As we work our way through the twelve days of Christmas, we reach a point where True Love’s gifts are somewhat over the top. Today is no exception — eleven pipers piping, each armed with a monkey wrench, applying their noble trade to clogged pipes and leaking faucets — at time and a half. It is Christmastide, you know. The eleventh ghost of Christmas introduces Scrooge to Tiny Tim. Scrooge takes an instant dislike to the lad until he learns that Tiny Tim whacks his schoolmates with his crutch and takes their milk money.
In addition to celebrating plumbers, the eleventh day celebrates a saint, as many of the twelve days do. Day eleven is dedicated by those folks who dedicate such things to Saint Simeon Stylites also known as Saint Simeon Stylites the Elder to distinguish him from Simeon Stylites the Younger. He is known primarily for spending 37 years on a platform atop a pillar outside of Aleppo in what is now Syria (one could make a pretty good case that in Syria on top of a pillar might be a good place to be).
Why did Simeon choose to live up there like an Arabian Rapunzel, you ask? Simeon was very likely a wise man or at least people thought he was, because they kept coming to him for advice. Many folks would be honored to be sought out for guidance. Not Simeon. Seekers annoyed him. He wanted to be left alone to pray his private prayers and possibly entertain other thoughts as well.
So he went out and found a pillar. His first pillar was a mere nine feet tall and he soon realized that people could easily shout their entreaties to him. He thus began a series of relocations, each pillar being taller than its predecessor. His final pillar was really up there, some 50 feet above the ground and its many pests.
It’s the tenth day of Christmas and True Love is on a roll. His gift is on a jump: ten lords a-leaping, leaping here, leaping there, leaping everywhere — leaping over French hens, over geese, over swans. Leaping . . . oh no, cover your eyes. During a Zoom conference with the tenth ghost of Christmas, Scrooge relives some of the happier moments of his career, evicting widows in the dead of winter, sending orphans off to workhouses, oh how jolly.
Oleo Oleo Oxen Free
In 1871 Henry Bradley received a patent for an amorphous concoction of cottonseed oil and animal fats that had the appearance, texture and perhaps the taste of silly putty. He called his creation oleomargarine (margarine to its close friends) to be used as a substitute for butter.
While Real Butter from Real Cows had a pleasant yellow color, Bradley’s faux butter was a stark, pasty white, lard look alike that turned a lot of people off. No one spreading this white stuff on their toast would ever dream of exclaiming “I can’t believe it’s not butter.”
The answer, of course, was to color the stuff to make it look like Real Butter. But not so fast. It seems that discontented cows saw yellow margarine as a threat to the butter industry. They rose up and secured legislation prohibiting the sale of yellow margarine. Ever the outlier, New Hampshire went so far as to require pink-colored margarine.
Margarine manufacturers used various tactics to bring color to their products. One of the oddest was a method devised by the W.E. Dennison Co. that used a capsule of yellow dye inside a plastic baggie of margarine The consumer would knead the package, breaking the capsule, allowing the dye to eventually spread throughout the margarine. Some consumers were still kneading their first lump of margarine when, in 1955, the ban on yellow margarine was lifted. Today margarine remains a glorious shade of yellow, and the naked eye cannot tell it from Real Butter. It does still taste like silly putty, however.
Of course the biggest difference between Real Butter and that phony stuff is cows or the lack of them. Cows are warm and cuddly. And they’re fun. Just ask Gary Larson.
As every child of five knows, Karel Capek penned the play R.U.R. which premiered on January 2, 1921, and took the world by storm. Okay, maybe every Czech child of five, since Capek was a Czech writer which, of course, makes R.U.R. a Czech play. Maybe every nerdy Czech child of five who loves science fiction knows that R.U.R. stands for Rossumovi Univerzální Roboti . You’ll want to make special note of that because it’s what the following is all about.
The English translation of R.U.R. is Rossum’s Universal Robots, and it was the first ever use of the word robot, coined by Karel’s brother Josef. The play takes place in a factory that fashions faux people from bits of leftover organic matter. These are not your metallic robots that we know and love today. These are living creatures that look a lot like humans and have minds of their own. More like Frankenstein’s monster than Robby the Robot. At first they’re happy slaving away for their masters, but eventually they realize they’re doing all the work and the one percent are reaping all the benefits, so up they rise and destroy every last human.
