Visiting Fall River

 Special Note:  Best Wishes to Ed Thibault convalescing at home after an auto accident yesterday.  I was very happy to hear it wasn’t major and you are doing better.  I’m sure Eleanor is taking very good care of you, Ed. 

Arrived yesterday to beautiful weather and wonderful guests at the Lizzie Borden Bed & Breakfast.   There’s a nifty new original oil painting of “Lizzie” hanging over the sofa in the parlor.  I’ll post an image of it when I get back to Payson.

Noted the Hooper/Davenport (Michael Brimbaugh’s) house is undergoing some cosmetic surgery out front….looking better.  Get out the paint brush this weekend, Stef!  

Heard some interesting stories of the paranormal at St. Patrick’s Cemetery from the women who work there….the smell of spaghetti cooking, sometimes roses….where there is no cooking going on and where there are no roses.  This is the cemetery where you find most of the “below the Hill” people buried, and certainly most all of the prominent Catholics.  Established in 1875 their records only begin from 1891, but they have a wonderful software program that extracts instant and comprehensive information – free printouts for inquiring minds as well. 

Have been researching Dr. William A. Dolan and correspondence between his grandson, Donald Dolan, and publisher Robert Flynn, both of whom I met back in 1992.  One new tidbit:  When Dr. Dolan had the boiling pots on the stove and the skulls of Andrew and Abby Borden in the pots, his oldest son hid in the cellar…till the “process” was done.  More on that later.   Suffice to say the Dolan-Flynn correspondence brings to mind the exchanges between Edmund Pearson and Frank Knowlton, Hosea Knowlton’s grandson.  Intriquing reading this private correspondence, never published.

Business in Providence tomorrow.  Hope the weather stays nice.

Time Portal: Phaye’s Phrustration – A Five Minute Movie

The following was written in 2005 and having come across it in my misc. file folder, thought I’d post it here “just for laughs”.

Collared Peccary(Javelina~Musk Hog)

 

UNTITLED

INT. FAYE’S HOUSE – DAY

We see Faye at the computer, in her flannel robe. She has been trying to finish a long “work in progress” – a spec script for the owner of the Lizzie Borden B&B. She’s had 3 cups of coffee and no breakfast or lunch. In 5 hours she has typed two lines into the script using Final Draft 7.0 software. She considers herself somewhere between Beginner and Intermediate level in proficiency. Her frustration mounts as she struggles to find the words to type.

FAYE

(cursing)

God damn *@#!*! Why can’t I do this? Shit.

CLOSE ON MONITOR

MONITOR

(sounding like a sister to “Hal” )

Faye.

FAYE

(looks around)

Huh? What?

MONITOR

Faye.

Faye looks at the monitor, realizes it’s speaking to her.

FAYE

What?

MONITOR

Give it up, Faye. You can’t do this.

FAYE

What the f…..

 

MONITOR

Trust me, Faye. Give it up.

FAYE

Look, whoever you are. I can’t give it up. I’m committed. I’ve done tougher things than this. Give me A friggin’ break.

MONITOR
If you write it, they will read.

FAYE

Make up your mind.

MONITOR

No, Faye. Make up yours.

Suddenly there’s a loud knocking at the front door. Faye gets up from her computer room and crosses through the kitchen to the living room to the front door. She opens the door. Standing there are 3 young men dressed in black.

YOUNG MAN #1

(holding a Bible)

Good afternoon. We’re from the Church of Latter Day Saints. How are you this morning? Is there anything we can do for you today?

FAYE

Yeah. Pay off my mortgage.

YOUNG MAN #1

(laughing)

We can tell you how to enrich your life with Christ’s words.

FAYE

(holding up her middle finger)

You see this word?

Young Man #2 and #3 laugh out loud and tug on Young Man #1 that they should leave. They proceed down the redwood deck.

FAYE

(yelling after them)

Well, my money shan’t pay for it!

CUT TO:

INT. – FAYE’S HOUSE – KITCHEN

Faye pours herself another cup of coffee, stands at the kitchen counter and looks through some magazines.

