tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36519663808628666502024-03-18T21:53:04.272-07:00Here & HereafterKATE MAYFIELDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15188611212969681379noreply@blogger.comBlogger80125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3651966380862866650.post-44668283208387268762016-10-26T03:12:00.000-07:002016-10-26T03:12:00.974-07:00<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>ON A BLOGGING BREAK...</b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhilbiwQYnmKyRSvOqVxVVax6qavCTfZbYXyK94bT7fmrROQhPWEnDhcYxT3_L6vK_oXn7jAJP59ee_cUmZcy3PAEz1zXJaOpdTsz0PuQmvyOEdIvMtW1v_hMfONulK3wp9Kwcn8kKjVLY/s1600/woman-typist-at-typewriter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhilbiwQYnmKyRSvOqVxVVax6qavCTfZbYXyK94bT7fmrROQhPWEnDhcYxT3_L6vK_oXn7jAJP59ee_cUmZcy3PAEz1zXJaOpdTsz0PuQmvyOEdIvMtW1v_hMfONulK3wp9Kwcn8kKjVLY/s320/woman-typist-at-typewriter.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>For quite some time now I've been on a blogging hiatus while I've been writing, editing, writing, editing. Thanks very much for dropping by.</b></span><br />
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<br />KATE MAYFIELDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15188611212969681379noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3651966380862866650.post-48890090941314403902015-03-14T03:03:00.001-07:002015-03-14T03:03:07.980-07:00<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>MEET CARLA
VALENTINE </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Technical Curator
of Barts Pathology Museum</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>“I consider the body a canvas that’s been painted on by
various diseases or accidents and from them you can interpret and find out what
happened to the person. That’s what I did in the mortuary and that’s what I do
now at Barts.”</i></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuTh6wgDNb2yAz63kferQCgRfBJ2wf01IVX3VSHOp0YDpZUJHZXO-DzS8hn4fTUkGRJ3jomr3cRBz-8r-pgjoW-9tiSCVlc1-wZyyN1Xr0O0o28hKK42indIGc4zN_grB49mL3sWkxfuI/s1600/Carla+in+Musuem.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuTh6wgDNb2yAz63kferQCgRfBJ2wf01IVX3VSHOp0YDpZUJHZXO-DzS8hn4fTUkGRJ3jomr3cRBz-8r-pgjoW-9tiSCVlc1-wZyyN1Xr0O0o28hKK42indIGc4zN_grB49mL3sWkxfuI/s1600/Carla+in+Musuem.jpg" height="640" width="425" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">by Rob Greig for Time out</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Carla Valentine knew she wanted to be a mortician from the
age of eight. I spoke with Carla in her cosy office at <a href="http://www.qmul.ac.uk/bartspathology/" target="_blank"><b>Barts Pathology Museum</b></a><span style="font-weight: normal;"> surrounded by skulls and specimens. As her
story unfolded I suggested that it was actually reading and literature that played a large role in the journey to her current position as curator. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">She began reading when she was one and half years old. Once,
when she was naughty, her mother sent her to her room as punishment, but
several hours later when she hadn’t emerged, her mother grew worried and opened
the door to tell her she could come out. But Carla said no, that’s all right,
she didn’t want to. She was reading.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">She read Agatha Christie, Conan Doyle and remembered going
to the library at the age of ten for horror books by John Saul and Stephen
King.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The librarian suggested that these books weren’t suitable
for her, but her interests in crime, the body, and pathology only grew. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>“No one in my family was a mortician or a funeral
director, and when I began there was no “CSI” or “Silent Witness”. In fact, I
can’t stand a lot of those shows because they’re not realistic. It was just an
odd thing that I wanted to do. If I saw a dead cat that had maggots on it I
wasn’t automatically revolted, I was more fascinated by what was going on
there. It was a mixture of being naturally interested and then having been
shaped by the kind of literature I was interested in as I was growing up. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>I got a microscope for Christmas when I was eight. I
brought it to school for Show and Tell along with sliced up earthworms. I was
surprised I wasn’t unpopular or picked on. I had quite normal friends and I
think children are a bit weird and morbid sometimes because they’re trying to
come to terms with huge grown up issues of life.”</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Carla did a degree in forensic and bimolecular sciences at
university. For a time she volunteered as an assistant to a female embalmer who
was pregnant, and then returned to Liverpool for more education. Though she’d
been an embalmer’s assistant, she’d had no experience with decomposition and
became concerned that she was only looking at slides of decomposed bodies and
bones and began to think:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>“What if I can’t stand it? So I went to the mortuary to
see if they’d let me volunteer. I turned up at the Liverpool City Morgue, and
at the time someone was working there who was an old school mortuary
technician. He wore big thick glasses and spoke like Michael Cane with loads of
stories about the Krays that can’t have all been true. By the time I’d been
volunteering there for about 6 months, they advertised for staff and I
interviewed for the job and won it.”</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Carla told me that her work as a mortuary assistant was
exactly as she thought it would be. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>“Many people enter the work with the completely wrong
idea about what it will be like. They think it’s all about crime. The simple
fact of the matter is that you will be covered in faeces. You will be covered
in blood. You will be tired. I knew that, and was ready for it. The city
mortuary was a Coronial mortuary, which means as a volunteer I will have seen
many more types of death and levels of decomposition than someone who works in
a hospital mortuary. I was in that mortuary for three years. I’ve seen a lot:
mummification, bloating, people who’ve jumped in front of trains, hangings.”</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">On July 7, 2005, Carla was asked to join the big mortuary
that was set up near Old Street when the London bombings occurred. Due to her
experience there, she then went on to do a Master’s degree in forensic
anthropology. She visited Belgium and Venice to work on skeletal excavations to
gain both hard and soft tissue experience. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In a series of seemingly destined career moves, she worked
at St George’s in Tooting for a year when she took a more senior position at St
Thomas’s very busy mortuary for four years. Then she felt she no longer wanted
to be a Senior in the morgue as her job had become more focused on paperwork. She
took a temporary job as a tissue bank assistant at the cancer institute of St.
Bartholomew’s Hospital. About six months into that job, an internal advert
appeared for the position she currently holds. When she saw the advert she
realized that she never even knew Barts Pathology Museum existed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Carla has brought fresh young eyes and a completely new
generation’s view to her position. She doesn’t see human remains and pathology
museums in the same way as the “old boys”. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE7a1k0ITHfJfgQgtt3QPIgTBTr3OYmQG3qvthDvo9eV_pdePnVnPcGZmS5oZ7azxVBabVScIt94uvDz8VMKbhcjbNuMVfGL_v6JGnPLLrRgdwywjK29_MFGD04pyO2nfsUIQ1cdbqydQ/s1600/st-barts+old.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE7a1k0ITHfJfgQgtt3QPIgTBTr3OYmQG3qvthDvo9eV_pdePnVnPcGZmS5oZ7azxVBabVScIt94uvDz8VMKbhcjbNuMVfGL_v6JGnPLLrRgdwywjK29_MFGD04pyO2nfsUIQ1cdbqydQ/s1600/st-barts+old.jpg" height="468" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>“The difference is that museums like Barts seem to have a
reputation that it should only exist for medical students, that there’s
something nasty or untoward about the public seeing body parts. What’s weird
about that opinion is that if you go back to the 1800s, you’ll see descriptions
of anatomical museums described as places where intellectuals and interested
people may come and have a drink and a discussion.</i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheCoXuwHhW-uFTHdGvDtNQa1iCgUaCl-M3X7fUGKUefoghZuTjXxbN_U9Y-wRwjSurcOK9TkGnhvBNF2GLqDogsqE2crx8OzSlvD88BTx4E7AXPlcFRHfpqPKpO6DLB6fDFldR4m_2XWc/s1600/visting+museum+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheCoXuwHhW-uFTHdGvDtNQa1iCgUaCl-M3X7fUGKUefoghZuTjXxbN_U9Y-wRwjSurcOK9TkGnhvBNF2GLqDogsqE2crx8OzSlvD88BTx4E7AXPlcFRHfpqPKpO6DLB6fDFldR4m_2XWc/s1600/visting+museum+2.jpg" height="566" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span> </span>So it’s
exactly what I’m doing here now. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>I have a different constitution to what you might
consider gory. Television and literature has changed in my generation, but also
my background is in a mortuary, so I think this is actually really clean, it’s
all natural. If you really want to offend someone take them to a mortuary. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>I don’t want to only have a toxicology lecture, let’s
talk about Marilyn Monroe’s death, too. We’ll have academics in to talk about
organ transplants, and then we’ll have someone talk about Frankenstein. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>The ultimate aim is to make people aware that we are all
human and these specimens belong to everybody”.</i></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg580HT3v9ACZ2iuJ-l4w8iHZ8OilphjUhjrikQqhNCPtspUHxDdMz4WUR1gPez5vg0FPch78pAeZbtNVgX82ydg1ojUje5NnbE3wK1LI7dizcJnWS5OMPyS2IhZK0dRHYuENpN3wSF2Uw/s1600/Carla+with+Sepcimens.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg580HT3v9ACZ2iuJ-l4w8iHZ8OilphjUhjrikQqhNCPtspUHxDdMz4WUR1gPez5vg0FPch78pAeZbtNVgX82ydg1ojUje5NnbE3wK1LI7dizcJnWS5OMPyS2IhZK0dRHYuENpN3wSF2Uw/s1600/Carla+with+Sepcimens.jpg" height="640" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">by Tim Hook</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I asked Carla about her interest in the topic of sex and
death.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>“At the very basic level, one begins life and one ends
it. You have these two polar opposites. My interest is about our relationship
with human remains in general, because I’ve always read about the different
ways in which people treat their dead. Some people have a good relationship
with the remains of human beings and some have a bad relationship. For example,
in the UK I think we have a bad one. We don’t want to see specimens; we seem to
associate them with something untoward. We don’t lay out our own dead anymore.
When you think about those two polar opposites of sex and death, isn’t it odd
then that we live in a very gory culture and a very sex and death-obsessed
culture. It seems to be one or another. </i></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgcbCJoKZjm3uT126B8qHhUWrIUpt-pk0htGBgStZ1aozAMMz_Hhg_Am_TTv_ag-UG8o3cxZiUkYs1a2oHBmYlZBTwJ4Dr3_ykJ-viJixOlQbwV634sA5T1peo9-R34AbmMGo2eAiem7I/s1600/Lovers+Surprised+by+Death.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgcbCJoKZjm3uT126B8qHhUWrIUpt-pk0htGBgStZ1aozAMMz_Hhg_Am_TTv_ag-UG8o3cxZiUkYs1a2oHBmYlZBTwJ4Dr3_ykJ-viJixOlQbwV634sA5T1peo9-R34AbmMGo2eAiem7I/s1600/Lovers+Surprised+by+Death.jpg" height="640" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lovers Surprised By Death by Hans Burgkmair<br /><h1>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Freud said that we have two instincts, the sex instinct
and the death instinct. In my research I found that when a female has an
orgasm, part of her brain shuts down, so it is as if she’s experiencing a
little death. There are animals that have sex and then kill their mate, or they
die having sex. I am not creating the links between sex and death. They are
already there and I’m exploring them.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">She certainly is exploring. Ultimately, Carla would like to
write a PhD thesis on the subject, though it may have to wait. She’s currently
writing a memoir about her work in mortuaries and as a mortician. On top of
that, and along with her many responsibilities at Barts Pathology Museum, she
runs Dead Meet, the dating site for death professionals.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">You can learn more about Carla, Barts, and Dead Meet through
the links below.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Many thanks to Carla for sharing her fascinating path
to Barts.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://thechickandthedead.com/">http://thechickandthedead.com/</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.qmul.ac.uk/bartspathology/">http://www.qmul.ac.uk/bartspathology/</a></span></div>
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KATE MAYFIELDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15188611212969681379noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3651966380862866650.post-39913782564391742862015-02-14T03:22:00.000-08:002015-02-26T00:26:00.689-08:00<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-family: Verdana, Helvetica, Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.0px;">Image by<a href="http://lozzybonesart.com/" target="_blank"> Lozzy Bones Art</a></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, Helvetica, Arial;">Death and the Maiden is a new project created by Lucy Talbot and Sarah Troop.<br />
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In their words:<br />
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“<i>The founders’ aim with this project is to create a space of exploration: examining the relationship between women & death by sharing ideas & creating a platform for discussion. They hope to create a supportive and inclusive community, and to amplify the voices of those actively creating the future of death.”<br />
</i><br />
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I was so pleased they asked me to contribute by writing their inaugural post.<br />
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My guest post, WOMEN IN THE MOURNING, can be found <a href="http://deadmaidens.com/2015/02/16/women-in-the-mourning/#more-417" target="_blank">HERE </a></span></b></span>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">HEARTS AT BARTS </span></span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Nestled
in a corner of buildings behind the Henry VIII gates in West Smithfield is the
Grade II Listed Victorian built <a href="http://www.qmul.ac.uk/bartspathology/" target="_blank">Barts Pathology Museum </a>the home of three
mezzanine galleries of medical specimens. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Verdana;"><br />
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</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">This
week there were hearts everywhere. </span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Verdana;"><br />
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</span><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">From
the carefully curated anatomical hearts that looked as if they might once again
beat inside their glass specimen containers, </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Verdana;"><br />
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</span><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">to
the artwork of <a href="http://www.robinleeart.co.uk/" target="_blank">Robin Lee</a>, whose hearts hang gloriously from the third floor.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Verdana;"><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvYgdU_oGX9RX2WBtbZbbQrGIPB-4wML9mviilpG9k5xO56QlcLh70HRB32Q_MmU7ta3tYG7ESnGw-AB6fjqUj2bWOQdRdqh0o4J6HDey17WGVSOyMZl9Ah_Lk6lZAnYjQSUVU_8BynnY/s1600/Barts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvYgdU_oGX9RX2WBtbZbbQrGIPB-4wML9mviilpG9k5xO56QlcLh70HRB32Q_MmU7ta3tYG7ESnGw-AB6fjqUj2bWOQdRdqh0o4J6HDey17WGVSOyMZl9Ah_Lk6lZAnYjQSUVU_8BynnY/s1600/Barts.jpg" height="320" width="640" /></a></div>
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</span><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">A
lively crowd arrived on Wednesday night for my alternative Valentine
presentation.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Verdana;"><br />
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</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
baked heart shaped Southern cheese biscuits. A few of them died in the flaming
fires called The Timer Did Not Go Off Fires. But thankfully most survived.</span></b></span><br />
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</span><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
Superhero Volunteers kept a private stash under the table.</span></b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfi0T0Wyn-fwuGgzBiE60IFMl3Tt_Sbn97nNNsDzjG8WlB-_7vLJLZjKTnt5gi6L3qwIH01jIrw4ohzXXn6aRsiYVX9gFtY4BWvxWmXj-nk_hfxjf-27Xi0Mzb8f8q_lEQvHV0U14vIPA/s1600/Heart+Biscuits.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQWBEzpHjgjmj_ZBPSqp3jScECyO10q5gRF8S3WTm38wrttpZZE5JUOSf9dIsiXOHv0o1H_vRb22nnbqPRndjPb80xOhoh2FYKVy2rK-XyKRlcJmd4BCSh1kgps3_tfiGezqXit98t_Cs/s1600/Barts+volunteers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQWBEzpHjgjmj_ZBPSqp3jScECyO10q5gRF8S3WTm38wrttpZZE5JUOSf9dIsiXOHv0o1H_vRb22nnbqPRndjPb80xOhoh2FYKVy2rK-XyKRlcJmd4BCSh1kgps3_tfiGezqXit98t_Cs/s1600/Barts+volunteers.jpg" height="640" width="360" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Verdana;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Verdana;"> </span><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">And
to quench the thirst brought about by the salty cheddar and hot cayenne, the
good people at <a href="http://uk.hendricksgin.com/" target="_blank">Hendrick's Gin</a> sent over a load of goodness. GIN PUNCH!</span></b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYDThcBhGUh-WCvXjr6gVLApCiPgyCbhoWBpmb1xXBLXPF_7g-uKr3eIWhfi0aG45dSCXYx0f9SnjJBusGRzHFvLOay-Uw7e0yULv6r8JlUnc8denAA1lMUDw-dyBGBgFH5qbKUzicZEg/s1600/Gin+Punch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYDThcBhGUh-WCvXjr6gVLApCiPgyCbhoWBpmb1xXBLXPF_7g-uKr3eIWhfi0aG45dSCXYx0f9SnjJBusGRzHFvLOay-Uw7e0yULv6r8JlUnc8denAA1lMUDw-dyBGBgFH5qbKUzicZEg/s1600/Gin+Punch.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
same Superhero Volunteers created this beautiful table brightened by Valentine
cards made by <a href="http://lozzybonesart.com/" target="_blank">Lozzy Bones Art</a> - alternatively
smashing.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></b></span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
brought along a heart that I had made especially for the evening, full of
marshmallow and covered in edible rose petals.</span></span></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicSVFzY4cl4UUJxzs5x2AmZembcQFXRjy-9WIQ0QqL8UzR6XO_TIrsKY2P6XN_z9KwiwlNBzks8TVEyYhhTgYsGAEd2WVADejNnH2TiF3FO8A4-1zlgRap6wtdJ0TYjDz-Cbjl8rtUKLw/s1600/Flower+heart.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicSVFzY4cl4UUJxzs5x2AmZembcQFXRjy-9WIQ0QqL8UzR6XO_TIrsKY2P6XN_z9KwiwlNBzks8TVEyYhhTgYsGAEd2WVADejNnH2TiF3FO8A4-1zlgRap6wtdJ0TYjDz-Cbjl8rtUKLw/s1600/Flower+heart.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicSVFzY4cl4UUJxzs5x2AmZembcQFXRjy-9WIQ0QqL8UzR6XO_TIrsKY2P6XN_z9KwiwlNBzks8TVEyYhhTgYsGAEd2WVADejNnH2TiF3FO8A4-1zlgRap6wtdJ0TYjDz-Cbjl8rtUKLw/s1600/Flower+heart.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Verdana;"><br />
</span><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">We
gave the skeleton a heart transplant. I grabbed a
chunk from this specimen and chewed a mouthful during my presentation, to illustrate a point about
eating one’s heart out.</span></b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz4RsGg_Eyr9X-rY4fBJrUs-nCzaDtlqlSZRL8q5ZMyxWFK40xVQt7RpiHO2FbIV7PiWbZyqsm5xH22zCaoloxfFEbR52oI5PLAGU-SwgJ5pvhSY4nCh9HLVHujM-WkazIU2oNPQ9pf58/s1600/skeleton+with+heart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz4RsGg_Eyr9X-rY4fBJrUs-nCzaDtlqlSZRL8q5ZMyxWFK40xVQt7RpiHO2FbIV7PiWbZyqsm5xH22zCaoloxfFEbR52oI5PLAGU-SwgJ5pvhSY4nCh9HLVHujM-WkazIU2oNPQ9pf58/s1600/skeleton+with+heart.jpg" height="640" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Verdana;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Verdana;">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Verdana;"> </span><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">All
of these hearty things occurred due to the tireless work of the woman on the left, whose name,
and I really mean this, is Carla Valentine, the curator of Barts.</span></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTJZHnTy4RC5CAbklnhju0A9BJEo6FteJJV-Vc5dlrnM01lQuFtF2hWLEjUw7WXvW_laOSfDOJSsvFKGEke54GJVms9tH9FGw_B6sbkJAr_oY6fXKED3sqQ5Nq-adzkVLwTVlC5xnL1pc/s1600/Carla+&+Kate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTJZHnTy4RC5CAbklnhju0A9BJEo6FteJJV-Vc5dlrnM01lQuFtF2hWLEjUw7WXvW_laOSfDOJSsvFKGEke54GJVms9tH9FGw_B6sbkJAr_oY6fXKED3sqQ5Nq-adzkVLwTVlC5xnL1pc/s1600/Carla+&+Kate.jpg" height="444" width="640" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Verdana;"> </span><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">An
interview with Carla will soon be posted on this blog. To say she’s an
interesting woman would be an understatement.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Verdana;"><br />
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</span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>After
all the snacking and drinking the audience settled in their seats and the room went
dark – both literally and otherwise when I began my presentation on...</b></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIQulBw2Yf3lnNRxkgtuWXwu0Kbk1_yq64a46389hSyiFnHva1dVLI_ju1bHwF0A01ksC7zuqsjb-q8viju8GREGQ-vKGiEpteKqJ-FobF9wi_idVfxLweZ9PGNTivL_ytS3mNw9mZoMY/s1600/Heart+Title+Frame.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIQulBw2Yf3lnNRxkgtuWXwu0Kbk1_yq64a46389hSyiFnHva1dVLI_ju1bHwF0A01ksC7zuqsjb-q8viju8GREGQ-vKGiEpteKqJ-FobF9wi_idVfxLweZ9PGNTivL_ytS3mNw9mZoMY/s1600/Heart+Title+Frame.jpg" height="360" width="640" /></a></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Afterwards, the wonderful people from <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Waterstones-London-Wall/210286222344707?hc_location=timeline" target="_blank">Waterstones London Wall</a> kindly sold the first copies of the UK paperback edition of my memoir THE UNDERTAKER'S DAUGHTER, which was mighty good of them.</span></span></b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGXHimOsTxisoNzz96-d9v2bgCpszjAO5TJg_HEsZH_Mpg9_aglfY42vWGS8cDnYRE3sXMIX0qqJBFME89_EQY9x1sV_F86zZim-sfpxqQPpPpeJN-MkhO6YwjkQpUeXFiKctWesXS7Zw/s1600/Paperback+UK.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGXHimOsTxisoNzz96-d9v2bgCpszjAO5TJg_HEsZH_Mpg9_aglfY42vWGS8cDnYRE3sXMIX0qqJBFME89_EQY9x1sV_F86zZim-sfpxqQPpPpeJN-MkhO6YwjkQpUeXFiKctWesXS7Zw/s1600/Paperback+UK.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Happy
Alternative Valentine’s Day</span></b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj8kBzCOdP8W4lUa9x6GAW-xxFwJAN3xRlENaQpOj5klgCtTZGYkfzfMZwzXpktIb2iGuSOvZJ-N9H1fvBUQTsMZaFtfrv2s1sqbHBn6csrOfB_ilhbDd58dHZPdUsrwLHOkqf-c-nVNM/s1600/jolly+roger+heart+flag.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj8kBzCOdP8W4lUa9x6GAW-xxFwJAN3xRlENaQpOj5klgCtTZGYkfzfMZwzXpktIb2iGuSOvZJ-N9H1fvBUQTsMZaFtfrv2s1sqbHBn6csrOfB_ilhbDd58dHZPdUsrwLHOkqf-c-nVNM/s1600/jolly+roger+heart+flag.png" height="450" width="640" /></a></div>
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KATE MAYFIELDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15188611212969681379noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3651966380862866650.post-38199110535358053372015-01-08T15:54:00.000-08:002015-01-08T15:54:08.539-08:00<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">JANUARY 2015 IS PUBLICATION MONTH IN THE STATES FOR</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">THE UNDERTAKER'S DAUGHTER</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">I'm a bit excited...</span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdcobsJTeRFC8eFPR4R6pK_OFLQ-Om3TCbImcyB2hRYgmmI4l5Ld9xZfGA4k_MQ0YFAFH8BM2xyh249GcqWgtRuYTntFWc3S7eJ45NBR65WtxK0XWpEdPyxfm-OWhm-Jp2b_qNYdf-W7w/s1600/cheerleader-yelling-into-megaphone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdcobsJTeRFC8eFPR4R6pK_OFLQ-Om3TCbImcyB2hRYgmmI4l5Ld9xZfGA4k_MQ0YFAFH8BM2xyh249GcqWgtRuYTntFWc3S7eJ45NBR65WtxK0XWpEdPyxfm-OWhm-Jp2b_qNYdf-W7w/s1600/cheerleader-yelling-into-megaphone.jpg" height="400" width="352" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">I thought it would be a good time to do a round up of all the strange and unique locations in which my book events were held in the UK in 2014.</span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">Gallery Books has hosted the story on their XOXO After Dark site and it can be read <a href="http://xoxoafterdark.com/2015/01/06/author-worlds-scariest-book-events/" target="_blank">HERE</a>.</span><br />
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<br />KATE MAYFIELDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15188611212969681379noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3651966380862866650.post-82743687228506237502014-11-27T04:32:00.000-08:002014-12-29T06:40:29.863-08:00<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>GHOST WRITING FOR CHRISTMAS</b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgbVzWowvMdvFf5PZuXq7aMoDP-7cNirRViFeyVWbLvOEU6sNO84rK_BHLOJ5Bb6R5VxNTldjpK0a_ogkJCk4CqL_hHxh983R7Gznu4ldP7g17OV218pE5WkZ1AYQEAMU8O3Tzo5lADss/s1600/winterstale.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgbVzWowvMdvFf5PZuXq7aMoDP-7cNirRViFeyVWbLvOEU6sNO84rK_BHLOJ5Bb6R5VxNTldjpK0a_ogkJCk4CqL_hHxh983R7Gznu4ldP7g17OV218pE5WkZ1AYQEAMU8O3Tzo5lADss/s1600/winterstale.jpg" height="640" width="416" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Please find my Christmas post on Gallery Books' </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">XOXO After Dark website <a href="http://xoxoafterdark.com/2014/12/24/kate-mayfield-ghost-writing-christmas/" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>MY TERRIFYING THANKSGIVING</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I’d been living in New York for three years. I survived a
slap in the face from a complete stranger on drugs, three years of school at
the Academy of Dramatic Arts, the demise of a relationship, an attempted
mugging and an unfriendly landlord. What next, I wondered.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I received a call from one of the executives at the Academy
offering me the opportunity of an audition. I stifled a squeal and said yes of
course thank you very much. The address was a bit odd; not the normal stage door,
or even a West Side casting director’s office. All I knew is that the audition
had something to do with the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Yippee.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I arrived at a Mad Man’s office: Big desk, perfectly pressed
shirt, gleaming hair, intimidating. He invited me to sit down to talk about
Raggedy Ann. Did I know of her? What did I think of her? Yes, of course I knew
of her and, “I think she’s just adorable, a gift to children the world over,” I
say.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">How would I like to be Raggedy Ann in the Macy’s
Thanksgiving Day Parade? $200 for my trouble. Why yes, I certainly would.
