The Henry Ford 
The Henry Ford 

Artifacts from the Atari Tomb

The Henry Ford 
The Henry Ford 

Show & Tell is a new mental_floss feature spotlighting notable and revealing items from museums and archives around the world. Look for new items each week.

In 1982, Atari 2600 game consoles sold very well, and the company’s corporate parent, Warner Communications, was pleased with its earnings. But for a variety of reasons internal and external, Atari's bubble burst in late 1982, and 1983 was financially disastrous. To make matters worse, Atari overpaid for the rights to make a licensed E.T.: The Extraterrestrial game, and then rushed the game into production; the quality of the game suffered, and the total failure of the hyped-up release was embarrassing.

Residents of Alamogordo, New Mexico, began reporting in September 1983 that truckloads of Atari goods had been dumped in a landfill outside of town. In their history of Atari, Curt Vendel and Marty Goldberg write that this hardware, from a company plant in El Paso, Texas, ended up in Alamogordo because the company wanted to dump with discretion, and “New Mexico had a state law forbidding scavenging of landfills.” But locals began to pick up cartridges and consoles from the dump anyway, and eventually the word got out.

By the end of the month, the national press was on the case. The New York Times ran an item on the dump, pointing to it as another strategy deployed by a company stuck in a “video game business gone sour” and desperate to divest itself of inventory. Too late, the company ordered that concrete be poured over the burial site, deterring souvenir-hunters. That concrete sealed the deal: The desert Atari dump became a legend of nostalgic nerd culture, with the story circulating that there were millions of E.T. cartridges in the ground in New Mexico.

In 2013, Fuel Entertainment received permission to excavate the site and tape the excavation for a documentary. What they found in April 2014 was not a solid mass of E.T. games (though there were a few hundred examples on hand). The haul was more mixed: console and computer parts, manuals and warranties, as well as many types of game cartridges. (Vendel and Goldberg write that a bigger burial of cartridges took place in Sunnyvale, California, but that dump somehow escaped notice.)

The City of Alamogordo donated items from the unearthing to museums, including The Henry Ford and the Smithsonian, and sold some of the objects on eBay. Announcing the acquisition in July 2015, The Henry Ford's Digital Collections & Content Manager Ellice Engdahl admitted that the items that came from the unburying were “unpleasant to handle,” adding: “We can now vouch that material recovered from a landfill continues to smell like a landfill for quite some time.” The Henry Ford now holds a variety of items from the Alamogordo dig: catalogs, manuals, controllers, cartridges, even a soil sample, shrouded in a double Ziploc baggie.

Artifacts recovered from the Atari dig. Image courtesy the collections of The Henry Ford.

Soil recovered from the Atari dig. Image courtesy the collections of The Henry Ford.

Why expend resources on recovering, cataloging, and preserving electronic junk, much less the dirt that entombed it? The objects are, after all, not precious in a monetary sense. (Similar cartridges and consoles are available on eBay for not very much money.) A group of five archaeologists who attended the dig explained their interest in the site in The Atlantic after the excavation was complete, arguing that it was important for these artifacts to be unearthed according to a set of standards common to the discipline of archaeology. They wrote that they were interested in “revers[ing] expectations of a culture that values the past only if it is old and unique.”

The failed hardware pulled from the Alamogordo landfill speaks volumes about the industry's booms and busts, the struggle between corporate parents and the creative workers at videogame companies, and the disposability of consumer culture. These dynamics, just coming into focus in the early 1980s, would continue to define the videogame industry for decades to come; we can look upon this “trash,” and think of this.

Show and Tell
Photograph of Jefferson Davis in Women’s Clothing
International Center for Photography, Gift of Charles Schwartz, 2012

On May 10, 1865, Jefferson Davis, the former President of the Confederacy, was captured by Union troops near Irwinville, Georgia. Davis’s capture, about a month after Robert E. Lee’s surrender to Ulysses S. Grant at Appomattox Court House in Virginia, was the effective end of the Confederacy and the four-year war that had left hundred of thousands of Americans dead.

Davis, a true believer in the cause of the Confederacy, refused to accept Lee’s surrender, believing that the South could still wage a guerilla war against the Union (clearly, Lee disagreed). With that cause in mind, Davis and his family fled Richmond, Virginia, the Confederate capital, hoping to make it to Texas, where he believed he could continue to fight. But the Davises would only make it as far as south Georgia before they were found by Union troops.

According to a handful of accounts from the period, Davis was captured while wearing women’s clothes. The story, as it’s generally told, depicts a man desperate to escape and so, with the encouragement of his wife, Varina, he donned her overcoat and shawl and slipped into the Georgia swamp with a female servant (other accounts say he grabbed his wife's coat and shawl accidentally). Union troops spotted the two “women” and, on closer look, realized that one was wearing spurred boots. Given away by his footwear, Davis surrendered to the Union troops.

The story of Davis in women’s clothing traveled quickly to the ears of Edwin Stanton, the Secretary of War. Stanton recognized the story as an opportunity to discredit Davis, who still had numerous sympathizers throughout the country. Historians have noted that the North gendered its victory as masculine and heroic and, in contrast, portrayed the South as feminine and weak. Davis’s flight played into that narrative, portraying the Southern leader as a coward willing to emasculate himself in order to escape. In short, manly martyrs do not wear women’s clothes. (Never mind that numerous eyewitness accounts disputed the story, including two by members of the First Wisconsin Cavalry, one of the units that captured Davis and his party and another by Davis’s coachman.)

