This story about Plum Island ran in a few papers last week as the fate of the former U.S. animal-disease research facility is about to be decided.

If you’re not familiar with Plum Island, it is an 840-acre island just off of the north fork of Long Island, less than a dozen miles across Long Island Sound from the Southeastern Connecticut coast (as you can see by my crudely rendered MS paint map of a Bing satellite screen capture, at right). For the early part of the 20th century, it used to be home to Fort Terry, a strategic U.S. military outpost, but in 1952, it was taken over by U.S. Army Chemical Corps, and that’s when the place began to gain a mythic stature.

The government has contended that within the island’s 70 buildings, various animal diseases — particularly, foot-and-mouth disease — have been researched. Others allege that the island is a more nefarious place where various chemical and biological secret weapons were researched and developed over the course of the Cold War. Supposedly, the facility’s freezers even contain samples of many dangerous diseases, such as polio, and anthrax has also been studied here. In short, it’s not a place where you want to lick any of the walls — you know, if you were prone to doing anything like that. (Just sayin’.)

In 2004, author Michael Carroll wrote a book called Lab 257: The Disturbing Story of the Government’s Secret Plum Island Germ Laboratory, referring to one of the research labs on the island. Carroll’s book suggests that Lyme disease was let loose on the unsuspecting public from this facility because of the faulty research and poor conditions at the lab, in addition to the release of other dangerous diseases and biological pathogens. None of his conspiracy-type allegations have been proven true, then again, they haven’t exactly been proven false, either. Which is were all the fun begins!

Anyway, Plum Island is in the news because the government is transferring its animal disease research facilities to Kansas (lucky them!) and putting the island up for sale! Apparently, if you have $50 to $80 million — not counting the clean-up costs — you can have the entire place for your own. (No word if the hideous mutated creatures that no doubt live on the island are included, but you have to assume they are.) Unfortunately, those dang-blasted environmentalists want to preserve the place as a nature refuge, which probably means they’ll want to destroy all the really cool supersecret research labs so that piping plovers can nest in peace. Ugh! We can only hope that some more enterprising folks will buy the place, open the beaches for sunbathing and the research labs for conspiracy-type tourists! (Besides, the birds have been around since the dinosaurs, they don’t need our help.) Sounds like a win-win to me.

If you’re interested in getting near the island, the Orient Point to Groton Ferry passes it — I took this photo (and others, although I can’t find the rest of them right now) in the summer of 2009 while going past. The lighthouse makes for great ambiance and the beaches look really great — with its prime location at the tip of Long Island and on the Sound, it would definitely draw the sun-loving crowd, you know, other than the dilapidated research buildings (which we would want them to keep up anyway). Definitely a place we would want to visit.

Just don’t expect us to drink the local tap water or lick the walls.

I recently posted this article about the Timexpo Museum in Waterbury, so I’ve been in sort of an Easter Island frame of mind. I guess I can relate to giant moai, what with having a big head and all myself …

As coincidence would have it, less that 24 hours after I was done writing about how the owners of the Timexpo museum (and of Timex Watches) were good friends and supporters of Easter Island researcher Thor Heyerdahl, I came across this story talking about the latest findings in regard to how the enormous stone sculptures were moved around the island.

The debate, from the article:

Many researchers have long believed the island’s complex network of roads was built, beginning 800 years ago, specifically to transport the moai. The theory was that statues found lying on their backs and faces near the roads were abandoned during transportation.

But archeologists with University College London and the University of Manchester said Wednesday the roads were built primarily for ceremonial purposes.

Manchester’s Colin Richards and UCL’s Sue Hamilton used geophysical survey equipment to pass electrical currents below the ground and measure its resistance. That allowed them to create subsurface maps that suggested the statues were not abandoned, but toppled from platforms with the passage of time.

I guess I never gave it much thought, but those big rocks probably weren’t just conveniently sitting in the proper places when the natives of the island were ready to turn them into works of art and worship. Ditto the pyramids, Stonehenge and all other ancient structures made of stone.

Speaking of heads and stone structures, one of my favorites is The Circle of Life in the Sachem Head area of Guilford. I wrote about it around this time last year — to quote myself (for once):

In 2003, Dr. Jonathan Rothberg decided he wanted to build an observatory on his property but was thwarted by the local zoning board. Being resourceful, he instead circumvented the board and commissioned renowned architect Cesar Pelli to design an astronomically correct and working replica of Stonehenge, an enormous celestial clock using 700 tons of granite . . . as a pure work of art.

