The Flying Baroness

Elise Deroche was born on August 22, 1886 to a plumber and his wife in an average Parisian neighborhood.  Growing into a tall, shapely woman with long dark hair and expressive brown eyes, she chose life in the theater.  Success on the stage combined with her keen sense of style turned Elise into a popular figure.  In keeping with her image, she soon changed her name to Raymonde de Laroche and later added the royal title of ‘Baroness’.  Somehow, it had a more dramatic ring to it. 

A flamboyant character, she claimed to be a lot of things including a painter, a sculptor, and an experienced balloonist.  Determined to add pilot to her list of careers, she called upon French aviator (and some believe her lover) Charles Voisin to teach her to fly.  In 1909, at the age of 23, de Laroche met Voisin at the Chậlons airfield where he and his brother, Gabriel, built and flew their own planes.

The Voisin was a one-seater forcing the pupil to sit alone in the plane while the trainer shouted orders from the ground.  De Laroche was told to drive the plane along the airfield.  When she reached the other side, a mechanic turned the plan around and she drove back to where she started.  She was not, under any circumstances, to lift off.  After her first taxi around the field, however, she was ready for take-off.  Against her instructor’s orders, she opened up the throttle, raced down the airstrip and rose about fifteen feet in the air.

Within a few months, de Laroche was more confident in her flying skills, but on January 4, 1910, she had a mishap.  Misjudging the height of several trees that stood on one end of the field, she caught the tail of her aeroplane in their branches.  The flying machine crash-landed.  Luckily, de Laroche suffered nothing more than a broken collarbone and a few nasty bruises.  The accident, however, did not deter her ambition to become the world’s first female licensed pilot.  It spurred her on even more and three months later, de Laroche duly impressed the French officials with her flying skills.  She was awarded pilot’s license #36—the first ever given to a woman. 

As a barnstormer, she traveled the world.  In St. Petersburg, Russia, de Laroche caught the attention of Czar Nicholas II as she flew over a small airfield where smoking chimneys not only reduced visibility, but also caused unstable air currents.  After circling the field more than 300 feet above the ground, she simply turned off her engine and glided back down leaving the crowd and the Czar in awe.

From Russia, she traveled to Budapest where more chimneys wreaked even more havoc.  Here, however, de Laroche took first place.  Not because she won, but because no one else would try the 68 mile flight in the erratic atmosphere.  Next stop?  Rouen, Normandy where the air currents were worse.  Caught in a storm, she crash-landed into the fence that surrounded the field.  Thinking quickly, she kept the engine running so the aeroplane wouldn’t plunge into the spectators.  The Baroness got off lucky that time suffering only a concussion and another broken collarbone.

Later that summer, at Rheims in northern France, the Seconde Grande Semaine found de Laroche the only woman pitted against several men.  On the sixth day of the competition the Baroness’ luck ran out.  As she flew approximately 200 feet above the ground, her aeroplane crashed and she suffered a broken arm and two broken legs.  Undeterred, she was back in the pilot’s seat two years later.

This time, her eye was on a prize of 2,000 francs offered by Pierre Lafitte owner of the popular French women’s magazine, Fémina, and sponsor of the Coup de Fémina air competition for women.  The money would be awarded to the female pilot who flew the longest distance alone by December 31, 1912, but an automobile accident changed her plans.

She and Voisin were driving near Lyons on September 25^th when they collided with another car.  Voison died at the scene and Raymonde suffered serious injuries.  Voisin’s death left the world of aviation in a tailspin and devastated the Baroness, but she was more determined than ever to return to the air. After surviving yet another auto accident, de Laroche took to the skies in 1913 hoping for a second chance at the coveted Coup de Fémina.  On November 29^th, she flew a total of 200 miles in only four hours.  She could have flown farther, but a problematic gas line forced her down.  By year-end, no one single female flyer had done any better allowing the Baroness to claim the prize. 

With the onset of World War I in 1914, civilian flying came to a halt, but as soon as the war ended in 1918, de Laroche was back in the pilot’s seat.  Much to her delight, she found the newer airplanes sleeker, faster and easier to handle.  With a new Caudron G3, the Baroness broke the women’s altitude record by climbing almost 13,000 feet at Issy-les-Moulineaux on June 7, 1919.  Three days later, American flyer Ruth Law bested that record by flying 14,000 feet in the air.  Not to be outdone, de Laroche reached an astonishing 15,000 feet on June 12^th. 

On July 18, 1919, the Baroness visited Le Crotoy airfield where she one of the test pilots offered her a ride in one of the newest flying machines.  Eyewitnesses said that as the plane came in for a landing, it swerved awkwardly and then went into a spinning dive, which sent it plummeting to earth.  The 33 year-old Baroness was dead at the scene and the pilot succumbed on his way to the hospital.  A statue honoring her stands at Le Bourget airport in Paris.

A Musical Patriot

Consumed by music, a young John Philip Sousa played in the U.S, Marine Band by day and worked professional engagements by night.  In between, he studied and composed.  His first published work, Moonlight on the Potomac Waltzes (1872), was written for a friend trying to impress a girl.  The money was minimal, but having his work made public thrilled him.  Encouraged by his small success, he continued to write and publish his music.  In 1873, he composed a march called, Salutation, in honor of the new Marine Bandleader, Louis Schneider.  As the band began playing it for the very first time, Schneider discovered that a low-ranking bandsman had written the piece.  He stopped the music at once.

Understandably, Sousa soon chose to leave military life behind.  At the age of twenty, he was honorably discharged from the service and the Marine Corps band.  His days, however, were still filled with music.  Now an accomplished violinist, Sousa taught privately during the day and in the evenings played in two orchestras—one at Ford Theater and one at the Washington Theater Comique where he eventually became the conductor.

