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05/09/2026

Rick & Corey Can’t Agree on This Classic Car 💥

In the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, sometime in October 1620, in a force-ten gale that had been beating the small ship ...
05/09/2026

In the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, sometime in October 1620, in a force-ten gale that had been beating the small ship for days, an English indentured servant in his early twenties was thrown off the deck of the Mayflower into the open sea.
His name was John Howland.
He had been below decks with the other passengers when the air got too foul and the seasickness too violent to bear. He had climbed up through the wooden gratings to breathe. As he reached the open deck, the ship rolled hard in the trough of a wave and the world tilted sideways. He went over the rail without a sound. The shout Man overboard was lost in the roar of the storm. The yellow head of John Howland disappeared into the freezing black water.
He was several fathoms under, sinking, when his right hand closed on something. It was a rope.
A topsail halyard had been left trailing in the water. The line ran out behind the ship like a reins. Howland had his fingers around it. He held on.
The men on deck saw the line snap taut and run out as something heavy weighted it. They pulled. The line came up. So did Howland — half-drowned, blue with cold, but still gripping.
A sailor reached over the rail with a boat hook. He hooked it through Howland's leather jacket and dragged him back over the side.
He was very ill for some days. He recovered.
The man who chronicled the voyage, William Bradford, would later write of this moment in Of Plymouth Plantation: It pleased God that he caught hold of the topsail halyards which hung overboard and ran out at length. Yet he held his hold, though he was sundry fathoms under water, till he was hauled up by the same rope to the brim of the water. His life was saved.

He was, at the time, a nobody.
He had been born around 1599 in Fenstanton, in Huntingdonshire, in the English countryside, the son of a yeoman family that had no money to send him to America on its own. He had bound himself as an indentured servant to a Separatist named John Carver in exchange for his passage. He owed Carver years of his labor. He had no land, no wife, no name to leave behind. He had signed his contract and climbed onto a small wooden ship at the harbor of Plymouth, England, and that was the entire bargain.
Six weeks later, in the middle of an ocean, his fingers had held a rope.
The Mayflower reached Cape Cod on November 11, 1620. John Howland was the thirteenth of the forty-one principal men to sign the Mayflower Compact that day, in the cabin of the ship.
In the brutal first winter that followed, half of the Mayflower's passengers died. The Carvers were among them. John Carver collapsed in his cornfield in April 1621 and never spoke again. His widow Catherine died a few weeks later. Their estate passed in part to the young indentured servant who had once almost drowned.
In 1623, John Howland married a sixteen-year-old orphan named Elizabeth Tilley, whose parents had also come on the Mayflower and had also died that first winter.
They had ten children. Every one of them lived to adulthood. They had eighty-eight grandchildren.

John Howland died on February 23, 1673, at the age of seventy-four, on his farm at Rocky Nook in Plymouth Colony. He was buried on Burial Hill in Plymouth. The headstone is still there.
The descendants of John Howland and Elizabeth Tilley are estimated, by the General Society of Mayflower Descendants, at between two and two and a half million people living today.
Among them:
Three United States presidents — Franklin D. Roosevelt, George H. W. Bush, and George W. Bush.
The poets Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
The founders of the Latter-day Saints, the brothers Joseph and Hyrum Smith.
The actors Humphrey Bogart, Christopher Lloyd, the four Baldwin brothers, and Anthony Perkins.
A wider American imagination than any one rope can contain.
Two and a half million Americans walking the streets of this country today are alive because of the cold fingers of a twenty-one-year-old indentured servant who would not let go of a rope that should have slipped through his hand on a winter night four hundred and four years ago.

