February 10, 2024: Year of the Dragon

Posted on by Richard Daybell

Today is the beginning of the Chinese New Year, the Year of the Dragon.  It’s bound to be a bit more exciting than the departing year, that of the Rabbit.  The Rabbit makes nice, the Dragon makes noise.  To those who believe in the Chinese zodiac, dragons mean good luck, strength and power. They control the weather and water. Alas, they don’t breathe fire.  Western dragons on the other hand, all breathe fire.  They scorch, devour maidens, and whack knights.

According to those who study such things, dragons are the creations of our innate fear of snakes, big reptiles and other predators who dined on our primate ancestors. They lurked in dark caves’ deep pools and haunted forests. Their images were exaggerations of living creatures such as Komodo dragons, gila monsters, iguanas and alligators.

One of the most notable dragon legends features the dashing onward Christian soldier, St. George.  It seems that a nasty dragon was terrorizing the English countryside, demanding tribute from the local villagers.  They gave the dragon trinkets and livestock, but they eventually ran out of such stuff, so they began offering human tribute.  This worked out okay until a princess was chosen as the next offering.  St. George came to her rescue and killed that dragon.  Don’t you believe it, folks; dragons live forever, but not so little boys.  It says so right there in the song.

Here’s another take on the St. George legend:

Year of the Wolf

Struggling in the long shadow cast by his famous father, Lon Chaney, Jr. (Creighton Tull Chaney), born February 10, 1906, finally found his career in the 1930s after his father’s death. Cast mostly in small supporting roles for several years, his first major film role came in 1939, when he reprised his turn on the stage as Lennie Small in Of Mice and Men, a critical success.

Then in 1941, he starred as the tortured Larry Talbot, a role with which he would always be associated, in The Wolf Man. Like Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi, he would be a horror film actor for the rest of his life. (Chaney was the only actor to play all four of Universal’s heavyweight creatures: Frankenstein’s monster, Dracula, the Mummy, and the Wolf Man)

Year of the Nose

Unlikely star entertainer Jimmy Durante was born February 10, 1893. Saiddurante critic Leonard Maltin about Durante: “The old ‘schnozzola’ was the living embodiment of the term ‘beloved entertainer’: Everyone adored him, but no one could ever really figure out just what it was he did. He sang, he danced, he played the piano and, of course, he clowned — but he wasn’t really great at any of these tasks. Mostly, it was the sheer force of his overbearing personality that won viewers over.”

 

February 9, 1909: I Make My Money with Bananas

Posted on by Richard Daybell

Maria do Carmo Miranda da Cunha was born February 9, 1909, in Marco de Canavazes, Portugal, not in Brazil, as is often assumed.  A year later, though, she did arrive in Rio de Janeiro, where her father opened a lucrative wholesale fruit  business, selling bananas of course.

One wouldn’t think a young girl could soak up much rhythm and culture from the good sisters of the  convent of Santa Teresinha, but by 17 she was singing in the cafes of Rio.  In 1929, using her mother’s surname to keep her career hidden from her disapproving father, Maria do Carmo made her first appearance as Carmen Miranda.  She was tiny in stature, standing only 5’1.”.  Nevertheless, she filled a stage with her Latin energy and machine gun delivery, melodic Brazilian bullets ricocheting everywhere.

She worked her way into singing on Brazilian radio and in movies.  She made her first recording, a romantic choro on one side, but oh on the other side —  a lively samba.

The samba was a lusty part of the social life of the people who lived in the hills beyond the urban refinement of Rio and its European influences.  Its rhythms were African, at once rustic and cosmopolitan, erotic and refined, measured and languorous.  And during the following years, she became the Queen of Samba (or Smiling Dictator of Samba according to one radio announcer).  Her crown an imposing tower of fruit.

