If you picture bedtime a few centuries ago, you might imagine a candle flickering low, a heavy bed curtain drawn tight, and a soft cap pulled snugly over the sleeper’s head. Nightcaps show up so often in early modern portraits and literature that they can feel like a quaint cliché. But for the people who wore them, these caps served practical, medical, and even social purposes. They were, in short, small garments with a surprisingly large job. Here’s a look at why they were worn.
One of the simplest reasons for nightcaps is also one of the most important: warmth. Before the widespread use of central heating, homes were notoriously cold at night. Even well-to-do households relied on fireplaces that burned down after bedtime, leaving rooms chilly by morning. Drafts slipped through ill-fitting windows and doors, and insulation was minimal or nonexistent.
In that environment, a nightcap functioned as a form of thermal protection. Just as people layered blankets and wore long nightgowns, they covered their heads to retain heat. The head, after all, is a major site of heat loss, and keeping it covered could make a noticeable difference in comfort.
Historical accounts confirm how persistent that overnight chill could be. In 1601, English official Thomas Sackville, 1st Earl of Dorset and Lord High Treasurer, complained that despite putting on “a very warm night cap,” he still felt a creeping cold that seemed to herald illness. The cap helped, but it was not always enough against the realities of early modern interiors.
Warmth alone doesn’t fully explain the nightcap’s importance. For centuries, people believed that nighttime air itself could be dangerous.
Before the rise of germ theory in the late 19th century, many physicians subscribed to versions of what’s now called miasma theory — the idea that diseases were caused by harmful vapors, or “bad air,” rising from the ground, stagnant water, or decaying matter. These vapors were thought to be especially potent at night, when dampness and cool temperatures intensified their effects.
Medical advice from the 1800s reflects this concern. Doctors warned that evening air could carry moisture and disease, recommending that windows be shut before sleep to keep out both chill and “malaria” — a term that originally meant “bad air,” not the mosquito-borne illness we recognize today. It was only once the warmth of the morning had burned off the poisonous mists that it was considered safe to open the window again.
Within this framework, a nightcap was more than cozy. Nightcaps were worn indoors not only to keep a person warm, but also to insulate the body against drafts thought to trigger sickness. The boundary between comfort and health was thin — and clothing was expected to manage both.
Nightcaps also played a role in everyday hygiene — though not in the way we might think today. People in early modern Europe did not wash their hair frequently, and grooming routines often involved oils, pomades, or powders. These substances could easily transfer onto bedding, which itself was not washed as regularly as modern sheets.
A nightcap helped contain all of that. It kept hair tidy, prevented tangling, and acted as a barrier between the head and the bed. In shared sleeping arrangements or households where linens were reused, this barrier mattered and could be especially helpful against pests. The cap could also help preserve hairstyles overnight.
Despite being associated with sleep, nightcaps were not purely private. In fact, they occupied an interesting middle ground between intimate wear and social display.
In the 16th and 17th centuries, it was common for visitors — such as friends, neighbors, and tradespeople — to be received within the home, sometimes while the owner of the home was in relatively informal dress. Nightcaps, along with robes or nightgowns, could be part of that domestic attire.
As a result, this headwear became an opportunity to signal status. Wealthier individuals commissioned finely made caps from skilled artisans, using delicate linen and embellishing them with silk, metallic thread, lace, and embroidery. Surviving examples show intricate designs featuring flowers, scrolling patterns, and even symbolic motifs.
These details were not purely decorative. Some floral imagery drew on contemporary beliefs about the healing properties of plants and herbs. Embroidered borage, for instance, might allude to its reputed medicinal benefits, reflecting a worldview in which health, nature, and clothing were closely intertwined. A nightcap, then, could quietly communicate both refinement and knowledge — a subtle display of taste and means within the semiprivate space of the home.
Underlying all these uses was a broader idea — that the body needed careful regulation, especially during sleep.
Early modern and 19th-century health theories emphasized balance. Cold, dampness, and exposure were seen as threats that could disrupt the body’s internal state and lead to illness. Covering the head at night was one small but meaningful way to maintain equilibrium.
This belief shaped everyday habits. People shut windows, drew bed curtains, layered blankets — and wore nightcaps. Together, these practices created a controlled environment meant to protect the sleeper from both physical discomfort and invisible dangers. Even as medical theories evolved, some of these habits persisted. The association between warmth, protection, and health remained powerful well into the 19th century.
By the late 19th and early 20th centuries, however, the nightcap began to fade from everyday use. Several changes contributed to its decline. Advances in home heating made bedrooms more comfortable and less dependent on layered clothing. Improved hygiene and more frequent laundering reduced the need for protective barriers between the body and bedding. At the same time, new understandings of disease — particularly the acceptance of germ theory — undermined fears about “bad air.” Social norms shifted, too. Head coverings became less central to daily dress, and the idea of sleeping bareheaded no longer seemed improper.
Today, the traditional nightcap survives mostly as a visual shorthand for the past — a floppy, old-fashioned accessory signaling bedtime in stories and illustrations. Yet its underlying logic hasn’t entirely disappeared. Modern silk bonnets and sleep caps, designed to protect hair and reduce friction, echo many of the same concerns about comfort, cleanliness, and care. The materials and the science may be different, but it’s a familiar instinct: to make the long hours of sleep a little safer, warmer, and more carefully managed.
Advertisement
Advertisement
What Did People Use for IDs Before Photos?
Credit: Heritage Images/ Hulton Archive via Getty Images
AuthorBess Lovejoy
May 14, 2026
Love it?65
In a world without cameras, biometric databases, or even consistent spelling, identifying individuals could be quite a complex challenge. Before photography helped fix identity to an image, societies developed a range of creative methods to determine who someone was — a task that could be surprisingly difficult, especially when that someone was outside their home community. From scars to seals to signatures, here’s how identity was tracked before photo IDs.
A name was the most basic marker of identity for centuries, but it often wasn’t enough. In ancient Greece, to distinguish between people with the same first name, individuals were also identified by their father’s name. For example, an Athenian pottery shard from the fifth century BCE names Pericles as “Pericles son of Xanthippus.” In ancient Egypt, the naming convention might have reflected the name of a master rather than a parent.
But when everyone shared the same name — as in one Roman Egyptian declaration in 146 CE, signed by “Stotoetis, son of Stotoetis, grandson of Stotoetis” — things could get muddled. To resolve this, officials turned to another strategy: describing the body itself.
