Raising the Roof off Poe's Casket

Today marks the 200^th anniversary of Edgar Allan Poe’s death, which may seem somewhat redundant to observe 73,000 days after his passing…that is unless the poor poet had received a decent burial to begin with. But alas, the rhymster got virtually squat in the way of a sendoff the first go-round. Just ten measly folk showed up for his hurried last hurray.

Because 200 years is a major migraine of time…and we should all be so lucky to have a parade of admirers fawn over our bleached bones (and more importantly, our prose two millenniums after we drop,) I am posting a little something to honor this great American writer, poet, editor and critic.

Edgar Poe was born in Boston, Massachusetts on January 19, 1809 to two actors. It was written that he was named after a character in Shakespeare’s King Lear, a play that the couple performed together the year of his birth. His father abandoned the family shortly after the curtain closed and the mother went on a drinking binge, ending her life a year later of consumption. Young Edgar was taken in by John and Frances Allan, of Richmond, Virginia. His foster father was a successful Scottish merchant  who dealt in tobacco and slaves. The Allan clan served as a foster family to Poe although they never adopted him.

After a short stint at the University of Virginia and a brief military career, he began publishing modestly until he switched his focus to prose, where he became known for his own style of literary criticism. Later he is credited for being the first well-known American writer to “make a living” writing, also for publishing mystery, detective-fiction genre and science fiction.

In 1835, he married his 13-year old cousin, Virginia Clemm, (a little unsolicited commentary from this writer/editor-and-chief… “That ain’t right…I don’t care what was going on 200 years ago, you leave your little cousin alone. Don’t tell me she was the only one for miles around…I ain’t buying it.”)

The same year, something definitely inspired Edgar because he wrote “The Raven” to gushing reviews. It launched his career, but on October 7, 1849, at age 40, Poe died in Baltimore. One hundred sixty years ago today, the impoverished and brow-beaten Poe was found, delirious and in need of medical assistance, outside a tavern. He was never coherent again to explain the last 7 days of his life from Richmond to Baltimore. Four days later, he died in a hospital. Although the exact cause of death is still unknown, many feel it could be attributed to alcohol, brain congestion, cholera, drugs, heart disease, rabies, suicide, tuberculosis, and other agents. (Man, what else is there? Cyberia, Psoriasis, Hoof-in-mouth?)

 Obviously the party will be in full swing in Baltimore this weekend. It’s shaping up nicely. If you are anywhere close, I anticipate Poe worth the wait. Advanced tickets are sold out, although I have heard that there will be tickets at the door. Fans are traveling as far as Vietnam for the tribute. It couldn’t happen to a more deserving guy. 

Oh, and to add further weirdness and mystery…

An unknown visitor who is referred to as the “Poe Toaster” has paid homage to Poe’s grave every year since 1949.  For more than 50 years, one or more individuals have left a gift; however, the offering is always the same. Every early morning on January 19, the person makes a toast with fine cognac on Poe's original grave marker and then leaves three roses. (I must admit I'm hoping for something with a little more pizzaz...like champagne... possibly a few strawberries, oh and whipped cream...lots and lots...but after Poe's humble farewell, who the heck knows? Spam with a hint of hollandaise could be my swan song.