Got Salt?

Well below the surface of Detroit, Michigan lies a hidden metropolis complete with man-made roadways, jumbo-size equipment and a unique history all its own.  Underneath the streets of the Motor City is a shimmering city of white—a city made entirely of salt. Detroit’s salt story began about 600 million years ago during the Paleozoic Era in a prehistoric bowl.  Back then, coral reefs separated the Michigan Basin (what we now know as the Lower Peninsula) from warm, shallow ocean waters.  For the next 400 million years or so, the basin sunk lower and lower and, on several different occasions, the ocean water seeped in.  Each time, the water evaporated leaving behind horizontal salt beds that stretched over 170,000 square miles—all the way to New York. 

In 1895 salt was found under the streets of Detroit.  Eleven years later, the Detroit Salt and Manufacturing Company was ready to establish an actual mine within the city limit.  It took another four years to finish the first shaft, which measured 1,000 feet deep.  By 1914, the mine was producing 8,000 tons of the white stuff each month. 

So just how did those salt miners get to work?  Down the single, narrow shaft, in a little elevator that carried only six men at a time in very close quarters.  Their tools and equipment also had to descend through that same shaft.  Between 1922 and 1925, the company built a second shaft even larger than the first, increasing efficiency.  This newer shaft was used to lift salt to the surface, while the older shaft continued carrying miners and their equipment. 

Each piece of machinery (which would eventually include big rigs, mechanical shovels and electric trains) had to be taken apart, lowered down the shaft in pieces and then put back together in an underground workshop.  Some of the larger truck tires had to be deflated and bound before being taken down to the mine one at a time.  Today, however, the second shaft is primarily used for equipment, which is still disassembled at street level and then reassembled approximately 1,100 feet below the surface. 

Just before World War II, Detroit once again broke new ground becoming one of the first major U.S. cities to salt their icy winter roads.  Other cities soon followed suit, which created a new demand for salt.  The Detroit Salt Mine expanded and, according to their website (http://detroitsalt.com/), they cover over 1,500 acres with more than 100 miles of roadway beneath the city streets. 

The mine itself remains at a comfortable 60 degrees each and every day.  Miners use what is called ‘The Room and Pillar’ mining method.  This means about half of the salt that is mined is left behind in ‘pillar’ formation to hold up the top giving the mine a checkerboard appearance.  Salt rooms measuring 50-60 feet wide and 25 feet high are carved out with dynamite.  The explosions dislodge between 800 and 900 tons of salt in just a few seconds.  Miners then remove the loose pieces of salt with electric shovels and pile the salt chunks into large front-end loaders. 

The salt is then taken by truck to a primary crusher where it is spun at a powerful speed causing it to break down into even smaller pieces—no more than eight inches in size.  From the crusher, the salt is placed on a conveyor belt.  It goes through another refinement process before being placed into ten-ton buckets and hoisted to the surface.  Once outside, the salt is either put into a railroad car for shipping or housed in storage for later use.

Salt, with its rich international history, is an old, old substance linked to life itself.  Geologists estimate that at least 55 counties in Michigan’s Lower Peninsula sit upon approximately 30,000 trillion tons of salt.  And that’s a whole lotta sodium and chloride!

 

 

 

The Thomas Ince Affair

Ambitious producer/director, Thomas Ince, founded Culver City Studios. Ince, however, is not known for his movie mogul status.  He is best remembered for his untimely death and the cast of real life characters who witnessed the sordid events.

Hobnobbing with the rich and famous was always part of the Hollywood territory. So it seemed only natural for William Randolph Hearst to throw Ince a birthday bash on board his yacht, The Oneida.  The ship sailed from San Pedro, California heading for San Diego on Saturday, November 15, 1924. Among the guests were Hearst's mistress Marion Davies, silent film star Charlie Chaplin, columnist Louella Parsons and Hearst's film production manager, Dr. Daniel Carson Goodman, a licensed, but non-practicing, physician. Ironically, guest-of-honor Ince missed the boat.