Immediately I imagined myself glowing from a stellar makeup job revealing
Raggedy Ann-ness, waving from a huge float, appearing child-friendly and adored
by every toddler in Manhattan. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This was a far cry from my first ever paying job – playing
the organ for funerals in my father’s funeral home.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I arrived at West 69<sup>th</sup> Street at awfully early
o’clock on Thursday morning wearing my disappointingly just okay costume.
Underneath I wore a pair of 80-year-old man longjohns. No fool I, there was
sure to be a breeze on that float. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">There was no Raggedy Ann float. I would be walking in the
parade. There was no makeup artist. Instead, I went slack-jawed to see a representative
making his way towards me carrying a massive head in his arms. My head. My
Raggedy Ann papier-mâché head, the size of a city block. Just as I was
adjusting to this remarkable change in circumstances, a wild-eyed young man
staggers over reeking of the previous night’s alcohol binge and announces
himself as Raggedy Andy. Another representative quickly hides his unshaven face
in the Andy version of the papier-mâché monstrosity.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Suddenly the thumping drums of high school bands, the
blaring noise of organized chaos is muted. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPRvhn4KxE_ycVnnSn3sYUdx3PRxQfaG7rNv3J7ZzQMyWBgFBSL5S6Za7fT9VXPQ-QdqAC4F-Epf-AdzscbG0HKw2MnjltXwPZZPVxrP1gHKkYhuIrLuE5Hqpgo-1LX8A3Z6ut9w2b6RE/s1600/marching+band.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPRvhn4KxE_ycVnnSn3sYUdx3PRxQfaG7rNv3J7ZzQMyWBgFBSL5S6Za7fT9VXPQ-QdqAC4F-Epf-AdzscbG0HKw2MnjltXwPZZPVxrP1gHKkYhuIrLuE5Hqpgo-1LX8A3Z6ut9w2b6RE/s1600/marching+band.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">What had once been my view of hundreds of feet now became
inches with no peripheral vision. It was like trying to function inside a tree
trunk.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Off we go! Andy grabs my hand and jerks me along; on and on
we skip down the streets of New York sandwiched between two floats filled with
celebrities, comfortable in their special seats.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5he44whP7ItIdQafCcN4x_PafXdDGl-8yIKHsyzaHI2K9f9tYSC1xBeCncYtTsnShaWZObcRP3Fe7jGS7AfGEdmFaYTWJg-v03m5HTKg-c9zh8y-PcgoI3c94GlPG0RLKGca_HYrZNu4/s1600/Float.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5he44whP7ItIdQafCcN4x_PafXdDGl-8yIKHsyzaHI2K9f9tYSC1xBeCncYtTsnShaWZObcRP3Fe7jGS7AfGEdmFaYTWJg-v03m5HTKg-c9zh8y-PcgoI3c94GlPG0RLKGca_HYrZNu4/s1600/Float.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Children wave, parents point
at us, or no, maybe they’re pointing at the dancers. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We turn the corners and our section hits the 40’s near Times
Square. We enter the Blade Runner version of the parade. Suddenly the sun hides
behind a dark sky. I’ve worked up a sweat inside the massive head by
skipping half the length of Manhattan in longjohns, which are damp underneath
the dress, pinafore and pantaloons. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">There are three times as many people along this part of the
route and most of them are young children herded by comparatively few fully
stressed adults. When Raggedy Andy-with-the-hangover and I appear the children go absolutely
wild. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCMeEvGNtLhVh1JvkhqlRLWm0Afooz1VHrJN_1rM60dHBUwCVE6zdZiTna5sUHA_yqRTT6DoPicyoIVs_r9terjlBsooCVVf1Q6IGmdXgB44RZfFloM0iTbUrWtGd8eqrRDAE-0I-wto0/s1600/children.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCMeEvGNtLhVh1JvkhqlRLWm0Afooz1VHrJN_1rM60dHBUwCVE6zdZiTna5sUHA_yqRTT6DoPicyoIVs_r9terjlBsooCVVf1Q6IGmdXgB44RZfFloM0iTbUrWtGd8eqrRDAE-0I-wto0/s1600/children.jpg" height="476" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">They scream our names and scream some more. Then they break
loose from their parents, scramble under the barriers and Good Great God they
are on top of us! Andy and I are separated at once. Children tear at our
clothes, they reach up to smack at our huge heads, they hold on to our legs.
For one terrifying moment I thought I would be knocked down completely and
right there on Thanksgiving morning die a death from child attack on 42<sup>nd</sup>
street.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Say what you will about big burly intimidating New York City
policemen, but thank the heavens they were alert to our distress. They pulled
the children off us and performed human barrier technique in a very satisfying
way.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I never saw Andy again. It took months to wrangle the $200 from the Mad Man.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Happy Thanksgiving. Enjoy the parade.</span></div>
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KATE MAYFIELDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15188611212969681379noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3651966380862866650.post-70203662739129898412014-11-08T02:13:00.001-08:002014-11-08T02:13:09.838-08:00<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">A SHROUD STORY</span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdO5xRCKo3fnIM8gs9EnwrFJegUNc0yEjPyHb1dxZTo0k5n1dC7coR7S5dDNv0dSqxWZ3r8oDk3-5Rkr7HvtiQKEqwiaxz7Xi4kjYgTqiUayhZ3UpvrdlJl9_emKZ0r1iwr56aeUGVpNc/s1600/1.Hogarth+Molly's+Coffin.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdO5xRCKo3fnIM8gs9EnwrFJegUNc0yEjPyHb1dxZTo0k5n1dC7coR7S5dDNv0dSqxWZ3r8oDk3-5Rkr7HvtiQKEqwiaxz7Xi4kjYgTqiUayhZ3UpvrdlJl9_emKZ0r1iwr56aeUGVpNc/s1600/1.Hogarth+Molly's%2BCoffin.JPG" height="435" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">When I recently gave a talk in
Birmingham in the newly restored Coffin Works Shroud Room, I became engulfed in
a beguiling sense of synchronicity. I grew up in a funeral home. My father was
an undertaker in a small town in southern Kentucky and that means that most
mornings, before I skipped off to school, I could be found peering into a
casket in which the deceased was dressed in a shroud.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">When I left Kentucky and went abroad
for the first time, I didn’t go to London or Paris, like most Americans. I
landed on the shore of the Nile in Luxor and crossed that ancient river by
ferry to the Valley of the Kings, the burial ground of all burial grounds.
Enamored with the ancient Egyptians’ burial practices, I learned about the single
length of cloth used to wrap around the body of the deceased. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCWjIr9QF2al96vZbY4KZrQ1bPFwztXF5VDYuq__VL-MZq0hqmDm_ck27mgWhf3IHuDC0NSqHaHyxMqNt4kcEKmJRH0Vyy_5uG0EWuKh-yXxA3p5KcYCzS_whpkSCirdWMgpX5ck6kYW4/s1600/2.+Wrapping+the+mummy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCWjIr9QF2al96vZbY4KZrQ1bPFwztXF5VDYuq__VL-MZq0hqmDm_ck27mgWhf3IHuDC0NSqHaHyxMqNt4kcEKmJRH0Vyy_5uG0EWuKh-yXxA3p5KcYCzS_whpkSCirdWMgpX5ck6kYW4/s1600/2.+Wrapping+the+mummy.jpg" height="484" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">These shrouds were sometimes
inscribed with the name of the deceased, whole chapters from The Book of the
Dead, and spells, like this shroud, inscribed with spell number 64:</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoAJ_dGbu906sNy6RCJd5LRnrHKPcGyOVf7jducA19HbHUjTc83rbqsBVqlwBDhIZghh_vh2G4_OqWy705OWeHt8aNTgW1CE2xD9PK2tQfSyp6PYAjpVwOhaScK6Y0kTO2ypdYRdkIHmc/s1600/3.+Egyptian+shroud.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoAJ_dGbu906sNy6RCJd5LRnrHKPcGyOVf7jducA19HbHUjTc83rbqsBVqlwBDhIZghh_vh2G4_OqWy705OWeHt8aNTgW1CE2xD9PK2tQfSyp6PYAjpVwOhaScK6Y0kTO2ypdYRdkIHmc/s1600/3.+Egyptian+shroud.jpg" height="640" width="584" /></a></div>
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In 680 BCE this
netted, beaded shroud was created for an Ancient Egyptian mummy. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQp6k6IxDazrm1Yg0w7dtqTqKQkA-YzDAeB_pS6GdZxicnIuVuvDiID5em0D6d2JCnyzvAuScG1IWWCgnBRm8P9h25KWO5UnFRSH4u4qzeKFkBqzxWuLegShTwa7rczOmdVBy2GBGjK_k/s1600/4.+Beaded+shroud.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQp6k6IxDazrm1Yg0w7dtqTqKQkA-YzDAeB_pS6GdZxicnIuVuvDiID5em0D6d2JCnyzvAuScG1IWWCgnBRm8P9h25KWO5UnFRSH4u4qzeKFkBqzxWuLegShTwa7rczOmdVBy2GBGjK_k/s1600/4.+Beaded+shroud.jpg" height="640" width="310" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><b></b></span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
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The arms of the
net are tubular faience beads.<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span></div>
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The word
"shroud" originated in fourteenth century England to describe the
clothing used to dress or wrap a corpse prior to burial, derived from older
words <i>scrud</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> meaning garment and </span><i>screade
</i><span style="font-style: normal;">- a piece or strip of fabric.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The early shroud contained the
decaying corpse and covered the body. During the eleventh century, ordinary
people would have clothed their dead in a loose shirt before wrapping them in a
sheet, sometimes wound tightly with extra bands of cloth -<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a winding sheet. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The sixteenth-century shroud, a
length of linen or plain wool, like the one seen here on John Donne in his
funerary monument was also tied at the head and foot.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Donne’s effigy at St. Paul’s
Cathedral was the only statue to survive the Great Fire intact.</span></div>
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In his final
sermon in 1630 at Whitehall, Donne’s spoke these words: </div>
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<i>"We have a
winding sheet in our mother's womb, which grows with us from our conception,
and we come into the world wound up in that winding sheet, for we come to seek
a grave.”</i></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">In the United States, there is no
doubt that the homemade shroud was a significant part of 19th-century burial
customs. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Notices for meetings of “Shroud
Committees” or “Ladies’ Shroud Sewing Societies,” where charitable ladies made
shrouds for the poor were listed in the newspapers. There are many news
articles about elderly ladies buried in a shroud made by their own hands
decades earlier. Women from the 16th through the 19th century would sew their
own burial clothes when making their wedding trousseaux because women were so
likely to die in childbirth. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">In the mid 20<sup>th</sup> century
the Shroud Room of the Newman Brothers Coffin Works buzzed with the hum of the
Singer sewing machines. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I imagine these ladies talking about
their children, or their plans for the weekend. I imagine the shrouds boxed up,
ready for delivery. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Today in the Coffin Works’ newly
refurbished Shroud Room there are splendid spools of brightly colored thread
and shelves filled with bolts of fabric. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">While the shroud makers at Newman
Brothers kept their fingers busy, a woman who lived far away from Birmingham on
a farm in Kentucky needed a way to earn extra money. She was quite a good
seamstress, a fact that a lady in a haberdashery recognized, and she suggested
to the farmer’s wife that she consider making burial shrouds. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">In this small, seemingly sleepy
southern town where the town square has not changed for decades and where the
funeral business is fiercely competitive, as a child I waited anxiously on the
swing on the veranda of our funeral home for the appearance of the woman I
called the Shroud Lady. She opened her green cardboard boxes to reveal her hand
sewn shrouds, similar to this.</span></div>
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She sold shrouds
to my father for many years until one day an elderly woman decided she wanted
to be buried in her own clothes and thus changed a long held burial practice in
our town. And there you have it, from the north of England to the Southern
United States, a shroud story.</div>
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KATE MAYFIELDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15188611212969681379noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3651966380862866650.post-33419521444998172562014-09-26T09:23:00.000-07:002014-09-26T09:23:54.393-07:00 <style><!--
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>MEET THE LONDON UNDERTAKER: </b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>An Interview With Brian
Parsons</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Brian Parsons is a funeral director and training consultant
to funeral directors, trading under the name Funeral Training Service London.
He trains new funeral directors and works to enhance skills of existing funeral
directors. Brian researches, lectures and writes about the British funeral
industry, particularly regarding the latter part of the 19<sup>th</sup> century
up to the present day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I was delighted to sit with Brian and pose a few questions.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>When did you know you wanted to be an undertaker?</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I was about fourteen or fifteen when I got to know a
cemetery superintendent and he introduced me to a funeral director. I’d never
been to a funeral at that point, but then I went to a neighbor’s funeral and
was very intrigued about it all. There was a hidden world that worked
seamlessly. It was all going on somewhere, but you weren’t exposed to anything,
and didn’t see anything apart from big vehicles, people in black doing certain
tasks, and nobody would say much about it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The intrigue has never ceased. Because when I left school at
sixteen, I started a three-year apprenticeship scheme for a funeral directing
firm. I began in the workshop finishing coffins. </span></div>
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<b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOjNBxL1SAgGaVt6KaFwRFFYnbpCIhROs9_FOypMMBys23hzUSvWh9W7F2BMoS60pWzUgIi7SriYD2YJ7DIJjdSldhLUAgxDBrwO3BEHEVbHw_oR0XZeNrWolcwERmXWka7C1hPIM-8Ik/s1600/Coffins+BP.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOjNBxL1SAgGaVt6KaFwRFFYnbpCIhROs9_FOypMMBys23hzUSvWh9W7F2BMoS60pWzUgIi7SriYD2YJ7DIJjdSldhLUAgxDBrwO3BEHEVbHw_oR0XZeNrWolcwERmXWka7C1hPIM-8Ik/s1600/Coffins+BP.jpg" height="512" width="640" /></a></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Coffins would be brought in ready-made, but empty, so you
had to learn how to line them and put the handles on, they were all different.
Some of them had the most beautiful linings. There was quite a range of caskets
because the firm I looked after held many Travellers’ funerals and they would always
buy the best casket available. They wanted the most expensive caskets in the
range and they wanted the best for the person who died. This was in no way the
undertaker encouraging people to spend more money; this was the family saying,
‘this is what we want, this is what we do’.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It’s a client led interaction. To quote a cliché, it’s the
ultimate stress purchase. The funeral director starts off on a bad foot because
people are distressed and they’re purchasing something they don’t want to pay
money for because they don’t want people to die… let alone be landed with a
£6,000 bill for the funeral. It’s a transaction that the vast majority of
people don’t want to enter, but have to. At the same time, the funeral director
takes instruction. We offer a huge range of options to get from point A, when
the person has died, to point B, when the person is laid to rest. There’s a
huge amount that can happen in those days, weeks, sometimes months between the
two. There are no rules - we can keep a body as long as necessary.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I didn’t do the second year of training because I wasn’t
particularly interested in the stone and monument side of it. I went straight
on to the funeral directing side and at the same time I trained as an embalmer.
Within a two-year period I did quite a bit of training and began funeral
arranging.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It was a learning curve. It was one thing to read about the
possible ways people might react to a death, and another to actually interpret
what was happening.<span> </span>I learned to
tread carefully, negotiate tactfully, to use the right words, particularly when
there is a dispute within the family, or when there is a very tragic
circumstance. It’s an art, it’s not a science, and you can’t always get it
right. Sometimes you’re left in situations where you can’t win.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Someone once said that a funeral director is a bit like a
meteorologist in that the meteorologist gets blamed for bad weather and we get
blamed for the loss.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>How long have you been an undertaker and in which aspect
of the business are you most involved</b><span style="font-weight: normal;">?</span></span></div>
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</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I’ve been an undertaker since 1982. Now I attend to training
needs and spend quite a bit of time looking after staff, but I still get
involved with undertaking.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I do a great deal of interviewing. We’ve become good at
weeding out people who think they might be good at the job, but maybe their
reasons or motivation for doing the job is not in line with our expectations.
Maybe they want to work as a funeral director to in some way resolve the
aspects of their own loss, particularly if they’ve been recently bereaved. The
last thing we want is for people to get emotionally involved in someone’s loss.
We don’t know the client we’re dealing with. They’re not engaging us to become
counsellors or to take the emotional strain on our shoulders. It’s the
practical, immediate necessities that have to be managed. The churn of staff is
probably not high as you might imagine.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>What type of training is involved in the mentoring role? </b></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Some training can be delivered in a classroom setting, such
as telling people about recent changes to legislation and how that impacts upon
the funeral arrangements that they will be carrying out, to training new
funeral directors where you have to carry out mock funeral arrangements with
them, or where you’re teaching them how to direct funerals. You go out and
shadow them. The art to teaching is to get them to actually do the work. You
give then the skills and then a push. You’re there in the background, but
they’re actually doing it, pointing them in the right directions and giving
them confidence to do it. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>I asked Brian about the role of women in the undertaking
industry.</b></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmEr65Ts8LIeD8sJRjiMRB1ZVeaa7fS410jTtRu1MTaXt9NxE0sW0xwSK7TMH_Qu9uefizqB3fJBVO-tbfMHdzV_sk5k7mGGoelxecCsGC0fZxInudxgkv-EUewJaYqZqcIqiXic0pRg4/s1600/female+funeraldirector.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmEr65Ts8LIeD8sJRjiMRB1ZVeaa7fS410jTtRu1MTaXt9NxE0sW0xwSK7TMH_Qu9uefizqB3fJBVO-tbfMHdzV_sk5k7mGGoelxecCsGC0fZxInudxgkv-EUewJaYqZqcIqiXic0pRg4/s1600/female+funeraldirector.jpg" height="424" width="640" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">There have always been women working in the industry.
There’s a hidden area here because particularly in the smaller firms, and the
vast majority of firms in the 1950s were small, the husband would be the
funeral director and the wife would assist in an administrative capacity. And
we mustn’t forget that women have had a very important end-of-life role because
they assisted in the preparations for laying out the dead. There was a formal
network of layer-outers that existed in the community right up until the 1950s.
