Christmas In The Dust

As the 1930's wore on, the rain still refused to fall on parts of Oklahoma, Texas, and New Mexico. The dusters got worse, health deteriorated, and money grew scarce as crops withered and what would come to be known as the Great Depression tightened its grip on the country. Every-day life became a battle against nature and necessity.

And yet life itself did go on. School and church were still a part of weekly schedules. There were still chores to be done, meals to be prepared (no matter how meager), and friends and family to visit.

And there was still Christmas.

Photo Credit: Cardboard Christmas

It's easy to look back from our 21st century cushion, with our abundance and what some consider over-commercialization of the holiday, and wince at the poverty of a Depression-era Christmas. And while it's true nowadays we have more physical "stuff," the holidays of the 1930s were, in some ways, very similar-and perhaps even better--than our own.

While some families today begin decorating for Christmas in November (or-gasp!-September), most decorating back then was done on Christmas Eve. While the drought killed off many trees, a good deal of families were still able to secure one (remember--this was long before plastic Christmas trees came into style!). The decorations were homemade, with either paper or hand-carved wooden ornaments, as well as strings of lights (if you were fortunate enough to have electricity) or candles (if you weren't). Although some decorated with strings of popcorn or cranberries, most Dust Bowl families simply didn't have the food to spare for such extravagance, opting instead for paper or strips of fabric.

Presents focused more on necessity than whimsy, with most gifts being homemade or homegrown. Women would make dresses and aprons from old flour sacks or knit hats, gloves, and scarves. Washcloths could be made by sewing together several layers of gauze, then topped with a pretty bow. If families could afford store-bought gifts, they were stretched; a single bar of soap could be cut into 4-6 smaller pieces, wrapped carefully in decorative paper, and given to many different recipients.

Children's fancies were not completely ignored, however. Magazines carried instructions on how to make dolls or stuffed animals from extra cloth, with names like "Gingham Dog" or "Hattie the Red-Checked Elephant." Bicycles were often re-painted to appear new, or dolls given new clothes. Stockings contained small pieces of candy, nuts, or raisins, special treats not normally on the menu. The most treasured of these delicacies was an orange, the sweet fruit being too expensive to purchase at other times of the year due to its long journey from Florida in an era before interstates and refrigerated trucks.

Christmas dinner was modest by today's standards but still considered a feast. Chicken or turkey was the staple, if the birds could be found and/or afforded, and was rounded out by vegetables from the garden, like potatoes or cabbage. Many families also managed to scrape together a pie for dessert.

Despite these hardships, or perhaps because of them, Christmas was still a time for joy and celebration. Families gathered together to eat and open gifts, usually attending a church service in the morning or evening. There were still carolers and acts of charity, Christmas parades and tales woven around the fire about old Saint Nick and his reindeer. In fact, many Christmas traditions still in practice today were started during the "scant" holidays of the 1930's.

Photo Credit: Cardboard Christmas

In 1931, artist Haddon Sundblom created the "Coca-Cola Santa," an image that shaped our modern version of the jolly old elf. 1933 brought with it the premiere of the Radio City Christmas Spectacular, starring the Rockettes. "Winter Wonderland" was written and released in 1934, while 1939 saw the first appearance of Rudolph, his red-nose shining out from a storybook given away as a promotional item for the Montgomery Ward Department Stores.

The most telling thing to emerge during the Depression, however, was the tradition of leaving milk and cookies for Santa on Christmas Eve. During this time of forced austerity and overwhelming want, it was a way to focus instead on the true meaning of Christmas: the blessing of giving over receiving and of gratitude for gifts, no matter how big or small.

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. 

 

From Plymouth to Plymouth

Over four hundred years ago, the people we now know as "Pilgrims" set out from Plymouth for the New World, seeking relief from religious persecution in their home country. Every Thanksgiving, children don paper hats and cardboard bonnets to reenact the life of these settlers after their arrival. Their difficult journey as well as salvation at the hands of the local Native American tribes is the stuff of legends (as well as the basis for a national holiday).

But how much do you know about the Pilgrims before they were Pilgrims?

