Problems Solved

During the height of the Viet Nam War, when large Cold War military bases were awash with personnel, the commanding general of Lackland Air Force Base initiated a monthly $50 prize to the person who made the best suggestion on how to improve efficiency.  My hero was a sergeant who won the prize by suggesting that two separate paper forms be combined into one new paper form.

A few months later, the same sergeant won the prize again by suggesting the elimination of the new form, since hardly anyone had used it in the last year.

Personally, I think his ideas were worth a lot more than a measly C-note:  they should have at least named the Pentagon after him!  The sergeant obviously had the kind of initiative and leadership skills that should have been encouraged. 

There is merit in the idea of combining two problems in the hope the irritants will cancel each other out.  This has been on my mind this week as a retiring Supreme Court justice has touched off another round of heated national debates about abortion.  It has been only a few days, and already it seems to be all that the various news channels can talk about.

If we can maintain some semblance of civil discourse, I will happily debate with you the merits of water purification techniques in Nigeria.  Or we can have long arguments about where your lap goes when you stand up.  (While I was getting a degree in Anthropology, one of my professors—the late Fred Plog—happily admitted that all my new parchment was good for was official recognition of an ability to argue about how many angels could dance on the head of a pin.  I immediately proved him wrong by agreeing with him, thereby proving my suitability for graduate school.)

Abortion is different—there is no need for new arguments since clearly no one is listening to anyone else.  If you watch any of these carefully staged “roundtable discussions” that television is so fond of airing (otherwise known as, "Let's you and him fight!"), all the participants do is talk over each other or wait until it is their turn to speak and say whatever they want—regardless of what anyone else has said.  Hell, even faculty meetings are better, if only because they eventually adjourn.

No one's mind will be changed about abortion in the coming months, just as no one's mind has been changed in this debate for years.  (Frankly, I wish the issue had been settled at the ballot box decades ago, instead of turning our courts and state legislatures into an endless game of one-upmanship.

Every president promises not to use the issue as a litmus test for appointing judges (usually the opposite of what he promised as a candidate)—and this lie is followed up by the charade of potential candidates' promising the Senate Judiciary Committee that they have open minds about an issue that every post-pubescent American has long since already decided. 

“Judge Smith, can you comment on how you might rule on anything, if this body was to confirm your appointment to the highest court in the land?”

“I can’t comment about anything substantive, Senator.  That might come up in a court case and I want to keep an open mind.  Besides, if I told the truth about anything, half of you guys wouldn’t vote to confirm me and I would lose a lifetime job with good pay and great benefits.”

Somehow, the only American in the entire country without an opinion about abortion is a potential candidate for a court that will likely decide the issue for the rest of us. 

These endless arguments remind me of the endless nonsense about gun control….  Hmmm.

Combining the two problems is the obvious solution, so I propose that we officially change the Second Amendment in the Bill of Rights to read as follows:

A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms or seek an abortion, shall not be infringed.

Yes, the idea is insane, but there is method to my madness:  just think of the possible benefits!  First, we will have an Amendment that will please—at least in part—both the left and the right.  Second, the ACLU can, once again, defend all ten Amendments making up the Bill of Rights.

The pointless debates would end, since regardless of your political leanings, you can find something in the reworded amendment you like.  No one would want to repeal the Second Amendment...At least not in that form.

We could then go back to picking judges for their judicial wisdom, not for their religious preferences.  Politicians could be judged on… something?  (I’m still not sure what they do when they aren’t throwing red meat at their constituents).

Best of all, the donnybrooks over federal funding for Planned Parenthood and whether the National Rifle Association has bought your congressman could end!  Actually, you could combine both organizations under the new name,  "National Rifle and Abortions".  (It would bring a whole new meaning to the term,  "NRA Life Member"!)

I look forward to the day when the New and improved NRA buys airtime on MSNBC.  I can already imagine their new slogan:

“Assault rifles and abortions—if you don’t want one, don’t get one.

