Just outside of Boston is a little parcel of land called Jamaica Plain. It has a small-to-medium pond there called, naturally, Jamaica Pond. The various rumors and legends about its name can be found in almost any Boston historical book, so we won't get into that.
You should, however, take a look at a map of the area. Technically, Jamaica Plain is part of Boston. But you'd never know it by looking. Downtown has several arms snaking out West, broad avenues leading directly into the heart of the city. But look. Look again. Tremont/Columbus? Veers left and shoots into Dorchester. Huntington? Hooks right into Brookline. Between Jamaica Pond and Boston, there's a twisting maze of old streets, a collection of arcane footpaths and one-way streets protecting NIMBY-style neighborhoods from traffic. You could dismiss these as a lack of urban planning, but I'd advise you to look further.
If you look at a map from 1630-1640, you can see some direct routes from the pond to downtown. Makes sense that You'd want the city to have easy access to one of the larger sources of fresh water in the area. But jump to 1772, and there it is. The main routes avoiding the pond have already been established, and the entwined intricacies of streets and lanes have been laid down. And note that those streets are firmly in place, more so than the surrounding towns of Roxbury, Mattapan, or Chestnut Hill. So why the change?
Maybe looking at the streets themselves would be helpful. Get a blow up of the section bounded by the Arborway/Jamaicaway, Heath Street, and Washington. Now orient it so Centre St is more or less straight left-to-right. Look what happens when you start at Parley Ave, and trace it around Parley Vale and then around Robinwood Lane? See anything odd? There doesn't seem to be any good reason for that spur coming off Robinwood. Unless you complete the circuit to Rockview. That, my friends, is clearly the sigil for the demon Bael. It's unmistakable. From there, you can find others in close proximity: Myrtle Street to Burroughs via Eliot is Naberius. Lamartine, through Glenvale Terrace to the corner of Spring Park and Burr is Cimerus. The whole Revere/Elm/Sedgwick clusterfuck is a tight grouping of Agares, Eligos, Marax, and Halphas.
There is, however, one clear, straight line on the entire map. Start at the pond, find Green Street. Now follow its unbreaking, clear path. And when you trace that arrow-straight road, you find yourself at... Forest Hills Cemetary.
More to come
*eagerly awaits more*
Hell yes
and now I'm even more terrified of the East coast.
LMNO - Like Lovecraft, but with twice as many initials and no surname :eek:
Quote from: P3nT4gR4m on November 30, 2012, 09:29:57 PM
LMNO - Like Lovecraft, but with twice as many initials and no surname :eek:
Well, giving a surname to Bostonians is sort of like naming a lamb. It only leads to heartbreak in the spring.
So this is what you were referring to in the Marrowman thread. Excellent, I'm glad it came to you.
Niiiice
I always knew there was something seriously off whenever I would go through the JP. :argh!:
Several excavations have uncovered evidence that Boston has been inhabited since about 5000 BCE. Curiously, while much evidence has been found of human habitation on the peninsula of Boston, curiously few habitats are found near Jamaica Pond. Instead, there has been evidence of great fires obviously staged, and not naturally occurring around the pond. When the Puritans arrived in 1633, the immediately began scouring for resources, and thought they found it in abundance near the pond. However, the Wampanoag rebuffed their attempts to establish any sort of outpost near it. As found in Willaim Smythe's personal records from 1675:
"Moƒt diƒtreƒƒing iƒ the ƒavageƒ refuƒal to allow uƒ acceƒƒ to freƒh water in the vicinity of the pond to the Weƒt. They have ƒome ƒtrange ƒuperƒtition regarding the land ƒurrounding it, aƒ well aƒ the pond itƒelf. Unleƒƒ they relent, I'm afraid our Govenor will take very ƒtrict meaƒureƒ regarding their behaviour."
The resulting conflict became widely known as "King Philips' War", aka "Metacomet's War", where over 3,000 Native Americans were killed, and approximately 600 colonists. The fighting raged all over the New England colonies, but there was a peculiarly strong resistance right outside of Boston. A significant amount of casualties were accrued during fierce night time raids, where under the cover of darkness the Native warriors apparently went berserk, attacking both friends and foes in the most horrible of ways. After hours of terrible howling and screaming, the morning sun would bring new horrors; severed limbs, eviscerated torsos, odd chunks of missing flesh from legs, shoulders, chests. Some of the injuries were explained as post-mortem, caused by wild animals... But there were whispers of savagery unheard of in these Northern climates. Cannibalism. And worse.
Even when Metacom's forces had been defeated, the settlers still experienced periodic night raids that terrorized the farms and residences that had developed around the pond. The militias were unable to catch the raiding warriors: Their tracks were usually obliterated by large gouges in the soft earth, and what trail they could follow inevitably led to the water's edge, and were lost beneath the dark, peaceful ripples.
The bodies that were left were taken down Green Street, and given a proper burial. New land was eventually appropriated to accommodate the steady volume.
More to come
Loving it!
And very true!
New Bedford, Part I
If you want to learn the truth of an area, you ask the historians. Every little town has them, especially in New England, and they'll give you the truth of the dates and the names, the truth of the people. You'll learn a lot of you ask one, but you won't learn the story. If you want to learn the story, you ask the children.
In New Bedford and nearby, if you ask them about the Acushnet River they'll all say the same thing. You shouldn't go swimming in it. Don't eat the fish. They'll tell you it's because the mills in the area dumped chemicals into it years back. That much is true, but that much you can learn from the Take Notice signs along the river's banks.
You shouldn't go swimming in it. Don't eat the fish. That goes back before those mills.
The first explorers landed in the area in 1602. The leader of the expedition, Bartholomew Gosnold, traveled down the coast from Maine to Massachusetts. He named Cape Cod and he named Martha's Vineyard. He stopped at Cuttyhunk and, upon exploring the nearby land around the Acushnet River, abruptly went home. Gosnold sought to return to the New World – to Jamestown, Virginia, a wish he was granted. He did not return to New England.
It took fifty years after the land around the Acushnet River was first explored to finally settle it. Plenty long for a generation to have come and gone and forgotten why it was left alone the first time. The Wampanoags were old enough to know it in their bones to leave the river be, but the settlers took the superstitions of their elders and the local savages to mean little.
Acushnet was misinterpreted by the settlers when the land was dubiously purchased from Massasoit. They thought the word cushnea referred to the river's name. In fact, it was a specification meaning "as far as the waters." The tract of land settled would become New Bedford and its surrounding towns.
If the settlers could, if they knew to ask the story of the land from the Wampanoag children, they would discover cushnea was a warning as well. As far as the waters. No further.
Well, guys, this is CREEPY AS FUCK.
I'm really liking this. I'll see if I can come up with some more. I might use Brook Farm if I can come up with something.
ETA: 6th attempt to post. Fucking internet.
Providence Part I:
"What Cheer?"
