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On Nov. 30, 1954, Ann Hodges lay down for a nap on her living room couch in her house in Sylacauga, Ala., little imagining that she was about to make history. She was woken suddenly by an eight and a half pound fragment of what would be dubbed the Sylacauga Aerolite smashing through her ceiling, rebounding off of a console radio, and colliding with her hip.

Hodges was the first documented individual to be hit by a meteorite and the fragment that hit her was subsequently named the Hodges Meteorite.

Hodges first thought the room’s gas heater had exploded and that she had been hit by shrapnel. When she discovered the meteorite, however, she surmised it had been thrown by one of the neighborhood children.

The police were called to examine the object and Hodges herself was examined by a doctor. Both her hip and her hand were swollen, but nothing was broken and her injuries weren’t serious.

A geologist called in by police hazarded that the object might be a meteorite. The police turned it over to the military, who in turn sent it to the Smithsonian.

Hodges’ husband, Hewlett Hodges, was livid that the meteorite had been taken from their home without their permission. The ensuing media frenzy led him to believe the meteorite was their ticket to fame and fortune and he was determined to get it back.

Alabama Congressman Kenneth Roberts eventually convinced the Smithsonian to return the meteorite, but other complications soon arose.

Birdie Guy, the landlord from whom the Hodges rented their home, also laid claim to the meteorite. Since it had damaged her property, she wanted to sell the meteorite to pay for the repairs. Her attorney encouraged her that there was legal precedence to do so, and so she sued the Hodges for possession of the meteorite.

The Hodges threatened to lodge a counter-suit for the injuries Ann had sustained from the meteorite. Both parties managed to calm down before they were due in court, however, and Guy received a modest settlement in exchange for relinquishing her claim to the meteorite.

By this time, the excitement over the meteorite had died down. The Hodges had turned down a tidy sum from the Smithsonian, holding out for a better offer, but no one was interested enough in the meteorite to pay very much for it. The Hodges’ very public fight with Guy over the meteorite had also drastically reduced the number of offers they received.

Ann ultimately donated the meteorite to the Alabama Museum of Natural History. She never quite recovered from her collision with fame and she and Hewlett, both unable to pick up the pieces and move on, divorced ten years after the meteorite struck.

Ann has since passed away and our sources did not indicate if Hewlett was still living, but both of the Hodges have said they wished the whole meteorite incident had never happened.

– Teresa Santoski

www.teresasantoski.com

Originally published Nov. 30, 2009.

Thanks to the switch from the Julian calendar to the Gregorian calendar, Oct. 6, 1582 technically never happened in Spain, Portugal, the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth or Italy. These four nations actually lost ten days, following up Thursday, Oct. 4 on the Julian calendar with Friday, Oct. 15 on the Gregorian calendar.

The aforementioned countries were the first to adopt the Gregorian calendar, which was the brainchild of the Catholic Church. At that time, the Church of Alexandria and the Church of Rome were calculating the date of Easter according to different calendars and thus celebrating the holiday on different dates. The natural drift of astronomical events like the equinox also contributed to the confusion.

The goal of the Catholic Church was to celebrate Easter at the time agreed upon at the First Council of Nicaea in 325, which was the first Sunday after the first full moon following the spring equinox. To accomplish this, the churches within the Catholic denomination needed to be using the same calendar.

The Gregorian calendar was essentially a reformed version of the Julian calendar, the main difference being the calculation of leap years. The Gregorian calendar has three less leap days during a 400-year period than the Julian calendar.

Although the Gregorian calendar is a solar calendar, correcting it made it possible to reform the accompanying lunar calendar that was used to calculate the date of Easter. Finally, the Catholic Church hoped, everyone would be on the same page, including those in other Christian denominations.

It took several centuries. Since this was a decision made by the Catholic Church, the switch was only required in the Catholic Church and had to be approved by civic authorities in each country before it could be implemented outside the church.

Spain, Portugal, the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth and Italy were predominantly Catholic countries, and were therefore the first to jump on the Gregorian bandwagon. Countries that were non-Christian or predominantly Protestant or Eastern Orthodox were not quite so enthusiastic, but ultimately followed suit. Greece, for example, finally adopted the Gregorian calendar in 1923.

