Want to Have Nightmares for a Week? Read This Book about the Johnstown Flood

Last December, the big kid and I fulfilled her childhood Junior Ranger dream of stopping by the Johnstown Flood National Memorial on the way to pick her little sister up from college. The sun was setting as we walked around the site of the former Lake Conemaugh, just east of the former South Fork Dam. In the distance is the former Unger homestead, with the national park site's visitor center next to it.

The Johnstown Flood by David McCullough
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

The Johnstown Flood was an absolute literal living nightmare OMG. This book was so scary that I actually had to put it down for the night a couple of different times, because reading about such abject terror and such mass destruction does not make for easy slumber.

McCullough really leans into the terror, too, with lots of retellings of harrowing first-person accounts--I just wish that he’d included footnotes, because I’d be interested in sourcing and reading some of these for myself as a way to honor the victims.

The Johnstown Flood National Memorial Visitor Center contains this terrifying display of what flood survivor Victor Heiser experienced. At just sixteen, his last memory of his father was him standing in their home's second-story window, gesturing for Victor to get back in the barn. Victor obeyed, and climbed through the barn's brand-new trapdoor to the roof, an innovation that his father had recently installed for no particular reason. From his viewpoint on the barn roof, he saw his family home crushed by the flood, and then the barn came unmoored and Victor had to stay on top of it while it raged down the river. He was his family's only survivor.

I love that McCullough especially highlighted the heroes of the story--the train engineer who essentially raced the flood, blowing his whistle to give the residents the only warning most of them were to get, the people who stopped in their flight to help others, the rescue and aid workers and private citizens who helped with the cleanup and recovery. I’m still thinking about six-year-old Gertrude Quinn, and the total stranger, Maxwell McAchren, who jumped into the flood not even because he had a way to rescue her, but literally just to be with her. They floated down the raging river until they got close to a house that was still standing at the edge of the water, with other total strangers hanging out the window trying to rescue people. One of the strangers shouted at McAchren to “throw them the baby,” he somehow did so, and a guy named Henry Koch managed to catch her by lunging so far out the window that another guy, George Skinner, had to hold him by the legs. McAchren continued floating down the flooded river alone, but happily he, too, survived.

The sign in the foreground states that we're at the approximate level of Lake Conemaugh before the flood that broke the dam, and to the left is the top of the former South Fork Dam just a few feet higher than the lake level. The dam was also allowed to wear down and sag in the center to make a weak point, and a former owner had disassembled, removed, and sold off the pipes that were previously used to lower the water level. Add to that the fact that the South Fork Hunting and Fishing Club blocked the spillway by installing both a bridge and fish guards to keep the fish they'd stocked in the lake from escaping, and the break seems completely inevitable.

Okay, I just discovered that Gertrude Quinn Slater wrote her own book about the Johnstown Flood! I am currently trying to get Internet Archive to generate an epub of it as I write, but I’m sorry to tell you that it’s not going well.

There were a lot fewer flood artifacts than I thought there would be, but this was one of them.

At first, shortly after finishing the book, I was irritated that McCullough didn’t write more about the South Fork Hunting and Fishing Club and the consequences the members faced, etc., but I finally got it through my head that this is because… there weren’t really any? They just kind of all… got away with criminal negligence? So much for Eat the Rich, I guess!

Here’s the thing that I REALLY do not understand, though--why does everyone not know about this? Why didn’t we study it in school? It would have been a terrific addition to the unit on American Industrialization and the development of factories and classism in the 1800s, etc. I only knew about the flood because my older kid was flat-out obsessed with earning Junior Ranger badges when she was little, and the Johnstown Flood National Memorial was a badge she could earn by mail, so we did our own DIY unit study of it (including a trip to visit our own local dam and spillway--they look sturdy and sound, thank goodness!), and what we learned during that study was so ghastly and shocking and downright bonkers that we’ve never stopped talking about it. And I do not understand why EVERYBODY is not constantly talking about it! It was so famous at the time, and now it’s just… not? In 2137, if we’re not in our full on zombie apocalypse Mad Max era, are people no longer going to remember anything about 9/11? Crazy how the memory of human suffering can just dissipate like that.

