Monthly Archives: August 2016

Kurt Vonnegut and His Super-Duper Atomic Bowtie

Mark Vonnegut has said that the father he knew growing up wasn’t a famous author. He was a family man, a struggling freelance writer, who couldn’t get a job teaching English at the local community community college. And that’s not to mention his father’s disasterous foray into selling SAAB automobiles on Cape Cod, either— another of Kurt’s attempts to make money.

For almost twenty years before the publication of Slaughterhouse-Five in 1969, Vonnegut was broke most of the time. (Someone claiming to be his newsboy told me he was somehow never around at the end of the month to pay for delivery.)

The poignancy of how success and the comfort of money eluded him year after year can be summed up in a tale, here told for the first time: Kurt Vonnegut’s idea for an atomic bowtie (alas, another anecdote that didn’t make final draft of his biography). In 1950, Vonnegut was sure that a bowtie polka-dotted with the symbol for nuclear energy would be a big seller and bring him money he so desperately needed to keep writing and supporting his family.

Science to the rescue!

You might be tempted to scoff at the idea as unworthy of a writer who would later became famous for his earth-friendly pronouncements. “We could have saved the earth,” he fumed later in life, “but we were too damned cheap.” In 1950, however, like most Americans, Vonnegut was simultaneously awe-struck, intrigued and darkly humorous about anything atomic. To appreciate how that could be, you have to put on a pair of Eisenhower-era X-Ray Specs (if only they really worked!), as biographers often try to do, and peer into the past.

By the the mid-twentieth century, Americans had waded through the muck of the Great Depression and then World War II. In the early Fifties, a desire to be done with self-sacrifice and world war released a sense of fantastic acceleration. The word “super” captured the feeling of technology coupled with a better life.

“Super” suggested “modern,” “unstoppable” and somehow even “uniquely American.” New super highways tempted drivers to streak coast-to-coast in a matter of days. Supermarkets groaned with food choices while parts of the world were near-starvation; the United States became the first uncontested superpower; and when jets penetrated the invisible barrier of sound with a thunderous crack, Americans learned to say “supersonic.”

In fact, no development could have been more emblematic of this giddy and anxious era than the atomic bomb, the ripping apart of matter itself.

The atomic bomb had been dropped at Hiroshima and Nagasaki to force a Japanese surrender in 1945. Then in July 1946 the United States exploded two more at the Bikini Atoll in the Pacific, primarily as a warning to the Soviet Union to back-off. The word “atomic” became synonymous with supernatural, frightening, thrilling, and yet a full-bore, world-wide demonstration of American strength and know-how.

Popular culture and business tried to cash-in on the excitement. During the five years afteratomic-toy Hiroshima, a dozen songs on the radio used “atom” or “atomic” in the title including, “Jesus Hit Like the Atomic Bomb.” Toy manufacturers hustled to get plastic and tin atomic cannons, robots, guns, and submarines— many of them made in Japan— on department store shelves.

Vonnegut’s idea of selling bow ties occurred to him suddenly, judging from his correspondence. The inspiration came from noticing the ribbon used to mark off “hot areas” in radioactive sites. He got a few feet of it, priced out the cost (fifty cents apiece), made a sample bowtie, and mailed it to his friend from college, S. Miller Harris, whose family owned Eagle Shirt Company.

Quality, he assured Harris, wouldn’t be a concern— it wasn’t supposed to be a sartorial statement, just a fad. He sketched out a publicity campaign, calling into play his skills as a former public relations writer for General Electric.

First, they would give one of the bowties to every member of the Atomic Energy Commission (perfect photo op); then they would get a Hollywood high school cheerleading team to choose the teen idol they’d most like to be in a nuclear reactor with. They would send the heartthrob who won the vote a bowtie and take a picture of him wearing it, surrounded by the star-stuck girls. It would be called the Bobby Soxer Oscar.

Harris, who’s family had been in the shirt business for a long time, took a pass on the idea. Kurt dropped it too after that, but like Jimmy Durante said about his jokes, when it came to brainstorms, Vonnegut “had a million of ‘em.”

Fortunately, he put them in his fiction instead of trying to sell them, but the big payoff was a long time coming.





One of the ‘German Infidels’ Who Came to America: Clemens Vonnegut, Freethinker

In the beginning was Clemens….

The year was 1848 and the first of Kurt Vonnegut’s ancestors on this father’s side arrived in the United States, having been booted out of the German confederation of states by the authorities. They were not sorry to see Clemens Vonnegut, age twenty-four, and his kind depart. He was a socialist and had participated in the republican uprising that year against the government.

