The Great Galveston Hurricane of 1900

This September marks 125 years since the deadliest natural disaster in United States history—the Great Galveston Hurricane. On September 8, 1900, a category 4 hurricane roared ashore on this urbanized sand bar off the coast of Texas, quickly overwhelming the island. Sandwiched in between two rapidly rising bodies of water—the Gulf of Mexico and Galveston Bay—the entirety of the small spit of land was soon underwater, with the city’s buildings become battering rams, tossed about by waves and destroying any structures not taken down by the sea itself. By the time the sun rose on September 9, over 10,000 people were dead, with the estimated cost of destruction an eye-boggling $30 million (over $700 million in today’s currency). And, while it’s easy to attribute the tragedy to a lack of modern forecasting and building standards, the true failures behind the storm are much more complex.

Photo Credit: Galveston Historical Society

As early as Sunday, September 3—nearly a full week before the storm made landfall in Texas—meteorologists in Cuba were tracking the cyclone. Having already unleashed heavy rain and damaging winds on Antigua and Jamaica, the tempest had only intensified as it made its way through the Caribbean. Father Lorenzo Gangoite, a Jesuit priest and head of the Belen Meteorological and Magnetic Observatory in Havana, recognized the storm for what it was: a hurricane. At the time, Cuban meteorologists were at the helm of some of the most cutting-edge storm prediction science; through the years, they had learned to accurately predict both the timing and track of hurricanes based on cloud formation. However, Cuba was also a land of political unrest and upheaval. The Cuban fight for independence had spilled American blood when the U.S.S. Maine, sent by President McKinley to protect Americans living in the city, exploded and sank in Havana harbor in 1898. Soon afterwards, the United States declared war and blockaded Havana. It was a conflict still very much heated in September 1900, when Father Gangoite first observed the hurricane and deduced its tracks north and west…right toward the coast of Texas. However, the U.S. War Department had severed all telegraph lines between Havana and weather offices within the United States; Father Gangoite’s only option was to send his forecast directly to Washington, D.C.

Where it was promptly ignored. 

Forecasters in Washington, including head of the U.S. Bureau of Weather Willis Moore, believed the Cubans to be inferior in their reporting, primitive and given to flights of hysterical panic. So, instead, Washington’s forecast to Galveston that week, though mentioning the storm (but still refusing to call it a hurricane), maintained it would fall victim to the law of “recurve,” which prevented storms from the Caribbean from heading northwest. It would instead head northeast, toward Florida and the Atlantic states, weakening as it went. Storm warnings went up along the east coast…but not in Galveston.

But the failure of the day’s leading scientists wasn’t limited to Washington. 

Galveston population and economy were growing by the day. However, the island had already been hit by a number of storms. Though the damage had been minimal, many businesses deemed the city too risky for investment. To stem growing anxiety, a group known as the Deep Water Committee was formed. It proposed building a breakwater out in the gulf to hinder the roughest of waves. It also expressed interest in building a seawall on the beach to keep storm surges at bay. But, the cost of such projects would be astronomical so, before undertaking, the men decided to consult an expert. 

But Isaac Cline, head of the Texas section of the U.S. Weather Bureau in Galveston and one of the country’s leading authorities on storms, assured the men, in no uncertain terms, that if a storm ever pushed the gulf onto the island, it would merely flow over the city, into the bay, and onto mainland Texas. The coastline was too shallow, he said. It would fragment any incoming surf. “It would be impossible,” he wrote, “for any cyclone to create a storm wave which could materially injure the city.” And besides, he wrote, hurricanes didn’t strike Texas anyway. He called anyone who believed otherwise “delusional.”

No seawall was built. 

Unfortunately, Cline was wrong on both accounts. Not only did a hurricane strike Galveston in September of 1900, but the bay did not act as a kind of “release valve” for the rising Gulf. Instead, it had the opposite effect; both bodies of water rose simultaneously, trapping Galveston in the middle. The highest point on the island was only 8.7 feet above sea level; meteorologists estimate the storm surge at 15.7. Coupled with rotating winds that reached 140 mph, the city—and its inhabitants—never stood a chance. 

Photo Credit: Galveston Historical Society 

Photo Credit: Galveston Historical Society

Remarkably, however, despite the devastation, the island rebuilt quickly. With the assistance of many of the United States’ wealthiest tycoons, and aided by the American Red Cross, Galvestonians began the arduous task of disposing of the dead while simultaneously restoring the island for the living. Though some citizens fled, never to return, over half the population remained…and became steadfast in their determination to prevent another such tragedy. The previously “unnecessary” seawall was built, rising 17 feet above the beach, to protect the city from future storm surges. In addition, the people took on the astounding task of raising the elevation of the island itself by painstakingly, block-by-block, lifting every single building, street, and utility pipe up on jacks, filling the ground beneath it with sand, and then returning the structures to their places on the now higher ground. Most of current day Galveston Island now sits at least seven feet above sea level, compared to zero in 1900.