Credit: Culture Club/ Hulton Archive via Getty Images
Scars and Silk
Detailed physical descriptions often served as a kind of textual portrait. An Egyptian will from 242 BCE describes its subject with remarkable specificity: “65 years old, of middle height, square built, dim-sighted, with a scar on the left part of the temple and on the right side of the jaw and also below the cheek and above the upper lip.” Such marks made the body “legible” for identification.
In 15th-century Bern, Switzerland, when authorities sought to arrest a fraudulent winemaker, they didn’t just list his name. They issued a description: “large fat Martin Walliser, and he has on him a silk jerkin.” Clothing — then a significant investment and deeply symbolic — became part of someone’s identifying characteristics. A person’s outfit could mark their profession, social standing, or even their city of origin.
Uniforms and insignia served a similar function, especially for travelers. In the late 15th century, official couriers from cities such as Basel, Switzerland, and Strasburg, France, wore uniforms in city colors and carried visible badges. Pilgrims and beggars in the late Middle Ages and beyond were also required to wear specific objects — such as metal badges or tokens — that marked their status and origin. Some badges allowed the bearer to beg legally or buy subsidized bread, offering both practical aid and visible authentication.
Seals also served as powerful proxies for the self. From Mesopotamian cylinder seals to Roman oculist stamps and medieval wax impressions, these identifiers could represent both authority and authenticity. In medieval Britain, seals were often made of beeswax and attached to documents with colored tags. More than just utilitarian tools, seals were embedded with personal iconography and could even be worn as jewelry.
In many cases, travelers also had to carry letters from local priests or magistrates identifying who they were. By the 16th century, such documentation became increasingly essential, and failing to carry an identity paper could result in penalties. This passport-like system of “safe conduct” documents gradually started to spread. What began as a protection for merchants and diplomats evolved into a bureaucratic necessity for everyday people.
As written records became more widespread in medieval Europe, so did the need for permanent, portable identifiers. Royal interest in documenting property and legal rights led to the proliferation of official records, which in turn prompted the spread of literacy. Even as early as the 13th century in England, it was already considered risky to travel far without written identification.
The signature eventually emerged as a formal marker of identity, especially among literate elites, and was common by the 18th century. Still, in a mostly oral culture, signatures functioned more as ceremonial gestures than verification tools.
For the European upper classes, heraldry functioned as a visual shorthand for identity and lineage. Coats of arms adorned not only armor and flags but also furniture, buildings, and clothing. Retainers wore livery bearing their master’s symbols, making them recognizable on sight. Even death could not erase this symbolism — funerals were staged with heraldic banners, horses emblazoned with arms, and crests atop hearses.
Yet heraldry could also be diluted or faked. By the 16th century, unauthorized use of coats of arms was widespread, and forgers such as the Englishman William Dawkyns were arrested for selling false pedigrees and impersonating royal officers. In time, heraldry gradually lost its power to function as a reliable ID system.
Credit: Print Collector/ Hulton Fine Art Collection via Getty Images
Memory and Proximity
In the end, one of the most effective early methods of identification was simply being known. In rural communities, neighbors kept tabs on each other through personal memory and observation. You didn’t need a signature if the village priest or market vendor had known you since birth.
But with the rise of cities and the disruption of industrialization, such personal networks broke down. The state stepped in with systems of registration, documentation, and, eventually, visual records. Identity, once rooted in familiarity and the body, became a matter of paperwork and policy.
Before the photograph fixed the face in official form starting around the late 19th century, people relied on a more fluid, and sometimes fragile, constellation of signs: names, scars, clothing, crests, seals, and simple familiarity. All were attempts to answer the same eternal question — who are you? — in the absence of a camera’s eye.
Advertisement
Advertisement
What Was America’s First Suburb?
Credit: Irving Haberman/ IH Images via Getty Images
AuthorBess Lovejoy
May 14, 2026
Love it?196
When you think of the origins of American suburbia, the name Levittown may spring to mind. A symbol of post-World War II optimism and domestic comfort, this Long Island development, constructed between 1947 and 1951, is often credited as America’s first modern suburb. Yet Levittown wasn’t technically the first suburb in U.S. history — though as the first mass-produced, federally supported suburban development in the country, it did shape a new national lifestyle — and with it, a new cultural identity.
Suburbs in America existed well before Levittown. In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, streetcar suburbs such as Shaker Heights outside Cleveland, Ohio, were planned communities that offered wealthy and middle-class residents an escape from overcrowded, polluted cities. Other early suburbs include Llewellyn Park, New Jersey (developed in the 1850s and often cited as America’s oldest planned community), and Riverside, Illinois (established in 1869).
These early suburbs were heavily influenced by ideals of pastoral living and “moral order,” often with restrictive building codes and racial covenants. They were accessible thanks to innovations in transit — first streetcars, then automobiles — and were valued for their green spaces, quiet, and separation from perceived urban chaos.
However, these enclaves were exclusive, limited in scale, and catered primarily to the upper class. What Levittown introduced was different: suburbia as mass culture, available not just to the wealthy but to a broader segment of the white American middle class.
Credit: Cliff de Bear/ Newsday RM via Getty Images
The Birth of Mass Suburbia
Located in Nassau County, New York, Levittown was developed on 4,000 acres of former potato fields and opened in 1947 to astonishing demand. The area had little infrastructure and no housing before real estate developer William Levitt and his family — founders of Levitt & Sons — revolutionized homebuilding. They applied assembly-line techniques to residential construction, building more than 30 homes per day at the company’s peak. These modest, single-story houses came complete with appliances and televisions, radiant-heated slabs (no basements), and “expansion attics” for growing families.
At the time, the U.S. faced a severe housing shortage, worsened by the Great Depression, wartime construction freezes, and then the baby boom. Veterans returning from World War II were eager to start families, and thanks to the GI Bill and Federal Housing Administration (FHA) mortgages, homeownership became a realistic goal. Levittown homes cost about $8,000 (around $115,000 today) — just $400 down with GI Bill benefits. By 1951, more than 17,000 homes had been built.
Levittown was, for many, the realization of the “American dream”: a safe, affordable, family friendly community where ownership and upward mobility were possible. The development featured nine swimming pools, playing fields, and “village green” shopping centers. Veterans’ organizations thrived. Volunteer clubs and civic engagement were strong, and the suburb was marketed as an ideal place to raise children — especially for white nuclear families.
