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50 Reasons to Subscribe to mental_floss (#46, THE "I CAN'T BELIEVE WE'RE DOING AN ARTICLE ON STAMPS" ARTICLE)

With 6 years of print articles behind us, we've decided to give you a smattering of the best of the _floss. If you dig what you see, please subscribe! Today, we're presenting an insanely interesting story on stamps by David A. Norris. Enjoy...

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To read about a stamp that caused a war, the stamp that Bill Gates couldn't afford, a stamp that totally embarrassed East Germany, and even a stamp that moved the Panama Canal (yes, you read that right: moved the canal!) read on.

Philately: it's the end-all, be-all of popular hobbies curiously pursued by nobody you know. And while we knew absolutely nothing about stamps when we started this article, fortunately for you, we're great at digging up the juiciest dirt on any subject under the sun. In fact, the following 11 stamp stories are so fascinating, they're guaranteed to have you glued to your seats. Heck, we might even be tempted to run a sequel next month.

The Stamp That Started It All
pennyblack.jpg It's the world's first postage stamp. Issued on May 1, 1840, in Great Britain (but not valid for use until five days later), the "Penny Black" stamp helped England dig itself out of the costly and convoluted mess that was paid postage. Before the Penny Black, the price of mailing a letter varied depending on distance and the number of sheets in the envelope. And rates weren't cheap, either. Postage could cost as much as a shilling—a day's wages for many workers. But here's the kicker: All mail was sent collect, meaning addressees often turned away the mailman because they couldn't cough up enough dough.

Consequently, thousands of letters traveled the world in vain, never to be opened. Members of Parliament, who could send mail for free, were pestered by family, friends, and acquaintances to send letters on their behalf. Those with fewer connections, however, opted for more subversive means, and scams to avoid postage abounded.
To reform the system, British schoolmaster Sir Rowland Hill lobbied Parliament to adopt the "Penny Postage" program. For the first time, it was proposed that postage be paid in advance, using little gummed stickers to show proof of purchase. In addition, letters sent anywhere in the country would cost only a penny. The plan made sending mail affordable for nearly everybody and offered businesses tremendous savings. When presented with the Penny Postage program, many government officials feared the system would wreck the budget, claiming it would take 50 years to break even. But when the plan finally passed, the number of unpaid letters dropped so dramatically that the post office was soon
profiting from the system.

There was only one problem. To make sure stamps weren't re-used, postal officials cancelled them with an orange ink marking. Before long, however, news got around that the ink could be easily washed off the black (hence Penny Black) stamps. Postal officials then switched to black ink, which couldn't be washed off "¦ but also didn't show up against the black stamp. After experimenting with different colored stamps, the Penny Black was replaced in 1841 by the Penny Red. The world's second stamp could be cancelled clearly with black ink once and for all.

So, is the Penny Black the ultimate collectible stamp? Not by a long shot. Although it was the first, there were more than 60 million printed, and enough of those are still around to keep the price reasonable.

The Stamp That Divided a Nation
Never underestimate the political power of the stamp. When the American Civil War broke out in 1861, the seceding Confederate states snatched up a good bit of government property. This included everything from forts to arsenals to thousands of post offices stocked full of stamps. Not wanting the enemy to profit off their goods, the Union recalled every U.S. stamp ever issued and declared them invalid for postage. Instead, people were allowed to exchange their old stamps for replacements, which the government had quickly printed with new designs.

The Stamp Even Bill Gates Couldn't Afford
stamp 3.jpgDuring the post"“World War I era, Germany was wracked by one of the most famous and spectacular bouts of inflation in history. Under the strain of huge war reparations demanded by the victorious Allies, prices for everything from pumpernickel to postage stamps soared out of control. To put things in perspective, consider this: In July of 1923, the rate for someone to mail a letter from Germany to the United States had risen from 300 marks to 900 marks (equal to a little more than half a cent in U.S. money). Only three months later, the cost to mail that same letter was 6,000 marks. The sample shown here was mailed from Berlin to London on October 18, 1923, and cost 15 million marks. But it didn't stop there. By November, the mark had plunged even further, and stamps were being printed at values as high as 20 billion marks.