05/09/2026

Antique Civil War Watch — HEATED Negotiation! ⌚😲💥

She was buried in the dress she had worn in Stockholm.It was a long maroon velvet evening gown, formal, of a kind that h...
05/09/2026

She was buried in the dress she had worn in Stockholm.
It was a long maroon velvet evening gown, formal, of a kind that had not been fashionable in Italian provincial life for nearly a decade. She had worn it to the Nobel ceremony in the Stockholm Concert Hall on December 10, 1927, when she had walked out under the stage lights to receive the Nobel Prize in Literature for the year 1926 from the hands of King Gustaf V of Sweden.
Now, in August 1936, in a small apartment in Rome, her two sons and her husband dressed her body in the same dress for burial.
She was sixty-four years old. She had died of breast cancer. Her name was Grazia Deledda.
She had been born Grazia Maria Cosima Damiana Deledda, on September 27, 1871, in the small mountain town of Nuoro, on the Italian island of Sardinia, the fourth of seven children of a moderately prosperous landowner and miller named Giovanni Antonio Deledda and his illiterate wife Francesca Cambosu. She had spoken only the Sardinian dialect — Logudorese — until the age of school. She had attended the local elementary school for four years. The town did not believe in further education for girls.
She had taught herself.
She had read whatever she could find — borrowed novels, magazines from the mainland, religious texts, French and Italian poetry. She had taken private Italian lessons from a relative who was an elementary-school teacher. She had begun writing short stories in her early teens. At thirteen she submitted a short story called Sangue Sardo — Sardinian Blood — to a fashion magazine in Rome.
The magazine published it.
The town women of Nuoro burned the magazine in the street.
Her mother was attacked publicly for being an irresponsible parent. Her brothers told her she was shaming the family. To deflect the scandal, she began publishing under pseudonyms — G. Razia, Grazia Madesani. She did not stop.
By the age of twenty-one she had published her first full novel, Fior di Sardegna — Flower of Sardinia. She had begun a regular collaboration with mainland Italian magazines. Her older sister Vincenza had died of a hemorrhage during a miscarriage. Her younger sister Giovanna had died of a fever. One brother had become a thief, another an alcoholic. Her mother had collapsed into depression. Grazia, in her early twenties, had taken charge of running the family business while continuing to write a novel a year.
In October 1899, on her first trip ever outside of Nuoro — to the Sardinian capital of Cagliari — she met a Ministry of Finance functionary named Palmiro Madesani. They were married in January 1900. They moved to Rome.
She wrote every day for the next thirty-six years.
She published her international breakthrough novel, Elias Portolu, in 1903. She published Cenere — Ashes — in 1904, which the great Italian actress Eleonora Duse made into a silent film in 1916. She published her own favorite novel, Canne al vento — Reeds in the Wind — in 1913. She published La Madre — The Mother — in 1920. By 1925 she had published more than twenty novels, dozens of short story collections, and several plays.
In 1926, the Swedish Academy member Henrik Schück nominated her for the Nobel Prize in Literature. The Academy awarded her the prize, citing her idealistically inspired writings which with plastic clarity picture the life on her native island and with depth and sympathy deal with human problems in general.
She was the first Italian woman ever to win the Nobel Prize in Literature. She remains, today, the only one. She was the second woman in history to win the prize, after the Swedish writer Selma Lagerlöf in 1909.
When the telegram arrived at her apartment in Rome announcing the news, her response was one word:
Già? — Already?
Benito Mussolini sent her a signed portrait of himself with an inscription expressing his profound admiration. Journalists and photographers crowded into her apartment. Her tame pet crow Ch**ca grew agitated and would not stop pecking at the visitors. Her acceptance speech in Stockholm was one of the briefest in Nobel Prize history.
She was diagnosed with breast cancer in 1932. She had surgery. She continued writing.
She died in Rome on August 15, 1936, at the age of sixty-four.
In a drawer in her writing desk, after her death, her family found a finished manuscript she had told no one about. It was written in ink on light-blue paper. It was the autobiographical novel of her childhood and her first thirty years in Nuoro — the bookish girl with the illiterate mother, the brothers who mocked her, the town women who burned the magazines.
She had finished it as she was dying. She had put it in a drawer.
She had titled it Cosima — her own middle name.
It was published in 1937, the year after her death.
She was buried in the maroon velvet dress.

