Did you know tumulus is another word for mound? Time for a roundup of tangentially mound-related trivia…
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1. Attacks at Fort Blue Mounds, in south-central Wisconsin, were some of the last hostilities in the Black Hawk War of 1832, named for the Sauk chief Black Hawk (Ma-ka-tai-me-she-kia-kiak, 1767-1838). Black Hawk and his life were fascinating and tragic. For one thing, at the age of 45 he fought alongside the British in the War of 1812, in perhaps the purest historical example of the “the enemy of my enemy” maxim. Moreover, not many people have a war named for them. Yes, the name was “he started it” fingerpointing anti-Indian propaganda, but still.
The origins of the war date to 1804. Well, right, they really date back ~300 years before that, but the more immediate cause was an 1804 treaty that ceded Sauk lands to the US and was generally viewed as invalid. By the 1820s the Sauks and many other midwestern tribes had been booted off their homeland, forced to move, then encroached upon again. In 1832, a fed-up Black Hawk led a group—called the “British Band” thanks to his 1812 allegiances—of Sauk, Meskwaki, and Kickapoo into Illinois, in a non-violent attempt to (re)settle their prior homes.
They were chased out by militia forces, among them both Abraham Lincoln and Jeff Davis. With militia in hot pursuit, Black Hawk’s band raided or engaged with forts on their retreat through Wisconsin over the period of three months. The misleadingly-named Black Hawk War ended with the downright-disingenuously-named “Battle of Bad Axe,” in which American soldiers ignored a flag of surrender for at least the second time in three months. Black Hawk was taken prisoner, though he was eventually released.
While in custody, he dictated his autobiography (read it here): Autobiography of Ma-Ka-Tai-Me-She-Kia-Kiak, or Black Hawk, Embracing the Traditions of his Nation, Various Wars In Which He Has Been Engaged, and His Account of the Cause and General History of the Black Hawk War of 1832, His Surrender, and Travels Through the United States. Also Life, Death and Burial of the Old Chief, Together with a History of the Black Hawk War. It was the first Native American autobiography published in the US, was a bestseller, won the 1833 National Book Club award for “Longest Title,” and evidently described his death and burial a full five years before it actually happened (I think that’s the 2nd edition title). Also, in a phenomenal example of backhanded, sarcastic kindness, he dedicated the book to the general that had captured him. Black Hawk died in 1838, possibly of a shrinking head:
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2. Fort Blue Mounds was in the town of Blue Mounds, in south central Wisconsin. The fort’s commander was Ebenezer Brigham, also the first white settler in the area, around 1828. He was there in search of Wisconsin’s most precious natural resource:
Brigham was the vanguard of the “lead rush,” which brought miners to Wisconsin, dreams of dollar signs dancing in their heads. They burrowed into hillsides like badgers for both lead and housing, giving Wisconsin its “Badger State” nickname. By the 1840s, Wisconsin mines were producing more than half the nation’s lead. As the lead reserves began tapping out, zinc took its place, and finally agriculture took over. During that transitional period, though, many people were farmer-miners, planting crops and digging up zinc in roughly equal measure. Wisconsin’s mining history hides in plain sight: town names like New Diggings and, uh…Lead Mine.
Galena, Illinois is also named for lead and preceded Wisconsin as a lead-based boom town, as well as preceding Wisconsin in igniting the Winnebago War with the Ho-Chunk population, by encroaching on their land in violation of formal agreements.
Across the river from Galena is Dubuque, Iowa, named for the French-Canadian Julien Dubuque, who by the late 1700s had established a lead mining empire. As far as lead magnates go, Dubuque was by all accounts an OK dude—he died poor because he gave so much money to his friends, and was respected enough by the local Meskwaki peoples to be buried with high honors after his death. They even built a monument:
So, anyways, lead mining: big part of the recent history of the midwest, and my lack of knowledge in this matter is appalling. By the way, the Wisconsin Historical Society includes an amazing virtual treasure trove of documents and readings about both the Black Hawk War and lead mining. My favorite snippet, though, is about James G. Percival, the erstwhile poet named as Wisconsin’s second State Geologist, whose “timidity is unconquerable.” A man cursed with “a morbid dread of mortality, or rather the society of his fellow men,” and who “spent his days crouched in holes and caves and returned home with weary knees to a supperless cottage to feast on moonshine.”