Someone would notify the local lady who would come along and wash the body and
prepare it and the reward was probably a fish and chips supper.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">But as fewer deaths occurred at home and people died in
hospital, that tradition died away. The male paid-for carer in the form of a
funeral director really took over the responsibility for the dead.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">There are a significant number of women embalmers. Probably
around 1/4 to 1/3 of the membership of British embalmers is female. Embalming
was a way of professionalizing the occupation by stating that we have an
effective scientifically based treatment that’s inexpensive and can be used to
halt any deterioration until time of the funeral. Women have a significant
place in funeral directing today. Not only do large corporations have equal
opportunity policies and some have had those in place for many years, but also
it’s recognized from thirty to forty years ago that women have a role as
funeral arrangers and conductors. There are many funeral arrangers and
conductors and women in senior management.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>What would you say is the biggest misconception about
your job?</b></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">We have Charles Dickens to thank for the biggest
misconception of the undertaking business. It’s thought that we’re trading off
the vulnerable bereaved. Or maybe there were just too many undertakers in the
19<sup>th</sup> century and they were all trying to get work. Maybe some of
them did manipulate. But you can’t tar everybody with the same brush, and
particularly one from over one hundred and twenty years ago. Yet that seems to
be the legacy. It’s very easy for the press to accuse funeral directors of
manipulation, but the clients’ experience isn’t that. The large majority of the
clients know what the funeral is going to cost before it takes place, because
everyone gives an estimate. So there’s transparency there, and if the client
feels there isn’t enough money they can make adjustments to the cost of the
funeral.</span></div>
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</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">It’s not in people’s interest to manipulate because in the
funeral directing business it could lead to bad debt and publicity. People may
jump too quickly to say we take advantage because we’re in a business with an
endless supply. We’re not here to ruin people, at the same time we have fixed
costs of running a business and they’re very high. Staff must be paid and
trained and investment has to be made in the business.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>I asked Brian’s thoughts about Jessica Mitford's controversial views on the American undertaking trade.</b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyYcGrpgF64dhEZRGp88NayYp414jebQYX7VWrCGKLUH18c95FeDkv2Vbt9XOxn7BBllnDVjEw6GYtO-QS4Nc5zeqRIbWyc0nt8yCNmRZwmN2Gz6MxmApPLSugw07aQ910s2Ul-P3HBEA/s1600/mitford_jessica1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyYcGrpgF64dhEZRGp88NayYp414jebQYX7VWrCGKLUH18c95FeDkv2Vbt9XOxn7BBllnDVjEw6GYtO-QS4Nc5zeqRIbWyc0nt8yCNmRZwmN2Gz6MxmApPLSugw07aQ910s2Ul-P3HBEA/s1600/mitford_jessica1.jpg" height="430" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Last year was fifty years since Jessica Mitford published <i>The
American Way of Death</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> and it was one of the
most successful books to be published. The Americans got their knickers in a
twist.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">You’ve got to ask the question, from what perspective is
this being written and why is it being written? Mitford’s book came out in
1963; months <i>after</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> Ruth Mulvey Harmer
published a much better book called </span><i>The High Cost of Dying</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. Mitford’s book eclipsed Harmers’, which was much
more rigorous in terms of research. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">My theory was that Mitford had a problem with death. And the
problem was that she had lost both of her children. If you read her
autobiography, there is the briefest mention of the most horrendous death of
her 10-year-old child in a London road accident. This would splinter most
people. She endured this, and she also lost another child. This brings me back
to the funeral director being that convenient person who is on the firing line
after loss. I can’t take credit for this theory because Thomas Lynch, the great
American writer, poet and funeral director, pointed this out after she’d died. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Her work concerned America and also England. She writes in a
homely and endearing way about funerals in England in the 1960s. The most
disappointing aspect of her book was that she permitted it to be updated, which
appeared in the 1990s just after she died. What was produced was a poorly
researched and inadequate version of what was happening in the industry. At
that stage the industry was under predatory attack by an American organization
and wasn’t looked at in a sophisticated way. It sunk and was not rigorous
enough.</span></div>
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</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>What is the most fulfilling aspect of your job? </b></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Again, it’s a cliché, but looking after people in great
need, solving problems and difficulties. Death is a hugely complex area, not
only emotionally, but also the bureaucracy of death that has to be dealt with. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Thirty years ago when I started work, we never saw the
burial or cremation of the foetal remains, or a very young child under
twenty-four weeks. Today we’d see a funeral for such children. We also deal in
the funeral of body parts. A leg or a brain may be reunited with a person after
that person has been interred, or buried, or cremated. Perhaps the reason being
the body part was held back for examination.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>How did you become interested in the history of
undertaking? And what inspired you to write your book, <i>The Undertaker at
Work: 1900-1950</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><b>?</b></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I had a break in day-to-day embalming and went to do a
degree in business. I was very inspired by a lecture about the sociology of
business and in the first term the lecturer discussed how business and society
had changed. I found that fascinating and could see how the industrial
revolution and technology instigated change and impacted the work of the
funeral director. So I embarked on the research of the organization of funerals
and delved in to the history of undertaking. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I discovered that no one had really looked adequately at the
19<sup>th</sup> century. There’s one or two bits of writing and literature, but
there hasn’t been a really serious study of the 19<sup>th</sup> century undertaking
business and certainly no one had looked at the 20<sup>th</sup> century. That
became the principal focus because I was interested in how the organization of
funerals had changed, particularly from the war period to the 1990s. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The increase in cremation and the increase in people dying
away from the home, the introduction of embalming, the shift from the manual
craft of coffin-making to mass production, the introduction of the motorized
vehicle to replace the horse drawn hearse, the increased responsibility of the
undertaker, and the increase in transportation across the world - all these
factors came together as well as the business factors. Here was an industry
that was dominated by the small trader, the family business, yet this family
business was suffering because families were smaller, sons and daughters didn’t
want to go into the business. So what did they do? They sold them to realize
money for their retirement. That gave the organizations an opportunity to use a
centralized form of operations to manage funerals and costs and still provide a
service. It all came together and it needed codifying. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Many thanks to Brian whose new book <b><i>The Undertaker at
Work: 1900-1950</i></b><span style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"> is
now available </span><a href="http://www.brianparsons.org.uk/index.html" target="_blank"><b>here</b></a><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">from his website.</span></span></div>
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<b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHcAtQWxZG6FltIXj50Z9JTqRZbXcrH4Utz3LWAH04c_8_Lmud0cvu65EmJlsXXuXJbslGcNTBhP1UP_G0YuIiI0fST0pajD_GyG0UHl0-xwqMwxpPa6WxunBe_0YAuEiagoIpIxEnH64/s1600/The+Undertaker+at+Work+1900-1950+cover+image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHcAtQWxZG6FltIXj50Z9JTqRZbXcrH4Utz3LWAH04c_8_Lmud0cvu65EmJlsXXuXJbslGcNTBhP1UP_G0YuIiI0fST0pajD_GyG0UHl0-xwqMwxpPa6WxunBe_0YAuEiagoIpIxEnH64/s1600/The+Undertaker+at+Work+1900-1950+cover+image.jpg" height="640" width="450" /></a></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoWHXWFp0Py0cqIpQW2lSPRBUJpZWMmGvqPEcXJRBZLhHELYlwMrNfrUTTyeBNIpIQCScU_S6ba_gtd5QGo-EwAR7gJepoTCp0pD0f_s9g8evkDpy2obzjbRP2VnNmUd3tV92ChtWWVBc/s1600/Brian+headshot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoWHXWFp0Py0cqIpQW2lSPRBUJpZWMmGvqPEcXJRBZLhHELYlwMrNfrUTTyeBNIpIQCScU_S6ba_gtd5QGo-EwAR7gJepoTCp0pD0f_s9g8evkDpy2obzjbRP2VnNmUd3tV92ChtWWVBc/s1600/Brian+headshot.jpg" height="400" width="328" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Brian joins <a href="http://themementomoriatas.blogspot.co.uk/" target="_blank">The Memento Moriatas</a> for an evening of Tales of
Ritual and Remembrance at the Coffin Works in Birmingham on October 8. It
promises to be a special night in the Shroud Room of the former Victorian
coffin fittings factory where we three will present illustrated talks on all
things funereal. Tickets and more information <b><a href="http://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/tales-of-ritual-and-remembrance-tickets-12685569881" target="_blank">here</a>.</b></span></div>
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<b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim9cFG0OvLzCsaLcEVU590a0z85J0Ypbw2v3eP8MYzrHBg_y_ch7U7z_9sMiBvaLsi1quFWH26bZHO15u0VwxalZAIjQI9CYO4nJE0tQeligXae1YMZXcHoCcGKVjMNfd184fWBZqYPPM/s1600/coffin+works+poster+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim9cFG0OvLzCsaLcEVU590a0z85J0Ypbw2v3eP8MYzrHBg_y_ch7U7z_9sMiBvaLsi1quFWH26bZHO15u0VwxalZAIjQI9CYO4nJE0tQeligXae1YMZXcHoCcGKVjMNfd184fWBZqYPPM/s1600/coffin+works+poster+2.jpg" height="640" width="300" /></a></b></div>
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KATE MAYFIELDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15188611212969681379noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3651966380862866650.post-56600111486958738782014-08-27T14:33:00.000-07:002014-08-27T14:33:07.706-07:00<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">COVER STORY: </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">From the Cover Designers of</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> <i>The Undertaker’s
Daughter</i></span><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></div>
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I am doubly delighted to introduce designers <a href="http://www.reginastarace.com/" target="_blank">Regina Starace</a>
from <a href="http://imprints.simonandschuster.biz/gallery-books" target="_blank">Gallery Books </a>in the US and <a href="http://www.melissafour.co.uk/" target="_blank">Mel Four </a>from <a href="http://www.simonandschuster.co.uk/" target="_blank">Simon and Schuster </a>UK, who have been kind and generous enough to
write about designing the covers of <i>The Undertaker’s Daughter</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.</span></div>
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Here's Regina, who tells her incredible story of an unexpected treasure hunt.</div>
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<b>"The cover design for <i>The Undertaker’s Daughter </i><span style="font-style: normal;">started with a life of its own, and the people who
were involved and excited about this book influenced the cover. Sometimes when
there are many voices in the design process, ideas can get watered down and my
creativity loses steam. But in this case, the suggestions and ideas of everyone
involved made the cover and concept stronger.</span></b></div>
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<b>I started with the manuscript and an idea suggested by Kate:
“...a doll house and how one peers inside the house in that odd way...” The
very talented art director at Gallery Books, Lisa Litwack, had a clear vision
of this “house” with each room containing representations of the living and the
dead. Lisa forwarded me imagery and ideas collected by Kate and her editor,
including captivating photographs of Kate’s father the undertaker. I compiled
all these materials on a Pinterest board: <u style="text-underline: thick;">http://www.pinterest.com/gstarace/ud/</u>
(kind of creepy how many times the embalming table was repinned!) and then read
the manuscript. I could see why everyone was excited. This is such an
intriguing and well-written book, and I wanted the cover to represent the
life—and death—that it contains. </b></div>
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<b>At this point I began sourcing visual materials for the “house”.
There is a large antique center not far from my home that I frequent, where I
befriended the owner and his son. As I wandered the booths for anything that
grabbed my eye, they went looking for “death stuff”—the idea was contagious. I
got lucky when I found a homemade house hanging on the wall. Then I hit the
jackpot. The owner’s son allowed me into his personal collection where he
showed me the salesman’s model coffin, seen in the foreground of the design,
rare funeral photos, a civil war era surgery kit, medical illustrations, old
bottles, miniature coca cola bottle lighters, and other strange ephemera. He
even showed me a traveling salesman’s small-scale coffin replica that was
lowered into a tank of water to show the “water tight” quality of their
product! All this was lent to me in faith that it would be returned, and out of
curiosity for this captivating project.</b></div>
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<b>Once home I started playing with the objects in the house,
and soon found that the image felt cluttered and too kitschy for the tone of
the book. Through Lisa’s direction, we took a much darker approach and gave the
image a patina with textures and added images found in old engraving books.
While I was able to find objects and images that related to Kate’s father and
the story, I felt it lacked the presence of Kate herself, the young girl
growing up with dead bodies on the first floor. I tried toys, and dolls, but
they felt too jovial. I went back to the antique store. I added the books to
represent her love and escape of reading (a vintage Edgar Allen Poe hard
cover), but it was still missing her energy. I searched through my own
collection of vintage photos, and found an image of my mother at a young age: a
little girl posing in her Easter outfit, a snapshot of growing up. This was the
missing element. </b></div>
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<b>At this point the design was in a place that Lisa felt was
strong and showed it to the sales and editorial team. The design concept itself
did not go through many iterations (in some cases there are many covers for one
book of which none are selected!) For a slight variation, we tried some old
wooden boxes, from my Grandfather’s workshop, but everyone went back to the
house. Several changes were made, and then it was sent to Kate who made the
spot on suggestion of adding the raven—the harbinger of death. A few last
changes and it was final—a relatively smooth and natural process. I can’t say
every project flows this way, but when it does I silently say to myself “I love
my job!”.</b></div>
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Regina’s images in progress.</div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mel Four explains how she adapted the cover to suit the UK market. It's quite unusual for the cover design for the US and the UK to be almost identical, because the markets are very different. Mel demonstrates how small changes make a difference.</div>
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<b>We had actually already begun working on cover visuals for
<i>The Undertaker’s Daughter</i>, but when we saw Regina's US cover, we loved it so
much we decided we should adapt it for our market.</b>
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<b>At first I tried making it quite a lot brighter as there
were concerns from our sales department that it is quite a dark cover for our
market, but it lost it's wonderful gothic feel so I ended up giving it a
slightly sepia tone and brightening the objects in the house a little bit so
they really stand out, the only other significant change I made was to the
fonts used on the cover, the gold lettering for the title is inspired by old
undertakers signage.</b>
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<b>It was a pleasure to work on Regina's beautiful design, and
of course Kate Mayfield's fantastic book.</b></div>
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Thanks very much to both Regina and Mel. </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Full disclosure – I can’t
take credit for introducing the idea of the doll’s house. Two very clever
friends first suggested it to me. I merely passed it on, quite exuberantly, to
my editor.</span><br />
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KATE MAYFIELDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15188611212969681379noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3651966380862866650.post-37090714260667146862014-07-14T04:27:00.000-07:002014-08-07T09:37:07.285-07:00<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">THE DEATH CHAIR</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">OF THE IGOROT MUMMIES</span></span></div>
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</style></span></span></span> Please note: There is an image of a corpse in this post.</div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">In 1904 T.S. Eliot visited the St. Louis, Missouri World’s
Fair. In the Philippine Exposition section he explored the village of the
Igorot people. He was so inspired by them that in 1905 he wrote the short
story, “The Man Who Was King”.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">Igorots resting after dancing while World's Fair visitors look on. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">The Bontoc Igorot warrior tribe live on the banks of the
Chico River in the mountains on the island of Luzon where they formerly practised head hunting. They are known for their distinctive tattoos.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">Their death rituals are unlike any I’ve come across.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">The Igorot respond emotionally to death without a great
swell of passion, unless the death is of a child, or the early death of a
woman’s husband. There is no sorrow or lamentation for the elderly. It is said
that Igorot men don’t cry at all for the dead.</span></div>
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;"> When death is near, a chicken is killed, people gather, eat
and wait.</span></div>
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;"> Immediately after death, the body of the deceased is washed
and then wrapped in a burial robe. A cloth is placed on top of the head, the
face left uncovered.</span></div>
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">Construction of the death chair begins.</span></div>
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">It is a roughly made, high-backed chair with a low seat. </span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbK13ooeZJI3_i0QLDB2FPTu_wfDpuBxVwxpzu6ze3DBIxKne619-UFSVZ1QEGid1C_-VBj5IcGH188aY-KU_xuwbEJGANDlFPA5_3tFcQg8ocAkCzWc5gDk2ba4HHMTV9_3P06hdinMU/s1600/Deeath+Chair+and+native.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbK13ooeZJI3_i0QLDB2FPTu_wfDpuBxVwxpzu6ze3DBIxKne619-UFSVZ1QEGid1C_-VBj5IcGH188aY-KU_xuwbEJGANDlFPA5_3tFcQg8ocAkCzWc5gDk2ba4HHMTV9_3P06hdinMU/s1600/Deeath+Chair+and+native.jpg" height="640" width="334" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">The corpse is bound to the chair with a band that fastens
his waist, arms and head. The chair is placed close to the door of the house
with the deceased facing out so that all can see him. </span></div>
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkGHlVXOFJVkmvHVOKstubgnFG56uTniJQIL-ybAQARYjCRaT9LGBgdKM3ugmnH-XARIFrRwXTy6n9qcVZu-F0S22jPZqlxOL3X0ERcxsUErT8C87WSuZiIiL9kdb_Tb0722I_V4VD5Ls/s1600/man+in+death+chair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkGHlVXOFJVkmvHVOKstubgnFG56uTniJQIL-ybAQARYjCRaT9LGBgdKM3ugmnH-XARIFrRwXTy6n9qcVZu-F0S22jPZqlxOL3X0ERcxsUErT8C87WSuZiIiL9kdb_Tb0722I_V4VD5Ls/s1600/man+in+death+chair.jpg" height="474" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">Seating the deceased on the chair is a ritual usually
reserved for the elderly, for the relatively rich and those with many descendants. It’s a show of respect and a compliance with tradition, and
enables a last face-to-face communication between the deceased and his
relatives. Visitors may have travelled great distances to pay their respects and
communicate with the deceased; they talk to him as if he were alive and expect
him to listen to their pleas, their desires, and well wishes. If this ritual
and tradition was not performed by a person who had requested it before death,
it was assumed that the deceased’s soul may come back to bother his relatives
by making them sick, or by killing another in the family.</span></div>
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">Fires are built around the death chair to protect the corpse
and drive away flies. Usually a relative of the deceased sits by the corpse,
watching closely to swat flies, but also people were paid to keep the flies
away so they wouldn’t enter the house. The smoke from the fire helped to dry
out the body. At one point in their history, the Igorot mummified their
deceased by leaving the corpse in the death chair for up to six months. </span>
</div>
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">Slowly, over the next few days, people begin to gather and
come to the home of the deceased. More fowl are beaten to death. A caribou is
slaughtered, eaten, and the horns and a portion of the skull are taken inside
the house and hung from the ceiling.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvdfkoTECEY020hhCv8xbD_FEZS7FCVinK4Se0AErtq-uT6bk4NFVlh6Hutp96tuoCAUvsH1scOaFtQ-jR31GIXyb3r35AbRQyW3aL9_gaYcrJT7T9YlTcvag-x8CUdJlu_MXjGuC-24M/s1600/caribou+skull.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvdfkoTECEY020hhCv8xbD_FEZS7FCVinK4Se0AErtq-uT6bk4NFVlh6Hutp96tuoCAUvsH1scOaFtQ-jR31GIXyb3r35AbRQyW3aL9_gaYcrJT7T9YlTcvag-x8CUdJlu_MXjGuC-24M/s1600/caribou+skull.jpg" height="640" width="552" /></a></div>
</div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">Children play, women nurse babies and spin thread, more
people arrive and the corpse sits in the chair blackening and swelling while
life goes on normally around it. Families laugh and tell stories.</span></div>
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRHWedQ8P8PyMiSwiI81SVsNsZIHnLrxVtAq6qDcNgTddFtwYWL2-JRCZSkoLMDyhxvnmJQQ9UcNmZWQPB8_vWbhs9T8hl150lGtxofGbeF8gFVZjO4EP-h98ArjBG-kjhZM7PPXiLnHM/s1600/Women+weaving+at+a+wido%27s+hut.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRHWedQ8P8PyMiSwiI81SVsNsZIHnLrxVtAq6qDcNgTddFtwYWL2-JRCZSkoLMDyhxvnmJQQ9UcNmZWQPB8_vWbhs9T8hl150lGtxofGbeF8gFVZjO4EP-h98ArjBG-kjhZM7PPXiLnHM/s1600/Women+weaving+at+a+wido's+hut.jpg" height="428" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #444444;">Women weaving at a widow's hut.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">The women begin a chant. More food. They sing a
word-less song; it is soothing and not a dirge. </span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Urb1D0F_lgPxftU0o3hNsItWIz6J7goRYE1ezHLI9rcW7Dd5AI1ZDkfwmWEd88CPuahGgio4qKpRk_biKNNS_jgnC-7G3brS0A48SXWSp0nac6r9Xp6cav6V2Ksg3BXlTK_75kCUB_I/s1600/igorot_women+1900.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Urb1D0F_lgPxftU0o3hNsItWIz6J7goRYE1ezHLI9rcW7Dd5AI1ZDkfwmWEd88CPuahGgio4qKpRk_biKNNS_jgnC-7G3brS0A48SXWSp0nac6r9Xp6cav6V2Ksg3BXlTK_75kCUB_I/s1600/igorot_women+1900.jpg" height="428" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #444444;">Igorot women, 1900. </span></div>
<br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">The number of people increase, over one hundred now have
gathered.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">The men sing a low song with these words:</span></div>
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US"><i>“Now you
are dead; we are all here to see you. We have given you all things necessary,
and have made good preparation for the burial. Do not come to call away to kill
any of your relatives or friends.” </i></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">A pine coffin appears, wood chips strewn about the ground.
