A ROSE FOR THE ACTOR AND COGNAC FOR THE BARD
by Genviev Pannos

Much older now than when he first appeared in 1949, a gentleman arrives in the churchyard. There, each year about this time, at Edgar Allan Poe's graveside, he carries out a tradition in the very early hours of January 19th, Poe's birthday. Dressed in black and 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 of roses. The cognac, just a half of a bottle, 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, did the mourner brace himself for a cold January trek through a cemetery at 2:30 a.m., the still, eerie hours before dawn? If we knew, then it wouldn't be a mystery. I could never have known Mr. Poe 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. Only three men, the sexton, the undertaker and two cousins sparsely attended his funeral, which had taken place the day after he died. One of the men, a young onlooker named Watson, recalls that: "the burial ceremony which did not occupy more than three minutes, was so cold blooded and unchristian like 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, a green-eyed jealous monster, wrote a scathing n obituary announcing the poet's death. "It will startle many, but few will be grieved by it," were his immortal words. He let the impression stand that Poe was an immoral drunk, a madman and an opium addict. Granted, he drank. Let the record show that. But his life was stable that last year of his life. On Election Day, in a tavern used as a polling place, he became gravely ill. Medical help could not cure him as little was known then of alcoholic disease. He died in October 1849 and it wasn't until 1875 that the city thought his grave should have a monument. School children even collected Pennies for the Poe project that eventually came to be. Today 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.

Mourners don't die, they get replaced I've noticed. The Woman in Black, the faithful fan who idolized silent screen star, Rudolph Valentino, carried flowers to his grave each year on the anniversary of his death. Observed arriving alone, she was never bothered or approached. Despite her visibility, her identity, never discovered, led her appearances to stay clouded with conjecture. Once again, if we knew who she was there would no longer be any mystery. What we do know of her is a story about a sick little girl in the 1920's 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 her first visit, in 1930, until 1954, when she stopped going, until 1977. She had resumed her visits just when the outpouring of tears and devotion were going to the late Elvis Presley, to show the world how older people felt about the smoldering star of The Sheik.

Those middle years were too much for her. "Other" Women in Black have showed up to take her place. "One year, a woman all in white arrived," she said. Believe her story or not. Number Three Lady in Black, Vicki Callahan, who carries on the tradition each August 23rd, has taken up the mantle. This year, there are plans to provide a program fashioned after some better ones of the past. This occasion has really grown from the lone woman in 1930.

When Valentino fell ill, rumors had it that he had been struck down with a bleeding ulcer or that eating food cooked in aluminum pots possibly poisoned him. Lingering awhile before breathing his last, he could hear audible grief reaching him in his oppressively hot hospital room. "Rudy, don't die," they yelled but it did no good. Later, tens of thousands of mourners filled New York City streets around Campbell's Funeral Parlor for his funeral but 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, alas, those plans never materialized and he remains in the rear corner of the mausoleum in a small "temporary" crypt. But that hadn't deterred the early Woman in Black who remained faithful to his memory. According to literature from Hollywood Forever Memorial Park, she is also buried in the same cemetery

I said earlier in this article that if we were to know who she was then there would be no mystery. Of course that can't happen in today's world as we have the infamous paparazzi, able to climb high branches with a see-in-the-dark camera. With all the honor and glory celebrities have in life they can 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!"