Yet Levittown also reflected and reinforced profound racial inequalities. The original sales covenants explicitly excluded non-white buyers, even Black veterans who had fought in the same war as the white veterans who settled in the community in droves. In 1948, the U.S. Supreme Court struck down such racially restrictive covenants in Shelley v. Kraemer, but informal segregation persisted. Even today, despite demographic shifts, Black residents remain a small minority in the area.
Levittown wasn’t just one place, however: It was a prototype. The Levitts built additional Levittowns in Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Puerto Rico, and even France. Other developers adopted their techniques. By the 1950s, suburbia was booming nationwide in America. Fueled by federal policies and new highway systems (such as those funded by the 1956 Federal-Aid Highway Act), suburbs spread in rings around U.S. cities.
By 2010, more than half of Americans lived in suburbs. Suburban life became a cornerstone of U.S. culture, shaping everything from television to consumer goods, gender roles, and political identity. The suburban home — with its lawn, carport, and kitchen appliances — became a Cold War emblem of capitalism, even showcased by Vice President Richard Nixon in the famed 1959 “Kitchen Debate” with Russian leader Nikita Khrushchev.
Levittown and its imitators brought enormous social and economic change. Suburban living enabled privacy, safety, and comfort — but also spurred car dependency, urban decline, and sprawl. Cities lost tax bases and industry. Environmental costs rose as commuters flooded highways and spread development into fragile ecosystems. Critics decried suburbia’s conformity and emotional sterility.
Suburbia also entrenched a gendered domestic ideal. While women had worked in factories during the war, the suburban life expected them to return to unpaid roles as homemakers and caregivers. Magazines, advertising, and pop culture sold the ideal of the suburban housewife, even as many women sought community leadership or later, reentry into the workforce.
Credit: Irving Haberman/ IH Images via Getty Images
A Landscape in Flux
Levittown may have launched a new suburban era, but the idea of suburbia has never stood still. Over the decades, American suburbs have become more economically and racially diverse, more politically influential, and — at times — more contested, in part for environmental reasons, as suburban commuter patterns often contribute to pollution. Today, suburbs are as likely to be home to immigrant families and working-class residents as to middle-class commuters. They are shaped not just by federal policy and tract housing, but by school districts, zoning laws, and local activism.
Environmental concerns, too, are reshaping the conversation. The postwar vision of limitless expansion now collides with the realities of climate change, housing scarcity, and infrastructure strain. In response, some suburbs are experimenting with denser housing, public transit expansion, and reimagined “15-minute neighborhoods” (where most residents have access to amenities within a 15-minute walk) that offer urban convenience in suburban settings.
Perhaps the real legacy of Levittown isn’t any one model of living, but a question: Who gets to shape where and how we live? That question continues to drive debates over affordability, access, sustainability, and identity in suburban America today. The suburb, once seen as a destination, is now a dynamic frontier — a place where the future of American life is still being negotiated.
Advertisement
Advertisement
The Catchy History of Presidential Campaign Slogans
Michael Ochs Archives via Getty Images
AuthorKristina Wright
May 14, 2026
Love it?46
In the American political arena, presidential campaign slogans have a long and varied history. When a presidential hopeful is building their platform, they and their team choose slogans for how well they set the tone for the candidate’s agenda, message, and direction for the country. A memorable phrase can concisely convey a candidate’s vision for their presidential term as well as become a rallying cry for supporters. But crafting a winning campaign slogan isn’t just about having the catchiest saying — the right slogan can play a vital role in shaping the narrative of a campaign and influencing voter perceptions about the candidate.
A good campaign slogan can offer hope, such as Franklin D. Roosevelt’s 1932 slogan (and campaign song), “Happy Days Are Here Again,” or serve as a reminder of the prosperity enjoyed under an incumbent, such as William McKinley’s 1900 slogan, “Four More Years of the Full Dinner Pail.” On the other hand, a bad slogan, such as Democratic presidential candidate Alfred E. Smith’s 1928 slogan, “Vote for Al Smith and Make Your Wet Dreams Come True,” might cost a candidate an election as well as land on a list of the worst presidential campaign slogans ever. (Smith’s slogan was a reference to his anti-Prohibition stance that made him a “wet” candidate.) Here is a brief look at the evolution of presidential campaign slogans in the United States.
The first presidential campaign slogan is often attributed to Whig Party candidate William Henry Harrison in the election of 1840. Harrison used the catchy phrase “Tippecanoe and Tyler Too,” a reference to his military victory over Shawnee Chief Tecumseh at the 1811 Battle of Tippecanoe, as well as Harrison’s running mate, John Tyler. The rhyming refrain helped promote Harrison’s image as a war hero and a man of the people. It also contributed to his successful campaign against the incumbent President, Martin Van Buren, and played a significant role in shaping the way presidential candidates used slogans to support their platforms in future elections. Harrison’s campaign for President lasted longer than his presidency; he developed pneumonia and died in April 1841, one month into his term, becoming the first President to die in office.
Campaign slogans need to be short and memorable, which has led to a history of using rhymes, puns, and plays on words to craft phrases that carry a strong message and are still succinct enough to fit on a button. Calvin Coolidge used a play on his name with the 1924 slogan “Keep Cool and Keep Coolidge,” while Lyndon B. Johnson’s winning campaign in 1964 created a rhyme with his initials: “All the Way With LBJ.” (Johnson was inspired by Adlai Stevenson’s catchy slogan in his 1952 failed run against Dwight D. Eisenhower, “All the Way With Adlai.”)
Dwight D. Eisenhower’s successful 1952 campaign, meanwhile, was notable for its own simple rhyming slogan: “I Like Ike.” The slogan appeared on a wide variety of campaign materials and was featured in one of the first televised political endorsements, which included a song written by Irving Berlin and animation by Walt Disney Studios. The catchy jingle incorporated Eisenhower’s popular catchphrase in the lyrics: “You like Ike, I like Ike, everybody likes Ike (for President) / Hang out the banner and beat the drum / We’ll take Ike to Washington.” The slogan served Eisenhower so well in his 1952 presidential bid that his successful 1956 run featured a slightly revised version: “I Still Like Ike.”
Photo credit: Eric Thayer/ Getty Images News via Getty Images
Some Slogans Have Been Used By More Than One Candidate
Campaign slogans have changed over time to reflect the shifting political, social, and economic landscape of the United States — but some slogans have done so well that they’ve been adopted and reused. Two Presidents successfully used “Don’t Swap Horses in Midstream,” encouraging voters to support the incumbent President during times of conflict. Abraham Lincoln used the metaphor as one of his slogans during the Civil War in 1864, and 80 years later in 1944, FDR recycled it in the lead-up to his unprecedented fourth-term win during World War II.