Once upon a time, there was a man named Roger Williams. You may have heard of him, you may not have. In case you haven't, Mr. Williams was the bane of the Massachusettes Bay Colony. A well-educated Protestant theologian from London, he believed strongly in the idea of freedom of religion, and was adamant to preach to the non-budging puritan zealots between Massachusettes Bay and Plimoth. As was the case of several other famous exile's to the Penal Colony of Rhode's Island in Narragansett Bay, including the brash Anne Hutchinson, Williams was cast out of the colonies, and sent South to the Island...Which he fought every. Step. Of. The. Way.
You see, There *IS* A Rhode Island. Today, we call it Aquidneck Island, and it houses the ancient townes of Newport, Middletown, and Portsmouth. Newport wasn't exactly what it is today. It was a rough sailing town, big among slave traders, rum runners, and pirates. Captain Kidd and Thomas Tew were, for instance, "locals," and rumors of their treasures still circulate among the townies, but we'll get there. Middletown, is exactly what it is today: a ghetto for the working class poor, most exiles from Massachusettes Bay and Plimoth, or those that tried to find a new life on the shores of New England and found themselves stuck in Hell. Portsmouth was home to Anne Hutchinson, and others who had the capital to sustain themselves on private farms and vineyards. It too, hasn't changed much.
The story is that Williams never made it to Rhode Island. He crossed the Seekonk River into the swampy lands of what is now East Providence, and was told he needed to leave, as it was still Massachusettes Bay. Roger Williams may have been the exact reason why the Commonwealth of Massachusetts up until about 3 years ago, had within it's constitution, that any citizen of Rhode Island found crossing the border into Massachusettes Bay were to be shot on sight. I'm not entirely sure if anyone had ever exercised that right in the modern era and tried to get away with it, but I digress...
Williams was pushed back into his boat, and fled across the Seekonk, desperate to not have to travel the length of the bay to Rhode's Island, he made it to the opposite shore, and walked through the dense forest before coming down a surprisingly steep hill to a smaller river which fed into a larger that he was unaware existed, and seemed to be lacking from any maps of the time.
"Moshassuck!"
He very well could have ran into his death.
There, waiting by the side of this narrow river, was a group of Narragansett, with their chief, Canonicus.
Unlike their cousins, the Wampanoag, the Narragansetts were not friendly to the whites. Local legend has claimed that it was the friendly Wampanoags that aided the Pilgrims during the first Thanksgiving, and it was the Narragansetts that ate the Pilgrims. Obviously, we know the story of Thanksgiving is quite bunk these days, but that alone makes newcomers to Rhode Island today better understand the relationship between the different tribes. Despite both being Algonquin, Wampanoag = Good. Narragansett = Bad.
"What cheer, netop?"
Canonicus approached Williams, exhibiting a mismatched language of England and Narragansett. Williams found this curious. How would these...savages...know the language of the settlers? Especially in these uncharted lands?
"What...cheer, netop." He replied. Only knowing that "netop" was the local word for "friend" from within a small journal he kept with him of native words, in the event such a situation would arise. Shaking, Williams reached for his journal: leather bound vellum, one of the few prized possessions he was allowed during his evacuation of Massachusettes Bay.
"In the year of our Lord, 1636...It is now, I find divine Providence."
To be continued.
All of these things, are good things.
Rhode's Island, Part I:
Anne Hutchinson lived a tragic life. Although puritan, she found herself amidst serious controversy up in Massachusettes Bay. She was a woman. The root of all sin and evil. And she was being exceptionally unorthodox as such by holding Bible study groups in her house for other women. There, she began to formulate her own ideas on religion...until someone found out.
Thrown into a whirlwind of conspiracy and trials, Hutchinson was told to pack her bags, and leave. Bringing with her a large family, it would be exceptionally dangerous to leave Boston through unsettled dense New England forest at the onset of winter. At this time, she had heard of Roger Williams, and his infant colony known only as "Providence," and sought to seek shelter there briefly before moving on.
The Island of Rhodes. Or Rogues, maybe, is almost dead center in Narragansett Bay. Surrounded by dangerous shoals and elevated atop rocky cliffs, this is where the Hutchinson family was destined. For now. Newport was a nightmare, hardly the place to raise a child...So they founded a new town: Portsmouth, at the North end of the island, away from any dangerous free-thinking men that could endanger the family. Here, the Hutchinsons befriended local Narragansetts, and established a small, working farm among the rolling hills of Rhode's.
That's...when things starting happening.
Narragansett Bay has long been the center of many dangerous tales from the natives, many of them echoed by the rum runners and pirates of Newport. There was something in that water. The bay is deep and craggy, even on calm days it seems unusually rough, and it's not unusual for it to freeze clear across in a harsh winter. Saltwater freezing. Think about that. I've seen it happen, and today it still boggles my mind. Icebergs, sure, but the entire bay FREEZES. I could walk from Bonnet Shores to Jamestown, and Jamestown to Newport on frigid January day.
Hutchinson suffered her last pregnancy while in Portsmouth, if you could call it that. It is documented that she gave birth to what is described as, and I quote, "A bunch of translucent grapes." This is now a medical condition explained as Hydatidiform mole, but to the superstitious puritan family, isolated from civilization at the north end of an island inhabited by savages and criminals, this was dire. But, it wasn't the only strange occurrence. Two of her children disappeared, one after the other, on a foggy morning near the shoreline. They were never found, but local lore today says that when the sea fog rolls in over the Portsmouth beaches, you can often hear the sound of young children laughing and playing game of tag.
This was too much for the Hutchinson brood, and they chose, again, to move. This time away from the jurisdiction of the English, to the lands of the Dutch to the West, in the New Amsterdam Colony. They made it to Port Chester, in what is now New York close to the Connecticut border, and, without money, sought shelter in an abandoned home for the winter months before they could build their own come spring.
This turned deadly.
The natives of the Dutch colonies were not as...amiable as those of the English. The Wampanoags and Narragansetts had come to accept the white settlers, but these tribes did not. Anne, her husband, and her remaining children, were massacred on a rock near Long Island Sound, with no one within earshot to help, and no knowledge of the Low German language, they were ripped apart while still alive, and died at the hands of savages. You can visit the rock today in Port Chester, which, by entire coincidence, is the town in which the English members of the Suu Family settled first in their passage to the New York Colony some years later.
Quote from: Suu on December 05, 2012, 03:57:19 AM
The natives of the Dutch colonies were not as...amiable as those of the English. The Wampanoags and Narragansetts had come to accept the white settlers, but these tribes did not. Anne, her husband, and her remaining children, were massacred on a rock near Long Island Sound, with no one within earshot to help, and no knowledge of the Low German language, they were ripped apart while still alive, and died at the hands of savages. You can visit the rock today in Port Chester, which, by entire coincidence, is the town in which the English members of the Suu Family settled first in their passage to the New York Colony some years later.
Wow! That's really interesting, Suu!
These are great. I can't wait to read what's next! :)
Quote from: LMNO, PhD (life continues) on November 30, 2012, 04:00:30 PM
Just outside of Boston is a little parcel of land called Jamaica Plain. It has a small-to-medium pond there called, naturally, Jamaica Pond. The various rumors and legends about its name can be found in almost any Boston historical book, so we won't get into that.