FAYE

This is nuts. I’ve got to get this done.

Faye walks back to her computer, sits down and stares at it.

MONITOR

Nice to see you back, Faye.

FAYE

Look, if you’re gonna talk to me, talk to me in dialog so I can type as you go along. At least I’ll get something down. I’ve been at this off and on longer than the gestation period of an elephant. Are you gonna help me or not?

MONITOR

Did she or didn’t she?

FAYE

Don’t go there.

MONITOR

No, really. Did she or didn’t she?

FAYE

You’re toying with me.

MONITOR

I toy you not. Did she or didn’t she? That is the question.

FAYE

Keep it up and I’ll yank your cable.

MONITOR

(with sarcasm)

Ooooooooooh. I’m so frightened.

FAYE

Look, you’re sucking up my time. Go away so I can try to finish this thing. I keep telling him I’ll have it in a couple weeks.

MONITOR

I don’t like your hair that way.

Faye lets out a horrific primal scream and bends down underneath the computer desk and yanks out the connection. The screen goes black. She picks up the phone and calls her son.

JOSH

Hello.

FAYE

Josh, I’m dying here. I can’t get in the zone to finish this script. I’m blocked. I’ve been blocked for weeks. Nothing comes. I’ve no excuses. I even took a Sick day today to stay home and get it done. I’m guilt ridden. Frustrated. And I think I’m hallucinating.

JOSH

O.K. Here’s what you do. Get away from the computer. Get out of the computer room. Get out of the house. Go to a movie. Go antiquing. Put yourself in a completely different environment. Then go back to it later. You can’t fight The Beast, mom. The Beast will always win.

FAYE

Donald must think I’m never going to come across with this. He’s been patient as a saint. I’m guilt-ridden, I tell ya. Major guilt.

JOSH

He won’t think that. YOU think that. Stop thinking. Relax your brain. Fix yourself a nice cup of latte.

FAYE

Arrrggggh.

JOSH

What? Whadya say?

FAYE

Nothing. Let me call you later.

JOSH

You can do it, mom. You are Da Momma San. You are Woman. You are strong. Come on, lemme hear ya roar.

FAYE

Bye sweetie. You make me smile.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. – TONTO NATIONAL FOREST – DAY

We see Faye walking through the woods. She carries a stick in one hand and micro recorder in the other. She is mumbling scenes and dialog. She spots a small herd of javalinas about 25 feet away.

JAVALINA #1

Look. It’s her. The one who’s writing the script.

JAVALINA #2

Funny, she doesn’t look like a writer.

JAVALINA #3

That’s how they fool ya.

JAVALINA #1

(snorts)

Hey, Faye! How many pages have you got done now?

FAYE

(holds out her micro recorder)

See this? It’s a Javalina Destruction Device. New from Walmart. Go away.

JAVALINA #2

What a bitch.

The Javalinas turn and slowly walk away into the forest, out of sight.

FADE OUT

INT. – FAYE’S HOUSE – NIGHT

Faye is at her computer. She wears a sweatshirt and sweatpants, fluffy slippers and a new hair cut. She is typing. There are printed papers everywhere. Reference books spill out all over the floor. On a box on the floor is a coffee pot with a half cup of cold coffee remaining. Tissues are scattered about. Pink Post-It notes decorate her computer. A yellow felt marker is clenched between her teeth. She has been struggling for days to finish the script. She feels her guilt subsiding. Her sense of accomplishment is rising. A golden glow is emanating from her satisfied countenance.

She types the last few words and smiles widely as the yellow marker falls from her mouth and drops into a cold cup of coffee sitting on the floor. She chuckles and looks back at her computer screen and reads the words:

“THE END”

FADE OUT.