In more recent political history, Barack Obama borrowed one of his most effective and powerful campaign slogans from 1970s labor organizers César Chávez and Dolores Huerta, who led the United Farm Workers of America. Obama loosely translated their catchphrase “Sí, Se Puede!” into the English “Yes, We Can!” Donald Trump’s 2016 slogan “Make America Great Again” was also previously used, first in promotional materials for Barry Goldwater’s failed 1964 presidential bid, and again as “Let’s Make America Great Again” by Ronald Reagan in 1980.
Some historians and political consultants believe that social media may mark the end of official campaign slogans. Instead, unofficial slogans in the form of memes and hashtags shared by supporters may prove to be even more effective campaign tools. Even before social media, an unofficial slogan set the tone for Bill Clinton’s first presidential campaign. Clinton’s platform utilized a handful of lofty and aspirational slogans, including “For People, for a Change,” “It’s Time to Change America,” and “Putting People First.” But while all of the official slogans referenced a serious regard for voters’ concerns, none of them specified what those concerns might be. Then an in-house phrase coined by lead strategist James Carville to describe Clinton’s platform became the defining catchphrase of the 1992 campaign. “It’s the Economy, Stupid” may not have been an official campaign slogan, but it caught the attention of voters who were tired of the lingering effects of the 1990 recession, and it helped Clinton define his campaign message.
Advertisement
Advertisement
7 Innovations That Came Out of World War II
Anthony Potter Collection/ Archive Photos via Getty Images
AuthorTony Dunnell
May 14, 2026
Love it?122
It’s often said that wars bring about a wave of innovation — necessity being the mother of invention, as the old adage goes. In reality, that’s not necessarily true. According to some studies, there tends to be a significant decline in inventiveness immediately after the outbreak of a war, followed by a marked surge, the net result being a fairly standard rate of innovation overall. Creation through necessity or even desperation certainly happens, but prosperous, peaceful, and free societies tend to be just as inventive, if not more so.
That said, plenty of technological innovation took place during World War II, especially in fields that had military applications. Here are some of the most pivotal, successful, and enduring inventions to come out of the war, from handy tools used by millions of people to miracle drugs that have saved countless lives.
In 1943, Vesta Stoudt, an Illinois woman with two sons serving in the U.S. Navy, was working in an ordnance plant when she noticed a problem with the ammunition boxes she was packing. The boxes were sealed with paper tape with a tab to open them, but this tab could easily tear off, leaving soldiers potentially scrambling to open the boxes in life-threatening situations. So, Stoudt came up with the idea of a waterproof fabric tape with which to seal the boxes — an idea she sent to none other than President Franklin D. Roosevelt. Impressed, the President sent her letter to the War Production Board, which soon came up with what we now know as duct tape. Not only was it easy to apply and remove on ammo boxes, but it also turned out to be endlessly handy for quickly repairing military equipment, including vehicles and weapons.
The fundamental principle underlying modern radar (which is actually an acronym for “radio detection and ranging”) was first observed in 1886 by physicist Heinrich Hertz, who found that electromagnetic waves could be reflected from various objects. It was during World War II, however, that modern, practical radar was developed. Britain had already established a chain of radar stations along its south and east coasts by the outbreak of the war, allowing for the detection of enemy aircraft at a range of 80 miles. The British then invented the cavity magnetron in 1940, paving the way for far more compact, powerful, and sensitive radar units (and, as it happens, microwave ovens).
British engineer and RAF officer Frank Whittle first put forward his vision of jet propulsion in 1928, at which time he was roundly ridiculed. Undeterred, he did a successful test run of the first practical jet engine in 1937, albeit on the ground. Then, in August 1939 — a month before the outbreak of the war — the German-built Heinkel He 178 made the first jet-powered flight in history. The war ramped up the development of jet engines, and Whittle found himself with more funding than ever before. In May 1941, his jet-propelled Gloster E.28/39 took flight, achieving a top speed of 370 mph at 25,000 feet, faster than any other conventional propeller-driven aircraft. Though neither the Heinkel He 178 nor the Gloster E.28/39 ever flew combat missions during the war, the “jet age” had begun. The first jet aircraft used in the war were the Messerschmitt Me 262 and Gloster Meteor, starting in 1944.
During World War II, Harry Coover was part of a team at Eastman Kodak trying to find a way to make clear plastic gun sights for Allied soldiers. During his research, Coover accidentally created a new compound called cyanoacrylate. At the time, he and his team found the new compound to be incredibly durable but way too sticky to use, and they soon abandoned the substance. Nine years later, in 1951, Coover returned to cyanoacrylates, and this time he and his team recognized new potential in them. The sticky adhesive required no heat or pressure to bond, and the bond was incredibly strong. Coover had invented super glue, albeit by accident.
Advertisement
Advertisement
Photo credit: Apic/ Hulton Archive via Getty Images
Electronic Computers
It’s hard to say precisely when the first computer was invented. You could argue that it was the abacus of the ancient world, and there’s certainly a case to be made for Charles Babbage and his mechanical computer of the early 19th century. But when it comes to programmable, electronic computers, we can reliably trace the origin to the Second World War. First there was Colossus, a huge set of computers developed by British code breakers at Bletchley Park between 1943 and 1945. In its first test, Colossus successfully decoded a genuine coded message so quickly that 10 improved machines were ordered right away. Then there was ENIAC (Electronic Numerical Integrator and Computer), developed by the United States and completed in 1945, which lays claim to being the first programmable, general-purpose, electronic digital computer. (It was designed specifically for computing values for artillery range tables, but had other uses as well.) Together, they marked a turning point in the history of modern computers.
Not all the inventions that arose from World War II had military applications. In 1943, Richard James, a naval mechanical engineer stationed at the William Cramp & Sons shipyards in Philadelphia, was working to devise springs that could keep sensitive ship equipment steady at sea. While he was working, he accidentally knocked a coiled spring from a shelf. He watched, surprised and amused, as the spring seemingly walked its way end-over-end across the ground. That same day, he went home and told his wife, Betty James, about an idea he had for a new toy. They took out a $500 loan, co-founded James Industries, and in 1945 the Slinky hit shelves. By the end of the 20th century, around 250 million Slinkys had been sold.