The Pilgrims, in fact, never called themselves Pilgrims. Instead, they were "Separatists" or "Saints," a congregation of disgruntled English Protestants from the village of Scrooby in Nottinhamshire. They did not want to pledge allegiance to the Church of England, an entity they viewed as a merger between church and state and one that, in their opinion, was as corrupt as the Catholic Church it had replaced not so long ago. Not only did Separatists believe that true worship must progress from an individual relationship with God rather than state-mandated religion, they also saw many of the church's doctrines and practices as direct contradictions to the Christian gospel to which they claimed to adhere. For example, the Church of England's Book of Common Prayer was viewed as blasphemous, having not been inspired by God nor having no scriptural justification. The Separatists wished to break away and form their own independent churches guided by the Holy Spirit rather than government assignation. (This was a split from another group of Separatists known as Puritans who sought to reform the government church.)

But, at a time in which church and state were combined, any break from the church was viewed as treason, and the Separatists were forced to flee to Holland. Although they found religious freedom in their new home, they also found themselves struggling to adapt to the realities of living in a foreign country, one in which they didn't speak the language nor understand the prevalent culture or customs. The language barrier prevented all but the lowest-paying jobs, and the relatively "modern" society was viewed as sinful and depraved.

It was soon clear that Holland was not the answer to their quest. They needed a place where they could establish their own culture, form their own society, and worship in a way free of government influence. The best place for this, they decided, was somewhere far from England, uninhabited and away from distraction.

A place like the New World.

Photo Credit: history.com

The Separatists returned from Holland, hoping to formulate a plan and secure finances for this new adventure. The Virginia Company, already staking claim in what would soon be America, gave the Separatists permission to establish a plantation on the East Coast between 38 and 41 degrees north latitude (roughly between Chesapeake Bay and the mouth of the Hudson River). The King of England, perhaps seeing the voyage as a solution to the headache the Separatists were causing, bid them a hearty farewell, so long as "they carried themselves peaceably."

Joining the Separatists on their journey was a group of not-so-kindly named "Strangers," non-religious people simply seeking fortune or a new life in America. Approximately 102 people bid England farewell in August 1620 aboard two merchant ships, the Mayflower and the Speedwell.

They returned only a few days later.

The Speedwell had begun to leak almost immediately, forcing the travelers to return to port and, after a thorough inspection, was deemed unseaworthy for the voyage. Rather than delay any longer and await, not only the finances for another ship, but also the unlikely availability, the passengers and crew of TWO ships instead merged onto one. The Mayflower now carried double the people, in addition to double the food supply, double the weapons cache, and an overwhelming assortment of live animals, including sheep, goats, chicken, and dogs).

When the Mayflower finally set sail on September 16, 1620, she was over-burdened and had also missed the window of opportunity for a smooth voyage, setting sail right in the height of the Atlantic storm season. In addition, the ship itself was never meant for a cross-ocean trip; more suitable for short crossings, its high, wall-like sides made it difficult to sail in the strong winds that often blew across the Atlantic. A voyage that should have taken a month instead lasted 66 days, causing illness, food shortages, poor tempers, and even a few deaths.

Even more hardships waited for them upon arrival. They landed well north of their allotted land, in the midst of Native American land in which they had no right to be (although the "right" of the Virginia Company to its own claimed land is still up for debate as well). The long journey had depleted their supplies and broken their bodies, and the New World wasn't at all what they had expected it to be.

Photo Credit: brittanica.com 

And yet they persisted, establishing a colony for the glory of God and the right to worship in the way they saw fit. Their determination and drive set the precedent for what we now know as the "American Spirit"--and became the basis for our modern day Thanksgiving celebration. 

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. 

 

A Death Fit For Poe

On October 3, 1849, a reporter for the Baltimore Sun named Joseph W. Walker decided to head to Gunner Hall's, which had been set up at polling station for the day's election. Thinking he'd gauge the vibe or catch a whiff of public sentiment, he knew the public house would be a great place to find a lead for his next story.

And he was right. But not in the way he imagined.

Instead, upon arrived at Gunner's Hall, he found a man lying in a gutter delirious, semi-conscious, and unable to move. As Walker bent to assist him, he was startled to discover the identity of the man was none other than Edgar Allan Poe. 