Nevertheless, Stanton planned to exploit the account to the Union’s full advantage. But there was a slight hitch in his plan—namely, the look and style of Varina Davis’s overcoat and shawl. Mrs. Davis’s overcoat was essentially unisex, and bore a striking resemblance to the raincoats of Union soldiers. Furthermore, the shawl was also worn by many men in the mid-19th century, including Abraham Lincoln. The original plan foiled, Stanton encouraged the rumor that Davis had been captured wearing women’s petticoats, earning Davis the derogatory nickname “President in Petticoats.”

The rumor proved incredibly popular. Historian Gaines Foster writes, “Northerners delighted in the accounts of how the Confederate chieftain had tried to escape in female disguise.” Indeed, even P.T. Barnum couldn’t resist the spectacle: The circus king exhibited what he claimed to be the very clothes Davis was wearing at the time of his capture.

Boston Public Library via Flickr // CC BY 2.0

Numerous prints circulated of Davis in petticoats, and photography—a relatively new medium at the time—took up the theme as well. In this combination photograph (up top) produced by the Slee Brothers of Poughkeepsie, New York, and now owned by the International Center of Photography in Manhattan, Davis is depicted in the petticoats of a woman, his head, taken from a separate photographic portrait, having been imposed on another body. Here, Davis wears bonnet, shawl, and petticoats, a fanciful elaboration on the story of his capture, and the skirts are lifted to reveal his spurred boots. The Slee Brothers were one of many photography studios to use combination printing—the production of a single positive through multiple negatives—to play with the theme of Davis fleeing in women’s clothes.

Other photographs from the period depict Davis’s head superimposed on a body wearing full hoop skirts with large men’s boots also imposed over the body, as well as Davis (again in full women’s dress) sneaking through the Georgia swampland while holding a dagger. In almost all of these photographs, the boots are prominently displayed, noting Davis’s folly and a clear part of the narrative of the North’s victory.

Photography was undoubtedly a powerful tool to disseminate the story of Davis’s and the South’s defeat. Davis himself recognized the importance of the new medium: In 1869, he commissioned a photograph of himself wearing the actual clothes he had worn when captured. But the act was fruitless and, despite his insistence, the “President in Petticoats” is a story that stuck with Davis long after death.

Header image: International Center for Photography

National Museum of the United States Navy
Show and Tell
The Craft That First Took Humans to the Deepest Part of the Ocean
National Museum of the United States Navy
National Museum of the United States Navy

What do you do when you want to go to the lowest point on the surface of the Earth—a place so deep beneath the ocean it could crush you with its intense pressure? If you’re Swiss scientist Auguste Piccard, you build a bathyscaphe, of course.

The object above is Trieste, the first-ever craft to make it all the way to the Challenger Deep, the lowest place in the Mariana Trench (and thus the entire ocean), in 1960. The craft was designed by Piccard, an adventurous physicist, inventor, and explorer who had previously been known for his daring expeditions into the sky. In 1931, he had ascended almost 10 miles into the atmosphere in an airtight aluminum ball tucked into a hot air balloon, demolishing aircraft altitude records and making valuable observations about the behavior of cosmic rays.

But Piccard didn’t just want to go upward. He was also obsessed with going in the other direction: down into the oceans. To make such a feat possible, he invented the bathyscaphe, a kind of inverse of his hot air balloon ball. The concept—a self-propelled, submersible diving vessel—was an improvement on the bathysphere, a kind of deep-sea bubble lowered to the ocean with a cable, which had been invented by Americans William Beebe and Otis Barton in the late 1920s.

The pressure at the bottom of the ocean is so great it can crush submarines, not to mention lesser craft. To resist that pressure, the Trieste relied on a heavy steel crew cabin, as well as separate tanks filled with gasoline and air. The gasoline—which is lighter than water and does not compress under pressure like some other substances—helped the crew to maneuver and navigate. The air tanks, which would slowly fill with water while descending, helped the vessel to descend, and worked in concert with a system of cone-shaped containers filled with iron ballast. To ascend back up to the surface, magnets would release the iron ballast.

Piccard built his first bathyscaphes in the 1940s and 1950s, but the Trieste was the most ambitious of them all. The inventor supervised its building for the French Navy, which used it for several years. In 1958 the U.S. Office of Naval Research bought it for its riskiest trip yet—a descent to the world’s deepest place, the Mariana Trench.

Piccard, however, was in his seventies, and did not go along for the trip. He sent his son Jacques instead, along with an American Navy lieutenant named Don Walsh. Before completing Project Nekton, as it was called, the group did multiple test dives in Guam. Then the fateful day came: January 23, 1960. The hydronauts equipped themselves with chocolate bars and sonar hydrophones and headed down … and down … and down.

So what was there to see so far down in the ocean? Some pretty weird stuff, it turns out: sediment the hydronauts described as “diatomaceous ooze,” and bioluminescent creatures gleaming against the darkness. It took five hours to get the seven miles down and another three to get back up, but by the time Piccard and Walsh emerged, exhausted, they were heroes.

For years, nobody ever returned to the Challenger Deep, not until James Cameron managed a much-hyped solo dive there in 2012. But Piccard and Walsh were the first—and these days, the craft that took them to that mysterious place lives in the National Museum of the United States Navy in Washington, D.C. True to its famous form, it’s the museum’s most photographed artifact, and a reminder that sometimes the race to the bottom can be a good thing.


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