Kurt always admired his great-grandfather. He had, in one of Vonnegut’s favorite words, a lot of “moxie.” But more than that, Clemens is wellspring of liberal thought and freethinking trickled down through generations of the Vonnegut family, and informed Kurt’s thought and writing throughout his life.

I wanted to include more about this fascinating man in my biography of Vonnegut, but the book is about Vonnegut the novelist, and not about Clemens Vonnegut the lapsed Catholic immigrant, empire-building businessman, civic leader, and educational reformer. He was nothing short of remarkable.

Clemens was part of a tidal wave of Germans who arrived in the United States between 1845-1854 and most, like him, had been forced out of the country by an outraged government that wanted, as one historian put it, “the dissatisfied, the troublemakers, the agitators, the failures, and the paupers to leave, and aided them in making a speedy exit.”

True, he was a troublemaker, and an agitator, but certainly no failure. Ever the optimist, Clemens saw nothing but opportunity waiting for him in New York. One of his heroes was Benjamin Franklin, and he was eager to make his own luck through hard work and perseverance.

Clemens Vonnegut in the 1850s

Clemens Vonnegut in the 1850s

One the other hand, like many other educated Germans, he was a rationalist and a liberal, an admirer of Voltaire, and a deist, if not an outright non-believer. American nativists observed the arrival of these European eggheads with contempt and hostility. The North American Review warned of the “atheists or radicals” coming by the boatload, and deplored the “irreligious influence of thousands of German infidels.” The Cleveland Plain Dealer referred regularly to “hair-lipped, infidel red Republicans.” The New York Tribune regarded “skepticism and materialism” as one of the “bad effects of the German immigration.” The Journal of Commerce denounced “recently imported infidels” who indulged in orgies of drunkenness, published “devilish German papers,” and desecrated Sunday by picnicking— with beer! (Blue laws in many states forbid such behavior.)

And they were quite right, as a matter of fact to be fearful of German immigrants like Clemens and fellow exiles during the mid-19th century. In the United States gentlemen were expected to belong to a church, religious oaths were administered in the courts, legislative bodies opened their sessions with prayer and politicians invoked God to justify their policies. Foreigners spouting humanism were defying convention and belief, nor were they meek about doing so. “They resolved to turn the light of German art, science, and philosophy on the dark night of American Puritanism,” wrote Carl Witte in The German Forty-Eighters in America (1952) “and refused to compromise with American bigotry. They would remold their adopted country according to the enlightened European pattern, and end the ‘materialism and corruption’ of the United States.”

Noble goals. But in the meantime, Clemens needed to make a living. He headed to Indianapolis, intending to open a general goods store.

He located it on East Washington Street and served his customers cheese, crackers, and Madison ale because restaurants downtown were rare. They trusted him and those whose lacked confidence in the early banks gave him their savings to safeguard. Across the street was a waitress, a German girl he fell in love with, Katrina Blank, and he married her.

Then, with his business and a growing family well in hand, he turned his attention to improving public life in his adopted city.

To start with, he assisted in founding the private, bilingual German-English Independent School. Because he and his fellow German-Americans believed that schools should graduate students with employable skills, the curriculum included industrial training, which was then unknown in the United States. As the popularity of the program grew, it drew the interest of the city’s public high school. By then, Clemens was well into his twenty-eight-year tenure on the public school board. In 1891 the Indiana legislature authorized the first nation’s first independent technical high school in Indianapolis, with a German-American as principal.

Next, Clemens lobbied for physical education. Having received gymnastics training as a young man, he walked every day, sometimes swinging heavy stones in both hands. He could be seen chinning himself on overhanging tree branches, too. At one point, when it seemed that interest in the idea of adding physical education was flagging, he persuaded the local German-American sports and debating society to pay for a physical education teacher until parents saw value of the class.

His progressive thought create a kind of nimbus around Kurt Vonnegut where we can see twinklings of concern about civic responsibility, magnified through his novels such as God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater. in which a rich man, Eliot Rosewater, turns philanthropist. “Just think of the wild ways money is passed around on Earth!” he said. “You don’t have to go to the Planet Tralfamadore in Anti-Matter Galaxy 508 G to find weird creatures with unbelievable powers. Look at the powers of an Earthling millionaire! Look at me! I was born naked, just like you, but my God, friends and neighbors, I have thousands of dollars a day to spend!”

