Category Archives: History

The Great Molasses Flood

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Boston never does things like the rest of the world. From our wicked different slang to our stubborn pride, we always have to put our own spin on things. Even our disasters can’t be normal. Could we have just had the ocean flood in? After all, half the city is built on landfill. But no — we had to do everyone one better. We flooded our streets with… molasses.

Grandma’s Molasses, the ingredient at the center of Boston’s molasses history, sweet, sticky but oh so deadly

The Great Molasses Flood — Boston’s Stickiest Disaster

Molasses — that thick, sticky, gooey goodness that makes muffins, cookies, baked beans, and BBQ possible. We drizzle it, bake with it, stir it into sauces. It’s comforting. Old‑fashioned. Harmless.

But did you know it can also be deadly?

No, it’s not poison. It’s sticky. Too sticky. Now imagine being buried under a massive wave of the stuff. Not funny. Nothing humorous about that. Yet it really happened — right here in New England.

In 1919, Boston faced one of the strangest disasters in American history: The Great Molasses Flood. By the time it was over, 21 people had died and about 150 were injured. And the story behind it is even wilder than the headline.

A Disaster Waiting to Happen

The giant molasses tank in Boston’s North End belonged to the United States Industrial Alcohol Company (USIA). It stood 50 feet tall and 90 feet across, holding more than 2 million gallons of molasses. From the day it went up, it leaked. Locals even joked that kids scraped molasses off the sides with sticks.

USIA knew the tank had problems. Instead of fixing the leaks, the company painted the tank brown to hide them. Workers reported groaning metal and bulging seams, but management brushed off every warning.

January 15, 1919 — The Day the Tank Burst

The day of the disaster felt unusually warm for January, warm enough to thin the molasses inside the tank. Around 12:40 p.m., the tank finally gave way with a roar that echoed through the neighborhood.

A 25‑foot‑high wave of molasses rushed through the streets at 35 miles per hour. Horses, wagons, buildings, and people were swept up instantly. The force of the wave even knocked a firehouse off its foundation.

Rescuers later described the scene as “drowning in brown glue.”

The Aftermath

Cleanup dragged on for months. Crews used saltwater, sand, and firehoses to break up the sticky mess. For decades afterward, people swore the North End smelled like molasses on hot days.

The Fight for Justice

The Great Molasses Flood wasn’t just a freak accident — it resulted from corporate negligence. USIA had received multiple warnings about the tank’s structural integrity and ignored them. When survivors sued, the company tried to blame anarchists, claiming someone had sabotaged the tank.

The truth came out during six years of litigation and 3,000 witness testimonies. Eventually, a court‑appointed auditor ruled in favor of the victims. USIA paid $628,000 in settlements, the equivalent of about $11 million today. The tank never went back up.

Today, the site is a small park near the Boston waterfront. Almost nothing there marks what happened. You could walk right over the spot where the tank stood and never know the neighborhood was once buried in molasses.

 

Why This Story Sticks With Us

The whole thing sounds like something out of Ripley’s Believe It or Not — and it has appeared there. It’s been featured on TV, in books, and in documentaries. Yet no matter how many times you hear it, the story still feels unbelievable.

A flood… of molasses?

And yet it happened. Sometimes the strangest stories in New England history are the ones that turn out to be absolutely true.

 

 

Old North Church: Lanterns, Legends, and a Cat Named Prince

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One if by Land and 2 if by sea the Steeple of the old North church proudly overlooks Bosotn Harbor

Old North Church: A Guided Tour by Prince, Feline of

Photo Credit Sherrie Kling

Distinction

Greetings, humans.
I am Prince, former resident, unofficial greeter, and rightful overseer of Old North Church in Boston. Yes, that Old North Church — the one with the lanterns, the Revolution, the teenagers ringing bells, and the crypt full of people who, frankly, should have picked warmer accommodations.

Please keep your hands and snacks inside the tour at all times.

 

First, the Lanterns (My Steeple, My Rules)

You may have heard the story:
“One if by land, two if by sea.”
Two lanterns hung in the steeple on April 18, 1775, signaling that the British were coming by water.

Very dramatic. Very historic.
Personally, I would have added a third lantern to indicate “bring treats,” but no one asked me.

Still, it’s a good story, and the humans seem proud of it, so I allow it.

The Crypt: 1,100 Humans, Zero Cats

Beneath the church lies a crypt with more than 1,100 burials. It’s dim, atmospheric, and full of history.

I used to stroll past the entrance, tail high, as visitors whispered things like:

“Do you feel that chill?”
“Yes, that’s me. I’m majestic.”

