What Would Jimmy Do?

Both you readers know I’m a big fan of pirates and there are all sorts of stories about them burying treasures all around the world. Undoubtedly some of these are true and a lot just someone’s imagination.

But one legend continues to exist even today — that more than $2 billion in gold may be hidden on Oak Island in Mahone Bay, which is about 45 minutes from Halifax, Nova Scotia. Treasure hunters have scoured the island for more than 200 years looking for the bounty. But apparently, the pirates who buried the treasure hid it well…..

Since around 1720, people have claimed that pirate treasure was buried on Oak Island, and in 1795, Daniel McGinnis was hunting on the island and found evidence that those stories might be true. 
An oak tree had been used with a hoist to lift something very heavy and when McGinnis dug at that spot,he found loose sand filling a pit about 12 feet in diameter. 
He returned the next day with two friends, and after digging down about ten feet, they encountered a wooden platform. Beneath the platform was more dirt, and digging down another ten feet or so, they found another wooden platform. At that point, they gave up — they needed better tools and maybe some engineering expertise. McGinnis and his friends didn’t get the help they needed, but it became apparent that something important had been buried on Oak Island. Before long, more people visited the island hoping to strike it rich.

In the early 1800s, a Nova Scotia company began excavating the pit. It was a slow process and took many years. But about every ten feet, they found another wooden platform and sometimes layers of charcoal, putty, or coconut fiber.
About 90 feet down, they found an oily stone about three feet wide, On the stone was a coded inscription that read, “Forty feet below, two million pounds lie buried.” (Gold worth two million pounds in 1795 would be worth approximately $2 billion today.)
But as they dug past the 90-foot level, water began rushing into the hole. A few days later, the pit was almost full of seawater. No matter how much they bailed, the water maintained its new level, so the company dug a second shaft, parallel to the first and 110 feet deep. But — when they dug across to the original hole, water quickly filled the new shaft as well. The company then abandoned the project.
But there were others ready to try their luck. 

Since that first attempt, several companies have excavated deeper in the original pit. Most treasure hunters — including a team organized by Franklin D. roosevelt — have found additional proof that something valuable is buried there. For example, at 126 feet — nearly forty feet below the 90 foot marker — engineers found oak and iron. Farther down, they also reached a large cement chamber, from which they brought up a tiny piece of parchment, that encouraged them to dig deeper.

A narrow shaft dug in 1971 allowed researchers to use special cameras to study the pit. It was reported that they saw several chests, some tools, and a disembodied head floating in the water, but the shaft collapsed before they could explore further.
Flooding has continued to hamper research efforts. At least six people have been killed in their quest for buried treasure, but the digging continues. As of late 2007, the 1971 shaft had been re-dug to a depth of 181 feet. 

Oak Island has become a unique vacation spot for people who like adventure and the chance to go home with buried treasure. Canadian law says any treasurer hunter can keep 90 percent of his or her findings. Some vacationers and explorers dig on nearby islands, and believe that the Oak Island site may be some elaborate distraction — maybe the treasure is actually buried on one of more than 100 other islands in Mahone Bay.
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One the years, I’ve written a number of times about Abraham Lincoln — usually on, or around, his birthday. But since one of the current presidential candidates constantly compares himself to Lincoln, I thought I’d talk about him a little more — especially a story I’ve always liked about Abe and an 11-year old girl….
I guess Abraham Lincoln is, rightly, remembered as a man ahead of his time. Of all the men who’ve held the office of President of the U.S, he’s always ranked near the top — because of his intellect, humor and compassion.
But here’s the story:

When Abe was still a presidential hopeful, he opened his mail one day — October 18, 1860, to be exact — and he probably chuckled to himself at the piece of advice being offered by 11-year old Grace Befell of Westfield, New York. She told him to give up shaving and that he “had it in the bag.” She wrote: “You would look a great deal better for your face is so thin…. all the ladies like whiskers and they would tease their husbands to vote for you and you would be President.”