It is turned upside down and makes a seat for several visitors as children play
around it.</span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZYuOykFd-vTDDoXiA_72K4OsdfY7tUtGkwe3MXz9HDizbyjtLch94hNRgmxG60cQAC46FL21l3qLOG6hSDbNJ428Hna2gpkFMchbHKGE9nGOjA5vWcBKntsQZjTLPMJkzb7pDy6228eY/s1600/coffins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZYuOykFd-vTDDoXiA_72K4OsdfY7tUtGkwe3MXz9HDizbyjtLch94hNRgmxG60cQAC46FL21l3qLOG6hSDbNJ428Hna2gpkFMchbHKGE9nGOjA5vWcBKntsQZjTLPMJkzb7pDy6228eY/s1600/coffins.jpg" height="388" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">More people arrive; hogs, chicken and dogs are eaten. The
roasting meat scent mingles with the heavy, sickening odour of the corpse in the
chair, but those who sit near him do not flinch, seem not to notice at all.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">A dozen men carry digging sticks and dirt baskets to the
fringes of the encampment as the sun begins to set. They begin digging to the
depth of five feet.</span></div>
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">The last of the new arrivals stop by the chair of the corpse
to pay their respects. Men move the coffin to the chair’s feet, untie the
bands, pick up the corpse and lower him into the coffin. </span></div>
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">An old woman places two breechcloths and a blanket over the
body, and a small white cloth over the eyes. The cloth already on top of his
head is replaced with a clean one.</span></div>
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">Onto the men’s shoulder the coffin is hefted and then
quickly carried to the grave.</span></div>
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">Many of the other men follow - one brings the coffin cover and another
the caribou horns—but the women and children remain behind, as is custom.</span> </div>
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">The coffin is then placed in the grave and the cover is lowered in
place, the caribou horns are laid on top facing the head. It takes sixty
seconds for the men to fill the grave, many men working as fast as they
possibly can, for animals must not cross the trail or evil will follow. </span></div>
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">On the day after the burial, men and boys go to the river to fish and a fish feast
is laid for the evening meal. The next day all the visitors return home with
plates of rice, a gift from the deceased’s family.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0CNSkLh8hMda9uAn-dLkrJkai4CODG5j3hXXZ35PvqWkONqaOrYZmccyy1XSzsNAA0shxt3WhAmPRAugR7dd9tYvg-mlWR08zGXwp_IU0avdV8F6tBhPtHd_UQ-KtesWxLdI1_MVXx0g/s1600/fish+trap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0CNSkLh8hMda9uAn-dLkrJkai4CODG5j3hXXZ35PvqWkONqaOrYZmccyy1XSzsNAA0shxt3WhAmPRAugR7dd9tYvg-mlWR08zGXwp_IU0avdV8F6tBhPtHd_UQ-KtesWxLdI1_MVXx0g/s1600/fish+trap.jpg" height="430" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #444444;"> The fish trap.</span></div>
</div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">This ritual might take place over a period of two to eight days,
depending on the size of the family and the importance of the deceased.</span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;">
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span>
</div>
KATE MAYFIELDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15188611212969681379noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3651966380862866650.post-53884265011304493122014-06-07T02:49:00.000-07:002014-06-07T02:49:01.836-07:00<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">5 MEMORABLE GRAVEYARDS IN LITERATURE</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQWKX63cYYGi9Lv8ryYwN6yAjFKi9LruVPsCT1dYgKYnJtwu00SK9BvRxHbRmXn0_0amrvWqx2hlrW7G1qLukhHTbE3IVGVmzxrOp4RKOwqY6OQxnwyx6tyzn9vYOsGkpPsntaQLL7nVA/s1600/highgate-cemetery-angel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQWKX63cYYGi9Lv8ryYwN6yAjFKi9LruVPsCT1dYgKYnJtwu00SK9BvRxHbRmXn0_0amrvWqx2hlrW7G1qLukhHTbE3IVGVmzxrOp4RKOwqY6OQxnwyx6tyzn9vYOsGkpPsntaQLL7nVA/s1600/highgate-cemetery-angel.jpg" height="267" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;">I was delighted to write a post for the fabulous Off the Shelf website, a site created by editors, authors and others in the publishing industry to help readers discover wonderful books they might not know about.</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;">I was surprised while doing the research to be reminded that there are a great many graveyards and cemeteries in literature. I pulled books from my shelves that held graveyards within their pages until they towered on the floor near my desk.</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;">I also found it interesting that, in a few cases, humour trickled through a few graveyard scenes in a slightly macabre way, as in my first selection, THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER. </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #444444;">I hope you enjoy</span> <a href="http://offtheshelf.com/2014/05/5-memorable-graveyards-in-literature/" target="_blank">5 Memorable Graveyards in Literature </a> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div id="stcpDiv" style="left: -1988px; position: absolute; top: -1999px;">
<strong>The Freshly Dug Grave</strong><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="http://offtheshelf.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/05/SAWYER-Injun-Joe-victims-1.jpg"><img alt="SAWYER Injun Joe victims-1" class="alignleft wp-image-3538 size-medium" height="222" src="http://offtheshelf.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/05/SAWYER-Injun-Joe-victims-1-300x222.jpg" width="300" /></a>In <em>The Adventures of Tom Sawyer </em>by
Mark Twain, two boys sneak out of bed and steal away into the midnight
air in search of devils in the graveyard. What could possibly go wrong?
Tom and Huck huddle behind a tree petrified as three men approach the
mound of a fresh grave. Hidden from view, they watch in horror as men
they recognize from town strike the grave with their shovels and begin
digging up a corpse. When the job is done, one of the grave robbers
demands extra payment. A fight ensues, a murder is committed, the weapon
being a headstone no less, and the only witnesses to the crime flee in
terror. All this in Twain’s inimitable voice.</div>
- See more at: http://offtheshelf.com/2014/05/5-memorable-graveyards-in-literature/#sthash.9eMJzpPl.dpuf</div>
<div id="stcpDiv" style="left: -1988px; position: absolute; top: -1999px;">
<strong>The Freshly Dug Grave</strong><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="http://offtheshelf.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/05/SAWYER-Injun-Joe-victims-1.jpg"><img alt="SAWYER Injun Joe victims-1" class="alignleft wp-image-3538 size-medium" height="222" src="http://offtheshelf.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/05/SAWYER-Injun-Joe-victims-1-300x222.jpg" width="300" /></a>In <em>The Adventures of Tom Sawyer </em>by
Mark Twain, two boys sneak out of bed and steal away into the midnight
air in search of devils in the graveyard. What could possibly go wrong?
Tom and Huck huddle behind a tree petrified as three men approach the
mound of a fresh grave. Hidden from view, they watch in horror as men
they recognize from town strike the grave with their shovels and begin
digging up a corpse. When the job is done, one of the grave robbers
demands extra payment. A fight ensues, a murder is committed, the weapon
being a headstone no less, and the only witnesses to the crime flee in
terror. All this in Twain’s inimitable voice.</div>
- See more at: http://offtheshelf.com/2014/05/5-memorable-graveyards-in-literature/#sthash.9eMJzpPl.dpuf</div>
KATE MAYFIELDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15188611212969681379noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3651966380862866650.post-42973006873956768002014-03-10T03:05:00.000-07:002014-03-10T03:05:19.506-07:00<br />
<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Undertaker Ghost Signs Around the World</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;">From the smallest towns in America to remote settlements in
Australia, ghost signs remind us of the undertakers of the past who once built
coffins and provided a place for the preparation for burials of their citizens.</span></span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;">
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;">First up is this colourful old sign in Clyde, New Zealand.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRsyIXqijXyq5RoA1uTfGROG7J4ksUaqeobyFRgu_ctkivMY2ectbvdOYM_4ZnDlNlWn76PhzVMNCfZ8soi5koFhvkJbFhW_viHeXwiYTN9dtyeunrSRp_qD9q-MKQ-GQTwptBJaX9xU0/s1600/+Clyde,+New+Zealand.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRsyIXqijXyq5RoA1uTfGROG7J4ksUaqeobyFRgu_ctkivMY2ectbvdOYM_4ZnDlNlWn76PhzVMNCfZ8soi5koFhvkJbFhW_viHeXwiYTN9dtyeunrSRp_qD9q-MKQ-GQTwptBJaX9xU0/s1600/+Clyde,+New+Zealand.jpg" height="261" width="400" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;">In this unique double ghost sign in Illinois, you can just
make out the original undertaker sign beneath the funeral home sign.<span> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJiH9xdQufXQW7_YOU1s0lhhsqC5rr5Ig4o818Jdwd8urax7xiOgQNQsWoKkc0aECxDPJJtPB9-7cxz8PXFAAXKZz9gEBFb0m3zrDaLsv8VouaawI_XmuX8sVxcULCS7nrXpgLlaGa3y8/s1600/Illinois+Ghost+Sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJiH9xdQufXQW7_YOU1s0lhhsqC5rr5Ig4o818Jdwd8urax7xiOgQNQsWoKkc0aECxDPJJtPB9-7cxz8PXFAAXKZz9gEBFb0m3zrDaLsv8VouaawI_XmuX8sVxcULCS7nrXpgLlaGa3y8/s1600/Illinois+Ghost+Sign.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;">It’s not exactly a ghost sign, instead it represents
evidence of undertaking in Gulong, Australia.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqpQA0TW9_7uK0s-s_gRGgVlkMV0tQ6aSOrv9M0KbzyJscX5VJLFqYBfoUfP9rSBE4Ne1kQV56P7mzN6GSwOE3xbxtZBmUHo-XGHu0XpUbWGF3x_0znnMt9gNHoUx4q05oPp9yBvQBliY/s1600/Gulgong,+Australia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqpQA0TW9_7uK0s-s_gRGgVlkMV0tQ6aSOrv9M0KbzyJscX5VJLFqYBfoUfP9rSBE4Ne1kQV56P7mzN6GSwOE3xbxtZBmUHo-XGHu0XpUbWGF3x_0znnMt9gNHoUx4q05oPp9yBvQBliY/s1600/Gulgong,+Australia.jpg" height="472" width="640" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;">The foreboding hand in Eureka Springs, Arizona.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxRHYqtEufhPeE8ngA8lpBE_Q8F_zV4Nw61DkVSXXBp4JH53h5_Wf33FFAEE-r-bb1c7olErD7noT9LLBoevODf_PkozqMz1x28wpxdRZPWzeFUsSRn8QfxYl4oIBlxXn19zi3jcjD91M/s1600/Eureka+Springs,+Arizona.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxRHYqtEufhPeE8ngA8lpBE_Q8F_zV4Nw61DkVSXXBp4JH53h5_Wf33FFAEE-r-bb1c7olErD7noT9LLBoevODf_PkozqMz1x28wpxdRZPWzeFUsSRn8QfxYl4oIBlxXn19zi3jcjD91M/s1600/Eureka+Springs,+Arizona.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;">A woman in Carson City, Nevada found this sign in her attic.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg44diA0cPo20GvkuijtlzQapFjMXMOxWdaLfr2cTW81BkLvB7CRv0b5HuOBlNG8Uz0JWoNrGkOT-JVJWlnRjKpeWIgrtF_xlnRbvwOrykBfLBeRGIxWcCvJzJIj7isEVAEfooNn0uoDJo/s1600/Carson+City,+Nevada.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg44diA0cPo20GvkuijtlzQapFjMXMOxWdaLfr2cTW81BkLvB7CRv0b5HuOBlNG8Uz0JWoNrGkOT-JVJWlnRjKpeWIgrtF_xlnRbvwOrykBfLBeRGIxWcCvJzJIj7isEVAEfooNn0uoDJo/s1600/Carson+City,+Nevada.jpg" height="160" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;">There is something melancholic about the poise of these
beautiful carriages against the tatty façade of this funeral parlour in
Chattanooga, Tennessee.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJyXRojPc_6MuKhGWROBNdlmW7rYukLJcQLsVHrXiC8nbbZa_Np475Tfk4YdOV8p0iOfydySYevHvyncr29jqnb1u1ogqVqWctF-4naEnt8REmA_aAEJJybcRXLV_uSorjh84fubpOb0A/s1600/Chattanooga,+Tenn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJyXRojPc_6MuKhGWROBNdlmW7rYukLJcQLsVHrXiC8nbbZa_Np475Tfk4YdOV8p0iOfydySYevHvyncr29jqnb1u1ogqVqWctF-4naEnt8REmA_aAEJJybcRXLV_uSorjh84fubpOb0A/s1600/Chattanooga,+Tenn.jpg" height="317" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;">In Milwaukee this undertaker catered to your carriage needs
for both your wedding and your funeral. </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtStVm4rYmJ8qC0J4hGqhhsK88h59nVnYHIQwSahDCTZiqTsUKClBL0K0iiXWWgmtiiHMfLVAGDeGiqWX70nreOGRFBBfPMKrgnve8sPJlgYktjJoAGSoyzKSwGQJmKs-eLAbfjp4YMwE/s1600/Milwaukee+Ghost+sign.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtStVm4rYmJ8qC0J4hGqhhsK88h59nVnYHIQwSahDCTZiqTsUKClBL0K0iiXWWgmtiiHMfLVAGDeGiqWX70nreOGRFBBfPMKrgnve8sPJlgYktjJoAGSoyzKSwGQJmKs-eLAbfjp4YMwE/s1600/Milwaukee+Ghost+sign.JPG" height="250" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;">Included for its beauty, this Art Deco influenced building enhanced by shiny black tiles
is the Hunold Bestattungen Funeral Home in Berlin.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIFbzLGWjjALyzBpN49FG2LetkWnsPIZWlGknmBQHE-WzMTDv7U_LpkAOKGReWbgTprM9kRwJa-VCSsbwv8_iSYugm_0Jyr7woJvziNPI918OUw8LepCMGzzzX4royVubo3FmqI8XHsnE/s1600/Bestattungen+Berlin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIFbzLGWjjALyzBpN49FG2LetkWnsPIZWlGknmBQHE-WzMTDv7U_LpkAOKGReWbgTprM9kRwJa-VCSsbwv8_iSYugm_0Jyr7woJvziNPI918OUw8LepCMGzzzX4royVubo3FmqI8XHsnE/s1600/Bestattungen+Berlin.jpg" height="640" width="425" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Lastly, this faded ghost
sign in St. Louis is explicit in its simplicity.</span></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyCjLd91b-8KqXmDasAjrERtIqWl9-qxi7HsmhlNsqaD0GEJRpu3-ktssQ2swMMgGJSL_Bftdc97HK59OiBe9Ffu9q0OJeNnbazUGhJ-O_sm_kJ7HM8UTY1-OfIilA3w2plwHawv8W7fY/s1600/St+Louis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyCjLd91b-8KqXmDasAjrERtIqWl9-qxi7HsmhlNsqaD0GEJRpu3-ktssQ2swMMgGJSL_Bftdc97HK59OiBe9Ffu9q0OJeNnbazUGhJ-O_sm_kJ7HM8UTY1-OfIilA3w2plwHawv8W7fY/s1600/St+Louis.jpg" height="640" width="435" /></a></div>
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KATE MAYFIELDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15188611212969681379noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3651966380862866650.post-52461477387625938102014-02-09T02:41:00.001-08:002014-02-09T02:41:35.784-08:00<br />
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<span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">THE FACES OF DEATH</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">When I was a child, every morning I walked to elementary
school from our funeral home. But before I left home, I made a ritualistic
visit to the room where the dead lay, ready for visitors to view. I approached
the casket that cradled our town’s most recently departed and studied the face
of the man or woman who rested temporarily in their last but one stop to the
cemetery.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">My father worked with the faces of the deceased, moulding
lips with the tips of his fingers, repositioning the corners of their mouths,
forming a final image for their families and friends. Devoid of movement and
emotion, the face of a dead person loses a portion of its individuality, though
the likeness is still there, like a death mask.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">I once returned from Egypt with an artefact. When I first
saw it, secreted away in a dark apartment on a back street in Cairo, I was
immediately drawn to it and my memories of all the dead faces of my childhood
came flooding back. Tea was served as I purchased a delicate piece of papyrus,
or linen, on which was painted the face of an ancient Egyptian destined for
entombment. This cloth-like substance was the result of the first process in
the creation of a death mask. It would have then been soaked in plaster and
pressed onto wood. I was assured it was authentic, but I may have been taken
for a ride. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">Before photography, death masks were the most accurate
representation of the deceased. While King Tut’s death mask is probably the
most famous of the ancient Egyptians, I’ve found others<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> that are</span> more intriguing to me.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFNbYLb-XXL1vrlVj7si2c4Un7eE3Ul_DmQBcbUZHdHOZD2IvnYW4zcEEsIpm6Nmcpx7SbbIkpJ9C60LsvSxaBgbCvH19ciSpZk5gYPYglBnGGUCMDIlTVGiDQ5QLmp5TJDVdAf0VEhLA/s1600/egyptiennes+mask.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFNbYLb-XXL1vrlVj7si2c4Un7eE3Ul_DmQBcbUZHdHOZD2IvnYW4zcEEsIpm6Nmcpx7SbbIkpJ9C60LsvSxaBgbCvH19ciSpZk5gYPYglBnGGUCMDIlTVGiDQ5QLmp5TJDVdAf0VEhLA/s1600/egyptiennes+mask.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP7p61w7Q0wYelKsBjV-SiJWBx_xAZg0aYjvV8_l_9IEL_gaHlYL7I96k9jZIH99b55s8UfZh3deqUnzOYl4wdiGjzAAsdoGfUvUtpc-IQ9pPvYbgvsW5RTXfhmfZ6EPn8gO8xq70bBec/s1600/Egyptian-sarcophagus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP7p61w7Q0wYelKsBjV-SiJWBx_xAZg0aYjvV8_l_9IEL_gaHlYL7I96k9jZIH99b55s8UfZh3deqUnzOYl4wdiGjzAAsdoGfUvUtpc-IQ9pPvYbgvsW5RTXfhmfZ6EPn8gO8xq70bBec/s1600/Egyptian-sarcophagus.jpg" height="425" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">In the 17<sup>th</sup> century death masks were used as a
model for artists who created effigy sculptures for tombs. Usually masks were
made just hours after death and having progressed from the wood of the ancient
Egyptians, they were produced using a cast made of wax or plaster. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC7Qh7MS5bPnEaXNJr8KwRBwtezmy2hUTlkFm_c-rmWw1almR2qysu2fgFKM1oLw9-l3xrHo9bNg-FXU9MYvLR9uEztnjdFfsnqqTKNodey_0EowvjgQsKBEmG3RPho3PXjusRfujuy9o/s1600/making_death_mask.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC7Qh7MS5bPnEaXNJr8KwRBwtezmy2hUTlkFm_c-rmWw1almR2qysu2fgFKM1oLw9-l3xrHo9bNg-FXU9MYvLR9uEztnjdFfsnqqTKNodey_0EowvjgQsKBEmG3RPho3PXjusRfujuy9o/s1600/making_death_mask.jpg" height="490" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">In 1669 Samuel Pepys had a life mask made about which he
said, “I was vexed to be forced to daub all my face over with Pomatum (a
scented ointment), but it was pretty to feel how soft and easy it is done on
the face, and by and by, by degrees, how hard it becomes, that you cannot break
it, and sets so close that you cannot pull it off, and yet so easy that is as
soft as a pillow.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">By the 19th
century, death masks were no longer simply tools for artists. The pseudoscience
of phrenology held mainstream popularity and phrenologists eagerly collected
death masks to study the skull shapes. The Victorians considered the masks as
mementos and used the plaster negative to make multiple copies. It was not
unusual for families to proudly display them to commemorate the dead.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">These are a selection of death masks taken from <span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">John Delaney’s<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<i>A Pictorial Guide<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Manuscripts
Division <br />
Department of Rare Books and Special Collections <br />
Princeton University Library <br />
2003 </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"> Dante Gabriel Rossetti</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibNMO6yinb2lK9HFksDzz5cSGcbAoZY2lZKGST8BOnxreo0EMd9E1wAuRLvBEsMHkVUI1NDisjYQSOsKKWMCuzKqSY2xoZT4blRKTCIgGCF5Zztst7oLZGpzjWDWdHa9qlNNf8v7GQ1Ts/s1600/W.+Von+Kaulbach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibNMO6yinb2lK9HFksDzz5cSGcbAoZY2lZKGST8BOnxreo0EMd9E1wAuRLvBEsMHkVUI1NDisjYQSOsKKWMCuzKqSY2xoZT4blRKTCIgGCF5Zztst7oLZGpzjWDWdHa9qlNNf8v7GQ1Ts/s1600/W.+Von+Kaulbach.jpg" height="640" width="412" /> </a></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">Wilhelm von Kaulbach </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIAMBjGMiUR6M9xRCtQFRG-hJgouhosu7ykRPp1eZSCdd3oeIXqyqvw9UfDj1KvKBaQpbqrUrdAyh-ohzHG4NwQ6QiqnqXWpTiZxYDUSO8CynHwim-k0nY48DHxnJGv71PF6kZqMJhT4Q/s1600/Benjamin+Franklin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIAMBjGMiUR6M9xRCtQFRG-hJgouhosu7ykRPp1eZSCdd3oeIXqyqvw9UfDj1KvKBaQpbqrUrdAyh-ohzHG4NwQ6QiqnqXWpTiZxYDUSO8CynHwim-k0nY48DHxnJGv71PF6kZqMJhT4Q/s1600/Benjamin+Franklin.jpg" height="640" width="404" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"> Benjamin Franklin</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">It was a bit harder to find death masks of women. I winced when I first saw this, because of her long confinement and almost prison-like sentence to her bed in life, here she was again captured in death.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-7phV6TJ-1w7Wi03WC-PbZjOm6ZeOusQenTy7iIY9BFL98H6wmLAX8tewbqlfGJohFARKhdi9EfgOTGXjhYoXJy3bt23Hcflvy5nKY5CisKXBwculDQ5ibVhn8cVhD1MKQ_o3XD6dLMk/s1600/Frida+Kahlo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-7phV6TJ-1w7Wi03WC-PbZjOm6ZeOusQenTy7iIY9BFL98H6wmLAX8tewbqlfGJohFARKhdi9EfgOTGXjhYoXJy3bt23Hcflvy5nKY5CisKXBwculDQ5ibVhn8cVhD1MKQ_o3XD6dLMk/s1600/Frida+Kahlo.jpg" height="424" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">Frida Kahlo</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">But death masks were also used to preserve the faces of the
unknown as in the case of L'Inconnue de la Seine, "the unknown woman of
the Seine" who was found drowned in the Paris river in the 1880’s. Never
identified, she gained cult status when her death mask, made by an infatuated
pathologist, inspired art and literature across the globe, such was her beauty
in death. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeUsBbQaIfbTOdsfQTb0jCufOxx9Wz1KCvxvsqS4y8Fzj5zh0tbdp9AzJdMmm_7yS2t1Ta6VFwWq5aJasfLh7bp_AvJSGHBpBY9xJr8aB3RsS4N-1y1Ji1oXGeGo-dwH5VVeDyBTa3eg4/s1600/Unkown+woman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeUsBbQaIfbTOdsfQTb0jCufOxx9Wz1KCvxvsqS4y8Fzj5zh0tbdp9AzJdMmm_7yS2t1Ta6VFwWq5aJasfLh7bp_AvJSGHBpBY9xJr8aB3RsS4N-1y1Ji1oXGeGo-dwH5VVeDyBTa3eg4/s1600/Unkown+woman.jpg" height="640" width="512" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">The incredible journey of the drowned woman’s face continued
through history when a Norwegian toy maker used her likeness to create “Resusci
Anne”, also known as “Rescue Annie” a training mannequin used to teach CPR. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">A life taken, a life saved.</span></div>
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KATE MAYFIELDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15188611212969681379noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3651966380862866650.post-66377092356218123512014-01-22T09:35:00.001-08:002014-01-22T09:35:39.571-08:00<br />
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<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">EXCUSE ME........</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj503RP_X11OaOnQ8uJtV34A0HjSHXNfjIyuOAeVF8plnr13qFw1qYD7ggB3BjklehXPzeoNZ7jJyHLn-3Vc11hKJ-EUKnPD8H1l33fqlDvfxjLSGRrgDevqHTeQGBWQANxbXcHE-p_lSk/s1600/SkeletonwithShovel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj503RP_X11OaOnQ8uJtV34A0HjSHXNfjIyuOAeVF8plnr13qFw1qYD7ggB3BjklehXPzeoNZ7jJyHLn-3Vc11hKJ-EUKnPD8H1l33fqlDvfxjLSGRrgDevqHTeQGBWQANxbXcHE-p_lSk/s1600/SkeletonwithShovel.jpg" height="400" width="237" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;">If you're looking for Kate's newest blog post, this week it can be found here:</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN_AjpZ8bJuFtgezDXC3EeCvXODxaEuLUVHaAiJxhIBVl51L7S-qSgajm7m2ZJrc9ZwW9k44gzY-F7VFY_hdPhPuqz4VIFyTMDrsJtd2LTA5Fbzt1bmDa35rjA6Cjz8y0FdGlC2HPZmuI/s1600/pointing+hand.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN_AjpZ8bJuFtgezDXC3EeCvXODxaEuLUVHaAiJxhIBVl51L7S-qSgajm7m2ZJrc9ZwW9k44gzY-F7VFY_hdPhPuqz4VIFyTMDrsJtd2LTA5Fbzt1bmDa35rjA6Cjz8y0FdGlC2HPZmuI/s1600/pointing+hand.jpg" height="400" width="211" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;">At the home of the <a href="http://www.themementomoriatas.blogspot.co.uk/"> Memento Moriatas </a></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Where tales of dastardly deaths in a London cemetery await your reading pleasure.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
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KATE MAYFIELDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15188611212969681379noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3651966380862866650.post-51725166332108560402013-12-02T08:25:00.000-08:002013-12-02T09:02:07.837-08:00 <style><!--
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-size: large;">THE ACCOUTREMENT OF DEATH</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">The Newman Brothers Coffin Fitting Works left such an
impression upon me that I felt compelled to offer this tribute to the history
and the people who worked in this wonderful death-related business. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">I hope you enjoy this 1.5 minute video. Please turn up your volume.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">Paul Cripps of <a href="http://www.bitesizevideo.co.uk/">bitesizevideo </a>is responsible for the visual
magic and editing.</span></div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/Aj9hjrFRcdk?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">For a larger view click</span> <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Aj9hjrFRcdk">here</a>.<br />