Penicillin was discovered in 1928 by the Scottish bacteriologist Alexander Fleming, and it was later isolated and purified in the late 1930s. Making large amounts of penicillin, however, was difficult. In 1942, when the new antibiotic was first used to successfully treat a patient for sepsis, it used up half the available supply of penicillin in the United States. During the war, a combined effort between the U.S. and Great Britain saw scientists working around the clock to develop mass production techniques. They were successful, and managed to manufacture 2.3 million doses of penicillin in preparation for the D-Day invasion on June 6, 1944.
If you think modern etiquette can be fussy, 19th-century Americans would like a word. Everyday social interactions — from stopping by a neighbor’s house to eating dinner or greeting a friend — were governed by intricate, often unspoken rules. Many of these customs were designed to signal respectability and self-control, shaping how people navigated everything from social calls to public behavior. Here are a few etiquette expectations from the 1800s that offer a glimpse into that carefully ordered world.
In the 19th century, stopping by someone’s house often meant not seeing them at all. Instead, you left a visiting card — sometimes several, each carefully allocated to members of the household. As The Habits of Good Society (an etiquette manual from 1859) explains, you were expected to leave “one for the lady of the house and her daughters … one for the master of the house,” and possibly another for a grown son, though “you must never leave more than three at a time.” The card itself could even carry coded meaning: Turning up a corner might signal that daughters were included in the call.
The rules doubled as a kind of social firewall, especially around gender. Married men often skipped the whole process — their wives left cards on their behalf — while young unmarried women were shielded from casual male callers. If a servant reported that only a daughter was at home, a gentleman was expected to leave a card and go. As The Habits of Good Society put it, young women did not receive calls from men unless they were “very intimate … or have passed the rubicon of thirty summers.” And despite all this attention to the household, the call itself was technically directed to one person: “Where there is a lady of the house, your call is to her, not to her husband, except on business.”
If visiting cards governed the doorstep, the dining table was its own stage, and one where even the smallest gestures were scrutinized. One of the most important moves was using the correct fork. In the 1800s, the multipronged silver fork was still gaining ground after centuries of a knife alone being the favored implement for eating. (When forks were first introduced, some saw them as tools of the devil.)
The Victorians devised forks for every food, including meat, fish, pie, salad, pastry, dessert, berries, ice cream, turtle, mango, lobster, lettuce, oyster, and oyster cocktails. There was an anti-fork contingent, however: One 19th-century American complained that “eating peas with a fork was like eating soup with a knitting needle.”
Using the right fork was far from the only rule at the 1800s dinner table, of course. Diners were told never to cut more than one bite of food at a time, to break bread with their fingers rather than bite into it, and to avoid any display that might seem excessive — loud laughter, animated gestures, or even too much enthusiasm for the meal. As Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Managementput it, good manners at the table were less about enjoyment than about restraint, signaling refinement through self-control.
It’s hard to imagine in today’s far more casual world, but in 19th-century polite society, introducing yourself was a breach of etiquette. Social encounters depended on a formal intermediary, and without one, even basic conversation could be off-limits. As The Gentlemen’s Book of Etiquette makes clear, introductions were governed by a central rule: “to force no one into an acquaintance.” That meant you were supposed to quietly determine in advance whether both parties actually wanted to meet — and only then proceed.
Even the direction of the introduction mattered. A man was always introduced to a woman, never the reverse. The gentleman was considered inferior to the lady, and inferiors were supposed to be introduced to superiors. A slight bow to the superior party was considered correct. Without the proper introduction, you were expected to ignore acquaintances in public rather than risk overstepping.
Fortunately, if you were too busy to bother with introductions while at home and engaged in a task, it was socially acceptable to instruct your servant to tell visitors you were “not at home” — even when all parties involved knew this was just a convenient fiction.
In the 19th century, stepping out in public without gloves wasn’t just a fashion lapse — it could read as outright impropriety. Etiquette manuals treated gloves as essential, particularly for women, whose bare hands were considered too intimate for public display. As The Ladies’ Book of Etiquette, and Manual of Politeness advised, a well-bred woman should always be gloved when visiting, shopping, or attending social events, removing them only in very limited circumstances (such as dining). Gloves also had to be clean, well-fitting, and appropriate to the time of day — dingy or ill-kept gloves could quietly undermine an otherwise respectable appearance.
The rules could get surprisingly specific. You weren’t supposed to shake hands with a bare hand if gloves were expected (better to keep them on than create an awkward mismatch), and pulling off your gloves too hastily could itself seem improper. Men, meanwhile, were expected to remove their gloves when greeting women or entering a private space, but not outdoors or during formal calls. Historians note that these customs weren’t just about hygiene or style; they helped maintain a carefully managed boundary between public and private selves. In a world attuned to subtle signals, even your fingertips had to follow the rules.
For a 19th-century widow, grief came with a strict social timetable — and for the first year, it meant near-total withdrawal. Etiquette dictated that a widow in “deep mourning” could not accept invitations, attend parties, or appear in places of public amusement; doing so was considered “the worst possible taste.” These expectations were widely observed in both Britain and the United States, reinforced by influential figures such as Queen Victoria but rooted in earlier mourning traditions. Only after a year and a day could a widow begin to reenter society, gradually transitioning into “half mourning” over the course of two years.
Mourning wasn’t just worn, either — it was also printed and circulated. Families sent out memorial cards after a death, often embossed with symbols such as lilies of the valley or wreaths, and enclosed in black-edged envelopes — a practice that grew out of earlier religious reminders to pray for the deceased. Personal correspondence followed suit: Mourning stationery featured black borders whose thickness could signal the recency of the loss. Together, these customs made bereavement highly visible, turning private grief into a carefully managed public identity.
Advertisement
Advertisement
What Did Cowboys Actually Eat on the Trail?
Credit: Detroit Publishing Company/Library of Congress, Washington, D.C. ( LC-D4-13756)
AuthorTony Dunnell
May 14, 2026
Love it?84
We’ve all seen the version of cowboys that Hollywood likes to show us, but the Western film genre has always been rife with myths. In reality, cowboys were rarely the dashing gunslingers of legend; instead, they were poorly paid laborers engaged in difficult and dirty work, whether it was helping out with the daily chores on someone else’s ranch or embarking upon grueling, monthslong cattle drives.
From the 1860s to the 1890s, these great cattle drives helped define the American West. And for the cowhands hired to drive tens of thousands of cattle across hundreds of miles of open country, one thing was key to survival: food. Meals on the trail had to be portable, nonperishable, and quick and easy to cook. Cowboy cuisine was far from glamorous, but it kept everyone alive — a repetitive, high-calorie diet designed for survival and portability rather than pleasure. With that in mind, here are some of the foods that fueled the American frontier.