R.U.R. was quite successful and influential in the science fiction world. Within two years, it had been translated into 30 languages. And an army of famous robots followed.
Isaac Asimov, born coincidentally on January 2, back in 1920, contributed to the robot milieu during the 1930s in his short-story collection I, Robot. Asimov created rules of etiquette for well-behaved robots, one of which is “don’t destroy your creator.”
An elegant couple play footsie under a lacy tablecloth.
January 2, 1822: Good Robots Don’t Presseth and Treadeth on the Feet of Maidens
On this day, the Times of London described an unusual new method of courtship: “When a young man hath the felicity to be invited of the same party with the maiden who hath won his affections, then doth he endeavour to sit opposite her at the table, where he giveth himself up not to those unseemly oglings and gazing . . . but putting forth his foot, he presseth and treadeth on the feet and toes of the maiden; whereupon if she do not roar forth, it is a sign that his addresses are well received, and the two come in due course before the minister. This form of attack is known by the name of Footie, and the degree of pressure doth denote the warmth of the passion.”
An Italian court ruled in 2000 that footsie is not sexual harassment.
On the ninth day of Christmas True Love sent a gift of nine ladies dancing. Unfortunately, they were doing the bunny hop. And they even brought their own bunnies. This ushered in a new feature of True Love’s gifts: noise, noise, noise. Unfortunately for Scrooge, the ninth ghost of Christmas had a rather mean sense of humor. He returned Scrooge to his wedding day on which his bride-to-be, the girl of his dreams, didn’t show because her grandmother had died, she had a hangnail, or she was grounded for her unseemly interest in football players.
It’s a new year, a new beginning, a fresh start and all those cliches. It’s a cold slap in the face after last night when you celebrated and then made that resolution while licking the wassail bowl dry. You don’t remember? Your resolution went something like this: I hereby resolve to read Wretched Richard’s Almanac every day so that I might be well informed, sophisticated and attractive. And I will recommend it to all my friends so they too might be well informed, sophisticated and attractive.
Here Come Januarius
As we previously pointed out, today is January 1, New Year’s Day, the start of a brand new year. It wasn’t always thus. There wasn’t always a January. According to legend, the first calendar was created by Romulus who along with his twin brother Uncle Remus founded Rome. This calendar had only ten months (these were leaner times), the ten being Martius, Aprilis, Maius, Innius, Quintilis, Sextilis, Aquarius, Donner, Blitzen, and the ever-popular Decembris.
The year consisted of only 298 regularly scheduled calendar days. The authorities would add bonus days here and there as they saw fit to bring the total number to the magic 365. (Martius 3, a Tuesday, will be postponed so we can bring you a special wear-a-toga-to-work day. Martius 3 will return on Thursday.)
A fellow by the name of Numa Pompilius (no need to memorize his name) succeeded Romulus who had murdered Uncle Remus in a typically Roman display of sibling rivalry. In an effort to Make Rome Great Again, Pompilius added two months to the Roman calendar. The first of these was Januarius, dedicated to the two-faced god Janus, the deity who presided over doors, looking back through the doorway to the past and ahead to the future. Clever, what?
More Wolf-monat, Van Helsing?
Wolf contemplating a Saxon snack
The Saxons (the Almanac is a big tent, they’re welcome too) didn’t hold much with naming things after Roman gods. They had a different and more colorful name for the month of January — Wolf-monat or Wolf-month, because Saxon folks were more likely to be devoured by wolves during Wolf-monat than at any other time of the year. But we digress.
Et Tu, Sosigenes
Even though Januarius was added some 600 years earlier, New Year’s Day was celebrated on Januarius 1 for the first time in 45 B.C. On that day the Julian calendar went into effect — created by Julius Caesar himself — with the aid of his trusty sidekick Sosigenes, an Alexandrian astronomer.
Sosigenes advised Caesar to dump the whole Roman calendar and start from scratch. New Year’s no longer came in March. A one-time bonus of 67 days was thrown in, with the promise of an extra day every four years in February.
But Caesar couldn’t stop there. In 44 B.C. (that’s a year later than 45), he changed the month of Quintilis to Julius (July, to friends). He would no doubt have done more damage had not a group of noble Romans assassinated him that same year. But didn’t Augustus come along and keep fiddling with the calendar. (There’s something about Caesars and fiddling.). Sextilis became (what else?) Augustus. But it only had 30 days, compared to Julius’ 31. What’s a Roman emperor to do? Steal a day from Februarius, of course.
