I
blame it all on that rat bastard Arthur
Wynne. And the old New
York World which has long since gone on to the oblivion it deserves for
inflicting it on the American public. Wynne, a Limey
journalist with too much time on his hands, called it Fun’s Word-Cross Puzzle. Although the first one, printed in the World on December 21, 1913 was in the
shape of a diamond, the time waster had all of the elements of the puzzles
which torture and consume us to this day—numbered clues for words arranged horizontally
and vertical. Not long after the first one was printed an inalert
typographer misspelled the heading
as cross-word. The designation, minus the hyphen stuck.
There
had been simple word/spelling games similar to the word-cross in children’s magazines since the mid-19th Century. They were simple word squares in which
letters spelled out the same words horizontally and vertically. Popular in England, a variety called Double
Diamond Puzzles were featured in the America St. Nicholas Magazine since
1873.
But
this new wrinkle was more sophisticated and aimed at adults. They spread slowly at first, like toenail fungus. The Boston Globe added a daily puzzle in
1917 and slowly so did other papers, the minor alarm of those who are always
alarmed by sinful time wasting and innovation of any kind. Protestant
preachers, suspicious of any activity which might bring amusement issued
dire warnings. The New York Times—which would
be the longest hold out among American dailies before plunging in and claiming
for itself with Timesian smugness superiority for its eventually hard to solve
puzzles—fretted that library
resources were being taxed and serious scholarship disrupted as puzzle fanatics
claimed the dictionaries, encyclopedias,
and atlases to ferret out
answers to arcane clues.
But
it took publisher Simon and Schuster to
set off a full blown, only-in-America craze ten years later when in 1924 it
published an “odd looking book with a pencil attached” containing a collection of crossword puzzles. Half a million copies flew off of the shelves
in the first few months. The success of
the first book, which the publisher would follow with many others, quickly made
the small company one of the leaders in the industry. Soon it was swallowing distinguished old
houses and issuing “serious” books for respectability all the while raking in
millions from their puzzle books.
Crosswords
were soon one of the fads of the Roaring
Twenties along with bathtub gin,
short skirts and rolled down stockings, jazz, ma-john, and jig saw
puzzles.
Unlike
the other fads it was legal, cheap, portable, did not require furniture or
partners. In the days when home
entertainment was limited to reading,
needle-point, playing a handful of gramophone records over and over, or trying to pull in a radio station on a crystal set a crossword puzzle could occupy an evening without having
to speak with your spouse other than to ask “what’s a three letter word for a Tibetan ox?”
Even
better, the ones published in the newspapers could be neatly folded and worked
on subway and bus commutes, at noon hour lunch
counters, or to idle the time away, or in the secluded privacy of the commode.
In
big cities like New York and Chicago,
fanatics would buy copies of all of the daily papers just for the different
crossword puzzles in each, boosting circulation nicely and putting money into
the pockets of fat cat publishers.
Despite
the expectation that the fad would fizzle at any time, the popularity of
crosswords continued. In fact in the Depression era the inexpensive pass
time was treasured by those who had too much time on their hands and not enough
treasure.
Crosswords
were moral boosters in World War II,
often salted with patriotism, anti-Axis vitriol,
and even promotions for scrap drives
and war bonds. Special paper covered crossword collections
were printed to fit in the pockets of the troops—and the books became so
popular that after the war publishers like Dell
continued to come out with dozens of similar crossword magazines at
different skill levels.
There
was even a famous moment of cloak and
dagger excitement when Allied intelligence
officers were alarmed to note that over a period of weeks in 1944 the words Utah and Omaha as well as mulberry—the
code name for the floating docks key to getting tons of supplies ashore on D-Day—appeared in the London Daily
Telegraph. When the words overlord and Neptune appeared on June 2, they were convinced the puzzle was
being used to send the most sensitive secrets to Nazi agents. The puzzles
were the side work of school teacher Leonard
Dawe who was eventually cleared.
Much later a student of Dawe claimed that he suggested some of the words
after hearing them bandied about by soldiers in Army camps.
Today
crossword puzzles remain popular. Indeed
desperate newspaper publishers recognize that they are one of the few reasons
many people continue to buy endangered print
editions. Others have adapted to
doing the puzzles on line.
So
why you, ask, should I be complaining about all of this? Because I am an addict. I must do at least
the two puzzles run every day in the Northwest Herald—the relatively
simple UPS puzzle and the more
challenging one from the New York Times,
plus the little Jumble. I pointedly
ignore that spawn of Satin Sudoku. I do the puzzles on my bus ride to
and from Woodstock and in any idle
moment in the day, like when my computer is remotely taken over to transfer
report from our Chicago office. In the
dead of winter when the Pace Bus is
black as pitch, I struggle to juggle my cellphone,
which I use as a light, the paper, and my pen while trying to work the damn thing
on the bone jarring ride.
If
I have not completed them during the day, I sometimes fall asleep in my chair
with the paper in my lap and pen in hand. And yes, I am one of those annoying people who
always works in pen. Sometimes makes for
a damn messy puzzle. I will finish the
puzzles when I get up in the middle of the night to pee.
At
least most of the time I finish them. I
never have much trouble with the UPS puzzles.
But the Times puzzles get increasingly
difficult over the week and over the month.
Friday puzzles are especially difficult and they sometime lick me,
although I go down bruised and bleeding.
To tell the truth, I have less trouble with the legendarily tricky
Sunday Times puzzle. I do those on weekend nights when it gets
slow at the second job at the gas
station. I also work the extra
puzzles in the Chicago Tribune, or try to.
In
case I run out of puzzles there is a short stack of cheap puzzle magazines by
my chair—perfect for long bathroom contemplation.
I
admit it. I get cranky if I lose the
paper, or worse, someone tries to solve MY PUZZLE. And I get depressed when I fail. Yet there is no one to cheer my daily
triumphs—they are all unappreciated by the world.
The
time I waste on crosswords would be better used to ferment the revolution or two write the Great American novel. But I’m hooked. It won’t happen. And it’s all Arthur Wynne’s fault.
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