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Livin’ on the Wedge: The Long, Strange History of a Disputed Border

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The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, my home sweet home, is home to its fair share of oddities (see exhibits A, B, C and D). But one of the strangest stories involves our southern border and the controversy that surrounded it for more than a century.

The Wedge, also known as the Delaware Wedge is a 1.068 square-mile, roughly triangular chunk of land that sits at the point where Pennsylvania, Delaware and Maryland all bump up against each other. Born of the shortcomings of a survey to settle another border dispute, the Wedge was disputed territory almost as soon as the colonies were established, and Delaware and Pennsylvania’s battle over the land wasn’t completely resolved until 1921.

Here’s a timeline of the birth of—and battle for—one of the country's weirdest little plots of land.

1632: The charter for the colony of Maryland gives the Calvert family the entire Delmarva Peninsula between the 40th parallel to the north and Watkin’s Point to the south (basically, everything between Pennsylvania and Virgina). Several Dutch and Swedish settlements sit within this territory along the Delaware Bay and River. While the Calverts want them removed, the Crown refuses because of the foreign relations row it would create for England. By 1655, the Dutch, led by Peter Stuyvesant, took over the New Swedish colony and incorporated it into their New Netherland.

1664: The Dutch are driven from the area by British forces led by Sir Robert Carr and under the direction of The Duke of York. The Duke, figuring he had won the land in battle, added it to his proprietorship of New York.

But Cæcilius Calvert, 2nd Baron Baltimore and Proprietor of Maryland claimed ownership of the land, but since the Duke was the brother of King Charles II, he did not press the matter.

1681: William Penn receives his charter for Pennsylvania, which grants him a chunk of land west of the Delaware River with a southern border identical to Marlyland’s northern border, the 40th parallel. Excluded from Penn’s grant was any land that fell within a 12-mile circle radiating from New Castle, land that belonged to the Duke of York. The grant demonstrates how poorly the area was charted and how little the men involved knew of the area. The land grant indicates that Charles II and Penn thought that 40th parallel would intersect the Twelve-Mile Circle, but New Castle actually lies about 25 miles south of the 40th parallel. Additionally, the site that Penn had already chosen for his colony's capital city, Philadelphia, was also a little south of the parallel.

1682: The inconsistencies of the Pennsylvania grant stop being problems when Penn receives an additional grant for the New Castle lands from the Duke of York, referred to as the '”The Lower Counties on the Delaware,” and to be administered as a separate entity from Pennsylvania While this land had been part of Maryland’s original grant, the Calverts had failed to confirm their hold on it by surveying it or establishing loyal settlements. Penn’s claim on the Lower Counties begins almost 100 years worth of litigation between the Penns and Calverts, and their heirs.

1763: The fixing of the borders and settlement of the legal battles begins when the Penns and Calverts agree on some demarcations of their lands.

- The Twelve-Mile Circle around New Castle as the northern and (somewhat) western boundary of Delaware.

- The Transpeninsular Line (approximately 38°27? N) as Delaware’s southern border.

- The Tangent Line connecting the middle of the Transpeninsular Line with the western side of the Twelve Mile Circle marking the border between Delaware and Maryland.

- An east-west line sitting about 15 miles south of Philadelphia, running along 39°43’ N (a compromise on the 40th parallel) as the border between Maryland and Pennsylvania, which meets the…

- North Line running from tangent point north to 39°43’ N, marking the eastern border of Maryland.

- Any land west of the North Line that still falls within the Twelve-Mile Circle remains part of Delaware (a segment is known as the Arc Line).

The complexities of determining these borders required outside help, and so astronomer Charles Mason and surveyor Jeremiah Dixon were hired. While establishing the borders in the Penn-Clavery dispute, they also surveyed what became known as the Mason-Dixon Line—the division between the American North and South.