During this period of runaway inflation, it became harder and harder to cram enough stamps onto letters and documents to pay for postage or revenue stamp fees. According to sources, one Swiss document had to be sent with 10 feet of paper attached to it, just to hold the required amount of revenue stamps. Eventually, the situation became so bad that Germany temporarily stopped requiring stamps to mail letters. Instead, they allowed customers to pay for postage in cash at the post office, and officials would simply mark the letters as paid.

The Stamps Made from Stolen Maps
stamp4.jpg During World War I, the Baltic region of Latvia didn't have much to call its own. It was governed by Russia, and German forces were occupying much of the area. In 1918, however, Latvia gained independence during the chaos and collapse of the Romanov Dynasty. In addition, German forces had retreated "¦ but not without leaving their mark on the new nation. Oddly enough, that mark was on Latvia's stamps.

Latvia suffered devastating damage during the war. Factories were destroyed or moved to Russia, and paper was in short supply. So when the young nation got ready to print its first national stamps, postal officials got creative and used the blank backs of German military maps and unfinished banknotes. Indeed, if you look on the underside of some Latvian stamps from this era, you'll see a tiny sliver of a military map used by the Germans during World War I.

The Stamp That Moved the Panama Canal
In 1902, the U.S. Congress was about to pass legislation to link the Pacific Ocean and Caribbean Sea with a canal across—that's right—Nicaragua. That is, until engineer Philipe Bunau-Varilla (and a certain stamp) got involved.

Bunau-Varilla.jpg In the 1880s, Bunau-Varilla worked for a French company that had attempted to construct a similar canal across Panama. But engineering difficulties, financial mismanagement, and deadly yellow fever epidemics eventually bankrupted the company and prevented it from completing the project. Still believing Panama (then part of Colombia) presented the best route for such a canal (and still wanting a government contract to construct it), Bunau-Varilla lobbied Congress to switch its plans, claiming Nicaragua's terrain was too unwieldy. Then, in the spring of 1902, nature worked in his favor. Mt. Momotombo, a volcano in Nicaragua, erupted.
Knowing the incident would sway the American canal vote, Nicaraguan officials immediately began denying reports of the eruption, and Bunau-Varilla was left struggling for a way to counter the Nicaraguan cover-up. Fortunately, he remembered once seeing a Nicaraguan postage stamp featuring Mt. Momotombo, conveniently depicted with smoke rising from the top. After rummaging through stamp shops in Washington, he found the one he was looking for and promptly purchased 90 copies. In a matter of days, all 45 U.S. senators had received the Mt. Momotombo stamp, complete with Bunau-Varilla's caption, "An official witness to volcanic activity in Nicaragua." This menacing volcano, they were told, would threaten the canal route. Sure enough, when the Senate voted on June 19, 1902, the Panama route won. Bunau-Varilla ran a sophisticated lobbying campaign to change public opinion and Congressional votes, but he couldn't have sealed the deal without the help of those Nicaraguan stamps.

The Stamps That Tried to take a Bite Out of Crime
kansasoverprint.jpg Ah, the Roaring Twenties. It was a prosperous decade filled with jazz and speakeasies. Of course, it was also an era alive and well with slick crooks such as "Machine Gun" Kelly and "Pretty Boy" Floyd—criminals who loved robbing post offices and mail shipments. That's precisely why, in 1929, the federal government began producing these special stamps. Starting with Kansas and Nebraska, the stamps were marked, or overprinted, with state abbreviations and were only available for purchase in that state of origin. And although they were accepted as postage in all states, the overprinted stamps were designed to make it more difficult for crooks to take stolen stamps across state lines to unload them. Theoretically, large numbers of the out-of-state stamps would make prospective buyers and postal inspectors suspicious.

In practice, however, the overprints seem to have done little to deter postal crime. The program was never expanded to other states and was abandoned shortly after the overprinted issues sold out. In fact, the Kansas-Nebraska issues inspired more illegal activity. As soon as the last of the genuine overprints were sold, counterfeiters began taking ordinary 1920s' U.S. stamps, adding phony "Kans." and "Nebr." overprints and pawning them off to stamp collectors.

