Mary and Frank(enstein)

 

I'm waiting for the weather to change so I can start drinking tea in bed as I begin to hibernate. I admit I haven't stuffed myself with salmon to get me through the winter but I do have a good supply of chocolate chip cookies to get me through the worst days. Since this is the month of ghouls and goblins- no, not Marjorie Taylor Greene, but the under the bed monsters like, Frankenstein's monster and Dracula, two books I have ordered and have set a space for on my nightstand. Whilst I wait in anticipation for airy chills, I wikied information about Mary Shelley, the author of Frankenstein. My, my, what an interesting life. I can imagine her fitting into today's world, protesting asshats like our orange man although she was born in London. She certainly would have something to say about Israel and the slaughter of children in Gaza. Mary was ahead of her time. She fell in love with a bad boy whose name shall not be mentioned because this is about Mary. He was a big part of her life and she fell hard for the poet who shall remain anonymous. The story goes, and who am I to question the validity since it came from Mary herself. She and her husband were visiting Lord Byron at his estate where the Lord issued a challenge. Everyone must write a bloody good thriller to entertain host and guests since America's Got Talent wasn't a thing yet. Mary struggled to come up with something that would scare the beejesus out of everyone until it came to her in a dream. Hence, Frankenstein's monster was created. Never have I ever read the book. I've seen a dozen versions of the story where said monster is a crazed lunatic or a misunderstood misfit with used parts. Reading the preface of the story I'm a little concerned it's going to be a difficult read with fancy words and hoity toity language. Mary's father was a progressive so he allowed his daughter to learn to read and write. Who knows where we and she would have been without her one hit wonder? Writing a blockbuster book did not make her life easy. She bore four children with you know who, and only one child survived, which brings me to something I read years ago where a male figure wrote that since the lives of children was a precarious situation due to illness, disease, war and pestilence mothers were less emotional about their children. They assumed they'd die so they they didn't waste any lovey dovey feelings for them. Since I read this nonsense as a child I believed it for a long time. I now realize it's utter garbage. Mary mourned and suffered greatly from the loss of her children. She also had to deal with a husband who believed in an open marriage and took full advantage of that by dillying and dallying through life as Mary had his children. Unfortunately, the cad drowned in a sailing adventure and Mary was now alone with her remaining son, Sir Percy Florence. I don't believe he started out as a Sir. If you were fortunate enough to make it through childhood, expectations were low regarding living past sixty. Sadly, Mary passed at the old age of 53, most likely in considerable pain since her cod was diagnosed as a brain tumor. Can you imagine? I'm imagining all the times I could have met the same fate as Mary if not for antibiotics, vaccines and soap. It's chilling to think people died from an infected hang nail. 

Poor Mary. She lived in a wrong time, but then we may have not ever gotten to read her story, one born in a challenge she clearly met. So as I wait for the first nip in the air, I will fluff my pillows, turn off the clamor and be grateful for modern medicine and intelligent people in charge of dispensing words of wisdom regarding healthca... (((sigh)))