Stranger than fiction

Back in the days when I was publishing, one of the more popular features I picked up was called “News of the Weird,” distributed by the syndication arm of the Chicago Tribune. The column was a collection of then-current news stories that zeroed in on all things quirky and unusual.

As I pursue my interest in historical events, I find anthologies dedicated to similar content but with a view toward some of the more colorful events in our past. Some are common enough to have entered our cultural canon, while others are condemned to obscurity.

A favorite featured in nearly every compilation is the Dancing Plague of 1518. In July of that year, residents of Strasbourg (then part of the Roman Empire) were struck by a sudden and uncontrollable urge to dance. The phenomenon began with one woman and spread rapidly, with dozens of people dancing for days without rest. Several dancers eventually collapsed from exhaustion, and some reportedly died of heart attacks or strokes. The cause of the bizarre event remains a mystery, though some theories suggest it was due to mass hysteria, similar to our Salem Witch Trials. Others speculate that it was caused by “ergot poisoning,” which arises from the ergot fungus that grows on grains and causes psychosis.

Another famous story is the Great Molasses Flood. In January of 1919, a massive storage tank holding over two million gallons of molasses burst in Boston's North End, unleashing a wave of sticky syrup that traveled at an estimated 35 miles per hour (I’m not sure how they arrived at that number without a radar gun). The flood killed 21 people, injured 150, and caused extensive property damage.

That tragedy was not unprecedented. In 1814, a vat containing over 135,000 gallons of beer ruptured at the Meux and Company Brewery in London, triggering a chain reaction that caused other vats to burst. A tidal wave of beer swept through the streets, destroying homes and killing eight people.

Monty Python fans will appreciate the well-documented account of Emperor Napoleon’s confrontation with a hoard of nasty, brutish rabbits. In July of 1807, just after signing the Treaties of Tilsit (ending the war between Russia and France), Napoleon Bonaparte arranged a rabbit hunt to celebrate. Chief of Staff Alexandre Berthier organized the hunt and acquired thousands of rabbits.

Rather than go to the trouble of catching wild rabbits, Berthier purchased as many as 3,000 of the domesticated variety. The farmed rabbits swarmed Napoleon and his party when released from their cages. Despite efforts to shoo them away, the rabbits continued their assault, and Napoleon had to retreat to his carriage to escape the unexpected bunny attack.

Later, in April of 1979, President Jimmy Carter was harassed by an unusually aggressive swamp rabbit, or “sylvilagus aquaticus,” while fishing. No rabbits or presidents were harmed in the incident, but it made good copy and became known as Jimmy Carter’s “Killer Rabbit Attack.”

…and then there is the so-called “Cadaver Synod.” In 897 AD, Pope Stephen VI ordered the exhumation of the corpse of his predecessor, Pope Formosus. The former Pope’s corpse was put on trial, dressed in papal vestments, and propped up in a chair. Stephen VI accused the departed pope of perjury and other crimes. The corpse was found guilty, stripped of its papal garments, and buried in a common grave.

Most of a century later, in 1747, a farmer in Kirkcudbright, Scotland, accused his neighbor's goat of witchcraft, claiming it had cursed his cattle. The goat was put on trial, and witnesses testified against the animal. The criminal goat, alive and without vestments, was found guilty and sentenced to death.

Given today’s headlines, it’s not hard to imagine that the American presidency may be a source of oddities. In 1845, during the funeral of Andrew Jackson, his pet parrot, Polly, was removed from the ceremony because it started swearing profusely. The parrot had picked up Jackson's colorful language and caused quite a commotion among the mourners.

My latest acquisition is the Erfurt Latrine Disaster”: In 1184, a gathering of nobles occurred in the Church of St. Peter in Erfurt, Germany. The meeting, called by King Henry VI, was held on the wooden second floor of the church. Unfortunately, the floor collapsed under the weight of the attendees, sending many of them plunging into the latrine pit below. Approximately 60 people drowned in the fecal sludge, making it one of the more disturbing tragedies in our long, strange human history.