Well, Abe being Abe, dashed off this reply: “As to the whiskers, having never worn any, do you not think people would call it a piece of silly affectation if I were to begin now?”
Despite his answer to Grace, her suggestion must have made an impression on Abe. Lincoln loved to have his picture taken — and because of that, historians have been able to put together a chronicle or timeline of the development of the beard….
November 26, 1860 — a thin scraggly line of whiskers appears.
January 26, 1861 — more growth, but still straggly
February 9, 1861 — a mature, full growth of facial hair adorns the face of….. President Abraham Lincoln.

But the story gets better — before he was inaugurated, and in fact, on his way from Illinois to Washington to accept the office of president, Lincoln’s train made a whistle stop in Westfield, New York. Abe remembered the little girl with the good advice and he stopped midway through his prepared speech: “During my campaign I had a little correspondent from your town. She kindly admonished me to let my whiskers grow, and since I’ve taken her advice, I would like to see her. Is she here? Is Grace Befell here?”
A small little girl was bustled through the crowd and soon Lincoln was face to face with Grace. As the President bent down to kiss her, the prickly stubble digging into her cheek might have made Grace wish she’d never suggested the idea in the first place.

But thanks to Grace Befell, Abraham Lincoln became the first U.S. President to sport facial hair of any kind. But politicians know a good thing when they see it — ten of the next 11 presidents wore beards or side whiskers with or without mustaches. 
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My neighbor travels fairly often, but they’re usually short business trips. A few days ago, he told me he was going to be gone maybe a few weeks. I asked him if he needed anything before he left or if there was something I needed to do for him while he was gone 

He seemed surprised and said, “it’s not like I’m going to Timbuktu.” I hadn’t heard that in a long time. It’s a phrase that that’s usually used when referring to somewhere very far away or sometimes maybe to mean a journey you really don’t want to take. The Oxford English Dictionary defines it as “the most distant place imaginable.” 

Some people even think it’s not a real place, but imaginary. 
But it is a real place and I’ve been there — Timbuktu is in Mali, West Africa.
I don’t think it holds the mystique it once did — even the last time I was there it seemed a bit “run-down.”
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Anyone that’s ever been to West Africa knows there is a saying, “WAWA.” It means “West Africa Wins Again.” If my experiences in that part of the world are any indication, I think there’s a lot of truth to it.
One of the most interesting experiences I had in that part of the world was on one of my first trips to Africa.

It was the location of a relay facility — most communications back in those days were accomplished via High Frequency radio. The purpose of the relay facility was to relay messages from various locations back to the U.S. It consisted of a transmitter site and a receiver site and each site was located several miles outside the city in opposite directions. I was staying a hotel downtown. One night I loaded the trunk of the car that was assigned to me with a number of cases of U.S. Army “C” rations. It’s commonplace for U.S. government facilities to stock these supplies in case of emergency situations. If you’ve ever had to rely on “C” rations you know it’s not the most appetizing “food.” 
But anyhow, I was heading to the transmitter site the next morning, so I was taking a fresh supply of “C” rations to replace those that had long outlived their expiration date. 

Now on with the story…. about 3 or 4 o’clock in the morning, I woke up to a very loud explosion and lots of automatic weapons fire. I went to the balcony of my room and it looked like smoke was coming from the vicinity of the Presidential Palace. About that time my radio came to life and I was told to get to the transmitter site as quick as I could, and lock myself inside until further notice. Turns out we were in the early stages of a coup.