Still the legacy of the 1900 storm still lingers, reminding the residents of Galveston—and the United States—of the dangerous combination of arrogance and Mother Nature, a topic I explore in depth in my new novel, Last Light Over Galveston, available now from Tyndale House.  

Jennifer L. Wright grew up wanting to be a reporter, but it only took a few short months of working in journalism for her to abandon those aspirations for fiction writing instead. She loves to reimagine and explore forgotten eras in history, showcasing God's light amidst humanity's darkest days. Her books have won multiple awards, including Golden Scroll and Angel awards. She currently lives in New Mexico with her husband, two kids, a couple of hyperactive dachshunds, and an ever-growing herd of guinea pigs. 

 

Einstein's Greatest Mistake

2025 marks 80 years since the dawn of the atomic age and 146 years since the birth of the so-called “father” of that age, Albert Einstein. 

But did you know it was a title the man himself rejected? 

Photo Credit: Brittanica.com

Born in Ulm, Germany in 1879 to non-practicing Jews, Einstein excelled at both math and physics from an early age. In addition to advanced academic powers, Einstein also developed deeply held political and social beliefs early in life, embracing secular humanism, more agnostic views over atheism, and staunchly pacifist leanings. In fact, he renounced his German citizenship in 1896 to avoid state-mandated military service.

Shortly before Hitler came to power in 1933, Einstein left Europe for good and took a position at the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton, New Jersey. After winning the 1922 Nobel Prize in Physics, he ultimately applied for U.S. citizenship in 1935. Although his citizenship was granted, his outspoken pacifism and left-leaning politics did not go unnoticed; he was immediately put on the FBI's radar and was routinely surveilled for over twenty-two years. 

So it may be surprising to learn that a pacifist devout and outspoken enough to land himself on a government watch list would, in the late 1930's, find himself at the helm of a movement to bring forth unprecedented weaponry to the United States' arsenal.

In December 1938, German chemists Otto Hahn and Fritz Strassman, buoyed by Einstein's most famous equation E=mc2, which had made the splitting of atoms theoretically possible, succeeded in splitting a uranium atom in two. The discovery was announced at a physicist conference at George Washington University on January 27, 1939 and soon scientists from around the globe were attempting to achieve the same process on their own. Almost overnight, the enormous energy that had bound an atom together became available for man to harness as he wished.

Meanwhile, across Europe, Hitler's reign of terror was beginning. The world would soon be at war.

What happened next is a matter lost to the he said/he said version of history. 

What is known for sure is that on August 2, 1939, a letter signed by Einstein was delivered to President Roosevelt. Einstein later claimed his colleague Leo Szilard wrote the letter and he had merely signed his name. Szilard, on the other hand, claimed Einstein was deeply involved in writing the letter. According to his account, the idea of fission being weaponed caused Einstein such a panic, especially when combined with the rumors of German scientists already experimenting with such a device, that he immediately drafted a letter.

It, in part, encouraged "quick action on the part of the Administration..." because "...it may become possible to set up a nuclear chain reaction in a large mass of uranium...this new phenomenon would also lead to the construction of bombs, and it is conceivable--though much less certain--that extremely powerful bombs of a new type may thus be constructed." He urged Roosevelt to "give particular attention to the problem of securing a supply of uranium ore for the United States [and] to speed up the experimental work...by providing funds."

Roosevelt responded by saying he had "convened a board to thoroughly investigate the possibilities of your suggestion regarding the element of uranium." The board's progress, however, was too slow for Einstein's liking and, in March 1940, he wrote a second letter, warning him that, "since the outbreak of war, interest in uranium has intensified in Germany." He urged Roosevelt to devote more resources toward the science.

Despite this, it wasn't until 1942 that the idea behind atomic weapons really began to take off, when the program was handed over to the U.S. Army under the code name "Manhattan." Einstein, desperate to help, volunteered for the project, but was ultimately denied the security clearance needed. Scientists were even forbidden to consult with him on project matters aside from one small issue--the problem involving separation of isotopes that shared chemical traits, which Einstein solved in less than two days.

By then, however, Einstein was already beginning to have doubts. In December 1944, he wrote to physicist Niels Bohr, saying "...when the war is over, then there will be in all countries a pursuit of secret war preparations with technological means which will lead inevitably to preventative wars and to destruction even more terrible than the present destruction of life."

Work, however, progressed without him and, on August 6, 1945, the world's first atomic weapon was dropped on Hiroshima, Japan, followed soon after by another on Nagasaki. Einstein, upon hearing the news, supposedly muttered the words, "Woe is me."

Photo Credit: New York Times

Although the United States celebrated the weapon and the war's subsequent end, Einstein was filled with regret at the effects of the weapon whose creation he had set in motion. Einstein claimed he had put his support behind a bomb only due to a threat of a similar weapon in the hands of the Nazi's. The bombing of Japan, however, came three months after German's surrender, when the Nazi threat had long passed, an aggressive move rather than a last resort.