According to the New York Times story linked above, Dr. Rothberg said, “My position is, if I put up a piece of art, I don’t need permission.”

Man, I love that story. I don’t know Dr. Rothberg personally, but he sounds like my kind of ingenious Yankee! Although, unlike the residents of Easter Island, he didn’t have to come up with creative ways to haul tons of stone over great distances — he just paid a few truckers and crane operators!

Anyway, if you just can’t get enough Connecticut head, you can always check out our article about the world’s largest jack-in-the-box — made with a freakishly huge replica of Claribel the Clown’s head — which is located in Middletown. That’s about 30 miles away from my house, but it’s still closer than I want to be to a giant clown head. Just sayin’.

Is there any better mystery than one that seemingly can’t be solved no matter how much time, energy and resources are dedicated to it? Amelia Earhart‘s disappearance, the Oak Island Money Pit, the Tunguska Event, why the Mets traded Rusty Staub to the Tigers for Mickey Lolich — all great mysteries for which we may never have definitive answers.

In that vein is the puzzle inside an enigma wrapped within a conundrum that continues to be the Voynich Manuscript. Also known as MS-408 in Yale’s Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, this 234-page book written in an thus-far unbreakable code has confounded experts for decades. Is it a medieval science book? Does it unlock mysteries of the universe? Or is it just an elaborate hoax?

I recently read this interesting article in Fortean Times about how the Voynich Manuscript underwent some detailed examination, including forensic tests. Then the other night, on Discovery Channel’s “Weird or What?” program they also had a segment dedicated to some of the same analysis.

The coolest part of the examination is that the carbon dating done by the University of Arizona on the Voynich places the vellum upon which it was written to have been produced between 1404 and 1438. Analysis of the ink also shows that it was applied to the paper within a short time after its creation.

From the Fortean Times article:

So what is the upshot of these objective tests? Well, the modern hoax theory has been ruled out, as has any “Humanist Hand” nonsense, and would-be cryptanalysts are able to rule out sophisticated Renaissance ciphers and a prori languages and look to the late mediæval period for possible culprits. Also that all the late 15th- and 16th-century theories are in trouble; and the pre-15th century ones have had to fall back on the fact that the late 14th and early 15th century were rife with forgeries produced to justify traditional, but undocumented, privileges, lineage, and qualifications.

One of the interesting points that the “Weird or What?” episode made was that just because it isn’t a modern or Renaissance hoax, doesn’t mean that the manuscript might not be a hoax. Apparently, it was quite a profitable business during that era to create and sell documents that seemed remarkable, and by creating a purely fictional text written with a fake code, it could be passed off as a genuine book of magical secrets and thus, be sold for a hefty sum. During the episode they demonstrate how this could be done with a little effort, replicating an “encoded” fraudulent document that looks strikingly like the Voynich Manuscript.

Of course, as a celebrated 14th-century manuscript, hoax or not, it’s still a valuable work. And still an awesome mystery.

The “Cocaine Mummies” episode of “Weird or What?” featuring the Voynich segment reruns on Discovery on Friday, May 15 at 9 p.m. Set your DVR!

So I was trolling through the usual curious headlines when I came across this story about Harry Crowther, a British schoolboy afflicted with incurable Atypical Progeria Syndrome, an incredibly rare disease. In essence, the genetic condition causes the 11-year-old boy’s body to age five times faster than normal, making him a little old man well before his time.

Sadly, children who contract progeria often die fairly young, usually in their early teens. Occasionally, a handful of those afflicted make it in to their 20s, but they almost never make it beyond that. Even worse, the symptoms are physically cruel and incredibly painful.

From Wikipedia:

The earliest symptoms include failure to thrive and a localized scleroderma-like skin condition. As a child ages past infancy, additional conditions become apparent. Limited growth, alopecia, and a distinctive appearance (small face and jaw, pinched nose) are all characteristic of progeria. People diagnosed with this disorder usually have small, fragile bodies, like those of elderly people. Later, the condition causes wrinkled skin, atherosclerosis, and cardiovascular problems.

Truly awful for the victim and absolutely heart-wrenching for a parent. I guess the “good” news is that it only strikes one in eight million children.

Of course, some of you may think of the Oscar-nominated film The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, originally a short story written by F. Scott Fitzgerald about a boy who is born an old man and ages backward. A thought-provoking piece of fiction.