She and her samba stormed the United States in 1939 – nightclubs, radio, and throughout the 40s and eary 50s, a string of movies – Down Argentine Way, That Night in Rio, Weekend in Havana, and the over-the-top Busby Berkeley musical The Gang’s All Here in which she sang “The Girl in the Tutti-Frutti Hat.” At age 36, with a salary of over $200,000, she was the highest paid woman in the nation, ninth on the Treasury Department’s salary list, ahead of Betty Grable, Bing Crosby, Bob Hope and Humphrey Bogart.

In 1955, it all ended.  After filming an appearance on the Jimmy Durante television show, at 46 years of age, she died of a heart attack.

Mama Eu Quero

An excerpt from the short story, one of 15 in Calypso, Stories of the Caribbean

The Tropicana was a frenzied, pulsating place, as animated as the tourists and Havana socialites who crowded the casino, bar, dance floor and every table, there to be entertained by a half dozen celebrities, three full orchestras and the Tropicana’s own ballet troupe. It had not been easy for Jorge to secure a table, and when he did, it was some distance from where Carmen Miranda would shortly perform. He liked the table just fine, not wanting to be conspicuous in such a place. Delia wished they were closer but couldn’t say anything, and just being here was the high point in her sixteen years plus four months. She looked as mature as any seventeen-year-old in the place, sipping the wine Jorge had bought her and wearing another bright outfit that Carmen herself might have worn, but without the tutti frutti hat, of course, for that would be presumptuous.
Miranda’s Boys broke into a spirited overture, and suddenly there was Carmen Miranda herself, bouncing to the beat of “South American Way.” Jorge turned to see the look on Delia’s face, but there was no look on Delia’s face because there was no Delia. He scanned the floor, fearing she had fainted in her excitement. Nothing. Then he spotted her, crawling on hands and knees between the tables, toward the stage. He closed his eyes afraid to watch but finally had to look again. He spotted her as she squeezed unnoticed between the chairs occupied by the sleek black-haired man and his sleek black-haired companion, disappearing under the table next to where Carmen Miranda sang and danced.

 

February 8, 1983: A Horse Is a Horse Of Course

Posted on by Richard Daybell

As a horse, Shergar had it pretty good.  He’d earned his place in the sun.  The Irish racehorse, a bay colt with a distinctive white blaze, won the Epsom Derby in 1981 by ten lengths— the longest winning margin in the race’s history. He was named European Horse of the Year that year and was retired from racing in September after winning £436,000 in prize money for his owners.

A month later, Shergar arrived in Newbridge, greeted by the town band and cheering, flag-waving throngs as he paraded up main street on his way to begin his stud career. It was another successful career for Shergar who produced 35 foals that season. His second season was looking good as well, with 55 mares on hand.

“A clue… that is what we haven’t got,” Chief Superintendent “Spud” Murphy told reporters shortly after the evening of February 8, 1983, when Shergar disappeared. Sherlock Holmes fans might by forgiven if they start claiming this scenario is right out of the great detective’s adventure, Silver Blaze.   Perhaps the perpetrators read Arthur Conan Doyle.

In any event, at 8.30 pm, Shergar’s groom,  James Fitzgerald thought he heard a car in the yard. He listened, heard nothing more, and forgot about it. Ten minutes later, there was a knock at the door and his son answered it. The uniformed caller asked the boy to fetch his father, but when he turned his back, the visitor hit him from behind, knocking him to the floor. Fitzgerald entered the room to see a pistol pointed at him. Three more armed men, one carrying a sub-machine gun, pushed their way into the house. They held the family at gunpoint while Fitzgerald led two more thieves to Shergar’s stall. Fitzgerald was forced to help the thieves load Shergar into a horse trailer, and the horse was towed away. Fitzgerald was driven around in another vehicle for several hours before being thrown out of the car having been given a password the thieves would use in ransom negotiations.

The investigation and the negotiations were a lesson in ineptitude on all sides, featuring detection by psychics and diviners, demands, counter demands, botched meetings, all amid rumors that the horse was already dead or that the owners were only negotiating to buy time with no intention of paying ransom.