Mel Brooks’ 1974 comedy movie Blazing Saddles may have taken a few liberties with historical veracity, but it did get one thing right: Cowboys ate a lot of beans. Beans were the champions of trail food, and cowboys ate them every day. It was a practical option, as beans were readily available, easy to store and transport, and simple to prepare in one pot. Pinto beans were the most common variety, often slow-cooked with salt pork, and perhaps some chiles, for flavor. Cowboys had a variety of colorful nicknames for beans, including “whistle berries” and “Mexican strawberries.”
Meals on the trail were prepared in what was known as a chuckwagon — essentially a horse-drawn mobile kitchen, often nicknamed the “cookie.” The cook normally had one essential that was always being cared for: a sourdough starter of flour and water that was used for making sourdough biscuits and bread. Cooked in a Dutch oven placed directly over the campfire, sourdough biscuits were a hearty staple of the cowboy diet. With their sturdy consistency and slightly tangy flavor, they were a perfect accompaniment to beans and gravy.
Despite being surrounded by hundreds of cattle, cowboys rarely ate fresh beef from the herd (unless an animal was sick or injured and could no longer be driven). Instead, smoked jerky was the most common way to consume beef, because it was easy to carry, lasted much longer than fresh meat, and could easily be added to stews. Cowboys preserved their beef by turning it into jerky using a variety of methods, including sun drying, smoking, and salting. Cowboys did hunt fresh game along the trail, but beef jerky ensured that meat was always on hand.
Salt pork — pork that is heavily salted to preserve the meat — was prized for its very long shelf life. Unlike jerky, salt pork couldn’t be consumed directly and had to be soaked in water to reduce the salt content before cooking. Cowboys also ate a lot of bacon, especially for breakfast, but it was nothing like the thin-sliced variety found today. It was typically “sowbelly” — pork fat from the belly (and sometimes the back and sides) of the pig, heavily cured with salt.
Dried fruits offered much-needed sweetness on the trail, and most chuckwagons had some in supply. Apples were the most common dried fruit, but apricots, cherries, peaches, raisins, and prunes also made an appearance, largely depending on what fresh fruit was available in the region.
As well as breaking up the monotony of all the savory staples, preserved fruits contained essential vitamins that helped keep cowboys relatively healthy on the trail. Fresh fruits, such as berries encountered along the route, were always a welcome discovery, but dried fruits offered a more dependable and long-lasting supply.
Hardtack has been a survival staple for centuries, feeding soldiers, sailors, explorers, and adventurers in many extreme situations. It’s basically a dense, dry cracker, made from flour and small amounts of water, that can last for months (or even years) without spoiling. Hardtack was a common ration for soldiers during the Civil War and was then adopted by cowboys on the trail. While almost inedible on its own, it provided a quick and easy snack when dunked in coffee, crumbled into stew, or soaked in water and fried in bacon fat.
Along with beans, potatoes and onions were among the most common vegetables in a cowboy’s diet. Durable, filling, and easy to store, they added texture and flavor to what could otherwise be very bland cooking. Both were added to stews and mixed in with beans, and potatoes were often fried in bacon grease.
Canned goods were considered a genuine luxury on the trail, being both heavy and expensive. But a well-prepared chuckwagon might have some canned items — known as “air tights” — in stock, such as canned peaches or tomatoes, which would have been highly prized by any cowboy. Canned tomatoes were a thirst-quencher and contained some much-needed sugar, and the acidity helped to counter the gypsum found in most river water (which cowboys would often drink untreated). Opening a can of peaches, meanwhile, was the ultimate morale booster — and about as close to luxury as a cowboy could get while making their way across the frontier.
Advertisement
Advertisement
7 Ways the Year 1968 Changed America
Photo credit: Bev Grant / Archive Photos via Getty Images
AuthorNicole Villeneuve
May 7, 2026
Love it?235
It’s been referred to as the year that changed America: In 1968, the United States experienced an unprecedented upheaval of long-held values and practices that left an indelible — and still reverberating — mark on the country. Facing the assassinations of beloved leaders, protests against the Vietnam War and racial inequality, and a major shift in media and pop culture, the nation was forced to confront some of its most deeply rooted issues, and evolve in the process. While the year was marked by tragedy and division, it also led to significant progress in civil rights and political activism, inspiring a generation of Americans to fight for equality and justice, and in turn, reshape the country’s social landscape. Here are seven events from 1968 that changed America.
Richard Nixon Became President After a Divisive Election
The 1968 presidential election is still considered one of the most contentious and divisive elections in U.S. history. In March, President Lyndon B. Johnson announced that he would not be seeking reelection. In the ensuing months, America’s opposition to the Vietnam War escalated, and the stunning assassinations of Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy sent the country into angry unrest. An already tense political climate was thrown into chaos when anti-war protesters clashed with police outside the Democratic National Convention in Chicago. In the end, a fraught and uninspiring race between Republican candidate Richard Nixon, Democrat Hubert Humphrey, and segregationist George Wallace ended in a victory for Nixon. The contentious nature of the election contributed to a deepening sense of political polarization in the United States.
Photo credit: Bettmann / Bettmann via Getty Images
Two Major Leaders Were Assassinated Within Two Months
The assassinations of civil rights leader Martin Luther King Jr. on April 4 and presidential hopeful Robert F. Kennedy on June 6 were two of the most tragic events in American history. The violence shocked not only the U.S. but the world, particularly as it came on the heels of the assassinations of President John F. Kennedy and civil rights leader Malcolm X in 1963 and 1965, respectively. Despite the devastation that followed — and the fear that their progressive voices and visions for the country would be forgotten — the legacies of King and Kennedy continued to inspire and motivate people for decades to come.
Photo credit: Pictures from History / Universal Images Group Editorial via Getty Images
The Tet Offensive Turned More of the Country Against the Vietnam War
The year 1968 began with the U.S. still embroiled in the long-running war in Vietnam, and the American public’s growing fatigue came to a head following North Vietnam’s deadly January 30-31 Tet Offensive attack on South Vietnamese and American forces. The widespread attack during the Lunar New Year holiday Tet made it clear to the American public that victory in Vietnam was not near, and confidence in the United States’ progress overseas began to falter. It faded faster still when respected broadcaster Walter Cronkite vocally opposed the war in a national television broadcast on February 27. Mass protests against the continued involvement unfurled across the country in the ensuing months. The occasionally violent unrest influenced the country’s eventual withdrawal from Vietnam in 1973, and the youth-led anti-war protests changed the face of civic engagement, fueling other historical grassroots activism such as the growing feminist movement and the rise of environmentalism.
