The rebound cad, er, card

Last fall I chronicled my sad breakup with United and I know you've all been dying for an update since.  Well, as sometimes happens, it took a bit longer to make things final.  There was the last minute dash to Chicago for New Year's. Then United extended my Premier privileges through March so I thought, why not, we'll have one more weekend fling for old time's sake.  Since both trips went smoothly, I mistakenly took this to mean our split would be amicable and mutually respectful.  But now I see that my former love has been talking smack about me publicly. I opened my Wall Street Journal a few days ago and learned that I was apparently "over-entitled."  Good to know how you really felt, United--even as you were sending me all those emails, sometimes two or three times a day, not to mention constantly asking for my opinion.  As if you cared.  I realize now you didn't even read my responses.

How to recover from such heartache and betrayal?  On the advice of friends who swear they know someone who knows someone for whom it worked, I gathered my courage, swallowed my pride, and filled out an online form.  So many details... age, location, interests (or at least, interest rates).  I guess I wrote a flattering-enough description of myself, because in what seemed a matter of minutes I heard from a very attractive match, the US Airways Premier World credit card.  (Yes, I know, sounds a lot like the previous one.  I can't help it; I have a definite type.)

Right now we're in the honeymoon phase.  Annual fee waived for the first year, Zone 2 boarding for all flights, and 40,000 bonus miles after first purchase. (What does US Air get in return? My charming company of course. Oh, and my cash.)  But I'm cynical about how long this will all last.  Not to mention what US Air really wants from our time together... aside from the obvious.  Am I just another notch on the belt?  Or a keeper? 

Let's hope I don't find out in the pages of a national newspaper this time.

Flag Girl

I spent the morning at Laurel Hill Cemetery putting flags on veterans' graves in preparation for Memorial Day.  It was somewhat akin to an Easter egg hunt; we volunteers spread out across the verdant grounds and looked for old flags to replace. Fortunately, the Daughters of the American Revolution made it easy for us with their distinctive flag holders marking the final resting places of most of the veterans (including 42 Civil War era generals) buried there. But it was more satisfying to spot someone whose grave wasn't already marked. By carefully reading inscriptions, I found a Colonel who appeared to be qualified, so I flagged him.

Along the way I stopped by the impressive mausoleum of Titanic victim William Crothers Dulles, a bachelor who was on his way back home on that cold April night 100 years ago after visiting his mother and sister abroad.  His body was recovered and he was identified chiefly by a gold watch and tie clip with his initials.  One presumes that he was heroic and stayed on the sinking ship with the other First Class gentlemen, rather than trying to scramble aboard a lifeboat.  Still, no flag for Dulles.

No flag for this gentleman either, though I admit I was tempted:

In which I buy and decorate a house

I know, I know.  It's been so long that when I finally logged into Blogger, I couldn't even find my way around and had to watch the instructional video.

But I have a couple of good excuses. Namely, I bought an antique house (circa 1900) and had the world's fastest closing.  March and April didn't really happen for me.

One reason you haven't heard from me

When I told my decorator (who bears a suspicious resemblance to my mother) that I now had three floors to fill, I started getting daily emails.  "What are your thoughts on the brass chandelier I bought for the living room that was too small?"  By all means, sounds perfect for mine.  (The chandelier that came with the house was rather modern and low-lying and I smacked my head on it twice before shoving a table underneath to act as a traffic cop.)  "How about those antique linens we thought would be perfect for a guest bedroom?"  Absolutely, though there's the small matter of needing to buy a guest bed on which to put them.  "Hitchcock chairs?" No idea what those are, perhaps not.  "End table?"  Maybe.

I was speechless when I opened mom's car and found it packed to the gills with, among other items, not one end table, but three.  The movers were amused that I was working as hard as they were, trundling things in from the never-ending back seat.  Meanwhile mom was busy sorting and organizing and making lists of things I needed to buy.  (Extra large Ziploc bags for unknown reasons, and a non-slip tub mat for the guest bathroom.)

Then there was the email I received when the decorator returned home.  "Should have brought one of the oval Chinese platters as a centerpiece for the dining room table. Which one would you like?"  Two descriptions followed.  "Right," said the follow-up email.  "I went ahead and picked one for you."  An enormous box arrived a few days later at my old condo.  It was so large I had to open the double doors to bring it in.  The neighbors and I scratched our heads.  What could possibly be inside? We opened the first box.  Nothing.  Nestled inside was a second box filled with peanuts, and finally, there was the stunning Chinese platter. Along with a box of extra large Ziplocs.  And a perfectly hideous non-slip bath mat.

But really, thanks, mom.  I couldn't have pulled this off without you.

Famous criminals we have known

One of my most popular posts was about the James-Younger gang, some members of whom held up my great-grandfather's bank in Huntington, West Virginia.  (It is generally agreed that the four were Frank James, Cole Younger, Jack Keene/Tom Webb and Tom McDaniel.)  My cousin has the pearl-handled revolver that was stolen off our ancestor's desk and used by the bandits, then recovered by an armed posse. 

In that earlier post I talked about the postcards we have of the dead and wounded gang members after the disastrous Northfield, Minnesota raid. Recently I dug out my great-grandfather's photo album and scanned the pages containing actual pictures of the gang. Unfortunately the pages are somewhat torn now and at least one of the photos is missing.  The handwriting is also hard to read. 

The top left photo is labeled "Joel McKean (sic) alias Thos J. Webb, captured at Jamestown Tenn, September 10, 1875."  This must be Jack Keene, also known as Tom Webb.  No one seems to be sure which was his real name, but he served ten years in prison for the robbery before being pardoned.

