Creative History

“South Street is burned down...exchange place is bured down...Wall Street is burned down.” -from the New York Courier and Enquirer December 17, 1835           The temperature has dropped to a frigid negative 20 degrees Fahrenheit.  It is the middle of the night December 16, 1835.  Gale force winds begin whipping through the meadowlands of New Jersey. The Hackensack and Passaic Rivers are frozen solid.  Only a few hours ago a bright full moon had illuminated the meandering waterways of ice and made them glow like reflective glass serpents as they wound their way through the marshlands. Now, those same frozen rivers are glowing eerily pink in the night like something from a martian landscape, and the moonlight is obscured by dark and ominous clouds of smoke. In New Jersey the sky is glowing red.  All of lower Manhattan has become one solid wall of flame.  The foreboding glowing red sky can be seen as far away as Philidelphia over eighty miles distant. Just after sunset a fire

“Anti-aircraft batteries dotted the heavens with beautiful, if sinister, bursts of orange shrapnel.” -from The Los Angeles Times February 25, 1942 The city descends into darkness.  It is a complete blackout.  Sirens wail; pedestrians hurriedly scamper for the nearest shelter and motorists turn off headlights then anxiously speed through unregulated intersections. Soon searchlights can be seen criss-crossing the night sky making luminescent X’s across the high wispy clouds on the horizon.  Sounds are heard approaching from somewhere to the west--droning sounds growing louder and louder; getting closer and closer by the minute.  Engines? Hastily trained civilian radar operators see blips begin to appear--multiple hazy dots across their tiny screens--and they begin to wonder what they are.  Are they enemy bombers?  Weather balloons?  Flocks of seagulls over the Pacific ocean? Soon, everyone hears the distinct pop pop pop sound of anti-aircraft artillery shells exploding in the nig

The stands are packed with fans literally hanging from the rafters and ledges and sitting on the concourse steps.  The air is thick with cigarette smoke.  The grandstand is littered with peanut shells and puddles of stale beer. Entering the fourth quarter the game is knotted in a scoreless tie.  Despite the fact that it’s been a sloppy, even a poorly played game, the atmosphere is nonetheless palpable with tension and excitement. The visiting team, the Portsmouth Spartans clad in purple, are about to kick the ball off to the heavily favored Chicago Bears.  The local Chicago fans are waiting in hushed expectation for their hometown Bears to receive the ball and to finally break through the Portsmouth defense and score--in this the waning moments of the game. All the fans know that it is only a matter of time before their imposing six foot three inch tall two-hundred and sixty pound fullback, Bronko Nagurski--the best player in all of pro football--punishes the Portsmouth linebacke