Category: Odd History

  • The Carroll A. Deering: How a Schooner Became an Enduring Maritime Mystery

    The Carroll A. Deering: How a Schooner Became an Enduring Maritime Mystery

    At dawn on January 31, 1921, a five-masted schooner appeared stranded on the Diamond Shoals off North Carolina. Her sails were set, the sea was breaking over her decks, and her deck appeared empty to the Coast Guard surfmen watching from shore. The ship was the Carroll A. Deering, and the scene opened one of the Outer Banks’ most enduring maritime mysteries.

    The Deering had been built in Bath, Maine, in 1919. She was returning north from Barbados toward Hampton Roads when she passed the Cape Lookout Lightship on January 29. The lightship keeper later recalled a crewman calling out that the schooner’s anchors were missing. The next day, another vessel saw her moving along the coast. By the morning of January 31, she had grounded on the outer shoals.

    Heavy surf kept rescuers at a distance. When the wrecking tug Rescue and Coast Guard cutter Manning reached the schooner on February 4, Captain James Carlson boarded and confirmed her name. The galley offered one of the story’s most memorable details: food had been laid out for a meal, and the crew’s boats were missing. Three cats were the only living occupants aboard, according to the Herbert Hoover Presidential Library’s account.

    Editorial illustration of a 1920s schooner galley with a meal set on a wooden table beside a brass lamp

    Investigators found the ship’s log, navigational instruments and some personal belongings missing. The quiet arrangement of the galley suggested an ordinary pause in the day, while the empty deck and rough water pointed to a sudden crisis. The surviving evidence preserved those details, while the crew’s fate remained unknown.

    A bottle brought a new clue—and a confession

    Several weeks later, a North Carolina resident named Christopher Columbus Gray reported finding a bottle with a note describing a pirate attack. The note drew wide attention and helped prompt a federal investigation. Government experts eventually established that Gray had written it himself. The bottle story became part of the Deering’s history as a documented hoax, while the crew’s fate remained an open question.

    Newspapers and investigators considered piracy, mutiny and other explanations. The theories remained unresolved as the wreck’s story circulated. The Library of Congress’s review of contemporary newspapers shows how quickly each new theory entered public discussion. The Herbert Hoover Presidential Library reports that five federal departments examined the case, and the investigation left the crew’s disappearance unexplained.

    Why the schooner’s story endures

    The Carroll A. Deering combined a striking discovery with a small set of concrete clues: a ship grounded under sail, absent boats and instruments, a prepared meal, and an empty crew list. Each detail invited a different reconstruction. Together, they also show the limits historians face when a vessel’s records are lost and witnesses have only a few moments of observation.

    The wreck broke apart on the shoals and was later removed as a navigation hazard. Today, the National Park Service preserves the account as part of Cape Hatteras’s maritime history. The Deering’s mystery rests in that careful distinction between what rescuers saw, what later investigators established, and the questions that remain about the crew’s fate.

    Sources

  • Why the U.S. Senate Has a Candy Desk

    Why the U.S. Senate Has a Candy Desk

    Some traditions begin with a grand ceremony. The U.S. Senate’s candy desk began with something much more portable: a drawer of sweets and a senator willing to share.

    The tradition is delightfully specific. At the start of each Congress, one desk in the Senate Chamber takes on the unofficial job of being the candy desk. Its keeper stocks it with treats for colleagues passing through one of the room’s busy entrances. The official history is less a tale of a permanent piece of furniture than of a location, a habit, and a succession of people who agree that a little sugar belongs in the workday.

    It started with George Murphy

    The Senate’s curator dates the custom to 1965, when California senator George Murphy kept hard-candy lozenges in his desk drawer. The curator notes that the lozenges were likely useful after vocal-cord surgery. Murphy was also a former stage and film performer, a detail that makes the origin story feel unusually well cast.

    In 1968, Murphy moved to a rear aisle desk near a frequently used entrance and invited colleagues to help themselves. That bit of placement mattered. The candy could be shared without turning the chamber into a candy store: people simply passed the desk, opened the drawer, and carried on.

    Editorial illustration of a senator seen from behind offering a bowl of wrapped candies beside an open wooden desk drawer.
    Editorial illustration of the small act of sharing that turned a desk drawer into a tradition.

    The desk is a job, not a relic

    After Murphy left the Senate in 1971, the senators who occupied the same general location continued the practice. A 1979 floor speech publicly acknowledged the early run of candy-desk keepers, according to the Senate curator. Since 1985, the curator’s office has tracked the occupants.

    That history explains a charming wrinkle: the candy desk is not permanently bolted to one numbered desk. The Senate’s guide says any desk can become the candy desk in a new Congress, but the designated one must be on the Republican side, in the last row, on the aisle, next to the chamber’s busiest entrance. In other words, the tradition follows a useful spot as much as it follows a drawer.

    Editorial illustration of curved rows of wooden desks with one candy-filled drawer beside a busy aisle.
    Editorial illustration showing why an aisle-side desk is ideal for a shared candy drawer.

    What is in the drawer?

    The earliest supplies were usually hard candy. Later keepers broadened the selection to bite-size, individually wrapped sweets, often from their home states. The treats change with the person holding the seat; the quiet invitation to take one is the part that persists.

    It is an odd little example of how institutions accumulate personality. Rules and procedures organize a chamber, but a shared drawer can create a tiny recurring pause in the day: a greeting, a piece of candy, and the reminder that even formal places make room for human habits.

    Sources