In the 1950s, an anonymous terrorist planted a pipe bomb in a New York City public space. Then another. And another.
Written by Alan Bellows • 41 minute read
On 29 March 1951, shortly after 5 p.m., a hand-grenade-sized pipe bomb exploded in the landmark Grand Central Terminal in New York City. Ordinarily, the detonation of a pipe bomb in a busy commuter terminal at rush hour would be cause for grave public concern, yet the local news media barely acknowledged the event.
It had been a hectic news day. In one of the shrillest moments in America’s infamous anti-communism “red scare,” husband and wife Julius and Ethel Rosenberg were both found guilty of conspiracy to commit espionage. News from the ongoing war in Korea dominated the space below the fold. By comparison, the small explosion from the homemade pipe bomb at Grand Central didn’t hurt anyone; it merely startled passers-by and damaged a cigarette urn outside the Oyster Bar. Police dismissed the event as the work of “boys or pranksters.” The New York Times reported the event in the following day’s issue, though only with a three-paragraph brief at the bottom of page 24.
About four weeks later, another small bomb exploded inside a phone booth in the basement of the New York Public Library. Again, no one was injured, though the explosion damaged the booth—as well as the composure of a security guard leaning against the booth at the time. The NYPD bomb squad found fragments very similar to the Grand Central device; both were lengths of well-machined pipe with a cap on each end. Inside, a .25 caliber shell detonated a reservoir of explosive gunpowder packed with nuts and bolts. The alleged “boys or pranksters” had evidently reprised their prank—and they were far from finished.
Ancient Israel was renowned for its date palm plants, which were widespread in thick forests and reportedly bore delicious fruit. The dates were a staple food for dwellers of the Judaean Desert. Sometime around the year 1300, however, a confluence of catastrophes–agricultural, economic, and climatological–killed many of the trees, and over time the palms became so uncommon that a French explorer in the 16th century doubted that the ancient date trade could ever have been particularly noteworthy. Within the following few centuries, that particular variant of date palm was extinct, and became entirely the stuff of legend.
In the mid-1960s, archaeologists at the clifftop palace of Herod the Great in Masada, Israel uncovered a 2000-year-old jar containing seeds. These turned out to be seeds of the long-extinct date palm. In 2005, researchers treated three of these seeds with fertilizer solutions and planted them in pots to see whether they were still capable of germinating. One of the seeds did indeed sprout, and it yielded a large, healthy date palm that the researchers nicknamed ‘Methuselah’ (not to be confused with the famous bristlecone pine of the same name). Within a decade Methuselah was almost ten feet tall, and producing pollen.
Date palms come in separate male and female plants, only the females being able to produce fruit. Methuselah is unfortunately male. However, scientists speculate that Methuselah could be used to fertilize a female plant of a closely related Egyptian date palm, resulting in fruit as soon as the early 2020s, offering humanity access to a legendary flavour that has not been tasted in centuries.