You should, however, take a look at a map of the area. Technically, Jamaica Plain is part of Boston. But you'd never know it by looking. Downtown has several arms snaking out West, broad avenues leading directly into the heart of the city. But look. Look again. Tremont/Columbus? Veers left and shoots into Dorchester. Huntington? Hooks right into Brookline. Between Jamaica Pond and Boston, there's a twisting maze of old streets, a collection of arcane footpaths and one-way streets protecting NIMBY-style neighborhoods from traffic. You could dismiss these as a lack of urban planning, but I'd advise you to look further.
If you look at a map from 1630-1640, you can see some direct routes from the pond to downtown. Makes sense that You'd want the city to have easy access to one of the larger sources of fresh water in the area. But jump to 1772, and there it is. The main routes avoiding the pond have already been established, and the entwined intricacies of streets and lanes have been laid down. And note that those streets are firmly in place, more so than the surrounding towns of Roxbury, Mattapan, or Chestnut Hill. So why the change?
Maybe looking at the streets themselves would be helpful. Get a blow up of the section bounded by the Arborway/Jamaicaway, Heath Street, and Washington. Now orient it so Centre St is more or less straight left-to-right. Look what happens when you start at Parley Ave, and trace it around Parley Vale and then around Robinwood Lane? See anything odd? There doesn't seem to be any good reason for that spur coming off Robinwood. Unless you complete the circuit to Rockview. That, my friends, is clearly the sigil for the demon Bael. It's unmistakable. From there, you can find others in close proximity: Myrtle Street to Burroughs via Eliot is Naberius. Lamartine, through Glenvale Terrace to the corner of Spring Park and Burr is Cimerus. The whole Revere/Elm/Sedgwick clusterfuck is a tight grouping of Agares, Eligos, Marax, and Halphas.
There is, however, one clear, straight line on the entire map. Start at the pond, find Green Street. Now follow its unbreaking, clear path. And when you trace that arrow-straight road, you find yourself at... Forest Hills Cemetary.
More to come
Quote from: LMNO, PhD (life continues) on December 04, 2012, 03:59:15 PM
Several excavations have uncovered evidence that Boston has been inhabited since about 5000 BCE. Curiously, while much evidence has been found of human habitation on the peninsula of Boston, curiously few habitats are found near Jamaica Pond. Instead, there has been evidence of great fires obviously staged, and not naturally occurring around the pond. When the Puritans arrived in 1633, the immediately began scouring for resources, and thought they found it in abundance near the pond. However, the Wampanoag rebuffed their attempts to establish any sort of outpost near it. As found in Willaim Smythe's personal records from 1675:
"Moƒt diƒtreƒƒing iƒ the ƒavageƒ refuƒal to allow uƒ acceƒƒ to freƒh water in the vicinity of the pond to the Weƒt. They have ƒome ƒtrange ƒuperƒtition regarding the land ƒurrounding it, aƒ well aƒ the pond itƒelf. Unleƒƒ they relent, I'm afraid our Govenor will take very ƒtrict meaƒureƒ regarding their behaviour."
The resulting conflict became widely known as "King Philips' War", aka "Metacomet's War", where over 3,000 Native Americans were killed, and approximately 600 colonists. The fighting raged all over the New England colonies, but there was a peculiarly strong resistance right outside of Boston. A significant amount of casualties were accrued during fierce night time raids, where under the cover of darkness the Native warriors apparently went berserk, attacking both friends and foes in the most horrible of ways. After hours of terrible howling and screaming, the morning sun would bring new horrors; severed limbs, eviscerated torsos, odd chunks of missing flesh from legs, shoulders, chests. Some of the injuries were explained as post-mortem, caused by wild animals... But there were whispers of savagery unheard of in these Northern climates. Cannibalism. And worse.
Even when Metacom's forces had been defeated, the settlers still experienced periodic night raids that terrorized the farms and residences that had developed around the pond. The militias were unable to catch the raiding warriors: Their tracks were usually obliterated by large gouges in the soft earth, and what trail they could follow inevitably led to the water's edge, and were lost beneath the dark, peaceful ripples.
The bodies that were left were taken down Green Street, and given a proper burial. New land was eventually appropriated to accommodate the steady volume.
More to come
That's so creepy. I love 'em! Especially the idea of the trails ending at the water. That's awesome.
Quote from: Eater of Clowns on December 05, 2012, 12:25:32 AM
New Bedford, Part I
If you want to learn the truth of an area, you ask the historians. Every little town has them, especially in New England, and they'll give you the truth of the dates and the names, the truth of the people. You'll learn a lot of you ask one, but you won't learn the story. If you want to learn the story, you ask the children.
In New Bedford and nearby, if you ask them about the Acushnet River they'll all say the same thing. You shouldn't go swimming in it. Don't eat the fish. They'll tell you it's because the mills in the area dumped chemicals into it years back. That much is true, but that much you can learn from the Take Notice signs along the river's banks.
You shouldn't go swimming in it. Don't eat the fish. That goes back before those mills.
The first explorers landed in the area in 1602. The leader of the expedition, Bartholomew Gosnold, traveled down the coast from Maine to Massachusetts. He named Cape Cod and he named Martha's Vineyard. He stopped at Cuttyhunk and, upon exploring the nearby land around the Acushnet River, abruptly went home. Gosnold sought to return to the New World – to Jamestown, Virginia, a wish he was granted. He did not return to New England.
It took fifty years after the land around the Acushnet River was first explored to finally settle it. Plenty long for a generation to have come and gone and forgotten why it was left alone the first time. The Wampanoags were old enough to know it in their bones to leave the river be, but the settlers took the superstitions of their elders and the local savages to mean little.
Acushnet was misinterpreted by the settlers when the land was dubiously purchased from Massasoit. They thought the word cushnea referred to the river's name. In fact, it was a specification meaning "as far as the waters." The tract of land settled would become New Bedford and its surrounding towns.
If the settlers could, if they knew to ask the story of the land from the Wampanoag children, they would discover cushnea was a warning as well. As far as the waters. No further.
Fantastic writing, EoC! You guys make me want to visit Boston sometime. (I've been there before but just for an overnight layover. But I did like those couple of blocks it took me to walk from my hotel to a Chinese restaurant and back!)
Rosicrucian Freemasons officially were given leave to set up shop in Philadelphia in 1694, but they had been running around the colonies like gadflies for at least a decade prior, trying to find a place to establish themselves. A Mason named Henry Price travelled to Boston in 1681 to scout around. He found lodgings with an interesting group of people known as the Moravians.
These people were a spin-off church started by Emmanuel Swedenborg, a Swedish self-proclaimed "Christian Mystic" who declared that the Lord had giving him the ability to see through reality into the spirit world and converse with angels and demons. He also had what could be called "unconventional" ideas regarding marriage, the Trinity, and what he referred to as "sensual bodies" which today we would most closely associate with Tantra. Most of these latter theories were kept secret to outsiders, but considering what the Rosicrucians believed, Price was able to get along comfortably with the Moravians, in particular a young man named John Chapman.
