365 Days In the Moonshine Capitol of the World

Day 300/365 Knoxville Table and Chair Company

2011-11-22T18:23:00.000-08:00

This last weekend's estate sales yielded this mystery desk. My daughter and I saw it at the same time, and she fell in love with it, so it joined the household.

The company label inside the drawer is clear and intact: Knoxville Table and Chair Company, Knoxville, Tenn.

It's proving to be somewhat of a mystery though so I thought I'd ask my gentle readers if they are familiar with this company. The desk itself is heavy and solid, comes with a bookshelf on each end and a center foot rest . There's a single drawer, with heavy Mission style drop pulls.

The base finish is the usual heavy black shellac over mahogany.

The top surface is uncharacteristically left natural.

The only information I've been able to find about the Knoxville Table Company is that it operated in downtown Knoxville Tennessee from 1900-1935. One vintage Michigan Artisan catalog from September 1905 mentions that Mr. F.L. Hood, traveling sales representative of the Knoxville Table Company, spent the month of September in Chicago due to the yellow fever quarantine prevailing in a large part of his territory. Two other furniture companies are quoted as saying business was down in both Mississippi and Louisiana because of the yellow fever quarantines.

That's it. That all the power of the internet can find on this company. Usually there are the elusive vintage ads, or if I'm lucky, the vintage furniture catalog. This time, nada.

Once I solve this mystery, I'll start on what those two keys unlock.

Day 299/365 Miss Joyce

2011-11-14T16:39:00.000-08:00

Although both sides of my family are Southern, and Virginian, they are not specifically from this particular Virginia county. When we moved here, just shy of 15 years ago, it became quickly apparent that we were forever doomed to be outsiders as far as the local populace was concerned.

It didn't help that we were not interested in accepting any one of a dozen invitations to join a church, that we were yellow-dog Democrats, and, most importantly to my daughter, that she wore overalls and Buzz Light Year shoes (because as the local kids told her Buzz shoes were boys shoes. Only boys could go "to infinity and beyond").

So in an effort to fit in, and find some sort of niche for our family, I went to the one place I understood: the local library. Specifically, the children's story hour where I was hoping my daughter would feel comfortable.

It worked.

This wonderful, wonderful woman named Miss Joyce was the children's librarian. She was all the things a librarian should be, namely, absolutely devoted to the incredible experience of reading, and determined to share a love of books with every single child she met. She loved books more than anyone else I've ever met, including myself. And I am a fanatical lover of literature.

During the first story hour we attended, my 6 year old daughter was recognized as being "new" and Miss Joyce made a point of being particularily warm and welcoming to her. It made all the difference in the world to a little girl in a strange place that appeared to be beyond infinity.

Miss Joyce never had children of her own, but instead regarded every one of the thousands of children that came to story hour as her own. Amazingly, she remembered every one of them by name (I have seen this tested by various children), including my daughter. In the years since, we have collected odd household items for Miss Joyce to use for the summer children's crafts program (moms you know the list: popsicle sticks, toilet paper rolls, sequins, pom poms, glitter ....there's no such thing as too much glitter).

Our paths crossed again when a huge grey cat started spending the day at our house. We later found out that Miss Joyce had moved in three doors down, and the big gray cat belonged to her. Boswell (Boss for short) commandeered the neighborhood in short order, and several weeks ago actually ran off a groundhog that had taken up residence in my neighbor's crawl space.

Boss did not tell us at that time that he was dealing with his own loss: Miss Joyce had passed away suddenly. We had wondered why we hadn't seen her at the library for a couple weeks, but hadn't thought to ask. It never occurred to us that we may have lost her.

From one lover of reading to another, Miss Joyce you will be sorely missed in this community. You touched thousands of children over the last 31 years, not the least of which was my little girl in her Buzz shoes and overalls.

Every one of those children will keep your memory alive for years.

Thank you.

Day 298/365 A Place For Everything....

2011-11-08T08:25:00.000-08:00

I've been going to estate sales since I was 14 years old. Over the years, the sales themselves tend to exhibit generational tendencies. When I was 14, the sales were from people who came of age in the 1920s and 1930s -my grandparents generation. The lifelong accumulation of "stuff" tended to fit into economic groups - you could tell who had been hit hard by the Depression, and who had managed to survive or, occasionally, done really well.

Present day sales are at the end of the World War II generation. I can tell their homes a mile away - the little houses, bought by returning GI's who served at Normandy, or in the South Pacific. They survived the war, came home, married the girl they left behind, and all they wanted was a safe haven - a little home to call their own, where they could have 2.5 kids and a good home cooked meal at night. These homes invariably have some sort of workshop in the basement (because this is the generation that grew up in the Depression and fixes before they throw away).

This week's sale fit this description perfectly. The workshop filled approximately a 10 x 15' corner of the basement, with the usual wall of neatly hung saws and extension cords.

After that, this basement workshop entered the realm of fantasy and legend. Hundreds of bungee cords, arranged by length.

Several wooden bins built and carefully labeled, in excruciating detail (not just tool handles, but "small" asst sizes, in wood,plastic and steel)

Excruciating detail (curved pieces of metal and steel)

A bin for every kind and size of nail you can imagine, and some I've never heard of.

Walls of neatly labeled tins (I'm thinking these were lard tins originally-the wife must have cooked a lot of fried chicken). All of these bins were full.

And stacks of bins with little plastic drawers - all labeled and clearly separated.

More bins stuck up next to the ceiling (right next to the wood scraps, stacked and labeled on the ends with their length)

Another wall of bins...

And more bins (not just labeled, but the categorization even extends to the color coding).

And the piece de resistance....first each metal bin is labeled, within their individual metal drawer...

Then the exterior of each metal drawer is labeled....

And then each row of metal drawers (approximately 200 total in this unit) was labeled. This complete unit was priced at $200, included all contents, but the buyer had to disassemble
it from the brick chimney and ceiling joist, then remove it themselves. The liquidators couldn't figure out quite how to do it.

They don't make guys like this anymore. And these guys were the reason we won the war.

Day 297/365 Spirit of the Forest

2011-10-25T13:51:00.000-07:00

If you have the money to spare (and the room for storage), this is the time to be buying antiques and vintage furniture. Unfortunately everyone seems to know this, and it makes life harder for dealers (like moi) to find quality items. This weekend yielded *one* small item worth purchasing.

A small carved table...previous owner stripped it but it's nice and sturdy, and covered in carvings.

The Green Man appears on each side. He's the Celtic or Pagan Spirit of the Forest.

Being of Scottish descent, and more than a little Pagan myself, this little table may never make it to the booth. It's not often the ancestors speak directly to us.

Day 296/365 Table Redux

2011-10-15T18:16:00.001-07:00

Slim pickings today, but this mahogany table did come home with us. At first glance it's considered a Duncan Phyfe style 1920's reproduction.

Duncan Phyfe (originally spelled Fife) was born in Loch Fannich, Scotland in 1768 but emigrated to the newly established United States of America in 1784, at the age of 16. He apprenticed with a cabinetmaker, and eventually became one of the most reputable furniture makers in America, producing furniture in all the popular styles of the day, including Federal, Neo-Classic, Empire, Regency and Rococo Revival.