At The Water's Edge

Because 1948 was a presidential election year, everyone and his dog knew it would be a bad year for bipartisan efforts in Washington.  World War II was over, the Cold War loomed as relations with our former ally, the Soviet Union, deteriorated rapidly, and all of America expected a major shift in the country’s political climate.  The Democrats would most likely lose in the upcoming presidential election, giving the White House to the Republicans for the first time since 1932.

Normally, during a presidential election year, very little significant foreign policy is conducted, since treaties must be ratified by the Senate.  Politicians know that heated debates on controversial issues distract from every candidate's prime missions—raising money and getting reelected—so those debates are avoided, if possible. 

But 1948 was an unusual year:  Tens of millions of Europeans were still homeless, unemployed, living in ruined cities, struggling with food rationing, and living under shaky governments still trying to reestablish themselves.  Worse yet, the Russian bear was refusing to relinquish occupied territory in Eastern Europe and was threatening to take over even more countries.

America needed a stronger Western Europe—one financially strong enough to be a trading partner, and one militarily strong enough to resist communism.  The State Department had two proposals that might help to achieve these goals:  The Marshall Plan and the creation of the North American Treaty Organization. 

The problem with the proposals was that while President Truman and his cabinet were Democrats, the Republicans were the majority party in the Senate.  Senator Arthur Vandenberg (right) was not only Chairman of the Foreign Relations Committee—where Senate approval of any treaty would be initiated—but as President Pro Tempore of the Senate, could also easily block the passage of any treaty.

While the Republican Presidential Convention was still months away, it was common knowledge that Vandenberg was expected to be the Republican candidate that fall, and as Truman’s popularity waned, most expected that it would be a President Vandenberg who would eventually tackle the ticklish problems of rebuilding Europe and containing Soviet aggression.

Senator Vandenberg knew that a successful conclusion of treaty negotiations would be handing a huge political victory to Truman just before the election, and that if the treaty were simply stalled a few months, he could very well become the next president of the United States.

Announcing that “politics stops at the water’s edge”, Vandenberg worked closely with Secretary of State Marshall and Undersecretary Robert Levitt.  Authoring the Vandenberg Resolution, the Senate overwhelmingly authorized President Truman to seek mutual defense agreements with the countries of Western Europe—a step that would lead directly to the formation of NATO. 

And it was a step that led indirectly, to the reelection of Truman.  Vandenberg wasn’t even his party’s choice as a presidential candidate.  He retired from politics in 1949.

Senator Vandenberg’s resolution is a monument to bipartisan cooperation.  In 1957, a Senate committee chaired by Senator John F. Kennedy redecorated the Senate Reception Room, directing that only the portraits of the greatest senators should be on exhibit.  Vandenberg’s portrait is one of nine so honored.

Historically, most successful treaties have been the result of bipartisan effort.  This is why when presidents travel outside of the country, members of both parties usually accompany him.  When Nixon visited Russia in 1972, for example, he included Democrats among his traveling party.

When Wilson travelled to Paris in 1918 to negotiate the Versailles Treaty, he neglected to take any Republicans with him, and as a result, the terms of the treaty became a bitter partisan issue in the next presidential election.  The United States never ratified the Versailles Treaty, never joined the League of Nations, and all but ignored the foreign events inevitably leading to the Second World War.  There is no better example of why world peace should not be allowed to become a partisan talking point.

Three years ago, I predicted that the nuclear arms treaty President Obama was negotiating with Iran would fail for the same reasons—lack of bipartisan participation.  No Republicans were part of the complicated multi-party negotiations, and as expected, the agreement became a partisan topic, figured prominently in the 2016 election, and was never ratified by the Senate.  Fully aware that the Republican-controlled Senate would not approve the proposed treaty, Obama said, “I've got a pen and I've got a phone - and I can use that pen to sign executive orders and take executive actions and administrative actions that move the ball forward.”