Whatever the truth, after four days the thieves called no more.  Officials blamed the Irish Republican Army for the crime.  Shergar has never been found.  Sherlock Holmes fared better with Silver Blaze.  Unfortunately, he was no longer available.

 

These Guys Would Have Been Prepared

William D. Boyce was an American newspaper man, entrepreneur, publisher and a bit of an explorer. In 1909, Boyce happened to be exploring the streets of London. It was, as they say, a foggy day in London town. It may not have had him low, had him down, but it did have him lost, or so the legend goes.

As he wandered through the pea soup, haunted by thoughts of Jack the Ripper perhaps, a young lad stepped out of the haze and led him to his destination. Boyce tried to reward they boy who had come to his aid, but the boy would not accept a tip, explaining that he had merely done his duty as a Boy Scout.

The Boy Scout departed, off to help another poor soul lost in the fog, and Boyce returned to the United States, but not before he had visited London’s Boy Scout headquarters, where he immersed himself in scouting lore, starting campfires, tying knots.

Four months later on February 8, 1910, Boyce trustworthily, loyally, helpfully, friendlily, courteously, kindly, obediently, cheerfully, thriftily, bravely, cleanly and reverently founded the Boy Scouts of America.

A Clever Segue

“So here we are, stuck on Gilligan’s Island – Chickenshit Crusoe and his faithless companion, Good Friday.”

“I was a Boy Scout for two weeks,” Paul offered.

“What a relief. And to think I was starting to get worried. But you obviously know how to start a fire without matches, forage for food, and carve a comfortable existence out of the cruel jungle.”

“Well I did learn how to tie a square knot.”

“Well there you are. You little rascals are always prepared, aren’t you? And kind and reverent and true and God-fearing and above all helpful. If we only had a little old lady, you could help her back and forth across the beach.”

A brief bit from Voodoo Love Song, fun and adventure for you good little scouts, boy or girl, while you’re being prepared.  You can find it here.

FEBRUARY 7, 1908: Been There, Done That

Posted on by Richard Daybell

Not another man swinging through the trees in Africa wearing nothing but a loincloth.  Afraid so.  Athlete turned actor, Buster Crabbe (born Clarence Linden Crabbe II, on February 7, 1908), followed in Elmo Lincoln’s footsteps, starring as the ape man in Tarzan the Fearless, a 1933 serial that was later compiled into a full-length movie.  Crabbe dived into his movie career after winning Olympic gold for freestyle swimming in 1932.

Although he was Tarzan only once, passing his loincloth to Johnny Weissmuller, he played a variety of jungle men in movies such as King of the Jungle,  Jungle Man, and King of the Congo. When he wasn’t swinging in the jungle, he was speeding through for the far reaches of space as both Buck Rogers and Flash Gordon, taming the West as Billy the Kid and a posseful of other cowboy heroes, or Americanizing the French Foreign Legion His three Flash Gordon serials were Saturday morning staples in the 30s and 40s. The serials were also compiled into full-length movies. They appeared extensively on American television in the 1950s and 60s, and eventually were edited for release on home video.  As his acting career wound down, he became a spokesman for his own line of swimming pools. He died in 1983.

Imagine Jacob Marley in Chains and a Loincloth

Little Charles Dickens knew the adversity he would later write so effectively about. Born February 7, 1812, he attended school in Portsmouth during his early years but was sent to work in a factory in 1824 at the age of 12, when his father was thrown into debtors’ prison. Dickens learned first-hand about the deplorable treatment of working children and the horrors of the institution of the debtors’ prison.

In his late teens, Dickens went to work as a reporter and soon began publishing humorous short stories. A collection of those stories was released in 1836 under the title Sketches by Boz (later titled The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club). The stories about the quixotic innocent Samuel Pickwick and his fellow club members quickly became popular: 400 copies were printed of the first installment, but by the 15th episode the print run had reached 40,000. Publication of the stories in book form in 1837 established Dickens as the preeminent author of his time.