Interestingly, the overprinting idea made a short comeback during World War II. In early 1942, the U.S. government feared a Japanese attack might overrun Hawaii, so it began circulating paper money overprinted with "Hawaii." That way, if the Japanese had captured Hawaii, the bills could have been declared void and would have been of no financial use to the enemy.

The Stamp That Made CEOs Happy
perfin.jpg The filching of office supplies is a longstanding employee tradition. It probably dates to the days when Babylonian scribes were swiping clay tablets and cuneiform styluses. But in the 19th century, stamps were the stolen office supply of choice. Not only could workers use them for free postage, but—at the time—stamps were sometimes accepted as payment for small purchases. To curb employee enthusiasm for stealing, companies began using perfins (short for "perforated initials") to mark ownership of their stamps. That way, if perfin stamps were used on private mail, they could easily be identified as stolen property. Likewise, stores would refuse to accept any stamps with perfins as payment. First authorized in Britain in 1868, perfins were introduced to America in 1908. Coming soon: Perfins on the company Post-Its®.

The Stamp That Almost Started a War
stamp war.jpg Don't be fooled by its size. A tiny little stamp can cause big trouble. Case in point: This stamp issued by Nicaragua in 1937. Not uncommonly, the stamp featured a map of the country, but it included a large section of land also claimed by neighboring Honduras. Ownership of the region had long been in dispute between the two countries and remained a source of great contention. In 1906, King Alfonso XIII of Spain decided the matter in favor of Honduras, but Nicaragua refused to acknowledge the decision. Tensions grew in the following years, so when Nicaragua released the stamp in 1937, Hondurans were outraged. Government officials, newspapers, and radio stations demanded the stamps be recalled and destroyed. Nicaraguan authorities, however, refused and insisted the map was correct. They also pointed out that they had the courtesy to label the area on the stamp as territorio en litigio. Regardless, in a matter of weeks, anti-Nicaraguan demonstrations erupted in the Honduran capital of Tegucigalpa. Across the border, Nicaraguan radio announcers called for military action, demanding the national army be sent to guard the border region. The public even began a donation drive designed to fund more planes to build up the Nicaraguan Air Force.

At the last minute, the United States, Costa Rica, and Venezuela intervened to defuse the conflict before it escalated into war. Both countries agreed to withdraw their armed forces from the disputed area and stop mobilizing troops. And, naturally, the peace agreement called for withdrawing the offending stamps. They evidently remained in circulation, however, until supplies in private hands ran out. The example shown was postmarked in 1941—four years after their forced recall.

The Stamp with All the Right Intentions, and All the Wrong Music
stamp music.jpgIn 1956, East Germany decided to honor the death of native composer Robert Schumann by featuring him on a stamp. The design included a commemorative portrait of the artist against the backdrop of one of his musical scores. All well and good, except the musical manuscript they used was that of fellow composer Franz Schubert. Close, but no cigar. The stamps were recalled and replaced with ones showing music actually written by Schumann.

The Stamp That Went Underground
stamp under.jpg During the early 20th century, the postal delivery system met its biggest challenge since mailman-hating dogs: street traffic. In large cities across Europe and America, mail delivery wagons had to maneuver through swarms of horse-drawn carriages, streetcars, and pedestrians—all of which severely slowed down the postal system. Eventually, post office officials figured that if the mail couldn't get through city traffic, they would try going under it. Thus emerged pneumatic mail tubes, a kind of subway system for letters. In major metropolises such as Paris, Rome, Vienna, Berlin, and New York, mail tubes were constructed underground to link major post offices. Compressed air propelled containers of mail through steel tubes at speeds up to 30 mph, increasing the postal service's delivery pace by leaps and bounds. In most cases, people still used regular stamps for pneumatic mail. Italy, however, printed special pneumatic stamps between 1933 and 1966. Such subterranean mail tubes operated until as recently as the 1980s, but as cities grew and post offices moved around, rerouting the underground mail networks proved too difficult. The tubes were abandoned in most cities, though Prague still has a few pneumatic tubes in use.

