Did you know?

What a heart she had.


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Did you know?​
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On 30 January 1965, former Prime Minister Sir Winston Churchill became the first person outside of the Royal Family to receive a state funeral in almost 30 years.​
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Deep in the jungle, a trail camera set up by wildlife experts captured a massive silverback storming into an empty campsite. He flipped boxes, tore down the tent, and searched every corner like he was desperately looking for something.
At first, people thought it was just wild instinct, but when authorities reviewed earlier footage, everything changed. Just hours before the rampage, poachers had been seen trapping two baby gorillas in a cage. Investigators later revealed the silverback had tracked their footprints and car tire marks straight to the site.
The footage quickly went viral, sparking outrage and uniting wildlife forces. Days later, the poachers were caught, and the babies were found alive. They were finally reunited with their father, a powerful reminder of a father’s intelligence, instinct, and love that proved even in the wild a parent will do anything to find their child.
 
The reason we can buy perfect Spiral Cut hams today is because of a man named Harry Hoenselaar. In 1924, he got tired of watching people struggle to carve bone-in hams, so he built the world's first spiral-slicing machine in his garage. His prototype was built using a tire jack, a pie tin, and a washing machine motor.
 
If you sit very still in your home right now, you might hear a low, steady hum. It is a sound so constant in modern life that we have learned to tune it out entirely.
We do not notice it until it stops.
But if that hum were to vanish, the world as we know it would look entirely different. The skylines of Miami, Dubai, and Singapore would likely not exist. The internet, which lives in hot, buzzing server rooms, might never have scaled. And the simple joy of sitting in a cool movie theater on a blazing July afternoon would remain a fantasy.
It all began not with a grand desire to comfort humanity, but with a simple, frustrating problem at a printing plant in Brooklyn.
The year was 1902. It was a time when summer did not just mean sunshine; it mean survival.
When the heat descended on the cities of the American Northeast, life slowed to a crawl. Windows were thrown open to catch a breeze that never came. Families slept on fire escapes or front porches, praying for the sun to go down.
Inside the factories, the heat was more than just uncomfortable. It was destructive.
At the Sackett-Wilhelms Lithographing & Publishing Company in Brooklyn, New York, the summer humidity was wreaking havoc.
They were trying to print high-quality color images. This required running the same sheet of paper through the press four separate times, once for each ink color.
But the thick, humid air of a New York July acted like a sponge.
The paper absorbed the moisture from the air and swelled. It changed size by just a fraction of a millimeter. But in the world of precision printing, that fraction was a disaster.
The colors did not line up. The images were blurry and ruined. The company was bleeding money with every scrapped page.
Desperate for a solution, the company turned to a young engineer named Willis Carrier. He was only 25 years old, fresh out of Cornell University, and working for a heating company.
He was not hired to make the workers cool. He was hired to save the paper.
Willis stared at the problem. He knew that warm air could hold a lot of water. He knew that when air cooled down, it released that water—like dew forming on the grass in the morning.
The solution, he realized, wasn't to just blow air around with fans. That only moved the hot, wet air from one corner to another.
He had to dry the air out.
One evening, while waiting for a train in Pittsburgh, standing on a foggy platform, the idea solidified in his mind. He looked at the fog and realized he could manipulate it.
If he could force air to pass over coils filled with cold water, the moisture in the air would condense on the coils. The water would drip away.