We're looking across the former Lake Conemaugh, with the former South Fork Dam to the left. You can also see the creek that was dammed there in the middle.

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Translating the Mayan Glyphs Really Brings Out the Asshole in Some People

Went to Mexico in 2022 and somehow didn't try a single "Mayan" rum cake, dang it!

Breaking the Maya Code by Michael D. Coe
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

To me, the most interesting through-line of this book is how the actions of petty academics served to hinder, stall, and otherwise thwart the translation of the Maya glyphs for decades. I have some small experience with petty academics who care WAY more about their self-proclaimed role of thought police and their self-imposed mission to maintain the status quo of their field than they do actually progressing knowledge, and I am always on the lookout for others willing to spill the tea on that same topic. And dude, does Coe spill the tea! You need to get yourself some popcorn to munch while you read about Thompson’s career-long power play that served absolutely nothing but his own sense of self-worth. I wouldn’t have found this book nearly as interesting without that play-by-play of who tried to ruin whose career for personal reasons, who wouldn’t admit that someone else was right and kept bitching about it endlessly, who was low-key racist and who was high-key racist, etc.

Do you want to know how to call someone racist without calling them racist? Coe shows us how via his thoughts about another academic:

“Having met Gelb but once, many years ago [...], I cannot really call him a racist. His book, however, is very definitely infected with that sinister virus of our time.”

There was also a Nazi sympathizer, a German-born, Louisiana-based researcher named Hermann Beyer who had to be forbidden to wear a swastika at work, who was later sent to the Stringtown Concentration Camp in Oklahoma at the start of WWII and who subsequently died there.

Chichen Itza, 2022

Coe is also VERY (and undeservedly!) snarky about archaeologists--or, sorry, about “dirt-archaeologists,” as he puts it. I kind of got the idea that he thinks they’re stupid. What’s up with that? The digs and the exploration of the jungle and the finding bits of stela with carvings on them are the best part!

Seriously, though--Thompson was such a jerk! He was so convinced that the Maya were illiterate magical shaman ignoramuses that he wouldn’t believe that they had a proper written language, and kept making every peon under him say that the glyphs were, like, pretty pictures that spoke to your heart or something. And he did this for upwards of forty years! And when people started finally actually translating the glyphs anyway (thank goodness for Knorosov!), he did his best to ruin all their careers and talk shit about them and keep them from getting hired, etc. Imagine if you were trying to translate the glyphs and some of his peons were on your hiring committee. Or your tenure committee. Or were peer-reviewing your article. Or in the audience at the conference where you’re reading your paper. Or on your PhD committee. Or your grad school application committee…

Chichen Itza, 2022

There’s another villain in this story, though: that absolute asshole De Landa! I hate that guy. Like, yay I guess that he wrote down a sort of syllabary that researchers finally figured out they needed to use to connect the written glyphs to the spoken language, but we wouldn’t have needed that second-hand source if De Landa hadn’t, you know, BURNED 99.9% OF THE MAYAS’ BOOKS! He even wrote about it in his diary, being all, “Jeez those guys screamed and cried when I burned every book they’ve ever written. What a bunch of dumbasses.” Racism has clearly been holding back our understanding of the Maya and their language ever since we first met them.

Our cast of heroes is charmingly eclectic, including the previously-mentioned Knorosov, much of his work done while trapped in the USSR, as well as a female artist from Tennessee, and a homeschooled child. All of them, I think, illustrate the importance of different perspectives when trying to solve a tricky problem. All of them, notably as well, exhibited grace and the spirit of collaboration and absolutely zero ego.