The one style he *didn't* produce was Duncan Phyfe, since every element that is now considering an identifying element of his furniture, was, in fact, already popular long before he began building furniture.

Splayed ribbed legs? Yep. Already popular in a variety of styles. Very familiar to the American colonies.

Brass paw feet? So common that their absence would have been remarkable.

Drop leafs? Done to death. Mahogany? The pine of its time.

So Duncan Phyfe himself would have no idea what we meant when we say something is "Duncan Phyfe" style. A piece of furniture actually made by him in the early 1800's would have a paper label attached, clearly labeled Duncan Phyfe. However, one hundred years and twenty years later, Duncan Phyfe reproductions would actually eclipse the original furniture maker, and become a "style" all its own.

And so we have this mahogany Duncan Phyfe repro dining room table that followed us home today. Worn spots, water marks, deep scratches, and what I think may actually be traces of grey paint in a few spots.

Once I fell for the misguided random thought of "I-can-take-it-home-and-strip-and-refinish-it...It'll-be-a-project". Now I know that this will never actually happen. The projects will simply pile up and overwhelm me. So I need magic fixes and quick solutions.

Like Old English. This time I'll use the Dark Wood liquid, but it comes in Light Wood and Lemon Oil as well.

It's magic. Grey paint disolves, scratches disappear, the wood actually glows and grime that has accumulated over the years is removed. Total time: 15 minutes.

Duncan would have killed for it. Or maybe he invented it. Yeah, that's probably what happened.

Day 295/365 Things My Daughter Finds for Me at Target...

2011-10-04T09:01:00.001-07:00

Remember when your kids were little and they'd bring you grimy handfuls of dandelions and it'd be all like a Hallmark moment?

Yeah, me too.

Day 294/365 Bamboozled

2011-10-02T19:12:00.000-07:00

Pickings were scarce at today's estate sale but we did find this late 1890's bamboo and wicker sewing table.

You can see the bamboo ribs in the legs, with slightly bulbed feet and a gradual outward splay in each leg.

The second shelf is wicker set inside a wooden frame.

Best of all, the wooden top is hinged along one side to allow the top to lift up.

A divided wooden tray sit inside, waiting for thread, needles, buttons and other sewing sundries.

The wooden tray sits on two wooden rails, leaving a large open compartment underneath -meant for scissors, patterns, extra fabric, cut quilt blocks or other larger sewing supplies.

All I need to do is clean it up, decide whether or not to paint it (the brown isn't original), and then migrate it over to the booth.

Day 293/365 Hope Closet

2011-10-01T12:54:00.000-07:00

Living in a house built in 1858, (by people who apparently only owned 2 sets of clothing) means that over the last 153 years, our existing closets were carved out of larger rooms. Electricity wasn't part of the consideration. Well, except for that overhead light that keeps breaking because someone yanks on the chain too hard. The one I quit replacing after one too many yanks.

So when I needed to clean out the closet (having promised to send my Minnesota sweaters up to my cousin in the mountains) the first thing I had to do was round up extension cords, power bars and lamps.

Due to the lack of electricity (energy,motivation, whatever) it's been a few years since the closet was cleaned out. I actually found jackets that still have shoulder pads. And a strange blazer-sort-of-thing I have no memory of ever buying (and a window).

More quilts, more afghans, more comforters and two burgundy pillows that look like they came out of the Arabian Nights.

Best find of the day: the baby quilts I made for my daughter. They fit perfectly in that big drawer at the bottom of the new armoire.

And the satin crazy quilt my great-aunt Sadie made. This would be the same one I took to the hospital with me the night my daughter was born.

And her first (and only) cut (measuring about 10" long) - covered in patches - her dad was driving truck then, and she had to have Mickey and Minnie ....

Apparently she was also a Marine, a member of the Beatles, owned an eagle, and was a Danish/UK/Scot. Learning to spell and sit up would come later. Priorities are important.

Also found the cat under all those afghans. He was *not* wearing his cut.

Day 292/365 Reconstructed Hope

2011-09-30T18:23:00.000-07:00

Remember this? Two weeks later, the weather is finally dry enough and warm enough to paint and stain.

Out with the orange, in with the flat black. Three coats of flat black paint, plus two coats of red mahogany stain on the lid.

And voila....

I left the cedar back and interior unstained.

Twenty dollars, four years stuck in the garage, and a bit of black paint and stain and here's the finished product...ready for more quilts.

Day 291/365 Hope Chest

2011-09-13T15:11:00.001-07:00

So it all started with the earthquake...which knocked over boxes of books....which meant I needed to set up a table to re-sort boxes of books on ....which meant I needed the room occupied by seven tubs of gourds...and those gourds sat on top of *this*....

A Lane cedar chest, in all it's 1970's orange with white vinyl glory. I had forgotten about buying it at an estate sale, at least four or five years ago.

We see a lot of Lane cedar chests in these parts, being that the company was established in Altavista Virginia in 1912. They struggled for a few years, until World War I came along and Lane scored a government contract to build pine ammo boxes by the thousands. After the war, the company used the new mass production techniques to build cedar hope chests. A "hope chest" was a traditional gift for a young woman with the idea that she would make quilts, embroider linens, sew her wedding dress and trousseau and then stash them all in her Lane cedar chest. With the beginning of World War II, Lane pitched their advertising to departing GI's -asking them to buy a hope chest for the girl they left behind. During the 1950's, the Lane Company gave a miniature cedar chest to every young woman graduating from a Virginia high school (stil have my mother's, and see one at almost every estate sale).

After building thousands of cedar chests in hundreds of styles, Lane was absorbed in a hostile takeover in 1987, with the new owner filing for bankruptcy in 1992, and the last American-built Lane cedar chest rolled off the lines in 2001.

This one has obviously seen better days (or maybe not - I'm not sure if burnt orange and white vinyl looked good even when it was brand new).

At any rate - I've bought another wooden blanket chest to sell at the booth, so I get to keep this one -first step is to remove that gross white vinyl padded top.

Ick. Ick. Ick.

A sneak peek at the beautiful wood -it's a cedar back.

And the bottom - that circle in the middle is literally a tight plug known as the Aroma-Tite.

When I peel back that icky vinyl, this is what's left of the 40 year old padding.

It flakes off easily, leaving no residue at all.

The inside is pristine - and the cedar aroma just rolls out of it.

The Aroma-Tite plug from the inside.

The famous Lane signature.

So now I've got it cleaned up and ready to.....do what? Right now I'm planning on painting the base a deep matte black, and then staining the top a deep mahogany. Anyone with a better suggestion?

Day 290/365 You Know Things Went Horribly Wrong....

2011-09-11T20:39:00.001-07:00

When the wedding cake ends up in one piece at the dumpster.

Day 289/365 Feline Fuhrer

2011-09-04T19:51:00.001-07:00

Sometimes at an estate sale, you find things that you never knew or imagine exist.

And you just can't pass them up.

Like this vintage (1950's?) photo.

Someone loved this kitty enough to take a portrait, blow it up to 8x10, frame it and then keep it for approximately 60 years.

I can't decide if his name was Adolf or Charlie.

Or if he goose-stepped with one paw raised, or toddled along in a bowler hat twirling his cane.