Advertisement
Advertisement
Photo credit: Bettmann / Bettmann via Getty Images
Two American Athletes Protested Racial Inequality at the Olympics
Despite the tragedy of Martin Luther King Jr.’s untimely death, those influenced by his nonviolent activism continued to fight for racial and class equality. One of the most memorable protests took place at the 1968 Olympics in Mexico City. As American track and field athletes Tommie Smith and John Carlos took the podium to receive their respective gold and bronze medals, they each raised a gloved fist during the U.S. anthem in a symbolic gesture of solidarity with the Black Power movement. Smith and Carlos faced intense backlash and criticism from the media and the public, but their protest remains an enduring symbol of resistance and solidarity in the struggle for civil rights and social justice.
Photo credit: Bev Grant / Archive Photos via Getty Images
A Miss America Protest Birthed the Image of the “Bra-Burning” Feminist
The iconic image of the “bra-burning” feminist was born in this monumental year, irreversibly putting women’s rights in the mainstream conversation. On September 7, 1968, protesters marched against the objectification of women outside a Miss America beauty contest in Atlantic City, New Jersey. They threw oppressive items such as bras, makeup, and high heels into a "freedom trash can," and while the bras were never actually burned, the demonstration ensured that the phrase “women’s liberation” gained national attention for the first time. The seminal moment was also a prescient introduction to intersectional feminism issues: Nearby, a Miss Black America pageant was also held in protest, as the official pageant had, to date, not included an African American contestant (the first Black woman would compete two years later).
Advertisement
Advertisement
Photo credit: Bettmann / Bettmann via Getty Images
“Star Trek” Aired an Interracial Kiss on Television
Much like the social and political upheaval that dominated 1968, popular culture had its own memorable and impactful moments that year. Given the racial tensions in the country, it was seen as revolutionary when the popular sci-fi series “Star Trek” aired the first romantic kiss between a white person and a Black person on American television, between Captain Kirk (William Shatner) and Lieutenant Uhura (Nichelle Nichols). (The response was largely positive.)
The year 1968 also marked the release of Stanley Kubrick’s film 2001: A Space Odyssey, revolutionizing science fiction and special effects in film. The sci-fi epic inspired influential filmmakers such as George Lucas and Steven Spielberg, who both went on to define entertainment in the ensuing decades. (Presciently, the film also introduced audiences to friendly AI virtual assistants.) Onstage, The Boys in the Band opened off-Broadway, offering a realistic and humanizing look at the then-underrepresented LGBTQ+ community. The play is often cited as a groundbreaking work that helped pave the way for greater visibility and acceptance of LGBTQ+ people in American culture.
Photo credit: Keystone-France / Gamma-Keystone via Getty Images
Apollo 8 Became the First Manned Spacecraft to Orbit the Moon
On December 24, 1968, as one of the most tumultuous years in American history drew to a close, NASA's Apollo 8 mission became the first manned spacecraft to orbit the moon, marking a major milestone in space exploration and providing an uplifting moment for the country. The three-man crew — Frank Borman, Jim Lovell, and Bill Anders — broadcast parts of their six-day lunar voyage on live television. Their lunar orbit, which aired in prime time on Christmas Eve, is said to have been watched by a billion people — one out of every four people on the planet at the time. The orbit also resulted in the enduring “Earthrise” photo, showing a sliver of planet Earth peering out from beyond the moon. The mission was not only a success, but a marvel that united and inspired a weary country. Apollo 8, it was said, had saved 1968.
If you grew up in the 1960s, you might remember that kitchens looked and felt very different from today’s sleek, minimalist designs. The colors were soothing, patterns were popping, and design styles ranged from the early pastel “dream kitchens” to the playful retro-futurism of the Atomic Age to the richer earth tones that carried us into the 1970s.
Kitchens of the 1960s also reflected a postwar sense of optimism that embraced the bright, bold, and cutting edge. New materials such as Formica, chrome, vinyl, and molded plastics were everywhere, and convenience-driven appliances were becoming symbols of progress. Many kitchen items were designed not just to be useful, but to look modern, futuristic, and decorative.
Here are eight items you’d find in most American kitchens in the 1960s. How many of these do you remember?
Stacked neatly in cabinets or displayed on open shelving, Pyrex nesting bowls were a staple of the 1960s kitchen. While bold primary colors were popular, the decade also embraced softer pastel versions and patterned designs such as “Gooseberry,” “Butterprint,” and “Snowflake Blue,” which aligned with the early-1960s “dream kitchen” aesthetic of coordinated, cheerful color schemes. Later patterns featured botanicals and Americana scenes in neutral beige or brown.
Made of thick, durable glass, these bowls were designed for heavy mixing, baking, and serving. Beyond their practicality, they also reflected the era’s focus on functional beauty — everyday objects that were meant to look good enough to leave out in the open.
If there’s one color palette that defined the late-1960s kitchen, it’s avocado green, harvest gold, and coppertone brown. Refrigerators, ovens, and dishwashers from brands such as General Electric and Westinghouse embraced this earthy shift, moving away from the earlier white-and-pastel look toward something warmer and more grounded.
These tones reflected the broader evolution of 1960s design trends, when sleek modernism began blending with more natural, organic influences. Appliance suites were often fully coordinated, turning the kitchen into a unified color scheme. What began as futuristic efficiency gradually softened into the casually elegant, lived-in aesthetic that defined the late-1960s home.
The kitchen wall phone was a household command center long before mobile devices existed. Usually mounted near a central wall or corner, these rotary dial phones embodied the era’s interest in streamlined, practical design by being simple, durable, and always within reach.
At the same time, their presence in the kitchen reflected the decade’s social design logic — the kitchen was the most lived-in, central space in the home, serving not just as a place for cooking but also as a hub for gathering and communication. The coiled cord often stretched into hallways or dining rooms for a little privacy, and magnetic notepads for taking messages were often hung on the refrigerator, reinforcing the kitchen as the home’s nucleus.
Formica countertops defined the visual identity of many 1960s kitchens, especially in their boldest Atomic Age expressions. Designs such as boomerang patterns, starbursts, and abstract geometric prints flecked with gold captured the era’s fascination with space-age futurism and modern materials.
Set against chrome edging and flat-front clean-lined cabinetry, Formica surfaces created a sleek yet playful look. In the early 1960s, these patterns often appeared in brighter, more optimistic palettes, while later versions shifted toward earth tones. Affordable, durable, and endlessly customizable, Formica became one of the defining materials of the decade’s design identity.
