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Alyssa Lee Clear

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Frankie Silver

December 25, 2016


The story of Frankie and Charlie Silver began in 1831, yet it captivates an audience to this day. Descendants from both families have strong ideas on what they believed happened that night. Most people, however, are content with the fact that we'll never know exactly what went down in that little wood cabin, and that's a big part of what keeps us interested. That, among a few other things. 

To start, Frankie was regarded as pretty, so that already raises the level of public interest. There's just something about a pretty woman doing something ugly that piques our curiosity. In fact, both her and her husband Charlie appeared to be well liked within their small North Carolina mountain community. Accounts of the two from Alfred Silver, Charlie's half-brother, painted Charlie as "a favorite at all the parties for he could make merry by talking, laughing, and playing musical instruments," and of Frankie: "She had charms, I never saw a smarter little woman." 

That, however, is where the compliments stop and the accusations begin. Charlie's camp colors Frankie as a jealous wife who killed him in his sleep out of revenge. Accounts in Frankie's favor, however, describe Charlie as a bit of a drunkard and highly abusive, with Frankie killing him in self defense. 

Wayne Silver, a historian of the Silver family, offers a more nuanced view on what he presumes happened that December night. After going out for Christmas liquor, Charlie returns home and an argument breaks out between him and Frankie. Likely inebriated, Charlie makes a treat towards his wife and crying child and begins to load his gun. While he probably didn't mean it -- he's just drunk and acting foolish -- things are heated and Frankie reacts in understandable panic. Its a small cabin, an ax is right by the fireplace, she grabs it and swings. "It was more of an accident than anything else," Silver believes.

The events following the murder also add to the lure of this tale. Pieces of Charlie were found in the fireplace and around the property, and they continued to find parts of him for some time. Indeed, Charlie Silver has three different grave markers, with different body parts discovered at different times beneath each one. 

It's difficult to imagine a modern woman dismembering her husband after killing him in self defense. In fact dismemberment is often used to help dispel claims of defense. Don Haines of Blue Ridge Country offers some insight:

       "It was a sexist society. It was not unusual for a man to murder his wife and receive no punishment. Nineteen-year-old Charlie was perhaps an unfortunate product of an unfortunate environment – a young man who may have manifested the worst of his time’s mountain mores. This ingrained attitude may have had a significant role in the events of December 22, 1831."

He points out that we're talking about an eighteen year old in an extremely male dominated society here, her mind is likely filled with panic and fear. There's no room to consider the idea of justifiable homicide. Wayne Silver theorizes that young Frankie would have naturally turned to her family for help, and though the plan was doomed from the start, they decided the best course of action was to attempt to hide the body and pretend he never came home that night. 

Despite the guilty verdict and subsequent hanging of Frankie, she garnered a lot of support in the time between her trial and execution. She had not been allowed to speak at trial, but she reportedly spoke after the fact, and changed minds among the general public. Even seven of her jurors wrote to the governor requesting she be pardoned. 

While these attempts were ultimately futile, they give us a glimpse at how easily a mind can be changed -- Frankie's jurors were originally 9/3 for acquittal before rehearing some revised testimony. We see how important it is that the accused be given the opportunity to speak in their defense, an opportunity that Frankie did not have.

It is also important not to let 21st century lenses cloud our view of this tragedy. Both Frankie and Charlie were products of their environment, and it would be difficult for any of us to imagine living in that society. Provided the claims that Charlie was abusive are true, we cannot hold him to our modern standard of accountability. He was a young man taught a very different set of rights and wrongs than we should expect from those in today's world. Likewise, we cannot rush to judge Frankie for her ill advised coverup. She was very likely a young woman trying to do what she saw as right for her child and her family. 

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For me, Frankie Silver is one of the easier killers to feel sympathy for. I imagine the fear she felt must have been tremendous, both when her husband became a threat to her and her daughter's life -- whether real or imagined -- and upon realizing what she had done to him. But those feelings of fear and of helplessness are ultimately what led her to make the unfortunate choices she made. When you put that idea on a broader scale, it becomes an important thing to reflect upon in modern society. When we see people make bad decisions, it is necessary to pause before jumping to dismissing them as bad or reckless people. For the more abandoned one feels, the more likely one is to behave in a rash fashion -- the less you have to loose, the less you care about consequences. 