The air that came out the other side would be drier. And, as a happy side effect, it would be much, much cooler.
He rushed back to the drawing board. He sketched a machine that looked like a metal beast, filled with pipes and fans.
On July 17, 1902, Willis Carrier fired up his invention at the printing plant.
The machine roared to life. It pulled in the sticky Brooklyn air, scrubbed the moisture out of it, and pushed it back into the room.
The humidity levels dropped. The paper stopped swelling. The ink aligned perfectly. The bosses were thrilled because production was saved.
But something else happened.
The workers in the print shop started lingering a little longer near the machine. They realized that for the first time in their lives, they were working indoors in July without sweating through their shirts.
For years, this "manufactured weather" was strictly for industry. It was used in textile mills to keep cotton from snapping and in tobacco factories to keep leaves from drying out.
The general public had no idea this technology existed. They continued to fan themselves on their porches, accepting the heat as an unavoidable fact of life.
Then came the movies.
In the 1920s, movie theaters faced a crisis. Nobody wanted to sit in a crowded, stuffy room during the summer. Attendance plummeted when the temperature rose.
Theater owners took a gamble. They installed Carrier’s expensive, massive machines. They hung banners outside their doors with letters dripping in icicles: "IT’S COOL INSIDE."
The effect was instantaneous.
People didn't just go to the movies for the film. They went to escape. They paid their nickel to sit in the dark, cool air for two hours. The "summer blockbuster" was born, not because the movies were better in June, but because the theaters were the only place to beat the heat.
From there, the world began to shift.
Before air conditioning, the American South and Southwest were sparsely populated. States like Florida, Texas, and Arizona were considered difficult places to live year-round. The heat was relentless.
The economy of the South was primarily agricultural because office work was nearly impossible in the summer afternoons.
But as Carrier’s invention shrank—moving from factory floors to movie theaters, and eventually into window units for homes—the map of America changed.
Suddenly, living in Phoenix or Miami wasn't just possible; it was pleasant.
Retirees began to flock south, no longer fearing the tropical heat. Industries moved to the Sun Belt. The population of the southern United States exploded, shifting political power and economic centers in a way that no politician could have predicted.
Even the digital age owes a debt to that young engineer in Brooklyn.
Computers generate an immense amount of heat. Without sophisticated cooling systems—the direct descendants of Carrier’s 1902 machine—the massive server farms that power the internet, our banking systems, and our smartphones would overheat and shut down in minutes.
Willis Carrier died in 1950, just as the window air conditioner was becoming a common sight in American suburbs.
He lived long enough to see his invention change from a tool for printing paper to a necessity for modern comfort.
Today, we walk into a grocery store or an office building and we don't even pause to appreciate the rush of cool air that greets us. We adjust our thermostats with a mindless tap of a finger.
We complain if the room is two degrees too warm or two degrees too cold.
It is easy to forget that for almost all of human history, we were at the mercy of the weather. We scheduled our days, our work, and our sleep around the sun.
Willis Carrier changed that. He gave us the power to ignore the seasons.
He allowed us to build glass skyscrapers in the desert and hospitals that are safe from infection. He gave us the ability to work, sleep, and live in comfort, regardless of what the thermometer says outside.
So the next time you hear that quiet, steady hum in the background of your life, take a moment to listen.
It is the sound of a young man on a foggy train platform, figuring out how to dry some ink, and accidentally changing the world.
Footer Sources: Carrier Corporation Archives, Time Magazine (History of AC), Steven Johnson’s How We Got to Now.