Chichen Itza, 2022

As far as actually translating the glyphs, I was interested to see that, from what I understand after reading another book on how Egyptian hieroglyphs were first translated, they work sort of similarly to those hieroglyphs. With 20/20 hindsight, one would think that the Maya researchers would have leaned more heavily on the example of hieroglyphs, but I guess that everyone has to hobble their own way towards truth. Except for Thompson--he’ll just try to kneecap you and then when you fall down he’ll step on your neck.

I’d been hoping for an explanation or a reasoning for why Maya glyphs are so decorative, but Coe, perhaps because he’s studied them for his entire career and thus no longer sees them as so extraordinary, didn’t ever point out their structure as notable, even though they very, very, very much ARE. They’re so beautiful and fancy, and every glyph has its own writer’s interpretation of how it’s drawn. I LOVE it.

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I did, however, learn a lot of interesting facts about how the Maya language reflects its people’s obsession with time. I was already interested in the Maya calendar and the Long Count way of dating, and now I know that precision of time is also inherent in their language. No imperfect tenses for you in the Mayan language--you have to know exactly when every action was, is, or will be completed!

I also thought that the focus on classification was interesting. Not only do you have to know what time something happened, but if there’s a group of something you want to talk about, you can’t just name it--you also have to classify it. Considering how much variety there can be in the construction of a single glyph, the language the glyphs are expressing is SO precise!

One more interesting tidbit: Coe writes about Naj Tunich, a cave containing glyphs and art that was being investigated, that “[t]he cavern walls, lit by their flashlights and photographic equipment, had many other surprises, not the least of which were realistic homoerotic encounters.”

Realistic homoerotic encounters, you say? Tell me more!

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Happily, some of what Coe writes in this third edition of his book is now out of date. Coe writes, for instance, that “Mexican law forbids the teaching in schools of the Yucatec Maya tongue.” That is no longer the case. I’d be very interested in learning Maya, as well, but I don’t know where I’d even begin--I already checked DuoLingo, sigh. I’m also very interested in the four extant Mayan codices that De Landa didn’t manage to get his hands on. Trying to see all four will let me travel the world, although it’s shameful that only one gets to still live in Mexico.

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If You Want To LARP Little House You Should Just Do It

Actively homeschooling outside Laura's house in 2014!

The Wilder Life: My Adventures in the Lost World of Little House on the Prairie by Wendy McClure
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I didn't love it, but it gets 5 Stars from me because it's about Laura Ingalls Wilder. You evaluate your books the way you want, and I'll evaluate my books the way I want!

There’s a weird friction right off the bat in this book in which McClure states that she wants to immerse herself in the world of the Little House books, but enacts this desire partly by visiting the historical home sites of the author Laura Ingalls Wilder, and using that as the framing device of her narrative. It’s no surprise, then, that the friction never dissolves and McClure never really achieves the kind of closure she seems to seek, because the Little House books are fiction, and cannot be transcribed onto these factual places the way McClure seemed to want. It’s true that Wilder was extremely skilled at description, and that many (most?) of her descriptions are based on what she observed in her own life, but that doesn’t make the books biographies. And McClure kept choosing the most fact-based, “intellectual” and biographical activities like site tours and pioneer skills and feeling disappointed and disenchanted that they didn’t get her back into Laura’s “world,” rarely indulging in the thematic world-building activities like cosplay and LARPing, even though I think she’d have LOVED cosplay and LARPing if she’d just let herself relax. It’s kind of like the way she wanted to be a fan of the books didn’t mesh with the way she thought she “should” be a fan?

