While flipping through my local paper this a.m. on my commute, a quirky story about Edgar Allan Poe complete with a pic of him looking even more sourpussed than Eugene O’Neill‚ and that’s saying something, brother!‚ caught my sleepy eye. Today marks Poe’s 202nd birthday (I’d bake him a cake, but he’s dead), and perhaps as far back as the 1940s an anonymous man in black had left roses and cognac on the writer’s Baltimore grave every January 19. According to the article, notes left in the boneyard indicate that the mantle had been passed to another annual visitor‚ called the Poe Toaster‚ over the years (father to son?). Neither the darkly clad figure nor his gifts have been spied since 2009‚ EAP’s 200th birthday. Pretty cool little story.
Happy birthday, Mr. Poe (and if you tried smiling, your face wouldn’t crack).