The top right photo is of Cole Younger, who was captured after the Northfield raid.  The bottom left photo is missing and I believe the inscription says, "suspected of complicity... [Hunting]ton."  It might be of Frank James, and that also may explain why someone took it. The bottom right photo says simply "Kerry." I believe this must be Hobbs Kerry, who is not listed as a suspect in the Huntington robbery, but who participated in other heists.

On the next page (sadly, my scan of the page didn't save correctly) is a photo of a man killed by the posse at Pine Hill, Kentucky.  I can't read the name but it must be Tom McDaniel (or McDaniels).  We believe an unlabeled photo of a somberly-dressed woman on that same page was found in his pocket.

I might add that Cole's brother Frank, who was not part of the foursome involved in the Huntingon robbery, looked to have been something of a hottie, based on his mugshot after the Northfield arrests.  He could even be posted on My Daguerreotype Boyfriend if they ever do a Famous Criminals edition.  Here's the photo (not from my ancestor's album) so you can judge for yourself.

My adventures in pulp fiction

One of my new readers told me that he was startled to see so many recent posts about murder, and asked if crime was a particular interest of mine.  I suppose, in a way, it is.  But then, I would argue that most of us are fascinated by dark deeds and those who commit them. 

Detective fiction and true crime books are largely a 20th century invention (albeit one for whom such earlier authors as Poe and Wilkie Collins paved the way).  An essay from Erle Stanley Gardner, pulp fiction writer extraordinaire and creator of defense attorney Perry Mason, explains that allure:

The mystery book is the answer of modern times to the problems of modern times... The busy executive can't simply forget his problems.  They are too pressing, too urgent and too intimate. The only answer is to find something else which will fully occupy the mind.  The ordinary novel simply doesn't have the power, the punch, the action. That's why the sale of sleeping tablets and of mystery stories have multiplied to astronomical proportions during the last twenty-five years.

These days most people seem to get their fix from CSI, SUV and all of those other alphabet soup investigation shows.  But the principle is the same. And I recall reading that such crime shows exploded in direct response to new standards introduced to control the amount of sex on television.  (But, following the well-established model of pulp fiction, these shows cleverly mix sex and violence to attract their huge audiences.)

As for me, I prefer reading about and sometimes even researching crimes to watching them dramatized on the small screen.  (Preview: Stay tuned for another true crime post about the James-Younger gang!)

The Mayflower Murder Mystery

The first convicted murderer in Plymouth Colony (and hence in America) was Mayflower passenger John Billington, who, for reasons now lost to history, shot a man in the woods.

Nearly four hundred years later comes news out of Seattle of a Mayflower connection to a cold case, the chilling 1991 murder of a 16 year old girl.  A forensic genealogist--who knew there even was such a thing--found that the DNA left behind by the presumed killer links him to two Mayflower passengers named Fuller. The police are quoted as saying they don't know how helpful this might be, but I imagine it could eventually lead to the killer.  Most families know if they have Mayflower ancestry and are deservedly proud of it.  If the murder suspect is in fact named Fuller, or if a family member or friend knows that he is descended from the Fullers, that could be all it takes to find him.

It's long been a sore spot in my family that we have been unable to turn up any Mayflower ancestors.  Instead, we were on the leaky companion ship that didn't make it here, the Speedwell. (Hence the title of my family memoir.) My grandmother used to sniff that the Mayflower passengers were "riffraff" and the better sort came later... conveniently forgetting that we were all supposed to arrive together. 

The murder suspect's DNA shows descent from Robert Fuller, who came over from England later, but whose uncles were on the storied ship. Samuel Fuller was a physician and church deacon.  He was accompanied on the voyage by his brother Edward.  But guess what? Samuel was originally supposed to come over on the Speedwell instead.  (Ah, maybe my grandmother was onto something, after all.)  As a doctor, he would have been considered vital to the journey, and hence was one of those former Speedwell ticket holders who crowded onto the Mayflower instead.

As for forensic genealogy, I'm intrigued.  Instead of just helping people get into fusty old societies such as the Daughters of the American Revolution, genealogists are now potential superheros fighting crime. For the sake of the young Seattle murder victim's family, I very much hope this is the case.

The girl who admired Frank Bender

This past weekend I stopped into the Mutter Museum to see a bust by renowned forensic sculptor Frank Bender.  I had just finished reading The Girl With The Crooked Nose, which describes Bender's ability to create eerily accurate faces from the skulls of nameless victims of violence.  Bender, who died last summer at the age of 70, also helped nab several fugitives from justice by making age-progression busts based on photographs. 

The bust I viewed is of a young woman later identified as Rosella Atkinson, whose skeletal remains were found on the edge of a Philadelphia football field.  Bender nicknamed her "The Girl With Hope" and depicted her almost exactly as she looks in a photograph, with her proudly raised chin.  (Long before The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo series, Bender identified his subjects with "girl" nicknames that he felt identified some key characteristic about them.  He once explained that the term "girl" wasn't dismissive, but was instead a way of acknowledging how tragically short the lives of many of the women he tried to identify were.)  Atkinson, whose killer confessed to her murder years later, was identified by family members who saw her bust on display at the museum.

The news this week that Philadelphia's unsolved murder rate is scandalously high added even more poignancy to the loss of Bender.  Fortunately, the members of the Vidocq Society, master criminologists who welcomed Bender into the fold, remain on the job.