Price and Chapman became fast friends, and would spend their evenings exploring Boston: Price to see if there were any New World ley lines in the area, and Chapman tracking down pockets of psychic energies. Wouldn't you know it, about four-and-a-half miles outside the city, Price's calculations and Chapman's resonances lined up. At the next full moon, they travelled out to the pond. No known record exists of that night.
It was the following week that the streets started to be built between the pond and the city. Minutes from the Council of Assistants at the time note that the two men made a passionate appeal to build a series of roadways off the peninsula, and onto the mainland to facilitate further settlement. The measure passed unanimously, in part due to Chapman's eloquent rhetoric, recorded in part:
Our God, who keepƒ uƒ and protectƒ uƒ, shall lead uƒ down thiƒ Great Road of Proƒperity; and shall drive the wicked and the demonƒ into labyrinthƒ like Minoƒ did the Minotaur
Price did his best to guide the planners to design a so-called "optimal" street system, but still had to make some late night "adjustments" to the blueprints. Indeed, if you look over the original plans (found in the Boston Public Library's archives), there are small corrections and deviations that, to a well-trained occultist eye, become significant when looked at from a grand scale. And even so, there were rumors of survey markers being moved at night...
This is becoming much larger in scope than I thought - it's awesome.
I've been digging up all kinds of crazy things since LMNO asked me to jump in on this. I always knew New England was creepy, but not THIS creepy.
Quote from: Suu on December 06, 2012, 04:50:38 PM
I've been digging up all kinds of crazy things since LMNO asked me to jump in on this. I always knew New England was creepy, but not THIS creepy.
Schollay Square in Boston was forcibly evacuated (20,000 people) and torn down. No real reason was ever given.
The City government buildings now stand where it was.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Miller_(preacher)
This guy was mixed up in the Schollay Square thing, owning the original property the old Howard Theater rested on. He was discredited when the world failed to end, and moved on. Some of his disciples went missing en masse at some point before then. "Millerites" continued to spread out from the area, even after Miller's prophecies didn't come true.
New England is absolutely, deliciously creepy. Even Lynn/Salem/Peabody has weird undercurrents.
Boston also has the honor of having the worst baseball player ever.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pat_Creeden
The theme of the creepy thing about New England being the land itself I'm just now picking up from Twid and LMNO's recent writings. All the strange people and events as only byproducts of a fucked up place.
Quote from: Eater of Clowns on December 06, 2012, 05:09:39 PM
The theme of the creepy thing about New England being the land itself I'm just now picking up from Twid and LMNO's recent writings. All the strange people and events as only byproducts of a fucked up place.
Welcome to Tucson. :lulz:
Actually, I think it's really more that Boston is and was a collection point for people who couldn't get along in their own countries...IE, weirdos.
Also, Irish people everywhere.
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on December 06, 2012, 04:58:54 PM
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Miller_(preacher)
This guy was mixed up in the Schollay Square thing, owning the original property the old Howard Theater rested on. He was discredited when the world failed to end, and moved on. Some of his disciples went missing en masse at some point before then. "Millerites" continued to spread out from the area, even after Miller's prophecies didn't come true.
The Millerites split into factions which, ultimately lead to the formation of The Jehovah's Witness and the Seventh Day Adventists.
Quote from: Mangrove on December 06, 2012, 05:46:32 PM
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on December 06, 2012, 04:58:54 PM
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Miller_(preacher)
This guy was mixed up in the Schollay Square thing, owning the original property the old Howard Theater rested on. He was discredited when the world failed to end, and moved on. Some of his disciples went missing en masse at some point before then. "Millerites" continued to spread out from the area, even after Miller's prophecies didn't come true.
The Millerites split into factions which, ultimately lead to the formation of The Jehovah's Witness and the Seventh Day Adventists.
Yep. And it's BOSTON'S FAULT.
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on December 06, 2012, 05:39:22 PM
Quote from: Eater of Clowns on December 06, 2012, 05:09:39 PM
The theme of the creepy thing about New England being the land itself I'm just now picking up from Twid and LMNO's recent writings. All the strange people and events as only byproducts of a fucked up place.
Welcome to Tucson. :lulz:
Actually, I think it's really more that Boston is and was a collection point for people who couldn't get along in their own countries...IE, weirdos.
Also, Irish people everywhere.
In Tucson?
But Tucson has...sun. Lots and lots of SUN.
Quote from: TEXAS FAIRIES FOR ALL YOU SPAGS on December 06, 2012, 05:49:00 PM
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on December 06, 2012, 05:39:22 PM
Quote from: Eater of Clowns on December 06, 2012, 05:09:39 PM
The theme of the creepy thing about New England being the land itself I'm just now picking up from Twid and LMNO's recent writings. All the strange people and events as only byproducts of a fucked up place.
Welcome to Tucson. :lulz:
Actually, I think it's really more that Boston is and was a collection point for people who couldn't get along in their own countries...IE, weirdos.
Also, Irish people everywhere.
In Tucson?
But Tucson has...sun. Lots and lots of SUN.
Bolded for clarification.
And we have no Irish or Italian people here. The heat ignites their blood/alcohol stream and their spray tan, respectively.
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on December 06, 2012, 05:50:15 PM
Quote from: TEXAS FAIRIES FOR ALL YOU SPAGS on December 06, 2012, 05:49:00 PM
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on December 06, 2012, 05:39:22 PM
Quote from: Eater of Clowns on December 06, 2012, 05:09:39 PM
The theme of the creepy thing about New England being the land itself I'm just now picking up from Twid and LMNO's recent writings. All the strange people and events as only byproducts of a fucked up place.
Welcome to Tucson. :lulz:
Actually, I think it's really more that Boston is and was a collection point for people who couldn't get along in their own countries...IE, weirdos.
Also, Irish people everywhere.
In Tucson?
But Tucson has...sun. Lots and lots of SUN.
Bolded for clarification.
And we have no Irish or Italian people here. The heat ignites their blood/alcohol stream and their spray tan, respectively.
Ah, gotcha.
Yes, they have a bronze statue of starving potato famine victims in downtown Boston somewhere.
And pubs. Lots of pubs.
Texas is sorely lacking in Italians, but we do have mongrelized Irish. They're forgotten how to make corned beef and cabbage, drink green beer and pinch people on St. Paddy's, and so have forgotten their Irishness.
This place is predominantly English/German/Bohunk though. EVERYBODY POLKAAAAAAA!!!!!!!
Tucson, from what I've seen, also seems to have near-unidentifiable caucasians.
Quote from: TEXAS FAIRIES FOR ALL YOU SPAGS on December 06, 2012, 05:55:25 PM
Yes, they have a bronze statue of starving potato famine victims in downtown Boston somewhere.
Well, saves on bronze, right?
Quote from: TEXAS FAIRIES FOR ALL YOU SPAGS on December 06, 2012, 05:55:25 PM
Tucson, from what I've seen, also seems to have near-unidentifiable caucasians.
All the ethnicity bleeds out of you when you come here. There is no Irish, no German, no Black, no Hispanic. There is only Tucson.
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on December 06, 2012, 05:57:13 PM
Quote from: TEXAS FAIRIES FOR ALL YOU SPAGS on December 06, 2012, 05:55:25 PM
Yes, they have a bronze statue of starving potato famine victims in downtown Boston somewhere.