Obama lifted the existing sanctions against Iran by an executive order, meaning that President Trump could—with another executive order—begin the process of backing out of the agreement.

Today, President Trump is starting the process of negotiating with North Korea, and—once again (like Wilson and Obama before him)—the President is excluding participation by members of the opposition party.  And once again, I am predicting failure.  Already, Senator Chuck Schumer has referred to the meeting as mere theatrics without substance.

Note.  Actually, Schumer said, "The summit was more show than substance, what the Texans call 'all cattle, no hat,'" The actual expression—at least as we Texans use it—is ‘all hat and no cattle,’ but since it was one New Yorker talking about another New Yorker, who am I to quibble?

Personally, I am in doubt about North Korean sincerity.  The possibility of a meaningful peace treaty seems incredibly remote, but I can at least pretend to be optimistic.  Since November of 2016, I am finding it increasingly easier to accept the unlikely.  I hope President Trump is successful in North Korea.  With that in mind, I suggest that Trump take Senator Schumer with him on his next overseas negotiation trip.

In the meantime, how do we go about finding and electing more men like Senator Arthur Vandenberg?  A man who understands that patriotism is more important than political party?  A man who understands that politics stops at the water’s edge?

Good Night, Dear Brother, Good Night

The readers will have to pardon me this week, I have no funny stories of outrageous battles, strange forgotten history, or tortured prose to offer, tonight—all I can think about is my big brother.  As I write this, he is peacefully medicated and slowly dying.

In so many ways, this should be a celebration, for he is the perfect example of the life well lived.  He is surrounded by a loving wife, devoted children, and countless friends.  

Though we were born six years apart--a gap in years that should have been formidable to cross--he has always been a great brother.  We frequently joke that we were raised by “the same but different parents” because (and we certainly do love each other in spite of this) in so many ways, we are polar opposites.

My brother is fascinated with cars—almost as much as I am with airplanes.  While he regularly  sends me photos of fancy cars parked in front of airplanes, I send him back photos of airplanes, telling him there is some kind of car parked behind each.    Where my brother was very active in the church, I never was.  Where he excelled in school, I had graduated on a plea bargain.  

We do have a few things in common.  Our father instilled in each of us a strong work ethic, but where my father and I frequently had been so preoccupied with our work that we had all too often sacrificed our home life, my brother has always managed to combine the two, working with his wife and children--an accomplishment I have always envied.

We both married women who are clearly the sources of our salvation.  Both of our wives are smarter than we are, and both are kinder and far wiser than we deserve (though I suspect that my wife has been told this more frequently by strangers than his has).

Our wives--frequently in spite of our contributions—have raised wonderful children.  My brother is rightfully very proud of his children, who are obviously devoted to him.  His family is the best proof of how successful my brother’s life has been.

Tonight, my brother is dying of multiple incurable and fatal diseases.  Just two days ago, he slipped into unconsciousness, unaware that he was surrounded by his gathering family.  Very late last night, while we waited for the worst, he suddenly woke up, looked us all in the eyes, and spoke clearly and coherently to us.  For two hours, he said exactly what had to be said and told all of us that he loved us.  To be honest, he told me that he had loved me even during the times he had hated me.  (Something, perhaps, that only brothers can understand.)

Those were two difficult hours of extremely hard work for my brother, and I am incredibly proud of him.  He did it beautifully, telling his wife and children—and yes, me—exactly what each needed to hear before he drifted off again.  Those were, perhaps, the finest two hours of his life.

Sometime in the next few hours—perhaps in a few days—my brother will leave us.  This inescapable, horrible fact is made bearable only by remembering how successful a life my brother led.  While he is a very successful businessman, his true wealth is measured by the love of the people who have gathered around his bed for the last few days.  He has obviously touched the lives of many people.