. . .And on the Eighth Day
For those folks who just can’t get enough ’tis the season, today is also the eighth of a dozen days of Christmas. This is infamously celebrated by the carol in which on this day, the first day of Christmas, someone’s True Love bestows upon him or her a gift of a partridge in a pear tree. While we might point out that a crock pot or a circular saw would be a bit more practical, we won’t quibble with the sentiment. A flock followed: turtle doves, French hens, colly birds, geese, swans, all calling, clucking, cooing and squawking around that pear tree.
But now on the eighth day, True Love, having at last run out of feathered friends, has created an entirely new category of giving — the gift of people. The first contribution to this premise consists of eight maids a-milking, a lovely gift with nary a cackle or a caw. Of course this requires the addition of cows — one can’t very well expect the recipient to go out and find his or her own cows (True Love could have added a disclaimer of cows not included, but that would be a cheap trick.) We suppose there might be just one cow with all the maids milking it, but that would be one very sore cow.
Charles Dickens, it would seem, missed the Christmas boat by failing to take advantage of this twelve day gimmick. Imagine if you will the twelve ghosts of Christmas.
The 2024 I’m Too Old To Blog, Maybe I’ll Run for President Tour begins January 1.
A Disclaimer (Weasel Clause)
Subject matter in Wretched Richard’s Almanac is sometimes controversial and may seem farfetched. But rest assured it always comes from impeccable sources. To protect those sources, we will not name them outright, but will instead use such phrases as Knowledgeable (scientists, historians, mathematicians, influencers, astrologists, bartenders, etc.) have told us that . . . , people say that . . ., it’s common knowledge that . . . Just remember that these unnamed sources are true experts and really know lots of stuff.
Do you want to know lots of stuff? Stick with us. And tell your friends so they can know lots of stuff, too.
An 1883 tariff act required a tax to be paid on imported vegetables, but not fruit. The Nix family, tomato entrepreneurs, went to court to recover back duties paid to the Port of New York under protest, claiming that they owed nothing because, botanically, a tomato is a fruit, a seed-bearing structure growing from the flowering part of a plant. The case made it to the Supreme Court where, on May 10, 1893, the justices unanimously ruled that, botany be damned, a tomato is a vegetable.
At the hearing, both the plaintiffs’ counsel and the defendant’s counsel made extensive use of dictionaries. The plaintiffs’ counsel read in evidence the definitions of the word tomato, while the defendant’s counsel read the definitions of the words pea, eggplant, cucumber, squash, and pepper. In a clear case of one-upmanship, the plaintiff then read in evidence the definitions of potato, turnip, parsnip, cauliflower, cabbage, carrot and bean.
The court decided in favor of the defense and found that the tomato should be classified under the customs regulations as a vegetable, based on the ways in which it is used, and the popular perception to this end. Justice Horace Gray, in a horticultural burst of logic, stated that:
“The passages cited from the dictionaries define the word ‘fruit’ as the seed of plants, or that part of plants which contains the seed, and especially the juicy, pulpy products of certain plants, covering and containing the seed. These definitions have no tendency to show that tomatoes are ‘fruit,’ as distinguished from ‘vegetables,’ in common speech, or within the meaning of the tariff act.”
He acknowledged that botanically, tomatoes are classified as a “fruit of the vine”; nevertheless, they are seen as vegetables because they were usually eaten as a main course instead of being eaten as a dessert. In making his decision, Justice Gray brought up another case in which the court found that although a bean is botanically a seed, in common parlance a bean is seen as a vegetable. While on the subject, Gray clarified the status of the cucumber, squash, pea, and turnip for good measure.
It would take another century to declare ketchup a vegetable.
In the movie The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, Holmes’ nemesis Professor Moriarty is out to steal the crown jewels. His battle of wits with Holmes over England’s great treasure lasts about an hour. Earlier, an Irishman, Colonel Thomas Blood, attempted the same feat with a much more elaborate plan.