Immediately after the bomb, he began distancing himself from the project. He maintained that his work in physics did not provide a map for fission but only explained the energy released during it. "I do not consider myself the father of atomic energy," he said. "My part in it was quite indirect."

This line, no matter how oft repeated, did little to quell his remorse or stifle the praises of the public. In an interview with Newsweek, he tried to make himself even more clear by saying "Had I known that the Germans would not succeed in developing an atomic bomb, I would have done nothing."

Einstein spent the remaining years of his life fighting against the very thing he had supposedly created. In 1955, he added his name to the Russell-Einstein Manifesto, which called for a conference where scientists from all nations could assess the dangers of nuclear weapons. It was hoped that, through this, world leaders would understand the risk of "playing with fire" and seek more peaceful resolutions to global conflicts.

Directly or indirectly, big or small, Einstein's role in the development of atomic weapons weighed heavily enough upon his shoulders to bring about a lifetime of rallying against their use. To him, however, the efforts were too little too late. Just months before his death, he told friend and renown chemist and peace activist Linus Pauling that "I made one great mistake in my life...when I signed the letter to President Roosevelt recommending that atom bombs be made."

Jennifer L. Wright grew up wanting to be a reporter, but it only took a few short months of working in journalism for her to abandon those aspirations for fiction writing instead. She loves to reimagine and explore forgotten eras in history, showcasing God's light amidst humanity's darkest days. Her books have won multiple awards, including Golden Scroll and Angel awards. She currently lives in New Mexico with her husband, two kids, a couple of hyperactive dachshunds, and an ever-growing herd of guinea pigs. 

Will The Real Independence Day Please Stand Up?

Happy Birthday to the United States of America!

 

America’s birthday is generally accepted to be July 4. Independence Day. A day filled with  hot dogs, fireworks, and flags. The day our founding fathers banded together to declare independence from Great Britain, marking the end of colonial rule and the birth of a new nation.

And it is. Sort of.

While most people are familiar with the Declaration of Independence, written by Thomas Jefferson and adopted on July 4, 1776 (hence the aforementioned Independence Day celebration), many more are LESS familiar with the original resolution, written on June 7 by Richard Henry Lee, a statesman from Virginia. In it, Lee stated “that these United Colonies are, and of right ought to be, free and Independent States, that they are absolved from all allegiance to the British crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain is, and ought to be, totally dissolved.”

This original resolution was adopted by Congress on July 2, essentially declaring for the first time the creation of a new and independent nation. It was this day that was commemorated by our founding fathers, not July 4. In fact, John Adams wrote to his wife that July 2 would be remembered and celebrated as “the most memorable Epocha in the History of America.”

It was Lee’s resolution that began the movement toward independence. The founding fathers believed the new nation needed three things in order to begin: a Declaration of Independence, alliances with foreign states, and a plan for the confederation. Jefferson, as you may have guessed, was called to handle the first step; it was only because of Lee’s original resolution that the actual Declaration of Independence was drafted.

Photo Credit: Library of Congress

And, as we all know, it was this draft that was adopted on July 4, 1776, ultimately overshadowing Lee’s and giving rise to the Independence Day we all celebrate today. But, interestingly enough, Jefferson’s draft also created a conundrum in the new country.

Jefferson’s document contained the first use of the words “the United States of America,” though he also included language from Lee’s original text, referring to the new nation as “these United Colonies” in his closing paragraph.

Thus, for several months, the newly formed nation suffered a bit of an identity crisis, with some referring to it as “The United States of America” with others referring to it as “The United Colonies of America.”  For example, Congress itself used the term “United Colonies” when it appointed George Washington as commander in chief of the newly formed United Colonies armed forces. The abbreviation “USA,” however, was stamped on official gunpowder canisters by government inspectors to verify that the powder met government standards.

It wasn’t until the convening of the Second Continental Congress, meeting in Philadelphia on September 9, 1776, that the issue was resolved once and for all. On this day, a resolution was approved and ratified, asserting “that in all continental commissions, and other instruments, where, heretofore, the words ‘United Colonies’ have been used, the stile be altered for the future to the ‘United States.'”

The United States of America was officially born.

Jennifer L. Wright grew up wanting to be a reporter, but it only took a few short months of working in journalism for her to abandon those aspirations for fiction writing instead. She loves to reimagine and explore forgotten eras in history, showcasing God's light amidst humanity's darkest days. Her books have won multiple awards, including Golden Scroll and Angel awards. She currently lives in New Mexico with her husband, two kids, a couple of hyperactive dachshunds, and an ever-growing herd of guinea pigs. 

 

The Man Who Saved The Plains

 By Jennifer L. Wright

In the 1930s, as drought and dust ravaged the Great Plains, many came forward with solutions to the "Dust Bowl" problem.