Oliver Twist followed in 1838 and Nicholas Nickleby in 1839. In 1841, Dickens visited the United States, where he was treated as a conquering hero. As a writer, he kept churning out major novels at almost a yearly pace each one seemingly more masterful than the last, among them: David Copperfield in 1850, Bleak House 1853, Hard Times 1854, A Tale of Two Cities 1859 and Great Expectations in 1861.

Dickens was the literary giant of his age, unparalleled in his realism, social criticism and humor, a master of characterization (think Fagin, the Artful Dodger, Pip, Uriah Heep, Oliver Twist, Tiny Tim and, of course, Ebenezer Scrooge). The 1843 novella that featured Scrooge, A Christmas Carol, is one of the most influential works ever written, still popular after 170 years and still inspiring adaptations in every artistic genre. Dickens even has his own adjective, Dickensian.

Dickens died in 1870 at the age of 58, leaving an enigmatic unfinished novel, The Mystery of Edwin Drood. He has been celebrated by statuary, in museums and even on currency — all against his dying wishes.

 

February 6, 1889: Me Elmo, You Jane

Posted on by Richard Daybell

A man swings through the trees of Africa, wearing nothing but a loincloth and doesn’t get pinched.  Well maybe by a completely naked chimpanzee.  That beefy fellow in the loincloth can only be Tarzan of the Apes.  Edgar Rice Burroughs introduced audiences to his character Tarzan in a 1912 pulp magazine followed two years later by the novel Tarzan of the Apes. Tarzan became so popular that Burroughs followed up with sequels into the 1940s — a good two dozen.

Tarzan was a natural for the movies as well, and fans only had to wait until 1918 to leer at their skimpily attired hero, his skimpily attired mate, and the aforementioned naked chimpanzee. The first movie Tarzan was Elmo Lincoln, born on February 6, 1889.  As onlookers gathered around his crib listening to his cooing and admiring the little tyke in his little diaper, they little realized that they were looking at the future mighty man of the jungle, already in his loincloth and ready to swing. (Well, maybe not entirely ready: Elmo was afraid of heights and required a stand-in to do his swinging for him.  Chances are pretty good he was afraid of lions and tigers as well.)

Elmo may have been born to play Tarzan, but he got to the role by a circuitous route through a dozen other films, some notable (Birth of a Nation, Intolerance) but not for his appearance. Tarzan of the Apes took theaters by storm. It was the most faithful to its source of all the film adaptations: Lord and Lady Greystoke are bound for Africa, when their ship is taken over by mutineers. A sailor saves them from being murdered, but they are marooned on the tropical coast, where they die. Their infant son is adopted by Kala, an ape, who raises him as her own. Little Tarzan grows up never noticing that he is not as hairy as his siblings. Hairy or not, he becomes king of the apes. The sailor returns to Africa, discovers the ape man and reports this to his family in England. An expedition under the leadership of a Professor Porter sets out to find Tarzan. In the meantime, Kala has been killed by a native, and is avenged by Tarzan — now an adult and played by Elmo Lincoln. This naturally sets off a feud with the natives who kidnap Porter’s daughter Jane. Tarzan rescues Jane, nature steps in, and there go the loincloths.

Tarzan of the Apes covered only the first part of the novel. The remainder became The Romance of Tarzan, released that same year. Lincoln starred in that film and in a 1921 serial The Adventures of Tarzan. Elmo starred in nine other movies before leaving Hollywood at the end of the silent movie era. Tarzan the Ape Man was remade in 1932 starring Johnny Weissmuller, who went on to star in eleven other Tarzan films.