When I read the story of Harry Crowther, however, I immediately thought of a girl who grew up in my hometown of Milford and was afflicted with progeria. Her name was Meg Casey and I used to see her during the late 1970s (yes, I’m that old) in St. Ann’s Church in the Devon section of town. I’m not sure of the exact math of it, but I think she was about 8 years older than I was at the time. Of course, she looked much older.

I only spoke to her once or twice in passing — she seemed very friendly — and I’m ashamed to say that being a young teen at the time, I don’t remember anything other than being a bit unsettled by her appearance. I certainly never made fun of her (I understood the sad nature of her affliction) and I remember thinking about how hard her life must’ve been.

Anyway, I did a bit of Googling for Meg, and I found this New York Times article about Dr. Francis S. Collins, one of the doctors who treated her. It’s somewhat lengthy and medically heavy, but here’s the part about Meg:

”Even before I met her, I was warned that I was getting the celebrity,” Collins recalled. ”Meg was 23 years old at the time, which meant she was way outside the normal boundaries of survival, with the most undaunted, indomitable personality you can imagine — and with a sailor’s mouth.”

Meg was only about three feet tall and had the flat-chested body of a child, which, Collins said, was one of the things she fretted about the most. She had difficulty walking because, as he put it, her bones had ”just sort of melted away.” Through a column she wrote for the local newspaper, she was a community activist, pressing for handicapped access to government buildings in her hometown, Milford, Conn.

While at Yale, Collins combed the literature obsessively to find something that would help Meg. ”I was determined that I would somehow figure out something that wasn’t done properly for her and save the day,” he told me. But things didn’t turn out that way. Collins left Yale to take a job at the University of Michigan in 1984, and Meg got sicker. She died at age 28.

I remember she used to wear a blond wig, and that she had a very high voice. I also recall her column in the old Milford Citizen. I’m glad that she apparently made the most of her short difficult life — in a way, it seems as though her disease sort of made her a celebrity, for what it was worth. I’m fairly certain I would not have endured such an odd affliction with so much positive energy.

Anyway, here’s hoping a cure is found soon for this incredibly rare disorder so that young Harry and others can have a full, “normal” life.

Oh, and a quick thanks to my mom, who remembered Meg’s name and helped fill me in on some of the details.

Okay, if you’ve been following this site for any length of time, you know of my fascination with the undead, from fictional efforts such as World War Z and Zombieland to actual historical situations such as the Jewett City Vampires (where it was actually believed that the deceased were raising up from the graves during the night to infect the living). As such, it may not come as a surprise to you that I’ve currently been reading Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.

First off, let me say — no spoilers here, partially because you can’t “spoil” a 200-year-old story but also because I’ve never read (nor even seen a film version) of the original Pride and Prejudice. I know: It’s a shock that the works of Jane Austen are not anything I’ve ever particularly sought out to read — just something about 18th-century romantic English literature that never appealed to a boy interested in sports, girls and the unexplained. (Who’d a thunk it, right?) For the record, I bought the book for my wife for Christmas (I’m good like that) and since it’s been laying around (untouched) for a few months, I picked it up. And have enjoyed it more than I thought I would.

Anyway, if you couldn’t tell by the title, author Seth Grahame-Smith takes Jane Austen’s original classic and deftly infuses it with zombies, transforming England into a haven for the undead while turning iconic heroine Elizabeth Bennet into a proper martial arts-trained zombie-killing warrior. Again, never having read the original Pride and Prejudice, I don’t know how close it stays to the actual plot — I recently saw a story on NPR which suggested it’s still 85 percent Austen’s work — but it definitely seems to have the appropriate characters, spirit and feel. And zombies, which makes it more interesting and humorous, not to mention a best-seller.

It also is going to be a 2011 movie starring Natalie Portman as Elizabeth Bennet, which is just another reason why I will probably shell out money to see it in the theater.

Of course, since it was a bestseller, it spawned a sequel of sorts: Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters. Same publisher and still primarily the work of Ms. Austen, but this time Ben H. Winters warps the classic tale. It seems as though it was okay, but like many “sequels,” didn’t quite live up to the original.

As for Mr. Grahame-Smith, he’s been busy in the “twisting” genre, most recently penning this gem — (Oh, and when did trailers come out for books?!!)