Vonnegut Hardware in Indianapolis where Kurt worked as a teenager.

Vonnegut Hardware in Indianapolis, founded by Clemens Vonnegut, where Kurt worked as a teenager.

Clemens’ proudest achievement, however was founding the Freethinker Society of Indianapolis. The Freethinkers were a religious rationalist organization that assailed Biblical infallibility and advocated the natural religion based on man’s moral freedom. The movement had its roots in the American Revolution and took as its patron Thomas Paine. (Robert G. “Bob” Ingersoll was another German-American Midwesterner, the spellbinding speaker who toured the country preaching free thought, essentially joshing his huge audiences into religious skepticism with his wit. Would he be tolerated today?)

At one of the inaugural meetings of the Indianapolis Freethinker Society, Clemens spoke as president of the organization, urging his audience, “This earthly life is the only one we have. We must seek heaven in this world. It offers enough of everything we need and, indeed, for everyone and, to the extent that all resources are brought to bear in producing the means, will provide much more still for the satisfaction of life. The possibility therefore does exist of turning this world into a place of comfort and of joy for all.”

His great-grandson could not have been more eloquent.

Sometime later, “on a cold December day in the year 1904,” wrote a Vonnegut family historian, “in his eighty-third year, he left his home for his usual walk. He apparently became confused and lost his way. When he did not return at his accustomed time his family instituted a search with the assistance of the police. He was found several miles from his home lying by the side of a road— quite dead.”

On the 100th anniversary of the birth of Clemens Vonnegut, the Unitarian minister Reverend Frank S. C. Wicks (who married Kurt’s parents) said of him during a ceremony at the Clemens Vonnegut School, “He was a profoundly religious man, though he would have been surprised if anyone had told him so. His religion was that of Thomas Huxley whose intellectual honesty was his own; reverence and love for the ethical ideal and the desire to embody that ideal in life!”

“I am a humanist,” Kurt Vonnegut wrote, “which mean, in part, that I have tried to behave decently without any expectation of rewards or punishments after I’m dead. My German-American ancestors, the earliest of whom settled in our Middle West about the time of our Civil War, called themselves ‘Freethinkers,’ which is the same sort of thing. My great grandfather Clemens Vonnegut wrote, for example, ‘If what Jesus said was good, what can it matter whether he was God or not?’ I myself have written, ‘If it weren’t for the message of mercy and pity in Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount, I wouldn’t want to be a human being. I would just as soon be a rattlesnake.’”


Irving Langmuir, Bernard Vonnegut, and the Defense Department’s Idea of Weaponizing the Clouds

From the 1930s to the 50s, General Electric company in Schenectady, New York directed the work of its scientists by employing a resident genius to oversee all the laboratories: the first industrial scientist to be awarded a Nobel Prize, Irving Langmuir.


Irving Langmuir, who directed Bernard Vonnegut’s experiments at General Electric

Handsome, outgoing, strenuously athletic, Languir was a Brooklyn-born, European-trained polymath as widely known to Americans in the 1930s and 40s as Stephen Hawking is today. His searching curiosity about scientific questions modeled the kind of thinking he wanted his staff to emulate. He would often preface something he had observed with, “I’m not sure of what use this might be, but.…” And then if a researcher expressed interest in the idea, Langmuir usually would make the resources available.

One day in the spring of 1946, Langmuir was taking a hike on Mount Washington in New Hampshire with Vincent J. Schaefer, his right-hand man at General Electric. Schaefer, a high school dropout, was a self-taught scientist in the Edison mold who rose from machinist at General Electric to Langmuir and Blodgett’s associate. The two men loved skiing and the outdoors, and as they walked they speculated about the weather conditions necessary for precipitation. Rainmaking was the stuff of legend, but for understanding the process of heavy icing— the bane of airports— the role of particles in cloud physics was unclear. Schaefer offered to run some experiments.

What he needed was a way to produce miniature clouds he could observe and alter. He took a horizontal General Electric deep freezer unit, lined it with black velvet and added lights to illuminate a cross-section. When it was finished and turned on, he could make a cloud by breathing into the chamber, the same as seeing your breath in the cold air. He could also make a little cloud of water droplets like those in the higher reaches of a cloud. To try to stimulate his clouds to produce ice crystals, he sprinkled them with talcum, soil, dust— hundreds of agents, but nothing worked.