Photo Credit: Brittanica.com

The famed poet was wearing clothes that didn't seem to belong to him; they were shabby, cheap, and ill-fitting, a sharp departure from Poe's usual well-tailored wool suits. In addition, he wore a straw hat atop his head, something the acclaimed writer would never have chosen for himself. Poe arose from his stupor long enough to pass along the name of a person he believed could help him--Joseph E. Snodgrass--before falling back into the depths of oblivion.

A letter was sent to Snodgrass, a magazine editor with some medical training, and Poe was taken to a local hospital. For four days, he drifted in and out of semi-consciousness, speaking incoherent sentences and experiencing visual hallucinations. However, he never regained enough of himself to tell doctors exactly what had happened. On the night of October 6, he uttered one more nonsensical word--"Reynolds"--before passing away the next day at the age of 40. A Baltimore newspaper reported he had died of "congestion of the brain."

But what does that even mean? And how did it happen? 

What is known for sure is that Poe left Richmond, Virginia on September 27 (a full week earlier) bound for Philadelphia. Once there, he was to edit a collection of poems for Mrs. St. Leon Loud. However, Poe never made it Philadelphia. From his departure on the 27 to the discovery of his dilapidated, barely conscious body outside Gunner's Hall on October 4, no one saw Poe. No one spoke to him. 

The world's best horror novelist seemingly took a page out of his own book: missing for a week, discovered, then dead without cause.

Or was there?

Many believe Poe's death was a result of complications from alcoholism. Snodgrass himself, who was the first medical professional to attend Poe at Gunner's Hall, believed that Poe's condition was a result of drunkenness and his subsequent illness alcohol withdrawal. Other witnesses came forward, saying they'd seen Poe around Baltimore in the days before his collapse going on a "drinking bender." It's entirely plausible, as he had been notorious in his inability to handle alcohol and had thus suffered from bouts of alcoholism throughout his life. However, in the months leading up to his death, Poe had joined a temperance movement, which sought to promote refraining from the consumption of alcohol. In addition, John Moran, the attending physician at the hospital, said he did not believe Poe was drunk nor had he been drinking in the days leading up to his illness. He cited the length of his ailment as well as his slight improvement before ultimately dying as inconsistent with "death by drink." Science lended weight to Moran's opinion; low levels of lead were found in Poe's hair after his death, indicating at least partial sobriety. This didn't stop Snodgrass from using Poe's death to further the temperance movement, of which he was also an active part. For several years afterwards, he gave lectures across the country, blaming Poe's death on binge drinking and furthering the unsubstantiated theory of his demise. 

But, if it wasn't alcohol, what else could it have been?

Some believe Poe was beaten to death by ruffians, either during a robbery attempt or during a case of mistaken identity. Still others believe it may have been carbon monoxide poisoning as a result of the coal gas used for indoor lighting at the time. Others cite high levels of mercury in Poe's system in the months leading up to his death and believe it was heavy metal poisoning. Still other, more common causes--diabetes, heart disease, epilepsy, tuberculosis, the flu, even rabies--have been put forth. These theories, however, fail to account for all of the symptoms or circumstances surrounding Poe's surmise.

More sinister speculation has also arisen. Some believe Poe was a victim of "cooping," a method of voter fraud carried out by gangs in the late 19th century. During a coop, thugs would force an unsuspecting victim under threat of violence to vote for a particular candidate multiple times wearing various disguises. Proponents of this theory believe it was no coincidence Poe was discovered in his beleaguered state on Election Day outside a polling place known to be a hot spot for cooping. His ragged clothes and delirious state could have been a result of costume changes as well as the celebratory glass of alcohol given to voters upon casting; if Poe had been committed to temperance, months of abstaining (coupled with his natural inability to handle liquor) could explain his stupor. 

There has also been conjecture that Poe may have been murdered by the brothers of his wealthy fiancée, Elmira Shelton. They believe his "disappearance" was actually a week of hiding after receiving threats during his time in Philadelphia. His second-hand clothes were an attempt at disguise before returning to marry his sweetheart--a marriage that was not to be as, supposedly, the brothers found him anyway and ended the engagement--and Poe's life. 

Photo Credit: Brittanica.com

Each theory surrounding Poe's death carries answers--and more questions. Although some are more believable than others, none of have sufficient weight to definitively close the case on just what transpired in the final days of Edgar Allan Poe. But perhaps it's only fitting for the world's most famous author of the macabre's death to be shrouded in lurid uncertainty.

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 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 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.