Well, saves on bronze, right?
Yep. :lol:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/imfedore/363157220/
note: as of 2001, all public toilets on this block cost fifty cents IIRCQuote
Quote from: TEXAS FAIRIES FOR ALL YOU SPAGS on December 06, 2012, 05:55:25 PM
Tucson, from what I've seen, also seems to have near-unidentifiable caucasians.
All the ethnicity bleeds out of you when you come here. There is no Irish, no German, no Black, no Hispanic. There is only Tucson.
It's like Lennon's "Imagine" on bad acid. :lulz:
There's still Navajos. But they fight tooth and nail hanging on to that.
We have a Potato Famine monument too.
http://www.rifaminememorial.com/
Providence doesn't get half as much credit for shit that happened, here. One of my next tales will be about the revolution after I finish Roger Williams' history.
Quote from: Suu on December 06, 2012, 07:30:39 PM
We have a Potato Famine monument too.
For all the Italians that died? :?
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on December 06, 2012, 07:32:21 PM
Quote from: Suu on December 06, 2012, 07:30:39 PM
We have a Potato Famine monument too.
For all the Italians that died? :?
49% of Providence is of Irish decent, 47% is Italian, and the rest are like Portuguese and Armenian. We don't know where the Irish are hiding, but we assume NOT on Federal Hill, no matter what the fucking show "Brotherhood" told you.
Quote from: Suu on December 06, 2012, 07:48:52 PM
49% of Providence is of Irish decent,
The Irish are not decent.
When you think of Boston in the 1700s, the first thing that comes to mind is the revolution, naturally. But two other events happened in that century, as well.
Around 1750, the farms surrounding Boston started recording an unexpected drop in dairy and egg production, as well as a spike in malformed livestock births. The atmosphere in and around the city was palpable, and the weather patterns for the next several years were unusual and unpredictable, even for New England.
Henry Price had been able to establish St John's Lodge for Freemasons in 1733, and rose to prominence as the "Provincial Grand Master", due to both his charitable works, as well as certain clandestine and occult reports sent to the Grand Lodge of England regarding the Pond, and his attempts to quell and contain what he and Chapman found there.
Unfortunately, he may very well have done too good a job, as in 1755, the New England area suffered a massive earthquake. Studies of the historical record estimate it was between a 6.0 and a 6.3, the largest quake the area has ever seen, or seen since. The destruction to the city was massive, as the landfill in the harbor was still quite unsteady at the time. Chimneys toppled, churches collapsed, and St John's Lodge was all but wiped from the face of the earth, some accounts going so far as to report that it imploded. Other reports, reflected in later woodcuts and newspaper illustrations, show strange shapes and shadows in the sky as the buildings fell.
Outside the city, the small cottages and other buildings remained upright, but many stone fences and border walls fell, scattering their stones across fields and gardens, some of which were collected by the citizenry for their unusual shapes and characteristics, not often found in the slate and conglomerate local to the area. The damage was particularly severe what is now the Jamaica Plain neighborhood, located – you guessed it – in the area surrounding the Pond. Minutes from subsequent Lodge meetings indicate an anxious concern and a concerted effort to rebuilding these walls. However, as Price was injured in the earthquake, he was not able to join the surveyor's team as it canvassed the countryside, straightening and leveling the intricate and twisting pathways.
In the wake of the earthquake, religious fervor in the area blossomed. Not only in revivals and church attendance, but various books and pamphlets were produced, such as Thomas Prince's Earthquakes: the Works of God and Tokens of his Just Displeasure, and John Newland's Coming of Thee Beast Among Us: Signs and Portents. Pastors urged their congregations to give up on superstitions, saying that God was punishing them due to their superstitions and sinful behavior. In 1760, at least a dozen Protestant churches gathered in Boston Common, where hundreds of good luck charms and talismans, previously considered harmless, were destroyed during the feast of St Patrick on March 17.
On March 20, 349 buildings were destroyed and thousands of people were killed when a fire ripped through the city. Very few writings survive, but those that exist all use common words and phrases, such as "wrath", and "unholy flames", and describe how many of the citizens suffered from hallucinations brought on by toxic landfill, seeing visions of "devils" and "demonic creatures." The following day saw a doubling of crews tasked with rebuilding the walls and fences in and around Jamaica Plain.
This is the kind of awesomeness that, if it was a book, I'd read nonstop and not sleep until I finished.
Thanks! I'm learning quite a bit about the city, myself. I'm actually researching this shit!
That whole North Shore is layer upon layer of weirdness. Very cool seeing this!
You're really tying the odd bits of history together beautifully.
Quote from: LMNO, PhD (life continues) on December 12, 2012, 05:51:27 PM
Thanks! I'm learning quite a bit about the city, myself. I'm actually researching this shit!
It's great. Even that little bit I researched at your suggestion increased my knowledge of the area. I'm having trouble with the next piece because after its founding, my area was of such historical insignificance that it didn't rate much recording for another hundred or two years.
That's an easy fix. Make something up, tie it into surrounding history.
You can always fall back on the Native genocide, curses, "found" documents, etc.
After the revolution, Boston did quite well for itself. As a trading port, it was very successful, and when manufacturing began to bloom around 1820 or so, things really took off. Slavery had been abolished in 1783which allowed African Americans the freedom to move about and establish their own trades and thrive, although social mobility was, understandably, still quite limited.
And speaking of social mobility, by the 1840s, what became known as the "Boston Brahmin" had more or less fully developed. An unofficial aristocracy, the Brahmins consisted of a handful of families, grossly wealthy, privately educated, married amongst their own, and cultivated a distinct accent (think Audrey Hepburn at her most regal). They were reputed to be philanthropists, community leaders, and supporters of the arts. They also decried the crass commercialism of the day, although this must be looked at with a closer eye, considering their vast collective wealth.
They began building large houses outside of the city proper, mansions built in tastefully arrogant locations. One such location was surrounding Jamaica Pond. After several houses had been built within view of the waters, a de facto gated community had arisen – not physically gated, but the Brahmin presence, as well as their private security, ensured that none of the rabble ventured near (not that they did, much. There were still tales told to children who lived in the area about spooks and devils that lived in the lake, and save for the very foolish or brave, the pond did not see many visitors).
The seasonal soirees at these mansions (often on or around the solstice and equinox) were much-discussed, primarily because they were closed to the public, taking place in ballrooms located deep within the mansion walls. Speculation over what went on at these parties ranged from next season's fashion trends to politics and economics. The only things that were really known were that celebrations ran well past midnight, and that they always ended with the guests promenading down to the pond, where, after a few brief and unheard words, they dispersed.
Another interesting fact to know was that, even though the population soared from 10,000 to 136,000 by 1850, the rates of childhood mortality were staggering. Much of it was obviously from cramped spaces and poor hygiene, but the rates of violent death or "misadventure" were unusually high, as compared to other regional areas. The timeframes are also peculiar, as a high number of the children's bodies were found in April, July, October, and January... all of which are in the months following a solstice or equinox.
