Darling, your hand held the knife that slit my throat from ear to ear, but I do not believe you to be the one to blame.

No, as I look on from the afterlife, I can see that surely the inherent problems of your weaker sex lead us here to your addiction and my death.

It pains me to know that I was the one to first suggest to the doctor that you might be in need of some of medicine. You seemed agitated as I took on expanded responsibilities at the cotton exchange, and I needed you stilled.

The doctor assured me that it would quell any agitation in you, and for a while it did. But then even more aberrant behavior manifested, so I suggested to the good doctor that he find something more potent to still you.

I could see it in your eyes as you laid me low, an otherworldly possession that might have been considered fury or rage in a man, but must’ve been brought on by an unexpected complication from your medicine.

I am dead, my darling. I can only hope your demons are quieted, or that you find another man to quiet them.

Memphis Note
I came across a report of a woman slashing her man’s throat in the late 1800s, supposedly she was high on morphine. I’m not exactly sure how she was able to stand if she was high on morphine, let alone kill a grown man, but at that time opiates were widely used as a solution to various “women’s problems”. Maybe she was just sick of being drugged.

The judge looked between the middle-aged couple before him.

“Are you two sure this is what you want?” He asked, frowning looking down at the divorce paperwork and the empty line awaiting his signature.

The husband nodded, hat in hand, as the wife looked away in disgust.

Sighing and shaking his head, the judge moved to signed the documents. Then, from out in the hall, there was a sound.

At first it was hard to make out, but it grew in intensity, like a storm rolling in over the plain.

“Is that…a marching band?” Asked the judge.

The door to his chambers burst open, and in rushed the singing, dancing, tambourine and accordion playing parishioners of the Holiness Church.

They surrounded the couple, praising the Lord and signing about his unconditional love for the the couple. Also about how, unequivocally, the couple wasn’t getting divorced. They made such a ruckus the judge buried his head in his hands.

“What are we supposed to do?” Shouted the husband, panicking.

The judge tore the divorce papers in half. “Looks like you’d better kiss and make up.” He pointed to the mob of the faithful behind them. “Or answer to them.”

Memphis Note
It was like any other day at the Memphis courthouse in 1933. Until the Holiness Church descended upon an unsuspecting judge’s office to stop the divorce of two of their long standing members. For fifteen minutes, the courthouse was overrun by them, singing and dancing and praising until the judge agreed to tear up the divorce papers. It is unclear how things worked out for the couple.

“Barbecue,” he nodded.

“You’ve said that three times already, you need to pick something else to miss.” She gently scolds him, while dropping a bundle of clothes into a box with “To Donate” written on the side in black marker.

“Well that’s because I’ll miss it three times more than anything else. Just think, if you weren’t coming, I’d be saying your name over and over again.” He scoops her into his arms and kisses her.

“Uh huh.” Shrugs him off, but not immediately. They’ve still got a lot to do before the move. “Have you boxed up your office yet?”

“Yep! Built a fort out of the boxes for the cats to hide in.” A grey streak whips past his legs; their fat cat sprinting for cover. “They’re going to have a hard time adjusting.”

“Them? Ha. We’re going to have a hard time adjusting. New country, new language.” She pokes at his belly, “No barbecue.”

“I can fix that, you know. Open up an authentic Memphis barbecue stand, spread the glory of the dry rub across the world.”

“Darling, they don’t eat pork there.”

He blinks for a moment, stunned. “Is it too late to change our minds?”

Memphis Note
Here’s an idea: instead of going half way across the world to try to convince someone to join your religion, why not try to get them hooked on really good food instead? Focus on marinades, seasonings and proper roasting temperatures instead of morality and question about what happens after you die. Memphis could become the place of pilgrimage for all the gastrically enlightened. Or maybe it already is that with Barbecue Fest.

From the top deck of the steamship, he could see the lights of Memphis slipping past in the night. Foot steps sounded on planks behind him and he turned to see his hobbled father coming toward him.

“Are the celebrations not to your liking?”

“Seems a poor time to be whimsical. We’re a plague ship trapped on a river, traveling upstream, hoping against hope that the fever gives out before the rations do.”

Less than a month before, they’d departed New Orleans bound for Cairo, Illinois. A few of the crew had taken ill, then seemingly over night, half the passengers developed a fever. No port would take them, fearing yellow fever, and they were left to drift in the muddy waters of the Mississippi.

“An engagement is always a time for whimsy and happiness, boy.” His father lightly scolded. “And if we’re going to die of fever, why not with a smile? Besides, they made cake.” His father patted him on the shoulder, and headed back to the party.

He lingered a while longer on the upper deck, watching the lights of the city disappear in the black. Then he hurried down, hoping there was still some cake left.

Memphis Note
This is a different take on what actually happened to the barge tug John D. Porter during the yellow fever epidemic of 1878. Instead of a steamship full of people, a barge was refused entry into any port until yellow fever had burned its way through the small crew, killing three of them. For two months, they wandered the Mississippi, kept alive by a pair of doctors that came to their aid with supplies and medical care.

From the force with which his door was swept aside, the Provost Marshal was expecting a twister to appear in the midst of his office, not blonde of the fairer sex, dressed in her finest.

“I mean to speak with you.” She spoke directly, not waiting for any acknowledgement before continuing. “I require of you a divorce. Effective immediately. The man to which I am married is a cad, and I will no longer suffer his mercurial affections. I have a good man waiting in his stead, and I don’t intend to keep him waiting.”

She stopped, squinted in thought, then continued.

“And I shall also need a guard, to keep the cad away from the other, lest he tease my new husband.”

The Marshal paused a moment, regarding her, cleared his throat and then spoke, deliberately and slowly.

“Madame, I assure you, the only kind of divorce I grant comes at the behest of lead or steel. Unfortunately, a divorce by paper is one beyond my scope.”

At this she froze, then unleashed a torrent of profanity that would blanche his most battle-hardened sergeant.

And the Marshal then found himself doing something most unexpected.


He pitied her husbands.

Memphis Note
The preceding has been a fictionalized account of a real incident from the logs of the Provost Marshal of Memphis during the Union occupation. Which, I think, tells you everything you need to know about Southern women.