On the morning of July 8, 1944, an eighteen-year-old United States Marine private named Guy Louis Gabaldon lay alone in ...
05/09/2026

On the morning of July 8, 1944, an eighteen-year-old United States Marine private named Guy Louis Gabaldon lay alone in the brush at the top of the Banzai Cliffs on the northern coast of the island of Saipan, in the Marianas, listening to several hundred Japanese soldiers and civilians in the cave system below preparing for a final su***de assault.
He waited until two of them stepped out for water. He took them, alone and unarmed, at gunpoint. He spoke to them, quietly, in casual conversational Japanese. He told them, in the kind of slang they had used at home, that the Americans had surrounded the cave. He told them they would be treated humanely. He told them their families would be notified. He sent one of them back into the cave with the offer.
A Japanese officer emerged a short time later. They negotiated for an hour. The officer accepted the terms and went back inside.
By the end of the morning, approximately eight hundred Japanese soldiers and civilians had walked out of the cave and laid down their weapons in front of an eighteen-year-old American teenager from East Los Angeles.
It is, by most reckonings, the largest single capture of enemy personnel by an individual American serviceman in the entire history of the Pacific theater.
His name was Guy Gabaldon.
He had been born in Los Angeles, California, on March 22, 1926, the fourth of seven children of a Mexican-American box-maker. He had grown up in extreme poverty in East Los Angeles. He had been shining shoes on Skid Row at the age of ten. He had been a member of a small multi-ethnic street gang called the Moe Gang.
At twelve he had moved out of his family's house and into the home of his two best friends, the Japanese-American twin brothers Lyle and Lane Nakano, whose widowed mother Sumi Nakano had taken him in as an unofficial fifth child. He had spent the next five years with them. He had attended Japanese-language classes with the Nakano children. He had learned to speak the kind of casual, kitchen-table Japanese that no military academy ever taught — the dialect of mothers and grandmothers, of jokes and apologies and small affections.
In February 1942, two months after Pearl Harbor, Executive Order 9066 had ordered the internment of every person of Japanese descent on the West Coast of the United States. The Nakano family — mother, daughters, twin brothers — had been sent to the Heart Mountain War Relocation Center in Wyoming.
Guy Gabaldon, fifteen years old, had gone to Alaska to work in a salmon cannery.
On his seventeenth birthday, March 22, 1943, he had tried to enlist in the U.S. Navy. The Navy had rejected him for a perforated eardrum. He had walked across the street to the Marine Corps recruiting office and persuaded the recruiter to overlook both the eardrum and his age.
He completed boot camp at Camp Pendleton. He completed the Enlisted Marine Japanese Language School at Camp Elliott in San Diego. He was assigned to the 2nd Marine Regiment, 2nd Marine Division, as a scout and observer.
He landed on Saipan with the first wave on June 15, 1944.
The first night on the island, against orders, he walked alone into the jungle and brought back two prisoners. His commanding officer threatened him with a court-martial. The next night, he walked back out and returned with fifty.
Command stopped threatening him. They authorized him to operate as a lone wolf.
By the end of the campaign on Saipan, by the end of the campaign on Tinian, by the time he was wounded by Japanese machine-gun fire and evacuated to Hawaii, Guy Gabaldon had personally persuaded approximately fifteen hundred Japanese soldiers and civilians to surrender. His commanding officer Captain John Schwabe recommended him on July 15, 1944, for the Medal of Honor.
While Gabaldon was bringing prisoners out of caves on Saipan, his Japanese-American foster brother Lane Nakano was fighting in Italy as a soldier in the 442nd Regimental Combat Team — the all-Japanese-American unit of the U.S. Army that became the most decorated American military unit of its size in the entire history of the United States Army. The 442nd's motto was Go for Broke. While Lane was earning his combat infantry badge in the Vosges Mountains of France, his mother and sisters were behind barbed wire in Wyoming.
Two foster brothers, in the same war, in two oceans, for the same country.
The Marine Corps downgraded Gabaldon's Medal of Honor recommendation to a Silver Star. He was honorably discharged after the war and moved to Mexico for a time to start a small business.
In 1960, the Hollywood studio Allied Artists released a film about his life called Hell to Eternity, starring Jeffrey Hunter. Within months of the film's release, the Secretary of the Navy upgraded his Silver Star to the Navy Cross — the second-highest decoration the United States awards for valor.
Lane Nakano, that same decade, had also become a Hollywood actor. He had starred, in 1951, in the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer film about the 442nd. The film was called Go for Broke!
Guy Gabaldon died of heart disease in Old Town, Florida, on August 31, 2006, at the age of eighty.
His Medal of Honor has never been granted.

