One of my favorite historical oddities is the story of the Great Molasses Flood.
You might be able to put together the gist from the name alone, but trust me, it’s worth the story.
In the early 20th century in Boston, Mass., the Purity Distilling Company built a 2.5 million gallon tank to hold molasses. Immediately after being filled, the tank began leaking, so the company hastily painted the structure brown to deter any questions from the community.
On Jan. 15, 1919, that proved to be a temporary fix.
The weather swung from frigid temperatures to above 40 degrees, causing the molasses to expand quicker than the metal tank could accommodate.
As the tank burst, a tidal wave of molasses followed.
At its peak, the wave was reported to be roughly 25 ft. tall and moved 35 mph. With a density 40 percent higher than water, it tore through the city.
Then, as it slowed, it was a slowly creeping and inescapable mess. It was reported that several blocks were covered in 2-3 ft. of molasses that could only be removed with saltwater.
Ironically enough, Prohibition went into effect two days later, unrelated to the event entirely but effectively minimizing the need for molasses.
There are many things I find interesting about this story — the absurdity of a fast-moving wave of molasses, the unsurprising response of painting the tank brown to avoid the problem and the coincidental timing of the 18th Amendment are just a few.
But most of all, I love that I only know this story because of my dear friend Mallory.
The Great Molasses Flood has not been featured in any history class I’ve ever taken, nor any trending Netflix documentary I’ve watched, but I’ve heard Mallory tell the story more times than I can count. Who knows where she first picked it up, but it’s certainly not the first kooky story she collected.
Mallory’s not a great storyteller by many standards, but she always does so with great character — hands engaged as if she were signing the words, unafraid to jump backward in the story to add a detail she forgot and speaking through laughs and giggles the entire time.
I’ve known Mallory since I first moved to Indiana 10 years ago. She was one of the first friends I made here, and ever since, I’ve had the pleasure of seeing life’s whimsy through her eyes.
She’s the only 22-year-old I know with carpal tunnel syndrome (a result of her perpetual crocheting), once kept corn cob spokes in her pocket “just in case” and watches the same movie nearly every week simply because it’s her favorite movie. Mallory just loves things deeply, no matter how silly — including the people in her life.
This week, I wished her well as she prepared to move five hours away.
Graduating this last May, this season of my life has been a bit entrenched in goodbyes (something I’m already not too great at). Even so, this one felt different. Because for 10 years, Mallory and I have never been more than 50 minutes away from each other for a prolonged time.
Though it felt like a day we knew was coming, our little friend group still exchanged tearful hugs goodbye.
When I started writing this column on Tuesday, I was unsure if it made any sense — admittedly, it’s a bit of a leap from molasses to Mallory. But as I considered it, I was drawn to a familiar quote by Maya Angelou: “I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”
I don’t think I remember the story of the Great Molasses Flood because it’s weird or because it’s important — I remember it because of how it felt to laugh with Mallory as she shared it.
It can be easy to coast through the day, sticking to our routines and lacking presence with those around us, but there’s more to life than getting everything done on our checklist or our columns in on time (though I am sorry, Mark).
When we make space for each other — to laugh, share, encourage, tell ridiculous history facts — life is so much sweeter.
I’m sure I’ll see Mallory again soon, but I’ll carry that with me in the meantime.
holly@news-banner.com