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KATE MAYFIELDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15188611212969681379noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3651966380862866650.post-38191902106251194212013-07-08T12:06:00.000-07:002013-07-09T10:26:38.473-07:00<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #660000;">A VISIT TO</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #660000;">THE VICTORIAN COFFIN FURNITURE FACTORY</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">In a subtle, creeping moment I realized that my life was not
normal. No other child in my class slept above a room full of caskets. To
descend the stairs in our house meant discovering who might be lying in one of
those open caskets, a reposed, powdered face ready for viewing. No child I knew
looked forward to a visit to the cemetery, or was subjected to sitting in long
stretches of silence while a funeral service droned on downstairs, the organ
music signalling The End notes. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">Since then I have sought the unusual without much thought
that the draw emanated from that languid funeral home, a dot on the map of the
American South. I could never foresee that once I left my father’s house of
death, I would one day stand in a remarkable historic coffin fittings
factory in Birmingham, England.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">When I first read of the existence of the Newman Brothers
Coffin Furniture Factory I experienced a mighty magnetic pull to discover what
was sure to be a treasure. When I realized the goal of the talented people at
the Birmingham Conservation Trust, I felt a strong urge to shout: </span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;">LISTEN UP! THERE ARE EXTRAORDINARY PLANS UNDERWAY TO CREATE
BRITAIN’S FIRST FUNEREAL MUSEUM. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">In 1894 raw materials arrived via the Birmingham Fazeley
Canal to the yard doors of 13-15 Fleet Street, a short street then full of
manufacturers. Today, Newman Brothers is the last to stand, the only complete
historic building left, gloriously sandwiched between the towering jagged
modern buildings that now dominate the street. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">Its almost hidden position faces east where light streams
into the small paned cast iron windows of the three-story Victorian building
and into the windows of the rebuilt 1960s two-story building. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">This was the setting where for over one hundred years
artisan funereal work was accomplished to such a high standard that the coffin
fittings produced here, from raw material to finished product, were world
famous and seen on the coffins of Churchill, the Queen Mother and Princess
Diana. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">Winston Churchill's coffin is lowered into the grave at
Bladon Graveyard</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">In an atmosphere where everyone felt part of a family, and
wherein a large number of females were employed, like Diamond Lil who read
teacups, and Dolly who was a little deaf, employees are well remembered in
photographs and in the palpable oral history arm of the project. Polishers,
stampers, and piercers are brought to life through interviews and the products
they created in the Grade II listed building.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">Stamp Room </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">Though Newman Brothers had plans to begin manufacturing
coffins, the plans never came to fruition; however, from the mid twentieth
century they began manufacturing burial shrouds and coffin linings. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">When the factory was sold in 2003 everything was left in
situ, as if the entire company had just stepped out to lunch. Thousands of
artefacts littered the rooms. Along with stock, manufacturing tools and
equipment, items of poignancy were startling. Overalls hung on a hook. A
woman’s handbag was left behind. Tea making accoutrement stood at the ready,
and the tongs for making toast hung by the fireside.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">The Newman Brothers travelling salesman's bag, fully stocked.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">Imagine Mr. Allen on his Triumph motorbike, his samples bags
filled with breast plates, coffin handles, crucifixes, catalogues and shroud
material, all tucked away in the wickerwork sidecar and headed all over England
and Ireland where his was the first motorbike to travel many of its roads. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">When I was a child I often watched my father polish the
handles of one of his many caskets. Not that they needed this extra care; the
casket and its fittings arrived in perfect condition. Could any of them have
possibly originated from Newman Brothers?</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">And how many ways might one use a casket handle? They make a
nice paperweight, or door handle…</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">The plans for the museum are terrifically ambitious. The use
of film, sound, an iBook interactive element, special hands on activities for
children, object interpretation, to name only a few mediums, will contribute to
create one of the premier examples of how a Victorian factory actually worked,
while simultaneously showing the changes in the business of death and funerary
rituals from the Victorian era to the present.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">The renovation has begun and next year 13-15 Fleet Street
will be home to its own unique jewel in The Jewellery Quarter of Birmingham.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"></span><span style="color: #444444;">Many thanks to my guide, the brilliantly informed volunteer
Barbara Nomikos who deftly lead me room by room, step by step through the
fascinating pre-renovated world of funeral furniture manufacturing. Grateful
thanks also to Suzanne Carter of the Birmingham Conservation Trust for
permissions and introductions.</span><span style="color: #444444;"></span>
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<br />KATE MAYFIELDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15188611212969681379noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3651966380862866650.post-78320366866095277852013-06-10T07:14:00.000-07:002013-06-11T07:25:36.851-07:00 <style><!--
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<span style="color: #660000; font-size: large;">MEMENTO MORI:
Alive and Well in SoHo</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><i>“Our graveyards have been planted next to churches...so
that women, children and lesser folk should grow accustomed to seeing a dead
man without feeling terror, and so that this continual spectacle of bones,
tombs and funerals should remind us of our human conditions.”</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><i>Michel de Montaigne</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">Pertwee Anderson and Gold, and The Museum of Curiosity have
collaborated on an</span><span style="color: #444444;"> exhibition that explores objects of memento mori. An
astonishing variety of artists boldly ask viewers to contemplate their
mortality through their work. I went along to have a look. I
stepped into an intimate SoHo gallery where I left the bright glare of day and
was at once enveloped in the tomb-like dark grey walls. Pointed, effective
lighting enhanced the works of art. I’ve selected a few that were particularly
striking, though any one item in the collection is more than worthy of a visit.</span>
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<span style="color: #444444;">The following were created by Jim Skull. (I know!) Jim Skull
is influenced and inspired by the “strong cultural heritages of Africa, New
Zealand, Asia and Oceania”. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLs66wl9tO3WWjnX5v2ECSviTrxaLNzwUrjWy25b_w4ydUsDHFQHjBHwNG7RMVBEAe_E4QscTsl44MOeZW49d1aXlDGD3pRxHBdsH0vtqbi_f4K8yAm6FiGQCzrumbBL8K3pAjVq_DleU/s1600/Jim+Skull+Beaded.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="342" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLs66wl9tO3WWjnX5v2ECSviTrxaLNzwUrjWy25b_w4ydUsDHFQHjBHwNG7RMVBEAe_E4QscTsl44MOeZW49d1aXlDGD3pRxHBdsH0vtqbi_f4K8yAm6FiGQCzrumbBL8K3pAjVq_DleU/s400/Jim+Skull+Beaded.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">Papier mache skull, antique beads, murano black glass</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAirZPIF-9JHnAw5TN7-H6trDY6lCyQPy7tOXktFfSFaj2BpbT9A7r0W6cbtA-1Gy8UKIfZec2P-mEj_dtmnJUxNUGRkl-S_C4eEALA7zRxjOyBFFQ4VBns7_Zxom99MdEd97xnjivUxA/s1600/Jim+Skull+Beard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAirZPIF-9JHnAw5TN7-H6trDY6lCyQPy7tOXktFfSFaj2BpbT9A7r0W6cbtA-1Gy8UKIfZec2P-mEj_dtmnJUxNUGRkl-S_C4eEALA7zRxjOyBFFQ4VBns7_Zxom99MdEd97xnjivUxA/s640/Jim+Skull+Beard.jpg" width="417" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">Papier mache skull, antique cannetille</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuDJhqL4tywsGEG7K-LpNpRrac4ezFHrojPto3QLafDwjlUIeK1ZQdIk22UVOgj8490HdpAF2Kd33-93NO00XaaMPDFQYWF3qWLjaQ9kdZYxeipyCKouMx4NLHfKuy7ZkQ6cfZRVD3G7g/s1600/Jim+Skull+Bird.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuDJhqL4tywsGEG7K-LpNpRrac4ezFHrojPto3QLafDwjlUIeK1ZQdIk22UVOgj8490HdpAF2Kd33-93NO00XaaMPDFQYWF3qWLjaQ9kdZYxeipyCKouMx4NLHfKuy7ZkQ6cfZRVD3G7g/s400/Jim+Skull+Bird.jpg" width="395" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Papier
mache skull, artificial flowers, taxidermy bird and insects, gold leaf</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU1Oi_Sr3bw1ITfb6PFGDyCNpiAUalwKbsZt5ZPWZ_SoX4-SfE-Y_co93CxEPlmbv5SZX_lLLBId-yA2Dv5ggQWpAoSAYBzRdA5zIpNq3XR5M-YgpCLCqGtEdKUIGtwIl0uPc335lktiY/s1600/Skull+Bird+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU1Oi_Sr3bw1ITfb6PFGDyCNpiAUalwKbsZt5ZPWZ_SoX4-SfE-Y_co93CxEPlmbv5SZX_lLLBId-yA2Dv5ggQWpAoSAYBzRdA5zIpNq3XR5M-YgpCLCqGtEdKUIGtwIl0uPc335lktiY/s400/Skull+Bird+2.jpg" width="397" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">Papier mache skull, artificial flowers, taxidermy bird and
insects, gold leaf</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #444444;">All of the above images Copyright Jim Skull, courtesy of
Pertwee Anderson & Gold</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Franklyn
and Brendan Connor are twins and artists who grew up in an extreme Christian
cult known as ‘The Family’, the same cult that included the actors River and
Joaquin Phoenix. When Franklyn and Brendan were sixteen they ran away. As they
learned about the outside world they communicated with each other about what
they discovered with notebooks and sketchpads, which resulted in their special
form of making art together.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfxTjuiYwIgOzSPmjWTPDs3PIEpIBaifIWtc_9-F3K9CfTwgzTTQjU7qCay4uX430JynhxRdThjw7ySgOkebtRb4KuCbA_SSxfFMONilxiaWqgF5g2dnRhKhu9_BcMFNvNX38cpzs2ncA/s1600/Death+Calls,+Conner+Brothers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfxTjuiYwIgOzSPmjWTPDs3PIEpIBaifIWtc_9-F3K9CfTwgzTTQjU7qCay4uX430JynhxRdThjw7ySgOkebtRb4KuCbA_SSxfFMONilxiaWqgF5g2dnRhKhu9_BcMFNvNX38cpzs2ncA/s640/Death+Calls,+Conner+Brothers.jpg" width="398" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">Death Calls </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">Acrylic on canvas</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #444444;">Image Copyright The Conner Brothers, courtesy of Pertwee
Anderson & Gold</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">This piece by <span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Tasha Marks in collaboration with David Bradley and Annabel de Vetten </span>is
one of my favourites. It drew me in quite innocently and then I discovered…it’s
edible. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKc1RnhJRX_1J0sOj3f_h2eqEDAEO-uiJillTAF4QBMqsAL9dvGEfj4wr3WTn2NcL9zy0dmdRJtwg3XkXCSW-r4feCbrh1H5JZr9XPBls9jUt99p9kptDVImc7h2apjrr0uvrUr_r2dZ8/s1600/Edible+Vanitas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKc1RnhJRX_1J0sOj3f_h2eqEDAEO-uiJillTAF4QBMqsAL9dvGEfj4wr3WTn2NcL9zy0dmdRJtwg3XkXCSW-r4feCbrh1H5JZr9XPBls9jUt99p9kptDVImc7h2apjrr0uvrUr_r2dZ8/s640/Edible+Vanitas.jpg" width="450" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"></span><span style="color: #444444;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><i>Edible
Vanitas Case</i></span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"></span><span style="color: #444444;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Mixed media including chocolate, sugar, marshmallows, apples, pears and
ambergris</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #444444;">Image Copyright Tasha Marks, courtesy of Pertwee Anderson
& Gold</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">Nancy Fouts’s work has been seen in the Victoria and Albert
Museum, among many others, and has been endorsed by Banksy. In her words,
"I hoard stuff in boxes and then I lay it all out and many ideas happen
like that." Ms. Fouts is originally from, ahem, Kentucky. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh90lsc9l9_DSlmI5LhUNwzE4x2wZxAzZo6tDrvOBxQnPO02zJeiG_EIV0drgfk-szyXSJlaTbcCmk_V4vcMKeupOweTw0fMvtXIora4nLPwYZAmIaFnl2cN0AlGQPM0nONh6_CdunoeEA/s1600/Hang+On.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh90lsc9l9_DSlmI5LhUNwzE4x2wZxAzZo6tDrvOBxQnPO02zJeiG_EIV0drgfk-szyXSJlaTbcCmk_V4vcMKeupOweTw0fMvtXIora4nLPwYZAmIaFnl2cN0AlGQPM0nONh6_CdunoeEA/s400/Hang+On.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><i>Hang on</i><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Medical skeleton, resin, rope and paint</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUqWAgzT-GaQ6FYBPOgOOwAM4YLRZDJt-AYGVGZ52S45sctjULiyuW6NOPl-OJk3rhTyyGGzM4d7eKtgSqmp5KHaZtyqS2cjAP_NVt4R8QA8QOaLMQx5srMT1f5-XZ9XpGqKhCztcno0Y/s1600/Freedom+is+overrated.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUqWAgzT-GaQ6FYBPOgOOwAM4YLRZDJt-AYGVGZ52S45sctjULiyuW6NOPl-OJk3rhTyyGGzM4d7eKtgSqmp5KHaZtyqS2cjAP_NVt4R8QA8QOaLMQx5srMT1f5-XZ9XpGqKhCztcno0Y/s400/Freedom+is+overrated.jpg" width="372" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"></span><span style="color: #444444;">Freedom is Overrated</span><span style="color: #444444;"></span><span style="color: #444444;"></span><span style="color: #444444;"> </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">Taxidermy bird, perspex, dome, black wood and glass display
case</span><span style="color: #444444;"></span><span style="color: #444444;">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #444444;">Images Copyright Nancy Fouts, courtesy of Pertwee Anderson
& Gold</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">“The decision to erase paintings painted by other artists
came partly from graffiti,” says artist Paul Stephenson. “The paintings I use,
my surface, have already existed fully as objects.” When asked by Garage
Magazine to what he is particularly drawn:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Paintings that have a recognisable, iconic format and a
clear subject. That is why I have worked a lot with 17th - 19th century
portraiture as it has this iconic quality. We know the framework of these
portraits so well that even when the central subject is erased we know what
should be there and we begin to imagine it.”</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGzXryYE52sFGQTwbJeuBuYuTDUeXYhDWnEoTzXawsg5tF8v47jthiy1OngS4Qgr9tm2786fN5haGAwWSgdOXsHFMBQsT3P2VUMhaF7_FyTAe3zoCtEQxyF8Ayy57ppDYZWkTjbMrhkHw/s1600/No+Lady.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="366" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGzXryYE52sFGQTwbJeuBuYuTDUeXYhDWnEoTzXawsg5tF8v47jthiy1OngS4Qgr9tm2786fN5haGAwWSgdOXsHFMBQsT3P2VUMhaF7_FyTAe3zoCtEQxyF8Ayy57ppDYZWkTjbMrhkHw/s400/No+Lady.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="color: #444444;"><i> </i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><i>No lady</i><span style="font-style: normal;">,</span></span><span style="color: #444444;"></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span></span><span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Oil off canvas</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #444444;">Image Copyright Paul Stephenson, courtesy of Pertwee
Anderson & Gold</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">Prepare yourself now for another sibling duo, Jake and Dinos
Chapman, whose work is sometimes described as the anatomical and pornographic
grotesque. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAPAEs7P8MRdqG0oKWSI_H3nPghYRpCzOUSCeWI5cMl9DBEZ2av1oZLS3lNicPTnCOG_BFqUsW4z-fCL2Vklx5fszm5Ava8Dk_zuxpyLRqbwVCbltVzq8TUMO_-DXkTRefhBgvxiWHiMk/s1600/Migraine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="397" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAPAEs7P8MRdqG0oKWSI_H3nPghYRpCzOUSCeWI5cMl9DBEZ2av1oZLS3lNicPTnCOG_BFqUsW4z-fCL2Vklx5fszm5Ava8Dk_zuxpyLRqbwVCbltVzq8TUMO_-DXkTRefhBgvxiWHiMk/s400/Migraine.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">Migraine</span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Cast human
skull, resin and oil paint</span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Side View</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Image Copyright Jake and Dinos Chapman, courtesy of Pertwee
Anderson & Gold</span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">To end, a
gentler image by </span><span class="caption1">Michal Ohana-Cole </span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">whose “art practice instigates the
complex everlasting relationship between money, death and sexuality as well as
the notion that one inevitably controls the other.”</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitiDeb5Hv3MjCumZSZU4Lu21D4hhojDPw3i4vuGUESPZrPZD3gu_rhfB3Vjjg6JqJylWJsxFG44L59Z3O4v2vRpgspQRcwUmLxo6MnwBnfiSlRY0OwGBvO3XXA2ZTm-bD1IvB8U_nL1tk/s1600/Godspeed+you.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitiDeb5Hv3MjCumZSZU4Lu21D4hhojDPw3i4vuGUESPZrPZD3gu_rhfB3Vjjg6JqJylWJsxFG44L59Z3O4v2vRpgspQRcwUmLxo6MnwBnfiSlRY0OwGBvO3XXA2ZTm-bD1IvB8U_nL1tk/s400/Godspeed+you.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #444444;"></span><span style="color: #444444;"><span class="caption1"><i>Godspeed you (No.13)</i></span><span class="caption1">, 2013</span></span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;"></span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444;"></span><span style="color: #444444;"><span class="caption1">Pigment print</span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Image Copyright Miachal
Ohana-Cole, courtesy of Pertwee Anderson & Gold</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Memento Mori is on exhibit until June 14. </span></span></span>
KATE MAYFIELDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15188611212969681379noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3651966380862866650.post-10623015479418469632013-05-01T08:19:00.000-07:002013-05-01T12:43:03.563-07:00<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #741b47;">CLOWNING AROUND AT THE FUNERAL HOME</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #741b47;"> </span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBQHLJvtINVIFZbLzo9D0fVywZ0sdy10QBAwNf_l_G4z2yp-k9m1EnYDOsHncJtRfuFZZVLLyTDR0cbyhV1fE5RQYWJ1QJB5JTHHeaFcpsHPdsAozA1uCtFIHvcRE88-c0MS6oLshW18Y/s1600/clown+and+skeleton.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBQHLJvtINVIFZbLzo9D0fVywZ0sdy10QBAwNf_l_G4z2yp-k9m1EnYDOsHncJtRfuFZZVLLyTDR0cbyhV1fE5RQYWJ1QJB5JTHHeaFcpsHPdsAozA1uCtFIHvcRE88-c0MS6oLshW18Y/s640/clown+and+skeleton.jpg" width="520" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">People often ask me if I was frightened growing up in a
funeral home. Yes, I was. But not for reasons you might think.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">When an entire month passed in its lazy way and no one died
– that was scary. Caskets to buy, hearses to maintain, and all that. I
overheard my parents’ tense voices discussing the competition, revealing that,
no - Alfred hadn’t received a death call all month, either. It was like death
held its breath. I thought of the stillness in that.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">I’ll tell you what else scared me - Petal the clown. Every
year when the woody scent of autumn pranced through the air, the participants
of the Tobacco Festival Parade gathered around the corner from our funeral
home. Main Street transformed into a circus-like atmosphere, as if we’d all
gathered under the Big Top. At eight o’clock in the morning beauty pageant
contestants in satin evening gowns climbed atop the floats, shivering as they
shielded their bouffants from the breeze. In the moments leading up to the
start of the parade, organizers barked instructions over the drumbeats of the
high school bands as they warmed up. All was chaos as parade goers and
participants scrambled to their places.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">Just before the convertible carrying the Grand Marshall
began to roll down Main Street, several participants broke ranks to answer the
call of nature. It was inevitable; they’d been waiting for hours. Many would
pop into one of the three churches on our block, and a few rushed into our
funeral home where, unless we were “busy”, our house of mourning hosted a
jolly, excited bunch.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">Just when the funeral home became quite again, a clown came
lumbering in with minutes to spare in a wave of sweat and the stale, rank odour
of a bender. I’d never seen a clown in person before, though I’d noticed signs
in larger towns.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">I was expecting someone colourful, happy and, well, funny.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjePQDsUzFy3tpijhyphenhyphenkSZLniRx-fSHxfldg-v8alCQkmpgwl4MD2b_RzrNFt0ODJ2C-GPNiPib40Gu-8VMIcazfuTUWeewpCqcQAu7I5BF7p3twsJDy8uITeERfsrWGTIH0GjqlZCwloys/s1600/HammerCircusDetail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjePQDsUzFy3tpijhyphenhyphenkSZLniRx-fSHxfldg-v8alCQkmpgwl4MD2b_RzrNFt0ODJ2C-GPNiPib40Gu-8VMIcazfuTUWeewpCqcQAu7I5BF7p3twsJDy8uITeERfsrWGTIH0GjqlZCwloys/s320/HammerCircusDetail.jpg" width="230" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">His morning stubble grew out of the white patchy makeup. The
sinister red smile was a bit runny with his perspiration, his teeth long and
yellow. ‘Petal’ had become smeared on his nametag. The all-in-one-clown suit,
dingy from wear and too few washes, billowed out, something like this:</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH-lVd0gaQjpzY4XkAuF4gpxfUrMLCgggBkH9mHV_F_XChnuVqbMpo10067A6hiK44g_LZAMYT5e9hn1UgHS1Y1d_VaPX_L8-tUxAwpbwf9KwZnvXD0eH8VVvxuj8E2_RSKkfBM_adu8Q/s1600/Polka+Dot+Clown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH-lVd0gaQjpzY4XkAuF4gpxfUrMLCgggBkH9mHV_F_XChnuVqbMpo10067A6hiK44g_LZAMYT5e9hn1UgHS1Y1d_VaPX_L8-tUxAwpbwf9KwZnvXD0eH8VVvxuj8E2_RSKkfBM_adu8Q/s640/Polka+Dot+Clown.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">Petal walked with a deliberate and heavy step towards me in
flat exaggerated shoes. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiuhkUg4Jc30ZyTxDd5RuFhmGZhY8htrORbOoh47lYrwlC7LMIv42rAz-lQ7XdS8oty7xehfaGNwNMjx8N7y10zVfiTNlkTmgqllFDW5iIJWcBMhcKkl3lGTEC784p6JU9yrk150wtFxY/s1600/Lon-Chaney-clown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiuhkUg4Jc30ZyTxDd5RuFhmGZhY8htrORbOoh47lYrwlC7LMIv42rAz-lQ7XdS8oty7xehfaGNwNMjx8N7y10zVfiTNlkTmgqllFDW5iIJWcBMhcKkl3lGTEC784p6JU9yrk150wtFxY/s640/Lon-Chaney-clown.jpg" width="512" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #444444;"> <span style="font-size: large;">He bent down,
his macabre face in mine. “Where’s your bathroom?” he asked in a gruff,
demanding voice. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">I screamed. He
grabbed me by both arms, “What’s wrong with you, girl? Where is it?” I pointed,
then ran to find my father who was outside filming the crowd before he, too,
would enter the parade driving the love of his life, a 1937 Roadmaster Buick.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgVjJYjC7YH-SGDJCiO9cXPJSycBrEG0sJ0Lh0oq3pZXLRA0KU5x1u2mdtp1G7LpmjHcpODcOPCFji00ou0nhww0csql9OBGHlnQ7QO43_fFyBfZodKOtkduCbERr-KOx_PqwV6ck6H6Y/s1600/1937-buick-roadmaster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgVjJYjC7YH-SGDJCiO9cXPJSycBrEG0sJ0Lh0oq3pZXLRA0KU5x1u2mdtp1G7LpmjHcpODcOPCFji00ou0nhww0csql9OBGHlnQ7QO43_fFyBfZodKOtkduCbERr-KOx_PqwV6ck6H6Y/s400/1937-buick-roadmaster.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">Meanwhile, Petal, was taking an awfully long time. My father
said it had something to do with his costume. I couldn’t imagine. He stumbled
out with a curse, the tip of one of those long shoes fought with the carpet.</span></div>
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">
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<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">A half hour later, when the parade was in full swing, Petal
sauntered by the funeral home waving to the crowd, throwing candy to children.
