The Other Thing I've Been Doing This Past Year

In addition to writing my Sebastian books, I've also spent the last year getting this house ready to sell.

This is the old Arts and Crafts-era cottage my mom bought when she moved back to New Orleans after my dad died. My elder daughter lived here while she went to medical school, and when she graduated last spring, we decided to fix it up before we put it on the market. It wasn't in that bad of shape, but it's situated in a part of the city that has become hugely sought after (it's actually SIX FEET above sea level). People buy these lovely old homes, rip off the cedar siding, throw all the lovely trim work and beautiful windows in a dumpster, then blow them up and out into hideous monstrosities. We didn't want that to happen, so we finished redoing the bathrooms, completely renovated the kitchen ("with granite countertops and stainless steel appliances," as the real estate ads all say), repainted it inside and out, had the floors refinished... You get the idea.

We thought it would take maybe three or four months. It's taken more than a year and just about killed us. But it was on the market less than twenty-four hours and sold to the first person who looked at it--and who loves it just as it is and says she doesn't want to change a thing. Mission accomplished.

And yet.... This house has been a part of my life for more than twenty years now, with lots of happy memories and laughter tied up in it. I suspect I'm going to shed a tear when the sale actually goes through in a few weeks.

The London of Sebastian St. Cyr: Dealing with the Unknown Dead

Sebastian's London didn't have a morgue, but it did have "dead houses" scattered about the city. Intendedly mainly to receive the bodies of drowning victims pulled from the Thames (there were a surprising number of them) or unidentified corpses found in the streets, the dead houses were actually an innovation. Most British towns and cities (even those in hot climes such as colonial Australia) simply sent their bodies to the mortuaries attached to workhouses (necessary because a lot of people died in workhouses), or to the nearest inn; publicans who refused to accept them could be fined, even when the corpses were in such an advanced state of decomposition that they drove away all living--and paying--customers.

But not Paris. Dating back to at least 1804, the Paris Morgue was quite a clever concept: one centralized, dedicated building for receiving the unidentified dead. No longer were bereaved relatives forced to scour the city, searching the various taverns and work houses for a missing loved one; they could go to one place and look. Of course, so could anyone, which is how the Paris Morgue came to be a tourist attraction. The root word of morgue is actually morguer, to stare. And stare people did.

At the Paris Morgue, the naked bodies of the unclaimed dead--many, but not all, suicide victims pulled from the Seine--were put on display behind a glass window, with their clothes hanging nearby. A particularly gruesome corpse, or a very comely young one, could attract literally thousands a day. So great were the crowds that, after the Revolution of 1830, the city constructed a new, grand edifice. The show was open seven days a week from dawn till six o'clock, and it was free. Visitors to Paris were told to be certain not to miss the morgue, located conveniently right behind Notre Dame; it was even featured in guide books. Men, women, and children jostled one another for the opportunity to leer, or gasp, or sigh in pity at the spectacle.

Despite its popularity, the Morgue did have its critics and eventually, by the late 19th century, the authorities finally stopped displaying the bodies naked. By 1907, public morality had shifted to the extent that one of the longest running public spectacles ended, and the morgue closed its doors. But by then the concept of a centralized repository for the unclaimed dead had spread around the world.

Scout Without Banjo

Several people have asked how Scout is coping now that we've lost her brother, so I thought I'd do an update.

She'd seemed very lethargic in the week or so before Banjo died and actually perked up a bit after he was gone. We realized she must have known he was dying and been depressed because of it. But there's no denying a spark has gone out of her. It isn't just that she's alone now. She was always the timid one and leaned heavily on Banjo for moral support. He was the calm one, the brave one, the one who bathed her face and neck every day and reassured her when things were scary. Now she's lost that, and she's adrift.

Steve especially spends as much time with her as he can, because she's always been his special girl. But she's not eating well. As much as I miss Banjo, I know she misses him more. He was her rock, and now he's gone.

As for Huck, he seems to be feeling a lot better; he's eating and running around and terrorizing the other cats again. But we are still waiting on some test results.

The London of Sebastian St. Cyr: the Ragfairs of Rosemary and Petticoat Lanes

You won't find Rosemary Lane on any modern London map. Running from Dock Street to the Minories near the Tower,  it was renamed Royal Mint Street in the nineteenth century. Its famous street market is long gone, too. But for several hundred years, Rosemary Lane was the place to go if you wanted to buy old clothes (as Sebastian sometimes does for his disguises) or if you were on your way down in the world and needed to sell your clothes.

Read the accounts of Regency (or Georgian or Victorian) men and women sliding into poverty, and their descent is inevitably marked by visits to old clothes dealers. A nice gown could be exchanged for an not-so-nice gown, with the difference in price going to buy another few days' food and lodging. And when that money was gone, the unfortunate would find themselves back at the old clothes sellers, with the not-so-nice gown being exchanged for something even less respectable--and so on, until one was reduced to the worst imaginable rags. At that point, you starved.

The shops lining the lane were occupied by old clothes sellers, which is why you see coats and gowns hanging against the sides of buildings. But dealers also sold their goods from stalls or barrows, while some simply spread their piles of old boots and shoes, bonnets, hats, wigs, and stays on the ground or on pieces of old carpet.

Traditionally, many old clothes dealers were Jewish. Look closely at Rowlandson's watercolor above (you can click on it to see a larger image) and you can read the names on the shop signs. Moses Moncera Old Hats and Wigs. Widow Levy Dealer in Old Breeches. You'll also see how many of the dealers are shown wearing long coats and beards (the piles of hats they wear on their heads are a sign of their trade). As a result, most of the stalls and shops were closed on Saturdays until after sundown.  The lane did a roaring business on Sunday mornings.

Another street famous for its old clothes trade was Petticoat Lane, shown in the print above. It was actually in a slightly less poor area than Rosemary Lane. In a fit of Victorian prudery, Petticoat Lane was also renamed, becoming Middlesex Street. But its street market still survives--and is still closed on Saturdays.

Restoring Mayberry

I was researching something recently--whitewash, or lime production, or something weird like that--when I stumbled across this lovely blog.

It's kept by an American who moved to Ireland and blogs about living off the land, and life in Ireland, and doing things the old-fashioned way. He's a wonderful writer and a wonderful photographer, and I now drop in frequently to vicariously savor a place that glows fondly in my memory.

Restoring Mayberry .  Worth a visit.