Sousa thrived on music working as an arranger, conductor, and composer establishing his professional brilliance and in 1880, the U.S. Marine Band contacted Sousa asking him to be their new leader when Louis Schneider resigned. Things got a little crazy as Sousa was unable to get out of his professional contracts in Philadelphia.  Everyone was happy, however, when his father, Antonio, finally accepted the position by proxy on his son’s behalf.  On October 1^st, Sousa, now sporting his famous beard, became the fourteenth and first American born, leader of the U.S. Marine Band. 

It was no easy job.  The forty member Marine Band’s repertoire left much to be desired.  Also known, as ‘The President’s Own Band’, they were the only group of musicians that played at the White House.  Their lackluster music, however, was outdated and the instruments themselves not up to Sousa’s high standards.  He demanded much from his men, strictly running rehearsals, which caused many of the less serious musicians to drop out. 

         

With their numbers dwindling, Sousa personally recruited new band members to replace them.  He took in only those he knew and trusted.  In between his official duties, he even penned six lively new marches for the band to play.  Single-handedly, Sousa turned his Marines into sharp looking, professional sounding musicians.  Making their debut at a White House reception on New Year’s Day in 1881, the refurbished U.S. Marine Band led by John Philip Sousa had more than just a new leader.  They had a new sound and stepped into a new era.

Sousa himself has gone down in history as a remarkable American who wrote remarkable music.  Affectionately known as The March King, he will forever be linked with the rich sounds of America.  A true patriot who believed in his country, he gladly took on the role of musical ambassador around the globe bringing a taste of America wherever he went.  Respected worldwide for his talent and personal commitment to music, Sousa not only raised the standard of American music, but also truly became a superstar before the word even existed

Sousa left behind a musical legacy of 15 operettas, 136 marches, 11 suites, 2 descriptive pieces, 70 songs, 7 other vocal works, 11 waltzes, 13 dances, 14 humoresques, 28 fantasies, 6 incidental music to stage productions, 5 overtures, 2 concert pieces, 4 instrumental solos, 12 trumpet and drum pieces, and 322 arrangements and transcriptions.  He also left us his words with 7 books, 27 letters to the editor and 138 magazine and newspaper articles, many of which were written on topics other than music.

“If, out of the cadences of Time, I have evoked one note that clear and true, vibrates gratefully on the heartstrings of my public—I am well content.”  John Philip Sousa has done way more than that.  Even now, his music inspires us.  In it we still find comfort, courage and strength.  Thanks to him when we hear those high-stepping sounds we remember with pride and dignity exactly who we are. 

 

 

The Witch of November

Huron.  Ontario.  Michigan.  Superior.  Erie.  The Five Great Lakes.  Their glistening waters beckon boaters, fishermen and swimmers on those warm summer days when the sun is just right.  But don’t let them fool you. The shimmering Great Lakes harbor secrets—deadly secrets.  Over the past 300 years, they’ve claimed thousands of ships and countless more men—many consumed by the legendary Witch of November.

Collisions explosions, and fires have all caused shipwrecks on the Great Lakes, but it’s the sudden, lethal storms that are most feared.  Measured only by their wind speed, gales are declared when winds are clocked between 39 and 54 miles per hour (mph).  Gales with greater wind speeds are upgraded to storms—the highest rating given on the lakes.  Since 1835, 20 such storms, with winds blowing more than 73 mph, wreaked havoc across the lakes with the fiercest one gauged at 103 mph.  In the oceans, they would have been called hurricanes, but on the Great Lakes they are simply storms, no matter how deadly they turn.  Nineteen of these twenty tempests battered the lakes during November—the one month the sailors call cursed.  Here are a few reasons why:

November 9, 1861 – The Keystone State disappeared during a wicked winter storm that roared across Lake Huron.  Since she carried no lifeboats, all 33 people on board were lost.

November 16, 1883 – The Manistee encountered a blinding snowstorm on Lake Superior.  After several days of drifting in violent, freezing waters, a lifeboat carrying three of her crew washed ashore.  They described the high seas and strong southwest winds that tore their ship apart sweeping all of the other lifeboats away taking 23 lives with them.

November 30, 1908 –The Carl D. Bradley, a steel freighter, sank in Lake Michigan during a deadly storm when they ran into 70 mph winds, which barely gave the crew enough time to radio for help.  Help, however, did not come in time for the 33 men who perished. 

November 28, 1966 – The Daniel J. Morrell disappeared while heading north on Lake Huron.  All but one man were lost.  The 26-year-old watchman who survived described how the ship broke in two clean across the middle during the violent storm.  The electrical cables snapped and with no emergency backup power, the crew could not signal for help.

November 10, 1975 – The Edmund Fitzgerald was the largest freighter ever lost on the Great Lakes.  She simply vanished in Lake Superior, 17 miles northwest of Whitefish Point, Michigan, during a deadly storm that clocked winds at about 100 mph.  Four days after she sank, sonar detected the wreck.  The ship had broken in two and her bow plummeted 535 feet to the bottom of the lake.  Her stern rolled over and came to rest upside down on top the ship’s midsection leaving no survivors.

On those warm summer days when the lakes want to play, it's hard to imagine the Witch of November and her wrath.  She shows no mercy and grants no favors taking what she wants with a vengeance.  He ruthless nature strikes fear in the bravest of sailors.  Superstition?  Maybe, but the fact remains that many a ship and he crew have lost when the Witch of November emerges.

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???