Fall River Bookseller

From an eBay listing:

“This is another rare, unused, divided-back, real photo post card from an old Fall River collection labeled “1908 – Bamford Book Shop, Granite Block, F. R. M.” This is a great interior view of George E. Bamford’s book store which was located at 27 South Main St. in the Granite Block. Of special interest is the large (6 foot high or more), revolving display featuring a huge assortment of post cards, numbering in the hundreds, for sale. On the right are wall shelves of books with some section signs for boy’s books, devotional books and miscellaneous books, etc, which can be seen with a magnifier. Displays on the left and in the center appear to be of calendars, art prints, ink containers, stationary, desk sets, writing instruments, office supplies, etc. This is a card rich in details which capture the ambiance of an early 20^th century book shop. The store’s tin ceiling was both decorative & practical as it helped to deflect heat in winter months while offering sound-proofing. This interior view looks toward South Main St. and City Hall Square with the entrance door and store windows at the east end of what was a fairly narrow store. The store was established in 1836 and was located in the old Granite Block which was totally destroyed by fire in 1928. City records show that at the time of that fire the store was owned by a Herbert A. Borden, a bookseller and stationer rather than Bamford. Near mint condition and great subject matter, make this 99 year old card a very rare and unusual find.”

It’s possible Lizzie Borden ordered books from this store prior to or after her acquittal. What I got kick out of was that display rack of penny postcards. I’ll venture some of those very cards have popped up on eBay a century later!

Karen Chaney’s book: A Review, Response & Reply

A reviewer who can forego the delicate sensibilities of others while rendering honest opinions and often providing constructive criticism always garners my respect. I have long enjoyed the book reviews of Bob Gutowski, and since I recently wrote of Karen Chaney, I thought I’d shine a little more light on it. You can go to Amazon’s website with a Click here or just read the posts below:

Review Written by
Robert J. Gutowski (New York, NY United States)

Lizzie Borden (New England Remembers) by Karen Elizabeth Chaney Edition: Paperback Price: $11.01

Careless or clueless?,

June 13, 2006

“The first error is on the copyright page, which states that the cover photo, the Newport, R.I. vacation shot of Lizzie taken in 1893, was taken prior to the murders – which took place in 1892! The author later identifies a three-quarter portrait of Lizzie as a “profile” view. Again and again, Ms. Chaney does not take the time that Rick Geary, for one, does (in his graphic novel of the case) to state that many of the events of the murder morning are in dispute. Rather, she forges ahead, proclaiming without any doubt that Lizzie “walked downstairs dressed in a blue Bengalese (sic – the word is “Bengaline”) silk skirt and blouse” and that “Abby told Lizzie that she had gotten a note from a sick friend that morning and was going out to visit her.” This last is, of course, one of the most questioned and speculated-upon issues of the case.

This book is, unfortunately, as inventive as Victoria Lincoln’s well-written but ultimately semi-fictional epic, A PRIVATE DISGRACE. One photo caption reads, “Lizzie as a young woman. She loved the theater, but rejected it for a higher calling to the church, primarily because she wanted to feel useful and accepted.” And your references, Ms. Chaney? In thirty-five years of researching the case I have never read anywhere that the young Miss Borden was smitten with the theater. It’s a romantic notion, and it bookends nicely with the actual older Lizzie’s embrace of the stage, but it seem entirely to be an invention on the author’s part. And where, pray tell, are Lizzie’s motives so definitely set down for all to see? Perhaps the book ought to be titled LIZZIE BORDEN, AS I IMAGINE HER.”