LARPing in a prairie bonnet at the Ingalls homestead in 2014

It would have been interesting if McClure had researched more about the types of fans that the Little House books attract, although just in her travels she did manage to suss out two types I’m also very familiar with: fundamentalist Christian homeschoolers and fundamentalist Christian Doomsday preppers. Those kinds of fandom are very analytically interesting, and I would have loved to have seen an analysis of why they each chose to pin their own ideals onto Laura. Spoiler alert: it’s nothing Laura did! Like yes, for the Doomsday preppers, at least, Laura’s later Libertarian leanings would probably appeal, but the preppers are fans not because of that, but because they fetishize the Manifest Destiny type of pioneer fiction that makes homesteading look easy. But umm, guys? It looks easy because it’s written for CHILDREN. That’s why all those weekend warrior preppers that so unnerved McClure kept going on and on about “canning” butter--”canning” butter (which I keep putting in irony quotes because if you actually eat “canned” butter you will get food poisoning) is a canning-adjacent craft project the same way that Fox News is a news-adjacent propaganda channel. It’s brainless and ineffective but it’s easy and looks great, and since the fundamentalist Christian Doomsday preppers are essentially just playing pretend, that’s all they need.

Homeschool field trip to Laura's Missouri house. Everything inside was so wee!

The Little House fandom among fundamentalist Christian homeschoolers is a little harder to unpack, but ultimately it, too, requires no close reading of the literature, but instead a vibes-heavy version of it, the same way that most contemporary fiction and films set in the Medieval period reflect very little actual historical fact or detail, but a whole lot of “Medieval” vibes. Also see: “Amish” romance. The Little House books read through a fundamentalist Christian homeschool lens are all about patriarchy, heteronormative gender roles, nationalism, and the outward manifestation of virtue evident in obedience and hardship. Pioneer-era skills are seen not as the complicated, labor-intensive work that they were but instead as proof of “simplicity,” “simple living,” “simple times,” and whatever other euphemisms they can think of to dog whistle anti-intellectualism. That’s why a homeschooling parent, as evidenced in McClure’s brief interview with one, generally has trouble vocalizing their intent in studying the Little House books, the point of them in their homeschool curriculum, or even the bare bones reasoning for why they make a good immersive unit study for children--it’s rarely more complicated than that they want to role-play Little Gender Roles on the Prairie with their kids.

a genuine hay twist to see us through the Long Winter!

Tangent to the book review, but speaking as the type of homeschooler who had the kids building backyard trebuchets and not the type of homeschooler who named them after Bible characters, the Little House books DO make an excellent, immersive unit study for any age of homeschooler, and an excellent lens through which to study US history and geography. It’s still prairie bonnets and butter churns, but with context and reference books! You do tend to do a lot of activities *with* the Christian survivalists, but you are not *of* them, you know?

I’m sorry, but I’m not buying McClure’s eventual conclusion/explanation that her obsession with Little House is her way of processing the trauma of her mother’s death. Like, her mom wasn’t even that into Little House? I understand that it’s more about how little Wendy felt back then when her mom was alive, but even that wasn’t about her mom; it was about how unashamed little Wendy was in her fandom, and how unabashedly she enacted the role of fan. Like, Wendy, daydreaming self-insert Mary Sue LHOTP fanfic is a deeeeep dive, Girl! If only you’d had LiveJournal back then, you’d have been on top of the world!

McClure didn't love her faux covered wagon camping experience, but I had a ball during mine!

Rather than watching her walk awkwardly and indecisively through the world of Little House, fighting herself every step of the way, I’d rather have seen McClure spend that time trying to process the cringe nature of fandom, and pushing through the discomfort of being objectively not cool in order to enjoy something. Hey, I’ve been there! I was pretty embarrassed at my first Star Trek convention, even though I was enjoying all the activities and everyone else was happy and welcoming and unaffected. I just couldn’t get myself to turn off my own self-judgment and lean into the fun. That’s the kind of thing that I saw with McClure’s descriptions of her visits to the various tourist sites, when she was spending just as much time watching and evaluating fellow fans as she was interesting herself in the site. Girl, just be a fan and enjoy yourself! Put on the prairie bonnet and make a corncob doll! Put your hay twist out on the front room bookshelf where it belongs!

my little homeschooler making a cornhusk doll way back in 2011

Link me to your Little House Time Travel AU fanfic on A03 and I’ll leave you Kudos!