I went down to my car and headed to the transmitter site — there were lots of explosions and gunfire coming from the Palace. I was a bit surprised that the streets were deserted — I pretty much had the road to myself. As I approached the transmitter site, a tank was parked in the middle of the road — no traffic could pass. Behind the tank, there was a very long line of buses, cars, motorcycles, trucks and lots of people on foot. As I came to a stop, the tank commander walked up to the car and said I couldn’t pass. I showed him my identification and pointed to the building just off to the right of the tank. I told him I was an American and I had to go to work there. He told me he had been ordered not to let anyone pass. I used all the charm and threats I could muster up, but he said I had to go back. Finally I started to turn my car around when he came back and asked if I had anything to eat. I remembered the “C” rations in the trunk and said that I did have food with me. I got out of the car and opened the trunk. “What is this?” he asked. I explained to him what it was. He looked more than a little skeptical. I told him that it was very good food that came from the United States. I even told him that it was so good that our army issued it to American soldiers. I was thinking maybe I had convinced him and he asked me to give him a few cases for himself and his crew. I told him that I had been ordered not to lose any of it. After a bit of a discussion and some of my best bargaining, we agreed that if I gave him two cases of the rations, he’d let me pass. I gave him the rations and he removed a barricade from the side of the road, and I drove in to the transmitter site.

I was inside the transmitter building for at least 12 hours — I ventured outside and the tank hadn’t moved and neither had any of the traffic been allowed to pass. I had received no news about the coup taking place in the capital. Finally the next morning I was relieved by a technician assigned to the embassy. I asked him if he had trouble getting by the tank — he said they were very nice and mentioned that “the other American man” had given them some very fine food!!

It only took a few days for the coup to end and the regime was overthrown, the tank by the transmitter site departed and the city returned to “normal.” I finished what I had originally been sent there to do and as I boarded the plane to depart I decided that my first coup had actually been kind of fun….
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Over the years we had a lot of “different” experiences and adventures. For a while we lived in one of the world’s oldest cities. We had a very nice, but rather small, house but it was plenty roomy enough for us. Also located in that city, in a — as Claire would say — charming neighborhood was a “safe house.” It was necessary that this “hideaway” present the appearance of being occupied — by regular people. So — we were given the keys to the house and part of our duties was to show up on a fairly regular basis to make the house look occupied. I don’t remember ever cooking there, but we often made meals at our house or purchased them from a restaurant and had a really good time. It was like being paid to go on a nice vacation. 

I’m not sure why, but the house and those good times just popped into my head. I’ve often wondered if it’s still a safe house, or even if it’s still there. I know for a number of years after we left, the secret that it was really a “safe house” was never discovered. I don’t know if it ever was….
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We all know that 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW in Washington, D.C is the address of the White House. But that building was originally named the “President’s House.”

It was designed by Irish architect James Hoban under the direction of George Washington. The cornerstone was laid in the fall of 1792. George Washington never lived there — he left office before construction was completed. The house’s first occupants were President John Adams and his wife, Abigail. They moved there in 1800.
By the time John and Abigail moved in the gray-quarried-sandstone exterior had started to look weathered and was given a coat of whitewash to protect it from harsh winter conditions. When the third U.S. president, Thomas Jefferson, moved in, the house was given a fresh coat of white paint. From that point on, it was given a fresh coat of white paint whenever it was needed.

At the Battle of York during the War of 1812, Canadian Parliament buildings were destroyed as a result of arson. In a retaliatory act, British troops set fire to many buildings in Washington, including the residence of then President James Madison and his wife, Dolley. This left the outside of the house charred and blackened. Madison ordered the house to be repainted in the familiar white color.
There is a notion that this led to the President’s house being called the White House, but before the attack, a British ambassador referred to the president’s residence as “the White House at Washington.” Then in March of 1812, a congressman by the name of Bigelow reported that “there is much trouble at the White House, as we call it — I mean the President’s House.”

So the president’s residence was referred to as the White House long before the building was officially named the White House.
It’s nickname didn’t become official until September of 1901 when President Theodore Roosevelt signed an executive order that designated the building “The White House.”
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Claire, like myself, had many jobs, and like me, couldn’t talk about most of them. But for a period of time she was a recruiter — she found “the right people for the right job.” Like everything she did, she was very good at it. In fact management wanted her to stay in that position permanently…. but that’s another story. 

The reason that I mentioned it was because in that position she was referred to as a “headhunter.” That and the fact that I saw a program on headhunters on TV the other night convinced me that the topic for today should be — headhunters. 