In the late autumn of 1910, in a Manhattan dress shop, a nineteen-year-old American debutante named Mary Phelps Jacob — ...
05/09/2026

In the late autumn of 1910, in a Manhattan dress shop, a nineteen-year-old American debutante named Mary Phelps Jacob — known to her family as Polly — was being fitted for a sheer silk evening gown for a dance.
Standard women's underwear in the United States in 1910 was a whalebone-stiffened corset. Polly Jacob wore one. Under the sheer silk of the gown, the bones of the corset showed.
She went home. She asked her maid to bring her two silk pocket handkerchiefs, a length of pink ribbon, and a needle.
She sewed them together.
She wore them under the gown to the dance that evening.
She was the only woman in the room not wearing a corset. Other women noticed.
A few weeks later a stranger wrote to her offering a dollar for a copy. Polly realized she had something.
On February 12, 1914, she filed a patent application with the United States Patent Office. On November 3, 1914, the United States Patent Office issued U.S. Patent No. 1,115,674 for the Backless Brassiere. It was the first patent ever issued under the new American patent category for "brassieres." The inventor was twenty-three years old.
Her name, by then, had begun to change.
She had been born Mary Phelps Jacob, in New Rochelle, New York, on April 20, 1891, into one of the older American families. She was descended on her father's side from the Van Rensselaers of New York and on her mother's side from the Phelps family of Connecticut. She was distantly descended from William Bradford, the second governor of Plymouth Colony, and from Robert Fulton, the inventor of the steamboat. As a child she had been photographed by Charles Dana Gibson, the illustrator for whom the term Gibson Girl had been coined.
She married a wealthy Bostonian named Richard Peabody in 1915. They had two children. The marriage failed. She moved into a Boston factory in 1922 and founded a small two-woman company called the Fashion Form Brassière Company. Her husband and her new lover both discouraged her from running a business. She closed it within the year. She sold the patent to the Warner Brothers Corset Company of Bridgeport, Connecticut, for $1,500.
Over the next thirty years, the Warner Brothers Corset Company earned approximately $15 million from her patent. Ten thousand times what they had paid her for it.
She did not receive a royalty.
She did not seek one.
Her new husband — a Boston-born war hero and aspiring poet named Harry Crosby, the nephew of the financier J.P. Morgan, seven years her junior — had given her the new name she carried for the rest of her life. He called her Caresse.
She and Harry founded the Black Sun Press in Paris in 1927. They published the early works of Ernest Hemingway, James Joyce, Hart Crane, D.H. Lawrence, and Ezra Pound in fine letterpress editions. They lived in a converted mill outside Paris. They became, in the 1920s, central figures of the American expatriate literary scene.
Harry died in 1929. She continued the press alone. She continued the press for the next forty years.
She returned to the United States during the Second World War. She founded Women Against War, an early international peace organization, in 1947. She edited an English-language journal called Portfolio that published Anaïs Nin, Henry Miller, Pablo Picasso, Salvador Dalí, and Federico García Lorca. She was friends with Buckminster Fuller. She had a long-running affair with the Black actor and boxer Canada Lee.
In her sixties she purchased a fourteenth-century castle in central Italy — the Castello di Rocca Sinibalda — and reopened it as an artists' residency and a center for her Citizens of the World movement. She was, in later years, formally addressed as the Principessa di Rocca Sinibalda.
She published her memoir, The Passionate Years, in 1953.
She died at the castle in Rome in 1970 at the age of seventy-eight.
In her final years she was asked, occasionally, by interviewers about the brassiere. She had grown a little tired of the subject. She wrote, in her memoir, the line that has been quoted ever since:
I can't say the brassiere will ever take as great a place in history as the steamboat. But I did invent it.
The annual global market for the garment she had sewn from two silk handkerchiefs and a pink ribbon, in a Manhattan dress shop in the autumn of 1910 at the age of nineteen, was last estimated at approximately eighty billion dollars.
Almost every woman on earth, today, owns at least one.
She had sold the patent for fifteen hundred.

