Two Places, One Story: Mickey Mantle’s House and the Toxic Town

An Atlas Obscura map led to a joyful stop at Mickey Mantle’s childhood home, and a haunting visit to the abandoned mining town just up the road. The Atlas Obscura map led me to two places in the same corner of northeast Oklahoma on the same afternoon. I didn't plan it as a journey from joy to grief. But that's what it became. The first stop was Commerce, Oklahoma, population around 2,400, a town so modest you could drive through it in under two minutes and think nothing of it. I pulled up to 319 South Quincy Street with my eleven-year-old son, and we got out of the car into the bright afternoon and stood there in front of a small white house, taking it all in. This is where Mickey Mantle grew up. The Commerce Comet. One of the greatest baseball players who ever lived. I told my son the story the way it deserves to be told: like a fairy tale. Mickey's father, Mutt, was so certain of his son's destiny that he named him after a Hall of Fame catcher before he was even born. When Mickey was a boy, Mutt would come home from work every afternoon at four o'clock, and the baseball lessons would begin. Mutt pitched right-handed. Mickey's grandfather pitched left-handed. They engineered a switch-hitter on purpose, right there in that yard. Below the windows was a single. Above them, a double. The roof, a triple. Clear the house entirely and you had a home run. Mickey once said he was "the only kid in town that didn't get in trouble for breaking a window." My son and I walked around the yard. We peered into the old tin shed that served as Mickey's backstop. We stood where Mickey stood, and I tried to explain what it meant, that from this unremarkable house on this unremarkable street, in a small town most people have never heard of, something extraordinary grew. That greatness doesn't wait for the right zip code or the right circumstances. That you can come from anywhere, from very little, and still become something magnificent. A Yankees center fielder even. He nodded. We skipped around the yard a little, goofing off in the way that eleven-year-olds do when something connects with them but they don't quite have the words for it yet. We got back in the car. I told him our next stop was just up the road. I knew it wouldn't be a happy place. Atlas Obscura’s entry about the town of Picher had made that clear. We drove north on the small Highway 69, past flat green fields and bare trees, and then the landscape began to change. Gray mountains appeared, massive, looming, wrong. These were the chat piles: seventy million tons of toxic mining waste, the crushed and poisoned remnants of a century of lead and zinc extraction. As we rolled slowly into Picher, I was livestreaming on Instagram. Almost immediately, a viewer from Oklahoma appeared in the comments, urgent, almost scolding: Why are you going there? There are so many nicer places to visit. I kept driving deeper into the toxic town. Courtesy of Bethan Herron The houses came into view. Deserted. Every one of them. "KEEP OUT" spray-painted across doors and windows, faded but legible. Yards still faintly shaped by the people who had tended them, a walkway here, a porch railing there, the ghost of a garden. This didn't feel like some picturesque old mining ghost town from the 1880s, the kind you visit out west with a gift shop nearby. Picher had been a living community until very recently. In 1983, the EPA designated it part of the Tar Creek Superfund Site, one of the most toxic places in America, it turned out, surpassing even the Love Canal. By the mid-1990s, studies found that 34% of the children in Picher had dangerous levels of lead in their blood, a contamination that could cause lifelong neurological damage. An Army Corps of Engineers study in 2006 found that 86% of the town's buildings were badly undermined by mine shafts and at risk of sudden collapse. Then, in May 2008, an EF4 tornado tore through what remained, killing six people and destroying 150 homes. The government stopped offering to help people rebuild and started offering to pay them to leave. By June 2009, the last residents had accepted buyouts. On September 1, 2009, Picher was officially dissolved as a municipality. Sixteen years ago. That's what I kept thinking. Sixteen years ago, people lived here. Children played in these yards. A high school class graduated — eleven seniors, the last class in Picher-Cardin High School's history — and then the doors closed forever. "Can we go faster?" my son asked. "Can we leave?" We stayed in the car. I didn't roll down the windows, having read on Atlas Obscura that the wind could carry harzardous material. I told my son what I tell myself about travel: that it's not just about the beautiful places and the perfect photos. It's about seeing many angles on the world, including what's hard and strange and broken. And that we owed it to the people who lived here not to look away. Courtesy of TonboMedia He nodded again. Less convinced this time. Picher stayed with us for days afterward. We kept talking about "that toxic town." And, honestly, I couldn't decide what to share about it with Atlas Obscura's community. Should I even write about it? Then, I sat down to write about Mickey's house in Commerce. I was writing the story about the balls thrown over the house with his father, and I looked up more about Mutt. Wow. Mutt died in 1952, at forty years