Miracle on Ice: The Chilling Promise of Cryogenics

This story originally appeared in print in the August issue of mental_floss magazine. Subscribe to our print edition here, and our iPad edition here.

It's impossible to resuscitate a frozen corpse. But that doesn't bother the small legion of cryonauts who are betting that an outlaw science will let them live forever. 

The thirtysomething man sitting next to me
in this hotel conference room has tousled brown hair, blocky glasses, and a thin goatee. He looks like an ordinary guy, an impression that’s confirmed when he turns and introduces himself.

“Hi! I’m John. I’m just an ordinary guy,” he says, nodding vigorously as if he’s trying to reassure me. “Just an ordinary guy,” he repeats, as if maybe he’s trying to reassure himself. “I’m not a paid-up member yet. You know. In the program.”

“The program” is why John and I and about 300 other people have packed into this auditorium at a resort outside Scottsdale, Arizona. We’re here to learn about the brave science of cryonics.

It’s the 40th anniversary of the Alcor Life Extension Foundation conference, and the company’s proposition is clear: to use “ultra-cold temperature to preserve human life with the intent of restoring good health when technology becomes available to do so.” They promise to accomplish this by freezing the bodies of recently deceased people in liquid nitrogen at a chilly -196° C. Then, if all goes according to plan, sometime in the next 1,000 years, these bold voyagers—known as “cryonauts”—will be reanimated to join the living once again.

At best, this sounds like weird science. At worst, it’s science fiction. I’m afraid that’s the verdict I’m leaning toward right now. In this niche market, there are only a handful of organizations currently freezing people and Alcor—by far the biggest—has frozen just 124 as of May 2013. (Yes, Ted Williams is one of them).

I tell John I’m not in the program either. I’m a little skeptical of the whole freezing-thawing-reanimating idea. John looks at me hard over the rims of his glasses. “I don’t like skeptics,” he says.

Indeed, this is not the sort of place that welcomes skeptics. Many in the crowd are here because they’ve already agreed to invest the $200,000 that will buy them a membership into the cryopreservation club when they die. Others have selected the more economical $70,000 option, which preserves the head only. Members typically buy into the program by signing over all or part of their life insurance to cover the costs: pickup, transportation, and—one hopes—very careful maintenance in Alcor’s storage facilities in Scottsdale. If John the ordinary guy doesn’t want to hear my doubts, I imagine those who have already made a sizable down payment on immortality will be even less open-minded.

Who are these people? It’s a varied group. Many are inspired, visionary thinkers. Some, like John, are seemingly typical people. More than a few, though, appear to be completely bonkers. To spend a day in a room full of cryonauts is to oscillate between astonished enthusiasm and incredulous cynicism in wild swings, punctuated by sudden and uncontrollable urges to laugh hysterically.

Yet I have to wonder: Maybe these 300 people know something the rest of us don’t. That’s what I’m here to figure out.

The first thing I learn is that freezing someone is very, very difficult. Basically, it does nasty things to our cells: As ice crystals form, they poke holes in our delicate cell membranes. Plus, as we all know, water expands as it solidifies. Have you ever put a can of beer in the freezer for a few minutes to chill it? And have you ever gotten distracted so that the “few minutes” became a few hours? Picture all the cells in a body exploding the same way and you’ll have some idea why this talk about freezing can be nerve-racking.

In short, our cells are not made for freezing, and they’re not good at it. When freezing happens, despite their objections, they die.

One of the first reports of successful cryopreservation was of chicken sperm in 1949. Since then we’ve learned how to freeze and thaw human sperm, pancreas cells, red blood cells, corneas, and heart valves. All these parts are very small. Small parts are where the most rigorous cryonics research has focused because there’s a lot of interest, and large federal grants, behind efforts to preserve pieces of people—for example, the corneas one might donate after death. Freezing entire human bodies, however, is infinitely more challenging, and the applications are harder to imagine. For this reason, major funders haven’t embraced studies yet, so many of the scientists who work in this field do so as a side job or, more commonly, they’ve gone out on their own and founded companies. (Not surprisingly, more than a few scientists at this conference are funded by Alcor). Basically, even if we can freeze chicken sperm, there’s still a big leap to freezing—and reanimating—a person.

The first cryonaut found out the hard way just how difficult freezing can be. After Dr. James Hiram Bedford died of renal cancer in a California nursing home at the age of 73 in 1967, he was stuffed into a sleeping bag packed with ice cubes and zipped up tight. The process back then was very much a DIY proposition, a far cry from the rapid response teams and liquid nitrogen that Alcor promises its members today. Storage, too, was not particularly well organized. Bedford’s body was moved five times before he ended up at Alcor in 1991. Since that (hopefully final) transition required some unpacking, someone decided to use the opportunity to take a peek at poor Mr. Bedford.