Tied up with business in Los Angeles, Ince took a train to San Diego and joined the party Sunday morning. At dinner that night, the group celebrated Ince's 42^nd birthday. Early Monday morning, he took a water taxi to shore accompanied by Dr. Goodman.  By Tuesday night, Ince was dead in his own home.

The official cause of death?  Heart failure. The Wednesday morning papers, however, declared: "Movie Producer Shot on Hearst Yacht!"—headlines that supposedly vanished in the evening edition. Hollywood legend says that William Randolph Hearst suspected Davies and Chaplin were lovers. Supposedly, he found the couple in a compromising clinch and went for his gun. Davies' screams awakened Ince who rushed to the scene and took the bullet meant for Chaplin.

A second version had Davies and Ince alone in the galley late Sunday night. Ince, suffering from ulcers, was looking for something to ease his upset stomach.  Hearst walked in, mistook Ince for Chaplin and shot him. A third version tells of a struggle over a gun between unidentified passengers. The gun accidentally fired and the bullet ripped through a plywood partition straight into Ince's room striking him.

Toraichi Kono, Chaplin's secretary, claimed he saw Ince bleeding from a bullet wound to the head when he came ashore. Kono’s story quickly spread throughout Beverly Hills. One month after Ince's death, rumors ran so rampant that the San Diego District Attorney's Office took action.

The D.A. interviewed one witness—Dr. Goodman.  He explained that once ashore, he and Ince caught a train heading back to L.A. when Ince fell ill. The two men disembarked in Del Mar and checked into a hotel. Goodman called a doctor, as well as Ince’s wife. Not sure whether Ince was suffering from a heart attack or indigestion, Goodman claimed he left Del Mar before Mrs. Ince arrived. Case closed.

Rumors and suspicions continued. Chaplin denied being on board The Oneida, adamant that Ince died two weeks after the cruise. In reality, Ince was dead within two days after leaving the yacht with Chaplin attending the memorial services that Friday.

Marion Davies never acknowledged that Chaplin or Goodman attended Ince’s final birthday party.  Davies insisted that Ince’s wife called late Monday afternoon to inform her of Ince's death—but he didn't die until Tuesday.  Supposedly, Hearst, himself, provided the Widow Ince with a trust fund. In return, she refused an autopsy and ordered her husband's immediate cremation, then left for Europe.

Hearst apparently took care of Louella Parsons as well. Pre-cruise, Parsons was a New York movie columnist for one of Hearst's papers. Post-cruise, Hearst gave her a lifetime contract and expanded her syndication launching her infamous power in Hollywood.

So what really killed Thomas Ince? A sudden heart attack? A bout of indigestion? A misguided bullet? We'll never be sure and that’s what makes a legend—Hollywood-style.

 

 

 

That Winchester Woman

Sarah Winchester (nee Pardee) inherited a fortune from the Winchester Repeating Arms Company—famous for making the Winchester Rifle.  Despite her riches, she firmly believed that her good fortune came with a curse. 

Born in 1839 in New Haven, Connecticut, Sarah’s parents saw to it that she had a good education.  She spoke several languages and was musically inclined.  In addition to her smarts, she was pretty and charming making her a favorite with the local boys.  One in particular, William Wirt Winchester, son of Oliver Winchester who owned the Winchester Repeating Arms Company, fell madly in love with her. 

William married Sarah in 1862.  Four years later, they had a daughter, Annie who died as an infant.  Sarah never had another child and the happy-go-lucky girl she once was disappeared forever.  Her father-in-law passed away in 1880 and the following year tuberculosis claimed her husband leaving Sarah miserable despite the $20,000,000 she inherited along with half of the Winchester Company, which brought her one thousand dollars every single day. 

Sarah sought comfort in psychics.  One soothsayer told her that the Winchesters were cursed by all of the souls who had been killed by their rifle.  These spirits demanded revenge.  According to the psychic, Sarah’s dead husband wanted her to move west and build a home in order to escape the family curse.  But there was a catch—once she started building, she must never, ever stop.  If she did, the evil spirits would claim her just as they had her baby, her father-in-law and her husband. 

