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Humanity Life, Brooklyn, NY (2026)

04/21/2026

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝐺𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡 𝐴𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝐴𝑟𝑡 𝐶𝑜𝑚𝑝𝑒𝑡𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑖𝑠 𝑎 𝑏𝑒𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑝 𝑡𝑜 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛’𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑐 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠.

There was a time when art didn’t require explanation. Visitors could walk into a gallery, stand before a painting, and respond to what they saw, immediately and instinctively. Beauty, skill, proportion, and meaning weren’t abstractions to be parsed by academic skeptics. They were realities apprehended by the eye and understood by the heart.

Today, that experience has become increasingly rare. The contemporary art world often seems to demand mediation before viewers are permitted to understand what stands before them. In place of an honest reaction, one confronts a placard explaining an ideological framework.

The result has been a growing estrangement between art and the public. Museums struggle to maintain attendance. Younger generations, raised in a world of screens and algorithms, drift away from institutions that no longer seem to speak their language. Art, once central to cultural life, has become either a niche interest or a vehicle for alienating messages.

It’s into this moment that The Great American Art Competition emerges as a corrective to the current malaise.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐀𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐀𝐫𝐭 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

Founded last year by artist Adam Thompson, the competition is explicitly aimed at restoring a sense of direction to American art. As a proud partner of the Freedom 250 initiative celebrating the anniversary of American independence. Its mission is ambitious but clear: to empower artists to create work that reflects the spirit of the nation, to elevate shared values, and to rekindle a broader cultural appreciation for beauty and craftsmanship.

Thompson, who has spent nearly two decades working as an artist, describes the project as a response to a widening disconnect. He observes, “There are extraordinary artists across the country—especially younger artists—who are deeply committed to craft, beauty, and meaning but lack a serious national platform.”

Continues in comments.

04/20/2026

𝑌𝑜𝑢 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑛’𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐺𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐶𝑎𝑛𝑦𝑜𝑛 𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑙 𝑦𝑜𝑢’𝑣𝑒 𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑖𝑡 ℎ𝑎𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑜𝑓𝑓𝑒𝑟.

Dad opened the back door of our station wagon and glared at me and my sister.

“Get out of the car,” he said through gritted teeth.

We’d just pulled into a parking lot at Grand Canyon National Park, one of the stops on our family road trip. Tired, hot, and cranky, my sister (a tween) and I (a teen) had no interest in exploring what I might have uncharitably described as “just a big hole.”

Dad’s demeanor made it clear that the “No” on our Magic 8 Ball was not an acceptable answer. So, with all the eyerolls and palpable disdain we could muster, my sister and I sulked at a crowded lookout spot along the canyon rim before crawling back into the air-conditioned station wagon.

Mission accomplished. I’d been to the Grand Canyon.

But even then, I knew I hadn’t really been to the Grand Canyon. This dirty little secret gnawed at me for decades.

What I didn’t know at the time, besides just about everything, was that Future Me would love being in the great outdoors. Especially if it involved hiking. Future Me would also be a travel writer. And a travel writer who’s into hiking shouldn’t have her sole trip to the Grand Canyon revolve around pouting in family photos. I needed to go back, to atone for the sins of my teenage past and give this world-renowned landmark another shot.

That’s why, in my mid-50s, I signed up for Intrepid Travel’s three-day hiking trip in the Grand Canyon. The compact itinerary promised treks along some of the park’s most famous trails, taking us below the rim—something done by a surprisingly small percentage of the park’s roughly 5 million annual visitors. Most folks simply soak up the views from the edge of the canyon, snap some selfies, and move along.

The trip called for spending two nights in the historic El Tovar hotel, a National Historic Landmark built 120 years ago to accommodate well-heeled tourists arriving by rail. Reservations for El Tovar’s restaurant and 78 guest rooms tend to get snapped up well in advance.

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04/20/2026

𝐴 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑐𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑠 𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡 𝑝𝑢𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑐, 𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑦, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑢𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑎𝑛 𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑒 𝑎 𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒.

Statues convey the virtues of great people, and in the case of civic statuary, these virtues are on public display for generations of citizens.

In “Classical Architecture and Monuments of Washington, D.C.: A History & Guide,” author Michael Curtis described the difference between sculptures and statues. Sculptures “might contain any idea, large, small, or insipid, of anything or non-thing or nonsense,” he wrote. “Statues are intelligently composed, aesthetically resolved, expertly crafted tributes to civic, military, and humanitarian accomplishments.”