As opposed to Claire’s job, the term headhunter usually conjures up the practice of cutting off an enemy’s head and keeping it — and that’s been going on since the Stone Age.

Who came up with the brilliant idea to cut off their enemy’s head and keep it? According to the program I watched, headhunting might be barbaric, but there was (maybe) a good reason for doing it. Aboriginal Australians and tribes such as the Dayak in Borneo believed that the head contained the victim’s spirit or soul. They believed that taking the head took the essence of a person’s soul as well as his strength.

During the Qin Dynasty, Chinese soldiers carried the heads of conquered enemies into battle to frighten their foes. The heads also served as proof of their kills, which enabled the soldiers to be paid.

At the end of the TV program, the preview of the next episode indicated that headhunting wasn’t always associated with war — the ancient Celts incorporated it into fertility rites and other ritualistic practices. Unfortunately, I think I missed that next episode. 

It turns out that once you’ve got the head, it doesn’t take long for it to begin to decompose — that’s a problem for headhunters. Some headhunters kept only the skull — they cleaned and boiled the head to remove all the tissue and brain matter. Some cooked and ate parts of the head, and others preserved the heads — some of which are still in existence today.
In New Zealand, Maori headhunters removed the flesh from the skulls of their enemies, then smoked and dried it. That process preserved distinctive tribal tattoos, and made it possible to identify the deceased. Some of those heads were eventually sold to Europeans for private collections or museums.

Some of the best-preserved heads come from the Jivaro tribe of South America. These are shrunken heads — known as tsantsa. (The dictionary defines tsantsa as a shrunken head, specifically one prepared by a Jivaro Indian.) They are unique among headhunting trophies because of the way the Jivaro preserved them.
After killing and decapitating an enemy, the Jivaro cut and peeled the skin from the skull in one piece and discarded the skull. Then they turned the skin inside out and scraped it to remove the tissue. the skin was then boiled for as long as two hours to shrink it to about one-third its original size. After sewing the eyes closed and skewering the mouth shut, the Jivaro filled the skin with hot rocks, being careful not to burn it, and molded the skin as it cooled so it retained its features. Finally, they removed the rocks, filled the skin with hot sand, and finished the process with a smoking technique. What resulted was a small, hard, dark mass that was recognizable as a human head. I’m not sure about today, but a number of years ago, the Jivaro sold replicas of tsantsas to tourists. A friend of mine had one  — not sure if he still does.

There is evidence that some Allied soldiers took skulls as trophies and souvenirs during World War II, and there are at least rumors of similar practices during the Vietnam War. In 2001, the Borneo Dayaks practiced headhunting during conflicts with another ethnic group, the Madurese. Even today, reports of headhunting still surface occasionally, so if you find yourself in some remote location, it might be wise to “keep your head about you.”
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It seems like I’ve written a lot about some of our dinner parties lately. We had a lot over the years, and believe it or not, some of them went off without a hitch. Then, of course, there are the ones that make this blog — those are actually some of the most memorable ones. Another one that came to mind today was one that really went well…. but it’s another example of how well Claire was able to handle just about any situation.

I’ve mentioned that the last year we lived in Manila, we moved into a house in the suburbs from an apartment downtown. Our house was very nice and really much too large for just the two of us. But we had a lot of parties with large groups of people. On those occasions, several of the Filipinos that worked at the embassy would help out, by serving as bartenders and serving the food, etc. They were all super nice and they had dinner at our house numerous times. In fact, they felt so much at home, that when they helped out at dinner parties, they wandered around just like part of our family.

But one night we had “dignitaries” from Washington coming to our house for dinner, and Claire wanted it to be more formal than the normal parties we had.

I should mention that our house had a  “butler’s window” — a pass-through between the kitchen and the dining room. It was a small opening I would guess about a foot and a half by 2 feet. Instead of having all our Filipino helpers wandering in and out of the kitchen like they usually did, Claire stressed that she wanted all the courses — everything — to come through the butler’s window. All the help understood and said “no problem.”