In March of 1952, in the Ashland Boulevard Auditorium in Chicago, a seventy-eight-year-old Black newspaper publisher fro...
05/09/2026

In March of 1952, in the Ashland Boulevard Auditorium in Chicago, a seventy-eight-year-old Black newspaper publisher from Los Angeles walked to the podium and accepted the nomination of the Progressive Party for the office of Vice President of the United States.
She opened her acceptance speech with a single sentence.
For the first time in the history of our nation, a political party has nominated a Negro woman for the second highest office in the land.
She was Charlotta Spears Bass.
She had been born Charlotta Amanda Spears in Sumter, South Carolina, on February 14, 1874, the sixth of eleven children of a former slave named Hiram Spears. She had moved to Providence, Rhode Island, at twenty. She had attended one semester at Pembroke College. She had spent ten years working at the Providence Watchman, a small Black-owned newspaper.
She had moved to Los Angeles in 1910, at thirty-six, on the advice of her doctor.
She had been hired as a subscription clerk by the California Eagle, a small Black newspaper founded in 1879 by a former slave named John J. Neimore. Neimore was, by 1912, dying. On his deathbed he had asked her to take over his newspaper. She had agreed.
She was the first Black woman in the history of the United States to own and operate a newspaper.
She ran it for the next thirty-nine years.
She used the Eagle to fight every form of racial injustice she could find. She campaigned against D.W. Griffith's film The Birth of a Nation in 1915. She covered the Scottsboro Boys case in 1931. She campaigned for desegregated housing covenants. She organized boycotts of stores that refused to hire Black workers.
In 1925 the Ku Klux Klan sued her newspaper for libel. She won. Eight Klan members then came to her newspaper office on Central Avenue at night while she was working alone.
She came to the door with a pistol.
They left.
Her husband Joseph Bass, her co-editor, died in 1934. She ran the California Eagle alone for the next seventeen years.
The FBI began investigating her in 1942 on a theory that her newspaper was funded by the Axis powers. The investigation continued, on different theories, for the next two decades. The Post Office tried, in 1943, to revoke the Eagle's mailing permit on grounds that she was a communist. They failed.
The same year, the City of Los Angeles named her the first Black member of a county grand jury in California history.
In 1944, during the zoot suit riots, she went personally into the alleys of downtown Los Angeles and pulled beaten Mexican-American and Black teenagers out from under the clubs of the Los Angeles Police Department.
In 1948 she helped found the Progressive Party with Henry Wallace.
In 1950 she ran for Congress. She lost.
In 1951 she sold the California Eagle.
In 1952 the Progressive Party nominated her for Vice President of the United States, running with the San Francisco attorney Vincent Hallinan. Her campaign slogan was Win or Lose, We Win.
W.E.B. Du Bois wrote in the Progressive Party platform that summer: Vote for Charlotta Bass, who represents Black America and American womanhood. As if one crown of thorns were not enough, she dares wear two.
The Progressive Party ticket received approximately one hundred and forty thousand votes — about 0.2 percent of the national popular vote.
She retired to Lake Elsinore, California. She opened her garage as a free voter registration site and a public reading room. She published her memoir, Forty Years: Memoirs from the Pages of a Newspaper, in 1960.
She suffered a stroke in 1966.
She died in Los Angeles on April 12, 1969, at the age of ninety-five.
On November 7, 2020, an American television network projected the election of Kamala Devi Harris as the first Black woman Vice President-elect of the United States.
Charlotta Bass had been dead for fifty-one years.
She had run for the same office, on the same ticket, sixty-eight years and eight months earlier.