The crypt tours are fascinating — if you enjoy early American history, architecture, or the feeling that someone from 1772 might be judging your footwear.

Paul Revere: Bell‑Ringer, Horse Enthusiast, Not a Cat

Before he became the midnight‑riding icon of American lore, Paul Revere was a teenage bell ringer here. Imagine a young Revere hauling on ropes, sweating, learning rhythm, and absolutely not noticing the very handsome cat supervising from the balcony.

Humans love this detail.
I prefer to think of it as “the time Paul Revere worked for me.”

My Reign at Old North

I lived here in the 19th century, adored by parishioners, tourists, and anyone with a lap. I attended services, greeted guests, and patrolled the pews with the dignity of a creature who knows he is the most important thing in the room.

Some say I “acted like I owned the place.”
I say: acted?

Why You Should Visit (According to a Cat Who Knows Things)

Old North Church is one of those rare places where history feels alive — lanterns, crypts, bells, legends — all wrapped in the charm of a building that has seen centuries of stories.

And if you listen closely, you might still hear echoes of:

  • Revere’s bells
  • Footsteps in the crypt
  • And the faint, regal purr of a cat named Prince, supervising from somewhere just out of sight

Closing Thoughts from Your Feline Guide

Come visit. Explore the crypt. Climb the bell tower. Stand where the lanterns shone.
And when you do, remember:
I walked these halls first.

Boston Transit-First in the Nation, Last to Arrive

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Getting around Boston- the elevated orange line of Bostons' MBTA

Boston Transit: The System We Love to Hate

Proudly Delayed Since 1897

Let me tell you a story about a man named Charlie — yes, that Charlie, the poor soul doomed to ride the MTA forever because Boston raised the fare by a nickel. And honestly, if you’ve ever waited for a Green Line train that was “arriving now” for 14 straight minutes, you know Charlie’s still out there somewhere, circling the city like a transit ghost. But here’s the twist: long before Charlie got trapped in fare‑hike purgatory, Boston actually built the first subway in the entire United States. That’s right — we were pioneers. Visionaries. Transit trailblazers. And somehow, 127 years later, we’re still proudly delayed, occasionally on fire, and held together by tunnels older than most of our cemeteries.

Before the Subway: Boston’s First Commute (Bring a Rowboat)

Boston’s transit story actually begins way before subways, delays, and “signal issues.” It starts in 1631, when Thomas Williams launched the first chartered transit service in America — a ferry shuttling people into what was then a tiny peninsula. Walking from Chelsea took two days and at least one meltdown, so the ferry was a hit. Congratulations, Boston: we invented public transit and the first commuter complaint.

1700s: Walking, Carriages, and the First Stagecoach

By the 1700s, Boston had grown to a whopping 800 acres — basically the size of a modern Costco parking lot. Most people still walked everywhere, while the wealthy bounced around in horse‑drawn carriages, which were essentially Uber Black with worse suspension. In 1793, the first stagecoach line opened between Boston and Cambridge. Slow, uncomfortable, and probably smelling like wet wool, it was a perfect preview of the Red Line.

1800s: The Omnibus Era (Hold Onto Your Spine)

The 1800s brought the omnibus, a horse‑drawn bus that rattled over Boston’s cobblestones like a shopping cart with a grudge. Reliable? Sure. Comfortable? Absolutely not.

Relief arrived in 1856 with the first horsecar on rails, gliding from Central Square to Bowdoin Square and avoiding the potholes that made every other street feel like a chiropractic emergency.

But by the late 1800s, Boston was already drowning in traffic. Tremont Street was so jammed that locals joked you could get across town faster by walking across the roofs of stalled streetcars. Honestly? Still true.

1897: The First Subway in America (And We Still Use It)

Then came the big moment:
In 1897, Boston opened the Tremont Street Subway — the first subway in the United States.

And here’s the wild part: even after the Big Dig ripped the city open like a lobster tail, we’re still using some of those original tunnels under the Boston Common. If you’ve ever wondered why the Green Line feels like it’s traveling through history… it literally is.

Mid‑1900s: Politics, Campaign Songs, and Poor Charlie

By the mid‑1900s, politics had taken the wheel (hold on tight). Charlie’s famous song? It was actually a 1949 mayoral campaign jingle. Only in Boston would a political ad become a folk classic and a transit trauma.

From there, the T passed through more commissions, budgets, repairs, and “temporary fixes” than anyone can count. If you’ve ever waited 27 minutes for a train that was “2 minutes away,” you’ve felt the legacy.

Today: Still First, Still Trying, Still Delayed

Today, the MBTA serves over a million riders a day across subways, buses, ferries, and commuter rail. It is heroic, chaotic, historic, and occasionally held together by zip ties.

