By the time this column appears to leave yet another stain on world literature, it will be almost the end of January. By then, most people's New Year's Resolutions will be ghosts in the rear-view mirror fading off into the lost horizon of good intentions. January was named after the two-headed Roman god Janus. Janus was the Roman term for an archway or a ceremonial gateway. In other words, it was a way to go in and out. At the beginning of the Roman calendar, Janus had two heads, one looking backward and one looking forward. The Romans watched the old year go away while seeing the New Year come trundling along on the other side of the archway. Hence the term, two heads are better than one. It did mean that Janus had to double his budget for hats as opposed to ordinary one-headed gods. But being a god, his credit was good.

What can we say about the month of January? Is there anything worth pondering about our fleeting first month? Funny, you should ask. You have certainly heard the old saying, "Slow as molasses in January." Well, like Sporting Life once sang in "Porgy and Bess," "It ain't necessarily so." Hop right into Mr. Peabody's Way Back Machine and take a ride on the Reading to January 15, 1919 to Boston, Massachusetts. The day began like any other January day, a bit warmer than most, but nothing way out of the ordinary. The workers at the U.S. Industrial Alcohol factory worked to produce molasses for the hungry masses yearning to eat highly sweetened pancakes. The International House of Pancakes was not invented until 1958. IHOP bears no responsibility for what happened in Boston in 1919.

So, what did happen in 1919 that undermines that statement about being slow as molasses in January? Well, listen, my children, and you shall hear of the Noon-time Great Boston Molasses Flood. To paraphrase Scatman Carruthers in "The Shining:" "A lot of things have happened in Boston, and not all of them were good." The factory in question produced massive amounts of molasses. It was right before lunch when all heck or, more aptly, all molasses broke loose. The workers were loading molasses into freight cars to tickle America's sweet tooth. The molasses was stored in an almost six-story high tank containing about 2.5 million gallons of hot molasses. That is a mega amount of molasses.

In the wink of an eye, something went very wrong. The bolts holding the bottom of the six-story vat of molasses gave up the ghost. The bolts blew out like the bottom of the Titanic meeting its fateful iceberg. News reports say an 8-foot-tall wall of hot molasses spewed out of the bottom of the vat, knocking freight cars, men, and the building walls over like a hungry 350-pound man lunging for crab legs at an all you can eat seafood buffet at Myrtle Beach. Once the molasses escaped the building, it poured into the streets of Boston, destroying a nearby firehouse and knocking down the supports of the elevated train track. Twenty-one people and multiple horses died in the flood of molasses.

Foreshadowing of the modern-day flood of lawyer ads on Cablevision, over 100 lawsuits were filed against the U.S. Industrial Alcohol. The name Industrial Alcohol does not make me think of butterflies and unicorns. It sounds more like Everclear's evil twin. For those of you who have never consumed Everclear, allow me to proffer some medical advice, don't break your record of abstention. But I digress. Boston took weeks to clean its streets of molasses. One can only imagine the delightful task of policing up the corpses of molasses-soaked horses stuck to the roads. The mind boggles. Ultimately State Auditor, the Honorable Hugh W. Ogden, was appointed by the court to sort out all the claims against the U.S. Industrial Alcohol. Mr. Ogden decided the U.S. Industrial Alcohol was at fault due to the poor construction of the molasses vat. The company was ordered to pay almost $1 million to the plaintiffs.

So, what have we learned today? As usual, not much. However, we should be careful not to believe all general statements, not even this one. Not all molasses is slow in January. An 8-foot wall of hot molasses by any other name would smell as sweet. As far as the Boston attorneys were concerned, the Great Molasses Flood was a financial bonanza. They latched onto the molasses like flies on poop, reaping financial rewards that illustrated Shakespeare's quote in "As You Like It:" "Sweet are the uses of adversity, which like the toad, ugly and venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in his head."

Shall we compare an 8-foot-wall of boiling molasses to a toad wearing a jewel in his head? Why not? I would rather see a toad wearing a jewel than an 8-foot wall of hot molasses bearing down. Not everything makes sense. Once you grasp that concept, it all makes sense. If the glove fits, you must acquit — so long January. See you next year.