Just. Fucking. Masterful! :eek:
I'm enjoying the hell out of this. I'm having to physically restrain myself from riffing, because I don't want to fuck up the vibe.
I still have about a hundred years to go, but you can bet I'm going to reveal the TRUTH about Scollay Square.
Quote from: LMNO, PhD (life continues) on December 21, 2012, 02:56:02 PM
I still have about a hundred years to go, but you can bet I'm going to reveal the TRUTH about Scollay Square.
Hell yes.
New Bedford, Part II
Old Dartmouth was the name of the little town that came from the dubious land purchase around the Acushnet River. It encompassed what is now today Dartmouth, Westport, Acushnet, New Bedford, and Fairhaven. A number of Quaker meeting halls, many of which still stand today, were established by the colonists. One such hall, existing presently as a dilapidated stone shell by the public works plant in Fairhaven, holds the dubious distinction of not being recognized by their local Quaker fellows.
The Alagonsett Meeting House had its cornerstone laid in 1675 by Josiah Bossenfeld. His family and neighbors reported his peculiar drive to build in the odd location followed a deadly encounter with a native Wampanoag.
Late one night Bossenfeld awoke in a sweat and stupor. Unable to calm or communicate with him, his wife and son watched him walk out into the darkness. As he came nearer to to a small inlet on his land, he spied the Wampanoag, called Alagonsett, standing vigil. None of Bossenfeld's shakey testimoney could shed light on why he slew the other man, but the following day he dug a fine big stone from his land and laid it on the very same spot. Neglecting his work for weeks, Josiah built, stone by stone, what became Alagonsett Meeting House.
King Phillip's War took Josiah when Dartmouth was attacked on July 8th of that same year. It was his son Jacob who, years later, initiated the gatherings at his father's hall. Despite its condemnation from members of the nearby Smith Neck, Allens Neck, and Apponegansett Meeting Houses, a number of area residents heeded Jacob's call. Alagonsett, for unknown reasons, stood notorious even among the Quakers' accepting practitioners.
Shortly thereafter, what was no more than a loose affiliation of farm oriented townships around the Acushnet River became an increasingly populated area beginning its journey to historical significance. The time prior to the incorporation of Westport, Fairhaven, Acushnet, and New Bedford was marked with increased hostilities between neighbors and estrangement between the villages. Still, it would be nearly a century of the quiet mistrust, the rumors of curses and hobbled men, before New Bedford would emerge unto its own.
I'm with Roger - I don't have anything to add to this thread other than mittens but EOC is bringing it!
I like the ominous, yet mostly innocuous, tone of EOCs. As they say, "I like where this thread is going."
The late 19th and early 20th century saw a large influx of immigrants to Boston from the Caribbean islands, as well as an increase in the production of molasses, which was (besides being used as a popular sweetener) distilled to make alcohol for munitions; and of course, its tastier counterpart, rum. In fact, one of the origin stories for Jamaica Plain is that it refers to that town's preference for rum ("Jamaica") neat, without any mixer ("Plain"). It was used partially as a description, and partly as an epithet, as the new immigrants gravitated towards that area, and was split off from Roxbury in 1851.
Smaller houses began appearing around the pond, much to the Brahmin's distain, and there was a brief period of "white flight" from the area which resulted, by 1873, in the area being almost completely populated by people from the islands (with the exception of working-class Irish, but hey, they were everywhere).
Of course, people bring their cultures with them, and by the early 1900's a casual observer would begin to see small additions to the local churches. Mirrors became more prevalent, as did offerings left at the feet of Mary and/or Jesus. Evening Mass became very popular, often lasting late into the night, with congregants singing, dancing, and praying in their original language accompanied by music and drumming. Of course, soon enough followed rumors of more "questionable" activities taking place after hours. Whispers of devil worship and sacrifices filled the local pubs in neighboring towns.
Things came to a head on Christmas night in 1918. The police "happened" to encounter a Midnight Mass on Pond Street, and made a gruesome discovery:
"Inside, the Police found thirty to forty Negros engaged in lewd and ungodly acts while half-score drummers hammered out a primitive rhythm. Spatters of blood drenched the base of the Virgin Mary's statue, with a slain goat lay at her feet." – Boston
Post, December 27, 1918
The police arrested those inside, and barred the doors of the church. The civic outrage upon hearing the tales (which by that point had grown into wild tales, even going so far as child sacrifice) grew by the week; and finally, on January 14, 1919, a night where temperatures dropped to at least two degrees Fahrenheit, a mass of angry citizens stormed the county jail, dragged out the prisoners, and hung them, right on the street. So incensed were the mob, they lynched the prisoners regardless of whether they were part of the church group arrested. Despite occurring not twenty yards from the police station, no arrests were made that evening.
The following day, temperatures grew exceedingly warm, rising at least forty-eight degrees in just a few hours. It was a Wednesday, and life proceeded normally in and around Boston. At around 12:35 PM, a loud rumbling sound could be heard in the vicinity of the Puritan Distilling facility in the North End. Witnesses later reported the booming sounds resembled nothing if not laughter, and some reported seeing a man with a cane and broad-brimmed straw hat in Keany Square, next to the 2,300,000 gallon tank of molasses seconds before the accident, but these reports cannot be confirmed.
What is undeniable is that the tank ruptured and fell, sending an immense wave of molasses between 8 and 15 feet high, moving at 35 mph, through the square and down Commercial Street. With a force of roughly two tons per square foot, the wave destroyed buildings, toppled cars, and even bent the girders on the elevated railway on Atlantic Avenue. The monstrous force of the flood claimed not only property, but lives, as well. Swept away, crushed, and suffocated in the sticky, sweet juggernaut were twenty-one residents of Boston, ranging in age from ten years of age to seventy-six. It took four days before search for victims was called off; many dead were so glazed over in molasses, they were hard to recognize.
Though not publicly reported, archived records show that the number of lynched congregants also numbered twenty-one.
Quote from: Wikipedia
In Haitian Vodou, Papa Legba is the intermediary between the loa and humanity. He stands at a spiritual crossroads and usually appears as an old man on a crutch or with a cane, wearing a broad brimmed hat and smoking a pipe. He is said to be the bringer of vengeance, and can be appeased with offerings of rum and cane sugar.
More to come
The molasses flood as divine retribution is a beautiful touch.
Yes, this thread! I'm glad you haven't abandoned it. I haven't either, I think I have at least two more pieces I can add about New Bedford.
Can't stop now; there's still some ugliness to cover.
FUCK!
What happens next!!
New Bedford, Part III
"...Lord I would they had screamed...such noise might haunt...deserve to be haunted; wailing to deaden the crackling of timber and...the world with their passing beyond the burnt husk...count myself any longer among the Friends...quiet of our meetings lest I scream so like these others did not...needed happen to end the foulness...Diana, sweet youth, bright and gone...wretched thing. I cannot help but feel it wanted...ends. Forgive me."
The excerpt, water damaged, faded, tattered and yellowed hangs in a framed plaque in the private collection of New Bedford historian Charles Waltham. He discovered the old parchment himself while rummaging through the records of a prominent local family. The family was unable to place its significance, though Waltham believes it is tied to the destruction of the Alagonsett Meeting House by fire in 1682.