Review Comments
2 Comments on this Review

Charles H. Levenson

“Gee,but in 31 years of”researching”this case I NEVER ONCE SAW ANY REFERENCE TO ANYTHING THAT YOU HAVE PUBLISHED ON THIS MATTER,other than this pansey review..For a know-it-all you sure don’t do much more than make critical statements…LET ME KNOW WHEN YOU GET SOMETHING IN PRINT,ONE WAY OR THE OTHER,ABOUT LIZZIE,SO THAT Ms.CHANEY AND THE OTHERS WHO HAVE ENJOYED HER BOOK CAN TAKE A WELL-DESERVED WHACK AT YOUR”RESEARCH”AND CONCLUSIONS…but,of course,for those such as yourself ,THIS REVIEW WILL NO DOUBT BE THE ENTIRE OUTPUTdon’t do much more than make critical statements…LET ME KNOW WHEN YOU GET SOMETHING IN PRINT,ONE WAY OR THE OTHER,ABOUT LIZZIE,SO THAT Ms.CHANEY AND THE OTHERS WHO HAVE ENJOYED HER BOOK CAN TAKE A WELL-DESERVED WHACK AT YOUR”RESEARCH”AND CONCLUSIONS…but,of course,for those such as yourself ,THIS REVIEW WILL NO DOUBT BE THE ENTIRE OUTPUT OF YOUR”RESEARCH” INTO THE MATTER OF LIZZIE BORDEN,NOW WON’T IT? ON-LINE CRITICISM BY BUNGLERS IS A GROWTH-INDUSTRY,OPEN TO ALL REGARDLESS OF QUALIFICATIONS,SO YOU FIT RIGHT IN…..Just in case you get the urge to take a whack at me,I am a regular contributor to several ocean county new jersey newspapers and was both a writer and contributing editor for Kastlemusick magazine…What,then are your credentials, other than self-importantance?”

Faye Musselman

“I think I know of Robert J. Gutowski, the person who wrote that review and who posts on a Lizzie Borden forum. I can tell you he is not only extremely well informed on Lizzie Borden and this enduring murder case, but he is far more knowledgeable than Karen Chaney on the subject. I, too, have read her book. Suffice to say my endeavor to highlight in yellow all her errors was an incomplete effort. Too soon my highlighter went dry from all the citations of inaccuracies. I would be less harsh if she were not a Harvard professor, previously published. One should know better. One should at least know that when writing a book on a topic that attracts an enlightened audience one should get all their facts straight. Bordenia experts can spot the errors at 20 paces. Or at least longer than the life span of a yellow highlighter. I might add that if Karen was under constraints to finish quickly due to time-certain publishing dates relative to this “New England Remembers” series, she should have insisted with the publisher for more time or foregone the exercise. Instead, the unfortunate result ill serves the author, the publisher, and the reading public. I can state this unequivocably because I had a personal experience with another Lizzie book that was “rushed to publish” and the subsequent editing errors were abysmal. However, no errors of editing are at issue here – only the factual content. Tsk, tsk, Ms. Chaney, for tis greater the crime.”

Faye Musselman
Payson, AZ
www.phayemuss.wordpress.com”

Lizzie Borden Collectibles: 40 Whacks Art Piece

On the Etsy website this unique tribute to Lizzie.  But when will people ever get the number right, or at least pen a new poem? Click the site below:

Etsy site

 

 

Please get it right. It’s 19 whacks.”Don’t make me ax you again.” (arrggghh)

 

College Applicant Essay

This is an actual essay written by a college applicant to NYU in response to this question:

IN ORDER FOR THE ADMISSIONS STAFF OF OUR COLLEGE TO GET TO KNOW YOU, THE APPLICANT, BETTER, WE ASK THAT YOU ANSWER THE FOLLOWING QUESTION:

ARE THERE ANY SIGNIFICANT EXPERIENCES YOU HAVE HAD, OR ACCOMPLISHMENTS YOU HAVE REALIZED, THAT HAVE HELPED TO DEFINE YOU AS A PERSON?

I am a dynamic figure, often seen scaling walls and crushing ice. I have been known to remodel train stations on my lunch breaks, making them more efficient in the area of heat retention. I translate ethnic slurs for Cuban refugees, I write award-winning operas, I manage time efficiently.

Occasionally, I tread water for three days in a row.

I woo women with my sensuous and godlike trombone playing, I can pilot bicycles up severe inclines with unflagging speed, and I cook Thirty-Minute Brownies in twenty minutes. I am an expert in stucco, a veteran in love, and an outlaw in Peru.