My brother has certainly prepared for his death, having worked months at putting his affairs in order.  He has even created a small family cemetery on his ranch.  It is a quiet, secluded place above the Brazos River.  Though at this point nothing has been decided by his family, I have a suggestion for an epitaph.  To be fair, this is stolen from Mark Twain, who placed these words over the grave of his beloved daughter Susy, who tragically died at the young age of 24.  So many words have been pirated from Twain that I am sure he will not begrudge this small theft of his words for one who so clearly deserves them.

Warm Summer Sun, Shine Kindly Here,

Warm Summer Wind, Blow Softly Here,

Warm Sod Above, Lie Light, Lie Light,

Good Night, Dear Heart, Good Night, Good Night.

Good night, Dear Brother, good night.

Famous for Being Famous

It was the portrait of Theodore Roosevelt that first got me to notice the paintings of John Singer Sargent.  For a time, I was captivated by old black and white photos of prominent historical figures.  Then, I discovered that some of them had been “colorized” by computers.  Looking at a color photo of Abraham Lincoln or Mark Twain is shocking, but inevitably you wonder how accurately the computer process produces a lifelike image.

This led me to compare portraits to photos, trying to see how accurate they were.  After spending a lot of time comparing a colorized photo of Roosevelt to a portrait painted by Sargent, I began to believe that the painting conveyed more emotion than the photo.  Fascinated, I began to seek out more portraits by Sargent.  I was hooked.

It took a while for me to realize exactly why I like the paintings of Sargent.  He was trained in a Parisian atelier (private art school) by a teacher who taught the methods and techniques of Diego Velazques, my favorite artist.  His teacher would endlessly repeat the words of Velazques, “In art everything that is not indispensable is harmful.” 

John Singer Sargent, was an expatriate American painter who spent most of his life constantly moving around in Europe.  Born in Italy to American parents, he spent most of his life in either London or Paris, learning to speak French, German, and Italian as well as English.  It was in Paris that his art began to be noticed, after he won acclaim at the annual Paris Salon—the official art show that showcased the best of art produced that year.

Sargent was exceptionally talented and could have chosen almost any artistic career since he was as talented in music and writing as painting, but he chose to be a portrait artist because he needed to make sufficient money to support his parents and siblings.  Sargent was never interested in the "dignified poverty" of a bohemian artist, so he approached painting as a money making proposition and followed a detailed business plan. 

In order to become a successful portrait artist, Sargent needed to meet the kind of people who could afford a portrait.  He carefully courted members of Parisian high society, often offering to paint their portrait for free.  One of those he pursued was a prominent physician, Dr. Samuel Jean de Pozzi.  The portrait, Dr. Pozzi At Home (pictured right) won Sargent the kind of attention he needed in Parisian society.

His painting of Pozzi was the inspiration for Oscar Wilde’s The Portrait of Dorian Gray.  Wild patterned the artist in the novel, Basil Hallward, after Sargent. 

Sargent needed to fit in with high society, but he was consciously aware that he was not a part of that society.  One of the paintings that he kept on display in his studio was a copy he had made of Diego Velazquez’s Don Antonio el Ingles, a portrait of a court dwarf posing with a mastiff, knowing that when the original was painted, in art a dwarf represented the artistic outsider.  By making the copy, Sargent was admitting that he was the outsider catering to the whims of high society.  Perhaps this is the reason that, once he was financially secure in his last decades, he grew tired of the genre, agreeing only occasionally to paint the rich or famous.

Considering the ongoing debate today about tariffs, it is ironic that Sargent drew criticism in France for being an American after the US instituted a tariff on importing French Art.  Born in Italy, and living most of his life in Europe—he didn’t even visit America until he was fully grown—Sargent was far more European than American.  Years later when he was offered a knighthood, he had to remind King Edward that he was not an Englishman. 

It was Dr. Pozzi who introduced Sargent to Virginie Amelie Avegno Gastreau, another expatriate American, whose desire to be noticed was as intense as Sargent’s.