But hey — we were the first.
And we’re still moving… eventually… after this brief delay… due to a disabled train at Government Center… and a signal issue at Alewife… and a mysterious “track problem” they won’t explain.

For more details on the history of the first subway in the country, follow the link here.

Final Stop: Let’s Bring Charlie Home

So join me in this noble cause: let’s finally rescue Charlie. Check your pockets, check your CharlieCard balance, and if you see him on the Green Line, hand him a fare and set him free. Boston owes him that much.

 

Today Is Memorial Day

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Today is Memorial Day.

A day of remembrance, a day to pause, and a day to say thank you — not for service, but for sacrifice.

So while you enjoy your day off and that first cookout of the summer, please remember that today, Memorial Day,  is the day we honor all those who didn’t come home. This is the cost of freedom. This is why we stop, reflect, and acknowledge the men and women who gave their lives wearing the uniform of the United States.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row

To the fallen, and to the families who carry their memory, I say: Thank you for the ultimate sacrifice. You are the reason we are free today.

Historic memoir bound in the skin of highwayman James Allen, displayed under glass at the Boston Athenæum

The Book That’s Literally Skin‑Deep

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Rare 1837 book bound in human skin at the Boston Athenæum, shown with its Latin‑inscribed cover inside a display case.”

Boston’s Most Macabre Treasure

Massachusetts has no shortage of historic firsts — the first lighthouse, the first subway, the first chocolate chip cookie, even the first telephone call. But tucked away on Beacon Street, inside the quiet, book‑scented halls of the Boston Athenæum, sits an artifact that makes all those milestones feel downright ordinary.

It’s a book.
Bound in human skin.
And yes, you can actually see it.

A Highwayman, a Deathbed Confession, and One Very Unusual Request

The story begins with James Allen, also known by several aliases, including George Walton — a 19th‑century highwayman who spent his life robbing travelers along the Boston Post Road. He wasn’t a glamorous outlaw; he was a gritty, stubborn one, constantly in and out of prison, and eventually mortally wounded during an escape attempt.

On his deathbed in 1837, Allen dictated his life story — a short memoir titled Narrative of the Life of James Allen. But he didn’t stop there. He made a final request that would cement his place in Massachusetts lore:

He wanted copies of the book bound in his own skin.

One copy was to be given to a man who had once fought him off during a robbery attempt — a man Allen respected for his bravery. Another copy went to the Boston Athenæum, where it remains today.

On the cover, stamped in gold, is the Latin inscription:

“Hic Liber Waltonis Cute Compactus Est.”
This book is bound in the skin of Walton.

Subtle? No.
Unforgettable? Absolutely.

Anthropodermic Bibliopegy: A Real (and Rare) Practice

As bizarre as it sounds, binding books in human skin — anthropodermic bibliopegy — was a real, if extremely uncommon, practice in the 18th and 19th centuries. Most examples come from:

  • Medical schools (anatomy students memorializing cadavers)
  • Criminal confessions
  • Personal mementos with a macabre twist

But Allen’s book stands out because it wasn’t done to him — it was done at his own request. A final act of control? A strange attempt at immortality? A criminal’s version of a legacy? Historians still debate it.

What’s certain is that the Athenæum’s copy is one of the most famous examples in the world.

Behind the Red Doors of the Boston Athenæum

The Athenæum itself is a treasure — one of the oldest independent libraries in the United States, founded in 1807. Its reading rooms feel like stepping into a different century: marble busts, oil portraits, polished wood, and the soft hush of serious book lovers.

The human‑skin book isn’t on open display. It’s kept in a secure, climate‑controlled room, brought out only for researchers or curious visitors by appointment. Staff are used to the request — it’s one of the most asked‑about items in their collection — but they treat it with the same respect as any rare artifact.

In recent years, scientific testing confirmed what the inscription claimed: the binding is, in fact, human skin.

Boston history is full of surprises, but this one still manages to raise eyebrows.

A Story That Sticks With You

What makes this such a compelling Massachusetts tale isn’t just the shock factor. It’s the layers:

  • A criminal who wanted his story preserved — literally.
  • A library that has safeguarded it for nearly two centuries.
  • A piece of history that blurs the line between the macabre and the meaningful.
  • A reminder that Boston’s past isn’t just revolutionary — it’s downright strange.

You can walk past the Athenæum’s iconic red doors a hundred times and never guess that one of the rarest, most unusual books in the world sits quietly inside.

But that’s Massachusetts for you.
Just when you think you’ve heard every story, it hands you one bound in human skin.