Or maybe he wiggled his eyebrows, chewed on his cigar, and hung out with Harpo and Chico.

Yes, I bought him. No, I have no idea why. Everyone needs an 8x10 of the Fuhrer, don't they?

Day 288/365 Eight Small Men

2011-09-01T09:06:00.000-07:00

Being from Appalachia means having quilting women in your family. That means having large amounts of quilts on hand, made by Mama, Grandma, Aunt Sadie, Great-Grandma, and in this case, myself.

When living in Minnesota, this is a good thing, since it's nothing to have five quilts on the bed at one time. However, relocating to Virginia means *not* having even one quilt on the bed for nine months out of the year.

So where do you put them?

You put them here....

Because sometimes the best places come in pieces and have to be taken apart and reassembled...

Hooks, shelves and sides need removing....

The mahogany base needs cleaning...

Lion feet need polishing ( they hide wooden caster rollers)...

Skeleton keys must be fished out of the bombay drawer...

Top cap and beveled full-length mirror are removed for transport...

And whatever you do, don't lose the pegs... because the entire piece is pegged together (quality craftsmanship from 1890).

Once it's home, reassembly starts upstairs. First the base with the lion feet, casters, and drawer. Then the back and first side are pegged in and attaching screws replaced.

Then the third side...

And finally the top cap is lifted onto its pegs...the mirror door rehung...

And it's ready for...

All of this...

Which just barely fits, and it appears I already need another armoire*.

*Armoire....a freestanding closet, originating in the castles of the wealthy in Europe...one of the first exported products from America to England, due to plentiful wood in the Colonies..originally a decent sized armoire was based on the 'eight small men' system (in other words, a decent sized armoire would be able to hold eight small men. ) This system was probably invented by the lady of the castle.

Day 287/365 The Nursery

2011-08-07T10:36:00.001-07:00

Look carefully behind the lampshades, lamps needing re-wiring, antique spool cabinet, and overflowing bookcase, all the way to the ledge of white brick (the one with the Lurch hand on one end and giant books on the other end, right under the framed Lady of the Lake painting).

That white ledge is actually our fireplace mantle (our only working fireplace in our 1858 home). Presently it has gas logs which have been used exactly twice in fourteen years (global warming being what it is and Virginia being hot as Hades).

More importantly, this summer, it is The Nursery.

Yes, our 1858 chimney has been adopted by a community of chimney swifts and it sounds like there are hundreds in there.

Mama builts a nest out of twigs and saliva, and somehow it clings to the vertical surface. They prefer hollowed out trees as nesting sites, but with so much human development the swifts have evolved to include brick and mortar chimneys, meaning primarily old chimneys like mine, since modern chimneys tend to be metal lined or capped. Metal linings mean the babies can't cling to the sides, and they slide and fall to the bottom and starve to death. A capped chimney completely blocks access.

Babies are tiny, naked and pink. Kindof like humans.

Teenagers hang on the sides of the chimneys, chattering and begging for food, preening and showing off their wings. Again, much like humans.

And about two weeks after the chattering begins, mama takes them out for their first night flight, and they spend the evening cruising the loop around their nesting spot. A couple nights later, they begin to visit other nests, and eventually a huge flock of swifts will dance in the night sky.

You may wonder why I'm delighted to have chimney swifts in our house.

First, each chimney swift eats up to 12,000 insects a day. They love mosquitoes, gnats,and other flying insects. Every time mama comes back to the nest she carries approximately 600 insects in her mouth to hand off to the babies. Fortunately, their feeding season has come after the firefly season, otherwise we'd have issues.

Second, chimney swifts are a protected species under the Migratory Bird Act. These guys are on vacation from the Amazon Basin in Peru and it's a violation of federal law to take down their nests or interfere with their babies.

Not that I would do that. I've gotten use to the chattering in the chimney - they seem to love TV, and comment endlessly on it. The dogs have quit staring at the fireplace. The cats are disgusted.

But the third reason I'm delighted to have the swifts as houseguests is mostly because I'm so damned happy they aren't bats.

***Obvious note: Except for the first photo, these photos are not mine. For one thing, it's apparent I can't get anywhere near my fireplace. Also, my house has an extremely steep roof, and I'm not about to climb it just to use a zoom lens to take photos of the swifts, who would probably swarm out and knock me off the roof anyways. Happily for me, someone else did, and I do appreciate that. And I hope they survived.

Day 286/365 Sentimental Journey

2011-07-19T20:26:00.000-07:00

It's late evening here in the sultry South, the sort of evening that calls for sentimental jazz...

And that means one of my favorite songs.....

In all its various reincarnations...

Including my most favorite....

Because I do...

Day 285/365 Classic

2011-07-12T13:29:00.000-07:00

Walked out the door today to a virtual WALL OF FREAKING HEAT...as in 107 degrees.

And instantly traveled back in time to 1974...

Hotter-than-hell July - heat shimmering on the road- trees all dusty- no breeze whatsoever - riding in my cousin's Chevy SS - spinning out on mountain curves - windows down -laughing at everything- and the radio cranked up as high as it would go...playing the best Southern band ever....The Allman Brothers (second only in my own personal triumverate to my boys from Liverpool).

Reminded me of a time when the South was cool, in between the Bull Conner Days and today's Tea Party occupation. Back when tall skinny Georgia boys with beautiful long hair could take a simple guitar and create magic.

When I lived up north and flew home for visits, Southbound was playing on my headset when we passed over the first Appalachian Mountains - kindof a homecoming song for me - odd hybrid exile that I was.

In college it was The Allman Brothers that I stuck on the turntable on the first day back in the dorms - just so everyone would know where I came from.

Can't remember how many times I've seen them in concert - none recently -but as soon as I heard Gregg had a new CD out, I ran out to buy it, forever grateful that he made it through the last 30 years and seems to have come out okay, unlike a lot of us.

And it was The Allman Brothers I gave to my daughter - she has her own signature song. Pretty sure she was the only newborn rocking out to Jessica.

Perfection.

Makes 107 degrees totally bearable.

Day 284/365 Who...What..Where...When...Why

2011-06-21T18:37:00.000-07:00

Remember that old TV show "The Naked City" ("there's a million stories in the Naked City, and this is one of them...")

So here's the story of the polka dot purse, the one that looks like it should be on Marilyn's arm in Some Like It Hot. This one came to me courtesy of an estate sale, and it's just been listed, sold and shipped to its new owner. It's canvas, with leather hand straps, and a brass toggle on the top to keep it securely shut. And it has a bright lipstick red interior, with a side pocket that zips.

I imagine someone forgot to clean out that side pocket though. And they left a little mystery for consideration.

Remember this is a late Fifties purse. A time of women in high heels, sheath dresses, red lipstick, gloves and hats. A time when women didn't usually take off and travel out-of-town by themselves.

This little calendar dates it perfectly to the summer of 1962. *Not* 1963 - because only the summer months of 1962 are on this calender (versus the early spring months of 1963)and no woman would have used a white purse before Memorial Day or after Labor Day back in the early Sixties.

Especially not to go to the beauty parlor to get her hair done. Everyone sees you at the beauty parlor.

So, Wednesday August 21, 1962....our mystery lady gets her hair done, first thing in the morning.