A Man in a Toga

No loincloth for Ramón Novarro, but he did manage to set the screen smoldering in a toga in Ben Hur. Born Jose Ramón Gil Samaniego in Mexico on February 6, 1899, he began his career in silent films and became a top box office draw during the 1920s and 1930s. Billed as the Latin Lover, he became the heir apparent to Rudolph Valentino. His career in movies, stage and television spanned five decades. He was murdered in 1968 by two young men who believed he had a stash of cash in his home.

 

February 5, 1861: Every Peeping Tom, Dick and Harry

Posted on by Richard Daybell

A lady rode through the streets of London on horseback, naked (the lady not the horse), and didn’t get pinched (in the law and order sense, that is).  But more of that later.

In 1861, Samuel B. Goodale who hailed from Cincinnati received a patent for a clever hand-operated stereoscope device on which still pictures were attached like spokes to an axis which revolved, causing the pictures to come to life in motion — a mechanical peep show that folks viewed through a small hole for a penny a pop.  The usual subjects for peep shows were animals, landscapes,  and theatrical scenes, high-minded, proper subjects.  Nothing naughty or titillating.  How long could that last, you ask.  Not long of course. The peep show quickly came to stand for pictures and performances involving sex.

The term peep show itself comes from Peeping Tom, a sneaky British tailor who made a hole in the shutters of his shop so he might surreptitiously spy on Lady Godiva who felt the need to ride naked naked through the streets of the city.  He was struck blind for his effort.

Collier, John; Godiva; Herbert Art Gallery & Museum

What about this Lady Godiva?  Was she for real?  Yes kids, she was.  And the performance she is famous for took place back in the 11th century.  According to her press agent, Lady Godiva was not just your ordinary exhibitionist giving the folks of Coventry, particularly the Toms, Dicks and Harrys of Coventry, their daily eyeful.  She was a noblewoman, married to the “Grim” Earl of Mercia, a nasty fellow who burdened the folks under his sway with high taxes and poor service.  Lady Godiva pleaded frequently with her husband to give the poor some relief, to no avail.  He eventually agreed to lower the taxes if she would ride through town completely naked. The Lady called his bluff.  To keep her ride from becoming something of the magnitude of a Taylor Swift concert,  the townspeople were told to shutter themselves indoors with no peeping.  Which they did, except for you know who.  In a later interview, Blind Tom said it was worth it.

That Ain’t No Cat in the Hat

“It was all full of naked women, and I can’t draw convincing naked women.  I put their knees in the wrong places.”  What’s better than a Lady Godiva?  Two Lady Godivas.  Or how about seven?  The story of the seven Godiva sisters was penned by none other than Dr. Seuss, his fourth book and one written for adults or “obsolete children” as he called them.  The seven sisters never wear clothing, not even when they leave the seven Peeping brothers, and head off in the world to warn of the dangers of horses.

The 1939 book had a 10,000 print run with most of them remaining unsold, what Seuss called his greatest failure.  It is one of only two Dr. Seuss books allowed to go out of print.

But Please Lose That Sports Jacket

It has been endlessly debated when and with whom rock and roll actually began, but most enthusiasts have pretty much settled on a guy who cut an unlikely figure for a rock artist but who brought rock and roll into the public eye with a bang in 1955. The man was Bill Haley, along with his Comets, and the song was “Rock Around the Clock” introduced in the film Blackboard Jungle. During the next few years a string of hits including “Shake, Rattle and Roll” and “See Ya Later, Alligator” followed.

Time passes quickly and when you’re at the pinnacle of musical stardom, you’re on a slippery slope. Along comes a guy named Elvis and you’re yesterday’s sha-na-na. Who’s going to scream and carry on for a thin-haired, paunchy 30-year-old musician with a silly curl in the middle of his forehead and a garish plaid sports jacket?

The Brits, that’s who.

By 1957, Bill Haley and the Comets had already enjoyed their golden days of American super-stardom. But the battle of Britain lay ahead. When they stepped off the Queen Elizabeth in Southampton on February 5, they began the first ever tour by an American rock and roll act and launched what rock historians called the American Invasion.