The Stamps that Stick Without a Lick
stamp tonga.jpg Getting stamps to stick hasn't always been a simple task. Most stamps made after 1840 came with an adhesive gum on the back. But the gum—made from various plant products such as cornstarch, sweet potatoes, gum Arabic, and sugar—wasn't always of the highest quality, meaning stamps often fell off letters. The U.S. Postal Service tried various gum formulas to remedy the situation, including special "summer gum" that was resistant to humidity, and "winter gum" that resisted cracking in cold, dry winter air.

Finally, in the 1960s, the South Pacific island kingdom of Tonga broke the mold when it printed a series of self-adhesive stamps. Not only did they not require licking, they came in odd shapes—the most famous of which was this 1969 stamp (below) shaped like a banana. These unusual stamps were a big hit and, for a time, became a significant source of revenue for the country. Collectors went crazy for them. In fact, they became so popular that one dealer ordered more copies of a particular stamp than had been printed. Most countries followed Tonga's lead, and today, the die-cut, peel-and-stick stamps are the most common type of stamps in the United States.

A Penny For Your Mischievous Thoughts
According to legend, Sir Rowland Hill got the idea for the Penny Postage program one day while watching a barmaid tearfully plead with a mailman. Unable to afford the shilling demanded for postage, she begged simply to hold the letter sent by her beloved brother. Hill then watched as the girl scanned the envelope intensely, as if trying to read its contents mentally. Touched, Hill coughed up a shilling and gave her the letter. The girl stopped crying, but instead of being grateful, she became nervous. After the postman left, she confessed that the letter was blank. Her brother's message was contained in secret marks made on the envelope. Apparently, the two had devised a system whereby they could send each other messages through the post for free.

>>Like this piece? Then subscribe to mental_floss and make our editors happy! Oh, and be sure to come back for tomorrow's featured article.

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Ralph Heimans/Buckingham Palace/PA Wire via Getty Images
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Pop Culture
The Cult of Prince Philip
Ralph Heimans/Buckingham Palace/PA Wire via Getty Images
Ralph Heimans/Buckingham Palace/PA Wire via Getty Images

For seven decades, Prince Philip has been one of the more colorful figures in Britain's Royal Family, prone to jarring remarks and quips about women, the deaf, and overweight children.

"You're too fat to be an astronaut," he once told a boy sharing his dream of space travel.

British media who delighted in quoting him are still lamenting the 96-year-old's recent retirement from public duties. But the people of the Pacific Island nation of Vanuatu are likely to be optimistic he'll now have the time to join them: They worship him as a god and have based a religion on him.

Followers of the Prince Philip Movement, which started in the 1960s, believe that the prince was born to fulfill an ancient prophecy: that the son of an ancient mountain spirit would one day take the form of a pale-skinned man, travel abroad, marry a powerful lady, and eventually return to the island. When villagers saw the prince’s portrait, they felt the spirit in it, and when he visited Vanuatu in 1974, they were convinced.

Chief Jack Naiva, a respected warrior in the culture, greeted the royal yacht and caught sight of Philip on board. "I saw him standing on the deck in his white uniform," Naiva once said. "I knew then that he was the true messiah."

True believers assign large world movements to the machinations of Philip. They once claimed his powers had enabled a black man to become president of the United States and that his "magic" had assisted in helping locate Osama bin Laden. The community has corresponded with Buckingham Palace and even sent Philip a nal-nal, a traditional club for killing pigs, as a token of its appreciation. In return, he sent a portrait in which he’s holding the gift.

Sikor Natuan, the son of the local chief, holds two official portraits of Britain's Prince Philip in front of the chief's hut in the remote village of Yaohnanen on Tanna in Vanuatu.
TORSTEN BLACKWOOD/AFP/Getty Images

The picture is now part of a shrine set up in Yaohnanen in Vanuatu that includes other photos and a Union flag. In May 2017, shortly after the Prince announced his retirement, a cyclone threatened the island—and its shrine. But according to Matthew Baylis, an author who has lived with the tribe, the natives didn't see this so much as a cause for concern as they did a harbinger of the prince's arrival so he can bask in their worship.