Amelie had moved from New Orleans to Paris shortly after her father had been killed in the Civil War.  Groomed by her mother almost solely to be married to a man of wealth and prominence, she was one of the first women to be labeled a “professional beauty” by the British newspapers.  Amelie was shapely, tall, and had the pale luminescent skin tones that were prized in high society.  (While some of that was natural, her mother kept exacting financial records that reveal the secret formula for perfect skin tones included liberal dusting with rice powder followed by equally liberal amounts of lavender dusting.)  In a day when many rich women had their faces painted with enamel and regularly swallowed arsenic to achieve the perfect pale pallor, Amalie was a natural beauty.  She enhanced this with her red hair, carefully dyed eyebrows, and her ears tipped with rouge.

Note.  I always thought that I was the first person to think that some women appeared to apply their makeup with a trowel, but one newspaper pundit accused Amelie of using a golden trowel over a century ago.  To be fair, this was much later in her life, but even in the prime of her youth, Amelie, like all the women in high society, spent enormous amounts of time and money on their makeup.

Married to a prominent banker, Amelie was extremely popular, with newspapers regularly reporting where she went, who she was with, and what she wore.  Everyone gossiped about her love life, her sense of fashion, and who she met secretly.  Amelie was, in her time, what Kim Kardashian is today:  an attractive woman whose sole talent is remaining famous.

Sargent managed to convince Amelie Gastreau to sit for a portrait.  Together, they plotted to produce a shocking portrait—one that would garner both of them the attention they craved.  Convincing Amelie proved easier than actually painting her portrait, for the beauty bored easily and did not have the discipline to remain still enough for a portrait.  It took months, and Sargent produced 30 preliminary sketches, several water colors, one partially completed painting, and one masterpiece. 

Amelie Gastreau was portrayed wearing a clinging black dress with a deep décolletage, standing at a table with her face in profile.  The portrait was beautiful, managing to convey the translucent skin tones and a haunting beauty.  Sargent and Amelie were both excited with the result and Sargent entered the painting in the 1884 Paris Salon with the title Madame ***, modestly withholding the name of the beauty that all of Paris would recognize instantly.

On opening day—the painting was received horribly.  People were shocked and yelled insults.  The newspapers denounced the painting, the artist, and the model.  Amelie’s mother demanded that Sargent withdraw the painting, while Amelie hid herself in the refuge of her home. 

What was upsetting everyone was that the dress strap on Amelie’s left shoulder had fallen down on her arm, suggesting that she was either in the process of disrobing for an affair, or hurriedly redressing after one.  It was not the amount of skin being shown that was upsetting, it was that the painting made public what all of Paris knew privately—that the upper class viewed having affairs as de rigueur.  The behavior was expected, but confessing it was forbidden.

Sargent left the painting in the Salon, but when it was over, he scraped the paint of the shoulder strap off and repositioned the strap up on Amelie’s shoulder.  Since Amelie and her husband refused to purchase the painting, it remained in Sargent’s studios for decades.  His career as a portrait artist in Paris was irreparably damaged, so he moved to London, occasionally leaving for short periods of time in America.  Ironically, his career as a portrait artist flourished outside of Paris, in no large part because of the notoriety of the painting of Madame Gastreau.

Amelie Gastreau, never recovered socially despite desperate measures.  She had her portrait painted by a different artist.  The new, "chaste" portrait covered almost all of her skin—and no one cared or noticed.  Another new portrait was produced, complete with a plunging neck line and a fallen dress strap.  Once again, no one cared.  As she aged, she appeared less and less in the newspapers.  Eventually, Amelie gave up and became a recluse in her own home, seeing no one and never venturing out, except late at night.  When she died in 1915, few noticed.

Sargent went on to great acclaim, on both sides of the Atlantic.  For the rest of his life, he was in the enviable position of being able to refuse commissions, despite substantially raising the price he demanded for a portrait.  In 1910, he offered the portrait of Madame Gastreau to the New York Metropolitan for the bargain price of roughly $5,000, less than he charged for a portrait.  His sole condition was that the portrait not be listed with the name of the subject.  The Met agreed and since that time, the work has been known as the Portrait of Madame X.