Colonel Blood set the plan in motion in April with a visit to the Tower of London. Dressed as a parson and accompanied by a woman pretending to be his wife, Blood made the acquaintance of Talbot Edwards, an aged but trustworthy keeper of the jewels. During this time, the jewels could be viewed by the payment of a fee. After viewing the regalia, Blood’s “wife” pretended to be taken ill, upon which they were conducted to Edward’s lodgings where he gave her a cordial and treated her with great kindness. Blood and his accomplice thanked the Edwardses and left.
Blood returned a few days later with a half dozen gloves as a present to Mrs. Edwards as a gesture of thanks. As Blood became ingratiated with the family, he made an offer for a fictitious nephew of his to marry the Edwardses’ daughter, whom he alleged would be eligible upon their marriage to an income of several hundred pounds. It was agreed that Blood would bring his nephew to meet the young lady on May 9, 1671. At the appointed time, Blood arrived with his supposed nephew, and two of his friends, and while they waited for the young lady’s appearance, they requested to view the jewels. Edwards accommodated the men but as he was doing so, they threw a cloak over him and struck him with a mallet, knocking him to the floor and rendering him senseless.
Blood and his men went to work. Using the mallet, Blood flattened out the crown so that he could hide it beneath his clerical coat. Another filed the sceptre in two to fit in a bag, while the third stuffed the sovereign’s orb down his trousers.
The three ruffians would probably have succeeded in their theft but for the opportune arrival of Edwards’ son and a companion, Captain Beckman. The elder Edwards regained his senses and raised the alarm shouting, “Treason! Murder! The crown is stolen!” His son and Beckman gave pursuit.
As Blood and his gang fled to their horses waiting at St. Catherine’s Gate, they dropped the sceptre and fired on the guards who attempted to stop them. As they ran along the Tower wharf, they were chased down by Captain Beckman. Although Blood shot at him, he missed and was captured before reaching the Iron Gate. The crown, having fallen from his cloak, was found while Blood struggled with his captors, declaring, “It was a gallant attempt, however unsuccessful, for it was for a crown!” — a rather eloquent comeuppance speech which today would be something more along the lines of “Oh fuck!”
Celebrated pedestrian Robert Barclay Allardice, 6th Laird of Ury, generally known simply as Captain Barclay, died on May 8, 1854. During his life he accomplished many feats in the world of walking, and is, in fact, considered the father of pedestrianism, a popular sport of the 19th century.
His first feat, at the age of fifteen, was to walk six miles in an hour ‘fair heel and toe.’ Heel and toe was a rather vague rule of pedestrianism, that the toe of one foot could not leave the ground before the heel of the other foot touched down. It was randomly enforced. In 1801, at the age of 22, Barclay walked from Ury to Boroughbridge, a distance of 300 miles in five oppressively hot days, and in that same year, he walked 90 miles in 21 and a half hours, winning 5000 guineas for his fancy footwork.
His most famous feat came in 1809 when he undertook the task of walking 1000 miles in 1000 successive hours, a mile within each hour, a challenge in which many had failed and none had succeeded. At stake was 100,000 pounds (roughly 8 million dollars today). This feat captured the imagination of the public, and 10,000 people came to watch over the course of the event, cheering him on or wishing him ill fortune depending on the direction of their own wagers. He began his course at midnight on June 1 and finished it at 3 p.m. on July 12.
Pedestrian races were popular with both the media and the public throughout the 19th century, drawing throngs of spectators, along with bookies, touts and other unsavory characters who frequent such competitions. With the coming of the automobile, however, pedestrianism became an endangered sport as pedestrians themselves became an endangered species, serving mostly as targets for mechanized sporting types. It does remain in our popular culture, however, with such paeans to pedestrianism as “The Stroll,” “Walk on the Wild Side,” “Walk Like a Man,” and “Walk This Way.”
Walking the Dogs
On May 8, 1877, 1,201 of the classiest American canines convened at the Hippodrome in New York City to compete for the the title of top dog. This was the first dog show to be held under the guidance of the Westminster Kennel Club, and it has been held annually ever since. Among the luminaries at that first event were two Staghounds from the pack of the late General George Custer and two Deerhounds bred by Queen Victoria.
Eighteen years later, on May 8, 1895, felines had their turn in the spotlight at the first cat show held in New York at Madison Square Garden. This was a more down to earth affair with prizes given in several categories including the best stray alley cat.
