ON A BLOGGING BREAK...
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.
MEET CARLA
VALENTINE
Technical Curator
of Barts Pathology Museum
“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.”
by Rob Greig for Time out |
Carla Valentine knew she wanted to be a mortician from the
age of eight. I spoke with Carla in her cosy office at Barts Pathology Museum 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.
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.
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.
The librarian suggested that these books weren’t suitable
for her, but her interests in crime, the body, and pathology only grew.
“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 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.”
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:
“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.”
Carla told me that her work as a mortuary assistant was
exactly as she thought it would be.
“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.”
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.
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.
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”.
“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.
So it’s
exactly what I’m doing here now.
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 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.
The ultimate aim is to make people aware that we are all
human and these specimens belong to everybody”.
by Tim Hook |
I asked Carla about her interest in the topic of sex and
death.
“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.
Lovers Surprised By Death by Hans Burgkmair |
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.
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.
You can learn more about Carla, Barts, and Dead Meet through
the links below.
Many thanks to Carla for sharing her fascinating path
to Barts.
Image by Lozzy Bones Art |
Death and the Maiden is a new project created by Lucy Talbot and Sarah Troop.
In their words:
“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.”
I was so pleased they asked me to contribute by writing their inaugural post.
My guest post, WOMEN IN THE MOURNING, can be found HERE
HEARTS AT BARTS
Nestled in a corner of buildings behind the Henry VIII gates in West Smithfield is the Grade II Listed Victorian built Barts Pathology Museum the home of three mezzanine galleries of medical specimens.
This week there were hearts everywhere.
From the carefully curated anatomical hearts that looked as if they might once again beat inside their glass specimen containers,
to the artwork of Robin Lee, whose hearts hang gloriously from the third floor.
A lively crowd arrived on Wednesday night for my alternative Valentine presentation.
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.
The Superhero Volunteers kept a private stash under the table.
And to quench the thirst brought about by the salty cheddar and hot cayenne, the good people at Hendrick's Gin sent over a load of goodness. GIN PUNCH!
The same Superhero Volunteers created this beautiful table brightened by Valentine cards made by Lozzy Bones Art - alternatively smashing.
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.
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.
An interview with Carla will soon be posted on this blog. To say she’s an interesting woman would be an understatement.
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...
Afterwards, the wonderful people from Waterstones London Wall kindly sold the first copies of the UK paperback edition of my memoir THE UNDERTAKER'S DAUGHTER, which was mighty good of them.
Happy Alternative Valentine’s Day
JANUARY 2015 IS PUBLICATION MONTH IN THE STATES FOR
THE UNDERTAKER'S DAUGHTER
I'm a bit excited...
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. Gallery Books has hosted the story on their XOXO After Dark site and it can be read HERE.
GHOST WRITING FOR CHRISTMAS
Please find my Christmas post on Gallery Books'
XOXO After Dark website here.
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MY TERRIFYING THANKSGIVING
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.
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.
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.
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.
This was a far cry from my first ever paying job – playing
the organ for funerals in my father’s funeral home.
I arrived at West 69th 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.
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.
Suddenly the thumping drums of high school bands, the
blaring noise of organized chaos is muted.
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.
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.
Children wave, parents point
at us, or no, maybe they’re pointing at the dancers.
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.
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.
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 42nd
street.
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.
I never saw Andy again. It took months to wrangle the $200 from the Mad Man.
Happy Thanksgiving. Enjoy the parade.
A SHROUD STORY
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.
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.
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:
In 680 BCE this
netted, beaded shroud was created for an Ancient Egyptian mummy.
The arms of the
net are tubular faience beads.
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 scrud meaning garment and screade
- a piece or strip of fabric.
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 - a winding sheet.
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.
Donne’s effigy at St. Paul’s
Cathedral was the only statue to survive the Great Fire intact.
In his final
sermon in 1630 at Whitehall, Donne’s spoke these words:
"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.”
In the United States, there is no
doubt that the homemade shroud was a significant part of 19th-century burial
customs.
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.
In the mid 20th century
the Shroud Room of the Newman Brothers Coffin Works buzzed with the hum of the
Singer sewing machines.
I imagine these ladies talking about
their children, or their plans for the weekend. I imagine the shrouds boxed up,
ready for delivery.
Today in the Coffin Works’ newly
refurbished Shroud Room there are splendid spools of brightly colored thread
and shelves filled with bolts of fabric.
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.
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.
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.
MEET THE LONDON UNDERTAKER:
An Interview With Brian
Parsons
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 19th century
up to the present day.
I was delighted to sit with Brian and pose a few questions.
When did you know you wanted to be an undertaker?
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.
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.
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’.
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.
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.
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. 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.
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.
How long have you been an undertaker and in which aspect
of the business are you most involved?
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.
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.
What type of training is involved in the mentoring role?
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.
I asked Brian about the role of women in the undertaking
industry.
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.
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.
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.
What would you say is the biggest misconception about
your job?
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
19th 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.
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.
I asked Brian’s thoughts about Jessica Mitford's controversial views on the American undertaking trade.
Last year was fifty years since Jessica Mitford published The
American Way of Death and it was one of the
most successful books to be published. The Americans got their knickers in a
twist.
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 after Ruth Mulvey Harmer
published a much better book called The High Cost of Dying. Mitford’s book eclipsed Harmers’, which was much
more rigorous in terms of research.
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.
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.
What is the most fulfilling aspect of your job?
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.
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.
How did you become interested in the history of
undertaking? And what inspired you to write your book, The Undertaker at
Work: 1900-1950?
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.
I discovered that no one had really looked adequately at the
19th century. There’s one or two bits of writing and literature, but
there hasn’t been a really serious study of the 19th century undertaking
business and certainly no one had looked at the 20th 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.
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.
Many thanks to Brian whose new book The Undertaker at
Work: 1900-1950 is
now available here from his website.
Brian joins The Memento Moriatas 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 here.
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