New Jersey's Barber Asphalt Company offered to pave over the area for a bargain price of just $5 an acre...for the entire 100 million acres. Similarly, a Pittsburgh steel manufacturer suggested installing some of their wire netting over affected counties. The dust can't blow if it's covered up, right?

Another idea came from the so-called concussion theory, a belief that rain follows military battles due to the upset equilibrium caused by artillery exploding in the sky. Rain merchants traveled around, shooting rockets into the sky for a small fee, promising relief from the heavens. In Colorado, one solider even wrote to the government asking for $20 million dollars’ worth of ammunition so he and 40,000 members of the Civilian Conservation Corps could enact a few fake battles and open up the sky.

The government said no.

Many scientists came together and concluded the Great Plains could not be saved. The Dust Bowl was a result of climate change, and they predicted the current drought was just the beginning. The land would continue to deteriorate and would soon be uninhabitable. In a few decades, the Dust Bowl would become the Great American Desert. The only possible solution, they reasoned, was to give up.

Hugh Hammond Bennett would not let that happen.

Hugh Bennett

Photo Credit: farmers.gov

The son of a North Carolina cotton farmer, Bennett learned the basics of farming on the steep terrain of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Even on the most vertical of hillsides, his father taught him, the soil would not wash away so long as it was terraced.

As a young man, he attended the University of North Carolina, where he studied soil conservation. After graduation, he was hired by the government to become a part of the first team sent out to do a comprehensive soil survey of the United States. During this time, he also traveled overseas to study how ancient European societies had farmed the same soil for thousands of years without depleting it.

It would prove to be a pivotal point in this life. The practices and attitudes of the Europeans were the exact opposite of what he was hearing from his own government. According to U.S. bulletins at the time, soil was the one "resource that cannot be exhausted." As early as the 1920s, Bennett began railing against this policy, warning that the Plains were being farmed way too fast and way too much. Disaster was coming, he warned, and it would be on an epic scale.

No one listened...until the rains stopped, and the dusters started. Despite the scientists shouts of disapproval from scientists, who believed the cause of the drought to be purely nature-made, President Roosevelt invited Bennett to the White House to hear his theories. If, he countered, this disaster was a result of man, could anything be done to fix it?

In September 1933, Roosevelt created the Soil Erosion Service, naming Bennett as its director. His charge was to offer relief for affected farmers. But as the drought wore on and the dusters increased in intensity, Bennett realized "relief" would not be nearly enough. To save the Plains, it would take an entirely new way of thinking--and some serious government money.

Bennett's idea was to set up a permanent, well-funded agency to heal the land, not just alleviate the population's suffering. In his vision was a local branch of the soil conservation agency in every district, helping farmers work with the local ecology, not against it. This, he argued, would set up future success in the area and not merely cover it with a band-aid, as most of Roosevelt's New Deal programs were currently doing.

Photo Credit: pbs.org

He faced stiff resistance. Congress was reluctant to spend any more tax dollars on the Dust Bowl. It was a lost cause. The current programs were enough. They felt sorry for those poor farmers, sure, but if God can't make it rain, what in the world could the government do?

On Friday, April 19, 1935, Bennett walked into Room 333 of the Senate Office Building. He gave an impassioned speech on soil conservation, his ideas for helping restore the Great Plains, and a report on Black Sunday, the most severe duster to hit the Dust Bowl, which had occurred just five days prior. He even diverged into tales of his youth in North Carolina and pulled out citations from papers he had written in college. His presentation was long and rambling, even longer and more rambling than Bennett's usual speeches. He seemed to be stalling.

And he was.

In the late afternoon, the sun outside the Senate building vanished. Dust swirled throughout the air, masking our nation's capital in a brown haze. The remains of Black Sunday had reached Washington, D.C.

Within a day, Bennett had his money and a brand-new permanent agency designated to helping restore the Dust Bowl. The Soil Conservation Service sent over 20,000 people to the Plains, intent on not only helping affected farmers, but also educating them on new tilling techniques, including planting in furrows so the wind would ripple instead of ripping and lifting. A mixture of grasses were replanted in No Man's Land in an effort to restore the natural landscape and anchor the soil against the prairie wind. It would take years, he cautioned, but this was the best--and only--real solution. Despite the Dust Bowl farmers' reputation as self-sustaining and wary of any government interference, Bennett encountered little resistance. Tired of hearing how they had broken the land, the idea of restoration--even restoration that they might not see in their lifetime--was a welcome respite.

The Great Plains has never fully recovered from the Dust Bowl. Although the government was successful in re-seeding over 11 million acres of grassland, much of the land is still barren and drifting. Only a handful of farmers still remain active in the area. But the climate change and transition to the "Great American Desert," as predicted by some scientists, never occurred. Droughts returned to the area in the 1950s, 1970s, and early 2000s, and yet a massive disaster on the scale of the Dust Bowl did not. Why?