Chrome dinette sets were a classic expression of 1960s kitchen decor. With Formica tabletops, rounded edges, and chrome tubular frames, they reflected the era’s emphasis on clean geometry and easy maintenance.
Vinyl upholstery in bold colors — turquoise, red, mustard yellow, or black-and-white patterns — often tied into either the playful graphic energy of the early ’60s or the deeper neutral tones that were popular toward the end of the decade. Practical yet stylish, these sets embodied the balance between modern efficiency and casual family living that defined 1960s kitchen culture.
Kitchen wallpaper in the 1960s was rarely subtle. Starbursts, diamond grids, and repeating geometric patterns filled the space with energy, often in saturated shades of orange, olive green, mustard yellow, black, and red. Alongside these bold, modern designs were more homey motifs — oversized, stylized florals, climbing vines, roosters, and fruit and vegetable prints — that covered entire walls.
In many homes, wallpaper was part of a fully coordinated look, paired with matching curtains, tablecloths, dishware, and sometimes even appliances. Vinyl coatings made it practical for everyday use, but its real role was visual, turning the kitchen into a lively space for gathering rather than just a purely functional one.
Fondue sets became especially popular in the late 1960s, aligning with the era’s shift toward social, interactive dining. Often finished in avocado green, burnt orange, or mustard yellow, they reflected the decade’s warm, organic design sensibility.
At the same time, fondue itself fit the broader cultural movement toward casual entertaining and shared meals as more women entered the workforce. Fondue gatherings emphasized experience over formality, matching the relaxed evolution of 1960s home design into something more communal and expressive.
Swag lamps were a common sight in 1960s kitchens, especially over dinette tables and breakfast nooks. Instead of being hardwired into the ceiling, they hung from a hook and draped across the ceiling on a visible chain before plugging into a wall outlet. This made them easy to install and reposition, which appealed to homeowners who wanted a flexible, stylish update without major electrical work.
Their designs ranged from simple glass globes to more decorative options with colored glass, metal details, or fringed shades. Many reflected the era’s love of bold, sculptural shapes and warm lighting, adding a cozy glow that softened the harder surfaces of chrome, laminate, and vinyl so often found in 1960s kitchens.
“Beauty is pain” is a familiar phrase, and one that has been taken quite literally at many points in history. People have swallowed toxins such as arsenic and restricted their bodies with corsets, all in the name of status, style, and desirability. Here are five of the most extreme examples of dangerous beauty trends from decades past.
In the early 20th century, radium was briefly treated like a miracle ingredient. Following its 1898 discovery, radium’s mysterious, faint luminescence made it seem almost magical; as early as 1904, products such as the topical product Ec-Zine and even drinkable radium water were being advertised as a cure-all for everything from eczema to pimples to blood poison.
By the 1930s, beauty brands had leaned in, too. The French company Tho-Radia — so named for the elements thorium and radium — sold face creams and lipstick claiming to be a “perfect scientific method of keeping the skin of the face and neck in order.” The claims, of course, turned out to be very wrong. Long-term exposure to radium has many negative health effects, including damaging bones and increasing cancer risk. By the end of the 1930s, growing awareness of health dangers and tightening government regulations brought the use of radium in beauty and wellness products to an end.
In Elizabethan England, pale skin was fashionable, seen as a sign of wealth and leisure. To achieve the look, many women turned to a popular foundation known as Venetian ceruse. Made with vinegar, water, and white lead powder, it certainly cast women in their desired pallor. But used over extended periods, it could also lead to skin discoloration and hair loss; over a long time, exposure to lead can also cause neurological damage.
Lead was present in other cosmetics at the time, too. Rouge was a common makeup often formulated from white lead with colored dyes mixed in. But Elizabethans weren’t the first to use lead in their beauty regimens: Evidence points to its use not only in ancient Roman times but also as far back as 3500 BCE in ancient Mesopotamia and 3000 BCE in ancient Egypt.
During the Renaissance era in Europe, especially in parts of Italy, beauty ideals often emphasized large, luminous eyes. To get the desired effect, some women used eyedrops made from Atropa belladonna, a highly toxic plant also known as deadly nightshade. The plant contains atropine — the compound that, in carefully measured, sterile doses, your eye doctor might give you today to dilate your pupils.
That’s exactly what Venetian women were aiming for, too. But their doses were unregulated and applied repeatedly for the cosmetic effect of big, alluring eyes. The cost was high: Belladonna interferes with the nervous system and often causes blurred vision, extreme light sensitivity, and disorientation, with repeated use leading to long-term vision damage or blindness.
When X-rays were discovered in 1895, they quickly earned a place in the public imagination as a kind of invisible, modern force that could do just about anything. By the early 20th century, that fascination had spilled into beauty culture, and clinics throughout North American and Europe began offering X-ray hair removal as a painless, high-tech alternative to shaving or waxing unwanted facial or body hair.
The treatment worked by damaging hair follicles with radiation exposure, leading to hair loss over time. Though that was the desired effect, what was not yet understood was the cumulative harm of the technology’s radiation. Many patients developed burns, chronic skin damage, and in some cases, cancer decades later. Eventually it became clear that the medical risks outweighed the perceived aesthetic benefits, and by the late 1940s, X-ray hair removal services were no longer offered.
At the turn of the 20th century, weight-loss culture was already established, if much less publicly advertised than today. But it reached new levels with the emergence of tapeworm dieting. Marketed through advertisements and distributed through unregulated mail-order products, the diet promised effortless slimming by ingesting tapeworm eggs, critters dubbed “friends for a fair form.”
Once inside the body, the tapeworm would allegedly hatch and go on to absorb nutrients from food, supposedly allowing the host to eat as usual while still losing weight. When a person reached their desired weight, they were meant to take an anti-parasitic treatment to kill the tapeworm and simply pass it from the body.
In reality, tapeworms can grow up to 30 feet long and cause people to have diarrhea, vomiting, malnutrition, as well as abdominal problems and more serious health concerns; they can also cause complications upon removal. While a 19th-century patent for a tapeworm trap does exist, designed to be used after ingesting the critter for weight loss, it’s likely that many of the marketed products contained laxatives or placebos instead of actual tapeworms, and the trend was all but abandoned by the mid-20th century.
Advertisement
Advertisement
Another History Pick for You
Today in History
Get a daily dose of history’s most fascinating headlines — straight from Britannica’s editors.