A fine example of such statuary is American sculptor James Earle Fraser’s 10-foot bronze statue of Alexander Hamilton. As the first secretary of the Treasury, Hamilton stands prominently on the south side of the Treasury Building.

Fraser’s Hamilton cuts a dashing figure, which, although cast in bronze, is alive with feeling. Confident in pose, Hamilton appears as if he is ready to stride off into action, with his left foot ready to propel him forward. His face exudes a certain assuredness along with a faint, charming smile that distinguishes the man from the monument.

On the front of the base, an inscription lists Hamilton’s patriotic roles: “First secretary of the Treasury / soldier orator statesman / champion of constitutional union / representative government and / national integrity.”

On the north side of the base, an honorific inscription of Hamilton’s time as secretary of the Treasury states: “He smote the rock of the national resources, and abundant streams of revenue gushed forth. He touched the dead co**se of the public credit, and it sprang upon its feet.”

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04/19/2026

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑓 𝑝ℎ𝑜𝑡𝑜𝑗𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑚 𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑘𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑡𝑜 𝑐𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑡𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑚𝑎𝑔𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐶𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑙 𝑊𝑎𝑟 𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑖𝑛𝑓𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑦 𝑜𝑓 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑐𝑖𝑎𝑙 𝑝ℎ𝑜𝑡𝑜𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑝ℎ𝑦.

Abraham Lincoln credited the entrepreneurial photographer with helping him become president.

On Feb. 27, 1860, Abraham Lincoln sauntered into Mathew Brady’s New York studio for a photographic portrait. Lincoln was in town to give a speech at the Cooper Institute (today’s Cooper Union) highlighting his views of slavery, the most toxic political issue of the day. The intellectual power of Lincoln’s presentation would fuel the campaign that took him to the White House.

But while Lincoln’s verbiage was profound, the bony 6-foot-4 politician in a wrinkled suit was awkward and disheveled. When Brady asked to “arrange” his shirt collar and jacket, Lincoln quipped, “Ah, I see you want to shorten my neck.”

In the resulting photograph, Lincoln’s collar and bowtie were effectively turned up to camouflage his long neck. Brady maneuvered Lincoln into a statesman-style pose with a solemn expression while his left hand touched a pair of books arranged on a stand.

The image presented Lincoln as a man of great knowledge and fortitude and would be widely reprinted in newspapers and lithographs. Lincoln cherished that fateful day in New York, later commenting, “Brady and the Cooper Institute made me President.”

𝐀 𝐇𝐚𝐳𝐲 𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝

Brady may have been the unlikeliest of kingmakers. Details of his formative years are scant, and Brady often changed his biography. According to James D. Horan’s “Mathew Brady: Historian With a Camera,” in different interviews Brady claimed that he was born in Cork, Ireland, and Warren County, New York, putting his birth year between 1822 and 1824. The only thing known about his parents was their names, Andrew and Julia.

At the age of 16, Brady became acquainted with portrait artist William Page in Saratoga, New York. Page introduced Brady to his former teacher, the artist and inventor Samuel Morse, who recently returned from Paris after studying the convoluted daguerreotype process of capturing images on copper plates. It became the first commercially viable photography method.

Morse opened the first American school of photography in New York in 1840. Brady, who was scratching out a living by working in the jewelry trade, was in Morse’s inaugural class.

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04/19/2026

𝐼𝑛 ‘𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑊𝑒𝑒𝑘 𝑖𝑛 𝐻𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦,’ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑤𝑙𝑦 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑚𝑒𝑑 𝑂ℎ𝑖𝑜 𝐶𝑜𝑚𝑝𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑝𝑢𝑟𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑛𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑙𝑦 𝑎 𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑎𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑏𝑒𝑔𝑎𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑢𝑜𝑢𝑠 𝑡𝑎𝑠𝑘 𝑜𝑓 𝑠𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑟𝑡ℎ𝑤𝑒𝑠𝑡.

The British and the Americans had defeated the French and their Indian allies in the French and Indian War. The Treaty of Paris was signed on Feb. 10, 1763, ceding French lands to the British. The French had created alliances with numerous Indian nations, which included providing gifts. Those alliances abruptly ended, as did the gift-giving.