Because of Hugh Bennett. Because of determination to see the ecology restored and the agriculture reworked. Because of his emphasis on a long-term solution rather than a short-term fix. And, most of all, during a time when everyone else was ready to quit, because of his belief that the area still had worth and deserved to be saved. As was stated to FDR in a memo entitled The Future of the Great Plains, spearheaded by Bennett, "Nature has established a balance in the Great Plains. The white man has disturbed this balance; he must restore it or devise a new one of his own."

Photo Credit: farmers.gov

Although Roosevelt is often credited with winning the war against the Dust Bowl, it was Bennett who convinced him it was worth the risk to fight.

Jennifer L. Wright grew up wanting to be a reporter, but it only took a few short months of working in journalism for her to abandon those aspirations for fiction writing instead. She loves to reimagine and explore forgotten eras in history, showcasing God's light amidst humanity's darkest days. Her books have won multiple awards, including Golden Scroll and Angel awards. She currently lives in New Mexico with her husband, two kids, a couple of hyperactive dachshunds, and an ever-growing herd of guinea pigs. 

The Great Blue Army Wagon

Welcome back! A bit of a transportation theme threading here on the third of every month. In May, I shared some of the locations in America where private vehicles are not permitted. For this post, instead of discussing cars, trucks, and other fuel driven modes of getting from point A to point B, we travel back to a time with simpler machines.

Early American settlers employed this method to traverse the vast land we now call the United States. The western migration predicated the need for a conveyance for not only people, but also the supplies required for such a grueling journey. According to the National Park Service, it is possible that upwards of 500,000 people utilized this means from 1841 to 1869. These brave adventurers were not the only individuals to use the Pioneer Wagon - also known as Covered Wagon or Prairie Schooner. During the Civil War, armies also needed help moving items and men.


Roger Hanson, a volunteer at the Tabor House Museum in Ellijay, Georgia and owner of an authentic wagon shared tidbits about one such example. Trying something new for these posts with short videos. Listen as Roger explains interesting history and features. (Some of the text below features his words; in case the videos are tad sluggish.)

This is a model 1858 Army Wagon. During the Civil War period the north built 70,000 in factories and the south 40,000 - generally based on the same design.

Mules pulled these wagons. After removing the mules, the rectangular attachment on the front tongue served as the feed trough. The empty section of the tongue held the related harnesses.

Studebaker Company created this model. They built 6,000 units during the war, at their factory in South Bend, Indiana.

Not all the wagons offered brakes. This is the actual chain brake, attached through the back wheels. For going up and down hills, the rear wheels remained locked. Basically, they could drag it up and down to give them some control of the wagon when it was heavily loaded. 

This maroon undercarriage, along with the body and bed of the wagon in sky blue are the proper colors. The Army began employing these colors in 1812. There is no documentation explaining why these choices developed. We can surmise their use because the soldiers' uniforms sported these shades at that time.

This main color existed on The Great Blue Army Wagon until 1907. At that juncture the color switched to green.

This is the tailgate for the wagon. The chains held the feed trough while in motion. This allowed the mules and other following animals to eat during stops in route. This allowed the convoy to remain compact.

Notice the case full of wagon grease under the wagon. The wooden bucket is original. Named the Tar Pot, it served all the wagons.

This canvas is called a wagon cover. The manufacturer - J. Clemens & Co., Manufacturers of Tents, Tarpaulins, & Wagon Covers, in St. Louis, Missouri. Does the name sound familiar? Mark Twain's (Samuel Clemens) uncle was the richest man in St. Louis during the war period and after the war.
The box at the front of the wagon held tools. The driver did not ride on the wagon step. Rather he rode a mule and controlled all six mules from the front.

During the Atlanta Campaign, Sherman arrived in Georgia with 4,000 wagons, including 24,000 mules. The Confederates utilized 3,000 of these wagons. This gives an idea of the logistics efforts involved.

Can you imagine the overwhelming task of transporting troops and all they required with carriages pulled by mules? Contrast that scenario with the options afforded by the Armed Forces of today. Night and day.

Have you ever seen a Prairie Schooner or Army Wagon in person? Did you know the Prairie Schooner garnered that name because it seemed as if the covers were gliding across the country as Schooner sails on the ocean. Nifty! Hope you enjoyed these little pieces of the past. Thank you to Roger Hanson for sharing living history with us.

As a child, Rebecca loved to write. She nurtured this skill as an educator and later as an editor for an online magazine. Rebecca then joined the Cru Ministry - NBS2GO/Neighbor Bible Studies 2GO, at its inception. She serves as the YouVersion Content Creator, with over 130 Plans, in 44 languages on the Bible.com app.

Rebecca lives near the mountains with her husband and a rescued dog named Ranger. She is a proud mom of an American soldier and a college senior. If it were up to Rebecca, she would be traveling - right now. First up, trips to see their two grown sons. As a member of ACFW and FHLCW, she tackles the craft of fiction while learning from a host of generous writers.

Connect with Rebecca: Facebook Goodreads Instagram Pinterest X/Twitter

The Dust Bowl Take on NYC

 By Jennifer L. Wright 

New York City was dirty.