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P.P.S. Want a couple of examples of properly educational ways that the Little House books can be used in homeschooling? Here's a reading comprehension activity for young kids using Little House in the Big Woods. Making taffy lets you do some Farmer Boy LARPing while building the practical life skills of cooking and following instructions. Use a map like this as inspiration to help kids draw and label their own line maps of Laura's travels. My favorite way to homeschool books, though, is to read them together and talk about them a lot and dive deeper into what the kids find interesting, building lots of historical, geographical, and literary context along the way.

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I'm Going To Find the Lost Loot of KV 55 and Then Join King Tut's Death Cult

visiting a mummy in the Yale Peabody Museum, 2013

Searching for the Lost Tombs of Egypt by Chris Naunton
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This is the kind of book that I would love to see a large-format, sumptuously illustrated and thoroughly annotated edition of. To be fair, there ARE some illustrations and some annotations, some maps and some diagrams, but in order to fully appreciate the information and process it I would have needed a lot, lot, LOT more. And maybe I’m just a dummy and this book is meant for experts who already know where the Valley of the King is compared to where the Theban necropolis is and where the Great Pyramids are in relation to all that, but I don’t think it is. The cover is too cute to be solely for experts!

Even having to look a lot of stuff up and just wonder about other stuff when I was too lazy to look it up, though, I did get a lot from the book. I thought it was interesting that all the regular folks who buried their loved ones in shallow graves at the edge of the desert were the ones who got it right, because the temperature and the lack of humidity naturally mummify corpses buried in that manner. It’s only because the royalty wanted to put themselves somewhere special that they had to go through all that work to do manually what the elements would have otherwise done for them perfectly well. Like, even in the ancient times people were showing off their wealth by making other people work harder!

At first, I also wanted to feel sorry for the long-ago deceased royalty. Having all that stuff/symbolic stuff around their corpses was super important to them, right, because then that’s the nice stuff they’d have around them in their afterlife? So imagine that you’ve done your nice burial and you have all your nice, sumptuous things around you and you’re having an absolutely awesome afterlife, but then all of a sudden your shit just starts disappearing, because back on earthside some grave robbers have discovered your tomb!

Tutankhamun, who in this book is hilariously described as the Benjamin Harrison of pharaohs, probably thought he had it MADE in the afterlife. For thousands of years the bigger, better pharaohs were just walking around naked, all their nice stuff having been stolen or excavated already, while he had ALL his nice stuff. Every single piece! I bet all the other pharaohs laughed their asses off when one day his chariot just disappeared--poof!--out from under him, followed by all his servants, and his cool clothes, and everything else that made the afterlife worth living.

And then he never got any of it back, because his stuff is in a museum and he’s back on display in his tomb!

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Honestly, it all made me kind of wonder if the entire concept of archaeology, excavating these people’s tombs that they deliberately had hidden on purpose, then removing all their nice stuff and displaying it in museums all over the place when their religious practice was to keep it all with their bodies, is actually unethical. I mean, wouldn’t respect for the religious beliefs of these fellow humans require that you NOT unearth and fish out and display all their stuff? How far back in time do you have to go before it’s definitely okay to put a full-on person’s corpse in a museum?

It reminds me of one of my other favorite excavations, Spiro Mounds, and how one of my pet peeves is that we can’t get a good exhibit going of most of the properly acquired stuff (we can still see the looted stuff, of course--there are goods looted from Ancient Native American mounds in the British Museum!) because they’re Native American grave goods and so need permission from the people who make up their descendants, but we don’t know who the descendants of the Spiro Mounds people are so there’s nobody to give permission so we can’t display it. What’s the ethical difference between people whose goods we’re not allowed to display and people whose goods we are? Coolness factor? The fact that one indigenous group was a genocided minority, maybe, and therefore we should be a lot more careful with them now since we were so careless with them previously?