DYK910.jpg
 
Doc said:
If you sit very still in your home right now, you might hear a low, steady hum. It is a sound so constant in modern life that we have learned to tune it out entirely.
We do not notice it until it stops.
But if that hum were to vanish, the world as we know it would look entirely different. The skylines of Miami, Dubai, and Singapore would likely not exist. The internet, which lives in hot, buzzing server rooms, might never have scaled. And the simple joy of sitting in a cool movie theater on a blazing July afternoon would remain a fantasy.
It all began not with a grand desire to comfort humanity, but with a simple, frustrating problem at a printing plant in Brooklyn.
The year was 1902. It was a time when summer did not just mean sunshine; it mean survival.
When the heat descended on the cities of the American Northeast, life slowed to a crawl. Windows were thrown open to catch a breeze that never came. Families slept on fire escapes or front porches, praying for the sun to go down.
Inside the factories, the heat was more than just uncomfortable. It was destructive.
At the Sackett-Wilhelms Lithographing & Publishing Company in Brooklyn, New York, the summer humidity was wreaking havoc.
They were trying to print high-quality color images. This required running the same sheet of paper through the press four separate times, once for each ink color.
But the thick, humid air of a New York July acted like a sponge.
The paper absorbed the moisture from the air and swelled. It changed size by just a fraction of a millimeter. But in the world of precision printing, that fraction was a disaster.
The colors did not line up. The images were blurry and ruined. The company was bleeding money with every scrapped page.
Desperate for a solution, the company turned to a young engineer named Willis Carrier. He was only 25 years old, fresh out of Cornell University, and working for a heating company.
He was not hired to make the workers cool. He was hired to save the paper.
Willis stared at the problem. He knew that warm air could hold a lot of water. He knew that when air cooled down, it released that water—like dew forming on the grass in the morning.
The solution, he realized, wasn't to just blow air around with fans. That only moved the hot, wet air from one corner to another.
He had to dry the air out.
One evening, while waiting for a train in Pittsburgh, standing on a foggy platform, the idea solidified in his mind. He looked at the fog and realized he could manipulate it.
If he could force air to pass over coils filled with cold water, the moisture in the air would condense on the coils. The water would drip away.
The air that came out the other side would be drier. And, as a happy side effect, it would be much, much cooler.
He rushed back to the drawing board. He sketched a machine that looked like a metal beast, filled with pipes and fans.
On July 17, 1902, Willis Carrier fired up his invention at the printing plant.
The machine roared to life. It pulled in the sticky Brooklyn air, scrubbed the moisture out of it, and pushed it back into the room.
The humidity levels dropped. The paper stopped swelling. The ink aligned perfectly. The bosses were thrilled because production was saved.
But something else happened.
The workers in the print shop started lingering a little longer near the machine. They realized that for the first time in their lives, they were working indoors in July without sweating through their shirts.
For years, this "manufactured weather" was strictly for industry. It was used in textile mills to keep cotton from snapping and in tobacco factories to keep leaves from drying out.
The general public had no idea this technology existed. They continued to fan themselves on their porches, accepting the heat as an unavoidable fact of life.
Then came the movies.
In the 1920s, movie theaters faced a crisis. Nobody wanted to sit in a crowded, stuffy room during the summer. Attendance plummeted when the temperature rose.
Theater owners took a gamble. They installed Carrier’s expensive, massive machines. They hung banners outside their doors with letters dripping in icicles: "IT’S COOL INSIDE."
The effect was instantaneous.
People didn't just go to the movies for the film. They went to escape. They paid their nickel to sit in the dark, cool air for two hours. The "summer blockbuster" was born, not because the movies were better in June, but because the theaters were the only place to beat the heat.
From there, the world began to shift.
Before air conditioning, the American South and Southwest were sparsely populated. States like Florida, Texas, and Arizona were considered difficult places to live year-round. The heat was relentless.
The economy of the South was primarily agricultural because office work was nearly impossible in the summer afternoons.
But as Carrier’s invention shrank—moving from factory floors to movie theaters, and eventually into window units for homes—the map of America changed.
Suddenly, living in Phoenix or Miami wasn't just possible; it was pleasant.
Retirees began to flock south, no longer fearing the tropical heat. Industries moved to the Sun Belt. The population of the southern United States exploded, shifting political power and economic centers in a way that no politician could have predicted.
Even the digital age owes a debt to that young engineer in Brooklyn.
Computers generate an immense amount of heat. Without sophisticated cooling systems—the direct descendants of Carrier’s 1902 machine—the massive server farms that power the internet, our banking systems, and our smartphones would overheat and shut down in minutes.
Willis Carrier died in 1950, just as the window air conditioner was becoming a common sight in American suburbs.
He lived long enough to see his invention change from a tool for printing paper to a necessity for modern comfort.
Today, we walk into a grocery store or an office building and we don't even pause to appreciate the rush of cool air that greets us. We adjust our thermostats with a mindless tap of a finger.
We complain if the room is two degrees too warm or two degrees too cold.
It is easy to forget that for almost all of human history, we were at the mercy of the weather. We scheduled our days, our work, and our sleep around the sun.
Willis Carrier changed that. He gave us the power to ignore the seasons.
He allowed us to build glass skyscrapers in the desert and hospitals that are safe from infection. He gave us the ability to work, sleep, and live in comfort, regardless of what the thermometer says outside.
So the next time you hear that quiet, steady hum in the background of your life, take a moment to listen.
It is the sound of a young man on a foggy train platform, figuring out how to dry some ink, and accidentally changing the world.
Footer Sources: Carrier Corporation Archives, Time Magazine (History of AC), Steven Johnson’s How We Got to Now.

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I thank him many, many times every summer!

Lee
 
We've been noticing some wear and tear on our roof, and it's probably time for some repairs or even a replacement. What kind of roofing issues have you dealt with, and how did you go about finding a reliable roofing contractor? Any advice on what to look for in terms of experience, insurance, and warranties would be really helpful.
 
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