She has someone's credit card for gas (I've obscured the name and account number), but would like to point out that this was *not* the name of the family being liquidated at the sale. So was it a friend? A lover? Someone close enough to hand over his credit card. (And apparently he never got it back). Someone who knew she needed to travel that day and wanted to be sure she made it to her destination.

And then there are scraps of paper with large numbers listed and totalled. $10,217.00 - an awful lot of money back in 1962.

And a couple of phone numbers (yes, children those are phone numbers, back before private exchanges were common). And more large numbers, this time with names.

With another scrap: "you $1,000.00 cash" and "Hall $5000.00" Remember, in 1962 you could buy a new car for around $3000, and a new home for $13,000. The average income was $5500 a year. So what in the world do all these large dollar sums mean?

Then a matchbook from Nick's Caribbean Restaurant in Myrtle Beach - approximately 6 hours by car from Virginia Beach (Nick's is long gone btw).

Our girl was nervous while she waited at Nick's - there are several matches torn out.

And a scribbled note to herself: "meek & timid.... bashful, reserved."

Wonder who she was waiting for, sitting in the bar at Nick's, smoking cigarette after cigarette, worrying over being meek and timid, totaling up figures on scraps of paper. Wonder what she needed that money for? Wonder if James knew why she needed his gas card, or if maybe she borrowed it without asking?

What an interesting little mystery.

Day 283/365 Old School Technology

2011-06-15T09:13:00.001-07:00

A couple weekends ago we went to the annual "sale to end all sales" and found lots of "good stuff". More interesting are the items you see and never knew existed. Like the 4 foot tall set of three camels, made from actual dried camel skin.

There's more run-of-the-mill things too - like this early Sixties General Electric stereo. I've seen plenty like it - spent hours spinning my Beatle records on one just like this.

But not exactly just like this - this one is the first I've seen with a reel-to-reel built in with the turntable and top-of-the-line AM/FM radio.

What's weird is that this last weekend we went to another sale and lo and behold, there was another stereo cabinet -early Sixties again - but a vertical cabinet standing close to 7' - complete with AM/FM, turntable, and a reel-to-reel. Plus hugemongous speakers on either side. I got to watch another mom explain to her boys what "reel to reel" was. Never mind the turntable.

But this is what we actually came home with. Yes, it's even more old school than the GE set - it's a 1920's Victrola - complete with hand crank. No electricity needed.

Needle included, and one 78 already on the turntable.

Who needs an ipod?

Day 282/365 Come Back Little Sheba...

2011-05-31T19:43:00.000-07:00

We have one of those houses where you never know what you'll see. For instance, my mom holding her grandsnake, when she's had a snake phobia her entire life. Leave it to Sherlock to charm his way into her hands.

Now Sherlock has a new sister, Sheba....

Ahem.

SHEBA!

There she is.

Sheba is a Kenyan Sand Boa. This means that if I ever make it back to Kenya, I will *not* be stepping lightly, since Sheba's cousins are over there hiding under the sand.

Sheba has a variety of Sesame-Street talents, including illustrating a sideways letter "L"....

And a backwards letter "J",or possibly a number "One"....

Best of all is her impression of the magician Houdini and his disappearing act ....

Takes all of three seconds for that.

Leaving beautiful Zen drawings in her sand.

Day 281/365 In Memory of A Good Dog

2011-05-25T09:01:00.000-07:00

Whiny Muncy passed away this morning, May 25, 2011, at 10:25 am, at the age of twelve and one-half years. He spent his last evening sitting with his mama then waited through the night, until she could sit with him again this morning.

Although he earned his name as a pup, as an adult dog, he was always easy-going, ever-affectionate and loving, and loved nothing better than to sit in the nearest lap. He was the proverbial "good dog", and any pup would be proud to live up to his standards.

Whiny was the son of Millicent (Millie) Magruder Muncy and Maximillan (Max)MacGregor Muncy. He was one of three pups, with two litter brothers, Lucky and Shy (of West Virginia), and one younger adopted brother, Chewy.

Whiny was preceded in death by both his mother, Millie (May 2009)and his brother, Lucky (May 2010).

His mother and father were both Missouri puppy mill survivors. As a result, Millie had numerous emotional and physical issues resulting from her treatment as a puppy. Many of those health issues were passed to her litter.

Whiny now joins his mother and brother sleeping with the butterflies, leaving a huge hole in both his human and his fur family.

Whiny Muncy

November 11, 1998 - May 25,2010

Day 280/365 Of Black Dogs and Lobsters

2011-05-18T19:03:00.001-07:00

While it seems like every weekend we trot off to an incredible yard sale... like the one belonging to the Leopard Lady...(where every surface imaginable, in every room, in addition to every item, was covered in leopard print...I kid you not)...

There are the occasional weekends where there are no sales....and we are sad and desperate.

Those weekends we turn to the Golden Ox...

Herman the German....

Black Dog Salvage.

One of those places that must be seen to be believed.

Deep in its depths, anything can be found.

Architectural salvage like these wooden columns off some demolished Southern mansion that has lost it's Scarlett...

Orphan fireplace mantles circa 1870, 1900, 1920, 1930 - pick your decade, they're all lined up, waiting for stockings to be hung with care.

Up a ramp, fountains and benches and herds of concrete animals wander inside rusted wrought iron fencing.

The centerpiece of the "stove room", which also has two early 1960s pop machines (that work).

You can even buy luggage, in case you want to travel a vaudeville circuit...

Or buy seating for your own theatre.

Start your own business with a crank cash register.

Write another "dummies" book....

Meanwhile, this is the largest turn-of-the-century "ice box" I've ever seen - probably came out of an old country store.

The infamous stairway to heaven (I want this and the library that should go with it so badly).

No decorating motif is complete without a 3' suspended metal lobster

Or a mansion-sized palladian window.

Along the back side, past the metal lobster, are the various vendor booths, right under the building-length skylights with the hanging stained glass windows.

Someday, when my inventory grows up, I'd like a booth here, but my stock, at the moment, is too normal. I need quirky, unusual items.....like this stack of vintage books, dipped in wax.

There's no wick, so they aren't a candle, and frankly I'm not sure of the point, but well, there they are. Nothing like a wax covered 1808 dictionary.

And then I saw this sign in one of the stalls...and I was delighted...*he called?*...*really!?!?!?!*

What to get, what to get........

Metal lobsters or naked manakins?

Nah....Golden Ox.

Chewy will love it.

Day 279/365 Winning Streak

2011-04-19T18:23:00.001-07:00

Another weekend, another estate sale, another anonymous car with tinted windows.

Until the doors are opened.

Every inch crammed full.

And an awesome trunk that is as magical as Mrs. Weasley's tent....capable of holding an amazing number of things.

A Turkish rug (a real one)...

A turn of the century carpenter's trunk, complete with four sliding wooden trays and a tricky lock and key...

And a Windsor chair, a small pedestal table, a heavy duty handmade oak curio shelf....

A handmade tray (I'm planning on putting postcards in it)...

A handmade full size quilt top in Sunflower pattern, plus a twin size floral chenille spread...

An antique military souvenir scarf from Czechoslovakia, right next to the embroidered dresser runner...

1920's souvenir plates - one from Saratoga Springs, New York (during its heyday as a resort community)....

More linens...this time crocheted tablecloths and doilies....

The weirdest pair of lamps I've ever seen, and these will end up with their own blog post, because they have attachments that give them their name: spider lamps. More to come on that.

An unusual oil lamp, with a heavy brass base, sporting an odd blend of art nouveau and late 1800s European painted glass. Probably the sleeper of the day.

It's not old, but it's a beautiful print by an artist my daughter loves. And a great frame.

So, all in all, we're still batting 1000. Now I get to research and tag all this stuff, and move it over to the booth. Just in time for next weekend's sale.

Day 278/365 Gambling Pays Off

2011-04-11T18:46:00.000-07:00

Sunday I decided to flirt with disaster and take the van to estate sales. For once Murphy's law took a vacation and we found one sale at 50% and the second at 70% off. Meaning this beautiful chest of drawers, cica 1920, is now in the booth. The doors open to reveal two drawers, and the mirror on top tilts.

The 70% off sale yielded this gorgeous 1900 Art Nouveau dresser - intricately carved details, massive, heavy - this one almost ended up at home in the permanent collection.

Both of these dressers literally went in the van, and straight to the booth, with only a loving coat of orange oil applied to freshen them up.

We also took this little half moon table from last weekend's sale - also from the 1920s, it came from a sale where the most prized possession of the owner was an autographed campaign poster of G.W. Bush, Jr. Displayed prominently on opening day, it was still there at lock-up on closing day. Didn't even move at 50% off. And we're in Republican country.

Sometimes though, the treasure comes in pieces and needs a little more than orange oil.

Even when it has feet with golden claws.

Sometimes the pieces need to be put back together. And there's a possibility that the missing piece needs to be cut out of completely new wood, so that the top and legs can be reunited and make a happy table once again.

Of course, because we took the van, we had plenty of room for the 40" framed collection of early 1900's photos of twins.... but that's another post.

Day 277/365 Puzzle

2011-03-30T14:21:00.000-07:00

Every Friday and/or Saturday morning, we start out for a round of estate sales and yard sales. The eternal question is "do we take the van or the car?" Translation: Do we want to take out a loan to fill the tank (as of today $120.75 for one tankful) or do we want to gamble on being able to fit whatever we buy into the four door sedan?

Last weekend we took the car (currently costing $62.10 to fill). It is an impressive little vehicle.

The trunk holds all the safety flares, tire inflators, jumper cables, took kits and emergency equipment this mother requires her daughter to carry *PLUS* a cooler bag, 2 -40 lb bags of cat litter (still early spring here, with possibility of glare ice), a 1930's bedside lamp, large retro lamp shade, a vintage brass night light with small shade, a 1940's pie plate, a white 1930's iris ceramic vase, cookbook (for me) called Le Bouche Creole, a small chalkware planter, and a folding mahogany table with drawer on four carved legs.

Meanwhile the back seat holds a full-size repro coffee table and an electrified hurricane lamp (wrapped in my sweater).

Floor of back seat holds four commemorative plates, stuck in between books because (once again) I forgot to put newspaper and bubble wrap back in the car for transporting, as well as a large heavy lamp (the one that goes with the shade in the trunk).

All made it home safely.

Even the white iris vase.

Oh - forgot the framed woodland print, circa 1930's. Can't remember where it ended up - probably behind the kitty litter.

And after estate sales, we even had room to stop and pick up a treat for Sherlock the grandsnake......Frozen Fuzzies!

Murphy's Law for estate sales: If you take the van, you'll find nothing worthwhile. If you take the car, the estate sales will be loaded with antiques worth millions, each priced at $1.00.

Day 276/365 Necessary Distractions

2011-03-10T18:21:00.001-08:00

My mother is the daughter of a sharecropper. She grew up in the heart of Appalachian poverty, stuffing newspaper into the walls to keep in the woodstove heat, and wearing dresses out of flour sacks. With that upbringing, she had no real understanding or interest in antiques or "old stuff".

So, it was a friend of hers that took me to my first auction forty-one years ago when I was fourteen (I'll wait while you do the math). I fell in love with the entire idea of owning pieces of history and started buying everything from American Primitive and antique cameras to vintage jewelry and 1930s chinaware.

Eventually my 930 pieces of Blue Ridge dinnerware (plus Ebay) saw us through nine months of unemployment.And I started selling off storage bins full of collectibles. Twelve years later, I'm still selling,on both Ebay and Amazon, and I'm still buying.

As of a couple months ago, I moved into selling in bricks-and-mortar antique malls, opening my first booth. My partner created the name Three Graces, and the inventory comes from both of us. She's the doll collector (I tore the heads off my Barbie's), and I'm the china and assorted memorabilia person. Only a couple vintage books made it here -I prefer to keep those online.

Then last weekend, I opened a second booth, about 30 miles away (and across a couple mountains, so it's further than it sounds). This was the opening set-up with everything that fit into the van and a trailer. That's an unused 1950s Lane cedar chest in a fruitwood finish, complete with the original promotional paper that came with it.

The tablecloths laying the cedar chest were hand-crocheted by my mother, out of fishing net, while she sat on the shores of Lake Bangwelu in Zambia in the early 1970's. Are you asking "how can you sell those"? We have others. She spent a *lot* of time on the shore at Lake Bangwelu, and Lake Tangiyika, and the Zambezi River, waiting for my dad to finish with his students. Hours of tablecloths...

The other side of the booth is retro 1949's and 1950's: boomerang tables, metal and ceramic lamps, rattan Eames style chair, and some 1980's Mickey. And lamps - I love vintage lamps. I have them all over my house: some 1950's, some 1940's, some 1930's. The lamps on the mantle are 1940's, the ones on the end tables are 1959 (I grew up with them - they were the first "new" lamps my mom and dad could afford to buy). All are newly re-wired, courtesy of my daughter,
who, hearing me say "oh, it needs new wiring" , stepped up and said "I'll figure it out." She nows re-wires all my lamps for me.

Within 24 hours two large pieces had sold and so we had to round up another vanload and fill the empty spots (this is a good problem). They are difficult to see but to the left and right of the fireplace mantle sit solid oak colonades, each with it's own original oak column. We actually found these in the attic of our previous home in Minnesota, removed by original owner when they remodeled at the outbreak of World War II and became a boarding house for war brides. I had always hoped to put them back in their original places, but then the house was purchased by the college next door. They had no interest in restoration, so we brought the colonades and columns with us.

Eventually I'll run out of corners and storage areas to pull stock from, but it'll probably be awhile. Meanwhile, there's a couple estate sales tomorrow that I'm checking out....wish me luck.

Day 275/365 Mardi Gras Redux...Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler!

2011-03-08T17:00:00.000-08:00

****I'm Back...and what better day than Fat Tuesday or Carnival, better known as Mardi Gras? Below is the 2009 Mardi Gras post, mostly because I've been snowed under both with massive change as well as tons of work - but really because I love that photo of the Purple Man Mask.... I really should be posting from The Big Easy..there is no fairness in life...Enjoy!********

*Originally posted February 2009

It's Carnival Time again! Mardi Gras actually started on Twelfth Night, January 6th, and runs full steam until Midnight on Fat Tuesday, this year February 24th.