Speaking of unethical acquisition... here's a mummy I visited in the British Museum in 2023!

Ethical or not, I’m super fascinated by the stories of tombs of Egyptian royalty that we know should be around somewhere, but that still have not been found. And Naunton keeps ending chapters by talking about how such and such a place and such and such another place were thought to be likely spots for excavation, but then the archaeologist died or lost their funding or spent the rest of their career working on something else and those spots never did get excavated. Dude, just buy me a plane ticket and book me a guide who speaks the language and *I’LL* go excavating for these lost tombs!

My favorite extracurricular deep dive comes from Naunton’s chapter on “The Missing Amarna Royals.” In it, Naunton tells the story of the excavation of KV 55, including this VERY “intriguing note:”

“The coffin found in KV 55 was lined with several sheets of gold foil, which had become detached from the badly decayed wooden case, and were subsequently kept in storage separately in Cairo’s Egyptian Museum. These subsequently disappeared, but resurfaced on the art market in the 1980s, and were then purchased by two German museums. Those sheets that were part of the original coffin base--by now perished--were restored to a plexiglass substitute, which was repatriated to Egypt in 2001, along with the fragments that had once been attached to the lid.”

First of all: what the HELL, Germany?!? I thought we’d all agreed that you needed to be on your best behavior until the end of time! How does your museums purchasing stolen antiquities accomplish that?

Anyway, I thought that was such a weird thing to have happened, and such a weirdly neutral way to have put it--like, what are you saying by *not* saying it, Naunton?--that obviously I had to dive deeper. And the deeper you dive, the more interesting and weirder KV 55 gets!

 As in, there were a LOT of shenanigans involving its excavation. A LOT of shenanigans, and a lot of those shenanigans were perpetrated by the archaeologist in charge, who should have known better. So I guess much of the mystery surrounding who KV 55 could be, because we still don’t know, is because the archaeologists did such a piss-poor job excavating that they lost and destroyed a lot of important evidence. And then someone(s) on the team stole a bunch of stuff and sold it and that ended up in all kinds of places, and then even stuff in the museum got stolen and sold and ended up in all kinds of places? If you’re looking for your next obsession, there are a LOT of KV 55 conspiracy theories to invest yourself in.

So that’s going to be my next conspiracy theory obsession, I guess. And when I get bored with that, I heard that King Tut might have had a death cult!

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I Read the Wright Brothers Biography, Because Wilbear Deserves to Know About His People

Flying at Huffman Prairie, 2017

The Wright Brothers by David McCullough
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This deep dive that I took into the early history of aviation was always going to lead me to David McCullough.

If possible, I highly recommend reading an in-depth biography like this AFTER visiting one or more of the places relevant to the subject’s life, because I think it’s even more fun in this case to read about a place I know than to visit a place I’ve read about. I’ve never been to Kitty Hawk (although I super want to someday!), but I’ve been in and around Dayton to see Wright Brother sites like their bicycle shop and printing office, Huffman Prairie, and the family gravesite, and more, in my devoted campaign to earn my beloved Wilbear. You can also visit the mansion they had built for themselves there after they got rich on Wright Flyer contracts, but for their original family home you have to go to Detroit, because Henry Ford bought it and moved it there.

original 1903 Wright Flyer in the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum

Henry Ford also, by the way, once snookered his way into the shed where a Wright Flyer was being stored and got caught making measurements of it. Nothing ever came out of that, apparently, but it’s still hella suss.

As an only child, and the parent of two children who love each other but lead decidedly individual lives, I’m fascinated by the experience of two siblings (and sometimes three siblings!) who lived their lives so much in each other’s pockets that a single biography suffices for both. They’re like the Sam and Dean Winchester of manned flight! Do you think they ever had a conversation about their relationship or their future, or did they always just automatically pal up in a way that never needed voice put to it?