old, when Mickey was twenty. The cause was Hodgkin's disease. Mutt's father Charlie, the same man who had pitched left-handed to Mickey in that yard every afternoon, had also worked in the mines of northeast Oklahoma and also died of Hodgkin's disease before he was fifty. Mickey spent his whole life assuming it was family fate — that the Mantle men simply didn't make it past forty. He didn't know, until much later, that inhaling lead and zinc dust in the mines can lead to Hodgkin's disease. Mutt had worked specifically at the Eagle-Picher Company, the mining operation whose waste became the toxic mountains I had driven through that same afternoon, a few miles up the same road. And here is what stopped me cold when I worked out the timeline. The Eagle-Picher mines didn't close until 1967, fifteen years after Mutt was already dead. The EPA didn't declare the area a Superfund site until 1983, thirty-one years after Mutt died. And the last residents weren't cleared out until 2009, fifty-seven years after Mutt's death. The mine that in all likelihood killed him, just kept going. More workers. More families. More dust. And the town built on top of all that poison wasn't fully evacuated until more than half a century after Mutt Mantle was buried. When all that happened, people weren’t talking about Mutt Mantle or the connection the mine had to the famous Yankee’s baseball star. Today, most people who make the pilgrimage to Mickey Mantle's boyhood home in Commerce never drive the few minutes north to Picher. Why would they? Mickey's house draws baseball fans and history lovers who want to stand where a legend stood. They skip around the yard, peer into the old tin shed, feel the warmth of the American dream — and then they get back in the car and drive away, the story intact, the fairy tale complete. But the full story isn't in Commerce. It's also in the journey to Picher. Until you've sat in that toxic town and felt the eerie silence of those deserted streets, you haven't really understood what it meant for Mutt Mantle to come home from work every afternoon at four o'clock. "That's so sad," my son said, when I told him that Mickey’s father worked there. "Are you okay that I took you to Picher?" I asked him. He thought about it for a moment. Then he nodded, slowly, solemnly, a little wiser. Wonder, I've come to believe, isn't only the beautiful and the marvelous. Sometimes it's the terrible thing you finally understand. Sometimes it's the two places on the map that turn out to be, quietly, the same story.

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Burj Khalifa's beautiful secret is revealed in the new book, Hidden in Plain Sight. Sublime science hides in plain sight at the world’s tallest building. Tourists swarm Burj Khalifa’s observation decks to absorb startling views across Dubai’s skyline, and the sandy coast of the United Arab Emirates. Laid out beneath them is a space-age city which showcases the burgeoning wealth of the Middle East. Above their heads, meanwhile, is a testament to ancient Arab ingenuity. Covering the ceiling of the 125th floor deck are mesmerizing geometric patterns engaged in a millennia-old battle with Mother Nature. Called mashrabiya, this Arab latticework is so old that its origins are murky. What is undisputed, however, is that it was a brilliant architectural innovation which both blocked sunlight, and funneled breezes into homes here in the sun-scorched Middle East. In this way, mashrabiya was simultaneously high art, and one of the world’s earliest forms of air conditioning. It waned in popularity over the 1900s, as modern home cooling technology took over. Now, however, mashrabiya is resurgent, as revealed in the new book, Hidden in Plain Sight, in which journalist and photography Ronan O'Connell visited 23 countries to uncover the mysteries of our planet's top landmarks. Intricate latticework is being used to decorate many extraordinary new buildings across the Middle East as a celebration of Arab cultural heritage. Including in the region’s most-visited destination, Dubai. With a population of 3.7 million people, it is the largest city in the United Arab Emirates. This oil-rich Middle Eastern nation sits on the east coast of the Arabian Peninsula, between Iran to its north, Saudi Arabia to it west and Oman to its east. Its strategic location, midway between Europe and East Asia, has made the UAE a global air travel hub and tourist hotspot. Although the UAE has deep, intriguing history, having been inhabited for more than 6,000 years, most tourists are drawn by attractions which didn’t exist three decades ago. Before vast oil reserves were tapped in the 1960s, Dubai was a petite port city. It wasn’t until the 2000s it embarked on a building boom which aimed, in part, to make it magnetic to tourists. Before then, sand filled many of the sites now occupied by gleaming structures, including Burj Khalifa. Now Dubai’s parched land is studded by avant-garde skyscrapers, goliath shopping malls, world-class museums, five-star hotels, and cutting-edge theme parks. Some of which sit on unique, man-made archipelagos flanking the city’s coast. All these recent additions have helped Dubai become one of the planet’s top 10 most visited cities. At some point during their stay here, most travelers at least glimpse Burj Khalifa, which looms above a metropolis spiked by more than 250 other skyscrapers. Even people who’ve never visited the UAE likely recognize this steel-and-glass wonder, images of which abound on social media. The greatest tourist landmarks encapsulate a destination. For example, the Colosseum underscores Rome’s deep history, the Eiffel Tower symbolizes Paris’ timeless elegance, and the Statue of Liberty signifies New York’s unrivalled multiculturalism. Burj Khalifa is equally effective in defining Dubai’s appeal to visitors. Ostentatious, innovative, hyper-modern and record-breaking. Dubai strives to build the biggest, the best, the boldest of everything. Given this fierce ambition, it was natural this city would aim to reach further into the sky than any civilization before it. Previously, the evolution of the world’s tallest building had long been slow and steady. 