I credit my fairly laid-back social views to a lifetime of more-than-a-few Mardi Gras seasons. You can't grow up watching transvestites and grown men dancing in feathered costumes without being affected on some level.

You also learn a certain amount of tolerance when your home is invaded by millions of people annually, usually for the last three or four days of Carnival (fortunately the visitors don't realize the parties actually string out for three to six weeks).

Mardi Gras is famous for its parades, there's always several going on somewhere in the city. For instance today, February 19, there are three. Tomorrow there are five. Parades are full of huge, colorful floats, the most incredible, complex, outrageous floats you can imagine. Each float (and sometimes the whole parade) is sponsored by a krewe. Krewe can loosely translate into "club", and several have been around since the 1800's.

My own favorite krewes:

Krewe of Rex: This krewe picked the famous Mardi Gras colors of purple, gold and green, besides thinking of the idea of collectible Mardi Gras doubloons. The very first doubloons were thrown out in 1960, which just happens to be the first year I was deemed old enough to go to a parade.

Mardi Gras Indians: Traditionally the focal point for New Orleans Black Mardi Gras, now front and center, and famous for their intricate beaded costumes worth thousands of dollars. The "Indians" name was chosen to show the black respect for the native Indians of Louisiana, who would help slaves escape during ante-bellum days. You can also see the Indians parade on the Sunday closest to St. Joseph's Day, March 19 (this year March 22nd), in an afternoon parade that starts around Orleans and Bayou St. John, and goes who-knows-where-from-there. Like any other Mardi Gras Indian parade, the exact route is not designated, and twists and turns through the city.

Krewe of Proteus: Totally themed on Egyptian mythology, dates back to 1882, and the second oldest Krewe

Krewe of Thoth: Named for the Eyptian god of Wisdom (he invented science, arts and letters). To me, letters means the written word, or books. You know I had to love them. Dates to 1947, before my time.

Krewe of Okeanos: Okeanos is the Greek god of oceans and valleys -very important when your city is perched on the edge of the Gulf.

Krewe of Cleopatra: Founded during my college years in 1972, the first all-female Krewe in the Westbank.

Krewe of Iris: The oldest and biggest all-female krewe in New Orleans proper, originated in 1917, and parading since 1959.

And Chewy's favorite:

Krewe of Barkus: the only krewe by and for canines of all types.

The krewe names alone conjure up mystical events and mythological gods: Adonis, Argus,Zeus, Isis, Hermes, Aquila, Jason, Morpheus, Muses, Chaos, Centurions, Nemesis, Rhea, Ancient Druids, Excalibur, King Arthur & Merlin, Pegasus, Caesar, Sparta, Shangri0La, Pygmalion, Gladiators, Ponchatrain,and so many more.

Most krewes have their own royalty. This lovely lady is the 1959 Queen of the Krewe of Troubadours.

Traffic rolls to a stop in both the French Quarter and Uptown, as there is always a parade starting (or ending), and the floats line the sidestreets, waiting for their turn. Floats can be huge carrying hundreds (literally hundreds) of riders. In 1994, the Krewe of Orpheus set a record (at that time) with 700 riders on a single float.

The Krewe of Bacchus carries the various celebrity monarchs and is known for its elaborate floats (and its great souvenirs -thrown indiscriminately to the crowds who are shouting "THROW ME SOMETHING MISTER!")

Many people don't know that Mardi Gras was actually first celebrated in Mobile, Alabama -mostly because they were settled before New Orleans. Approximately 30 years later, New Orleans started in on its first Carnival, and proved to be much better than Mobile at partying, carrying on all night, producing the necessary strange and bizarre personages, and maintaining a live-and-let-live year-round spirit of total debachery.

Let The Good Times Roll!

Day 274/365 Homesick

2011-01-25T17:56:00.000-08:00

Being part of a Southern family means hearing incessantly about where the ancestors were from.

As in, normal dinnertime conversation may center around great-great-granddad and whatever he did back in 1800.

As if he is sitting at the dinner table with you, accompanied by every generation that preceded him.

This peculiar practice is repeated a thousand fold if your family roots lie in Scotland.

I have clear vibrant memories of watching my great-grandmother (a tiny bird-like woman, always dressed in Victorian black)eating her lunch and telling us stories of Scotland, as if she had been there the week before. She made sure we knew the brilliance of the green hills, how the thick fog rolled off the peaks, and how the sun broke through on the loch.

She made sure it was regarded as our homeland, no matter how long our family had been in America, or who we had intermarried with.

She made sure we knew which ancestor fought in which battle, and which chief led the clan from when to when, and what led to the removal of our clan's lands, and why. She made sure we knew the reason an old set of bagpipes sat in the corner of the closet under the steps, and why the the Fourth of July saw hundreds of tiny American flags in the front yard, intermixed with tiny Scottish flags.

It wasn't until I was much older that I learned she heard all those stories from her father and mother, who heard them from their father and mother, all the way back to 1632, and the original emigrant, who was torn from his family and his mountains and sent off to the colonies as the ultimate punishment. His wife was thrown out of her home and branded, his children were bashed against walls until they were dead, and their home was burnt to the ground.

Yet somehow, over time, the original imigrant made sure that the beauty of Scotland was what most important in family memory, rather than revenge. This was the reason for the dinnertime stories full of legends of the Children of the Mist, Rob Roy MacGregor, William Wallace, Robert Bruce and the many now-nameless Highland men who disappeared over those green mountains while fighting for Scotland's freedom from the Brits and their clan's very survival.

After my great-grandmother passed on, the stories were then repeated by my great-aunt.

Now I repeat them to my daughter.

Someday she'll repeat them to her children.

Just as if the ancestors were still sitting at the dinner table.

Day 273/365 A Rose Is A Rose

2011-01-12T17:48:00.001-08:00

Total Confusion and Chaos in the livingroom.... moving 20 some boxes of books to their home on new bookcases.... weeding more than a few out, selling some....

That big stack with the two fat red books on top? Those are headed for the donation pile.

What's that one on top?

Same as the red one underneath it. How in the world did I end up with two copies of Art of the Ancient World? Both of which weigh at least 10 lbs each...

And what's that stuck in the middle?

A large folded piece of paper stuck in between pages 256 and 257....

Holding a single red rose on a stem...

Still tied to a card with nothing written on it...

Dried how long ago? Saved by who? Given by who? To say what?
I'm sorry... I forgot... I didn't mean it... I love you...

Saved for years. Long forgotten. Tucked in Art of the Ancient World.

Day 272/365 She was like Mary Poppins

2011-01-09T17:43:00.000-08:00

One of my early loves was photography - I went through the late 1970s and all of the 1980s shooting everything I could, living in my darkroom, collecting vintage cameras, and reading everything I could find on the great photographers. My favorite medium was black and white, and my favorite photographer was Imogene Cunningham.

As of this week I have a new favorite, Vivian Maier. Her work is incredible - as good as any Ansel Adams or Alfred Stieglitz ....or Imogene Cunningham - but I bet you've never heard of her.

Now you have.

Makes me want to get out the old cameras again.

More photos...

