February 21, 2002

Each year about this time, a tradition is carried out in the churchyard where Edgar Allan Poe is buried. A gentleman, much older now than when he first appeared in 1949, arrives in the very early hours of January 19th, Poe's birthday. Dressed in black, wearing a white scarf, he leaves three roses and a half bottle of cognac.

No one has tried to identify the mysterious stranger but they do try to guess the symbolism in the graveside tribute. The roses would be for Poe, his wife and his aunt, buried there. The cognac? It seems to have no direct significance to the poet nor does reference to it appear in his works, according to Jeff Jerome, curator of the Edgar Allan Poe House and Museum. And, it's just a half bottle. Did the mourner brace himself for a cold January trek through a cemetery at 2:30 a.m., still hours before dawn? If we knew, it wouldn't be a mystery.

I could never have known him and yet I feel as if I know him intimately. For this reason, I'm incensed over the brief mention of this private tribute in the Washington Post, January 20th. It's barely more than a blurb but the writer managed to say: " ...since 1949, a century after Poe drank himself to death in Baltimore at age 40."

Space doesn't allow me to correct the record here, but don't believe everything you may have read. He was buried the day after he died in a sparsely attended funeral accompanied by three men, the sexton, the undertaker and two cousins.

One of the men, a young onlooker named Watson, recalled that: "... [T]he burial ceremony which did not occupy more than three minutes, was so cold blooded and unchristianlike as to provoke on my part a sense of anger difficult to suppress ... in justice to the people of Baltimore, I must say that if the funeral had been postponed for a single day, until the death was generally known, a far more imposing escort to the tomb and one more worthy of the many admirers of the poet in the city would have taken place."

Poe's literary executor Rufus Griswald, must have been a green-eyed jealous monster to write an obituary announcing the poet's death, saying it "will startle many, but few will be grieved by it." He let the impression stand that Poe was an immoral drunk, a madman and an opium addict.

Granted, he drank. Let the record show... . But his life was stable that last year and he was in a tavern when he got gravely ill because it was election day and it was used as a polling place. He became disoriented, delirious, help was summoned and he was hospitalized. He was sick. They didn't hospitalize drunks. He died in October, 1849 and it wasn't until 1875 that the city thought his grave should have a monument. School children collected Pennies for Poe.

Baltimore has changed. Celebrations for Edgar Allan Poe are non-stop. Visitors come from around the world to walk through the rooms of the little house he occupied there. And, although it isn't marked as a major event, someone still remembers his birthday with a toast. The year the younger mystery man gave tribute, he left a note on the grave: "I am quite content that some traditions must pass while others take their place."

It appears a quicker step might one day follow the lead of a devoted mourner.

I've noticed that mourners don't die; they get replaced. The Woman in Black, faithful fan who idolized silent screen star, Rudolph Valentino, carried flowers to his grave each year on the anniversary of his death. She arrived alone and was not bothered. She was observed, but not approached. Her visit was reported, but no effort was made to discover her identity -- only conjecture. Once again, if we knew, it wouldn't be a mystery.

What we do know is a story about a sick little girl in the 1920s whose mother was a friend of Valentino's. He visited the hospital, gave her a rose, and told her to get well and to remember him when she grew up.

She kept her promise and mourned him from the first visit in 1930 until 1954, when she stopped going, until 1977. She resumed the visits to show how older people felt about the smoldering star of The Sheik just when the outpouring of tears and devotion were going to the late Elvis Presley.

Those middle years were too much for her. "Other" Women in Black showed up. "One year, a woman all in white arrived," she said. Believe her story or not.

The mantle has been passed to Number Three Lady in Black, Vicki Callahan, who carries on the tradition each August 23rd. There will be a program fashioned after some better ones of the past, and chairs will be provided. It has really grown from the lone woman in 1930.

When Valentino died, tens of thousands of mourners filled the New York City streets around Campbell's Funeral Parlor. He had lingered awhile before breathing his last. Rumors said he died of a bleeding ulcer; or, was poisoned by eating food cooked in aluminum pots. The audible grief reached him in his oppressively hot hospital room. "Rudy, don't die."

And yet, something happened on the way to his final resting place in Hollywood. It was planned that his crypt would be magnificent, a giant memorial to match his stature in life. But, the plans never materialized and he remains in the rear corner of the mausoleum in a small "temporary" crypt. It didn't deter the early Woman in Black. Not only did she remain faithful to his memory, but she's now buried in the same cemetery -- out by the lake, according to literature from Hollywood Forever Memorial Park.

I said if we knew, it wouldn't be a mystery. But now, we can't help knowing. We have the infamous paparazzi, able to climb high branches with a see-in-the-dark camera. Quiet mourning will be left for the rest of us, while celebrities with all the honor and glory they have in life, will never rest in peace, at least not until they're forgotten.

A footnote: Actor Peter Finch rests in a crypt across from Valentino. They're close, a few feet apart. When all the adoring fans of the late sex symbol pay homage, I'm sure the angry Mr. Finch will reprise his most famous line: "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore."