Poplawski was born in Poland in 1885 and immigrated to the United States with his family at nine years old. Little is available on his early years, but by 1918 at the age of 33 he had gained enough skills and knowledge to start his own tool company. 

The following year Poplawski was asked to design a mixing machine for soda fountains, popular sugar-centric diners. His hometown of Racine, WI was famous for being the home of Horlick Malted Milk, aka a milkshake, and they needed a mixer that could combine more thoroughly the ingredients of milk and ice cream. 

In 1922 Poplawski patented his mixing machine. It featured a mounted spinning blade that would be encased by a cup. The first design was for commercial use in soda fountains. Poplawski tinkered further with the “mixer” so that it could liquify fruits and vegetables. In 1940 Poplawski patented a new version of the blender, specifically for household use. Poplawski sold his own business to the John Oster Manufacturing Company who released the “Osterizer” not long after the sale, bringing blenders to the masses. 

 

[You can read about birthday writer Ernest Thayer at our website wellbredandwellbrewed.com. This is an abbreviated version of the poem.]

Ernest Thayer

 

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day:

The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,

And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,

A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

 

…

They thought, "If only Casey could but get a whack at that—

We'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat."

 

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,

And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake;

So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,

For there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.

 

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,

And Blake, the much despisèd, tore the cover off the ball;

And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,

There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

 

Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;

It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;

It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,

For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

 

…

 

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;

Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;

Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,

Defiance flashed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

 

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,

And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.

Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—

"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one!" the umpire said.

 

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,

Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;

...

 

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;

He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;

He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;

But Casey still ignored it and the umpire said, "Strike two!"

 

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"

But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.

They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,

And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

 

…

And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,

And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

 

Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright,

The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;

And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,

But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.