Transcript
A (0:00)
This is an iHeart podcast. Guaranteed Human.
B (0:04)
We've all been there. You hold onto a coupon, hoping to cash it in at the store, but then you forget about it and suddenly you've got a mountain of useless expired coupons.
C (0:12)
Do you think this one's still good? Free milk.
B (0:15)
Oh, mate, that expired in 1993.
C (0:18)
Dang it.
B (0:18)
Fortunately, there are better ways to save money. Like by switching to Geico. You could save about $900 on car insurance without ever touching a coupon.
C (0:27)
Ooh, how about this one? Half off floppy disks.
B (0:30)
Now you should try a bit of spring cleaning.
A (0:31)
It feels good to save big. It feels good to Geico. Welcome to Erin Menke's Cabinet of Curiosities, a production of iHeartRadio and Grim and Mild. Our world is full of the unexplainable, and if history is an open book, all of these amazing tales are right there on display, just waiting for us to explore. Welcome to the Cabinet of Curiosities. For the past two years, on the second Wednesday of every month, a plate of 15 to 20 half peeled bananas has appeared on the corner of Abbey Road and Windsor Avenue in Beeston, a small town in the midlands of England. Residents have been baffled as to the reason they keep appearing, and to many, the mystery is less important than the mess the bananas leave in the street. One such resident, Claire Short, decided to try to reason with the mysterious gifter in a note left in the Banana's usual location, reading, please respectfully, no more bananas. The note had no effect. The next month, the bananas were there again, and it brings to mind another such mystery concerning the final resting place of one of America's most beloved authors. On October 3rd of 1849, a man in crisis appeared outside of Gunner's Hall, a busy tavern in Baltimore, Maryland. It was a dreary day and the place was packed to the gills. At first glance, the patrons took the man as another drunkard. Due to his rumpled appearance and his dazed demeanor, he was clearly unwell and was brought to the hospital, where he died four days later. He was buried in an unmarked grave at Westminster Presbyterian Church. After a modest funeral in 1875, his grave was moved and the citizens of Baltimore gathered funds for a headstone. After all, he was one of Baltimore's favorite sons, one Edgar Allan Poe. 100 years later, in 1949, a shadowy figure was noticed entering the graveyard. He was dressed in black with a white scarf, his visage hidden by a wide, brimmed black hat. It was late on 19 January, which happened to be Poe's birthday, the figure was seen to kneel and place three roses on the grave, after which he poured himself a glass of cognac to toast the dead author. Once he had drained it, he left the open bottle beside the flowers and disappeared into the night. When a Baltimore sun reporter came inquiring, the Reverend Bruce McDonald suggested that the visits had been occurring for years. The reporter noted, the anonymous citizen who creeps in annually to place an empty bottle of excellent label against the tomb of Poe on the anniversary of his death is a jokester. Mr. McDonald figures. And so the Poe toaster made his way into the public consciousness. He returned each year, and each year performed the same three roses on the grave. A cognac toast, the remainder of the bottle left for Poe. As the tradition continued, small crowds began to gather to catch sight of the mysterious toaster. The man never gave up his identity, and though there has been much speculation, there has never been an explanation for the yearly pilgrimage. But he remained faithful to Edgar for decades. And then, in 1993, he left a note, perhaps as much for onlookers as for the author. It read, the torch will be passed. A few short Years later, in 1999, another note was left to confirm this. The original toaster had died the previous year, but his successor continued the tradition for many years in his stead, with modest crowds standing by to bear witness. And then, as inexplicably as it began, it ended. Onlookers in 2010 found themselves quite disappointed when, for the first time in over 60 years, the mysterious man failed to appear. When he didn't show up the following year, it became clear that the toaster would visit the graveside nevermore. Although there has been a lot of speculation around the identity of the original toaster, it remains uncertain to this day who really was visiting Poe's grave. And while there were other visitors who left tokens on the grave as well, these were not seen as serious successors. In 2015, the Maryland Historical Society declared that it was searching for a new toaster. The following January, a large crowd once again gathered outside the Westminster graveyard for a ceremony with food and cider provided. The audience was treated to a reading of Poe's the Cask of Amontillado. And then, for the first time in half a decade, it happened. Poe's toaster entered the burial ground. He placed the three roses on the grave and poured himself a glass of cognac. And when he'd finished the tipple, he placed the bottle beside the flowers. And then, to the delight of everyone, there, pulled out a violin and played Camille Sasson's Danse Macabre. And then he took his leave. Identity still a secret. And thus the tradition continues onward, bolstered by the passion of its fans who are bound together by the shared love of a good old fashioned mystery.