He pulled out a horn with a large rubber bulb at the end of it from a deep
pocket, aimed it at me, and honked. There was something mean about it.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3X_3sdhc8XuC5QW2bGw1L0rFDLfQ3HOvfe5G4glGekPie4nhC3k_NADpL1u5AqbnNPuRtZXmRReitJv9TuvxOvvhodXrxRdNOLSFLegIzV3vzxeZ81zl17KWQdMjIuwQvG2fCccF5SmU/s1600/Clown+in+mirror.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="490" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3X_3sdhc8XuC5QW2bGw1L0rFDLfQ3HOvfe5G4glGekPie4nhC3k_NADpL1u5AqbnNPuRtZXmRReitJv9TuvxOvvhodXrxRdNOLSFLegIzV3vzxeZ81zl17KWQdMjIuwQvG2fCccF5SmU/s640/Clown+in+mirror.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #444444;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #444444;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: large;">I never learned who Petal
was without the grease paint on his face. My father didn’t know him either, and
he knew everyone. I’ve had a healthy fear of clowns since.</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB00zb8u4BK9MeWBR-iwjvqMoNAx7BVp_Fe0Gl_sHb6gABg9g2b2pB30EDBhRh7qJonMvVSWlHGwozN8s0gMCuk5w8mU7xcBg4-VZuSzfKq5Xn62AP2yRolqXuTiWDfL4nm5P_sQZSlPk/s1600/Why+I+fear+clowns.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB00zb8u4BK9MeWBR-iwjvqMoNAx7BVp_Fe0Gl_sHb6gABg9g2b2pB30EDBhRh7qJonMvVSWlHGwozN8s0gMCuk5w8mU7xcBg4-VZuSzfKq5Xn62AP2yRolqXuTiWDfL4nm5P_sQZSlPk/s640/Why+I+fear+clowns.jpg" width="502" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGXt0ghyAGdFgsfAeRTsfgYu2rSSeO56M9NwHZZr5YNfFxd58GoEZf4iur-pdr-8G_CgLDOd1K2H5jg-rHv92tv1WoLAAub16rA1-IRmO8elCTMeVDKnIMYa9hOpUrjHWkalMdDvULow8/s1600/Female+with+Bow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">A troupe of clowns - my nightmare. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />KATE MAYFIELDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15188611212969681379noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3651966380862866650.post-34834569555693798572013-03-15T04:42:00.000-07:002013-03-15T04:42:00.762-07:00 <style><!--
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;">THE HAPPY-GO-LUCKY FUNERAL PARLOUR</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">Late in the afternoon, possibly the coldest London has seen
this year, I headed for the second time in a month to Drury Lane.</span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">I think it was Dickens’ <i>Sketches By Boz</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> in which I first read of Drury Lane in his essay,
Gin-Shops:</span></span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;"><b><i>“we will make for Drury-Lane, through the narrow
streets and dirty courts which divide it from Oxford-street, and that classical
spot adjoining the brewery at the bottom of Tottenham Court Road, best known to
the initiated as the Rookery." </i></b><span style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">I would have been in high school in Kentucky when I read
about gin shops, a rookery and the wretched houses teeming with the whole of
humanity in its less than humane state. A setting so completely foreign to me,
this Drury Lane, that my only point of reference would have been a little
moonshine shack in the backwoods of our “dry” county.</span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">How strange then that I set off with purpose the other day
to discover what lay behind the ornately flanked door of the Happy-Go-Lucky
Funeral Parlour on Drury Lane.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl_H9c4R9gZ5ObdInwyDIR_lGVMVGoWD2b-Xl94SUElKhXWecglUdul3AwJf0JtClgEIc5qHeV16CmwMW2gi0dlkq-Y6tInV-r0yQPvQ8kGtTp73ag8DE7-oW8hqsBaeh7UaUJ7u2UyIQ/s1600/Happy+Gp+Lucky+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl_H9c4R9gZ5ObdInwyDIR_lGVMVGoWD2b-Xl94SUElKhXWecglUdul3AwJf0JtClgEIc5qHeV16CmwMW2gi0dlkq-Y6tInV-r0yQPvQ8kGtTp73ag8DE7-oW8hqsBaeh7UaUJ7u2UyIQ/s320/Happy+Gp+Lucky+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">In vain I had already searched Google for a phone number, a
website, something, anything I could use to contact them in advance to make an
appointment. I had hopes of an interview with an undertaker who I’d already
imagined as kind and respectful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>(If you don’t already know, I grew up in a funeral home.) </span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">Nothing. I found no information whatsoever<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"> <span style="color: black;">-</span></span></span> this should have
been a warning of some kind. What sort of funeral home doesn’t want to be
found?</span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">I arrived to find the entrance shuttered. </span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7nU-Or9UlGnRxIVN6Ov44N-LDOHPGdBjJ8lQ4JakdS1UcK6aMAlvEKIK7zk3Fth-xR3yAmp6i6T586kLB4b61AR8Ys0ps775If_5-Mw5tkAqXCZhFV6t8t8v_QIZp0mBP-GntW8tzSUQ/s1600/HGL+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7nU-Or9UlGnRxIVN6Ov44N-LDOHPGdBjJ8lQ4JakdS1UcK6aMAlvEKIK7zk3Fth-xR3yAmp6i6T586kLB4b61AR8Ys0ps775If_5-Mw5tkAqXCZhFV6t8t8v_QIZp0mBP-GntW8tzSUQ/s320/HGL+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">What a disappointment. I stood shivering for a few minutes
before I walked away towards Longacre. Then I stopped halfway down the street.
What a wimp, what a wuss I was. How silly to give up so quickly. I did an
about-face, marched back and opened the door to a shop across the street from
the Happy-Go-Lucky. Full to the brim with artist supplies, brushes sprouting from
every corner, a young woman emerged from the back to greet me.</span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">“I’m sorry to disturb you, but do you know anything about
the funeral parlour across the street?”</span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">“As a matter of fact, I just tried to Google them the other
day and couldn’t find out a thing.”</span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">“Yes, I tried that, too. Zero.”</span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">“I’ve never even seen anyone come out of there,” she said.</span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">“Oh, I have. On Valentine’s Day. I walked by with two
friends and a man stepped out of the funeral parlour holding a broom. He wished
us a Happy Valentine’s Day. That’s why I came back. Life does exist in there
somewhere.”</span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">She laughed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh78NAE19WqUjAgOzAlmkUqW8kgT4RNnuBN3yciq_6q6rSNep0NjCX4GftqXVxDUChu6aif6gkE8D1ry_33b9kNu4AqeWpD0qkuPfU-gtPpCRBTn8RqNSAi5g5WHenuMXX1kFprV9sX49k/s1600/Happy+Go+Lucky+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh78NAE19WqUjAgOzAlmkUqW8kgT4RNnuBN3yciq_6q6rSNep0NjCX4GftqXVxDUChu6aif6gkE8D1ry_33b9kNu4AqeWpD0qkuPfU-gtPpCRBTn8RqNSAi5g5WHenuMXX1kFprV9sX49k/s320/Happy+Go+Lucky+3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;"> </span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">I crossed the street and again had almost given up when I
began to snoop around the restaurant next door to the Happy-Go-Lucky. There are
velvet-cushioned seats, the kind that are normally tucked underneath a lady’s
dressing table, framed in floral displays and set along the wall of the
building. They looked forlorn outside in the cloudy cold. Overly dramatic
arches of greenery created a covered path to the restaurant’s entrance.</span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">I stepped inside and was immediately visually accosted by
the lavish décor. It was late afternoon, before the magic of the light of the
numerous chandeliers struck the glassware. The tired, cheap designs and
gimmicks were apparent; a mix of Gothic, Rococo and others I didn’t recognize.
It looked like the morning after of a bacchanalia of decorators. Then it struck me that the murals
bore a curious similarity to the painting above the funeral parlour’s entrance.</span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrHJHplsUyN9ks6xkYPvY0jc8oWIDbY0f18oNkG80pHHaGv67_OlElMXLEe2-gvjK1KTt2O6tEXv4tsNNBzPd1pQFPKmDHmgCI0r4jiFypev0VvYgCiI6E-Zal57IEhbaOxBZdYxvtnKA/s1600/HG+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="92" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrHJHplsUyN9ks6xkYPvY0jc8oWIDbY0f18oNkG80pHHaGv67_OlElMXLEe2-gvjK1KTt2O6tEXv4tsNNBzPd1pQFPKmDHmgCI0r4jiFypev0VvYgCiI6E-Zal57IEhbaOxBZdYxvtnKA/s320/HG+4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">It was quiet in the restaurant, no customers yet filled the
elaborate balcony seating, the opera boxes, or the long tables set for the
evening – the place was huge. A waiter approached and when he heard my
questions he referred me to yet another waiter who finally introduced me to the
hostess. An older woman who had been sitting in a dark corner watching me rose
and made her way toward me.</span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">“Do you know anything about the funeral home next door?”</span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">“No, no,” she said in a thick accent that I couldn’t quite
place, her language formal. “It is not a funeral home. It is our office.”</span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">“Ah. I see. Why, then? Why do you advertise it as a funeral
home?”</span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">“It is just a joke. We think it is funny. You know, most funeral
homes – they are so serious.”</span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">I began to feel a bit sour.</span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">I put my gloves back on and as I did so these were her last
words to me:</span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">“Please do not die in here. We will not be able to take care
of you.”</span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
KATE MAYFIELDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15188611212969681379noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3651966380862866650.post-60388348088181594442013-02-16T02:30:00.000-08:002013-02-16T08:51:10.938-08:00<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;">WIDOW BURNING</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: #444444;"></span> </span></span><span style="background-color: #741b47;"></span>
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<style> </style><span style="color: #444444;">My undertaker father never cremated a body. Our small town,
an insular Southern community, had no crematorium and was pro burial, as were
most small towns at that time. During my childhood cremation was thought of as
distasteful and unnatural; the practice was spoken of in whispers. Only upon
one occasion, that I recall, did a family request that their patriarch be
cremated. On that day, my father drove the corpse to another town an hour away,
the nearest dot on the map to fulfil the family’s wishes.</span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">My imagination went wild:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How did the skin burn? What do flaming muscles look like?
How long did it take? Was there an odour?</span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">I finally moved away from that house of death, and as an
adult quickly adjusted and embraced cremation as a wholly valid choice. Other
departures from the conventional casket burial have emerged; natural, or green
burials, biodegradable coffins, and so on. But sometimes I still stumble upon a
death ritual that challenges my strongly held value of live and let live. This
was the case when I learned of the ancient custom of widow burning. </span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">
</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444;"><b><i>“…loosening their hair, and unveiling their faces,
they went to the gate of zenåna, and presented themselves before the assembled
populace. All opposition to their wishes now ceased. They were regarded as
sacred to the departed monarch. Devout ejaculations poured incessantly from
their lips. Their movements became invested with a mysterious significance; and
their words were treasured up as prophetic. </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><b><i>Meantime the pile had been prepared. The eight
victims, dressed in their richest attire, and mounted on horseback, moved with
procession to the cemetery. There they stripped off their ornaments and jewels,
distributed gifts to the bystanders, and lastly, mounting the pile, they took
their places beside the corpse. As the Maharåna had left no son, his nephew,
the present Sovereign, applied the torch. The crash of music, the chanting of
the priests, and the cries of the multitude arose simultaneously, and the
tragedy was consummated.” </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #444444;">“The Sacrifice of Sati”, by two queens and six concubines in
India on the 30<sup>th</sup> of August, 1888 as described in WIDOW-BURNING by
Henry Jeffryes Bushby. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">The term Suttee, or Sati, is applied to the person; the act
or the rite of widow burning is Sahagamana. An expert in ancient civilizations
tells me that many peoples have had a custom of sacrificing the dependents of
the dead including servants and slaves. In addition, other authorities believe
that Scythians gave birth to the idea of voluntary death, or “sacrifice” of the
deceased’s widow specifically, and planted the seeds of the practice in lands
they settled. In India, where Sahagamana was most prominently practiced, its
birth is traced in 300 BC. <span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">In
Eastern Europe, especially in the Ukraine and South Russia, the Scythians
practiced the ritual in the 6th to the 4th century B.C.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">In the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, no
travel to India was complete without a reference to the Sati by a steady flow
of eyewitness accounts. While many widows threw themselves upon the pyre
voluntarily, many did not. The use of drugs, force and restraints to prevent
escape were witnessed in horror. The woman was bound by cord, or in many
instances, bamboo poles were used to push her down on top of her husband, or
logs were thrown upon the woman as she lay on top of him. A Sati might be
soaked in camphor, or ghee might be poured on her. It was reported that
in an effort to shorten her suffering, a widow’s face was painted red with a
mix of gunpowder and sulphur. Incense burned in concert with her flesh.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">The practice was labelled as a voluntary sacrifice, a
“supreme test of conjugal devotion” and the widow often paraded to her death in
a bride’s dress among a crowd of thousands. The Sati should not solely be imagined
as an elderly woman, but quite literally in many cases, a child-bride. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">No religious sanction was ever attached to Sahagamana – all
was superstition. There were reports of women who might have initially
committed voluntarily, who then lost courage and fled the fire only to be
thrown in by the crowd. In stark contrast in 1789-1814, other witnesses, both men and women, described how peaceful the Sati appeared and how the rite was
performed “with great sensitivity”. As if those who pushed the widow into the
flames extended a tender hand. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">Sahagamana was to be found among many castes and at all
social levels. By the end of the eighteenth century the practice was banned by
European powers, but the ban was ignored, and though efforts have been made to
reinforce laws against it, the most recent known case was in 1999. Much
controversy surrounds this particular widow’s final act, as she was not known
to have any desire to become a Sati. There were accusations of her having been
coerced.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">Sacrifice. Murder. Suicide. How best to categorize this
ancient ritual? Is it even accurate to define it as a ritual? The Hindu Times
in 2010 refers to it as the “Sati system” wherein it describes this memorial
Sati stone that dates back to 1057, and has been carved with pictorial
representation. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6oUNit6o54moidJhqTkyLzuXuy3RLS0rRU4160dy0H6Qdda1_yQc9-MwlE8guX7Dg9mLPMimZ6mQgXb9D9LxyxGbivTbgrjxaS0FuvVanVA172OyPsB7wa-lE-2loAosnrapqMbcdat8/s1600/1057+Sati+Stone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6oUNit6o54moidJhqTkyLzuXuy3RLS0rRU4160dy0H6Qdda1_yQc9-MwlE8guX7Dg9mLPMimZ6mQgXb9D9LxyxGbivTbgrjxaS0FuvVanVA172OyPsB7wa-lE-2loAosnrapqMbcdat8/s640/1057+Sati+Stone.jpg" width="518" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">More often palm prints are a typical
memorial used to honour the Sati.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7ef5wrmSCx6bNiiSQO-tvRlnzWYHd3KEdt6D6vw7Sc_oU1pdtm_PiUvhWMBqHpjaL_xkQXLCgF-lagIC4SC0Oy_0xMqyhXmlhcWezUTf5flFY_lseL8pGsCDVeBZDNvZZVY5ZCOvEJYA/s1600/sati-stones.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7ef5wrmSCx6bNiiSQO-tvRlnzWYHd3KEdt6D6vw7Sc_oU1pdtm_PiUvhWMBqHpjaL_xkQXLCgF-lagIC4SC0Oy_0xMqyhXmlhcWezUTf5flFY_lseL8pGsCDVeBZDNvZZVY5ZCOvEJYA/s640/sati-stones.jpg" width="640" /></a> </span></div>
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</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="color: #444444;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="color: #444444;">The Sati stones can be
found in the outskirts of the villages all over India. At times they’re placed
at the spot where the widow became `Sati`. Unfortunately, the sculptures don’t
tell us if the Sati walked willingly to her death.</span> </span>
KATE MAYFIELDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15188611212969681379noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3651966380862866650.post-4492086698949437672012-12-21T01:30:00.000-08:002012-12-21T01:30:17.125-08:00 <style><!--
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-size: large;">SANTA VISITS THE
FUNERAL HOME</span></span></div>
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{page:Section1;} </style></span><span style="color: #444444;">Mr. Horace Duncan died on Christmas Eve. With this news, in
my seventh year, my fourth living on top of my father’s funeral home, my heart
sank. I stood downstairs in my father’s small office, my stance firm, arms
folded at my chest.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">"Why can’t Mrs. Duncan come by the day after Christmas? Why
does she have to come tomorrow? It’s Christmas Day."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">My eyes accused him, as if he had caused Horace Duncan’s
demise himself.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">“It just ruins everything!” I continued. “What about Santa
Clause? And the turkey? What about the smelly old oyster casserole?"</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">He stood looking out the front door, and nodded to a few of
our community as they rushed down Main Street in the frosty air. They waved,
never guessing they were on the tip of my father’s tongue as they strode by the
funeral home. For here came The Undertaker’s Family Lecture, not for the first
time, and certainly not the last. The clothes on my back, the food on my plate,
the yearly vacation; all these were provided by the loyalty of the people of
our town.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">“And by our good friend Death,” I said under my breath. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">“And if you think you’re upset, just think how poor Mrs.
Duncan feels.” </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">I couldn’t tell him that I didn’t want to think about how
Mrs. Duncan felt. From his point of view it was a sacrilege not to manifest
compassion. I was just a young girl, and because death was never far away, in
fact, just downstairs, I was already somewhat tired of it. And it was
Christmas, for god’s sake.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">We often worked Christmas around the dead and their
families. Embalming time figured in the mix; the time-consuming little details
of preparation in all its forms were still required whether Santa came or not.
It was just another day for Mr. Death.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">I should have trusted him more: My father was not one to let
a dead body ruin a holiday. He had a plan.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">On that Christmas Eve night the stairs creaked and groaned
from the weight of a man dressed in red. Santa climbed the staircase of the
funeral home to our living room. After an intake of breath, I succumbed to a
moment of magic. Santa admired our tree and then sat on the sofa. As I climbed
onto his lap and set about telling him that he better get busy because he had
very little time left, that old familiar scent assaulted my nostrils.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">I leaned into him, cupped my hands around his ear and
whispered, “I know it’s you, Fount.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">It was the potent cocktail of the embalming room’s odour
that first revealed his identity. A mixture of all the malodorous items in that
dark room lingered upon his skin and hair, and floated in an invisible cloud
around him. Then I took a good look at his hands. Shrivelled, wrinkled, from
his recent chore, just like my father’s. And finally, the eyes of Fount, my
father’s employee, were familiar. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">Mrs. Duncan came by the next day, but she didn’t stay long.