So how well did he do?

The good news is that once Alcor staff removed Bedford from his sleeping bag, they found ice cubes. If any thawing had taken place in the past quarter century, it hadn’t been severe or prolonged. It also meant that Bedford was surrounded by enough ice cubes for quite a few martinis.

The bad news, though, is more involved: “The skin on the upper thorax and neck,” Alcor’s report says, “appears discolored and erythematous from the mandible to approximately two centimeters above the areolas.” (This is the point at which the squeamish will want to skip ahead.) The report continues in the same dispassionate tone: “The nares are flattened out against the face, apparently as a result of being compressed by a slab of dry ice during initial freezing. Close examination of the skin on the chest over the pectoral area disclosed sinuous features that appeared to be fractures.” Apparently, the freezing process leads to cracks. You know, like in an ice cube.

Finally, buried in the latter half of the report is this note: “There is frozen blood issuing from the mouth and nose.” From the sound of it, Bedford won’t be jumping for joy when he wakes up. In fact—and I’m going out on a limb here—he doesn’t seem likely to wake at all.

Getty Images

Bedford’s story is a sobering cautionary tale, one you’d expect might make prospective cryonauts pause and think very, very hard about what they’re getting themselves into. But those around me at this conference are unaccountably optimistic, and the source of their hope is ... a frog.

The American wood frog (Rana sylvatica) has a neat trick: It can freeze for the winter. Actually, it vitrifies, creating its own glucose-based antifreeze that lets it cool below the freezing point, preventing ice crystals from forming. It stops breathing and its heart stops beating. It remains in this chilly state until spring arrives, when its little amphibian heart restarts.

Other animals, too, manage to survive very low temperatures without the sort of damage Mr. Bedford suffered. Take the oddly named ocean pout (Macrozoarces americanus), which secretes antifreeze proteins that may protect against the exigencies of freezing. Researchers have managed to use these proteins to preserve frozen rat hearts that, when thawed, started beating again.

Even better, one of the speakers at this conference, Dr. Greg Fahy, describes a study in which he removed a kidney from a rabbit, vitrified it, thawed it, and then reimplanted it. (One can only imagine what the rabbit thought about this procedure, which probably seemed rather unnecessary.) The rabbit, Fahy reports happily, lived.

Upon further research, I discovered this lucky rabbit lived for only nine additional days. Still, in rabbit years, that’s probably a couple of human months, which isn’t bad. The wild applause that greets Fahy’s lecture suggests that the crowd agrees.

Some other advances also have this roomful of cryonauts in raptures of geeky excitement. There’s the company, Suspended Animation Inc., that deploys cardiothoracic surgeons to prepare a recently deceased person for cryostasis. There are neat new techniques of cryopreservation, involving anticoagulation, bypass machines, and even liquid ventilation—all worthy of top-notch science fiction.

Today a frog, tomorrow a cryonaut. The crowd is optimistic.

On my way out the door, I meet up with John again and ask whether he’s impressed.

“I guess,” he says, sounding thoroughly unimpressed. He trails off. “But I had no idea it would be this complicated, you know?”

He’s not the only one. A few minutes later, I’m walking across the dark parking lot when I hear trudging footsteps behind me, then indistinct muttering. I turn around to see a man in his seventies, slightly hunched over and wrapped in an oversize tweed sport coat despite the warm Arizona night. He catches sight of me and gives a quick bob of his bald head, but he doesn’t slow his pace. I have to hurry to keep up.

I ask him what he thought of the conference.

“Crap. It’s all crap, isn’t it?”

I’m sensing this is a rhetorical question.

“Every year I come expecting to hear something new, but I never do.”

I protest mildly, noting the good news: the presentation on anticoagulation and liquid ventilation and, of course, Greg Fahy’s rabbit.

"Heard that last year,” he interrupts. “And the year before that. Pisses me off. You young guys, you don’t care. You’ve got time. But us? We’re getting old. We could kick off any minute.”

I don’t know what to say to that, and without another word, he climbs into a pickup truck with a large white life extension vitamins sign rigged to the back. The diesel starts up, and he roars off into the night.

He’s got a point, I suppose. But the science of life and death has a way of leaping forward in unexpected ways. Treatments that were science fiction 50 years ago are now either commonplace (like cardiac resuscitation) or at least plausible (like suspended animation). So even if the impatient skeptic takes his skepticism with him to the grave, those of us with a little more time (and $200,000) might get lucky.

Ralph Heimans/Buckingham Palace/PA Wire via Getty Images
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.

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.

John Ueland
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.


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.


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.


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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