That can be particularly poignant this time of year when dealing with friends and family suffering from depression. Its something I constantly have to remind myself of -- knowing that I'm limited on how much I can invest in the emotions of others, lest I drive myself into another mental breakdown, I can sometimes neglect to let others know I care. What's important to remember is that you don't have to fully invest yourself emotionally into a situation to let someone know that you have and will not abandon them should they ever need your help. Sometimes it can help just to know that you do in fact have something to loose. 

Further reading:

Don Haines - Blue Ridge Country

Murderpedia

Perry Deane Young - The Untold Story of Frankie Silver

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Tree climbing in heels, Christmas edition ❤️🎄👠 . . . . . #alwaysinheels #nevergrowup #heelsforever #climbingtrees #treeclimber #treehugger #fromthe60s #60sstyle #vintagestyle #santastyle #vintagefashion #vintagewardrobe #thrifted #thriftedwardrobe #thriftedstyle
It was our entire life, going up in flames. Cork, silently suffering while I frantically searched for help, help that would never come, help that was never there. That never existed. I’d been watching him burn alive for years now, screaming at
It was our entire life, going up in flames. Cork, silently suffering while I frantically searched for help, help that would never come, help that was never there. That never existed. I’d been watching him burn alive for years now, screaming at him to care, to realize I loved him, the children loved him, to realize he was brilliant and strong and capable, to stop wanting to die. He had so much to live for. Our lives were full of meaning. He sat on the edge of the bed, hands between his legs, his eyes empty as they started at me, silently begging: “stop trying to save me.” ... #pinup #pinupgirl #lemonprint #backseam #vintage #vintagestyle #vintagegirl #femmefatale #storytelling #truecrime #crimedrama #depressionawareness
I realized — this was the physical manifestation of the pain I’d been watching him suffer through all these years.
I realized — this was the physical manifestation of the pain I’d been watching him suffer through all these years.
I never did admit this back then, but ... there was a moment ... as I became transfixed on that car, engulfed in flames, wrapped in the the still of night and surrounded by lemon groves — those waxy leaves catching the light of the fire and ref
I never did admit this back then, but ... there was a moment ... as I became transfixed on that car, engulfed in flames, wrapped in the the still of night and surrounded by lemon groves — those waxy leaves catching the light of the fire and reflecting it back into the darkness. A futile attempt at illuminating something so much more vast and encompassing then they could ever be. After the shattering of glass, the frantic scrambling through the bushes, the screams into the nothingness surrounding me, there was only silence. I was the only one making noise. That stagnant night air had wrapped itself around the car like a blanket, like the blanket wrapped around Cork, who, the entire time, had been silently burning alive, too sedated to move, too sedated to feel, too sedated to scream.
Cork was beautiful. He was brilliant. He was kind and sweet and loving. He sent me a dozen and a half roses before we even had our first date — ‘I hope you’ll find these pretty, even if you won’t join me for dinner this weeken
Cork was beautiful. He was brilliant. He was kind and sweet and loving. He sent me a dozen and a half roses before we even had our first date — ‘I hope you’ll find these pretty, even if you won’t join me for dinner this weekend, but I do hope you will.’* I couldn’t have loved the man more. But he never could see it — not the love and admiration I harbored for him or all the wonderful qualities in himself that made me love and admire him. He saw all his faults and shortcomings. He saw my overspending and blamed himself for not making enough money. I loved Cork so much, but none of that love could ever make him love himself. Do you know how difficult that is? To see someone you love and cherish just ... falling apart ... right in front of you. *Fabricated: Lucille’s father recalled the note Cork sent to Lucille & it’s general sentiments, but the exact wording isn’t documented.
Maybe I wanted too much. I wanted the life that society says means “I made it,” whatever “it” is. The beautiful husband, the beautiful children, the beautiful house and beautiful things to fill it with. I drove us into debt, I
Maybe I wanted too much. I wanted the life that society says means “I made it,” whatever “it” is. The beautiful husband, the beautiful children, the beautiful house and beautiful things to fill it with. I drove us into debt, I can’t deny that. There was just ... always something more. A dress that made me feel beautiful, a home that felt special, another man that looked at me like I meant something. That’s always been my downfall, I guess. Nothing is ever enough. I want it so desperately until I have it. Then I don’t know what to do with it. I convince myself that this time it’ll be different, this time it’ll satisfy me, this time I can stop looking. Just this once. But then I have it, and I’m still empty, and something else comes along and catches my eye and I start the longing process all over again.
I can’t say I was ever really a good mother. To be honest, I’m not even sure I can say I’m a good person, but that’s so hard to define, isn’t it? Who decides what makes a person fit into the parameters of “good&rdq
I can’t say I was ever really a good mother. To be honest, I’m not even sure I can say I’m a good person, but that’s so hard to define, isn’t it? Who decides what makes a person fit into the parameters of “good” or “bad?” A court decided I was bad, as did a prosecutor, a couple detectives. But you take the fragments of a terrible accident, and the fragments of an imperfect life, an imperfect marriage, an imperfect person, you toss them into a binder and you read the worst parts of it all. Anyone can seem terrible when you only look at their flaws, can’t they?
Here’s a hastily-made hyper dramatic “trailer”/bts for my upcoming story, based on the life & trial of Lucille Miller. Look out for it after the weekend! 😘 In the meantime, a little background on the premise of Lucille’s story & Arsenous Apple Pie in general: Now’s as good a time as any to address this. These stories, while rooted in true crimes, are told from a perspective I couldn’t possibly understand. I pull from films, from interviews and articles, from observations and life experiences, and I try to create stories that do more than describe a crime. The crimes become a lens through which we view human experiences, taking the most severe actions & emotions present in humanity, exploring the deepest and darkest aspects of our minds, and ruminating on the things that push us to that place. That being said, I don’t always believe in the guilt of the convicted women I portray — something I try to make clear when appropriate. Nonetheless, they’ve been pushed to an extreme place, and are facing tragedy, demons, or a cruel court of public opinion. I believe there is always a great deal to learn from researching these cases, especially when you attempt to mentally put yourself in that position. In the past, I’ve told stories from the point of view of someone suffering with depression or some form of mental illness, as it’s a perspective I’m acutely familiar with. With Lucille, I decided to flip it, & show a person deeply in love with and hopelessly trying to save a husband suffering from depression. Much has been written about Lucille Miller, including “Some Dreamers of the Golden Dream,” a highly-regarded essay by the great Joan Didion & “A Mother’s Crime,” a touching piece for the Los Angeles Times by Lucille’s own daughter, Debra Miller. Many people harbor opinions on Lucille’s crime, her character, and her life. This was true when it all went down in the 60’s, and remains true to this day. For better or worse, this is not one you’ll have read before. 💋, Miss Arsenous Apple Pie
Epilogue: 
And that, my loves, is how I came to be remembered as the first woman hung by the state of Louisiana. Perhaps unsurprisingly, this too was inaccurate.