She just wanted to drop by with a suit for Horace. She brought a fruitcake. And
something of those first four years of living in the funeral home gave me a
little kick, and I felt badly for her. Then the sadness gradually faded, and
the next thing I knew I was sitting at the big table laughing at the smelly old
oyster casserole. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHIdrCxXfb9sAgP2jPXHdHvx-tG1XbMeNExRMbwa8v2414WTE9wCu9IkJNoE5g7FkU88oA3DjGhJpYkk3Cr9ntP4sMNFmUYRUzm-EM5Kt95ce7XdDf_2Lx6UKrcCypu5bh0Of2ksGbK3E/s1600/Ornament.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHIdrCxXfb9sAgP2jPXHdHvx-tG1XbMeNExRMbwa8v2414WTE9wCu9IkJNoE5g7FkU88oA3DjGhJpYkk3Cr9ntP4sMNFmUYRUzm-EM5Kt95ce7XdDf_2Lx6UKrcCypu5bh0Of2ksGbK3E/s320/Ornament.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqTh8Fcsfe1mMLUpMmW6Os1Vt6fkBBJqiktiisNtyAY5H5RbigGYHq6fBcopX7Yv7f-x6g5hd38eq49gYi9ITCgp7j2C1UzgVLcRoHqsQ2Ut7Rvu_mEHxTMcGyu3c4TWT48qytVsL9oqE/s1600/St+Mary%27s+Churchyard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqTh8Fcsfe1mMLUpMmW6Os1Vt6fkBBJqiktiisNtyAY5H5RbigGYHq6fBcopX7Yv7f-x6g5hd38eq49gYi9ITCgp7j2C1UzgVLcRoHqsQ2Ut7Rvu_mEHxTMcGyu3c4TWT48qytVsL9oqE/s320/St+Mary%27s+Churchyard.jpg" width="252" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Line block
reproduction of a drawing by F.L.Griggs of St Mary's Church, Hitchin,1901. St
Albans Museums</span>
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<br /></div>
KATE MAYFIELDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15188611212969681379noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3651966380862866650.post-88302496264042786822012-10-26T07:13:00.000-07:002012-10-26T10:00:51.456-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTSgroAM813GySJHlXE7ZIZVk9oCJ07CP5QIWw3XIr_GiFVshCDRizxWWjICw5v_dRbuX122fOZkL-cNzxJtlE3zPPNIHmLvXHBdiOO1THn-X7EEtHgQsvGM86srNbhEJc_1agvIgbGQU/s1600/Lady+in+cemetery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">Martha Harper’s Haint</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJEGwIe-cBhIuQs3jkN56d9S9OTEGWrd7mGIIyqH5bwPhd6lw01fV9rFD28QOykcVZzQedYq-bLB8ewtNIXbYD3fitUVh3flpnqy-NZ4Q4jXJuEJdSZ3S2WMBXLJpxJPflI-GHa2rXSDQ/s1600/Stuffed+Old-Chair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJEGwIe-cBhIuQs3jkN56d9S9OTEGWrd7mGIIyqH5bwPhd6lw01fV9rFD28QOykcVZzQedYq-bLB8ewtNIXbYD3fitUVh3flpnqy-NZ4Q4jXJuEJdSZ3S2WMBXLJpxJPflI-GHa2rXSDQ/s1600/Stuffed+Old-Chair.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">One day I was playing in the cemetery when a car pulled up
beside me. A rough looking woman rolled down her window and poked her head out.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">“Hey, little girl. Where’s that gravestone with them
pictures on it?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">“You’ve passed it already. It’s right behind you.” </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">She turned the large white steering wheel of her beat up
Plymouth Fury and parked, straddling the graveyard’s paved pathway and the
grass.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">I could just make out my father’s figure on the other side of
the cemetery. He pointed to the yet undisturbed ground as he spoke with his
gravediggers. Bobby and Luther were late again, a terrible problem because it
was imperative that the grave be ready for the next day’s burial. The sun was
beginning to set, and all hell would break loose unless the dirt began flying
fairly quickly. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">While Bobby and Luther worked, I followed the woman to my favourite gravestone. It was the colour of bleached slate, and on the bottom,
copper picture frames in the shape of two ovals protruded from the stone. They
were made more unusual by heavy protective covers. I squatted down and lifted
the latch on the first one, and then the second, to reveal sepia photographs of
the dead couple.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyUFJ4MeK6OWF7M7avsm_5xvb9c0pcXZRgu3xjLLxsayaUibVaf55xEwvCW4WsCR6Z9IwrSklepTmYozhNtcfxbXrOtqB5OxY00LKl91KKHtA4fEg6Q6lFlEQcQdVFhTDdgiFBNTvIgME/s1600/photo+on+headstone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyUFJ4MeK6OWF7M7avsm_5xvb9c0pcXZRgu3xjLLxsayaUibVaf55xEwvCW4WsCR6Z9IwrSklepTmYozhNtcfxbXrOtqB5OxY00LKl91KKHtA4fEg6Q6lFlEQcQdVFhTDdgiFBNTvIgME/s320/photo+on+headstone.jpg" width="274" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #444444;">Rusting ceramic photograph - Carcassonne Cemetery</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">The woman sank to the ground beside me and melted into a
mound. The crooked hem of her worn, baggy dress settled around her in a puff.
Her coat looked to be a man’s duster jacket and she drew its tatty collar
closed against the breeze. She stretched her legs out until her scuffed work
boots rested near the grave. The boots were a sorry sight; the laces were
missing and the tongues extended with a life of their own.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">The woman placed her head on my small shoulder and I caught
the sweet scent of bourbon. Then she began to cry. Though she was a stranger to
me, and I was only about eight years old, I was accustomed to weeping. It was
the background music at my house, the funeral home. I sat very still.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">“These here people. They haunt me, ya know. ‘Specially that
there woman. I seen her in my dreams a few times. She’s the spittin’ image of
my dead mamma.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">“Well, these two people… they’ve been dead a long time.
Maybe they’re related to you.” I offered.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">She laughed, and then cried again. You can’t really talk to
woman when she’s on a jag.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">“I was pert near a wildcat when my mamma died. Still am. I’m
Martha Harper, by the way, only daughter of Laura Sue Harper,” she slurred. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">I was going to introduce myself, but she continued, “Don’t
grow up to be a wildcat, girl. Don’t go givin’ your mamma heartache. Now, when
I really need my mamma, she ain’t here in person. Sometimes her haint sits on
the chair in my bedroom. Sounds crazy, don’t it, but I knowed she’s there.
Scares me to death. She just sits there and stares at me. What does she want?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">The woman sat up, turned, and looked at me as if she
expected an answer.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">“Gosh, mam. I don’t know.”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">Slowly she made her way up. Dried leaves stuck to her
clothes, but she didn’t notice. She patted the gravestone and kissed the
woman’s photo before she climbed into the back seat of her car. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">“Gonna have a little nap now.” She lay supine and
disappeared from view so that only the bottoms of those old boots dangled out
the window. She called out from her resting place.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444;">“Nice talkin’ to you, girl. And Happy Halloween.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTSgroAM813GySJHlXE7ZIZVk9oCJ07CP5QIWw3XIr_GiFVshCDRizxWWjICw5v_dRbuX122fOZkL-cNzxJtlE3zPPNIHmLvXHBdiOO1THn-X7EEtHgQsvGM86srNbhEJc_1agvIgbGQU/s1600/Lady+in+cemetery.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTSgroAM813GySJHlXE7ZIZVk9oCJ07CP5QIWw3XIr_GiFVshCDRizxWWjICw5v_dRbuX122fOZkL-cNzxJtlE3zPPNIHmLvXHBdiOO1THn-X7EEtHgQsvGM86srNbhEJc_1agvIgbGQU/s320/Lady+in+cemetery.jpg" width="220" /></a></div>
KATE MAYFIELDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15188611212969681379noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3651966380862866650.post-61942376095212603912012-09-07T03:42:00.000-07:002012-09-07T05:36:45.809-07:00 <style><!--
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: #741b47;"></span><span style="background-color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: white;"></span><b><span style="color: #741b47;">THE STORY OF THE BRONZE CASKET</span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #444444;">
Rarely has a piece of funereal furniture caused more
controversy than in the remarkable journey of a particular bronze casket. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #444444;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #444444;">
My education in caskets began at an early age. There are all
sorts today, and even in days of yore when there weren’t all sorts, there were
choices. At the time my father owned his funeral home there were obvious
differences between a coffin and a casket; a coffin was made solely of wood and
shaped similarly to the human body, narrowing at the head and feet. A casket is
rectangular, the same width from top to bottom. Generally padded and lined,
they’re lowered into the ground after the grave has been lined with a vault.
The biggest difference between a casket and a coffin is that the casket opens
at the top so the head and shoulders of the deceased may be viewed. Though the
least expensive casket was constructed of plywood and covered in a felt-like
cloth, caskets were usually forged of various metals. The most expensive casket
was bronze.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #444444;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #444444;">
The story begins with an undertaker who became greedy. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #444444;">
Vernon O’Neal received a phone call one November afternoon
in 1963. A man’s voice on the other end requested the O’Neal Funeral Home’s
best casket for immediate delivery to Parkland Memorial Hospital. Vernon chose
a solid bronze casket with a white satin lining. It weighed over 400 pounds
when empty and came with a hefty price tag as well - $3,995.00. In 2012, that
translates to roughly $30,000.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #444444;">
Vernon waited for his colleagues to return from a lunch
break and subsequently set out, unknowingly, to President Kennedy’s tragic
emergency room scene. After a brief moment of recovery from witnessing the
results of the bullet that shattered President Kennedy’s skull, he quickly set
to work alongside several emergency room nurses to protect the expensive
casket. They used a plastic mattress covering to line the inside and wrapped
the President’s head in several bed sheets and another around his body.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #444444;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #444444;">
A kafuffle and swearing match developed in the hallway of
the hospital between the Secret Service and the authorities in Dallas who
insisted that they had legal rights to perform the autopsy. The Secret Service,
on a mission to take the President’s body back to Washington, forced their way
past the Dallas medical examiner, police and justice of the peace. The
President’s bronze casket was loaded onto Air Force One at Love Field and
finally arrived in Washington, D.C.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #444444;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3RC2qa_RWqS0cXZfNTPspjJQRbkUFx3DWrIpnODUcppM3zIxw6USFTaSOW-6f96pDZC_sCUpNtJ2R9nDHTzyCdP0_Ce1Xhomc5BvbpDGbo-mY4GGInLNKVEVA4dPTVTrTYvnwwdEbWdY/s1600/Bronze+Casket.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3RC2qa_RWqS0cXZfNTPspjJQRbkUFx3DWrIpnODUcppM3zIxw6USFTaSOW-6f96pDZC_sCUpNtJ2R9nDHTzyCdP0_Ce1Xhomc5BvbpDGbo-mY4GGInLNKVEVA4dPTVTrTYvnwwdEbWdY/s320/Bronze+Casket.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #444444;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #444444;">
At the Bethesda Naval Hospital, another funeral home entered
the story. The bronze casket could no longer be used. Despite the effort to
protect it, the inside was stained with the President’s blood and missing a
handle from the scuffle in the emergency room corridor and subsequent flight.
Washington’s Gawler Funeral Home provided the casket that would be seen on the
world’s television screens. The elegant flag-draped casket made from
hand-rubbed, five-hundred-year-old African mahogany would eventually rest in
Arlington National Cemetery.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #444444;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #444444;">
But what of the bronze casket?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Less than two months after the President’s burial Vernon
O’Neal invoiced the government for $3,995.00. The government’s view was that
the bill was “excessive” and subsequently O’Neal offered a $500 discount. The
government was still hesitant to agree to pay. They learned, however, that what
O’Neal really wanted was the casket, which was stored in a warehouse
in Washington, still in possession of the Gawler funeral home. Vernon had plans
for that bronze casket. He’d been offered $100,000 from a party interested in
placing it on public display and possibly even conducting a tour around the
country, a blatant and tasteless cashing in on the tragedy of the
assassination.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #444444;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #444444;">
Appalled, the Kennedy family urgently requested the
government to pay O’Neal, which they did, and the General Services
Administration took possession of the casket in 1965. That year the House of
Representatives passed a bill that required any object related to the
assassination to be preserved as evidence. Enter the bronze casket once again.
A congressman from Texas wrote to the Attorney General who had replaced Bobby
Kennedy a year before, and suggested that the casket had no value for anyone
other than “the morbidly curious” and recommended that it be destroyed.
Attorney General Katzenbach agreed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #444444;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #444444;">
The Air Force drilled forty holes into the casket and filled
it with three 80-pound sandbags to ensure its inability to float to the surface
or wash ashore. It was then placed in a pine box that was also drilled full of
holes. On February 18, 1966 the Air Force set out to the Atlantic Ocean with
the bronze casket in a C130 transport plane. The drop point, several miles off
the Maryland and Delaware coastline was chosen because it wasn’t near shipping
or air lanes. Also, members of the Air Force knew that at one time the
President had mentioned that he liked to be buried at sea in this location.
According to released documents, the casket lies 9,000ft down at the bottom of
the Atlantic Ocean.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #444444;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu5SLbfVy1lFhUKZIdm8iq8kSTHjJFBy6PYKcoT02CC4ywUfyMejtFnBaTGGhqafZtnGKb8loyoO58aF6Dhbp-rrkLtpQoPliU984jjMOcyqDgQpk4eBz1fyHCNY3KyfPoa8UnhKWXOaI/s1600/Atlantic+Dark.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu5SLbfVy1lFhUKZIdm8iq8kSTHjJFBy6PYKcoT02CC4ywUfyMejtFnBaTGGhqafZtnGKb8loyoO58aF6Dhbp-rrkLtpQoPliU984jjMOcyqDgQpk4eBz1fyHCNY3KyfPoa8UnhKWXOaI/s320/Atlantic+Dark.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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KATE MAYFIELDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15188611212969681379noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3651966380862866650.post-2497966944050061472012-06-09T16:22:00.000-07:002012-06-09T16:48:33.059-07:00 <style>
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<div style="color: #660000; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #741b47; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white;">A SPARK OF CELEBRITY AT THE FUNERAL HOME</span></span><span style="background-color: white;"></span><span style="background-color: white;"></span> </div>
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I once asked my father if anyone famous lived in our town.
When I think back to this I am amazed that he answered seriously.</div>
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“No, no one famous lives here.”</div>
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“Not even the Egg Man?”</div>
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“No, not even.”</div>
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“Why not?”</div>
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“Well, we live in a small town and most famous people live
in large cities.”</div>
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Poor old us. The sum of celebrity sightings in the town
where I grew up was:</div>
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Celebrity – 0</div>
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Regular people – a little less than 9,000</div>
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Apparently we were once a hotbed for any travelling performer
who passed through. In 1903 an architect from Chicago swooped down to Kentucky
and built an opera house in our town. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP92dmWknTuhniXs7gZr51MMbuZOQhxJ_iqo3cTSC06y34TBwePPx3wOvZQ3zd_qM5YgPbrkZPjiE3x7FNewGW9gX1TTWphMpQXffWtYaFWwIoB7LkMCZ5lsi4XR715Yv4Y7YNl2oVk4s/s1600/Opera+House.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP92dmWknTuhniXs7gZr51MMbuZOQhxJ_iqo3cTSC06y34TBwePPx3wOvZQ3zd_qM5YgPbrkZPjiE3x7FNewGW9gX1TTWphMpQXffWtYaFWwIoB7LkMCZ5lsi4XR715Yv4Y7YNl2oVk4s/s1600/Opera+House.gif" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXgmq6ZfBcNJXo0_3S4YFQ8yQ9V63toMJH_yClNjAvFm6Myc0ljMDT2tZl1bQA9_EhnrZYu089RCsU1A-F5KhL4O75yKqYdajvq8StQwMHNCY9hk2nKxPbKrgdMRvPxkEaKjdzYC0uzNE/s1600/Playhouse+actors.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
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There was nothing even faintly operatic about the kind of
shows that somehow reached our little enclave. The religious element was so
fierce that to call it what it really was, a theatre, was not allowed. The opera house debuted one night stands with performers who
made themselves at home for a few hours in the dressing rooms. Vaudeville and
minstrel shows played to audiences who sat eagerly in the boxes and balcony.
Lectures were popular, as were home talent shows in which I can only imagine
parents and spouses elongated their posture and puffed their chests out proudly
while neighbours cringed inwardly.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXgmq6ZfBcNJXo0_3S4YFQ8yQ9V63toMJH_yClNjAvFm6Myc0ljMDT2tZl1bQA9_EhnrZYu089RCsU1A-F5KhL4O75yKqYdajvq8StQwMHNCY9hk2nKxPbKrgdMRvPxkEaKjdzYC0uzNE/s1600/Playhouse+actors.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXgmq6ZfBcNJXo0_3S4YFQ8yQ9V63toMJH_yClNjAvFm6Myc0ljMDT2tZl1bQA9_EhnrZYu089RCsU1A-F5KhL4O75yKqYdajvq8StQwMHNCY9hk2nKxPbKrgdMRvPxkEaKjdzYC0uzNE/s320/Playhouse+actors.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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The opera house closed during the war and like a product on
an assembly line, it was passed from owner to owner. </div>
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At long last the drought grew to an end when the biggest
celebrity our town had seen in a living breathing person stopped by our funeral
home out of necessity. He was also the smallest celebrity to ever walk among
us.</div>
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My father called him a live wire. His personality contained
a tall dose of high-octane charisma, though he stood less than four feet tall
at his adult height. His real name was Johnny Roventini, but by a stroke of
luck in 1933 he became the most famous product spokesperson for Philip Morris
Tobacco Company, so much so, that he became known only as Johnny Philip
Morris.</div>
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In 1929 the construction of the Hotel New Yorker was
complete.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlyM7n2BFcdyS7WuRv0myGA7eEt1Ex1Xo1ncbsxbt3ptYKz86JGNcsk7Q0u5qPRQzGsWtQiqdILJLr4qkIHDOwHIR-LjwkZ6Mw5xCDbYQ_Fn3CjeHaqxDHFtQ58dd6gdaMKSvS4gEj9T0/s1600/New+Yorker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlyM7n2BFcdyS7WuRv0myGA7eEt1Ex1Xo1ncbsxbt3ptYKz86JGNcsk7Q0u5qPRQzGsWtQiqdILJLr4qkIHDOwHIR-LjwkZ6Mw5xCDbYQ_Fn3CjeHaqxDHFtQ58dd6gdaMKSvS4gEj9T0/s320/New+Yorker.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Along with its 43 stories and 2,500 rooms, it boasted that
‘the hotel's bell boys were 'as snappy-looking as West Pointers’. Their uniform: red-trimmed black cap
with a chin strap, a bright red tunic with gold buttons, red-striped black
trousers, and white gloves.</div>
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In 1933 Mr. Biow of the Biow Agency landed the lucrative
Philip Morris Tobacco account. In a stroke of Mad Men genius, he focused on the
fact that the cigarettes had a man’s name and thought it might be unique for a
bellboy to page the non-existent Philip Morris. Biow was advised to sit in the
lobby of the Hotel New Yorker to observe a 22-year-old bellhop. Johnny
Roventini had suffered a pituitary gland disorder that not only halted his
growth, but also the development of his voice, which he now used to call out a
perfect B-flat tone naturally and clearly for every ‘page’. </div>
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Mr. Biow approached Johnny with a dollar in hand and asked
him to page Philip Morris. The bellboy was unaware that Mr. Morris didn’t exist
and repeatedly called out, “Call for Philip Morris” in his distinctive voice.