To date, Prince Philip has not announced any plans to relocate.

A version of this story ran in a 2012 issue of Mental Floss magazine.

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John Ueland
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History
How a Single Mom Created a Plastic Food-Storage Empire
John Ueland
John Ueland

On an unseasonably warm day in April 1954, hundreds of women in cowboy hats gathered outside Tupperware’s Florida headquarters to dig for buried treasure. There, in a nearby swampy area dubbed the “Forest of Spades,” 600 shovels stood at the ready. The excitement was palpable. At the appointed signal, the women raced for the roped-off soil, grabbed shovels, and began to hunt frantically for loot.

It was the pinnacle of the inaugural Tupperware Jubilee, a five-day, gold-rush-themed affair celebrating all things Tupperware. No expense was spared: To give the event a Western feel, frontier-style buildings with false fronts had been erected and bulls and horses were trucked in. The women, and a smattering of men, had traveled from all across the country to participate. A collection of Tupperware dealers, distributors, and sales managers, they made the pilgrimage for the motivational speeches, sales instruction, and especially for the bizarre bonding rituals.

For five hours that day, they prospected for mink stoles and freezer units, gold watches and diamond rings. One of them, Fay Maccalupo of Buffalo, New York, dug up a toy car. When she saw the real Ford it represented, she planted her face against the hood and began to weep, repeating, “I love everybody.” Four women fainted and had to be revived with smelling salts. It was understandable, considering that the total cash value of all the prizes buried in the Florida dirt was $75,000.

Presiding over the treasure hunt was the general sales manager of the Tupperware Home Parties division, a 40-year-old woman named Brownie Wise. For hours, she cheered on the ladies from a loudspeaker with an air of royalty. As she watched them hop on shovels and unearth the rewards of their labors, she couldn’t help but feel proud. Wise took satisfaction in seeing her hard work pay off—once again. The jubilee, which she had organized, had all the pizzazz and spirit expected of an official Tupperware event. The media agreed: Network news was there to cover it, and Life magazine ran a photo essay highlighting the excitement and glamour.

Clearly, there’s more to Tupperware than leftovers. The story of the ubiquitous plastic container is a story of innovation and reinvention: how a new kind of plastic, made from an industrial waste material, ended up a symbol of female empowerment. The product ushered women into the workforce, encouraging them to make their own money, better their families, and win accolades and prizes without fear of being branded that 1950s anathema, “the career woman.”

Digging in the dirt for a gold watch may not mesh with today’s concept of a successful working woman, but at the time, the near-religious fervor seen at the jubilees and other Tupperware gatherings demonstrated just how ground-breaking the company’s sales plan was—the product became a multimillion dollar success not by exploiting women, but by embracing and boosting them. All of this was because of Brownie Wise. The story of Tupperware is her story.

Brownie Wise, named for her big, brown eyes, was born in rural Georgia. Her parents divorced when she was young, and as a teen she traveled with her mother, who organized union rallies. While touring the Deep South, Brownie started giving speeches at her mother’s rallies and soon proved to be a gifted and motivating orator. She “awed people,” writes Bob Kealing in his biography Tupperware Unsealed. “[They] were surprised that someone so young could deliver a speech like a pastor.”

Wise was married briefly, but by 27, she was a divorced single mom in suburban Detroit. During World War II, she worked as a secretary at Bendix Aviation, a company that made parts for navy torpedo planes. It was a decent but unfulfilling job. On the side, Wise penned an advice column for the Detroit News, writing under the alter ego “Hibiscus.” A housewife who led an idyllic life with her child and husband in a home called “Lovehaven,” Hibiscus had everything Wise did not. But what Wise did possess was an endless fountain of determination. As she wrote in a journal at that time, “I wanted to be a successful human being.”

It all started with a bad door-to-door salesman. When a Stanley Home Products salesman knocked on her door and proceeded to deliver a terrible sales pitch for cleaning supplies, Wise scoffed that she could do better. At the time, Stanley was experimenting with a peculiar sales model: home parties. A New Hampshire mop salesman had watched his numbers fly through the roof after he invited a bunch of women over for a party that included a mop demonstration. The company encouraged other salesmen to try the strategy, but many of them delegated the party-hosting to their wives. Thinking it’d be a fun job on the side, Wise started selling Stanley products at parties too. Before long, she was making enough money to quit her job at Bendix.