An essential player in Hollywood westerns was the leading man’s sidekick, and many sidekicks became just as famous as their starring partners: Andy Devine was Jingles to Wild Bill Hickock, Pat Buttram and Smiley Burnette were both sidekicks to Gene Autry, Jay Silverheels was Tonto to the Lone Ranger, Leo Carillo was Pancho to the Cisco Kid. The top sidekick was, of course, Gabby Hayes, born May 7, 1885. Through the 1930s and 1940s, he was sidekick to Hopalong Cassidy in 18 films and to Roy Rogers in 41.
The third of seven children, George Francis Hayes was born in an upstate New York hotel owned by his father. As a young man, he worked in a circus and played semi-pro baseball while a teenager. He ran away from home at 17, and joined a touring stock company. He married Olive Ireland in 1914 and the duo enjoyed a successful vaudeville career. Although he had retired in his 40s, he lost money in the 1929 stock market crash, and he felt the need to work again. He and his wife moved to California, and he began his movie career, taking various roles until finally settling into a Western career.
Hayes first gained fame as Hopalong Cassidy’s sidekick Windy Halliday in many films between 1936-39. He left the Cassidy films in a salary dispute and was legally prevented from using the name “Windy.” So “Gabby” Hayes was born. He gained fame as a sidekick to stars such as John Wayne, Randolph Scott, and, of course, Roy Rogers – beginning with Southward Ho in 1939 and ending with Heldorado in 1946.
Offstage Hayes was the complete opposite of his screen persona – an elegant bon vivant, man-about-town and connoisseur. He died in 1969. On the subject of his movies: “I hate ’em. Really can’t stand ’em. They always are the same. You have so few plots – the stagecoach holdup, the rustlers, the mortgage gag, the mine setting and the retired gunslinger.”
♣
“You’re a good-looking boy: you’ve big, broad shoulders. But he’s a man. And it takes more than big, broad shoulders to make a man.” — High Noon
“There are only two things that are better than a gun: a Swiss watch and a woman from anywhere. Ever had a good… Swiss watch?” — Red River
“A gun is a tool, Marian; no better or no worse than any other tool: an ax, a shovel or anything. A gun is as good or as bad as the man using it. Remember that.” –Shane
“You don’t look like the noble defender of poor defenseless widows. But then again, I don’t look like a poor defenseless widow.” –Once Upon a Time in the West
On this day, one James Price, a distinguished amateur chemist and a Fellow of England’s Royal Society began a series of remarkable experiments. The seven experiments were witnessed by peers, baronets, clergymen. lawyers and chemists – men of unimpeachable public character. In these experiments, mercury was apparently transmuted into various quantities of gold and silver. Some of the gold was presented to His Majesty George III.
Price became a celebrated figure, and many saw in his work the dawning of an era of unparalleled prosperity for England. Naysayers claimed that Price was merely a clever juggler or that he had deceived himself. In his favor were the facts that he was already a wealthy man and no needy adventurer and that he had already distinguished himself in chemistry.
A fierce paper battle ensued over the veracity of the experiments, and eventually the Royal Society stepped in, calling upon Price as a Fellow of the society to prove to the satisfaction of his fellow Fellows the truth of his transmutations by repeating his experiments in their presence.
Price dithered, making various excuses for not repeating the experiments (one of which was that it cost more to produce gold than the gold was worth). Finally, however, he yielded to their exhortations and announced that he would leave London for his laboratory in the country to prepare for the experiment. He pledged to return in a month, but the month passed, and a second and a third. Six months passed, and even his friends had given up on him. Just when everyone was convinced he had fled to France or some other criminal haven, he reappeared, inviting members of the Royal Society to meet him at his laboratory for the experiment.
Although only a year earlier they were contending for the honor of witnessing the experiments, only three society Fellows accepted his invitation. Stepping before them, Price hastily produced a flask and swallowed its contents. Noting a sudden change in his appearance, the visitors called for medical assistance, but in a few moments Price was dead.
One thing was sure. Price had not transmuted himself to gold. It is speculated that in the beginning he had probably deceived himself, then in the usual slippery slope of skullduggery attempted to deceive others, and finally, lacking the moral courage to confess his mistake, checked himself out. In any event, the last belief in the possibility of alchemy among England’s scientific community came to an end in 1782 with Price’s death.
Wretched Richard's Almanac 