Today, aluminum is a common material you can buy for cheap at your local supermarket, but in the mid-to-late 19th century, it was as valuable as the most precious of metals. Although the material is easily found in the Earth’s crust, a pure form of aluminum doesn’t occur naturally. Instead, it requires a laborious process to extract it from other elements with which it appears, such as iron or silicon. So when the U.S. government needed an impressive topperfor the Washington Monument, they went with a 9-inch pyramidion (a small pyramid at the top of an obelisk) made of aluminum — the largest piece of aluminum ever made at the time. The pyramid was affixed atop the Washington Monument on December 6, 1884; after 36 laborious years of construction, the 555-foot memorial to the nation’s first president was finally completed.
Aluminum has been used by humans in some form since the ancient Egyptians. But it wasn’t until the arrival of electricity in the 19th century that pure aluminum became readily available, as its smelting process required vast amounts of energy.
Although the 9-inch aluminum pyramid was dazzling in its day, the hunk of metal also served a more practical purpose. Because the Washington Monument towered over nearby buildings, its designers also intended it as an effective lightning rod. The pyramidion was connected by four iron rods that went down the monument and traveled 40 feet underground into a pool of groundwater, which dispelled the electricity. (Gold-plated copper rods with copper points were also added to the structure after lightning cracked it during a storm in 1885.) Unfortunately, the Washington Monument was a little too good at being a lightning rod — repeated lightning strikes have melted down the aluminum cap by 3/8 inch. Today, two lightning rods divert strikes from the pyramidion, which still glistens atop the monument’s peak.
During the Civil War, the land around the Washington Monument was used as a cattle pen.
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Although Britons say “aluminium,” it was a British scientist who named it “aluminum.”
The phonetic differences between American and British English are usually a case of stressing different syllables or pronouncing vowels differently. However, the pronunciation of “aluminum” vs. “aluminium” (if you grew up outside the U.S. and Canada) often throws speakers for a loop. Perhaps strangely, North Americans use the original pronunciation as coined by British scientist Sir Humphry Davy, who named the element “aluminum” in his 1812 book Elements of Chemical Philosophy. Davy’s coinage did not sit well with some chemists, including Thomas Young, who proposed the alternate spelling in a review of Davy’s book, following an established “-ium” spelling trend seen in words such as helium, lithium, magnesium, sodium, etc. Webster’s English Dictionary, famous for establishing many of the subtle differences between American and British English, went with Davy’s original spelling in its 1828 edition, and nearly a century later, the American Chemical Society followed suit. However, in 1990, the International Union of Pure and Applied Chemistry (IUPAC) accepted the extra “i” as a permanent fixture of the word. Much like the metric system, Americans weren’t having it, and three years later, the IUPAC also recognized “aluminum” as a correct spelling. Everyone wins.
Darren Orf
Writer
Darren Orf lives in Portland, has a cat, and writes about all things science and climate. You can find his previous work at Popular Mechanics, Inverse, Gizmodo, and Paste, among others.
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Leaders have historically used body doubles to thwart would-be assassins, but Queen Elizabeth II’s double served a different — and significantly less bloody — purpose. A big part of being the queen of the United Kingdom was simply showing up. Whether opening a hospital or hosting a foreign dignitary, the queen was always busy. A majority of her events required rehearsals, and that’s where Ella Slack came in. Although Slack and the queen didn’t look alike, they were about the same height and build, so if an event needed to test camera angles or see if the sun would be in the queen’s eyes, Slack was the person for the task.
Dolly Parton once lost a drag queen celebrity look-alike contest.
According to the country music icon, she did lose a drag queen look-alike contest. “They had a bunch of Chers and Dollys that year, so I just over-exaggerated — made my beauty mark bigger, the eyes bigger, the hair bigger,” Parton told ABC News. “I got the least applause.”
Slack got the job while working for the BBC’s events department in the 1980s. She stood in for the queen more than 50 times, including riding in the royal carriage and attending rehearsals for the opening of Parliament. However, Slack didn’t get to enjoy all the comforts of royalty. As a strict rule, she was never allowed to sit on the throne in the House of Lords and instead just “lurked” above it. Slack also was never paid for her stand-in efforts but considered her role “a pleasure and an honor.”