Wise was blessed with the gift of gab, and her special blend of folksy real talk and motherly encouragement helped her rise through Stanley’s ranks. Soon she was in management and hoping to ascend even higher. But those illusions were quashed at a meeting with Stanley head Frank Beveridge, who told Wise she’d never become an executive. Its halls were “no place for a woman,” he said. Wise returned home furious. The rejection lit a fire in her—she vowed that someday, somehow, she would prove Beveridge wrong.

She didn’t know that the key to fulfilling this dream would be in plastic food-storage containers. Wise first glimpsed Tupperware at a sales meeting. One of her coworkers had seen the products gathering dust in a department store and decided to bring them in. At first, Wise didn’t think they were anything special. But when she accidentally knocked a Tupperware bowl off the table, she realized its full potential: Instead of breaking, it bounced.

It seemed like magic. Tupperware was unlike any home product she’d seen before. It was attractive, coming in pastel colors and flexible shapes, almost like art. More importantly, it was functional—no other competing product even came close. Convinced of its potential, Wise traded in her Stanley brooms in 1949 and started throwing parties to sell Tupperware. What she didn’t intend, exactly, was to kindle a revolution.

AP

The most amazing thing about Tupperware wasn’t that it extended the life of leftovers and a family’s budget, although it did both remarkably well. It was, above all, a career maker. When women came to one of Wise’s parties, they were more than just convinced to buy the product— Wise was such a charming host that she persuaded many buyers to also become Tupperware salespeople. The more parties Wise hosted, the more tricks she learned to convert women into Tupperware faithful. Putting people on waiting lists, for instance, made them more eager to buy, so she signed them up regardless of whether the product was available. She also discovered that throwing containers full of liquid across the room made customers reach straight for their checkbooks. Amassing more and more saleswomen, Wise encouraged her followers to do the same. By October 1949, she had 19 recruits, enough to move her supplies out of her house and into a larger warehouse. Driven by the idea of making money simply by throwing parties for friends and neighbors, the women in Wise’s workforce ballooned in number. Soon, other Tupperware parties were taking place across the country. Wise’s team in Detroit was selling more Tupperware than most department stores. This soon attracted the attention of the no-nonsense founder of the Tupperware Corporation, Earl Silas Tupper.

Tupperware, true to its name, was Tupper’s masterpiece, and he was counting on it to make his dreams come true. Having grown up in a poor Massachusetts farm family, he had vowed to make a million dollars by the time he was 30. He hadn’t. He did have a host of esoteric inventions—among them, a fish-powered boat and no-drip ice cream cone—under his belt. But with a wife and family to support, he’d concentrated on a practical career in plastics, first at DuPont and then at a company of his own, which made parts for Jeeps and gas masks during World War II. When the war ended, Tupper decided to buy cheap surpluses left over from wartime manufacturing. He figured he’d be able to do something with them.

That’s how he ended up with a glob of greasy black polyethylene, a smelly waste product left behind when metal is created from ore. Tupper took it and, after months of trial and error, wrangled the slag into submission, creating a light-weight plastic that refused to break. Tupper dubbed it “Poly-T,” and, taking inspiration from the way paint cans sealed, created a flexible container with a noiseless lid that snapped on. He called the box Tupperware. He patented the seal in 1949 and rolled out 14 products he called the “Millionaire Line.” The only problem? He couldn’t get anyone to buy it.

At least not until Wise came along. Her sales record was remarkable—in 1949, she’d rung up $150,000 in orders and was offered a promotion: distribution rights to the entire state of Florida. In the spring of 1950, she moved south with her son, Jerry, and her mother. She found a store space, and by May she’d opened her business and was scouting for new salespeople.