And they seem to have automatically palled up even in enterprises that only really interested one. The printing business was Orville’s baby, and although Orville complained a lot about Wilbur not investing his soul into it as much as he himself did, there never seemed to be any question of Wilbur popping off to, say, run his own business or get his own job and leave the boring printing stuff to Orville.

Wright brothers' printing office in Dayton

Instead, they seemed content as life partners, living their lives together just as happily--and probably a lot more equitably--as they’d have been with romantic life partners. When their sister Katharine went off to Oberlin and their dad was doing his traveling preacher thing (the only part of the book that I found too much and too boring was Dad’s preacher work--boring to read about, and also irrelevant as neither Wright brother’s life and works seemed otherwise notably informed by religious belief), the brothers seemed to live contentedly together in the family home, each sharing the load in a way that apparently satisfied them both. Here’s an excerpt from a letter Wilbur wrote to Katharine:

“Orville cooks one week and I cook the next. Orville’s week we have bread and meat and gravy and coffee three times a day. My week I give him more variety. You see that by the end of his week there is a big lot of cold meat stored up, so the first half of my week we have bread and butter and “hash” and coffee, and the last half we have bread and butter and eggs and sweet potatoes and coffee.”

I guess they at least had sweet potatoes often enough to prevent scurvy?

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Okay, I lied. I did think the part of the book in which the dad is fired from his preacher job because he was unwilling to accept Freemasons was interesting and hilarious. Seriously, what was UP with Freemasonry?!? They really had better be secretly housing the Holy Grail or some similar nonsense to have been worth all of these conspiracy theories.

When I started the book and read about the brothers’ early years, I thought that I was going to like Orville best. He was so mechanical-minded, even more so than his brother! He was always thinking up ideas of cool new stuff to try! Just between us, he was probably on the autism spectrum, and would have meltdowns when overstimulated and then have to go off and be quiet for a while.

But then… I dunno, Wilbur just really grew on me. It started when he was 17 and was hit so hard in the face by a future serial killer that he pretty much dropped out of school and gave up on his dreams to go to Yale and spent the next two years housebound, the full-time caregiver for his mother at the end of her life. How can you not be sympathetic to that much clear trauma?

Much later, his personality really shone through in the letters he wrote home while he was in France attempting to demonstrate the Wright Flyer and make deals with the French for its production. He mostly worked, because dude worked like a dog, but he also saw cathedrals and museums and tried new foods, and wrote about everything in an unaffected way. This is my favorite part of those letters:

“I was a little astonished and disturbed the other evening, when I sat down to dinner to find my soup which was a sort of noodle soup, turning into all sorts of curious forms and even letters of the alphabet. I began to think I had the ‘jim jams.” On close investigation I found that the dough had been run through forms so as to make the different letters of the alphabet and figures, too! It was like looking into the “hell box” of a printing office, and was all the more amusing because every mouthful of soup you take out, brought up a new combination.”

Wilbur Wright ate his first alphabet soup, and found it charming. How could the reader, as well, not be charmed by that?

Wilbur also impressed everyone who met him in France with his unflappable courage in simply going about his own business to demonstrate his flying machine, not letting anyone sway or influence him into flying when he didn’t think the conditions were absolutely perfect. McCullough gently hints that he seemed to worry that Orville wouldn’t do the same when he was demonstrating their flying machine back in America, and indeed, Orville does also hold the record for piloting the first fatal airplane crash…

You can see the original 1905 Wright Flyer in Dayton. 

Alas, Wilbur died shockingly young, at just 45, and whether it was grief or just his natural self coming through without any curbing force from his older brother, Orville began to impress me less and less as he aged. First, it was just him, his sister Katharine, and their dad in the family mansion, but when their dad died five years later, it was just him and Katharine for the next nine years. One day, though, Katharine told him that she was going to marry an old school chum from Oberlin and long-time friend to the entire family, and they were going to move to his hometown of Kansas City.

And Orville PITCHED A FIT.

