Now I Know More (32 page)

On October 3, 1849, a stranger found Edgar Allan Poe delirious (but, despite some reports, probably not drunk) and stumbling around the streets of Baltimore, Maryland. Poe—who was usually a very fashionable man—was wearing unkempt clothing, which fit poorly. His shoes were in dire need of a shine and repair, as the heels had been worn down significantly. Many believed he had been wearing someone else's attire, as his outfit didn't match his reputation. To make matters more interesting but even less clear, no one (publicly, at least) knew of Poe's whereabouts for almost a week before his discovery on the 3rd.

Unfortunately, we'll never know what happened. Poe died on October 7 and never recovered enough during the interim period to explain how he fell into such a state.

Yet, as strange as the circumstances around Poe's death may be, what happened to him generations later is probably stranger. For decades, every year on the same day each year, a costumed man visited Edgar Allan Poe's gravesite, leaving no explanation as to his motives or identity. Then, one year, he stopped, never to return.

The origins of the Poe Toaster, as the Baltimore press and community have dubbed him, are as mysterious as his motives. At some point in the 1930s—the exact year has been lost to history—the Poe Toaster arrived at the author's original gravesite (it was moved in 1875) on January 19, Poe's birthday. Every morning on that day, the Poe Toaster arrived wearing all black (including a wide-brimmed hat) except for a white scarf. A hood obscured the man's face, and he carried with him a silver-tipped cane. He'd pay his respects to the famous man once buried at that site, decorating the grave with three roses and an unfinished bottle of cognac and, at times, leaving a note.

These notes referred to the greatness of Poe, at least in the Toaster's eyes. But in 1993, the already strange gravesite ritual became downright cryptic; the note read, simply, “The torch will be passed.” By then, the Toaster—assuming it was the same person the whole time—had been carrying out that ritual for sixty years, and some assumed that he was looking to retire (or had come to terms with his own mortality). This line of speculation became stronger in 1999, when the note referred to the sons of the Toaster. Further, that year, Toaster-watchers noticed that the man in black appeared younger than in previous years.

Thereafter, the notes seemed increasingly out of character for the Toaster. In 2001, the note referenced the upcoming Super Bowl versus the New York Giants and the hometown Ravens, but was markedly pro–New York. In 2004, the Toaster came to the grave during a short but notable anti-French period in the United States, due to France's unwillingness to join in military efforts in Iraq. (Remember “freedom fries”?) The Toaster's note apparently reflected this undercurrent of American sentiment (with poor grammar included): “The sacred memory of Poe and his final resting place is no place for French cognac. With great reluctance but for respect for family tradition the cognac is placed. The memory of Poe shall live evermore!”

In 2009—the 150th anniversary of Edgar Allan Poe's birth—the Poe Toaster made his final appearance. Through 2014, he has not appeared again at Poe's grave on January 19, although a handful of copycats (lacking the true Toaster's telltale habits) have come in his place. Jeff Jerome, a former curator of the Poe House and Museum who has collected the Toaster's notes over the years, declared in 2012 that the tradition had come to an end—with few remaining clues as to the Toaster's true identity.

Every year, countless numbers of people pass away alone, without family or friends to give them a proper funeral. In many places, the government and other organizations take care of the not-so-pleasant stuff like disposing of the person's stuff, figuring out what to do with the body, etc. We won't go into details, but let's just say that they get the stuff done that has to get done—but in a bureaucratic way.

However, just because someone dies alone doesn't mean that he or she should be buried unceremoniously. In Amsterdam, at least, such people aren't.

About twenty times a year, someone in Amsterdam dies without next of kin or somebody to claim the deceased's body. That might mean that these people would be buried without anyone noticing, but for roughly twenty-five years, a man named Ger Frits has made sure that doesn't happen. As reported by Radio Netherlands Worldwide in 2010, with the blessing and assistance of Amsterdam's city services Frits became a one-man funeral gathering. After the city agency notified him that someone had died leaving no one behind, Frits would go to the apartment of the recently deceased to get a feel for that person's life, desires, and interests. Then, based on the information he gathered, he'd select some music to play at the funeral—a ceremony only he'd be attending. He'd also bring flowers to leave at the gravesite.

For more than a decade, Frits did this all by himself. Then in 2002, a poet named Frank Starik asked if he could get involved. Starik believed that the recently passed deserve eulogies, even if they don't have friends, and he offered to compose poems for each. Frits appreciated the added dignity that Starik could bring, and suddenly, the two were partners in bringing solemnity to those who would otherwise meet a quiet, unnoticed end.

Today, the pair is known in Amsterdam as
Stichting De Eenzame Uitvaart
—the Lonely Funeral Foundation. They've started something of a movement. In other cities in the Netherlands and Belgium, volunteers are mimicking Frits and Starik's work, bringing music and poetry to those in their areas who died without friends or relatives.

Copyright © 2014 by Dan Lewis.

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ISBN 10: 1-4405-8215-7

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eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8216-5

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Now I Know
title typography by Carla Rozman.

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