Day 271/365 Approximately 47 years ago.....

2011-01-06T17:50:00.000-08:00

Debuting on December 26, 1963.....my boys....

and quite possibly one of the finest rock n roll songs ever on the B Side:

That's the February 1964 Washington D.C. concert.

For anyone too young to remember, god I'm sorry. Forty-seven years later, they're still the best.

Day 270/365 Oldest House in Richmond

2010-12-26T12:35:00.000-08:00

So driving through Richmond the other day we stopped to look at this 18th century house and found this beautiful courtyard.

The little stone house came complete with window boxes, with ravens perched on the front...

And dead flowers left laying in the courtyard.

Know where we are yet? No?

Here's a hint:

"All that we see or seem..... Is but a dream within a dream."

Still no? It's the oldest house in Richmond, probably built in 1737 (read the sign)...more importantly eventually bequeathed to the Edgar Allen Poe Foundation and now home to the Poe Museum.

Poe's foster family raised him in Richmond, and he last visited here two weeks before his untimely death at the age of 40 in 1849. Turns out, contrary to popular rumor, Edgar was not a drunkard - he actually had difficulty consuming much more than a half glass of wine, and that usually sent him to his bed with massive headaches. The exact circumstances of his death in Baltimore are still a mystery - he fell to his knees on a public sidewalk (in front of a tavern),
"in great distress, and... in need of immediate assistance". His foster family refused to acknowledge him. His physician assumed custody and provided care. Edgar was never coherant long enough to explain what led to his condition, or why he was wearing clothes that did not belong to him. He died 5 days later.

After his death, an obituary appeared in a New York paper. It's opening line: "Edgar Allan Poe is dead. He died in Baltimore the day before yesterday. This announcement will startle many, but few will be grieved by it." The unauthorized obituary would be followed by an equally unauthorized biography by the same author. The author turned out to be Poe's chief critic, a man with a long-held grudge. Somehow he ended up being Poe's literary executor, and he viciously painted Poe as a depraved madman, addicted to alcohol and drugs, even producing forged letters and diaries. That image turned out to be great for sales of Poe's macabre stories.

Except none of it was true.

To vilify a great man is the readiest way in which a little man can himself attain greatness. (Edgar Allan Poe)

Day 269/365 Heavenly Road Trip

2010-12-22T18:57:00.000-08:00

The building known to most mortals as The Library of Congress.

Known to me, a mere booklover and bookseller as Heaven...

Paradise...

Nirvana...

The Emerald City, so to speak.

Spent this afternoon there, at a special exhibition of Thomas Jefferson's Library. You know, the one Tom donated after the Brits burned our first Library of Congress in 1812, and again in 1814? I actually got to stand surrounded by the Jefferson books, all shelved inside enclosed climate-comtrolled glass bookcases, arranged in a circular seashell spiral pattern. In a wing of the Library of Congress. **Best freaking Christmas present ever**.

No photos allowed (hard on the books). Sorry. Also no touching allowed. Really sorry about that (more for me than you). Still, just being that close to Jefferson's books almost made me cry. They are the Holy Grail of books.

And the titles? Lots of French titles (Tom spoke fluent Francois. I do not.). As well as A History of Mineral Waters, Microsope Made Easy (publiished 1744), History of the United Provinces (that's us), The Workes of Sir Thomas More, Franklin on Electricity (yes, written by his friend Ben Frankin), Natural History of Zoophytes, and Every Man His Own Gardener.

And approximately 3000 more.

While I couldn't take pictures of Tom's books, I did get this view from a secluded alcove in the Library. That's the Capitol, and way in the background the Washington Monument.

Enjoy....

Day 268/365 Best Job in DC

2010-12-21T19:18:00.000-08:00

Especially on a windy 33 degree afternoon in December.

Today's happy trail adventure led to the Live Butterfly Habitat on the second floor, just ouside Africa and above The Elephant in the rotunda.

The entry looks like a sci fi space set, with an air lock that keeps the warmth and humidity inside. We needed timed entry tickets and if you're headed that way, Tuesday's are free.

Butterflies live an average of two weeks, so lots of babies are needed to constantly repopulate the habitat. Each butterly's two weeks are spent in what amounts to butterfly heaven. All the flowers and nectar they could ever want, and no predators.

Mist sprays out every few minutes, letting the butterflies float on the moisture and cluster on blossoms.

Humans are told that the butterflies like to land on ledges and the floor. We were told not swat at them, even if they land on heads or bodies (and they did), and before leavinng we had to check ourselves, in case anyone hitched a ride.

My favorite pic...alll golden and glowing...

When this one flies, it exposes the inside of its wings - bright opalescent blue,edged in black...

The volunteers that work here use soft brushes to move the butterfliies away from departing humans. They field questions, guard the chrysallis', and release a daily crop of new butterflies.

Best job in D.C. hands down.

Day 267/365 Road Trip....Crime and Punishment

2010-12-20T17:07:00.000-08:00

It's not every vacation blog that opens with a shot of Ted Bundy's volkswagen, but our family is special that way. Today's itinerary includes serial killers, bones, forensic labs and my ecstatic daughter.

First, courtesy of the Crime and Punishment Museum, a bit of family history. Here you see Jessie's James' gun and the torn scrap of Confederate flag he always carried with him. Also shown, his slate notebook he carried in his coat pocket (Lunch-1 pm, Rob bank 3 pm, evade sheriff 4-6 pm, Remember milk and bread on way home...). I say family history because one of my great aunt's married Jessie's cousin, and was so taken with the idea she promptly named her son Jesse James. As a result he developed a wild side (no surprise there huh?) and ended up driving his motorcycle off the edge of a West Virginia mountain. As far as we know, he was not evading the sheriff (at least not that time).

Found this original 1930's cartoon style map of Chicago, noting each gang's territory: Capone has the largest section. Did they print these to give to tourists?

And the museum has Capone's silverware, and his hotel key.

Ever see Goodfella's? It's the true story of mobster Henry Hill. Now he's retired and considered something of an artist. Last Christmas, I surprised my daughter with a handmade bullet knife made and signed by Henry Hill. Probably not what everyone wants to find under the Christmas tree, but again, we're that way.

I did my senior thesis on serial killers so it's a topic I'm familiar with (and fascinated by). This is Albert De Salvo's knife he allegedly used while he was working as the Boston Strangler. I say allegedly because he was never actually convicted, and there's a lot of confusion and questions regarding his invovement.

And then there's this piece of hand painted baseball memorabilia -signed by many of the greats including Jolting Joe DiMaggio. Then they found out the artist was John Wayne Gacy, and a little of their enthusiasm disappeared.

My daughter in her element -never mind a trip to the mall -all the girl wants is her own coroners office.

Lacking that, we wandered over to the Museum of Natural Science and their incomparable forensics lab.

Currently they are investigating early colonial burials in Jjamestown Virginia. They've found bones....

more bones....

more bones

and the best of all bones, a man and his dog.

We're thinking of staying for another day. Too many bones to count.

Day 266/365 Road Trip Day 2

2010-12-19T18:08:00.000-08:00

This is what vacations are like when you have a child who's into military history.

First you spend the morning at the Holocaust Museum. (No photography allowed, so no preview for you -just go. It's amazing.)