When our guests arrived, we sat in the living room talking, and having cocktails and finger food. When it was announced that “dinner is served,” we all made our way to the dining room — all the guys from work had done an amazing job of setting the table. Claire had decided she would signal when we were ready for the next course of the meal by ringing a little silver bell (really classy, and in all honesty, a little out of character for Claire.) The first course was soup, and Claire rang her little silver bell. The butler’s window opened and a large covered soup bowl came through — followed by an arm — then a foot and a leg. Then came the head and upper body, then the other foot , leg and arm. Amazingly, there wasn’t a drop of soup spilled. Claire looked at me and I looked at her — and the guests broke into spontaneous applause. 

Claire excused herself momentarily and went into the kitchen. The remaining courses came through the butler’s window — but in the “normal” manner. 
Years later a friend told me that when the “dignitaries” returned to Washington, they told everyone that dinner at our house was the highlight of their trip.
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What did the snail say when it was riding on the tortoise’s back? Whee!
We’ve all heard the phrase “a snail’s pace,” but just how fast does a snail travel?

According to The World Almanac and Book of Facts, garden snails have a top speed of about .03 miles per hour.
However, in a championship snail race, called the Guinness Gastropod Championship, the snails were much slower. The course consisted of 13-inch track and the winner of the race was a snail named Archie, who made the trek in two minutes and 20 seconds.This comes out to 0.0053 miles per hour. 
Why, if this was a championship race did the snails run so slow? Maybe snails just lack ambition when it comes to competition. Maybe they would move faster if they thought their lives were in danger.

But if a typical snail moves like Archie, they might cover a yard in 6.4 minutes and they could make a mile in slightly less than eight days.
So I guess if you have a pet snail, you don’t have to worry about building a fence. You can just put him on the ground and there’s a good chance he’ll be pretty close to where you left him when you come back — of course that assumes no one steps on him…… 
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This has been a very hot summer here in Shepherdstown — lots of days of over 100 degrees. The weather is always a good topic for discussion, but any discussion about the weather is typically pretty boring. Heat waves like we’ve had this summer invariably encourage people to say things like “It’s so hot outside you can fry an egg on the sidewalk.” Most people know that the expression is an exaggeration — but can you really fry an egg on the sidewalk? I figured my extensive research should come up with the truth on this one…. here’s what I found.

Eggs must reach 144 to 158 degrees Fahrenheit to change from liquid to solid and be considered cooked, according to the American Egg Board. Even on the most extremely hot day summer days, the typical sidewalk falls way short of the 144 degrees necessary to fry an egg. 

A book, What Einstein Told His Cook: Kitchen Science Explained, by Robert Wolke says that pavement of any kind is a poor conductor of heat. When you crack an egg onto the pavement, the egg slightly cools the pavement’s surface. In order to fry an egg, the temperature of the sidewalk has to climb enough to start and maintain the coagulating process. If there is not a constant flame or source of heat from below or from the sides, pavement can’t maintain a temperature that’s hot enough to cook eggs evenly. About the best you can hope for is a runny mess.

All that said, frying an egg on the sidewalk isn’t impossible. There is a Solar Egg Frying Contest, held each Fourth of July in the town of Oatman, Arizona. People come from far and wide in hopes of winning a trophy for “the most edible” solar-cooked egg.

But technically, these people are cheating. Contestants are allowed to use mirrors, magnifying glasses, aluminum reflectors, and any kind of homemade cooking surface or contraption they can come up with to harness the power of the sun.And  Arizona in July is probably a good time and place to hold the contest — heat is high, humidity is low, and the liquid in the eggs dries out a little faster. 

Anyhow, we all agree that it’s been hot this summer, even if we don’t all agree that we could cook eggs on the sidewalk. Some people think it was so hot that we didn’t even need to worry about using the sidewalk — it was the kind of heat that would fry an egg inside the chicken…….
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