Johnny was upset that his page went unanswered, not knowing he was essentially
auditioning. Later he was quoted in <i>Variety</i><span style="font-style: normal;">,
</span><span lang="EN-US">"I went around the
lobby yelling my head off, but Philip Morris didn't answer my call. I had no
idea that Philip Morris was a cigarette.”</span></div>
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Johnny became a living trademark. For the next forty years
he was never seen out of his bellboy uniform and was heard around the world,
first in radio advertising, and then in broadcast media, notably helping the <i>I
Love Lucy</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> show kick-start its success.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLjUbkKWDTSP5zT3G8_T6-NOlrO8aFnSjpynCBpvreNaykm5bVWHTnXdavOGpZTT0-X5Pi8-jtIH83qokK3LhbxbUrfYi7_l0w7H-KmfpMqG4k3EXme_IavW-4y6LvsBhaQMsUuWGrjBo/s1600/Sepia+johnny-philip-moris.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLjUbkKWDTSP5zT3G8_T6-NOlrO8aFnSjpynCBpvreNaykm5bVWHTnXdavOGpZTT0-X5Pi8-jtIH83qokK3LhbxbUrfYi7_l0w7H-KmfpMqG4k3EXme_IavW-4y6LvsBhaQMsUuWGrjBo/s320/Sepia+johnny-philip-moris.jpg" width="202" /></a></div>
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The demand for thousands of pubic appearances in store
openings, parades and other public events summoned the need for dozens of
“Johnny Juniors” who made it possible for him to be in two places at once. But
there were no impostors in our town; we met the genuine Johnny. We lived in
tobacco country and every year the Tobacco Festival took an all-consuming and
prideful place in the autumn line-up of events. One would think we were organizing Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. It was the perfect venue for Philip
Morris, and Johnny was a parade-appearing aficionado by that time. </div>
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For twelve years he sat on the back of a white convertible
in our parade and called his page for Philip Morris without amplification. And
the crowd went wild…</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJN7TErw8bs504gb_lF5wQRH8xyO4fvKrwXnRNAXV2u3H660fomN-f5pWo9kUFgD3LY2VU3Vv9ZGpn2azWquEry-iXEtaZZcv6epMNa67xf9oG1aPDpEWU05aetkFoyQarBbjDJytwbHk/s1600/Parade+johnny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJN7TErw8bs504gb_lF5wQRH8xyO4fvKrwXnRNAXV2u3H660fomN-f5pWo9kUFgD3LY2VU3Vv9ZGpn2azWquEry-iXEtaZZcv6epMNa67xf9oG1aPDpEWU05aetkFoyQarBbjDJytwbHk/s320/Parade+johnny.jpg" width="194" /></a></div>
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Our funeral home, which was on the residential end of Main
Street, provided the perfect position in which to view the parade. I ran back
and forth from a window upstairs to other vantage points, both downstairs and
on our stoop where our front door was open to the community. Before and after
the parade, Johnny came running into the funeral home badly in need of a cold
drink and to answer the call of nature. He took the time to shake everyone’s
hand and thanked us for our hospitality. I absolutely dogged my father to
search for me if I wasn’t around for Johnny’s arrival. For a couple of those
twelve years my younger sister was near his height and could not understand why
he spoke to her as if he were an adult. Even though he was well into middle age
when we met him, she couldn’t grasp his miniature stature and basically wanted
him to be her playmate. She was especially confused when he patted her on the
head. I’ll never forget his kindness and his full acceptance of how people
reacted to him. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFFIsH8YYZK5RpHdvLGZSlv79ltxNPEEVXlnitoRa4mvJIUUmD2_h4SmXK31RHef1U44JKoM3TsLavwVLcD40UJSPQ5v2b2WoulWRG2FO98qXbdYAuzADHP_8A7mcS-mRElBaP-Ma5vdk/s1600/Car+and+Johnny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFFIsH8YYZK5RpHdvLGZSlv79ltxNPEEVXlnitoRa4mvJIUUmD2_h4SmXK31RHef1U44JKoM3TsLavwVLcD40UJSPQ5v2b2WoulWRG2FO98qXbdYAuzADHP_8A7mcS-mRElBaP-Ma5vdk/s320/Car+and+Johnny.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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By 1970 Congress had banned the advertising of cigarettes on
television and radio. Johnny retired in 1974. He never married and died at the
age of 88.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKjID5jIukmxmxrqisAc9qN07dQma6vtuAxoxlGd-or2-iQ32eVHZRWg_nQcFEK2J6iQMDpHhZv6vB8glhwrr-KIr3-8JcG64_HecQcJj5lquqx507U0NaQUx7b9ZvRta9t1RZrLt9gmY/s1600/Attention+Call+for.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTTm00Oag_WXfGoxXUl5ZuRCX2s1pDwpn842JO6SN0Ln1-yxuVdXS2zJJMZVmSxI6MBcQHibZnOf7kiyjYLPEWOPVWVIHWXoEzTkRWPD22klg49ZWnb81zm8AG1GRNpR4gYdt1Kjwmi5A/s1600/Attention+Call+for.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgOMHAaYvUDQoaAgYQq9yRQ5Ta2FiMyDgtQkUSI0tQXD1-uBuIZU6hZ8L4LtOKhpKy6RUsLDDl6XDm5VsSE4JT6rQgvN6f-Tt9viU_1HdrLMVT_ZfFuAzuhyphenhyphenHmMeNDj1WPMV3I2RtcGxI/s320/Attention+Call+for.jpg" width="238" /></div>
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<a href="http://www.bellhop.org/callforphillip.mp3">Click here to hear his call.</a></div>
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<br /></div>KATE MAYFIELDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15188611212969681379noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3651966380862866650.post-63675035882652130902012-04-10T06:26:00.023-07:002012-04-10T09:35:54.901-07:00<div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0); font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0); font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0); font-size:130%;" >DANCING TOWARDS THE LOLLIPOP CEMETERY</span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi652ibg8FVIrhBbUSlV79Mde4rMFYYIYteC2JY1nVveGjzMU5wT9iFvPrft4XjYyWJke5cjYwh1ux7u93xJLoz3kdULTsXFgrNi-G5jO7MELe12datB2-naAJDYjazhqDECzLZYarTRr0/s1600/Shaking+Quakers.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 348px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi652ibg8FVIrhBbUSlV79Mde4rMFYYIYteC2JY1nVveGjzMU5wT9iFvPrft4XjYyWJke5cjYwh1ux7u93xJLoz3kdULTsXFgrNi-G5jO7MELe12datB2-naAJDYjazhqDECzLZYarTRr0/s400/Shaking+Quakers.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729775723701476594" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXKLu3KSAgtISZtFDBvJGUblrZDggKtIN88KHb4SoUvOFXHd9LM1i0e13xr3iJw_9skI0b3j8QSU4iqvLZr07015dsqcICAh8ZhJpY9ndVlBQ4AcKQ3DqWGv6b5THU4tCZBv9dkHEYp54/s1600/The+Dance.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;">At the steaming height of most summers my parents dragged me away from the air conditioning, into the car and down a country road ten miles to Shakertown. We entered a large tent set in a field where we sat for three hours on thin wooden bleachers, the music of crickets soon overwhelmed by the evening’s theatre. I grabbed a paper fan from the grass as the re-enactment of the story of Mother Ann, a religious visionary from 18<sup>th</sup> century England, unfolded in fits of song, drama, and dance.</span></div> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;">Avant-garde, revolutionary, even touted as a miracle worker, Mother Ann, an illiterate factory worker from Manchester formed the Shaking Quakers, better known as The Shakers. Their utopian, strictly celibate, and self-sufficient communities grew from a small group that immigrated to America in 1774 into flourishing communities, the southernmost of which was formed where I sat swatting mosquitoes in the humid night air. At their height in 1840 more than six thousand believers lived in nineteen communal villages from New England to Ohio and Kentucky, and there were twenty thousand members over a century.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;"> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><br /></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaBbyKC6k8cKUNMEQsDiEVal9I93j1C2lJ-wtQxm3FBvjxHvrTR0R8kEne4iJFaWZZFFtkRPh1OCNRw2-zAEBVOmUN0ZkLonfXHZpAzWEbj_IH_Uc2DUXVzkp4txgRQU1jrDWgnHfYpgw/s400/SHaker+Women.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729768152247032626" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 192px; " /></span><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinMZYG1kAV23eEV0nAaodiAnxGVNgknvK_rf-RxThIwmMj10ypt8HGu1ab2C0EIioEAG2qHyHeTqR28Nkzt7MT7CuG__yuLvZjDQIOO2IeO3nC-yUmbYmYsOj3CxVCWdZDnTfYBTFWk3s/s400/shaker-brothers.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729767916787756690" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 191px; " /></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;">The most eccentric and defining aspect of the Shakers was their form of dance, the earliest of which was spontaneous. They whirled themselves around, trembling and shaking ecstatically until they fell to the floor in a trance.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;"> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><br /></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicgiGFjtOOJbKcVyWTFldmWzJPQdzIxZ4eINk0-izFDSoFqhpaZffYh1J5MviJqC8WqYuleuwAomigUF3wkUI-tYPi4EdxeLMdrBNMt8xVml75y5dIbctR7w3AxECPipLpKyyrYI3C_f4/s400/Girl+in+trance.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729767702334295298" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px; " /></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;">In the early 1800s choreography entered the worship service. An anonymous visitor described the preparation:<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;"> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>"At half past seven p.m. on the dancing days, all the members retired to their separate rooms, where they sat in solemn silence, just gazing at the stove, until the silver tones of the small tea-bell gave the signal for them to assemble in the large hall.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;"> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><br /></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC15nA5zqVuxuSN6nZJyabIEzAC4qCBBi4V8416IS52lCYZXq6fikS6Ns3EiMk-yqc3hopIU411nXe1TZ_ZewMqpv8ei22RRS03ocM-VfhCNX-UVPG7nJn6bamoqSkj6qaNeuN2XVhGRg/s400/Shakers_Dancing.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729767427318572946" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 204px; " /></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;">They believed the dance kindled the fire of truth and the shaking warded off evil. As described in an article in <i>The Telescope</i><span style="font-style:normal"> in 1909, the choreography became ritualistic and stylized. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;"> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;">“A number of singers, probably a dozen or so, both sexes, would take their position in the middle of the room, half of them facing the other half, and begin a kind of song or chant. While doing so they would step back and forth in a fashion resembling a double shuffle. If the spirit seemed to move the watchers, they would rise and, two abreast, would begin marching round the singers in the center. Soon the march would turn into a dancing step, the faces would be uplifted, and the hands outstretched, palms upward, with a gesticulation as if the worshipers were grasping for blessing falling down from heaven. This would be continued indefinitely, sometimes the marchers and dancers falling from sheer exhaustion."<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;"> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><br /></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQV3rtoNLpXsINddxCdxGKEjzD6YpRPn9TeWlK5Tw5l2S4w8IeYugJ5Pqumk1OFMF_9IUBaz_4DkFHYGkF7Jx1ZclRYM3K72jWJefUi3TVxIPbfURApXnPs5nqI2yGgtZT-z5joMLjZV4/s400/shaker+dance+large.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729767134708491170" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 324px; " /></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><br /></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXKLu3KSAgtISZtFDBvJGUblrZDggKtIN88KHb4SoUvOFXHd9LM1i0e13xr3iJw_9skI0b3j8QSU4iqvLZr07015dsqcICAh8ZhJpY9ndVlBQ4AcKQ3DqWGv6b5THU4tCZBv9dkHEYp54/s400/The+Dance.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729774794017142210" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 307px; " /></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-size:100%;">All of their hymns, songs and music were composed and written by their members, generally, under ‘divine inspiration’. <span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US">They developed their own form of music notation known as the "letteral system" using letters of the alphabet rather than conventional notes.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US"><br /></span></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia-k4CoJdxrhxds8qZUKk0HlS0rrIVu_PaglKwB4qTtn0SRALtUAff_SATAVW1h11pDNnYlfYvNbNAu8YHTyv5f6AXrp_vIAwEX1wBQdQfrNSWJBE9gj7XN_Nf9kafcdo_gWw20biL2Fg/s400/Mother+Ann%2527s+Song.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729766898447860178" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 338px; height: 400px; " /></span><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB5STPiN5JKq95wNd19V7DQjKYoT0-kuINe2hZnxvLwNh1BaRT0Gq_YACpKJhyphenhyphen5B93rFWEDmWQ-l800MfBvcebFWHqPTOsrnsQjulacRs8lt61LgTHSqwTpyXxyRffhOoQgVpzr0iLWVU/s400/music-lesson.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729766553726954642" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 200px; " /></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;">Music Lessons</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;">In 1944 one of those tunes was resurrected and hit the world stage. Aaron Copland said he was thinking neither of Appalachia nor Spring when composing his now iconic ballet. Martha Graham<i> </i><span style="font-style: normal">renamed</span><i> Ballet for Martha</i><span style="font-style:normal"> by using a line from a Hart Crane poem. Spring represents a body of water, not the season. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;"> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;">O Appalachian Spring! I gained the ledge;<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;">Steep, inaccessible smile that eastward bends<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;">And northward reaches in that violet wedge<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><i>Of Adirondacks</i><span style="font-style:normal"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;"> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;"> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;">Copland, who was known for using folk music in his ballets, steered away from this habit in <i>Appalachian Spring</i><span style="font-style:normal"> with the exception, ironically, of one obscure Shaker tune – “Simple Gifts” – which he used as the basis of the finale and which then went on to become the most famous melody of the ballet. "Simple Gifts" was composed by Elder Joseph Brackett and originated in the Shaker community at Alfred, Maine in 1848. It was not a hymn, or song of worship; it was written specifically as a Shaker dance song.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;"> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;">A century after the queer Shaker dances were formalized and the lyrics <i>‘Tis a gift to be simple</i><span style="font-style:normal"> were penned, the collaboration between Copland and Graham was born and lauded as groundbreaking. One wonders if she studied their movements for the similarity is striking.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;"> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><br /></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb7TTAkBIYK5MW91aQKrD0jbrAtgKbpnlB_N4apEPdVSRW0t1eo1ZL3iwUR040ZLbEyEOcvYE9Ndotw50rjxLfTk2EOuvIeLeTbyvR6V7SJHqM2AueaDb9Se953gO2RYYdwRPkNYrGi8I/s400/Dance+Position.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729766208838183074" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 296px; " /></span><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;">Shaker Sister</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy8qb78tdlCKPHUNnTD8VbQecKIIbmWfcqQ_rA5E6szxbTsu31DVUCP0Of1l9Rq_wfkIXMqPEz9oywehIL162sJSBPoRPtMfyWxqDU6KurVzZWZdbtnIpS9hXCE2dcxZv7ty_eLMj-KEk/s400/Martha+Graham+Hands.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729766002871437666" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;">Martha Graham Dancers</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6DtPW-fsBoMJsZOGP-NBSlPP0cModIWBanD0sXb-KgemDp5K6hpj6IkUnGHxvsKmlDxKH-DmeZotXBIWKKbZlT6-_yuA5QiFxKv17IfaNTDJELC86c5PG-lOREZneUQ5YjGrDhEGH-Ss/s400/hands+dancepositions.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729765844605146498" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 185px; height: 154px; " /></span><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;">Shaker Dance Demonstration</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu24Bx-ODBLub1jMEX2EIiL8mO3b_96moCAZuRcq7QgmCrtWxbe1NcdwdFu-W06cBEHq2oPdRvig9rgUIgTZvR35Yz3L2eiWERyquKL-TZSLasmRhd3ZX_HRsy8f9mMYOWE2yPxe9tjJA/s400/Martha+Graham+Praying.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729765598842214274" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 250px; " /></span><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib6KGJww-lTflNBRINCoQjPc0gruITNlsFXwBlboI1GczHGh-oa6aPuNX1Y3PgJwFv7ydRr_dHvyMItCG9jg54IP5CxhquF-sP5Qjx7S9Gy5CRTwumDPaIAsa-tA5-77yftt4x4don7QA/s400/appalachian-spring-martha-graham.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729765425872865234" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 311px; height: 400px; " /></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;">By 1911 that last of the original Shakers were dying. To attend a funeral of a Shaker one would think it was anything but. The funeral was an important religious service in their community and they looked upon death as a joyful occasion. Funerals were attended happily and with smiles. The women wore white along with their strange, tight-fitting bonnets with a frill at the back. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;"> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;">In the former Shaker community in Harvard, Massachusetts lies a unique, one acre burial ground. The tombstone markers of individual Shakers including their death dates have been preserved. <span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US">Created in 1792 using stone markers, a few of which are still in place today, approximately three hundred Shakers are buried here. In 1879, the town removed most of the stone markers and replaced them with cast iron markers in the unusual shape resembling a lollipop. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><br /></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM1-v0_xfxgNZibtimjY9YmD85nczLglNJlz06VZBlXt6a48tJB4cOOOvX_2AZDPt5Cm-evm6i7ujpytcc9XRNU9iJF2Wsyqr-rOdr3Uq7eH5xlRhT_YzYEwh_6YRgLn5zOdb-BBoJ9Fg/s400/Lollipop+at+night.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729765028498790786" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 265px; " /></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-size:16px;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYI7KTHg74hO7KPS7V88I_W3g7ItcMfV3BSn_CSRSc__BDoaeOnvSL2Ws91f_2B0WvsjaRv4FZcn8uu0IUJKFuL-hzXIy-nAJ-OmvBkRTWosTmvZubPhBzumERimScwO52rg897ep9Mhw/s400/lollipop+cemetery.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729763986529359970" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></span></p><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:7;color:#0000ee;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-size:16px;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmKie3hq3RIzFdx2ZgqJ2EXZGiwF6yA5Q9CKY7gp4vad9k5n4UDpXU52SmO6s8-JACWCrNoMI2XFYwWEWIDartr_RVXjOWZeGiKNM2aCyxC0yqs6TDgDCjiduoUuiy2Qj3EEuENlkNi_c/s400/lollipop+marker.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729764433019421794" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 225px; height: 358px; " /></span></span></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family:arial;font-size:medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-size:16px;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwOReoCoqTngMO6X6-B_yEo-r1NVg1Z8BPA2yuUgZOiujyG9kzUQ4DlPcfHf2V9yN25PxGAuZnHJkEb0v4hW1MGJdbiHOYn69d0VxzfigLUeg-xmBzm9G-SQeZsMeqK1whsOLIPXF3c9o/s400/Eldresses.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729763394350370930" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 285px; " /></span></span></span></p><div><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj20-3pAxfZhGkEWWqMApelhIbtftdla1nc0ds0ACdVdWqqN7pKaus6DsaL8u03K0WT_i0Gd9tMcy2YL-yqxpp1W2GjNU-UJNMZPMW8IRzdHK3hKBD_ye3fnV-q4s4J2lV6hNIp3g3W830/s400/early+Shaker+woman%252C+hooded.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729772567480405234" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 276px; height: 400px; " /></span></span></div><div><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></span></div> <!--EndFragment--></div></div></div></div></div></div>KATE MAYFIELDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15188611212969681379noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3651966380862866650.post-15621191108391771742012-03-27T05:00:00.009-07:002012-03-27T07:36:28.649-07:00<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGNUS9EtCBBIVmKMguVweMGYr6r3XkCPZaG30vFNwgURLH7DSdCaRTjilG_U4oP0YDEZSDLf-qqUQUZ08yDwoPRmf00q9O9Pd2qhfCDCGvCCZh8_om3S_Ha1RmxQQwPJKLis_9z4JZ3u0/s1600/on+the+Ohio.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4gn5vWmQoDuXswJWHaBbOanLK3DMd7fBqj4bBZjJjFNZ_ZOpsDHi8PTbo4TwFcZyMrdOXy34SjL_pyXXOnM5BU5toH07m5pgEYBbPGU276cPgW3XfY2dO5Ktd3Yu9FAJcPPAG8Tv7WXw/s1600/Wilderness+Road+Colour.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;color:#660000;">HOME WAKE</span></b></div> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;">Whenever I’m asked where I’m from I always say, ‘Originally’, pause for originally to sink in, ‘from Kentucky’. Compelled to further qualify the answer I add that I’m not from <i>that</i><span style="font-style:normal"> part of the state - not those eastern mountains where the hillbillies live. The barefoot, gun toting, moonshining, coal dusted people from the hollows - that wasn’t, that isn’t, me. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-size:100%;">Then I feel badly about working so hard to convey that not all Kentuckians are the same. Truth is though, there is a sizeable difference in the section of the state where I grew up that lies within a kiss of Tennessee, and the eastern half that borders the Virginias. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-size:100%;">The Scots-Irish influence in the Appalachians was prominent in the 1770s when the first flow of settlers blazed across the Wilderness Road, over the Cumberland Mountains and into a region that was too dangerous for most to conquer.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><br /></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGNUS9EtCBBIVmKMguVweMGYr6r3XkCPZaG30vFNwgURLH7DSdCaRTjilG_U4oP0YDEZSDLf-qqUQUZ08yDwoPRmf00q9O9Pd2qhfCDCGvCCZh8_om3S_Ha1RmxQQwPJKLis_9z4JZ3u0/s400/on+the+Ohio.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724547837798966658" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 285px; " /></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-size:100%;">But by the late 1780s the eastern region of Kentucky could be considered a Little Europe where the Ulster-Scots, English, Scottish Highlanders, German Lutherans and the French Huguenots settled.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><br /></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4gn5vWmQoDuXswJWHaBbOanLK3DMd7fBqj4bBZjJjFNZ_ZOpsDHi8PTbo4TwFcZyMrdOXy34SjL_pyXXOnM5BU5toH07m5pgEYBbPGU276cPgW3XfY2dO5Ktd3Yu9FAJcPPAG8Tv7WXw/s400/Wilderness+Road+Colour.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724547629234364322" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 293px; " /></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-size:medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Eastern Kentuckians have always suffered from dialect prejudice. The twang is strong, and the dialect is a-prefixing heavy. “I’ll come a-moaning and a-crying.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>One might hear, “He clomb a tree,” and “I’m agin that idea.”</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><br /></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO3dOxI-Wjqb2RqbqTd1uraj0tyl7x-nFcqCcX9glSUhl930SNfbk23elcEWRPvt8ZbFc-M8icxbL1uGSqTckYQxmNAyVeeNklDNX3Gm6_Gup1Mk09C-Qi06quwKot6vpytQTWoOWUfPM/s400/Log+cabin.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724547420104069186" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 321px; " /></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-size:medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-size:100%;">I’ve scratched my head several times trying to understand this older form of their language, still spoken today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Hilarious really, given that my Southern accent was once as deep as the yellow loam of Mississippi.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-size:100%;">It is true that there is a darkness, a bleakness to the mountains raped of their coal.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><br /></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggCX7IGicX92WiGQIZY8MOxJ61ripBIpHwHTdqh_Y9ukr5ESshbGrviGl_yaG6eHrO0969Zy9LSvcQnCIIvSGBi_1sYtBm2bw3vdc47q8DTDpdcbzu-CqbnSDEQOpvXaYmCfuXCzqbvJM/s400/coal+mine.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724547161205128514" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 310px; " /></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-size:medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-size:100%;">The most isolated families somehow survive an incredibly harsh life. But from the depths of the desolation rises the beauty of the old bluegrass music, their gift for storytelling and a poignant tradition that is still honoured – a home wake.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-size:100%;">This is ‘Home Funeral’, a photo taken by Shelby Lee Adams in 1990.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><br /></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmCIrOH71PqYvvJXOoh0csdpE_wc-te-Z2CCGlCpL2t37lD-ZRZdBK-rG8rfQ8aSEwMuFr7zNm6c5WHOHDUcMXoVKSrkZGMHAIIh5x0gR-3pCZX2G3oZ2odt-GydBtrvSpZ2SMovIVK5s/s400/Home+Funeral+-+Shelby+Lee+Adams.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724546909355921794" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 295px; " /></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-size:medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-size:100%;">At a home wake in the mountains, friends and families would file into the home of the deceased from the coal mines, the farms and the factories to pay their respects, and then gathered in the kitchen for sandwiches and coffee. A country wake in the mountains might last days as opposed to what was then the normal practice of a two-night maximum at our funeral home on the other side of the state. In our town, my father was responsible for turning the tide in the length of visitations by encouraging people to sit for one night instead of two. Even though he was heavy on the charm, I’m not sure how he managed that, come to think of it.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); ">I remember only one family that chose to hold a home wake instead of settling down in one of the dark, cool rooms in our funeral parlour. There may have been a few more, but it was very rare by the time I came along. I thought it would require less work for my father, but instead, there seemed to be an awful lot of to-ing and fro-ing and detailed organization. The phone rang constantly with calls from the townspeople who were unused to home wakes. Aggravated and confused, ‘Where the hell is he, Frank?’ It came to that.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;">Mr. Watson died of a heart attack at a frightfully young age. Not yet fifty the day he fell to the floor in a silent heap, our community was shocked by the news. First, my father collected him, brought him to the funeral home and prepared him, then carted him back to his home. The Watsons (not their real name) lived just up the street from us, but my father couldn’t exactly wheel him across Main Street, so the hearse was employed to transport Mr. Watson back and forth. After he was laid out in his living room in a casket, the Watson’s home was open for visitation for a few days until the funeral. During the unusually long wake I pestered my father with questions. Why so young? Why no warning? What is heart disease? And most doggedly, why wasn’t he here with us?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Mr. Watson’s family wanted him near, he told me. Couldn’t bear to part with him, not yet.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-size:100%;">Because he was fairly well known and suffered a particularly tragic death, Mr. Watson’s family decided to hold the funeral service in the church, a space large enough to deal with the overflow. My father drove to their house once again to transport him to the church, also on Main Street, and then, finally, to the cemetery.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-size:100%;">Mr. Watson was the father of a girl who was only a year younger than me and this made his death more memorable to me than his age, or his home wake. She and her older sister were father-less before they graduated high school. After Mr. Watson was buried, the grief took hold of them like a grief I’d never seen.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-size:100%;">Mrs. Watson and her daughters were always late to church on Sunday mornings. No matter what time they arrived for the service, they walked the long aisle all the way down to the front, everyone’s eyes upon them, and sat in the second row from the front, which was always, without fail, empty.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-size:100%;">When our hell fire and damnation preacher got going, the three females huddled closely together. They inched towards each other, leaving a long empty space at both ends of the pew. Then my friend placed her head on her mother’s shoulder and soon her little body trembled. The shiver turned into silent convulsions. The harder she tried not to make a sound, the more violently her body shook. She remained silent and animated, lost in her grief throughout the service. Their Sunday ritual did not end in just a few weeks; their grief rode them for a very long time.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-size:100%;">Both of Mr. Watson’s daughters were brilliant and eventually thrived…until one day the girl who was my friend fell to the floor in a silent heap. Dead. Heart attack. Before she was fifty.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-size:medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-size:medium;"><br /></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhXH_XIROtVcIn0F12EDferMtQzrlFsgKDPIgKMoXlix06oyb-weR2Ag4UiJkqnxm7Qx6tt8hV6v_vSw242hazs1oq3VXr38qhCbTRZ8u7LO2JDlTP2OEVYpMXWa81KKlZI8pjLEWekZo/s400/momento+mori.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724546431859837634" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 260px; " /></span> <!--EndFragment--><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div>KATE MAYFIELDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15188611212969681379noreply@blogger.com1