Rather aptly for the second book in this Halloween series, it seems that my children took an immediate dislike to this book's presence in my home. Quite why, I couldn't say, but they stomped on it, threw it, shoved it down the back of the sofa, and yote* it across the garden. I say they, but I really mean he: the tiny three-year-old demon that is Jesse James, living up to his namesake!
In any case, I rather like the effect. All that remains of my book is all that remains of All That Remains-- in this little corner of the world, at least. Fun fact: those prop photos aren't really props at all, but all that remains of my family, in many ways. Top left is my great-auntie Bonnie as a baby, being held by the midwife. Bonnie became the namesake of my eldest daughter, and she was the centre of my universe until she died in February of 2003. She can be credited entirely with my love of books, having been a fierce proponent of my continual access to multitudinous literature from a very early age, the most prominent of which, perhaps, was The Hobbit (swiftly followed by The Lord of the Rings), catalysing a lifelong love of Tolkien. So strong was this family affinity for his works that her husband (my uncle), by this point a retired police officer, was lovingly afforded the moniker of 'Baggins'. To this day, although our relationship has become strained and we almost never see each other, I still speak fondly of my uncle Baggins.
Top right is my great-grandmother, Hilda. I see a lot of my face in hers. A glamorous woman with an evident penchant for the extravagant, I'm not entirely sure what work my great-grandfather must have done to finance their lifestyle, given that they had six or seven children. I remember her but only briefly. I remember, specifically, that she brushed my hair very roughly; if I complained, she would whack me on the head with the paddle of the old wooden brush she beat down on my scalp. I also remember the kindness with which she lovingly tied the heirloom apron around my waist so that we could bake together. She died in the summer of 1994, if I remember correctly, and a litany of scandalous tales (in which she played the protagonist) succeeded her death. Naturally.
Bottom right, I think, is my great-uncle Alec. He was an officer in the army - I forget which regiment - and I found it most amusing that on the back of one of the photographs he sent to his mother (Hilda), he found it necessary to indicate to her that he was 'the one in the glasses'- as if she might have forgotten her son's appearance! I'm not familiar with the others, unfortunately. Perhaps they died before I was born, or perhaps they belonged to that side of the family. You know the side I'm talking about, yes? The spurned side we don't speak of or to. I'm quite sure said side had similar things to say about our side, but I digress... My family was just as colourful and scandalous as the next, a great deal about which I only learned in recent years, ironically because I reached out an olive branch to that side of the family, and rather quickly realised why they had been relegated to such a position in the first place: the Sackville-Bagginses of the Dransfield family.
I know, juicy. Moving on.
Black is a forensic anthropologist with extensive experience in the field across a number of specialities. Her witty and earnest down-to-earth writing style is a pleasure to read. She discusses some of the most heinous crimes imaginable but she does so with the utmost respect to the victims and, perhaps more importantly, the families. It is clear from her words that she has spent a great amount of time and emotional energy considering the position of the grieving family, and she carries those scars with her in a file she's undoubtedly packed away in a brain box labelled 'Work Stuff'.
She recounts the ways in which she and her team went above and beyond to provide comfort and solace to those who needed it the most, along with a listening ear to anyone who desired it. I loved listening to her stories about her early years as a student and before that a butcher's assistant. I found it especially endearing that she still remembers with fondness (and gratitude) the name (and details, I would presume!) of the cadaver through which she received her education all those years ago.
I came to this book with an anxious apprehension because a close friend warned me that it would change my attitude towards death. My relationship with her is not great, unfortunately. In 2017 I lost three members of my family (the eldest remaining members of my family) leaving me with the role of matriarch at the age of thirty. Without crafting too graphic an image for you (I'll let Black do that) it will suffice to say that I saw their bodies, and it wasn't nice.
And so, my relationship with lady death is one of fear. Or rather, it has been. I wouldn't say that I'm entirely cured of it, but Black's almost-welcoming of it - of her - is curious to consider. I can't say I welcome death, but I can say that I'm reevaluating my position on DNR forms.
Perhaps I don't need to be violently resuscitated or intubated with a 10% chance of survival after all.
*I am reliably informed by my eldest daughter that yote is now counted among the neologisms of the 21st century, as the past participle of yeet. If it isn't, I'm quite sure it will be, given the prevalence of its usage.
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