Queen Elizabeth was the first female British royal to be a full-time active member of the armed forces.
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Technically, the queen owned all unmarked mute swans in open waters in the U.K.
Since the 12th century, the English monarchy has held the title of Seigneur (lord) of the Swans. For many years, mute swans — the elegant type you know from “Swan Lake” — were a popular food served by the rich. It was the king or queen who granted swan ownership rights, and the cost of going against those rights was severe. For example, anyone caught stealing swan eggs could face a year in prison, and it was treasonous to illegally eat a swan until 1998. In the 14th century, the crown granted swan ownership rights to Abbotsbury Swannery, one of only a few surviving companies with such privileges. The swannery marks their swans with a small ring around the bird’s leg. Any mute swan that isn’t marked in such a way remains property of the monarch. Strangely, this law also applies to dead swans, so any well-meaning taxidermist not wishing to run afoul of the law must contact the royal swan marker before stuffing any of the crown’s birds.
Darren Orf
Writer
Darren Orf lives in Portland, has a cat, and writes about all things science and climate. You can find his previous work at Popular Mechanics, Inverse, Gizmodo, and Paste, among others.
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Some caricaturists, whether in celebrity restaurants or theme parks, face customers who are less than thrilled with their portraits, but to be drawn by caricaturist Al Hirschfeld was considered an honor. Hirschfeld began working with The New York Times in 1929, often drawing the stars of Broadway and Hollywood, but it wasn’t until the birth of his daughter Nina in 1945 that a now-legendary game began. In many of his drawings following her birth, for the Times and other prominent publications, Hirschfeld hid his daughter’s name “in folds of sleeves, tousled hairdos, eyebrows, wrinkles, backgrounds, shoelaces — anywhere to make it difficult, but not too difficult, to find,” Hirschfeld once said. Next to his signature, the artist included the number of times “Nina” appeared throughout the image.
Leonardo da Vinci is one of the first caricaturists.
Although the Renaissance master is known for his explorations of human perfection (see: Vitruvian Man), Leonardo da Vinci also drew sketches of exaggerated and grotesque faces. Some scholars consider these works the beginning of caricature.
This tradition inspired an unofficial puzzle for decades, as readers scanned Hirschfeld’s work to find each and every “Nina” — and this included Hirschfeld himself. According to his foundation’s website, the artist became so accustomed to adding his daughter’s name as part of his artistic process that he often had to go back through the piece and find every hidden “Nina” for himself in order to come up with the total count. Hirschfeld continued this tradition for nearly 60 years, until his death at the age of 99 in 2003.
The word “caricature” comes from the Italian verb “caricare,” which means “to load.”
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A computer programmer built an algorithm for finding Waldo in “Where’s Waldo?”
When it comes to hiding secrets in illustrations, nothing compares to Where’s Waldo? First published in Britain in 1987 under the title Where’s Wally? (it’s still called that in the U.K.), this famous series of books follows the bespectacled and candy cane-colored Waldo through various adventures as he hides among artist Martin Handford’s amazingly detailed illustrations. “As I work my way through a picture, I add Wally when I come to what I feel is a good place to hide him,” Handford once told the publisher Scholastic. Because Waldo’s location is random in all the original 68 illustrations in Handford’s original seven books, any sort of sleuthing strategy seems impossible. Well, almost impossible. In 2015, a doctoral student named Randal Olson from Michigan State University’s High-Performance Computing Center developed a computer algorithm for locating Waldo. By performing a “kernel density estimation” on Waldo’s 68 locations, Olson developed a few simple tips. For example, Waldo never appears in the top left corner, bottom right corner, or near the edges of either page. Then, Olson developed an algorithm for scanning a typical Waldo spread, including step-by-step processes for which parts of the page to scan first. When the algorithm was put to the test, Olson says he spotted Waldo in most spreads in less than 10 seconds. However, some “outlier” illustrations took a bit longer, proving Waldo can still stump both man and machine.
Darren Orf
Writer
Darren Orf lives in Portland, has a cat, and writes about all things science and climate. You can find his previous work at Popular Mechanics, Inverse, Gizmodo, and Paste, among others.
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Interesting Facts is part of Inbox Studio, an email-first media company. *Indicates a third-party property.