Just gone done crying over the RMS Carpathia, so I thought maybe folks would want another "look for the helpers" story.
This is, indeed, a fascinating instance of poor decisions all around, but there are two things that make me cry:
- The city of Boston was one of the first to send aid to Halifax: in thanks, Nova Scotia sends them a Christmas tree every year to this day
- Train dispatcher Vince Coleman, with ample warning of the impending disaster, was running from the docks when he turned around and ran back, knowing he would die, to telegraph a warning to stop all incoming trains. He saved the lives of 300 people.
Be sure to take a look at the comments.
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At 9:05 a.m., in Halifax Harbor in Nova Scotia, Canada, the Most Destructive Man-Made Explosion in the Pre-Atomic Age Ensued When the Mont Blanc, a French Munitions Ship, Exploded 20 Minutes After Striking Another Vessel. December 6, 1917.
Image: SS Imo aground on the Dartmouth side of the harbour after the explosion. (Public Domain).
On this day in history, December 6, 1917, at 9:05 a.m., in Halifax Harbor in Nova Scotia, Canada, the most destructive man-made explosion in the pre-atomic age ensued when the Mont Blanc, a French munitions ship, exploded 20 minutes after striking another vessel.
As World War I continued in Europe,…
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My most recent Hunsruck Clock evokes memories of my first Junghans clock
While working on one of my latest acquisitions, a Junghans Hunsruck mantel clock, memories flooded back to the first Junghans clock I ever owned, a Junghans Crispi wall clock, that I still have to this day.
Junghans Hunsruck C. 1913
It was a humble box of parts when it first came to me, but I was determined to bring it back to life.
Junghans clock in pieces, not unlike a jigsaw puzzle
The…
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Hey @allthecanadianpolitics, this isn't exactly news, but I came across a really neat (Canadian) short animation about the Halifax Explosion that I think fellow Canadians might enjoy:
For context, when the explosion happened, some people were thrown several blocks away and somehow ended up perfectly alright (albeit naked).
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poem from 2013
Your hands on the grass,
cross-legged and pale skinned
we talk of infinity and the like; we talk of seeing dead
heroes
in the cloudy dregs of cold tea
seeing our future in the morethanhalf sipped past
seeing holy figures in salvation army rags
bought half price only halfyet worn,
seeing futility in the bitter earwhippingwind,
while slipping on hats
kept in pockets, hats that fold
right above the ears
we fake inadequacy for fear of
being able to do something right
for once in our transparent, pale lives.
Because when you're right
You have to prove it
and i can't prove anything
to anyone;
Still, our rears and ears are cold
and there’s something to be said for missing someone as
my hands tend to move toward other, smaller hands
with a flockherd instinct.
I apologize if you saw that twitch of a muscle’s instinct,
that little creeping movement
for in actuality there’s nothing to be done for missing someone
except dream;
like i secretly hold your fingertips
in that moment before
i fall asleep and guard this fact
for fear of being inadequate to you.
I dream of hats that cover over my ears,
warm and safe while
together we practice divination in the bottom of teacups,
and love bright and full lives
vibrant, float in that wind
then i wake.
Today, we walk up endless hills, from the harbor,
protecting what was lost in 1917
Ashes of bone feed the Garden’s growth,
and in the soil, where the great red flowers grow straight
in the soil where your mother sleeps,
we
have a picnic, like
if the world were to erupt right now, and
you and i went to the window to gazewith a child's eyes, we
would be blinded by shrapnel,
but blind seers seem to sing truer than those who
seek with fleeting words and sight.
Blind seers do it better.
If the Arbor were to explode once more i vow i’d protect the little fingers
from the explosion
but in our little picnic
i want to move towards them
i want to trace
them and grasp
them in my own
and read the future
in the pulp at the bottom of your lemonade
and the circular valley of your palms
but i’m silent
and still my ears are cold
because my hat folds
over my ears
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