When Haley and the band reached London later that same day, they were greeted by thousands in a melee the press called “the Second Battle of Waterloo.” These were the British war babies just becoming teenagers, and they were ready for American rock and roll.

February 4, 1912: It’s a Bird, It’s a Plane, It’s the Flying Tailor

Posted on by Richard Daybell

Born in Austria, Franz Reichelt moved to Paris in 1898 at the age of 19. There he went into business as a tailor, creating fashionable dresses for the many Austrians who visited Paris. He was quite successful at his chosen trade, but he yearned for something more. He had the mind of an inventor, and we all know what troubles that can get a person into.

As with many such dreamers in the early 20th century, he looked to the skies, which were now filled with magnificent men in their flying machines. Reichelt became obsessed with the idea of a tailor-made suit that would convert to a parachute should a hapless aviator leave his or her flying machine for some reason. Parachutes had been around for ages, but his would be sartorial as well as utilitarian.

He developed his garment and tested it on dummies dropped from his fifth floor apartment. (“Mon Dieu, here comes another falling dummy,” a Parisian pedestrian might be heard to remark.) These experiments were less than successful. What he needed was a higher perch from which to launch his dummies. A lesser man might have moved to a tenth floor apartment, but Reichelt saw the Eiffel Tower gleaming in the distance, a steel siren calling to him.

Reichelt somehow wheedled the Parisian Prefecture of Police to grant him permission to conduct a test from the tower. However, when he arrived at the tower on February 4, 1912, he was not accompanied by a dummy. It quickly became clear that he had duped them, that Reichelt himself would be the dummy. Despite all attempts to dissuade him, Reichelt, about to become known as the flying tailor, jumped from the tower platform, down to the icy ground below and into the history books. Charles Darwin strikes again.

Other Than the Previous One, That Is

In 1789, George Washington was elected president receiving 100% of the vote, the only president to ever do so.

Unfriended

On this day in 2004, Mark Zuckerberg and fellow Harvard students launched Facebook.  It was limited to Harvard students only.  Alas, it did not remain that way.

February 3, 1882: You’re a Big One, Aren’t Ya

Posted on by Richard Daybell

A rather large sales transaction took place on February 3, 1882: Flamboyant showman and circus entrepreneur P.T. Barnum purchased his largest performer, a single-named star who stood ten feet at the shoulders, Jumbo. Jumbo of course was an elephant, a very big elephant. He was born in the Sudan and took a rather circuitous journey north to Germany, France and finally England and the London Zoo, where he resided for 17 years, becoming famous for giving rides to zoo visitors.

Londoners were not happy about the sale. The Zoological Society was up in arms. 100,000 schoolchildren petitioned Queen Victoria to halt the sale. A lawsuit was filed against the zoo. The zoo attempted to renege on the sale, but the court sided with Barnum.

The deal was a bonanza for Barnum. He exhibited Jumbo to huge crowds at Madison Square Garden, recovering the entire cost of his investment in three weeks. With Jumbo as its main attraction, the circus earned $1.75 million for the season.

Jumbo’s circus career would be short-lived, however. In 1885, he was struck by a train and died within minutes.

What’s in a Name

While jumbo as an adjective is used today to describe everything from CDs to shrimp, the word did not have that meaning when the London zookeeper association gave it to the big fellow. Its derivation could be Indian from jambu (pronouced jumboo) a tree that grows on a mythical island whose fruits were said to be as big as elephants or Swahili from jambo (hello) or jumbe (chief). It is safe to say it has no relation to jambalaya or gumbo.

Never Forget Elephants

Although Jumbo is arguably the most famous elephant, there are many, many others who might be in the running — circus elephants, movie elephants, rescue elephants, war elephants, zoo elephants, pet elephants (Charlemagne, Pope Leo X and Henry III all had one), gift elephants (Ronald Reagan and Jimmy Carter both received one),  and very naughty elephants.  Here’s a portrait gallery from which you may choose your own favorites.