Sarah sold her home in Connecticut and moved to California where she found property in what is now San Jose.  Convinced that this was where her dead husband wanted her to be, she began building her home in 1884.  The construction continued non-stop for the next 36 years.

Sarah began with an unfinished farmhouse that stood on a little more than 160 acres.  She hired a team of carpenters to work around the clock.  Every night at 12:00, Sarah held a séance to summon only good spirits who provided the next day’s building plans.  The house grew daily as rooms were built around rooms; stairways leading to nowhere rose up; doors that opened to walls or nothing at all were installed. 

By 1906, the house stood seven stories high.  Then on April 18^th, a powerful earthquake struck San Francisco.  The top three floors of Sarah’s home collapsed trapping her in a bedroom.  After she was freed, Sarah believed that the entire incident was the spirits’ way of telling her that didn’t like her home improvements.  To appease them, Sarah boarded up 30 rooms in the front of the house.  She did not, however, stop building.  She installed secret rooms, trap doors, upside down stair posts and chimneys that didn’t work—all in an attempt to confuse the evil spirits that were after her.

Then on September 4, 1922, the hammering, sawing and construction halted when 83-year-old Sarah Winchester died in her sleep.  As they learned of her death, the workmen immediately quit whatever they were doing.  Some even left half-pounded nails in the walls.

Today, Sarah’s home, rumored to be haunted, is known as the Winchester Mystery House and has been designated a national historical place by the U.S. Government.  Visitors can tour the place and see for themselves the 160 rooms; 467 doorways, 950 doors, 47 fireplaces, 17 chimneys, 40 bedrooms, 40 stairways, 367 steps, three elevators, two basements and two ballrooms—only one of which is complete.

 

 

The Monkees and The Motor City

In the fall of 1966, a phenomenon hit the country—four appealing young men known as The Monkees debuted on NBC.  They were often referred to as ‘America’s answer to the Beatles’, but that wasn’t exactly right.  They were simply actors cast in a television show, but adolescents didn’t care about that technicality.  Young girls everywhere were smitten with Davy, Mickey, Peter and Mike.  That demographic included me and my bestie, also named Debbie! 

Debbie and I lived down the street from each other on Detroit’s east side.  Every Monday night, we took turns watching The Monkees at each other’s house.  The moment their records were released, we were at the record shop.  We were also faithful followers of ‘Tiger Beat’ and ’16 Magazine’ because we just had to keep up with everything Monkee.  Debbie liked Davy best while I chose Mickey, but we both agreed that Mike’s green hat was the ‘grooviest’!   Debbie’s mother even knitted us identical green hats, which we removed when we were in school!  We knew we were all that and a bag of chips, as they say! 

When Debbie and I heard that The Monkees were taking a tour, we were beside ourselves with excitement—especially when we discovered they were stopping in Detroit.  We just knew we had to see them.  They were scheduled to appear at Olympia Stadium (Home of the Red Wings back then, but now just a memory) on July 29^th.  Somehow, I talked my favorite aunt into taking us there.  Tickets were bought well in advance and then the unthinkable happened.  Six days before the concert, the Detroit Police raided a blind pig on the city’s west side.  For the next four days riots shook the Motor City leaving 43 dead, over 1,000 wounded and more than 7,000 arrested.

There was fighting and looting just a block away from where we lived.  By day, we watched looters running down the street toting stereos, radios, and televisions.  By night, the continuous sound of gunfire and sirens kept us up.   The surreal atmosphere was only enhanced when The National Guard and their tanks took up residence on our street.  The entire city was under a strict curfew due to the violence, and then our beloved Monkees cancelled their concert.

Once things calmed down and the city quieted, however, The Monkees rescheduled.  Finally, on August 13, 1967, Debbie and I entered Olympia Stadium joining thousands of other young teens who screamed like maniacs as our idols belted out the likes of I’m a Believer, Last Train to Clarksville and I Wanna Be Free.  And yes, we wore our green hats.