Although the Gregorian calendar is now the international mainstay when it comes to business and civic life, many Eastern Orthodox nations maintain their own calendars for religious purposes, celebrating Easter according to their own calculations.

The Gregorian calendar may not have accomplished its goal of having all Christians celebrate Easter at the same time, but it definitely narrowed things down a bit. Two Easters are much less confusing than, say, 37.

– Teresa Santoski

www.teresasantoski.com

Originally published Oct. 6, 2010.

If the job you want doesn’t exist, it may be up to you to create it. Bankrupt businessman Joshua Abraham Norton of San Francisco did just that when he proclaimed himself Norton I, Emperor of the United States and Protector of Mexico, on Sept. 17, 1859.

Norton was initially a successful businessman, amassing a fortune of $250,000 thanks to his savvy approach to real estate, but he lost every penny of it in an ill-fated attempt to corner the rice market. The sudden loss of his finances apparently took a toll on his mental state and he disappeared from San Francisco for several years. Upon his return to the city, he declared himself Emperor of the United States.

Rather than locking Norton up and throwing away the key, the people of San Francisco embraced him. He became a prominent local figure, dining regularly at fine restaurants (which subsequently installed plaques beside their doors that said “By Appointment to his Imperial Majesty, Emperor Norton I of the United States”) and receiving complimentary theater tickets for himself and his retinue (two stray dogs named Lazarus and Bummer). Norton even issued his own currency, which was locally accepted.

Several years into Norton’s reign, a zealous young police officer attempted to take Norton into custody and have him treated for mental illness. The public was outraged. Police Chief Patrick Crowley immediately had Norton released and issued a formal apology. Norton responded by granting the clueless young officer an imperial pardon. After this incident, San Francisco police officers would salute Norton whenever they encountered him.

Norton didn’t simply rest on his laurels, enjoying the privileges that came with his position as a monarch; he took an active interest in the affairs of his empire, issuing a number of proclamations. Through his proclamations, he dissolved the United States of America (there’s no need for a republic when you have an emperor), abolished the Republican and Democratic parties for failure to get along, and decreed that a suspension bridge be built from Oakland Point to Goat Island, then on to San Francisco.

Most of his proclamations were ignored – the United States has not been dissolved, and neither have the still-bickering Republican and Democratic parties – but the idea of such a bridge had been debated for some time and this particular proclamation received a great deal of public support. Construction finally began on the bridge (now known as the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge) in 1933. Although Norton didn’t live to see this event, we’re sure it would have met with his imperial approval.

Norton collapsed unexpectedly on a street corner Jan. 8, 1880, and died before medical assistance could arrive. He was initially slated for a pauper’s burial in a plain redwood casket, but members of the Pacific Club, an association for San Francisco businessmen, raised funds for a much nicer rosewood casket and a dignified funeral. As many as 30,000 people were reported to have paid their respects to the United States’ best loved self-proclaimed monarch.

– Teresa Santoski

www.teresasantoski.com

Originally published Sept. 17, 2009.

For centuries, the unfathomable creatures of the deep sea have been a source of fear and wonder to mankind. On Sept. 30, 2004, a little light was shed on one of the most elusive of these creatures, the giant squid, when it was photographed in its natural habitat for the first time ever.

There had been sightings of giant squids over the years by sailors and scientists alike, and a considerable amount of information had been gleaned from dead and dying giant squids that had washed up on beaches or become entangled in fishing nets.

Tsunemi Kubodera of the National Science Museum in Tokyo and Kyoichi Mori of the Ogasawara Whale Watching Association decided to take a more active approach to researching the creature.

Sperm whales are known to be the major predators of giant squid (thanks to the countless squid beaks whalers have found in sperm whales’ stomachs over the years), so Kubodera and Mori tracked the whales to their hunting grounds to see if they might happen upon some giant squid.