From the top: Tusko (world’s meanest elephant), Babar, Thomas Nast’s GOP, Horton, Dumbo.

He-e-e-y Abbott

Radio’s Kate Smith Hour was a mainstay during the 30s and 40s. On February 3, 1938, the comedy duo of Bud Abbott and Lou Costello made their first radio outing on the program and became regular performers. They first performed their classic “Who’s on First?” the following month.

abbott-costelloThe former vaudevillians quickly became major stars in radio, followed by movies and television. They left the Kate Smith show after two years to star in their own radio program, as well as a Broadway revue, The Streets of Paris, and their first film, One Night in the Tropics, in which, although cast in supporting roles, they stole the show with several classic comedy routines and cemented their film careers.

Universal Pictures signed them to a long-term contract. Their second film, Buck Privates, made them box-office stars and in the process saved Universal from bankruptcy. In most of their films, the plot was not much more than a framework that allowed them to reintroduce comedy routines they had first performed on stage. Universal also added glitzy production numbers to capitalize on the popularity of musical films, featuring such performers as the Andrews Sisters, Ella Fitzgerald, Martha Raye, Dick Powell and Ted Lewis and his Orchestra. The Andrews Sisters hits “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” and “I’ll Be With You In Apple Blossom Time” were both introduced in Buck Privates.

During the following years, Abbott and Costello “met” many other movie legends – Frankenstein, Dracula, the Wolf Man, the Invisible Man, Captain Kidd, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, the Mummy, the Killer (Boris Karloff).  And they traveled throughout the world (and beyond): in a Harem, in the Foreign Legion, Lost in Alaska, Mexican Hayride, Mars, and Africa Screams, which featured both Clyde Beatty and Frank Buck as themselves. They made a total of 36 films.

On television, they frequently hosted the Colgate Comedy Hour and had their own syndicated television program.

 

They dissolved their partnership in 1957, with Lou making sporadic appearances until his death in 1959.  Bud died in 1974.

February 2, 2001: Elk Cast Very Large Shadows

Posted on by Richard Daybell

It was a morning filled with anticipation in the Great Smoky Mountain National Park.  Not for the groundhogs looking for their shadows.  For the annual return of the elk to North Carolina.  Sort of like the swallows returning to Capistrano — only this was the East Coast not the West, and the elk couldn’t fly.  And it was only the first annual return of the elk.  But folks were excited; there’s not a lot going on in the North Carolina wilderness in February.  The welcoming committee numbered 900 or so two-legged creatures of all ages, many of whom saw their shadows.  

To refresh your memory.  Elks are big guys.  Bulls go about 1,000 with a rack that might span five feet.  They’re a little smaller than moose, larger than caribou. 

North Carolina had been elkless since the 1700s, and this scheme by the National Park Service hoped to right that wrong — to re-introduce these guys to the Southern comfort of the Tarheel State.  All 25 of the returning elk had been plucked from their old Kentucky homes in the Land Between the Lakes National Recreation Area. They expressed a certain amount of optimism about the change of scenery.  A little grumbling about missing the Derby, but all in all okay.

And the Park Service provided the elk with welcoming gifts of smart phones so they could document their adventure and perhaps send an occasional selfie.

The Shadow Knows

The first weather forecast by a rodent meteorologist took place on February 2, 1887, in the metropolis of Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania. The Punxsutawney folk maintain that Phil (for that’s his name) is the one and only true weather-forecasting groundhog in all of North America.  Phil’s original prediction has been lost to history, but it was either six more weeks of winter or an early spring.

New Yorkers would put their weather bets on Staten Island Chuck, whose fame includes an altercation with a New York City mayor.  The lucky mayor was Michael Bloomberg, the occasion was Groundhog Day 2009, and some would say it was the mayor’s own fault. Practically anyone, groundhog or otherwise, would not enjoy being roused out of a deep sleep at seven in the morning and asked to pontificate on the weather. Chuck wasn’t up for the celebration and the mayor was just a little too persistent, so of course Chuck bit him. Wouldn’t you?