That’s right, Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter. I mean, really, what more could you want? It’s next on my summer-reading list. Not surprisingly, Tim Burton has already attached himself to the big screen adaptation of this one.

Should be fun!

The Shroud of Turin: An image of the Lord Jesus Christ burned into linen at the moment he was resurrected, or an elaborate hoax?

I was going to write this blog and present each side of the story, but I realized that’s been done to death.
Both believers and non-believers claim the shroud is the most researched artifact in the world today.

I think it’s a hoax, though it’s easy to see both the spiritual and the scientific bias, depending on who is presenting the facts. It’s so hard to pick through fact and fiction that it leaves me a little skeptical of everyone.

I highly suggest you do read up on this relic…errr, or fabricated relic.

I must say, the whole thing is quite aggravating to me–I honestly want to read something that isn’t slanted.
I just read an article that claims the image can not be of a man as the dimensions are too large, and then goes on to say how the hoax was pulled off:

“A male model was daubed with paint and wrapped in the sheet to create the shadowy figure of Jesus.”
Well, if the dimensions are incorrect, then it can’t be a man!

My question is, how was it done? I would appreciate someone that doesn’t have a bone to pick explaining how this image was created. Because it really has baffled me. I don’t believe it to be the image of Christ though I haven’t seen a good argument for exactly how it was done.

Today I got frustrated by the lack of objective articles on the Internet about this topic, and ended up storming out of the house, my son in tow, to walk along the New Haven green and think… (Ok, in reality I wanted to see if I would be accosted by pretty women fawning over my son while we sat in the park).

While waiting for the onslaught of women, I noticed a priest or minister quietly reading on a park bench…
I introduced myself and explained that I was wondering what he thought of The Shroud of Turin.
His answer I think will satisfy both sides of the argument.

He said, “It doesn’t matter. If the shroud is real, then it’s a very important artifact of Christianity. But Christians should not be in the proof business. Faith is belief without proof. Proof would hinder freewill.”

And if its a hoax?

“It very well may be,” he said. “The 1300s were a time when a relic could fetch a large pilgrimage, and there were many such hoaxes and fake relics being developed during this time.”

Well said, Father…..

I think the answer is clear: It’s the work of Leonardo Da Vinci! If you don’t believe me watch this YouTube video for PROOF!

Click Here!!!!

Some links involving the Shroud:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shroud_of_Turin
http://www.shroudstory.com/
http://www.history.com/shows/the-real-face-of-jesus/articles/about-the-shroud-of-turin

I recently came across this little mystery and found out it had a Connecticut connection, which I haven’t had a chance to check out in person. Yet.

It’s called The Toynbee Tiles — from Wikipedia (where I usually start if I want a general overview on something.)

The Toynbee tiles (also called Toynbee plaques) are messages of mysterious origin found embedded in asphalt in about two dozen major cities in the United States and three South American capitals. Since the 1980s, several hundred tiles have been discovered. They are generally about the size of an American license plate, but sometimes considerably larger. They contain some variation on the following inscription:

TOYNBEE IDEA
IN KUBRICK’S 2001
RESURRECT DEAD
ON PLANET JUPITER.

Some of the more elaborate tiles also feature cryptic political statements or exhort readers to create and install similar tiles of their own. The material used for making the tiles was long a mystery, but evidence has emerged that they may be primarily made of layers of linoleum and asphalt crack-filling compound.

As with any good mystery, there’s been all sorts of speculation about the tiles and their meaning. Arnold J. Toynbee was a renowned British historian, and some of his ideas were incorporated into science-fiction stories by Ray Bradbury (“The Toynbee Convector“) and Arthur C. Clarke (“Jupiter V”), which some believe connect to Stanley Kubrick’s classic 2001: A Space Odyssey and relates to the message behind the tiles. Others speculate that the tiles have to do with 4 A.M., a play written by David Mamet, and that they are an homage to that.

The Wikipedia article lists a few of the possible origins, including that the tiles may have been the work of a Philadelphia carpenter named James Morasco, which this article written a few years ago on damninteresting.com also considers. The only problems with this theory is that Morasco would’ve been in his 70s when the first tiles were laid down, and he passed away well before the most recent ones turned up. According to a couple of stories, Morasco’s widow claims he had nothing to do with the tiles.

NPR also did a story about the tiles in 2006, talking to artist Justin Duerr who was claimed to be working on a Toynbee tile documentary. Unfortunately, the site dedicated to the documentary seems to be “under construction,” although there is a discussion board that has been updated semi-recently.