Hey Deb—do you still have yours?  I can’t seem to find mine.  Does your mom still knit???         

Shirley Temple--The Little Girl Who Sparkled

So many great stars have been lost to us this year—and it’s only February!  None affected me more, however, than the passing of Shirley Temple Black.  Now there was an icon.

As a kid, I watched all of the Shirley Temple movies countless times and to this day, I haven’t tired of them.  I knew every line in every film as well as each song.  I guess I identified with her.  She often played that motherless child who had an eternal optimism about her.  No matter what dire circumstances she found herself in, there was always a song or a dance that put a positive spin on the situation—not to mention that required happy ending.  As a motherless child myself, I knew exactly how Shirley felt.  Despite a good home life, there was still a sense of insecurity along with the gut feeling that something was missing.

Thankfully, the real-life Shirley Temple had none of these issues.  Gertrude Temple desperately wanted a girl.  She and her husband, George, who worked for the Southern California Electrical Company, already had two fine sons—John and George, Jr.  Gertrude’s wish finally came true on April 23, 1928 when six pound, eight ounce Shirley was born.  At the time, her big brothers were 13 and eight, respectively.  Mrs. Temple immediately introduced Shirley to music and when the child took her first steps, Gertrude was delighted to see her daughter walking on her toes.  As a toddler, Shirley’s singing and dancing talent emerged and she was soon enrolled in classes to enhance her natural gifts.  Mother, it seems, had big plans for her little girl.

Gertrude’s ambition paid off when Shirley made her film debut in 1932 at the age of five.  Of course, her mother swore she was only four, which made her talent seem even more amazing.  As she began to star in her own vehicles for Twentieth Century Fox, it was Gertrude who carefully curled each ringlet and taught the next day’s lines to her daughter who was still unable to read.  It was also Gertrude who sheltered the child.  After each take, she rushed Shirley back to her dressing room.  No hobnobbing with the other players was allowed.  Shirley Temple never realized how big a star she really was.  Her mother wouldn’t have it. 

As a result, this curly-haired girl sang and danced her way into the hearts of movie-goers.  With the Great Depression still wracking the country, her timing couldn’t have been better.  She brought laughter and joy where little existed and her positive outlook was contagious.  People took to her as if she was their own child.  Mrs. Temple always knew that Shirley was special.  She regularly gave her daughter only one command just before the cameras rolled:  “Sparkle, Shirley, sparkle!”  And sparkle she did!

A Fall From Grace

After spending his youth traveling with vaudeville troupes and singing in California clubs, Roscoe Arbuckle became one of Mack Sennett’s Keystone Kops and a fabled Hollywood career began.  The rotund Arbuckle was surprisingly agile and adept at physical comedy despite his large size.  Sennett wisely paired him with the popular comedienne Mabel Normand.  Together, they took America by storm.  By the time Arbuckle left Sennett for Paramount Studios three years later, everyone’s favorite funny man was earning a weekly salary of $5,000.00 (almost $107,000 today).  Arbuckle soon became one of Hollywood’s biggest box office draws.  Then the unthinkable happened.   The public’s most loved film comedian, Roscoe ‘Fatty’ Arbuckle fell from grace.

In 1921, Arbuckle signed a new contract with Paramount that would earn him $1,000,000 annually.  To celebrate his good fortune, he traveled to San Francisco’s posh St. Francis Hotel for a Labor Day weekend of partying.  Actress Virginia Rappe was just one of his many guests, but when she turned up dead, Arbuckle was vilified as a sadistic rapist and murderer—despite the fact that she died in a hospital one week later, days after Arbuckle returned to L.A.    

Suddenly, Arbuckle embodied everything that was wrong with Hollywood.  The press and the public condemned him.  Religious organizations and moralists demanded that the district attorney charge Arbuckle with murder.  They opted for manslaughter.  Arbuckle’s films were withdrawn from theaters across the nation and he became the first major movie star to be blacklisted.