Other records of the fire are thin and scattered. It is generally agreed that the blaze occurred during the night and went unnoticed in the sleeping settlement but for the chance spotting of its orange glow from far in the distance. Seven are thought to have died within.
That victims were claimed in the lodge fire well past midnight did not go unnoticed by the now superstitious local populace. It does not take many disappearances in such a small area to arouse suspicion, which was placed solely upon the Alagonsett Meeting House.
"The fire wasn't much of a mystery," Waltham says. "It might be now, what with how little we can figure out, but it couldn't have been much of one then. Mysteries invite talk. Speculation. If anyone back then was trying to figure out what happened we'd have letters and such, but this scrap is, well, scrap. What it says to me is people knew. And they didn't want to talk about it."
Gotta come back to this. Apparently I lost some of the previous posts in the shuffle. Will revisit some ideas too.
Quote from: Eater of Clowns on July 25, 2013, 03:46:53 AM
New Bedford, Part III
"...Lord I would they had screamed...such noise might haunt...deserve to be haunted; wailing to deaden the crackling of timber and...the world with their passing beyond the burnt husk...count myself any longer among the Friends...quiet of our meetings lest I scream so like these others did not...needed happen to end the foulness...Diana, sweet youth, bright and gone...wretched thing. I cannot help but feel it wanted...ends. Forgive me."
The excerpt, water damaged, faded, tattered and yellowed hangs in a framed plaque in the private collection of New Bedford historian Charles Waltham. He discovered the old parchment himself while rummaging through the records of a prominent local family. The family was unable to place its significance, though Waltham believes it is tied to the destruction of the Alagonsett Meeting House by fire in 1682.
Other records of the fire are thin and scattered. It is generally agreed that the blaze occurred during the night and went unnoticed in the sleeping settlement but for the chance spotting of its orange glow from far in the distance. Seven are thought to have died within.
That victims were claimed in the lodge fire well past midnight did not go unnoticed by the now superstitious local populace. It does not take many disappearances in such a small area to arouse suspicion, which was placed solely upon the Alagonsett Meeting House.
"The fire wasn't much of a mystery," Waltham says. "It might be now, what with how little we can figure out, but it couldn't have been much of one then. Mysteries invite talk. Speculation. If anyone back then was trying to figure out what happened we'd have letters and such, but this scrap is, well, scrap. What it says to me is people knew. And they didn't want to talk about it."
Nice!
Dammit, I need to finish this one out. Or at least add a few more chapters.
Edge of my seat.
Seriously.
Pressure seeks release. If nothing else can be learned, it is this. Well removed from the Molasses flood zone was a section of Boston that grew up around some buildings purchased in 1795 by an ex-militia man named William Scollay. His estate sold it in 1865, so he's not really important to this, other than the name "Scollay Square" stuck.
What's important is that some other notable people began buying up property in the Square. William T. G. Morton for one, a notable surgeon, dentist, Freemason, and scoundrel, his career made famous by the introduction of inhaled ether as an anesthetic during operations in 1846. There was also Josiah Johnson Hawes, a photographer of exquisite portraits through the mid the end of the 19th century, but upon his death in 1901, the executors of his estate were shocked to find hidden compartments in his office that had other kinds of "portraits," each more odd and brutal than the previous.
There was also a church built in the square. The church was for the Millerite Adventists, who believed the world would end in 1846. They began building in 1843, finishing in 1845. Just in time for the world not to end. Well, for everyone except a core group Millerites, found kneeling around the makeshift altar, their throats torn out. After everything was cleaned up, it was converted into the Old Howard Theater, only for it to burn down a few months later by the neighboring Brattle Square Baptist church. They escaped prosecution by citing the spot as a place of blasphemy, though it's unsure if what was being referred to was the Millerite's temple, or the structure that followed.
Despite the fire, the theater was rebuilt, in a pseudo-Gothic style, as "The Howard Athenaeum" with high, arched windows, and sturdy pillars lining the entrance. It drew crowds from all around with it's mix of high and low performances, from opera to burlesque; and there were even tales of "closed door" events that sparked the curiosity of men (and some women) of a certain persuasion. One of these special events was apparently the cause of yet another fire on February 2, 1846. Notebooks found in the archives of Gardiner Greene's estate (being a noteworthy importer of exceedingly rare manuscripts and tomes of so-called "heathen" knowledge, all his writings are extremely well preserved) tell of a performance
"So vast in scope... The meticulous costumes, most obscene in cut and style; Nary a quiet heart exist'd in that audience as an enormous ball of flame burst from the floor in anticipation of the all-powerful Solar Deity! And to such effect, such masterful deceit, an illusion of such trickery, to make we viewers believe a child, no more than six, wrapped head to toe in fine linens, with jagged markings covering its body, be flung into the flames! Such shrieks from the women, groans from the men! The applause, as the flames rose higher, higher, licking at the molding above! Then groans turned to shouts, as the bowl of fire toppled forward into the orchestra pit and the audience scattered towards the exits, and I followed. But as I looked back, the final wonder of the mummer's genius revealed itself to me, as they had hidden in the bowl, a simulacrum of a small skeleton, badly charred, which had tumbled to the edge of the stage, burning quite fiercely..."
Though burned to the ground, the Old Howard was once again completely rebuilt by that October.
More to Come
YES.
Edited to add whitespace and font for diary excerpt.
Hot damn!
I'm not sure if I should wrap it up after Scollay Sq, or if there's something else I need to cover? Integrated bussing doesn't work.
Quote from: LMNO, PhD (life continues) on January 24, 2014, 08:47:24 PM
I'm not sure if I should wrap it up after Scollay Sq, or if there's something else I need to cover? Integrated bussing doesn't work.
Let me answer this on Monday, after I've had a chance to do a little reading.
Creeeepy!
Copp's Hill Burying Ground vs King's Chapel Burying Ground.
If you look at the list of notables buried in each, there's an interesting pattern.
OK. I gotta finish Scollay, then I'll look into that.
Quote from: LMNO, PhD (life continues) on January 29, 2014, 02:46:12 PM
OK. I gotta finish Scollay, then I'll look into that.
It's a hoot, actually. Took me a minute to spot the weird bit.
Once again, time passed. Scollay Square became a hotspot for entertainment and shopping for the next hundred years or so. Ok, that's not entirely true. It really roared along through the end of the 19th and early part of the 20th century, but Prohibition left its mark on the square (as it usually does). Almost from the get-go, speakeasies and underground clubs appeared in the heart of the square (the earliest reported was a hole-in-the-wall on Court Street in March of 1920).
That thumbprint of decadence and licentiousness left its mark for decades, and as the more respectable businesses stayed away, the area became the go-to spot for sailors on leave, college students looking to blow off some steam, and general reprobates. And the place to see the best shows was at the rebuilt Old Howard. Interestingly, as the neighborhood around it sunk into a series of cheap bars and roughly-patched flophouses, the Old Howard thrived, hosting boxing matches (the great Rocky Marciano famously took out Lee Epperson in three rounds there in 1948) and vaudeville slapstick shows (The Marx Brothers, Abbot and Costello).