Okay, now the Connecticut connection. Apparently, in 2006, a Toynbee tile was found in the pavement of a rest stop near Exit 55 of I-95 in Branford. I couldn’t find any pictures or in-depth discussion about it, but it has been listed in a few of the quasi-official Toynbee sites, so I’m going to guess it really did happen. From what I could find, it seems as though it may have been a new-style tile, so it’s not one of the originals from back in the 1970s. Pretty interesting, though.

This site has a seemingly comprehensive list of all the tiles — although it lists “BRANSON” as the town in Connecticut instead of Branford. I also found a Toynbee tile photo group on Flickr.

Sadly, a lot of the original tiles — and some of the newer ones — have been lost due to regular road maintenance and paving. I have no idea if the Branford one is still out there at the moment, but with the way the Connecticut Department of Transportation plows, I’d be shocked if it’s still intact.

If you know anything about the tile or have seen it — or if you’re the one who actually laid them out — let us know! Meantime, the next time we’re out that way, we’ll take a look for it ourselves.

I saw this story on the Hartford Courant site the other day, a Q & A with M. Williams Phelps, Vernon resident and best-selling author of the upcoming book The Devil’s Rooming House, which chronicles the true story of Amy Archer-Gilligan, “America’s deadliest female serial killer.”

If you’re not familiar with Phelps, he’s one of the leading true-crime writers around and has also written a biography of Connecticut State Hero Nathan Hale. Now he has taken on the chilling story of “Sister Amy,” a seeming kindly soul who ran a home for the elderly and the sick in Windsor but, as it turns out, was responsible for killing her residents — in addition to her two husbands — with arsenic and then taking their money.

From the Courant’s Q & A:

Hartford Courant: What sparked Archer-Gilligan to kill?

Phelps: I know exactly what it was. It was simple turnover: economics, greed. Her house filled up, and she didn’t expect it to. She has this house full of people who have paid her $1,000 for life care, so she creates the turnover herself.

[On Thanksgiving of 1914, Alice Gowdy fell sick at the nursing home, suffering from a burning in her throat and stomach. She died on Dec. 3, freeing up another bed. An autopsy performed on her exhumed body showed she died of arsenic poisoning. She and Franklin were among five victims named in Archer-Gilligan's murder indictment in 1916.]

The horrific story of Amy Archer-Gilligan, who was also the inspiration for the hit Broadway play Arsenic and Old Lace, which later became a hit movie starring Cary Grant. Unlike real life, the movie and play were a lot more wacky and fun — in real life, death by arsenic poisoning is quite a painful and horrible affair.

It’s a good thing Phelps is setting the record straight — as I was looking for an online biography about Archer-Gilligan, it seems as though there’s quite a bit of conflicting information floating about out there. One source says she her house was in Newington (it’s in Windsor, and still standing); another source says she lived until 1962 (she died in a state mental hospital in 1928). Some stories claim she killed 20 while the official record states five — Phelps, who has done exhaustive research on the case and in the newspapers of the time, thinks the number may have been over 40 as there were many more who died under Sister Amy’s “care” and were never autopsied for arsenic poisoning.

If you’re interested, Phelps will be discussing The Devil’s Rooming House at the Connecticut Historical Society in on this Saturday, March 27, at 2. According to the CHS site, the lecture is free with paid admission.

The book is due out April 1 — you might be a fool not to get it!

Okay, just saw this story about how a team of French scientists have discovered that human brains have been shrinking over the last 28,000 years!

Great, just what I need!

No need to panic yet — from the article:

The French team, which claims to have produced one of the best replicas yet of an early modern human’s cranium, says it is up to 20 per cent bigger than ours.

No one is suggesting this means our ancestors were more intelligent as studies have found there is only a minor link between brain size and IQ.

Instead, it is believed the skull, called Cro Magnon 1 after the caves in the Dordogne where it found, suggests our brains are becoming more efficient like shrinking computers.

Funny, my brain feels like it’s shrinking, but more like a balloon losing air as opposed to becoming more efficient like a computer. I guess that’s what happens when you get old like me …

Anyway, I enjoy our somewhat more efficient brains.

Speaking of small things, I saw this tiny object, courtesy of the Bad Astonomy blog –

Live tiny and prosper!