When these borders were agreed upon, apparently no one had a clear idea of what the shapes of the territories would be, because when the dust settled and surveying was complete, there was wedge of land tucked between 39° 43' N, the Twelve-Mile Circle and the North Line that didn’t clearly belong to anyone. Maryland had no claim to it, because it was east of the Tangent, North and Arc lines. While the land is below the PA-MD border, its place in between Maryland’s eastern edge and the Twelve-Mile Circle gives Pennsylvania a pretty strong claim to it (see image, from a United States Geological Survey map, via Wikimedia Commons).


Because Pennsylvania and Delaware were both owned by the Penns, though, there was no rush to figure out which one owned this wedge. The Wedge became a lawless no-man’s land, providing shelter for illegal bootlegging and gambling operations.


1776: America gains its independence and Delaware is separated from Pennsylvania. The two states immediately begin fighting over the Wedge. Pennsylvania claims the land because it is beyond the Twelve-Mile Circle, but past Maryland’s side of the North Line. It’s neither part of Maryland nor Delaware, and so should be part of Pennsylvania by default. Delaware, meanwhile, claims it because it is below Pennsylvania’s southern border with Maryland—and while the border is not officially established there, Pennsylvania should not be allowed to dip below that line at any point. Because the wedge is also east of the North Line, it's not part of Maryland and it defaults to Delaware.

The argument over the land continued for decades, with Delaware exercising jurisdiction over the area for most of that time, if only because the Wedge is a better geometric fit for it.

1892: A survey by the Office of the U. S. Coast and Geodetic Survey extends Mason and Dixon’s southern boundary of Pennsylvania east for about 0.79 miles until it intersects the Newcastle Circle, clearly cutting Pennsylvania off from the Wedge (see image, by Wikimedia Commons user Lasunncty).


1889: A joint committee appointed by the two states awards the Wedge to Delaware.


1897: Pennsylvania recognizes Delaware’s claim to the Wedge and ratifies the committee’s decision.


1921: Delaware and the United States Congress ratify the decision and the Wedge officially becomes part of Delaware.

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Food
The Gooey History of the Fluffernutter Sandwich

Open any pantry in New England and chances are you’ll find at least one jar of Marshmallow Fluff. Not just any old marshmallow crème, but Fluff; the one manufactured by Durkee-Mower of Lynn, Massachusetts since 1920, and the preferred brand of the northeast. With its familiar red lid and classic blue label, it's long been a favorite guilty pleasure and a kitchen staple beloved throughout the region.

This gooey, spreadable, marshmallow-infused confection is used in countless recipes and found in a variety of baked goods—from whoopie pies and Rice Krispies Treats to chocolate fudge and beyond. And in the beyond lies perhaps the most treasured concoction of all: the Fluffernutter sandwich—a classic New England treat made with white bread, peanut butter, and, you guessed it, Fluff. No jelly required. Or wanted.

There are several claims to the origin of the sandwich. The first begins with Revolutionary War hero Paul Revere—or, not Paul exactly, but his great-great-great-grandchildren Emma and Amory Curtis of Melrose, Massachusetts. Both siblings were highly intelligent and forward-thinkers, and Amory was even accepted into MIT. But when the family couldn’t afford to send him, he founded a Boston-based company in the 1890s that specialized in soda fountain equipment.

He sold the business in 1901 and used the proceeds to buy the entire east side of Crystal Street in Melrose. Soon after he built a house and, in his basement, he created a marshmallow spread known as Snowflake Marshmallow Crème (later called SMAC), which actually predated Fluff. By the early 1910s, the Curtis Marshmallow Factory was established and Snowflake became the first commercially successful shelf-stable marshmallow crème.

Although other companies were manufacturing similar products, it was Emma who set the Curtis brand apart from the rest. She had a knack for marketing and thought up many different ways to popularize their marshmallow crème, including the creation of one-of-a-kind recipes, like sandwiches that featured nuts and marshmallow crème. She shared her culinary gems in a weekly newspaper column and radio show. By 1915, Snowflake was selling nationwide.

