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Library of Congress

7 Jobs We’re Glad are Obsolete

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Library of Congress

Aw. You wanted to be a travel agent when you grew up? Or a fax machine salesman? I’m sorry. Advances march through our world at ever increasing speeds, closing buggy whip factories and menstrual belt distributors right and left. Take comfort that time has also swept away many horrible, dangerous, and stinky occupations. Here are seven jobs in which redundancy is a relief. 

1. River Pig


PriestRiver.gov

At the Lumberjack World Championship (yes, this is a thing and it is awesome), there is a competition called the boom run. It’s a near superhuman performance of speed and balance, where competitors cross a small lake by running across free floating logs. One hundred years ago, there were men who did a much more deadly version of this for a living. Also called River Hogs, River Rats, and Catty-men, these were the guys who drove logs down rivers to saw mills. If the logs jammed, which they did a lot, these men had to run out over the moving logs and use a pike to try and dislodge the dam. It was a ridiculously dangerous job. Nobody was surprised when a river pig died, and work certainly couldn’t be halted on account of it.  From Timber!: The Story of the Lumberjack World Championships: “If a river pig fell between the logs and drowned, his body might not turn up for days. Sometimes his only grave marker was draping his boots on a tree limb overhanging the river.” 

2. Herb Strewer


Wikimedia Commons

I’m not sure we can appreciate how truly foul city life was in past centuries. It is criminal that the men who implemented large scale sewer systems for cities like Paris and London don’t have holy days dedicated to them—days when everyone kneels before their toilets and gives thanks for the lives the pipes beneath have saved, and the unbearable stenches they eradicated. Before them, all you had was the Herb Strewer. And she only worked for royalty. It was the Herb Strewer’s job, from the 16th to early 19th centuries, to walk around wherever royals were going to be, throwing cowslips, lavender, maudeline, and pennyroyal on the ground.  The goal was to thwart the ridiculous stench rising off the Thames, which was mostly made of poop in the olden days. The position of Herb Strewer soon became a decorated one, held by elegant ladies of court. The tradition was discontinued when Queen Victoria, the first monarch to have a functional toilet installed, ascended the throne. 

3. Dog Whipper


NCSU.edu

We’ve all watched enough cartoons to know that the Dog Catcher is the most soulless villain to have ever wielded a giant net at a scruffy canine antihero. But before dog catchers, and the pounds and shelters they work for, there was the Dog Whipper. The Dog Whipper was specifically employed by churches to keep dogs from overrunning the churchyard.  Some of these dogs had followed their families to the service (indoor dogs weren’t really a thing yet); some were strays wondering where the party was and if there was food. A Derbyshire parish records the Dog Whipper was paid 7 pence a year for their services in 1604, a number which had not increased by 1716. The position began to fade in the 19th century, with one of the last recorded Dog Whippers being appointed in 1856. As a bonus, Dog Whippers were often also employed as “Sluggard Wakeners,” and got to use their long-sticked whips to poke the heads of drowsing parishioners.   

4. Mudlark


VictorianLondon.org

Mudlarking hasn’t so much disappeared as it has evolved; it’s gone from the wretched last resort of the starving to a part-time hobby beloved by retirees. Back in the day, mudlark was a name used to describe people, usually children or the elderly, who would scour the shore of the Thames in 18th and 19th century London. They collected anything of saleable value: lost goods, copper, coal, iron, rope, anything that might fall into the river (or in some cases, swiped off a passing barge by an especially daring Mudlark who could swim). Today people enjoy mudlarking the Thames with a metal detector as a pastime, and have been known to uncover amazing finds. Of course it’s not the true mudlarking experience, as today’s scavengers miss out on all the dead carcasses (sometimes human), rotting garbage and sewage of the good old days. 

5. Powder Monkey


Library of Congress

Child labor was often a cruel necessity in a world where there wasn’t enough of anything to go around. Families needed the extra wages more than they needed their kids to have a childhood. A peculiarly adventurous addition to the drudgery of most child labor was the position of Powder Monkey. Unlike most child labor, a 13-year-old boy might convince himself this was something he wanted to do. From the 16th to the 19th centuries, mighty sailing ships were integral to the endless wars that circled the Western world. These ships had cannons, which needed to be resupplied with gunpowder after every fire. Powder Monkeys were chosen because of their speed and smallness. It was their job to keep running powder from the safety of the hold to the artillery behind the gunwale. A lot more exciting than farm work or woolen mills—but then again, farms and mills were less likely to be blown up by Napoleon.  

6. Sin-Eater

The Oddment Emporium

History is full of animal sacrifice, papal indulgences, and ritualistic confessions, all meant to leave a soul without sin. Sin-eaters were living sacrificial lambs, except they didn’t get slaughtered, and sometimes they got beer. In centuries past, these social outcasts performed a dire service to the people of England, Scotland, and Appalachia. They took the sins of the dead or dying onto themselves, leaving a clean soul ready to ascend to Heaven—a soul who, hopefully, would be much less likely to stay around haunting the living. To accomplish this, a piece of food, usually some kind of bread, was placed on the chest of the deceased, often with ale. There it absorbed the evil inside the body, and then was consumed by the Sin-eater. He was paid a small amount for his services, and the plates or bowls he’d used to eat were burned. Sin-eaters were considered an abhorrent necessity, as it was believed each sin they ate added to the corruption of their souls.

7. Gong Farmer


Wikimedia Commons

Proper waste management has done away with so many careers. Take the Gong Farmer. Seems nowadays nobody wants a man to come to their house at night, dig out all the feces under their privy, and carry it to a dump where it can recycled as fertilizer and building materials. But up until the end of the 19th century, these men were in high demand. They were only allowed to work at night (thus the more respectable term of “Night Man”), were liable to get diseases, and sometimes were required to live far, far away from all the non-poop-scoop people. But they were paid quite well (six pence a day during Queen Elizabeth I’s reign! That’s worth working chest deep in unspeakable horror, isn’t it?). To really enjoy the experience of the Gong Farmer, I recommend you go here, and have some fun catching poo in a basket. Watch out for the wee!

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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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