of us will be at Nationals and traveling in July, this is the perfect way to survive a busy month and to show off the posts and topics we're most proud of. First up...me!

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By Carrie Lofty

During WWII, as the majority of fit fighting men in the Allied countries joined the armed forces, women took an increasingly prominent role in occupations previously tended by their male counterparts. We've all seen posters of Rosie the Riveter and heard stories of women working in assembly plants and as code breakers. Actress and mathematics prodigy Hedy Lamarr even developed a type of airwave frequency transmission in 1941, one so advance that the US Army couldn't make use of it until engagements in Cuba in the early 1960s.

Another way women helped was by flying airplanes. The Air Transport Auxiliary in the UK employed men who were missing limbs, missing eyes, or perhaps a little over the hill--but who were still able to ferry repaired, new, and reserve aircraft to where they were needed all over the UK, and then into Allied territory on the mainland. Eventually, as ATA pilots began to transport troops and provide field ambulance flights, even these men did not meet demand. The ATA quickly opened their rolls to women.

One in eight ATA pilots were women, and 15 lost their lives during the war. The ATA became the first organization within the British government to authorize equal pay for equal work, and thereby attracted women from around the world to participate. Pilots began with single-engine aircraft and worked their way up to larger, more difficult planes, including massive four-engine bombers. The only planes women were not permitted to fly was the flying boat. Together with the men, they delivered over 300,000 aircraft to their destinations.

In the US, a similar civilian ferrying system was established in 1942, called the Women Airforce Service Pilots, or WASPs. Roald Dahl and Walt Disney conceived of their mascot, Fifinella the Gremlin, which eventually became their official shoulder patch.

But the WASPs' management was considerably less organized than the ATA. From Wikipedia, regarding conditions where WASPs trained outside Houston: "[They] had minimal medical care, no life insurance, no crash truck, no fire truck, a loaned ambulance from Ellington, insufficient administrative staff, and were trained with a hodgepodge of aircraft--23 types." In addition, they received as little as 35% of the pay civilian men received for the same operations, yet over 50% of aircraft ferrying in the USA was handled by the WASPs. Eventually, their duties were expanded to more dangerous roles, such as towing targets for aerial gunnery practice, simulated strafing, and running check of repaired planes. Some women went on to become flight instructors.


A bill introduced into the US House of Representatives to provide WASPs with the same military benefits as their male colleagues was defeated when male pilots protested--some because they'd rather stay in the US for ferrying work rather than be sent to the Pacific, where the war showed few signs of slowing. Thus instead of receiving their due, after delivering 12,650 aircraft, the WASPs were disbanded in December of 1944. Although 38 WASPs died in service to their country, records of the entire organization were sealed for 35 years, and it wasn't until the Carter Administration that they were awarded full military benefits and honors.

Soviets were the only women in the war to became combat pilots. In 1941, Stalin ordered that all women without children who were not already employed in the war effort should join the military. Three all-women pilot units--fighters, bombers, and night bombers--were organized, although many women flew with male regiments. Valentina Grizodubova became commander of a 300-man long range bomber squadron, and when Marina Raskova (right), who organized the female fighter regiments, was shot down and killed in 1943, the Soviets held their first state funeral of the war.