During World War I, when Americans were urged to sacrifice meat one day a week, Emma published a recipe for a peanut butter and marshmallow crème sandwich. She named her creation the "Liberty Sandwich," as a person could still obtain his or her daily nutrients while simultaneously supporting the wartime cause. Some have pointed to Emma’s 1918 published recipe as the earliest known example of a Fluffernutter, but the earliest recipe mental_floss can find comes from three years prior. In 1915, the confectioners trade journal Candy and Ice Cream published a list of lunch offerings that candy shops could advertise beyond hot soup. One of them was the "Mallonut Sandwich," which involved peanut butter and "marshmallow whip or mallo topping," spread on lightly toasted whole wheat bread.

Another origin story comes from Somerville, Massachusetts, home to entrepreneur Archibald Query. Query began making his own version of marshmallow crème and selling it door-to-door in 1917. Due to sugar shortages during World War I, his business began to fail. Query quickly sold the rights to his recipe to candy makers H. Allen Durkee and Fred Mower in 1920. The cost? A modest $500 for what would go on to become the Marshmallow Fluff empire.

Although the business partners promoted the sandwich treat early in the company’s history, the delicious snack wasn’t officially called the Fluffernutter until the 1960s, when Durkee-Mower hired a PR firm to help them market the sandwich, which resulted in a particularly catchy jingle explaining the recipe.

So who owns the bragging rights? While some anonymous candy shop owner was likely the first to actually put the two together, Emma Curtis created the early precursors and brought the concept to a national audience, and Durkee-Mower added the now-ubiquitous crème and catchy name. And the Fluffernutter has never lost its popularity.

In 2006, the Massachusetts state legislature spent a full week deliberating over whether or not the Fluffernutter should be named the official state sandwich. On one side, some argued that marshmallow crème and peanut butter added to the epidemic of childhood obesity. The history-bound fanatics that stood against them contended that the Fluffernutter was a proud culinary legacy. One state representative even proclaimed, "I’m going to fight to the death for Fluff." True dedication, but the bill has been stalled for more than a decade despite several revivals and subsequent petitions from loyal fans.

But Fluff lovers needn’t despair. There’s a National Fluffernutter Day (October 8) for hardcore fans, and the town of Somerville, Massachusetts still celebrates its Fluff pride with an annual What the Fluff? festival.

"Everyone feels like Fluff is part of their childhood," said self-proclaimed Fluff expert and the festival's executive director, Mimi Graney, in an interview with Boston Magazine. "Whether born in the 1940s or '50s, or '60s, or later—everyone feels nostalgic for Fluff. I think New Englanders in general have a particular fondness for it."

Today, the Fluffernutter sandwich is as much of a part of New England cuisine as baked beans or blueberry pie. While some people live and die by the traditional combination, the sandwich now comes in all shapes and sizes, with the addition of salty and savory toppings as a favorite twist. Wheat bread is as popular as white, and many like to grill their sandwiches for a touch of bistro flair. But don't ask a New Englander to swap out their favorite brand of marshmallow crème. That’s just asking too Fluffing much.

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The Hospital in the Rock
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History
Budapest’s Former Top-Secret Hospital Inside a Cave
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The Hospital in the Rock

At the top of a hill in Budapest, overlooking the Danube River, sits Buda Castle, a gorgeous UNESCO World Heritage site visited by thousands of tourists every year. Directly underneath the castle, however, lies a less-frequented tourist attraction: a series of ancient, naturally formed caves with a colorful and sometimes disturbing history.

The entire cave system is over six miles long, and most of that has been left unchanged since it was used as cold storage (and a rumored dungeon) in the Middle Ages. Between 1939 and 2008, however, a half-mile stretch of those caves was built up and repurposed many times over. Known as Sziklakorhaz or The Hospital in the Rock, its many uses are a testament to the area’s involvement in World War II and the Cold War.