According to Bad Astronomy, it’s a model of the Enterprise created by an ion beam and vaporized chemicals and deposits. It’s “only 8.8 microns (millionths of a meter) long! For comparison, a human hair is about 50-100 microns across. This image is magnified 5000 times.” It was created by two Japanese students at the Himeji Institute of Techonology.

Speaking of objects infinitesimal, Connecticut has been near the forefront of nanotechnology research and development. Well, until recently — Gov. Rell and her legislative partners in fiscal ineptitude, who had promised to put money into supporting the much-needed industry here in the state, of course, did not and have canceled future funding for nanotechnology at key research centers like Yale and UConn.

It’s an interesting story, but basically the lack of funding prevents the Connecticut research centers from updating their equipment and forces scientists to go to other states to do research.

Why is nanotechnology research so important to Connecticut? It’s being used to develop everything from new energy sources and biofuels as well as medicines and pharmaceuticals. It is expected to be one of the fastest-growing industries in the next decade, and for a state that has fallen onto tough financial times without many prospects for recovery, it could be a boon to state economy.

Hopefully the next governor and their administration will realize that getting involved in something so small may turn out to be very big for all of us.

One of the great things about starting this website is that it seems as though I’ve learned more about the unusual aspects of Connecticut in the past year or two than I did in previous 40 or so I’ve lived here. Not only have I discovered lots of new things through writing about damned-type stuff, but I’ve been lucky enough to have lots of people now sending me anything they think might qualify for inclusion here. The good news is that I have lots and lots of things to write about, the only problem is finding time to cover it all properly.

I’ve also learned a bit about some of the more interesting characters in Connecticut history, including The Old Leather Man, Hanna Cranna and the Jewett City Vampires, to name a few.

Along those lines, I recently came across the story of Gustave Whitehead, with whom some of you history buffs may already be familiar, especially since there’s a significant amount of evidence that he was the first to achieve motorized flight in 1901, two full years before the Wright Brothers took wing at Kitty Hawk, South Carolina.

So why isn’t Whitehead’s name plastered in all the history books, you ask? Good question.

courtesy of gustavewhitehead.org

Here’s his official biography.

Here’s the greatly abridged version — Whitehead (originally Weisskopf) was a German immigrant who came to the U.S. in 1895, and then to Connecticut in 1900. He was a mechanic by trade but an inventor by heart, and spent countless hours, days and weeks pursuing his lifelong dream of flight. (While a boy, he even tried to launch himself off the roof of his house with a pair of wings his grandmother had sewn for him.) He was constantly tinkering with gliders, engines and aircraft prototypes.

On August 14, 1901, Whitehead took an aircraft made of canvas, pine and bamboo he called “No. 21″ to Tunxis Hill on the Fairfield-Bridgeport border, and supposedly made a half-mile flight in front of numerous witnesses, followed by three other successful flights that day. His exploits were chronicled in the New York Herald,  Boston Transcript and other publications of the time.

Making modifications from this success, on Jan. 17, 1902 at Lordship Manor — again, two full years before the Wrights’ efforts at Kittyhawk — Whitehead took to the sky again, this time in “No. 22,” a plane that was powered by a kerosene-burning engine. One of his flights, which was purported to be seven (!)  miles, was detailed in Scientific American and Aeronautic World.

Unfortunately for Whitehead, as great as he was at engineering, he was that poor in recording his efforts. He never had any of his flights timed or measured, nor did he ever have any of his planes photographed while in the air. Everything was based on eyewitness accounts, and although there were plenty of objective people who reported his successes, there were even more who scoffed at the idea that a simple mechanic — especially a German immigrant, no less! — could have achieved such an amazing feat. Like many inventors, the disorganized Whitehead only thought of his work and had no head for business or self-promotion, so when the better-documented (and more American) Wrights came along, ol’ Gustave found himself on the outside of history looking in. (For the record, people were also skeptical of the Wrights at first, but they were able to persevere and eventually gain “official” recognition.)

Sadly for Whitehead, even though his engine designs were widely used at the beginning of the aviation era, he never really profited — again, his immigrant background and lack of business sense made him an easy target, and he was taken advantage of repeatedly. He died of a heart attack at age 52, broke, and was buried in a pauper’s grave. His story only came to light years later, and his work has finally gained some acceptance. In 1874, a museum dedicated to his exploits was opened in his hometown of Leutershausen, Germany.

For more about Whitehead, Wikipedia has a nice overview. To read more about the controversy between him and Wrights, this is a good place to start.