Still, not everything was going smoothly. Along with disputes over turf with other distributors, she was constantly contending with botched orders, shipping delays, and product shortages. In March of 1951, Wise had had enough. She called Tupper in a fury. It was the first time they’d spoken, but she was too livid for niceties; she ripped into him immediately. This was hurting not just her bottom line, but also his. Did he not understand how crucial it was that the problems be fixed immediately? Tupper assured her that he’d fix any issues and then asked a favor: He wanted to hear her sales secrets.

The next month, the two met at a conference on Long Island and Wise explained her selling technique. It was pointless, she explained, to think that people would see Tupperware on store shelves or in catalogs and want to buy it. Instead, people had to touch it, squeeze it, drop it, seal it. They had to experience Tupperware from a trusted friend or neighbor. She gave a bold prescription for saving Tupper’s business: Ditch department stores altogether and focus entirely on throwing home parties.

Tupper took the advice to heart. So much, in fact, that the day after their meeting, he created a new division just for home parties and asked Wise to be the general manager. Wise had reached her goal: She had become an executive. It was a perfect fit, too. She had a stellar track record—she was selling more Tupperware than anyone anywhere—and Tupper was bowled over by her charm. “You talk a lot and everybody listens,” he said.

“She was the yin to Tupper’s yang,” Kealing writes. “Where he was fussy and reclusive, Wise lived to mingle with and inspire the dealer workforce.” They were a match made in sales heaven. Or so it seemed.

AP

In 1952, the first full year of Wise’s watch, Tupperware sales rocketed. Wholesale orders exceeded $2 million. During the last half of the year, sales tripled. Tupperware parties did exactly what Wise promised they would, and she became the company’s shining star. That year, Tupper gave her a salary of $20,933.33, more than she had ever made. For her birthday in 1953, he presented her with a gold-dyed palomino horse. Even more remarkably, he gave her the freedom to do practically whatever she wanted. So Wise traveled the country recruiting, presiding over sales conferences, and announcing contests and doling out prizes for incentive—including, sometimes, her own clothes.

By the looks of it, most of Wise’s Tupperware recruits fit neatly into the stereotypical role of a proper housewife. But, in reality, they surreptitiously represented a new kind of female empowerment. During World War II, many women had no choice but to enter the workforce. At its end, many of them had no choice but to leave it. Suddenly, selling Tupperware at parties allowed women to straddle both worlds. They were employed, yet they didn’t appear to challenge their husbands' authority or the status quo. This pioneering entrepreneurial model allowed them to inhabit a workforce outside of the one the hustling salesman inhabited, and, in many cases, to do even better than he did. And that power relied specifically on a network of female friends and neighbors.

The parties weren’t just a way for women to keep occupied—it was a way they could contribute to their family’s bottom line. Most women who worked outside the home had low-paying jobs in fields like light manufacturing, retail, clerical work, and health and education. The money—committed dealers could bring in $100 or more per week—was a revelation. The opportunity for success was so great that the husbands of some Tupperware ladies left their own jobs to work with their wives.

Wise was something of an early Oprah, giving away fantastic prizes, operating in a grass-roots, word-of-mouth fashion and showing rather than telling other women how to succeed in the comfort of their own homes. The fact that she made many women understand the benefits of becoming salespeople, building the brand further, simply made her a fantastic executive.

Wise embraced the spirit of female entrepreneurship wholeheartedly. In her prime, she wrote a morale-boosting newsletter called Tupperware Sparks, published a primer called Tupperware Know-How, and had a 52-minute film, A Tupperware Home Party, made as a training tool. She even convinced Tupper to move the company headquarters to Florida. When Tupper bought property in Kissimmee, Wise turned it into a Mecca-like pilgrimage site for Tupperware devotees.

Part of the power of Wise’s sales technique, which at times seemed more faith than business, was that it gave the impression that the sky was the limit, and it relied on collective power. This wasn’t just the traditional salesperson’s dog-eat-dog world: Instead, the group was a “family” that helped one another climb to the top. Women who had previously only had their names in print upon birth or marriage were being recognized for their success, with their names, photographs, and accomplishments appearing in Wise’s newsletters. Along with making their own money, they received rewards—top distributors got cars—and the chance to collaborate with other women in a friendly but competitive environment. Wise increased the fervor with her annual jubilees, which had their own rituals, like candlelit graduation ceremonies and group sing-alongs featuring choruses of “I’ve got that Tupper feeling deep in my heart.”