At the start of World War II, the location served as a single-room air raid center, but operating theaters, corridors, and wards were quickly added to create a much-needed hospital. By early 1944, the hospital had officially opened inside the cave, tending to wounded Hungarian and Nazi soldiers. After less than a year of operation, the facility found itself facing its largest challenge—the Siege of Budapest, which lasted seven weeks and was eventually won by Allied forces on their way to Berlin.

As one of the few area hospitals still operational, the Hospital in the Rock was well over capacity during the siege. Originally built to treat around 70 patients, close to 700 ended up crammed into the claustrophobic caves. The wounded lay three to a bed—if they were lucky enough to get a bed at all. Unsurprisingly, heat from all those bodies raised the ambient temperature to around 95°F, and smoking cigarettes was the number one way to pass the time. Add that to the putrid mix of death, decay, and infection and you’ve got an incredibly unpleasant wartime cocktail.

A recreation inside the museum. Image credit: The Hospital in the Rock 

After the siege, the Soviets took control of the caves (and Budapest itself) and gutted the hospital of most of its supplies. Between 1945 and 1948, the hospital produced a vaccination for typhus. As the icy grasp of the Cold War began to tighten, new wards were built, new equipment was installed, and the hospital was designated top-secret by the Soviets, referred to only by its official codename LOSK 0101/1.

Eleven years after facing the horrors of the Siege of Budapest, in 1956, the hospital hosted the casualties of another battle: The Hungarian Uprising. Thousands of Hungarians revolted against the Soviet policies of the Hungarian People’s Republic in a fierce, prolonged battle. Civilians and soldiers alike lay side-by-side in wards as surgeons attempted to save them. During the uprising, seven babies were also born in the hospital.

Surgeons lived on-site and rarely surfaced from the caves. The hospital’s chief surgeon at the time, Dr. András Máthé, famously had a strict "no amputation" rule, which seemed to fly in the face of conventional wisdom, but in the end reportedly saved many patients' lives. (Máthé also reportedly wore a bullet that he’d removed from a patient’s head on a chain around his neck.)

The Hospital in the Rock ceased normal operations in December 1956, after the Soviets squashed the uprising, as the Soviets had new plans for the caves. With the Cold War now in full swing, the still-secret site was converted into a bunker that could serve as a hospital in case of nuclear attack. Diesel engines and an air conditioning system were added in the early '60s, so that even during a blackout, the hospital could still function for a couple of days.

The Hospital in the Rock

The official plan for the bunker was as follows: In the event of a nuclear attack, a selection of doctors and nurses would retreat to the bunker, where they would remain for 72 hours. Afterward, they were to go out and search for survivors. Special quarantined rooms, showering facilities, and even a barbershop were on site for survivors brought back to the site. (The only haircut available to them, however, was a shaved head; radioactive material is notoriously difficult to remove from hair.)

Thankfully, none of these nuclear procedures were ever put into practice. But the hospital was never formally decommissioned, and it wasn’t relieved of its top-secret status until the mid-2000s. For a while, it was still being used as a storage facility by Hungary’s Civil Defense Force. The bunker was maintained by a nearby family, who were sworn to secrecy. In 2004, it was decided that responsibility for the site fell solely on St. John’s Hospital in Budapest, who were seen as the de facto owners in the wake of the collapse of the Soviet Union.

By 2008 the bunker was renovated, refurbished, and ready to be opened to the public. Today it operates as a museum, with exhibits detailing life in the hospital from various periods of its history, as well as the history of combat medicine as a whole. The sobering hour-long walk around the hospital concludes with a cautionary gaze into the atrocities of nuclear attacks, with the final walk to the exit featuring a gallery of art created by survivors of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombings.

Another part of the caves beneath Buda Castle. Image credit:Sahil Jatana via Flickr // CC BY-NC 2.0

The caves beneath Buda Castle have certainly had a bumpy history, and walking through them now is chilling (and not just because they keep the temperature at around 60°F). A tour through the narrow, oppressive hallways is a glimpse at our narrowly avoided nuclear future—definitely a sobering way to spend an afternoon.

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