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It is part of a cluster of tourist-friendly sites, adjoined by grassy Burj Park, turquoise Burj Khalifa Lake, glass-laden Dubai Opera House, and gargantuan Dubai Mall. The latter brims with more than 1,200 shops. As well as dozens of cafes and restaurants, and family-friendly attractions like Dubai Aquarium, Sega Republic theme park, an ice rink, virtual reality zone and kids play centers. Dubai Mall is also the gateway to Burj Khalifa. Perhaps the defining tourist experience of this city, Burj Khalifa’s At the Top sends visitors into the clouds. These tours offer access to three observation decks, on floors 148, 125 and 124. First is a ride in one of the world’s fastest elevators. Reaching the initial deck takes about 60 seconds, during which tourists learn remarkable facts about Burj Khalifa via a digital display. Some 22 million man hours were required to build this skyscraper. It consists of 330,000 cubic meters of concrete, 39,000 tons of steel reinforcement, 103,000 sqm of glass, and 15,500 sqm of embossed stainless steel. Of its 200 floors, 160 are inhabitable. Once guests exit the elevator, they walk a loop of each enclosed deck. This provides a 360-degree perspective of Dubai through soaring windows. Should they wish to spike their pulse further, they can tread onto the 125th level’s eerie glass floor attraction, which simulates cracking beneath their feet, as if set to collapse. Those who’d prefer to calm down may descend to level 122. Amid a luxurious setting rich with dark leather and red velvet they can savor a 13-course tasting menu at fine dining establishment At.mosphere. Or absorb the dizzying views with a cocktail in hand at the adjoining Champagne and Oyster Bar. In doing so, they’ll have had a modern experience of the Middle East. For an appreciation of its proud past, tourists to Burj Khalifa should research those mesmeric patterns on its 125th level. They will learn mashrabiya was created to fulfil many purposes at once. It beautified a building’s façade, offered privacy, softened natural light, dullened outside noise, and allowed for airflow which reduced both heat and humidity. Less certain than the value of mashrabiya are its origins. Some historical accounts trace it as far back as the 12th century, to Egypt. Others suggest it may have originated in Iraq and its capital Baghdad, then one of the world’s largest, most sophisticated cities. Dozens of homes in the ancient Iraqi city of Basra still feature mashrabiya. By night, these abodes are spectacular, due to the mashrabiya latticework which frames their stained glass windows. So once darkness falls, and house lights take effect, a kaleidoscope of patterns is beamed onto the Basra streetside. Historic examples of mashrabiya also still grace homes or mosques in Muslim nations like Tunisia, Turkey, Morocco, Syria, Palestine, Sudan, Lebanon, Iran, Pakistan, Yemen, Saudi Arabia, and Egypt. Some utilize the Iraqi style of wooden mashrabiya screens, which enclose windows or balconies. Others are latticework carved into stone. That form of mashrabiya, which has different names from country to country, is particularly common in mosques and mausoleums. Including India’s Taj Mahal, built using Mughal architecture, a style which blends Islamic and Indian designs. Modern versions of mashrabiya also proliferate. Architects in the Middle East and beyond are increasingly blending it into new constructions. Tourists walking east from Paris’ famed Notre Dame Cathedral may pass hundreds of interlocking mashrabiya motifs on the towering glass façade of the Arab World Institute. In the UAE, meanwhile, travelers encounter such patterns in both of its key cities, Dubai and Abu Dhabi. The latter has perhaps the world’s most stunning use of mashrabiya. Covering the 180m-wide dome of the Louvre Abu Dhabi museum, it beams shards of light through hundreds of perforations. A spectacle which is almost matched by the gigantic mashrabiya windows of nearby Imam Al-Tayeb Mosque. Such geometric flourishes also punctuate downtown Dubai. Dubai Mall employs mashrabiya both on wall features, to cloak a pedestrian footbridge and embellish its Apple Store. Chances are, then, that many tourists glimpse this Islamic design feature before they ascend Burj Khalifa. Once they do, and reach its 125th floor, most will fixate on the futuristic view before them. All the while, in their periphery, mashrabiya sits as a marker of Arab innovation which flourished long before the Middle East began to build toward the clouds. An ancient decoration camouflaged on a modern icon, as revealed by the new book, Hidden in Plain Sight.