But what really drew in the crowds was the girls. Seats would be packed as scantily-clad women pranced about on stage. And as the years passed, the girls became more daring. To curry favor with the (largely male, but with time, more than a few women started showing up) audience, they competed with each other with how much they showed, how much they teased, the types of acts and props used.
The owner at the time, Scott Sherman, was also the Master Warden of The Grand Lodge of Masons in Massachusetts, and the founder of the lodge at Boston University. The shows were bringing in quite a lot of funds, and he wasted no time building additions to the Old Howard, private boxes and booths, event rooms set off from the main auditorium, and even separate entrances, so the better-heeled could attend the shows without fear of being spotted.
Things couldn't last, of course, and in 1953, while a young woman named Mary Goodneighbor was doing something highly questionable with what appeared to be Red Sox souvenirs, she was filmed by an undercover police officer. A raid soon followed, but the records collected from the raid were never released to the public and were said to have been destroyed (it should be pointed out that the Police Chief at the time was Joseph McGinnis, a fellow Mason).
Even though the theater had officially closed by the end of 1953, one could still see a lot of traffic around the Old Howard, such as delivery trucks (ostensibly for the deli next door) and there was no shortage of Ford Thunderbirds and Studebaker Coupes easing slowly down the crowded streets. No one was ever really seen entering the theater late at night, but one could see men with dark cloaks milling up and down the street, and although no one was seen walking away, there would be fewer and fewer of them on the street, until none were left.
This went on until one night on June 20, 1961. Screams were heard coming from the theater, and passerby smelled smoke. The alarm was raised, and fire crews rushed to the scene. The fire was small, and produced quite a lot of smoke, but was able to be contained relatively quickly. The emergency crews appeared shaken, however, and when police arrived, they immediately cleared the square. Though the fire was small, and didn't do much structural damage, it was quickly ordered condemned and was razed to the ground within a week.
On a related note, the Church of the Covenant in Copley Square, not too far away, worked closely with the Avon Home, a Cambridge orphanage. On June 21, 1961, seventy-three orphans were recorded as having been admitted to the Avon Home, the largest single admittance in their history. All of the children were reported to be malnourished and suffering greatly from a great variety of physical and mental trauma.
In the end, the government took over the square and renamed it Government Center. The new city hall is built directly on the spot of the Old Howard. Many have commented on the bizarre architecture, likening it to the Lincoln Memorial flipped on its head, draped in concrete, and jammed into the middle of what appears to be the bleakest city plaza built in the last century. But what people don't recognize is that, when you exit the subway facing City Hall, the negative spaces around the building, and the haphazard laying of the brick in the plaza resembles those sigils found on the roadways of Jamaica plain, built more than 200 years ago... with luck, they'll hold.
End.
That gave me the chills at the end!
Oh that is chilling. Now is that the end of just Scollay Square or is that the end of the whole series?
I'm thinking the whole thing, as I've circled back to the first chapter. Plus, I'm thinking of doing something with it, but I'm not sure how just yet. I want to find a dummy URL, semi-believable name, upload the chapters, and then try to make it go viral by cross-posting it on FB/social media.
Wow.
That was worth waiting for.
Thank you. That's high praise.
Brrrrr. That was awesome! It reminded me of something, maybe a factoid you can do something with. I'll go dig it out of the book I read it in.
Excerpted from "Monkeyluv" by Robert Sapolsky:
QuoteTo begin to make sense of hospitalism, one must consider that in numerous traditional societies, newborns are not given names until they are a number of months or years old. This explanation is because of extremely high infant-mortality rates -- wait until the child has actually managed to survive before personifying it with a name. A similar cultural adaptation could have existed early in the twentieth century in American foundling homes, institutions for abandoned or orphaned children. This was because of their staggeringly high mortality rates. In 1915, one physician, Henry Chaplin, canvassed ten such places in the United States and reported numbers that didn't require a statistician to be detected -- in all but one institution, every child died before two years of age.
Quote from: All-Father Nigel on May 22, 2014, 06:07:36 AM
Excerpted from "Monkeyluv" by Robert Sapolsky:
QuoteTo begin to make sense of hospitalism, one must consider that in numerous traditional societies, newborns are not given names until they are a number of months or years old. This explanation is because of extremely high infant-mortality rates -- wait until the child has actually managed to survive before personifying it with a name. A similar cultural adaptation could have existed early in the twentieth century in American foundling homes, institutions for abandoned or orphaned children. This was because of their staggeringly high mortality rates. In 1915, one physician, Henry Chaplin, canvassed ten such places in the United States and reported numbers that didn't require a statistician to be detected -- in all but one institution, every child died before two years of age.
Holy fuck. What conclusions did they come to regarding the causes of that death rate?
Moving this book up the list.
Quote from: All-Father Nigel on May 22, 2014, 06:07:36 AM
Excerpted from "Monkeyluv" by Robert Sapolsky:
QuoteTo begin to make sense of hospitalism, one must consider that in numerous traditional societies, newborns are not given names until they are a number of months or years old. This explanation is because of extremely high infant-mortality rates -- wait until the child has actually managed to survive before personifying it with a name. A similar cultural adaptation could have existed early in the twentieth century in American foundling homes, institutions for abandoned or orphaned children. This was because of their staggeringly high mortality rates. In 1915, one physician, Henry Chaplin, canvassed ten such places in the United States and reported numbers that didn't require a statistician to be detected -- in all but one institution, every child died before two years of age.
Jesus....
Quote from: Junkenstein on May 22, 2014, 11:54:33 AM
Quote from: All-Father Nigel on May 22, 2014, 06:07:36 AM
Excerpted from "Monkeyluv" by Robert Sapolsky:
QuoteTo begin to make sense of hospitalism, one must consider that in numerous traditional societies, newborns are not given names until they are a number of months or years old. This explanation is because of extremely high infant-mortality rates -- wait until the child has actually managed to survive before personifying it with a name. A similar cultural adaptation could have existed early in the twentieth century in American foundling homes, institutions for abandoned or orphaned children. This was because of their staggeringly high mortality rates. In 1915, one physician, Henry Chaplin, canvassed ten such places in the United States and reported numbers that didn't require a statistician to be detected -- in all but one institution, every child died before two years of age.
Holy fuck. What conclusions did they come to regarding the causes of that death rate?
Moving this book up the list.
It was very simple, actually; the same thing that happened in orphanages in Romania during the era of compulsory fertility, but for different reasons. According to the prevailing experts in child development at the time, picking up or touching or playing with babies was bad for them, something mothers only did out of foolish sentimentality. We applied our new knowledge of germ theory and sanitation to childrearing. It was also very common for young children who were hospitalized for any reason to die, especially the children of the rich, because they were placed in the very most modern sterile incubators and isolated from any human interaction.
Wasn't that called "turning their face to the wall"?
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on May 22, 2014, 11:43:10 PM
Wasn't that called "turning their face to the wall"?
Shiver. I've never heard that term for it, but OMG it gets me on my spine.