05/08/2026

Craziest Pawn Stars Moments You Won’t Believe | Part 7

05/08/2026

These Vintage Baseball Pins Are Worth HOW MUCH?! 😳

05/08/2026

Historic Dutch Scale Turns Into Big Money 💰

In the spring of 1917, the trustees of Smith College — the all-women's institution in Northampton, Massachusetts — accep...
05/08/2026

In the spring of 1917, the trustees of Smith College — the all-women's institution in Northampton, Massachusetts — accepted the resignation of the college's third president and began the search for his successor.
The dean of the college, in the meantime, was asked to run the institution.
She had been on the Smith faculty for five years. She had built the college's first formal advising program. She had increased the scholarship pool. She had instituted the housing reforms that put Smith students in dormitories rather than scattered across rented rooms in Northampton. She was forty years old. She was unmarried. She was widely understood to be the best administrator the college had.
She ran Smith for approximately six months while the trustees searched for a new president.
The trustees refused to give her the formal title of Acting President because she was a woman.
Her name was Ada Louise Comstock.
She had been born in Moorhead, Minnesota, on December 11, 1876, the eldest of three children of an attorney named Solomon Gilman Comstock. She had graduated from Moorhead High School at fifteen. She had enrolled at the University of Minnesota in 1892, transferred to Smith in 1894, graduated in 1897, and earned a master's degree at Columbia in 1899.
She had been appointed, in 1907, the first Dean of Women in the history of the University of Minnesota. She had returned to Smith, as its first dean, in 1912.
When the new Smith president, William Allan Neilson, arrived in the autumn of 1917 and took over the office Comstock had been quietly running, he is reported to have said in her defense:
In a different world, Miss Comstock would have sat on the Supreme Bench of the United States.
In 1923 the trustees of Radcliffe College — the women's annex of Harvard University in Cambridge — invited her to become the first full-time president in Radcliffe's history.
She accepted.
She was inaugurated on October 20, 1923. She held the post for the next twenty years.
Under her presidency Radcliffe established a national admissions program, doubled the scholarship pool, and expanded the graduate school. In 1929 President Herbert Hoover appointed her to the National Committee on Law Observation and Enforcement — the Wickersham Commission. She was the first woman ever appointed by an American president to a federal commission.
In 1943, in her final year as president of Radcliffe, she persuaded the Harvard faculty to accept classroom coeducation for the first time in the institution's three-hundred-and-seven-year history.
She stepped down from the Radcliffe presidency in the spring of 1943, at sixty-seven.
A week later she married Wallace Notestein, the Sterling Professor of History Emeritus at Yale, whom she had first met at Minnesota in 1907 and who had proposed marriage to her in 1910. She had said no in 1910. She accepted his second proposal in 1943.
She received fourteen honorary doctorates over her lifetime.
She died at her home in New Haven on December 12, 1973, at the age of ninety-seven.
In 1968, five years before her death, Smith College had launched a pilot program for women returning to college late in life — older women whose educations had been interrupted by economic hardship, by motherhood, by widowhood, by divorce, by war. The program was renamed, in 1974, the Ada Comstock Scholars Program.
The first class entered Smith in the autumn of 1975.
In the half-century since, more than two thousand four hundred women have graduated from Smith College as Ada Comstock Scholars. They have ranged in age from their mid-twenties to their late eighties. They have been single mothers. They have been widows. They have been women whose first attempt at college had ended forty years earlier in a marriage. They have been every kind of woman whose education had been interrupted by the world she had been born into.
They have walked across the stage at Smith with her name on their diplomas.
The position of Acting President of Smith College that the trustees would not formally give her in 1917 has, in the years since, been borne in her name by every woman in the program.

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