Setting up about 3,000 feet from Japan’s Ogasawara Islands, Kubodera and Mori managed to attract a giant squid to their underwater camera by means of fishing lines baited with squid and bags of mashed shrimp. It may sound uncomfortably cannibalistic, but giant squid do prey on smaller squid species.

Before this event, there had been considerable debate as to whether the giant squid was an aggressive predator or whether it was more passive, floating in one place and using its long tentacles like fishing lines to catch whatever happened to be passing by.

The images Kubodera and Mori took (totaling more than 500) answered that question once and for all. The giant squid showed itself to be quite an aggressive predator, enveloping the bait with its tentacles and only disengaging when one of its tentacles became snagged on a hook on the bait apparatus.

The giant squid ended up leaving its snagged tentacle behind, and it was still twitching when the research team hauled it onboard their vessel for study. Like octopuses, squids are able to regenerate severed tentacles.

Assuming the 18-foot long tentacle was severed at its base, Kubodera and Mori estimated the giant squid was about 26 feet long. The longest giant squid ever measured was 59 feet, which meant this one was about an average specimen.

The giant squid is not to be confused with its close relative, the colossal squid. Although both creatures inhabit the deep ocean, living as deep as 3,300 feet below the surface, the giant squid is actually longer than the colossal squid.

The colossal squid, however, is heavier. Based on specimens that have been sighted or washed ashore, scientists believe colossal squids can weigh up to 1,600 pounds.

Don’t expect to find either of these creatures on the menu at your favorite seafood restaurant anytime soon. The colossal squid and the giant squid are both technically edible, but according to reports, floor cleaner is more palatable. Apparently sperm whales prefer quantity over taste when it comes to their favorite foods.

You can view photos of the giant squid taken by Kubodera and Mori online, courtesy of National Geographic.

– Teresa Santoski

www.teresasantoski.com

Originally published Sept. 30, 2010.

On Aug. 27, 1896, the Anglo-Zanzibar War, a conflict that might otherwise have faded away with the passage of time, made history (and likely the Guinness Book of World Records) when it clocked in as the shortest war in recorded history. From the first shot fired to the end of the fighting, it lasted all of 38 minutes.

At the time, Zanzibar (now part of Tanzania) was a protectorate of the British Empire, enjoying favorable trade relations with Britain and British military protection in exchange for certain concessions. One such concession was that the Sultan of Zanzibar had to be approved by the British government.

On Aug. 25, 1896, Sultan Hamad bin Thuwaini died unexpectedly. His nephew, Khalid bin Bargash (whom some suspected had poisoned the Sultan), laid claim to the throne and moved into the palace.

The British government intended to appoint Hamud bin Muhammed as Sultan, as he was more supportive of their goals in Zanzibar. Khalid was warned that unless he vacated the palace, there would be serious consequences.

He ignored the warnings, believing the British military wouldn’t really fire upon the palace, and began assembling troops. So did the British.

That same day, a half-hour after his uncle’s burial, Khalid proclaimed himself Sultan, fully knowing this constituted an open act of rebellion against the British. The British government authorized the military to use force if a peaceful resolution could not be reached.

After further negotiations proved futile, Khalid was issued an ultimatum: take down your flag and be out of the palace by 9 a.m. Aug. 27, or face the consequences. Khalid refused to back down, and the British Royal Navy opened fire on the palace at 9:02 a.m.

A surrender was soon received and the bombardment ceased at 9:40 a.m. Khalid fled the palace during the fighting, claiming asylum at the German consulate, and was ultimately exiled. Five hundred of his supporters perished or were injured in the war, mostly due to fires that had broken out in the palace due to the bombardment. The British military sustained only a single casualty.

– Teresa Santoski

www.teresasantoski.com

Originally published Aug. 27, 2009.

If you’re going to throw stones at the Hussites, make sure your door is locked. Otherwise, they might take matters into their own hands, like they did July 30, 1419 during the First Defenestration of Prague.

A commonly featured word in the more interesting Word-A-Day calendars, “defenestration” is “the act of throwing someone or something out of a window.” The etymology of this word is very simple – from the Latin “de” (meaning “out of”) and “fenestra” (meaning “window”).