I was the first white woman to be hanged by the state, but certainly not the first woma
Epilogue: And that, my loves, is how I came to be remembered as the first woman hung by the state of Louisiana. Perhaps unsurprisingly, this too was inaccurate. I was the first white woman to be hanged by the state, but certainly not the first woman. But again, facts be damned, right? History wants what it wants, and all it really wants is a good story. So many lives, reduced to nothing but grocery store gossip and dinner party conversation starters. In a rare instance where someone seemed to realize the gruesome nature of a trial becoming mere entertainment for the bored masses, Arthur Brisbane of the San Francisco Examiner asked, "Does a great State deserve to have on its records the first hanging of a white woman, or a black woman, either?" It all depends on who you ask, Arthur, it all depends on who you ask.
Of course this left me as the central figure in all this nonsense. The adulterous, vain, manipulative "siren," who lured all of these men to their doom. Knowing full well they were cementing my death sentence, reporters made themselves feel
Of course this left me as the central figure in all this nonsense. The adulterous, vain, manipulative "siren," who lured all of these men to their doom. Knowing full well they were cementing my death sentence, reporters made themselves feel better by insisting I loved their attention. Stoic, uninterested, and defiant in court, I "giggled" for the press and "entertained" in my jail cell. They truly seemed to have convinced themselves that not only did I enjoy the attention, but that they were somehow doing me a favor by making me into a celebrity. Or perhaps they just saw this as the pinnacle of their careers and weren't concerned with mere fatal casualties. Facts be damned, they wanted a good story, and a good story needs a good ending. A good ending, it seems, never does include a living antagonist.

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