It’s March 18, 1314, and Paris is about to see a grim scene—Jacques de Molay, the last Grand Master of the Knights Templar, is facing his final day. These guys were once the rock stars of the Crusades—warrior monks with cash, land, and a rep for fighting holy wars. But now, King Philip IV of France has turned on them, hungry for their wealth and fed up with their power. De Molay and a few others are in chains, accused of wild stuff like heresy and spitting on crosses, and the end’s coming fast.

The big moment hits—Jacques and his fellow Templar Geoffroi de Charney are dragged to a little island in the Seine River. A crowd watches as they’re tied to stakes, wood piled high, and the fire’s lit. But Jacques doesn’t go quietly—he shouts through the flames, cursing Philip and Pope Clement V, saying they’ll face God’s judgment soon. The blaze roars, and that’s it—the Templars’ 200-year run ends in smoke, all because a broke king and a shaky pope wanted them gone.

Things settle after the fire dies down—Philip gets the Templar loot (or what’s left after his debts), and the order’s officially toast, dissolved by the pope two years earlier. But remember De Molay’s curse? Well, Philip dies later that year, and Clement follows in just a few weeks—coincidence or karma? The Templars fade out, but their legend doesn’t—people start whispering about hidden treasures and secret rituals, keeping the story alive. Meanwhile, the execution spot becomes a dark footnote in Paris history.

March 18, 1314, wraps up the Knights Templar with a fiery finish, showing how fast heroes can turn into targets. It’s a wild tale of power, greed, and a last stand that didn’t change the outcome. The Templars are gone, but they left behind a tale that’s tough to shake.

It’s March 18, 1925, and folks across Missouri, Illinois, and Indiana are going about their day—farmers working, kids in school, nothing out of the ordinary. The weather’s a little off, warm and muggy for March, but no one’s expecting trouble. Then, out of nowhere, a monster tornado starts brewing near Ellington, Missouri. It’s about to carve a 219-mile path of chaos, and nobody’s ready for what’s coming.

Around 1 p.m., it hits full force—this thing’s a mile wide, moving at 70 miles an hour, and it doesn’t stop. It rips through towns like Murphysboro and De Soto, tossing houses, flipping trains, and flattening schools in seconds. The roar’s deafening, the wind’s a beast, and in three and a half hours, it’s killed 695 people—more than any U.S. tornado before or since. It’s pure destruction, no warning, no mercy, just a black funnel tearing up everything in sight.

By late afternoon, it finally fizzles out near Petersburg, Indiana, leaving a trail of wreckage you can barely wrap your head around—3,000 injured, 15,000 homes gone, whole towns wiped off the map. Survivors crawl out, stunned, picking through what’s left. No fancy weather tech back then—no radar, just a late telegraph that didn’t reach most folks in time. People start rebuilding, but the scars, physical and otherwise, stick around for years.

March 18, 1925, unleashes the Tri-State Tornado, a freak of nature that still holds the record for deadliest twister in U.S. history. It’s a brutal reminder of how wild the weather can get, catching everyone off guard. Next time you hear a storm warning, think of those folks in ‘25—they didn’t have a heads-up.

President Andrew’s Parrot🦜
When President Andrew Jackson died in 1845, his beloved pet parrot, Poll, attended the funeral—but had to be removed for excessive swearing. According to eyewitness Reverend William Menefee Norment, Poll became so overwhelmed and excited that he began cursing loudly, shocking the mourners. The foul-mouthed bird’s language was so offensive that it had to be escorted out. While the story remains unverified, it’s fitting that Jackson—known for his fiery temper—had a parrot just as outspoken as he was.

Dislocated Brain🧠
In the 18th century, some doctors believed that sneezing too hard could actually dislodge your brain. The idea was that the force of a sneeze could knock the brain loose from its position, leading to serious health issues—or even death. While this sounds ridiculous today, back then, medical science was still figuring things out (this was the same era when people thought leeches could cure everything). Thankfully, we now know that your brain is very secure, and a big sneeze won’t send it flying.

Niagara Falls to Orange Peel🪦
In 1901, Annie Edson Taylor became the first person to survive a trip over Niagara Falls in a barrel. Seeking fame and fortune, the 63-year-old schoolteacher climbed into a padded wooden barrel, was launched over the falls, and miraculously emerged alive—just bruised and shaken. However, her legendary stunt didn’t bring her the riches she hoped for. Years later, she allegedly slipped on an orange peel and died from her injuries. Though some historians debate the orange peel detail, one thing is clear—she survived one of the most dangerous feats in history, only to meet an absurdly ironic end.

Caligula’s Sea Battle🌊
Roman Emperor Caligula (r. 37–41 CE) was infamous for his wild and erratic behavior, but one of his strangest moments was declaring war on the sea. According to ancient historians, after a failed campaign against Britain, Caligula ordered his soldiers to line up on the shores of the English Channel and stab the waves with their swords as if battling Neptune, the god of the sea. He then had them collect seashells as "spoils of war" to bring back to Rome in triumph. Was it a symbolic gesture or pure madness? Historians debate whether it was propaganda, satire, or proof of his instability, but one thing’s for sure—Neptune was probably very confused.

If you enjoy this edition of Today In History be sure to send it to a friend and force them to sign up because that’s what good friends do. Until next time, stay curious, question everything, and keep uncovering the mysteries of the past.