Fueled by rapid industrial and population growth, by the early 1930s New York City had swelled to almost seven million people. Immigrants seeking a better life, rural Americans seeking better pay, and hundreds of thousands of people from all walks of life seeking the fun, excitement, and culture of a city that never sleeps had the Big Apple expanding, expounding, exploding...and getting filthier by the day.

Waste from the thousands of shops and businesses (not to mention homes and apartments) flowed freely. The sanitation department was still primitive, decades away from the modernization we have now, and they simply couldn't keep up with the garbage and sewage. The city, for all its glamour and prestige, literally stunk.

And it wasn't just the streets: auto exhaust and factory emissions left a perpetual haze in the air, severe enough that many doctors began advising those with respiratory ailments to move west, out of the city and away from the rapid urbanization of the East Coast in general. On a typical day, the smog measured 227 particles per square millimeter, way above the recommended "healthy" levels of 50-100.

But, to the people of New York, it was normal. A small price to pay for the prestige and promise of the greatest city in the world. The Great Depression was here too but, if you had to suffer through times of want and need, why not do it where the streets still buzzed with the hope and hint of better days to come? The other problems of the 1930s--those rumors of drought and dust--were for other people, those backward bumpkins of the Great Plains who'd settled in the wrong part of the country.

All of that began to change on May 9, 1934. Thousands of miles from the heart of New York City, and even further from the minds of its inhabitants, the winds above the plains of the Dakotas and eastern Montana began to swirl, kicking up mounds of red and black dust. The next day, loaded with millions of tons of prairie soil, the winds shifted their course east, combining with the jet stream to gain strength before descending over the Midwest. In Chicago alone, the storm deposited twelve million pounds of dust, coating the walls and floors of every building and forcing pilots trying to land at Chicago Municipal Airport to abort, many of them having to climb to an altitude of over 15,000 feet to get above the storm.

Photo Credit: newspapers.com

By the following morning, the storm had moved over Pittsburgh, creating a haze so thick that visibility was reduced to only a mile, and Scranton, where initial reports of snow in May turned out to be dust. By the time it reached the eastern seaboard, enveloping cities like Boston, Washington D.C., and New York in darkness, the storm had traveled over 2,000 miles and was over 1,800 miles wide, carrying an estimated 350 million tons of dust. Washington Post reporter George Will described it as a "great rectangle of dust," which stretched from the Great Plains to the Atlantic.

The wall of dust blocked out the sun, casting an eerie shadow over the city like that of a solar eclipse. Streetlights in Manhattan flickered on in the middle of the day. Automobiles needed headlights to navigate through the fog. Tourists enjoying the view from the top of the Empire State Building were aghast at the sudden change in the scene below them; instead of miles and miles of skyscrapers and streets, they saw nothing but a cloud as thick as soup.

The New York Times reported that "dust lodged itself in the eyes and throats of weeping and coughing New Yorkers," sending thousands to area hospitals in a panic. Air filters in buildings were changed hourly, but still the dust seeped in, laying a layer of fine brown film over balconies, windows, and floors. In a city accustomed to un-breathable air, May 11, 1934 brought in the worst air quality reading it had ever seen: 619 million particles per square millimeter, over six times the normal "healthy" limit.

In the harbor, dust shrouded the Statue of Liberty and turned the water gray. Ships bobbed blindly, unable to dock due to lack of visibility. Even boats over two hundred miles out at sea reported dust collecting on their decks.

Photo Credit: New York Times

The storm lingered over New York for five hours and over the region for two days, spreading southward to fall on the National Mall and infiltrating the White House and the Capitol building where, ironically, President Roosevelt and members of Congress were debating measures of drought relief for the Plains. The next day, the New York Times declared it to be "the greatest dust storm in United States history."

It wasn't, of course. Many more storms had plagued the Great Plains over the past few years, some of them bigger, more fierce, and carrying more dirt. But, to the people of New York and the entire East Coast, this storm was a real taste of what the "rest" of the country was dealing with on a daily basis. The drought and the dust were no longer a rural problem, a Plains problem, or even just a farmers' problem--they were America's problem. Forced with a firsthand account of the enormity and devastation dirt can havoc, public outcry and concern spurred Roosevelt into action. "Waiting out the drought" was no longer an option, not for the Plains, not for Washington, and not for the East Coast. 

A solution was needed, and it was needed now. 

But what could that solution be? 

PART TWO COMING NEXT MONTH

J

Jennifer L. Wright grew up wanting to be a reporter, but it only took a few short months of working in journalism for her to abandon those aspirations for fiction writing instead. She loves to reimagine and explore forgotten eras in history, showcasing God's light amidst humanity's darkest days. Her books have won multiple awards, including Golden Scroll and Angel awards. She currently lives in New Mexico with her husband, two kids, a couple of hyperactive dachshunds, and an ever-growing herd of guinea pigs. 