The Hussites were a Christian denomination founded on the principles of Jan Hus, a forerunner of the Protestant Reformation who believed in access to the Bible for all (not just the clergy) and keeping secular power out of the hands of the priests. Things had been a little touchy between the Hussites and the mostly-Catholic government since Hus was executed by the ecumenical Council of Constance in 1415.

On July 30, 1419, Hussite priest Jan Želivský and his congregation marched through the streets of Prague to the town hall to protest the town council’s refusal to release fellow Hussites who were being held prisoner. One of the councilors threw a stone at Želivský from the window of the town hall.

It was not the smartest decision the town council ever made. The already-unhappy procession quickly turned into an angry mob. Hussite leader and general Jan Žižka led the charge and the Hussites stormed the town hall, making a beeline for the council room.

The judge, the burgomaster and several councilors were unceremoniously heaved out of the window to the pavement below. Any who survived the initial plunge were made short work of by the mob.

The religious tensions that had been simmering for the past few years had now come to a boil, and the country (then known as Bohemia) was launched into the lengthy and ultimately inconclusive Hussite Wars.

You may notice that this event is referred to as the First Defenestration of Prague. The Second Defenestration of Prague, also the result of conflict between Protestants and Catholics, occurred in 1618 and led to the start of the Thirty Years War. This time, the defenestrated individuals survived – a sizable pile of horse manure broke their fall.

Several less memorable defenestrations have occurred since (and between) those two incidents. The Real-Time Encyclopedia defines defenestration as “the traditional Czechoslovakian method of assassinating prime ministers.”

– Teresa Santoski

www.teresasantoski.com

Originally published July 30, 2009.

Some people will try anything to get their names in the history books – even arson. That’s what was on the mind of a young man named Herostratus when he intentionally set fire to the Temple of Artemis in Ephesus today on July 21, 356 B.C.

Artemis was worshiped in Greece and Rome as the goddess of the hunt and of the moon, but in Ephesus (now in modern-day Turkey), she was venerated as a fertility goddess. Her temple had stood on or near the same site since 800 B.C. and had been subjected to several reconstructions and expansions over the centuries.

The most recent reconstruction, funded by the famously wealthy King Croesus of Lydia, was begun in 550 B.C. and finally completed 120 years later. The impressive finished product was considered one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World and attracted worshipers and visitors from near and far. The entire temple was made of marble except for the roof, which was wooden and therefore flammable.

Enter Herostratus, a young man with a burning desire for fame and no scruples as to how that fame was achieved. He decided to set fire to the Temple of Artemis in hopes that, through this act, everyone would know his name. To make sure no one took credit for his accomplishment, Herostratus publicly announced his responsibility for the fire and when questioned, freely admitted his reasons for setting it.

With their temple in ruins and the functioning of local religion and tourism completely disrupted, the Ephesians were less than impressed. Herostratus’ punishment was twofold: execution and damnatio memoriae.

Of the two punishments, Herostratus likely found the latter more appalling. The Latin phrase “damnatio memoriae” literally translates to “damnation of memory” and means that the individual in question was completely excised from history. Herostratus’ name was removed from all official records; if his likeness appeared in any paintings or statuary, it was erased or destroyed. People were forbidden to speak or write about him on pain of death.

In Herostratus’ case, damnatio memoriae served two purposes. Not only did it deny him the lasting glory he so desperately sought, it discouraged those with similar aspirations from following in his footsteps.

And yet, in spite of this, Herostratus’ name and infamous accomplishment have survived. Both were recorded by the historian Theopompus. To this day, those who seek personal glory at any cost are said to be seeking herostratic fame.

The Temple of Artemis was rebuilt several more times after the fire, meeting its final destruction in 401 A.D., when it was taken to pieces by John Chrysostom and his followers. Some of the temple columns are now part of Hagia Sophia and other bits of the temple’s architecture have been incorporated into other buildings in Constantinople.

– Teresa Santoski

www.teresasantoski.com

Originally published July 21, 2010.