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3. From roughly 1000-1600 the city/settlement of Joara, in the Appalachian foothills of eastern North Carolina, formed the eastern edge of the expansive Mississippian culture—now mostly known as mound builders. Joara was a hub of trade and transportation, although not much is known about the people who lived there. It was visited by Hernando de Soto in 1540 as he aimlessly wandered the North American interior in a fit of gold fever. In 1566, Joara was visited by a second conquistador: Juan Pardo. Pardo was on a dual mission: to find an overland rout from what is now South Carolina to Spanish-controlled silver mines in Mexico, and to convert everyone on the way to christianity.
Pardo planned to create a pony-express-like set of manned checkpoints along the route to Mexico. Joara was perhaps the first major settlement he reached, and he made nice enough with the locals to build a small fort nearby: Fort San Juan was the first inland European settlement. A small crew was left behind, and Pardo returned to the coast to fend of a French invasion.
History is spotty, but the tensions rose due to mounting Spanish requests for food, women, and canoes, probable disease outbreaks, and the dawning realization that Spanish were less hapless gold-seekers as violent colonizers. Eighteen months after Pardo left, the Joarans burned Fort San Juan—and the soldiers therein—to the ground. It was a coordinated attack: six other Pardo forts were also destroyed. In response, Spain abandoned their efforts to colonize the American interior.
A few decades later, English settlers came through and Joara was gone. It’s fate is unclear: it may have collapsed in an epidemic, or been absorbed by and dispersed into a larger settlement. Also unclear was its exact location—a mystery for 300 years until digs near Morganton, North Carolina began turning up a mixture of Spanish and Native American artifacts in the 1980s. The burnt remains of what’s believed to be Fort San Juan were uncovered in summer 2013.
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4. Mound, Minnesota—hometown of the boogie-woogie singing Andrews Sisters and Kevin Sorbo, TV’s Hercules—is also the corporate home of Tonka Trucks. The company was founded in 1946 as Mound Metalcraft, which sold assorted metal things of a non-toy variety. Check out the cool logo:
Such a stately f. After a former building tenant offered to sell them dies for making toys—a crane and a steam shovel—Mound started selling toys in 1947. By 1949 they were producing nothing but toys, though they didn’t change their name to Tonka until 1956, and in 1964 released their flagship mighty dump truck.
Brief digression on the crushing yoke of capitalist enterprise: In the 1980s, Tonka moved manufacturing from Minnesota to Texas. Then they started replacing metal with plastic. Then they moved manufacturing to China. Then they bought Kenner-Parker, makers of Nerf, Risk, Clue, Baby Alive dolls, Six Million Dollar Man action figures, and Happy Fun Ball. Just two years later, toymaking monolith Hasbro swooped in to acquire the entire over-leveraged Tonka/Kenner enterprise. Sometime around 2050, there will be one corporation, producing literally everything, with the labor outsourced to Jupiter. Perfectly vertical integration. The workers will not be unionized.
Additional Tonka source material here.
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5. MLB rules dictate a pitcher’s mound 18 feet in diameter, peak height of 10 inches, and exactly 60 feet 6 inches from the rubber to the back edge of home plate. The existence of the mound tends inevitably towards the existence of charging the mound, the second most sublime moment in baseball after watching pitchers run out from the bullpen during a brawl. In this history of mound charging, has a pitcher ever put a mound-charger in a headlock, then bounced fists of his skull like golf balls off a rock? Yes:
Has a batter ever been sued for injuries sustained during a mound charging? Yes. Has a batter ever karate-kicked the catcher before charging, to avoid getting tackled from behind? Yes. Do baseball coaching videos give mound-charging tips? You bet. Charging the mound should be an Olympic sport.