Disclaimer: just because I like learning does not mean I want to learn the arsenic recipe.
Brit and I went on an Extreme History Project tour called “Murders, Madams, & Mediums: Bozeman’s Dark Side.” We trotted along behind the tour guide while bar-hoppers stared and called out, “Aww, they’re on a field trip.” They obviously assumed we were all tourists. I wanted to yell, “I live in Bozeman, I JUST LIKE LEARNING!” I wisely deduced that that would not make me look any cooler, so I tried to just pay attention to the guide, Travis. He talked about one woman who allegedly proved her astral projection abilities by visiting the dreams of a woman in Georgia, and another one who owned and managed multiple brothels at a time when women weren’t allowed to own property. He described one woman determinedly grinding up cherry pits until she had enough arsenic to kill her husband. Lucy did this to all three husbands and her surname was Black, so of course she’s Bozeman’s Black Widow. Honestly, I have to question some of the ethics, but these women were certainly getting things done.
Travis took us down the alley that used to be Bozeman‘s Red Light District until a carefully positioned library brought it all down. He talked about homicides (including John Bozeman’s) and vigilante hangings, but somehow the most tragic story was about how Kitty Warren, a local prostitute, had accidentally set fire to her clothing and been so badly burned that she died a few days later. During those few days, the community rallied around her, with even the uppity churchwomen bringing her homemade meals and praying for her to recover. Travis looked around and asked, “Can you imagine any community doing that for a sex-worker these days? Anyway, that’s the tour!” Way to end on a devastating point, Travis. Maybe cheer us up by circling back to the arsenic story.
As I went to tip Travis, Brit handed me cash to reimburse me for his ticket, and I unthinkingly handed it to Travis as his tip. I then looked at the cash and yelped, “That’s twenty-five dollars!” I promptly snatched the twenty back, saying, “Listen, you were great, but not that great.” He cheerfully agreed. I’d like to think I was NOT being a jerk, but instead, simply channeling those savvy Bozeman madams.
Travis took us down the alley that used to be Bozeman‘s Red Light District until a carefully positioned library brought it all down. He talked about homicides (including John Bozeman’s) and vigilante hangings, but somehow the most tragic story was about how Kitty Warren, a local prostitute, had accidentally set fire to her clothing and been so badly burned that she died a few days later. During those few days, the community rallied around her, with even the uppity churchwomen bringing her homemade meals and praying for her to recover. Travis looked around and asked, “Can you imagine any community doing that for a sex-worker these days? Anyway, that’s the tour!” Way to end on a devastating point, Travis. Maybe cheer us up by circling back to the arsenic story.
As I went to tip Travis, Brit handed me cash to reimburse me for his ticket, and I unthinkingly handed it to Travis as his tip. I then looked at the cash and yelped, “That’s twenty-five dollars!” I promptly snatched the twenty back, saying, “Listen, you were great, but not that great.” He cheerfully agreed. I’d like to think I was NOT being a jerk, but instead, simply channeling those savvy Bozeman madams.