Using only a hoe and a large glass of water, I once single-handedly defended a small village in the Amazon Basin from a horde of ferocious army ants. I play bluegrass cello, I was scouted by the Mets, I am the subject of numerous documentaries. When I’m bored, I build large suspension bridges in my yard. I enjoy urban hang gliding. On Wednesdays, after school, I repair electrical appliances free of charge.

I am an abrstract artist, a concrete analyst, and a ruthless bookie. Critics worldwide swoon over my original line of corduroy evening wear. I don’t perspire. I am a private citizen, yet I receive fan mail. I have been caller number nine and have won weekend passes. Last summer I toured New Jersey with a traveling centrifugal-force demonstration. I bat 400.

My deft floral arrangements have earned me fame in international botany circles. Children trust me.

I can hurl tennis rackets at small moving objects with deadly accuracy. I once read Paradise Lost, Moby Dick, and David Copperfield in one day and still had time to refurbish an entire dining room that evening. I know the exact location of every food item in the supermarket. I have performed several covert operations with the CIA. I sleep once a week: when I do sleep, I sleep in a chair. While on vacation in Canada, I successfully negotiated with a group of terrorists who had seized a small bakery. The laws of physics do not apply to me.

I balance, I weave, I dodge, I frolic, and my bills are all paid. On weekends, to let off steam, I participate in full-contact origami. Years ago I discovered the meaning of life but forgot to write it down. I have made extraordinary four course meals using only a mouli and a toaster oven.

I breed prizewinning clams. I have won bullfights in San Juan, cliff-diving competitions in Sri Lanka, and spelling bees at the Kremlin.

I have played Hamlet, I have performed open-heart surgery, and I have spoken with Elvis.

But I have not yet gone to college.

(The author was accepted to NYU.)

http://www.laughbreak.com/stories/college_applicant.html

Sci-Fi Time Portal: Lizzie Borden and The Hangman’s Noose

Obviously, the little story that follows is pure fiction. Likewise is 90% of the content of Karen Elizabeth Chaney’s lecture on the WGBH Forum Network last October. This is precisely why Lizzie continues to be a one dimensional persona based on an inadequate quatrain wielding the bloody “axe.” For the countless errors she repeatedly makes that annoyingly contribute to the flow of misinformation about this case, I have to say to Karen Chaney: “Shame on you.”

10% factual & 90% b.s.

 

 

And now, let’s slip into the Time Portal…………

Time: Early September, 1892.

Emma, her nerves taut from the events of the past month, drifts in and out of a fitful sleep – dreams playing upon her mind with images of nurturing Lizzie. The Civil War years, a flash of the Negros hidden and moved along Fall River’s underground railroad, overhearing conversations of lynchings in the South, flash image of her hands over Lizzie’s ears, protecting so she can not hear. Now Lizzie age three, on her lap. She holds a picture of their mother, Sarah. “This is our real mother, Lizzie. She loved you very much. Not like Mrs. Borden. She can never love us like our own dear mother.” “Should I have said that?” she hears herself ask. Tossing again, low moaning, drifting, the images won’t stop.

Flash image: the Taunton jail. Dark night. A crowd of the hostile and vicious has gathered. Men with sticks, smelling of sweat and…what? Women with cheap skirts and tattered shawls, hats askew and contorted faces. “Get her!” “The fiend!” “Burn the Devil’s Mistress!” “Give ‘er what she gave them!” “Tie her up to a tree and lob the Ladie’s head off! That’ll teach her!” “Monster!” “Ungrateful rich fiend!” “We don’t need the likes of her here!”

The roar of the crowd drowns out the cries for help from jail matron Mrs. Reagan. Lizzie, struggling, keeps one arm circled tightly around her iron bed post. Women pull at her waist, her hair, her legs. Suddenly a man clubs her on the head, causing her to release her vise-like grip on the iron bed post. “Emma!” “Emma!” she cries out. They wrench her free and drag her out of the small cell, down the hall, out the door and to a nearby tree on the expansive lawn.

