Lizzie Hancock Meets Lizzie Borden

My father was, and is, a master storyteller.  (That skill is either a valuable or dangerous asset to a minister; you decide which.)  Ghost stories are his specialty.  

Some might think that’s an odd hobby for a man of the pulpit, but it never occurred to me to question it.  The man spent most of his working hours talking about the afterlife.  Why not do the same thing after dark, throwing in a little action, a little excitement, a little ominous lesson for his girls (i.e. parking on dark country roads = death by hook; being bad for the babysitter = death by hook; too much caffeine = expedited death by hook).  He never fell in with the movement that said the mere acknowledgement of ghosts was demonic, evil.  After all, his children were taught to believe in spirits, every Sunday. 

Now, anyone who knows me know that the trait rubbed off.  BIGTIME.  I LOVE ghost stories.  I love everything about them:  the history lesson; the seething, breathing details; the hair raising on my arms, the shared fear of my friends and family as we all huddled close, listening, wondering.  I love being curious.  And no matter how pedestrian my life gets, no matter how bogged down I get in the facts and realities of my legal practice, those stories keep me curious. 

Plus, there’s the plain fact that I would rather hear about ghosts than about a lot of people who are alive.  Today, that includes every single Presidential candidate.

And with the advent off this whole “ghost tourism” thing, I’ve been in heaven.  It’s gotten so bad that my husband has to make this speech on a regular basis, during our weekend roadtrips:  “We’re going to go ahead and stop up here at the BP in Peytona.  Peytona has only one stop light, one McDonalds, and no Indian burial ground.”  He quickly adds: “And no one ever threw themelves through the window, distraught at the loss of their lover at sea, at the McDonalds.” 

Well, this past week, I got to go on a trip, sans hubby, to judge the Miss Massachusetts Pageant in Fall River, MA.  (No, I will not discuss the details of judging, here.  Have you ever been confronted by the mother of a pageant contestant who didn’t win?  Didn’t think so.  You wouldn’t be able to read this, what with all those Lee Press-ons clawed into your eyeballs.  Which reminds me, I’d like to take this moment to thank the pageant volunteer who reserved my parking space with a sign on a big orange cone that read: “Reserved for Pageant Judge.”  Thanks, buddy.  Maybe you can remind me to install my “I Voted for Bush” bumper sticker the next time I park at Lilith Fair.)  On the last day of pageant, week, they took us judges to one of the city’s most famous landmarks, the Lizzie Borden Bed & Breakfast.  Yes, you read correctly.  You’re supposed to sleep and eat there.  (They don’t slaughter the bacon onsite, though that would be authentic.)

We started in the giftshop, which was a little creepy in itself, just because you began to realize just be looking around what sort of customers this place attracts — people who buy earrings shaped like hatchets and little vials like these: 

These vials contain brick dust from the “decaying basement” of the Borden home.  Huh.  This seems like the sort of souvenir Angelina Jolie would have bought, back in that period of her life she’d rather we all forget, before she baptized herself in the glow of Mr. Pitt and emerged and the Patron Saint of Wholesomeness and Lost Orphans.  She’d have bought this vial of “decay,” and she and Billy Bob would have mixed it into their soup and fed it to each other, then issued a press release about how they now embodied the souls of the Borden family.

We were led across Ye Olde Victorian-era Parking Lot by our tour guide, who was also a self-proclaimed medium.  She was very pleasant and knew oodles of factoids about the Borden murders, and about Miss Lizzie.  But she wore a t-shirt and jeans, which disappointed me to no end.  In my opinion, anyone who calls themselves a “medium” or “spiritualist” should have miles of gray hair, done up in an ancient beehive, and should wear a long, high-necked velvet gown (no matter the 100-degree heat).  And she should be blind. And have one of those rad-looking milky eyes.  A black veil helps, and a freakishly deep and/or raspy voice is essential. 

Acceptable Medium/Tour Guides:

Anyway, our guide had none of the above.  She reminded me of the letdown I experieced the time I saw David Copperfield live.  For the price of the ticket, I expected at least a top hat or some fangs or something.  Nope.  Jeans & T-shirt.  Him too.  Plus he’s waaaaaaaay short.  Sigh…

We started in the parlor, where Lizzie was arrested, and where the guide gave us the disclaimer that the paintings on the wall were not original.  Neither was the carpet.  Or the wallpaper.  Or any of the furniture.  But the doorknobs?!  Oh hells yeah, ”Touch these, and you are touching actual Borden DNA,” our guide whispered, with a grin.  Maybe it’s my law background, but I am squeamish about touching objects that I’m warned in advance “have DNA on them.”  So I guess that part of the tour was scary.       

From there we toured the rooms where the murders happened, and the dining room (that’s right, they took the table out and wheeled two gurneys in), where the autopsies took place.  The guide had photos.  They were as awful and unappetizing as they sound, but if you’re into that kind of thing, you can check them out here. (Now back to my blog, Sicko.)

We went into some more guest rooms upstairs. Yawn. The ratio of guest rooms to bathrooms was a little frightening, I guess.

Finally, at the end, Guide Lady announced that she did, indeed, believe Lizzie did it, even though she was acquitted of the murders. How, even though she was the only one in the house at the time, and even though her story kept changning, they still let her off. Why? Well, according to Guide Lady, the jury must have been smitten with Lizzie, as she was a “great beauty” of her time:

Yeah.  No comment.  I must be a pathetic pageant judge, cause I just don’t see it.  Though I might whack my parents if they were genetically responsible for that hair. 

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