History Keeps Repeating Itself Like the Curse of a Swinging Death Scythe!
💧And Some Weepers Simply Don’t Like Weepin’
This twisted tale takes readers back to the days of log cabins, mule buggies, skinny-dipping, campfires, primitive medicine, surgical aprons, embalmers, and elite military academies. There are also sin eaters, death portraits, grave diggers, grave robbers, beadle bell rods, edible dead cakes, dark maple coffins, mourning dolls, a horse-pulled hearse, and a tenderly passed-around pair of dead man’s specs.
With houses of ill repute, indentured servitude, housemaids, manservants, runaway slaves, starvation, imprisonment, bankruptcies, rapes, suicides, smallpox, pneumonia, gangrene, and innocent incest... 👈🏼 These was not kind times.
“Those in the death business were an undesired necessity. They would be called upon for a family’s sad times but never called upon for anything else. A weeper was a profession for outcasts.” And those ladies found it damn challenging to find willing suitors in the crestfallen crowds.
Momma Issie always said, “He might be wanting to hitch ya without churchin’ ya” — so if you weren’t looking to be a shamefully single mother in those days, it was probably best to resist all lusty advances. But hey, Charlotte simply couldn’t resist Mr. True’s telltale scent of pine sap. 🌲