The Most Famous Yorkman Who Wasn't

 By Jennifer L. Wright

Billy the Kid. Jesse James. Butch Cassidy (and his Sundance Kid). 

Here in America, we know no shortage of celebrity outlaws, those men whose daring deeds both condemn and endear them to the public’s heart. It’s an unusual fascination that carried all the way from the Old West to the Public Enemy days of the 1930’s, where criminals such as Pretty Boy Floyd and Bonnie and Clyde still manage to sell books today, almost one hundred years after their deaths (such as my hopeful take on the fugitive lover story, The Girl from the Papers). But where did this fascination come from? And why?

I’m no psychologist or sociologist, and I am in no way qualified to pick apart the nuances of our culture or minds to give you an answer to these questions. What can I tell you, however, is that the obsession with outlaws has been around long before United States began breeding its own. In fact, it existed even before the United States was the United States

Richard “Dick” Turpin was born in Essex, England in 1705 to a butcher and an innkeeper. By all accounts, Dick was set to follow in his father’s footsteps; there are reports that he not only apprenticed as a butcher but also opened his own shop in Essex around 1725. 

But, somewhere along the way, everything went wrong. Or right, depending on your view. 

Turpin became involved with an Essex gang of deer thieves, known as the Gregory Gang, in the early 1730s. Deer poaching had become such a problem within the royal forests during that time that the government began offering a £50 (equivalent to over £10,000 today) for information leading to the arrest of those responsible. Quick processing and disposal of any illegally gained carcass, therefore, and it is believed Dick, as a butcher, provided just that. 

Photo Credit: York Historical Society

But, whether because the heat became too intense or the meager rewards too small, the Gregory Gang soon moved on to bigger and better heists. In late 1734, they began robbing homes and businesses, with each attack subsequently growing bolder and more violent. It wasn’t long before the group caught the attention of authorities, who quickly put out a reward for their arrests. In February 1735, gang members John Fielder, John Wheeler, and William Saunder were apprehended, with the young Saunders quickly giving up names and descriptions of the other members. Spooked, the gang quickly disbanded. 

But a life of crime, as it is, is not so easily abandoned. Rather than lay low, Turpin turned his attention from residential to highway robbery. First identified for such crimes in April 1736, Dick soon made a name for himself robbing both coaches and unsuspecting pedestrians in the countryside surrounding London. His legend as an outlaw grew as he continued to evade capture, culminating in a £200 reward offered after Turpin allegedly shot and killed Thomas Morris, a servant of one of the Forest's Keepers. In October 1738, posing as a horsetrader by the name of John Palmer, Turpin set up residence in a boarding house in Yorkshire, only to soon become entangled in an argument about the shooting of another’s man’s chicken. The constables were alerted, who immediately became suspicious; Turpin was soon committed to the House of Correction at Beverly. Though Dick maintained he was merely a butcher who had fallen into debt, the local authorities did not believe it, and he was soon transferred to York Castle. While there, he wrote his brother asking for help. His brother, however, refused to pay the sixpence due on the letter, and it was returned to the local post office – where James Smith, Turpin’s old schoolmaster, recognized his handwriting.  His identity revealed, Turpin was soon sentenced to death.

On this day back in 1739, followed by five professional mourners whom he had paid, Turpin was taken through York by open cart to the gallows. It was reported that he bowed to the crowd as he passed and “behaved in an undaunted manner; as he mounted the ladder, feeling his right leg tremble, he spoke a few words to the topsman, then threw himself off, and expir'd in five minutes” (The Gentleman's Magazine, April 7, 1739).

Photo Credit: York Historical Society

And that was the end Richard Turpin. 

Or, rather, it should have been. 

Soon afterwards, Richard Bayes published The Genuine History of the Life of Richard Turpin, a mixture of fact and fiction hurriedly put together in the wake of the trial. In it, Bayes embellished tales of Turpin’s crimes, often making some of them up completely, and romanticized his exploits as a sort of anti-hero, larger than life and misunderstood. And Turpin was larger than life—the book was a raging success, and his fame after death far exceeded that of his while living. By the nineteenth century, author William Harrison Ainsworth featured Turpin in his 1834 novel Rookwood, where the highwayman embarks on a legendary ride from London to York to establish an alibi, with his horse, Black Bess, ultimately dying from the stress of the journey. Ainsworth’s Turpin was likeable, compelling, and lively, a modern day “Robin Hood,” and soon his exploits were repeated and reimagined in penny dreadfuls, short stories, and books all across the country. 

Photo Credit: York Historical Society

It didn’t matter that there was no evidence Turpin had ever completed such a ride. Or that Black Bess never existed. Or that Turpin’s crimes were more self-serving than self-sacrificing, his tendencies more violent than noble, and his loot far more paltry than the stories would have one imagine. It didn’t even matter that “the most famous Yorkman” wasn’t even from York! Dick Turpin had become a man bigger than his own personhood, a myth so intertwined with the history of the English countryside that it’s become impossible to completely separate fact from fiction. 