This is where I’m so mad at him that I can’t forgive him. You know that woman kept house for all those men for all those years, even though she had a proper full-time job. Back when Orville had that bad plane accident that killed his passenger she’d even taken a leave of absence from her job and gone to nurse him back to health, sitting up all night, every night in his hospital room to make sure he was properly attended. She was as invested in their business as they were, often doing the social work that would usually have been expected of a wife. And when she wants to do ONE THING that is her idea and belongs to her, Orville has a tantrum that frankly makes him seem like an incestuous creep and refuses to speak to her ever again.

Even when he got word two years later that Katharine was dying, he refused to go see her. He eventually changed his mind and arrived at her bedside just before she died, but that is WAY too little, too late. Wilbur would have NEVER!

I don't know why I'm smiling like that in front of the Wright family gravesite, 2025

It’s interesting to me that although the Wrights proved the possibility of powered flight and flew the first airplanes, our airplanes aren’t really descendants of them, but more like cousins. Their major insight of changing the shape of the wing to steer is the key to powered flight, but the way they did it, by physically altering the shape of their airplane wings by sort of twisting the fabric-covered frames, wouldn’t really scale upwards--it was more of a proof of concept. Now we use ailerons.

Other fun facts from the book: the hobble skirt was created in imitation/homage to the first female airplane passenger, who tied a rope around the bottom of her skirt to keep it in place while she flew. While in France, Wilbur switched out his regular Ohio suit jacket for a black leather motorcycle jacket. When Neil Armstrong became the first human to step onto the Moon, he carried a swatch of fabric from that first successful Wright Flyer.

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And here's the most special fun fact of all! Back when the Wright brothers were really starting to crack powered flight, nobody "important" believed them. They tried to interest the military numerous times, and kept getting back form letters that clearly indicated their original letters hadn't even been read. Word of mouth was spreading, obviously, because all you had to do was take the trolley over to Huffman Prairie and you could literally SEE them flying, but whenever anyone big and fancy heard about it, they'd dismiss it as rumor or lies or showmanship or whatever. It was part classism, I imagine, and also partly because the Wright brothers at that time, unlike the other people working on powered flight, *didn't* engage in any attention-catching showmanship. They just went about their business inventing powered flight and popping off the occasional letter to the military to see if they wanted to buy some airplanes.

Eventually, it was France who took notice, and France who invited Wilbur over to demonstrate his plane, and the French citizens who flocked to watch his demonstrations and waited patiently until conditions were just right and then LOST THEIR FUCKING MINDS when they saw it was real and praised and publicized Wilbur so hard that the dumb-ass Americans finally took their thumbs out of their butts and looked at what they had right there in their own heartland. 

But before that part, while the Wright brothers were still working out the kinks in their plane and spending every day out at Huffman Prairie, they did collect a small community of superfans among those who'd believed the rumors. One superfan was an old guy who ran the magazine Gleanings in Bee Culture up near Cleveland. He was THE superfan and would drive his literal Model T all the way down to Dayton, stopping every 10 miles to put more water in the radiator or oil in the oil thingy, just to watch the Wright brothers try to get their hunk of machinery off the ground. 

And then he'd go back home and, in the middle of his articles about bees and beekeeping, he'd write little anecdotes about what he'd seen! THIS is the guy who broke the news of sustained, powered human flight. The first story about the first sustained, powered human flight appeared in Gleanings in Bee Culture in 1905. 

One hundred and six years later, that same magazine, now shortened to just Bee Culture, bought a few of my beeswax candle tutorials, shitty photos and all. I just need to emphasize that I take MUCH better photos now. Bee Culture, I'd be happy to reshoot this particularly obnoxious set for free!

ANYWAY, that's how the Wright brothers and I came to be represented in the same magazine. The end.

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P.P.S. Want to follow along with my craft projects, books I'm reading, road trips to weird old cemeteries, looming mid-life crisis, and other various adventures on the daily? Find me on my Craft Knife Facebook page!