“No woman got praised for scrubbing floors,” Elsie Mortland, who became Tupperware’s Home Kitchen Demonstrator, told Kealing in an interview in 2005. “But when they got praised for selling Tupperware, they had something to be proud of.”

Wise was the head of the household, and the Tupperware ladies all wanted to be a part of her extended family. Success was limited only by how hard a person was willing to work, a belief that Wise preached passionately. Unfortunately, she had been duped into thinking her boss shared that opinion.

Alamy

As Wise became the face of Tupperware, sales and press continued to skyrocket. In 1954, she was the first woman to appear on the cover of Business Week. But as glowing as the magazine’s profile was, it contained warning signs about the future of her partnership with Tupper. The piece credited Wise and her sales technique with Tupperware’s estimated $25 million in retail sales and seemed to downplay Tupper’s role as president of the company he had created.

Tupper had never craved the spotlight; in fact, he was known to use the back door of his office to avoid attracting attention. But he was keen to ensure that his product, not an employee, received the lion’s share of any attention. And somewhere along the way, Wise had started to upstage the plastic containers she helped make famous. After the Business Week article, Tupper wrote a note to Wise that contained a glimmer of the storm that was to come: “However, good executive as you are, I still like best the pictures ... with TUPPERWARE!”

The good press continued but, in 1955, after several powerful distributors left the company, sales began to lag. Hard times strained Wise and Tupper’s relationship. By 1956, angry letters were flying back and forth between them, and at one point, Tupper stopped taking Wise’s calls. Her complaints and frank criticisms, previously helpful, had become jabs he couldn’t endure. He also started to believe that she was costing him money, irked that she had her own side business selling self-help books at company events. More to the point, he started to suspect that if he tried selling the company—which he was planning to do—having a female executive would get in the way.

Finally, in 1958, Tupper flew to Florida and fired Wise. After a heated legal battle, she received only $30,000 as a settlement. She didn’t own her house and was ordered to vacate. She had no stocks in the company; she didn’t even own many of the clothes she wore. The man she’d helped make a millionaire didn’t seem to care: Tupper ordered her name expunged from the company history and buried the 600 remaining copies of her book in an unmarked pit behind Tupperware’s Florida headquarters. Later that year, he sold the company to Rexall Drug for $16 million, divorced his wife, and bought an island in Central America. He died in Costa Rica in 1983. Wise, on the other hand, tried starting new companies but never achieved the same success she had with Tupperware. She led a quiet life with her horses, pottery, and her son until she died at her home in Kissimmee in 1992.

Her influence, however, has not waned. Today, according to the PBS American Experience documentary Tupperware!, the product is sold in about 100 countries, while “every 2.5 seconds, a Tupperware party is held somewhere in the world.” In this respect, the Golden Age of Tupperware hasn’t ended so much as it has solidified. When was the last time you stored food in a plastic container with a sealing mechanism? Tupperware is so much a part of our food culture that we don’t even think about its continuing influence, and yet we still rely on it daily.

This story is one of reinvention too: a useless plastic reimagined into something needed, of food being stored in wholly new ways, of women emerging from their kitchens to showcase their worth and proclaim their identities, of sales techniques evolving to embrace the customer, and of the singular character of Brownie Wise, who changed what it meant to be a woman in the workforce. Because of that, as Houston Post writer Napoleon Hill wrote in 1956, “It has been estimated that Brownie Wise has helped more women to financial success than any other single living person.”

Early in Wise’s tenure at the company, Tupper presented her with a piece of the raw polyethylene he’d used to make Tupperware. She saw it as poetic proof of his vision: He had created something beautiful from this unappealing glob of plastic, using nothing but imagination and persistence. It was “the best sales story I have ever heard in all my life,” she wrote. She considered “Poly,” as Tupper called it, a prized possession and would have her women touch it for good luck, telling them, “Just get your fingers on it, wish for what you want. Know it’s going to come true, and then get out and work like everything ... and it will!”

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