And maybe, much like the Billy the Kid and Jesse James stories of old, it’s better than way. For what is history without a little bit of legend to keep the mystery alive? 

Jennifer L. Wright grew up wanting to be a reporter, but it only took a few short months of working in journalism for her to abandon those aspirations for fiction writing instead. She loves to reimagine and explore forgotten eras in history, showcasing God's light amidst humanity's darkest days. Her books have won multiple awards, including Golden Scroll and Angel awards. She currently lives in New Mexico with her husband, two kids, a couple of hyperactive dachshunds, and an ever-growing herd of guinea pigs. 

I'm Henry VIII, I Am...

By Jennifer L. Wright

 

I'm 'Enery the Eighth, I am,

'Enery the Eighth I am, I am!

I got married to the widow next door,

She's been married seven times before

And every one was an 'Enery

She wouldn't have a Willie nor a Sam

I'm her eighth old man named 'Enery

'Enery the Eighth, I am!

I was not even alive in the 1960's, but please tell me I'm not the only one with this ear-worm stuck perpetually in her head. Although it's been sung by dozens of different British musicians, it's the Herman's Hermits version that lives in my head rent free. So, when I sat down to write today’s post about the actual Henry VIII, I couldn't help but--once again--start to sing along. 

Sorry for ruining your day if it's stuck in your head now too.

Henry VIII

Photo Credit: Brittanica.com

Henry VIII was the second Tudor monarch after his father, Henry VII. He was king from 22 April 1509 until his death in 1547. During that time, he expanded the Royal Navy, oversaw the annexation of Wales to England, and was the first English monarch to rule as King of Ireland. 

But almost none of that stuff is remembered. 

Because he was also the king with six wives. 

In November 1501, Henry's brother Arthur married Catherine, the youngest child of King Ferdinand II of Aragon and Queen Isabella I of Castile. However, Arthur died just 20 weeks after the wedding, leaving Henry as heir to the throne. Still keen on securing a martial alliance between England and Spain, Henry VII offered his other son to the widowed Catherine. On 23 June 1503, a treaty was signed for their marriage, and they were betrothed two days later. When Henry VII died on 21 April 1509, 17-year-old Henry succeeded him as king the following day and vowed to make good on his promise to his father. He and Catherine were wed at the friar's church in Greenwich on 11 June 1509.

Soon after marrying Henry, Catherine conceived. She gave birth to a stillborn girl on 31 January 1510. About four months later, Catherine again became pregnant. On 1 January 1511, New Year's Day, a son--also named Henry--was born. Tragically, however, the child died seven weeks later. Catherine had two stillborn sons in 1513 and 1515, but gave birth in February 1516 to a girl, Mary. By all accounts, relations between Henry and Catherine were understandably strained during this time period. But, rather than uniting in their grief, the king sought solace in the arms of other women. 

One of these was Mary Boleyn, Catherine's lady-in-waiting. In 1525, as Henry grew more impatient with Catherine's inability to produce the male heir he desired, he became enamored of Mary Boleyn's sister, Anne Boleyn. Unlike her sister, however, Anne, resisted his attempts to seduce her and refused to become his mistress, forcing King Henry's hand. Rather than another dalliance, he sought an annulment of his marriage to Catherine.

And on this day in 1530, Pope Clement VII sounded rejected the monarch's request. 

Pope Clement VII

Photo Credit: brittanica.com 

What followed was a mess of modern-day soap opera standards. Enraged, Henry broke with the Catholic Church and married his mistress anyway. He initiated the English Reformation, which separated the Church of England from papal authority, and appointed himself Supreme Head of the Church of England, dissolving convents and monasteries.

It was no surprise he ended up excommunicated. 

Not that things got much better on the home front. 

Henry's marriage did not prosper. Anne, too, suffered several miscarriages and refused to play the submissive role expected of her. Unpopular reforms only added to the tension. Although Henry carried on many affairs during their time together, Anne was ultimately arrested, accused of treasonous adultery, and beheaded on 19 May 1536.

A third wife Jane Seymour did present him with a son, the future Edward VI, before dying of childbirth complications. His fourth wife, Anne of Cleves barely lasted a few months before an annulment. History repeated itself when Henry accused his fifth wife Catherine Howard of adultery, having her beheaded as well. His last wife Catherine Parr survived him...but perhaps only because he died less than four years after their wedding. 

Such a catchy song for a, um, not so catchy man.

Jennifer L. Wright grew up wanting to be a reporter, but it only took a few short months of working in journalism for her to abandon those aspirations for fiction writing instead. She loves to reimagine and explore forgotten eras in history, showcasing God's light amidst humanity's darkest days. Her books have won multiple awards, including Golden Scroll and Angel awards. She currently lives in New Mexico with her husband, two kids, a couple of hyperactive dachshunds, and an ever-growing herd of guinea pigs.