Later in the day, Mayor Bloomberg, his left finger bandaged, was keeping mum. “Given the heightened response against terrorism, and clearly in this case a terrorist rodent who could very well have been trained by Al Qaeda in Afghanistan, I’m not at liberty to say any more than that,” the mayor said.

Did the Human Fly See His Shadow?

On February 2, 1912, a brave steeplejack jumped from the torch platform of the Statue of Liberty, some 345 feet above the ground. He fell like a dead weight for 75 feet before his parachute opened and he floated safely to the ground, 30 feet from the water’s edge. Pathé News paid him $1,500 for his derring-do, which they filmed. Frederick Rodman Law, who became known as the Human Fly, went on to perform other feats, jumping from the Brooklyn Bridge and from a dynamited balloon above the Hudson River. A short movie career followed, and he is widely credited as being the first motion picture stuntman. He died in 1919 of tuberculosis.

 

February 1, 1896: Poor People of Paris

Posted on by Richard Daybell

Opera patrons packed the Teatro Regio in Turin, Italy, on the evening of February 1, 1896, for the world premiere of Giacomo Puccini’s latest, La Boheme. Conducting the evening’s performance was a rising young star, Arturo Toscanini. Critics were divided over the opera, but audiences lapped it up, and it remains the world’s most popular opera. It is a timeless story of love among struggling young artists in Paris during the 1830s.

Our Bohemians– a poet, a painter, a musician and a philosopher — share a garret in the Latin Quarter as they try to eke out a living. It’s Christmas Eve; it’s cold. Rodolfo, the poet, and Marcello, the painter, are feeding a small fire with one of Rodolfo’s manuscripts. Their two companions arrive with food and fuel, one having had the good fortune to sell a bit of music. As they eat and drink, the landlord comes looking for their overdue rent. They distract him with wine and, pretending to be offended by his stories, throw him out. The rent money is divided for a night out in the Latin Quarter. Rodolfo stays behind as the other three leave, fortuitously, as a pretty neighbor comes looking for a light for her candle: “They call me merely Mimi.” Merely Mimi faints (she’s not well, folks), she and Rodolfo immediately fall in love, and they head off to the Latin Quarter, singing of their love.

In Act 2, our Bohemians are making merry in the Latin Quarter. Marcello’s one-time sweetheart, Musetta, enters on the arm of the old but wealthy Alcindoro. Trying to get Marcello’s attention, she sings an aria about her own charms (Musetta’s Waltz, recorded as Don’t You Know by Della Reese in 1959). She sends Alcindoro off on a bogus errand and promptly leaps into Marcello’s arms. They all scurry off, stiffing the returning Alcindoro for the check.

Act 3 brings a series of flirtations, jealousies, lovers’ quarrels and, for Mimi, a lot of coughing. At this point, we’re pretty sure she’s not going to make it through Act 4.

Which she doesn’t. After a few attempts at being cheerful, the others leave Mimi and Rodolfo who recall their meeting and happy days together until Mimi is overtaken by violent coughing. The others return, Mimi drifts into unconsciousness and dies.

Enrico Caruso owned the role of Rodolfo during his life, as did Luciano Pavarotti. And Maria Callas was all over Mimi.

 

Singin’ the Blus

Fast forward to another Italian who took the musical world by storm.  His name was Domenico Mondugno and he wrote a happy little chanson about a man who paints his hands and face blue then flies around above his lover.  It’s probably best left untranslated from the original Italian.  Nel Blu Dipinto Di Blu was released on February 1 and soared to the top of the Billboard 100, finishing out the year as the number one song of 1958. Shortly thereafter, it picked up the Grammy for Record of the Year and Song of the Year.  Every working singer had his or her own recording of it, usually under the title Volare, a word that was added as an afterthought to the chorus.