Returning to his lab on a hot, humid July day, he discovered that someone had turned the unit off. Impatiently, he went down the hall and found a chunk of dry ice, which he dropped into the freezer to help it cool down. To his astonishment, when he breathed into the chamber, a bluish haze sparkled with millions of tiny ice crystals, glinting in the rays of the lights. He had generated the ice cloud from supercooled water droplets. “It was a serendipitous event, and I was smart enough to figure out just what happened…. I knew I had something pretty important.” He replicated the experiment until he established that tiny grains of dry ice would seed the cloud to produce the same effect.

Vincent Schaefer and a pop gun device they invented for seeding their cloud chamber.

Vincent Schaefer and a pop gun device they invented for seeding their cloud chamber.

Langmuir was excited but knew that studying the growth rate of ice nuclei produced by dry ice, calculating the velocity, fall time, and dissipation rate of the ice particles— making real snow in the atmosphere, in other words— would require a lot of work in order to duplicate results obtained in a GE freezer.

He assigned a new man at the company to work with Schaefer— Bernard Vonnegut.

Bernard began a systematic search for creating ice nuclei. He settled in at his desk with basic chemistry texts and studied, over the next few months, the crystal structures of more than a thousand substances. “For no particular reason, I wondered how metallic smokes might work. It was easy to make the smoke from metal by simply producing an electric spark between two electrodes. Among other things, I made a spark with silver coins as the electrodes and was very surprised to get a nice display of ice crystals. But this too wore off after a few tries. Then it occurred to me that maybe this was because of a reaction with the iodine, so I put a little iodine in and, ‘Oh, boy!’ it worked fine.”

Silver iodide smoke was the best candidate. Next, he ran experiments in the cold box, and had not the bottle of silver iodide he was using been contaminated with sodium nitrate, an antifreeze, he would have been credited with developing GE’s first effective means of atmospheric cloud seeding. But Schaefer scooped him by a day.

On November 13, 1946 Schaefer rented a Fairchild light airplane and the services of a professional pilot and took off from the Schenectady County Airport. Langmuir was watching with binoculars from GE. Over Mount Greylock in the Berkshires, thirty miles away, Schaefer dropped three pounds of dry ice pellets into a target cold cloud. As he wrote in his notebook, “It seemed as though [the cloud] almost exploded, the effect was so widespread and rapid.” Snow fell from a cloud layer along a three-mile path in Western Massachusetts. “When we arrived at the airport, Dr. Langmuir rushed out, enthusiastically exclaiming over the remarkable view they had of it in the control tower of the General Electric Lab.”

The next day, a headline in the New York Times heralded the “Opening Vista of Moisture Control by Man.” The accompanying article said “A single pellet of dry ice, about the size of a pea … might produce enough ice nuclei to develop several tons of snow,” or perhaps to disperse sleeting clouds over airports by changing the microclimate A Boston Globe headline read, “Snowstorm Manufactured”.


Irving Langmuir (left) and Bernard Vonnegut (center) observing the effects of small scale cloud-seeding.

It was also the day after Schaefer’s flight that Bernard perfected a second method of cloud seeding. Using a generator that looked like an acetylene torch with a tailpipe, he created silver iodide smoke that produced rapid ice crystal formation in the cold box. Since this appeared to be as effective as Schaefer’s dry ice pellets, GE decided to pursue both techniques. Langmuir, in his first paper on the subject, wrote that “a small amount of ‘nucleating’ agent such as dry ice, silver iodide, or even water could cause a ‘chain reaction’ in cumulus clouds that potentially could release as much energy as an atomic bomb, but without radioactive fallout.”

Weather could be weaponized was the implication. Not surprisingly, the Department of Defense took note. Washington wanted to make certain the United States could beat the Soviet Union in a “weather race,” which, it was rumored, was already underway. In August 1953 Congress created the Presidential Advisory Committee on Weather Control. After deliberating, the committee reported that several scenarios were possible for using weapon as a weapon of warfare. Airplanes could drop exploding balloons, loaded with seeding crystals and the ensuring downpour would turn enemy roads into soup. The Army Ordnance Corps believed it was possible to outfit fifty-caliber tracer bullets of fighter planes with silver iodide and pilots would, in effect, strafe the clouds. And then there was idea of striking at the enemy populace by making it rain before clouds reached their farmland— similar to starving out the defenders of a castle.

Were clouds ever weaponized? Several sources say that the method was used in Vietnam. But then both Langmuir and Bernard Vonnegut were long gone from General Electric.