His first two trials ended in hung juries requiring a third go-round.  When the third jury adjourned it took them five whole minutes to reach a unanimous decision of acquittal.  Most of that time was spent writing an apology to the defendant.  It read in part:      

“Acquittal is not enough for Roscoe Arbuckle.  We feel that a great injustice has been done him.  We feel also that that it was only our plain duty to give him this exoneration under the evidence for there not the slightest proof adduced to connect him in any way with the commission of a crime….The happening at the hotel was an unfortunate affair for which Arbuckle, so the evidence shows, was in no way responsible….Roscoe Arbuckle is entirely innocent and free from all blame.”

 

 

Arbuckle was now a free man, but life as he knew it was over.  His legal fees bankrupted him.  Former fans believed he was only freed due to a lack of evidence and his position in Hollywood.  Arbuckle remained a pariah for the rest of his years.  He died in his sleep on June 29, 1933—the cause of death sited as heart trouble, but those who knew him well believed his heart was simply broken. 

       

The Lonely One

As I sit here in my Midwest dwelling watching the snow pile up outside, I can’t help but think of one of my favorite vacation spots—Hawaii! 

Separated from the rest of us by the vast Pacific, the 50^th United State stands alone—literally.  But just what makes Hawaii so different?  It’s not the magnificent mountains or the tranquil trade winds or the tropical atmosphere.  Nah.  None of those.  It’s the Royalty.  Yes, that’s right—kings and queens.  Hawaii is the only state that was once ruled by a royal family starting with King Kamehameha the Great!

Born in 1758 on the Big Island, the infant king was originally named Paiea, meaning ‘Hard-Shelled Crab’.  He was the son of Keoua, a high chief, and Kekuiapoiwa, the daughter of King Alapai.  Legend tells us that he was born right after an appearance of Halley’s Comet.  This prompted the kahunas, or high priests, to predict that this child would grow to be the slayer of chiefs and sole ruler over the islands.  As a result, Alapai ordered the death of all male infants, but his grandson was secretly whisked away by the priests and quietly raised by a childless couple until he came of age.  Separated from his family, Paiea took the name Kamehameha, meaning, ‘The Lonely One’.

Eventually, Kamehameha came under the guidance of his uncle, Kalaniopu’u, who was Chief of the Big Island.  After his uncle’s death, he became second in command next to Kalaniopu’u’s son and heir, Kiwaloa.  When Kiwaloa was killed in a dispute, Kamehameha became King, but he didn’t stop there.  He continued attacking and conquering each of the islands one by one.  He even invaded Maui with cannons.  The battle that followed in Iao Valley is considered one of the bloodiest.  Fatalities were so high that the nearby waters were dammed up with bodies

By 1795, Kamehameha was the undisputed king of all the Hawaiian Islands except Kauai.  Determined to take over this last island, he launched war canoes from Oahu, but rough seas forced him back.  Later, he planned a raid from the Big Island, but ended up in Maui by mistake.  On his final attempt to take over, an unexpected outbreak of what was probably typhoid fever or cholera swept through his ranks killing many of his followers.  He then tried a new tactic—he offered his protection to the island and Kauai’s chief accepted.  Upon the chief’s death, several years later, Kauai finally became part of Kamehameha’s kingdom.

As king, Kamehameha had ultimate power, but to help him rule, he appointed a governor to each island.  He outlawed the common practice of human sacrifice and ensured that the local chiefs did not abuse the Hawaiian people.  It is said that King Kamehameha was a commanding figure—almost seven feet tall.  He reigned for 24 years until his death in 1819 at the age of 70.  Deeply mourned by his people, his remains were hidden in a secret cave somewhere on the Big Island.  The exact location is unknown and Hawaiian folklore says that the servants who buried him were killed to ensure the burial site would never be revealed. 

Each year on June 11^th, the state of Hawaii officially remembers by celebrating King Kamehameha Day.  A true warrior, he was not afraid to fight for what he believed in.  A wise and gentle ruler, he united the islands and for the first time brought peace and a sense of well-being to the Hawaiian people.