With the newly won lands, the British colonists did what they'd been accustomed to doing: settling new lands. Colonists began moving west toward and past the Appalachian Mountains. Sensing the loss of more than their French allies, a number of tribes created a new alliance, led by the Ottawa war chief, Pontiac. Furthermore, a Delaware holy man by the name of Neolin, convinced the tribes they would be successful in a rebellion.

In May, a major uprising—called Pontiac’s Rebellion—most famously against Fort Detroit, proved Neolin’s prophecy true. It forced the British monarchy to reconsider expanding across the continent. On Oct. 7, 1763, King George III issued the Proclamation of 1763, which prohibited colonists from settling past the Appalachian Mountains.

The prohibition infuriated the colonists and lit a fuse among the American British subjects. The following year, the king and British parliament instituted the first of a number of taxes that would push the colonists into a successful uprising of their own.

𝐀 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐎𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲

Twenty years after the Treaty of Paris, another Treaty of Paris was signed between the British, French, and the Americans. The first one had pushed the French out of America. This one, signed on Sept. 3, 1783, pushed out the British. The 13 colonies were now the 13 states. The lands beyond the Appalachian Mountains were now within reach. It was simply a matter of making the trek and settling the hostile environment—hostile for very many reasons.

On Jan. 25, 1786, a printed advertisement began making the rounds in New England with a rather promising opportunity.

The advertisement titled “Information” was directed to those who had served in the war, were, “by an ordinance of the honorable Congress to receive certain tracts of land in the Ohio country, and also all other good citizens who wish to become adventurers in that delightful region.”

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04/18/2026

𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑒𝑝𝑖𝑠𝑜𝑑𝑒 𝑜𝑓 ‘𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝐶ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝐶𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑑’ 𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑠 𝑎 𝑠𝑝𝑜𝑡𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑛 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 1964 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑎𝑙 𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑠𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑚𝑒𝑑 𝐴𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑝𝑜𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑠.

“AuH2O in ‘64” was a clever campaign bumper sticker for Republican Sen. Barry Goldwater (1909-1998). The Au and H20 are the chemical symbols for gold and water.

The slogan was catchy but made little difference in Goldwater’s presidential run. Lyndon B. Johnson and the Democrats buried the Republican Party’s bid for the White House in one of the most lopsided wins in American history.

Besides the advantage of running as an incumbent in the immediate aftermath of John F. Kennedy’s assassination, Johnson and the Democrats played on the country’s anxiety to label Goldwater as a threat to peace. When he said in his convention speech, “Extremism in the defense of liberty is no vice,” various pundits and politicians shortened it to “Extremism is no vice,” rousing fears that Goldwater was a loose cannon. Their famous “Daisy Ad,” which depicted a little girl picking daisies, followed by the explosion of an atomic bomb and Johnson’s voice intoning “These are the stakes” and “We must either love each other or we must die,” reinforced those concerns about the senator from Arizona.

And so Goldwater was crushed in the election. But from the ashes of that campaign arose a movement that remains a political force in America even today.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐤

An entrepreneur—he had dropped out of college following his father’s death to manage the family’s department store—and a World War II veteran, Goldwater was elected to the Senate in 1952. There, he gained a reputation as a staunch anti-communist and a conservative opposed to the growth of the federal government. He was known for his forthright speech and his openness in his political stances.

But it was his 1960 book, “The Conscience of a Conservative,” that first thrust Goldwater into the national spotlight. Though largely ignored or criticized as insignificant by the press and reviewers, this manifesto seized the attention of many Americans. Fed up with a rapidly expanding federal government and a perceived diminution of liberty, they put “Conscience” on the bestseller list.

This passage offers insight into the book’s premises:

“I have little interest in streamlining government or in making it more efficient, for I mean to reduce its size. I do not undertake to promote welfare, for I propose to extend freedom. My aim is not pass laws, but to repeal them. it is not to inaugurate new programs, but to cancel old ones that do violence to the Constitution, or that have failed in their purpose, or that impose on the people an unwarranted financial burden. I will not attempt to discover whether legislation is ‘needed’ before I have first determined whether it is constitutionally permissible.”

Continues in comments.

04/18/2026

𝐶𝑜𝑙. 𝐽𝑜ℎ𝑛 𝐺𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟’𝑠 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑟𝑜𝑠𝑖𝑡𝑦 𝑐𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑓𝑒𝑐𝑡 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝐴𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑃𝑎𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑜𝑡𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑓𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐵𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑠ℎ.

Driving snow and sleet cut through the cold night air on Dec. 25, 1776, slashing Gen. George Washington and his bedraggled troops as they silently crossed the Delaware River. New England watermen from Col. John Glover’s Marblehead regiment expertly navigated the treacherous river, easily identifiable in their short blue seaman’s jackets, tarred pants, and woolen caps. This was the third time Grover had come to Washington’s rescue.

Though Washington had other pressing matters on his mind that night, he undoubtedly could recall the first time Glover had helped him. Over a year prior, the apprentice shoemaker-turned-ship owner had offered his fishing schooner for service as the Continental Army’s first authorized warship.

One fishing schooner stood against the mightiest fleet in the world.

𝐆𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚𝐡

At the start of the American Revolution, the British Royal Navy’s fleet of about 270 ships practically owned the sea. British ships faced little military opposition from the colonists as they carried munitions, soldiers, and much-needed supplies to the war front. In the summer of 1776 alone, 130 ships transported over 20,000 British troops to colonial America.

In fall 1775, Washington, the newly appointed general of America’s Continental Army, knew the stakes better than most. While British cargo ships regularly restocked enemy troops and threatened coastal towns, American supplies and munitions grew thinner by the day. The War for Independence couldn’t be won by land alone.

Into the crisis stepped Col. Glover of Marblehead, Massachusetts. At his suggestion, Washington used his authority as commander in chief of the Continental Army to charter private vessels to target British supply ships. The first ship he authorized was the Hannah, Glover’s fishing schooner. On Sept. 2, 1775, Washington gave command of the Hannah to Capt. Nicholson Broughton, writing:

“You are to proceed as Commander of said schooner, immediately on a cruise against such vessels as may be found on the high seas or elsewhere … in the service of the Ministerial army, and to take and seize all such vessels, laden with soldiers, arms, ammunitions, or provisions, for or from said army.”

Within a week, the Hannah—a small converted fishing schooner manned by soldiers from Glover’s regiment of experienced Marblehead seamen—successfully apprehended the British supply ship Unity. This was the first enemy vessel captured by an American vessel in the Revolutionary War and marked the humble beginnings of what became known as “Washington’s Navy,” an ad-hoc fleet operated by the Continental Army before the formal national navy existed.

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04/17/2026

𝐻𝑜𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝐷𝑜𝑑𝑔𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑒𝑡 𝑚𝑒𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑙 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑢𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑏𝑢𝑖𝑙𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑢𝑔𝑔𝑒𝑑 𝑒𝑛𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑝𝑒𝑑 𝑙𝑎𝑢𝑛𝑐ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐷𝑜𝑑𝑔𝑒 𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑑.

In the formative years of the American automobile, innovation demanded equal parts risk and resolve, and few figures embodied mechanical smarts more completely than Horace Elgin Dodge (1868–1920). Invariably paired in history with his more outwardly business-minded brother, John Francis Dodge (1864–1920), Horace was the essential craftsman—the steady, disciplined mind whose precision helped shape not only a company, but an enduring designation in American engineering: Dodge.

Born on May 17, 1868, in Niles, Michigan, Horace Dodge was raised in a world governed by tools and motion. His father, Daniel Rugg Dodge (1819–1897), operated a machine shop, and from an early age Horace absorbed the sequences of metalwork and problem-solving. He was not trained in lecture halls, but at the lathe and forge, learning by doing—taking machines apart and reassembling them with greater efficiency and care.

Practical intelligence defined him. Where others saw complication, Horace saw opportunity for refinement. That instinct followed him and his brother to Detroit in the late 19th century, as the city emerged as a center of American industry.

After early work in the bicycle trade, the brothers established the Dodge Brothers Machine Shop in 1900. At a time when the automobile remained an uncertain venture, they became indispensable suppliers, producing engines, transmissions, and critical components for emerging manufacturers—most notably the Ford Motor Co. Their partnership with Henry Ford proved especially significant; in addition to supplying key mechanical systems, the Dodges received a substantial share of company stock.

In this, Horace’s character comes most clearly into focus. He was not merely a mechanic, but a meticulous, unwavering dreamer who polished manufacturing processes, strengthened durability in essential components, and insisted on precision at a time when many competitors favored speed over consistency. His work, including the design of the first dirt-proof ball bearing, helped make early automobiles not just functional, but dependable.