Much more about Bernard, and Kurt Vonnegut, who served as a public relations representative at General Electric during those years, can be found in Ginger Strand’s, The Brothers Vonnegut: Science Fiction in the House of Magic.

How Vonnegut’s Family Made a Fortune in Beer, and Lost It When the Bubble Burst

On his mother’s side, Kurt Vonnegut’s ancestors were the Liebers of Indianapolis. The Liebers’ story in the United States was similar to the Vonneguts— German immigrants who found their feet quickly in business.

But an interesting difference was that whereas the Vonnegut side tended toward civic responsibility and improvement, the Lieber side was hell-bent on making money as fast and as profitably as possible. Wealth would elevate them quickly into the German-American aristocracy of Indianapolis, which Kurt indicated to me, and also in his writings, that he was proud to be part of when he was young.

How the Lieber side of the family eventually realized their dream of riches was by creating an ocean of beer in the Midwest.

The gargantuan Indiana Brewing Company made millionaires of Vonnegut's maternal side of the family, until the bubble burst with Prohibition in 1919.

The gargantuan Indiana Brewing Company made millionaires of Vonnegut’s maternal side of the family, until the bubble burst with Prohibition in 1919.

Peter Lieber, Kurt’s immigrant great-grandfather, purchased an Indianapolis brewery in 1865. Peter knew nothing about making beer, but Midwesterners— half of whom were German and Irish— were thirsty to drink it. Lieber found investors, hired a German who was an expert brewmaster, and arranged to have his product capped in a bottling factory owned by an in-law. To make the taste of beer from P. Lieber & Company distinctive from the hundreds of other small breweries in the region, a secret ingredient was added during the brewing process: a pinch of coffee. Lieber named his beer Dusseldorfer, and his small-time brewery grew into the giant Indianapolis Brewing Company. In 1900, Dusseldorfer beer won a gold medal at the Paris Exposition, and Peter retired to (where else?) Dusseldorf, Germany.

Now, with his father out of the way, son Albert Lieber was free to milk the company. He discovered that he shared something in common with the representative of the British syndicate owning the Indianapolis Brewery Company— both men were corrupt. The pair agreed to create a special account for off-the-books expenditures. Under item “ice,” they would put their personal expenses for leisure.

Albert used “ice” to build Vellamada on the White River outside Indianapolis, a 400-acre summer residence with hunting grounds. He used it to make under-the-table payments to his coppersmiths from the brewery to build gorgeous guesthouses at Vellamada. “Ice” paid for servants, an English butler, horses, a liveried footman, carriages and automobiles.

Booth Tarkington, 'Wet-Ass Club' Alumnus

Booth Tarkington, ‘Wet-Ass Club’ Alumnus

In town, he used “ice” to finance good times with Indianapolis’s fun boys who belonged to his league of merrymakers, the “W-A” or “Wet-Ass” club. Initiates were led blindfolded to a spot in the brewery and then had their butts blasted with beer from a spigot. Novelist Booth Tarkington (The Magnificent Ambersons), an Indianapolis native received his special gold W-A pin this way. Said a family historian, Albert “entertained his friends without thought of cost: the choicest viands, rare wines, flowers, the whitest linens and choicest porcelain chinaware. He soon acquired the reputation of a millionaire who counted the cost of nothing.”

Somehow, Albert’s profligacy hardly made a dent in the treasury of the huge Indianapolis Brewing Company. The sums he tossed around in conversation were staggering, if true. An advertisement in the Indianapolis Star in 1914 boasted that the brewery employed five hundred workers to produce thirty million bottles of beer annually, and used two hundred and ten draft horses to pull the cases to warehouses.

The party ended suddenly when Congress passed the Eighteenth Amendment in 1919, usheringprohibition1-1 in the era of Prohibition. Within a decade, the Indianapolis Brewery Company, and Albert Lieber, were ruined. Had Albert diversified somehow, he might have avoided disaster, but the name Lieber was writ in beer. Albert sold Vellamada in 1920.

The taste of the award-winning Dusseldorfer was enjoyed one more time more, however. In 1996, while Kurt was exhibiting some of his prints in Denver, Colorado, a local microbrewery, Wynkoop, bottled a special beer for the occasion, brewed with a pinch of coffee after the recipe used by Vonnegut’s great-grandfather, Peter. Vonnegut drew a self-portrait for the label. The name of the beer was Kurt’s Mile-High Malt.