The summer night’s air is warm and smells of mimosa and rotting pears. The moon is full and shines brightly upon the thick branches of the tree. The screams of the crowd get even louder now. “We’ll teach her!” “We don’t want that kind here!” “Scandalize our town, will ya?!” “We’ll show you what we do to people like you!” “You don’t deserve to live amongst DECENT folks!” “You’ll get no trial. We KNOW your kind!” “String her up!!”

Outside the jail, guards try to break through the crowd, but are beaten back. A rope is thrown over a branch and a hangman’s noose dangles from one end. A boy about 12, up in the tree, wraps the other end and ties a tight knot. “Atta boy!”"Good boy!” The crowd continues to yell and scream, hoisting torches, fists in the air. Emma hears herself moan.

Four men grab hold of Lizzie’s waist and hoist her up on a wooden box. She searches the crowd’s periphery for Emma. “I’m here”, Emma hears herself say. At the same time a woman begins to tie Lizzie’s hands with pieces of her torn petticoat. “Devil’s Daughter!” “You’ll learn a lesson this night, Lizzie Borden!”

Over the roar of the crowd a thumpity clomp, thumpity clomp of racing horses’ hoofs can be heard. Over the glow of the torch lights a faint silhouette of a carriage can be seen coming up fast on the road. The Marshall! “Hurry!” “They’ve come for her!” The silhouette grows larger, the sound louder as the roaring carriage comes nearer.

The noose is put over Lizzie’s head and tightened on her neck. Tears are flowing down her face. Her pale, translucent grey eyes look upward, her lips tremble. She looks as if she’ll faint. “Emma! Emma! Where are you?” she cries out. “I’m here, Lizzie. I’ll always be here,” Emma says aloud remembering a promise and flashes back.

“Hurry!” “Yes, Hurry! Not much time!” “They’re coming!” “Do it! Do it to the murdering daughter! !”"Hang her!” “Get her now!!”

The mob crushes forward, the torches illuminating her form on the box. The noose tight around her neck, her head seeking the heavens. Suddenly, a woman rushes her 10 year old son to the front and yells “Kick the box, Johnny! Kick the box.” Little Johnny gives a violent kick and the box tumbles away as he slips and falls to the ground. The dangling feet graze against Johnny’s forehead, swaying back, swaying front, swaying back, swaying front. Johnny gets up and moves away looking upward to the woman’s face.

The galloping horses converge upon the scene. The reins of the horses pulled back with such force causing dirt to spray out in all directions. The whinny and panting of the horses is now all that can be heard as the crowd has quieted. The carriage doors open quickly. Marshall Hilliard steps out. And Detective Seaver. And Mayor Coughlin. And Andrew Jennings. And Reverend Buck. And Emma. Silence now. No roar of the crowd. Only a rhythmic creaking of the tree branch. Emma feels a fresh breeze that is only the cool dampness of her face against her pillow and she turns and tosses fitfully again.

Emma walks slowly towards the tree – eyes transfixed. She looks upon the form of her sister, who’s head is bent down in death, her wrists tied in front of her, her feet making tiny little sways front and back, and back and front, propelled now only by the ominous breeze that stirs the air.

Emma turns and looks upon the crowd. They recognize her. Ashen. Her painful expression falls upon them. She surveys them one at a time. Time first stands still, then transcends. She steps forward, her back to the crowd. In a voice, quiet and pleading beyond its pain, she begins to speak:

“Have you no mercy? Have you no compassion? Have you no sense of Justice?” Can you not leave her alone? Then turning directly to the camera’s eye of the computer screen, Emma looks dead at us. Sadly, softly she says: “I’m speaking to you.”

The End

 

 

 

 

 

Something Extraordinary#1

Five feet of snow in Payson, AZ, 2006.

 

“In all the world“, it’s not always about Lizzie.

 

Muslim children in front of National Museum, Jakarta, Indonesia, December, 2002.

 

Take a break for something extraordinary. Click here.

And here.

Yes, it gets even better. Check this out.

And finally, here’s an easy and FREE way to track visitors to your site.