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04/17/2026

𝐴 19𝑡ℎ-𝑐𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑦 𝑐𝑖𝑟𝑐𝑢𝑠 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑚𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑚𝑎𝑧𝑒𝑑 𝑐𝑟𝑜𝑤𝑑𝑠 𝑏𝑦 “𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑛 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑟”—𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑚𝑎𝑑𝑒 𝑎 𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑠 𝑗𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑦 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝐶𝑖𝑛𝑐𝑖𝑛𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑖 𝑡𝑜 𝑁𝑒𝑤 𝑂𝑟𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑠.

Back in the 1880s, when pedestrianism (competitive walking) was a popular sport, Charles Oldrieve decided to take competition to the next level—by walking on water. Toward the end of his career, Oldrieve accomplished his greatest feat, successfully traveling on water from Cincinnati to New Orleans. To this day, his record remains unchallenged; no one has attempted the distance since.

Oldrieve was a high-wire performer (tightrope walker) for a traveling circus based in Boston. One day in the summer of 1888, while at Revere Beach, he decided to attempt walking on water. He originally got the idea from Ned Hanlen, who had copied the trick from someone else.

𝐄𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞

However, while Hanlen used boots that were 6 feet long and wide, Oldrieve designed smaller, more functional shoes that were canoe-shaped and made of cedar with copper plating. They were equipped with flaps that stayed up when he lifted his feet and dropped down to grip the water when he stepped, giving him traction to move forward.

Once Oldrieve began practicing the trick, he used his balance as a tightrope walker to move effectively across the water. He staged his first major performance Aug. 24, 1888, walking 7 miles from Ocean Pier to Nahant in three and a half hours.

On Nov. 19, 1888, Oldrieve began his greatest feat yet, attempting to travel more than 150 miles down the Hudson River from Albany to Manhattan. The journey took six days, and the weather was so cold that his shoes froze overnight.
Over the next several years, he staged shows in which he walked across waterfalls, traveled to islands off the Boston coast, and performed stunts while smoking a cigar and setting off fireworks.

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04/16/2026

𝐼𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑜𝑓 ‘𝑃𝑟𝑜𝑓𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝐻𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦,’ 𝑤𝑒 𝑚𝑒𝑒𝑡 𝑎 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑜𝑐𝑡𝑜𝑟 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑏𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝑎 𝑤𝑎𝑟 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑜 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑢𝑟𝑔𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑐𝑎𝑟 𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑢𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑦.

The results of the Republican nomination for Vermont’s 1936 gubernatorial race had come in. Horatio Nelson Jackson had fallen just shy of winning, coming in second behind George Aiken, but ahead of many other contenders. For the 64-year-old businessman, it may have been the only time he came up short in an endeavor he‘d committed himself to. It was why he’d been one of America’s most famous individuals.

Horatio Nelson Jackson (1872–1955) was born in Toronto to a minister. He received a fine education in Canada before moving to the United States to earn his medical degree at the University of Vermont. He graduated in 1893 and soon began practicing medicine in Vermont. In 1899, he married Bertha Richardson Wells , who came from one of the state’s richest families. The wealth that came from the marriage proved providential in the coming year.

In 1900, Jackson contracted a mild case of tuberculosis, and the disease forced him to close his medical practice. Despite the loss, the young couple could still afford just about anything they wanted. They purchased Providence Island in Lake Champlain, bought shares in mining operations, traveled Europe, and eventually purchased racehorses. Soon, they bought automobiles—a term that was coined for the “horseless carriage” the same year Jackson married. It was the automobile that would turn Horatio Nelson Jackson into a household name.

𝐀 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐧’𝐬 𝐖𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫

In 1903, the Jacksons took a cross-country trip by train to San Francisco. One night in May while dining at the city’s prestigious University Club, a debate ensued: Was the automobile a fad destined to be a mere toy for rich people or was it was the future of transportation?

“The majority opinion was that save for short distances the automobile was an unreliable novelty,” Jackson recalled. It was “a passing mechanical fancy which thinking men could do no other than discard, as the horse continued to demonstrate his proper place as the dependable servant of mankind for travel.”

Jackson was in the minority. He believed the car was the future of transportation. The friendly debate resulted in a gentleman’s wager: If Jackson was such a believer in the automobile and its reliability, he should drive one across the country. If he could reach New York City in less than three months, there would be $50 waiting for him. Jackson was hardly intrigued by the money. But he was intrigued nonetheless, and he accepted the bet.

