Alexandra Kathryn Mosca — Exploring Life and Death: A Writer's Journey

There was a time when I was invited on talk shows around the country because of what was then considered a unique career for a woman: funeral director. One of those talk show appearances led to a close friendship. One April, I was invited to appear on Detroit’s popular morning show, Kelly & Company, along with two other women. The theme was “Women in Unusual Occupations.” Upon reading the other women’s press releases, I learned that one of them worked as a master plumber and inspector for the city of Detroit –the only woman holding that position. The other guest was Allison Bly, a stuntwoman from Clearwater, Florida. She was billed professionally as “Dynamite Lady,” so named for her stunt, which used dynamite to blow up the box she was huddled in. This unique and dangerous performance left the audience in awe and showcased her fearless approach to her craft — and her life.

After arriving in Detroit the afternoon before the show and checking into my hotel, I left a message at the reception desk for Allison to meet me for dinner in the hotel’s atrium restaurant.

In the restaurant, I ordered an appetizer and a martini, sipping it slowly while I waited. Before long, a pretty young woman about my height and weight appeared before me, dressed in form-fitting casual clothing that highlighted her fit physique.

“Hi, I’m Allison Bly!” she cheerfully announced in a chirpy Southern accent. “I read about you.

You’re really weird for touching all those dead people,” she teased me good-naturedly.

“You blow yourself up in a box rigged with dynamite, and you think I’m weird?” I replied with a laugh.

We both chuckled at the exchange.

Noticing my half-finished drink, she asked, “Do you drink martinis with vodka or gin?”

“Vodka,” I answered.

“Me too! Let’s order you one to catch up,” she suggested.

Our conversations flowed effortlessly as we discovered our shared experiences and perspectives. An instant camaraderie enveloped us, and we both felt a deep sense of connection. Her charm and infectious sense of fun were a refreshing change for me. Allison’s bubbling enthusiasm and zest for life resonated with me. I finally found a kindred spirit—someone with a unique identity and no hint of ego.

We sipped martinis throughout the night, first at dinner and then at the hotel lounge, where we listened to music. Fueled by vodka, I found myself sharing things I had never told anyone before, and she reciprocated. The questions flew back and forth: “What was it like to suddenly get so much attention?” “What other talk shows have you done?” “What was your best interview?”

Eventually, at 5:00 A.M., we slipped into our rooms and crawled into bed.

Two hours later, the wake-up call we had requested roused us.

We met in the lobby and downed coffee, barely able to keep our eyes open. A limousine took us to the studio, where we met the third participant for the talk show and began our appearance on Detroit’s morning program.

We were instructed to introduce ourselves with catchy, albeit silly, little teasers, and audience members took guesses at our occupations. Allison’s line was, “My job’s a blast!” Mine was, “I’m the last person you want to meet!”

After the show ended, we were driven to the airport together, where we had lunch while waiting for our flights. Allison left me an autographed copy of her interview in a recent issue of Woman’s World magazine and promised to keep in touch.

She did and soon invited me to be a “celebrity guest” in her act whenever I could get time off.

I agreed, and she sent me a costume—first a tank top with “Dynamite Lady” on it, then a sequined outfit to match hers. We met in various locations along the eastern seaboard, from large Southern cities to small coastal towns. The sports teams sponsoring her covered our accommodations, which ranged from luxury hotels to simple motels. We enjoyed dining at local crab houses, sharing press clippings, and trading funny anecdotes. Before long, we became the best of friends.

Allison often performed at minor league ballparks, sometimes before the game, other times at the Seventh Inning Stretch or after the game. It was a good thing we both liked baseball.

Several hours before the game started, Allison began to build her box out of Styrofoam, paint it with the Dynamite Lady logo in red, white, and blue, and get the explosives ready. Sometimes, while she was doing this, she would be interviewed by local press. I was included in her interview on a few occasions, as the reporter found the idea of a funeral director assisting the Dynamite Lady made a good copy. We made the front page of the Reading Times and later appeared together in the photo caption for a  Sports Illustrated article.

   “In my work, it’s good to travel with your undertaker,” Allison often quipped in interviews.

     I helped her get into her costume, escorted her onto the field, took her cape, handed her helmet, and hugged her for good luck. The announcer’s voice blared over the loudspeaker.

“Assisting the Dynamite Lady today is Alexandra Mosca, a mortician from New York City.” Then I waited on the sidelines, holding my ears, knowing the explosion would be much louder than anyone expected. I always worried that Allison would get injured.

After the explosion, Allison was propelled several feet and fell to the ground in a dazed state. Then I joined the volunteers (an ambulance was always kept at the ready) rushing onto the field to see if she was alright.

Allison rose, dusted herself off, waved to the crowd, and left the field as her theme song, “Dynamite Lady,” played, and the audience cheered. For about an hour, I’d hand her the baseballs and photos her fans, patiently waiting in line, had brought for her to autograph. Then, depending on the time, we had dinner with the team owner or, if it was late, went back to the hotel to unwind. I was always sad when we parted. Being with Allison was an adventure. She drove fast, played hard, had an infectious sense of fun and mischief, and always made me laugh.

It was the respite I needed from the business of death.