Surprisingly, while the painting was famous, the Met did not learn that Sargent had repositioned the shoulder strap until 1981 when a photo of the original painting as it hung in the Paris Salon surfaced.  X-rays have confirmed the original position.  If you remember, Sargent had produced a second painting of Amelie, now hanging in the Tate.  On that unfinished painting, the shoulder strap is missing, still waiting for Sargent to finish the portrait.

The woman in the portrait never worked a day in her life, far too busy with a life in high society, a life style that meant rising at noon, spending three or more hours a day fixing her hair and putting on makeup in preparation for a day of theater, dinners, going to multiple parties—a typical night might require as many as eight costume changes.  All of this was necessary to be memorable.

As Deborah Davis noted in her book, Strapless, today, no one remembers the name of Virginie Amelie Avegno Gastreau.  But, as Madame X, she is remembered as the woman who works eight hours a day, six days a week—and she hasn’t changed her dress in 134 years.

Not in My Garden (Thank God!)

Unfortunately, I have let the weeds go in my yard for a couple of years, so that now, I have a fantastic variety of strange plants that are rapidly taking over the yard.  I am long past the point of being able to pull them up, so drastic action is required.  In short, I need a civilian version of Agent Orange.

Scrummaging through the garden shed, I found two partial bottles of weed killer so old that no doubt half the active ingredients were probably inert, but what the hell:  I  decided to use them anyway.  With two new bottles of weed spray, plus the old bottles, I was able to spray the weeds daily for two weeks with the best herbicides available.

Now, I have the happiest, healthiest, and most vigorous collection of useless parasites this side of Congress.

It seems the government has banned every chemical that might make an effective herbicide.  The only remaining hope is to grind up fresh steak and sprinkle it around on the lawn in the hope that the weeds die from the high cholesterol.

My yard now contains such a variety of weird plants that I might be able to declare the front yard as a botanical park and begin charging admission.  This is not as strange a notion as you might think:  I know of a similar park, though I have to admit that one does have stranger plants.

Years ago, I visited an unusual arboretum in Honduras, the Lancetilla Botanical Gardens.  Divided into an experimental plantation, a huge natural preserve, and a fantastic arboretum, it is both a tourist attraction and a research center.  While I would have loved to have ventured into the preserve (if only to see if the howler monkeys are anything like a faculty meeting), that part of the park was closed to tourists, so I went instead to see the exotic trees.

Central America used to be famous for its hardwood trees, but a few centuries of heavy harvesting have cleared out many varieties.  Many of the former forest areas were cleared for farm land and most of what remained were destroyed for their valuable timber.  As a child, I can remember newspaper advertisements for furniture made from Honduran mahogany selling at bargain prices.

Today, if you want to see many of the exotic kinds of trees that used to be common in Central America, you have to go to a “tree zoo” where the nearly extinct samples are preserved.

One of the "zoo's" trees that fascinated me was the manchineel, a tree that is incredibly poisonous.  The tree is called the manzanilla de la muerte ("little apple of death") by the locals and you don’t even have to eat the attractive green, apple-like fruit for it to kill you, because every part of this tree is deadly. Simply touching the plant can poison you and the sticky milky white sap will raise blisters on the skin.  Even sitting under the tree while it rains would be hazardous to your health.  The manchineel is the most deadly tree on earth.

Symptoms of manchineel poisoning sound like some of those side-effects lists from the medicines hawked on television (which are obviously written by lawyers), including everything from ingrown toenails to an overdrawn bank account.  Well, actually the list is:  difficulty breathing, a narrowing or closure of the esophagus, skin blisters, fever, headaches, blindness, skin rashes, and a burning sensation of the mouth and throat.