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04/16/2026

𝐼𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑜𝑓 ‘𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝐴𝑟𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝐿𝑖𝑏𝑒𝑟𝑡𝑦,’ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑒𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑠 𝑎 𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡 19𝑡ℎ-𝑐𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑦 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑟.

History classes today tend to focus on politics, government, and military events, which could be considered the body of the nation. Nevertheless, art is the nation’s soul. The mid-19th century was a period of rich artistic development across art, music, and literature.

Cities on the East Coast, especially in New England, nurtured critical thinking and education. The three Peabody sisters influenced this American Renaissance through their writing, artwork, and business pursuits. They also supported and influenced some of the most important creative men of the day.

The youngest of the Peabody sisters, Sophia, was a sensitive woman of fragile health who managed to capture the heart and hand of New England’s most eligible literary bachelor, Nathaniel Hawthorne. She was a painter, sculptor, illustrator, and writer, whose greatest masterpiece was, perhaps, her husband’s literary reputation.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐞𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲𝐬

Sophia Amelia Peabody (1809–1871) was born in Salem on Sept. 21, 1809. She was the third daughter of schoolteacher Elizabeth “Eliza” Palmer and Dr. Nathaniel Peabody, a general practitioner turned farmer and, later, dentist. Eliza had married young for security, yet her mild-mannered husband often failed to provide a good living for her and their six children.

The strong-minded Eliza supplemented the family income by teaching and tutoring, particularly girls, since she passionately believed in the education of women. Not wishing her daughters to be restricted by obligatory marriage, she taught them thoroughly and created a cultured, intellectual environment in which they could flourish.

Sophia was in poor health, suffering from severe migraines, which required her mother’s care.

For over 50 years, Louise Hall Tharp’s biography, “The Peabody Sisters of Salem” (1950), was the definitive source on the talented trio, although the author relied on conjecture rather than research and generalization rather than fact.

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04/15/2026

𝐼𝑛 ‘𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑊𝑒𝑒𝑘 𝑖𝑛 𝐻𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦,’ 𝑎𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑛𝑢𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑖𝑒𝑠, 𝑎𝑛 𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑐 𝑑𝑒𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑎 ‘𝑟𝑒𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑜𝑛,’ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐽𝑒𝑓𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑜𝑛 𝑀𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑎𝑙 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑏𝑢𝑖𝑙𝑡.

It hardly seemed the right time for the construction of a new memorial in Washington. The timing was inopportune: The year was 1934, and the country was in the midst of the Great Depression. Along the Tidal Basin of the Potomac Park seemed an inappropriate location; it was amid the cherished cherry blossom trees, their planting the brainchild of former First Lady Helen Taft.

Despite the timing and the location, Congress passed a joint resolution on June 26, 1934, to establish a 12-member Thomas Jefferson Memorial Commission (TJMC) “for the purpose of considering and formulating plans for designing and constructing a permanent memorial” to the man whom “the American people feel a deep debt of gratitude.”

Interestingly, in May 1920, Congress had granted permission to the Roosevelt Memorial Association to establish a memorial in Washington to Theodore Roosevelt. On the western portion of the National Mall, the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, and the White House occupied the east, west, and north points, respectively, leaving the south unoccupied. A debate erupted between “Jeffersonians” and “Rooseveltians” as to whose memorial should be placed in the final spot—the former won out.

𝐀 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐲

The Jefferson memorial resolution had actually first been proposed by Congress in 1926—the nation’s 150th anniversary and the 100th anniversary of Jefferson’s death.

It seemed the memorial could not proceed without controversy. Along with the Jefferson-Roosevelt debate, the congressional expenditure during a time of economic hardship, and the displacement of the beloved trees, there was controversy surrounding the selected architect.

John Russell Pope was one of the country’s leading architects. Educated in New York City, Rome, and Paris, his style was neoclassical, and he had designed several major projects, including the National Archives, the National Gallery of Art, two wings of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and a wing at London’s British Museum.

Much to the chagrin of other architects, no competition was held for the design of the Thomas Jefferson Memorial. Pope’s vision for the structure was a classical one based on Rome’s Pantheon. His concept was praised by fellow neoclassical architects, but ridiculed by modern architects, who felt the Roman concept did not fit Jefferson’s democratic ideals.

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