I Now Know How To Pronounce 'Ashtabula'

It's Where You Place The Stress

"AshtabEWla" rather than "AshTABula".  For those readers who are neither South Canadians nor residents of Ohio, I will explicate.  It's a town of about 20,000 population, named after the Ashtabula River, and is a port on Lake Erie.

     The reason I know how to pronounce it is because of The History Guy, a splendidly entertaining broadcaster on Youtube, whose article on a horrific rail tragedy came up as a suggested item.  Art!

As intended

As ended

     This event took place in December of 1876 and was notoriously one of the worst rail disasters in South Canada during the nineteenth century.

Ashtabula Bridge Disaster - YouTube

     There's THG's link if you want to watch the whole thing.  In essence, a train consisting of two locomotives and eleven passenger cars was passing over the bridge when the engineer in the first locomotive heard a loud 'crack' and the vehicle began to be pulled backwards.  He upped the speed and his locomotive broke free from that behind it - which plunged into the ice-covered Ashtabula River, seventy-six feet below, along with all the passenger cars.

     Bad enough?  Well, no.  Because those who weren't killed by the collision, or drowned in the river, were then killed by fire; the lanterns and stoves aboard the train were all either smashed or toppled, and the wooden train burned to ash.

  Art!

     To make matters even worse, the local fire brigade turned up, and then refused to tackle the fires, because it was too hot or too cold or their boss was drunk out of his skull.  Go on, choose which.

     It was never clear exactly how many passengers were on the train, though the consensus is about 164, with 92 of those perishing.  The reasons for the bridge's failure were down to poor design, since it was longer than the permissible length for a truss bridge; poor construction, with individual members suffering shear and stress failure; bad weather, which rendered the cast iron brittle.  Also of note was the failure to use self-extinguishing stoves, which had been signed into law the decade before.  

     One consequence was a ban placed on the use of cast iron in any load-bearing structure, and the adoption of steam heat for carriages rather than stoves.

      Your Humble Scribe had never heard of this ghastly event, so now we are all better-informed thanks to The History Guy.

Let's Rustle Up A Story

So to speak.  I did mention that we were going to come back to the task of - er - summary justice back in the days when the South Canadian West could be exceptionally Wild.  The ranchers and stockmen who owned cattle did not like folks stealing and re-branding them, not one little bit, so they hired 'stock detectives' to deter the rustling.

See?  A real thing

     More prosaically, 'stock detective' was frequently seen as a more refined way of saying 'rustler exterminator', as this was often the method rustling was discouraged by.  Hard to hijack cattle when hanging from a tree.  One such band of bothers was nicknamed "Stuart's Stranglers", which kind of tips their hand about what they were going to do.  They numbered 15, including their leader, Granville Stuart, and they set out to do stock detective work in Montana in the 1880's.  They 'retired' upwards of 20 Stock Re-Branding Specialists, either by lynching or shooting, though nine were burned to death in a blazing cabin (variety, hmmm?).

The furry but fearsome Granville

     He and his posse got into absolutely no trouble whatsoever for their endeavours.  What a surprise!

Exercise Your Intellect

Of course - obviously! - reading BOOJUM! is one way of doing that, as you struggle to keep up with my thought processes (or what passes for them).  Another way is to help science, by identifying mysterious objects as depicted by the BBC on their website.  Art!

     Any ideas?  I'd say definitely along the lines of a Veeblefetzer, possibly a MacGiffin?  Let me know in the comments.

"Torment"

Because we all know what a pedantic hair-splitter I am (one of my winning qualities) Your Humble Scribe decided to look the word up in my Collins Concise.  So, we all know what it means; where does it come from?  O my goodness, how entirely unexpected, Latin <hack spit>.  From 'Torquere', meaning 'To twist'.  Without any further ado - 

‘Well, some good has come out of this meeting, Louis.  I will have a word with Rogan.  We need to help the soul of Monica Belling.’

               ‘Hang on, hang on!’ blustered Louis, worried that the meeting was about to end.  ‘What’s the difference between a soul and a spirit?  I know they’re not the same, not in the way they’re determined.’

               ‘The soul, Louis, is eternal.  A spirit is not.  You may consider the soul to be part of the spirit analogous to the way your body is host to your spirit.’

               The priest rose to leave, pointing his pipe stem at Louis.

               ‘I admit to a touch of envy, that sinful emotion.  Richard and I will never witness what you can, young man.  We have to take our faith on faith, as it were, unseen.  Whereas you - ’ and he trailed off.

               ‘Hey hey!’ replied Louis hotly.  ‘I enjoy reading a ghost story as much as the next man, but I don’t want to be in one!’

               ‘Your trouble, Louis, is that you have no religious belief to sustain what you can see,’ put in the vicar, in the kind of tone he might have use to lecture on a finer point of divinity.

               ‘Sadly true,’ rumbled Father Geoghan.  ‘Seers like you can end up going mad, Louis.’

               ‘Oh, thanks big time!’

               The priest gave him a slap on the shoulder that left red marks.

               ‘I don’t wish you ill, young man!  But you have suddenly acquired a fantastic ability without the experience or intellectual tools to handle it.’

               He fished a card from an inner pocket before hiding his pipe there.

               ‘Here.  Take this.  I’m not always available, but come and see me to discuss this when you can.  Now, don’t worry, I’m not Proselytysing Priest, you can talk to me without fear.  A lapsed Catholic is still a Catholic.’

               He ambled off, leaving a slightly-disappointed Louis and a watchful vicar.

               ‘Well.  Well, that was a different way to start Monday,’ he said.

     Yeah, right.  Thankfully I'll have to take it on trust, too.

Be King Of Your Very Own Island

Yes!  You too can rule with a rod of iron in one hand and a pint glass in the other, if you feel like becoming the landlord of the pub on Piel Island.  Art!

     The island's structures are the Ship Inn, a ruined castle and three houses.  It sits half a mile off the Cumbrian coast and is only accessible by ferry, which means if weather is bad and seas are rough, you will not get your breakfast Wheaty Puff.  As for the 'King' bit - 

"The tradition holds that each new landlord is crowned King of Piel in a ceremony of uncertain origin, in which they sit in an ancient chair, wearing a helmet and holding a sword while alcohol is poured over their head."

     You would also have to manage the camp site and clean the toilet block, which is the deal-breaker bit for Conrad.

     And with that, we are most certainly done!