The sharp, serrated leaves are so poisonous that before the Spanish arrived, the Carib Indians threw bundles of the leaf-bearing branches into the water supplies of their enemies in an early form of biological warfare.  Contact with just the surface of the tree’s bark, branches, and leaves will cause blisters of the skin. There have even been documented cases of people's suffering respiratory symptoms from unknowingly breathing in the dust from the bark while standing in the shade of the tree.

This homicidal tree can be found in Florida, Cuba, Mexico….just about anywhere around the edge of the Caribbean.  The plant’s fruit floats, and the seed is still viable after long exposure to salt water.  The tree can grow to a height of 50 feet, and is usually found along beaches, where it is an excellent tool to prevent beach erosion.  English sailors called the fruit the "beach apple", and learned quickly how harmful the tree could be.

Most deadly plants evolve their poisons as defensive measures, but no one is quite certain why the manchineel has evolved into such a deadly nightmare.  Fruits usually smell sweet to attract animals to eat them (with the exception of durian fruit, that smells like turpentine and onions garnished with a gym sock, according to the Smithsonian), so that their indigestible seeds will be planted elsewhere.  And while the attractive apples of the manchineel do indeed smell good (kind of like a freshly baked apple pie), the animal that eats one will not live long enough to spread the seeds.  Scientists also have yet to explain why the deadly fruit is the least poisonous part of the tree.

Dead birds are frequently found under the tree. I have emphasized a couple of times that the fruit kills any animal that eats it, but...Well...there is one animal who eats manchineel with impunity.  The black iguana is somehow uniquely immune to the tree and can safely eat the fruit.  Since iguanas are not migratory, nor do they travel far during their lifetime, once again, scientists are not sure how this trait evolved.  (Having seen a few black iguanas, my personal theory is that a four foot long, carnivorous lizard, that has been clocked at 22 mph, is just too damn mean to be bothered by anything.)

Cutting down the tree is also dangerous, since the flying dust from the bark can cause skin blisters, difficulty breathing, and blindness.  Even the smoke from burning the tree is harmful.  And if all the above weren't bad enough, the unlucky victim of the tree who survives the initial assault may still succumb to its effects later since recent research shows that the tree’s poisonous sap is also carcinogenic. 

For some completely unfathomable reason, the tree is on the endangered and protected list in Florida—possibly to cut down on Yankee tourism???  Even more unfathomable, somebody braver than I in Honduras actually found a modern use for it.  If you can survive burning through the base of the tree, and allow the wood to dry in the sun for a few weeks, the attractive wood can be used for furniture.  At a market in the seaside city of Tela, I found kitchen utensils made from the wood.  I resisted the temptation to buy them. 

The only other use for the tree has been in warfare.  Several native tribes found that tipping arrowheads in the sap of the tree made their weapons far more effective.  One example figures prominently in American history, though you have probably never heard of it.

In 1513, the Spanish nobleman and politician, Juan Ponce de Leon, lost an important legal case with Diego Columbus, the son of the famous explorer, over who was the rightful governor of Puerto Rico.  Denied the position he wanted, Ponce de Leon took the advice of King Ferdinand and set out to explore more of the Caribbean.  He sailed north and up along the East coast of what he named La Florida, or the land of flowers.

Everyone knows he was looking for the Fountain of Youth.  (Everyone, that is, except  Ponce de Leon, who had never heard of this ridiculous myth—a lie that was probably started more than a decade after his death).  What the rich nobleman did discover was fertile land, good harbors, and natives whom he hoped could be forced to build his new colony.

After securing royal approval, Ponce de Leon set out with a large expedition to build the first colony in what would become today’s United States.  Landing somewhere in Southwestern Florida in 1521, he ran into a large, angry party of Calusa natives.  In the ensuing battle, Ponce de Leon was struck in the thigh with an arrow tipped in manchineel sap.  Prudently withdrawing back to Puerto Rico, Ponce de Leon died from the poison.

So, a poisonous tree defeated the first attempt at European colonization in the United States.