After that, you spend the afternoon briskly walking to all the war memorials on the western end of the Mall. You walk briskly because it's 35 degrees, and your face is frozen in place.

But in spite of your eyes being frozen open, you still notice little corners of monuments you never noticed on previous trips.

Of course, sometimes you skitter to a stop on the icy cobblestone and wait while your child (the one interested in military history) takes pictures of a squirrel.

After remembering to stop and look up friends from the old days just so they know you haven't forgotten them...

You trudge up the steps to see the big guy.

Pausing at the top to realize that this is your umpteenth trip to DC and you still haven't been able to get tickets to the Washington Monument.....and you have approximately a mile to walk back to the Metro station.

Big Guy is still there, impressive as ever...

But have you ever noticed these murals, set up over the Gettysburg Address, in the wings of the Memorial?

And just to the left of the Gettysburg Address is a plain bronze door, unmarked in any way. Go through it, and there's an elevator. It only goes down one level, right into a small Lincoln Memorial museum.

My favorite part was this little alcove filled with multiple screens of the March on Washington and Dr. King, with audio of his speech playing as you watch the changing photos.

There there's the Little Guy, forerunner of the actual sculpture upstairs over your head.

And some of Abe's best words (and most prophetic I think, living where I do)

Afterwards, with numb feet and blue fingers, we trudge appropriately towards Korea, having by this point some small inkling of how soldiers felt over in that frozen muddy cold wasteland.

This is a war memorial that gets up close and personal - you can see the lines in the faces of these battle-weary soldiers. Sometimes out of the corner of your eye, they seem alive.

Wary looks for snipers, the crunch of boots on ice, the crackle of the radio -it's all here.

All that "glory of war".

And the American soldier that gets sent to do the fighting for the old men in the suits.

Day 265/365 Road Trip

2010-12-18T17:03:00.000-08:00

This was the scene early this morning. One of our empty rural roads that eventually (3 hours later) gave way to....

the traffic outside of Richmond, which gave way to...

spaghetti interstates with traffic running at 75-80 mph....

the famous Phillip Morris smokestack (the tobacco rep in me couldn't resist)....

flying trucks....

all found along this road.

Our final destination and at least for the next four days...

we're being spoiled.

But we still checked for bedbugs on account of there being an epidemic of the little suckers...

Tomorrow -the Holocaust Museum and every freaking war monument on the Mall. My daughter is planning the itinerary.

P.S. For those of you I said I'd be able to contact through FB - never mind -for some reason it isn't working and so you will have to hold those lovely thoughts till I'm home again.

Day 264/365 More Appalachia....

2010-12-16T19:44:00.000-08:00

Pocahontas County, West Virginia, photo by Wyatt Green

"I remember the drive to West Virginia from the Pittsburgh airport, the impossible corkscrew of the roads and the dented iron railings that lined them. I remember how dense the leaves of August were, how dark it could look in the holler even at noon. I remember the metallic scent of land raped by industry and how it rattled your teeth. I remember bony dogs running free down the highway, clotheslines strung heavy with overalls, the sound of gravel under the tires, the cool of the air, the supple dapple of the light, and how my grandmother's voice rose and sang like a bell above it all as she sang on the drive home, the piercing white clarity of her song lending the whole worn scene a delicious flavor, a purpose.

"I wanted to go anywhere my grandmother was, because my grandmother sang songs and made men blush and fed me graham crackers with honey and showed me how to walk in heels and how to braid my hair and how to be more than I thought I was in the world.

"Grandmother, my braid is uneven!"

"A man on a flying horse wouldn't see that."

"From her, I learned how to tell when a cake is cooked, how to cock my head to appear interested in someone else even when I wasn't, how to make macrame plant holders, how to tell a joke, and, during one brash moment in a truck stop ladies' room, how to smoke gracefully.

"Exhale like you're bored. And look up. Always look up." *

A friend asked me this evening, in a moment of miscommunication, "Your grandmother is still alive?", and in that moment I was suddenly and painfully reminded that she is not. I hate those moments. And I am never prepared for how much I miss her.

*Excerpt from Beauty Before Comfort, by Allison Glock, published 2003.

Day 263/365 Welcome to the South

2010-12-04T10:43:00.000-08:00

We live in the South. Upper South. Today the first snow of the season is falling.

It's really coming down and we're suppose to get an accumulation up to 2". Probably won't be here long. (And having lived in Minnesota, where 2" of snow is called "summer", we're snickering a little).

However, now we live in the South. Upper South. And that's the reason it's snowing like crazy and ...

Our neighbor is.....

Mowing his lawn. Cause that's what people do here, on Saturday, year 'round.

Day 262/365 Holding Hands

2010-11-29T07:11:00.000-08:00

UK release.... November 29, 1963...

and everything changed.

November 29, 2001.....

and everything changed.

What a long strange trip.

Thank you. I wouldn't have missed it for the world.

Day 261/365 Secret Passages

2010-11-28T19:12:00.000-08:00

I've always wanted one of these....

And with all the bookcases in my house, I'd need a GPS to find my way through all the secret passages.

One particular passageway exists in a convent in Italy. A convent that found some 1,100 particularily vintage volumes missing from its bookshelves a few years ago. Each time another book vanished, the police were called, however, there was no evidence of forced entry and no traces of the thief.

It was obviously someone borrowing Harry Potter's Invisibility Cloak.

Not until a hidden security camera was installed was the thief revealed to be a simple booklover, who was afraid the older antiquarian volumes were not being stored properly, much less being read.

He had studied an 8th century map of the convent and discovered a long-forgotten passageway thought to be used to spy on medieval monks. By first climbing up an exterior wall to the attic, a steep, narrow stairway could be reached. The dark stairway led to a secret chamber directly in back of a cupboard in the library where a hidden mechanism released an access panel.

Said booklover then spent leisurely hours perusing the ancient volumes by candlelight, choosing some to store in the attic and some to remove to his home.

Some of the books date back to the fifteenth century. Our booklover took excellent care of the books in his possession, even restoring some of the volumes.

His own words to the court:

"I'm afraid my burning passion overrode my conscience. It may appear selfish, but I felt the books had been abandoned. They were covered with dust and pigeon droppings and I felt no one consulted them any more."

I can so sympathize with this man. If I ever found a map with a secret passage into a library, let's just say I'd end up in the cell next to him. I am so tired of seeing books ignored while endless rows of computer terminals are installed..... but that's another post....

At any rate, the convent's lawyers asked only for community service, recognizing the extraordinary care our booklover had extended to the collection. But the court imposed a monetary fine (the whole making-an-example thing I guess).

Afterwards, the convent hired him as a teacher. He is now free to come and go in the library at anytime.

Mostly through the front door.

Day 260/365 Are you a Good Witch... or A Bad Witch?

2010-11-26T17:29:00.000-08:00

While everyone else is Black-Fridaying....I'm enjoying my traditional Thanksgiving viewing of the Wizard of Oz. People that know me from waaaaaaayback know what a peculiar little Wizard of Oz freak I am.

Starting with the early 1960s with Danny Kaye introducing the Easter showing on CBS, I was an Oz fanatic.

Fanatic - as in - I know almost every single line of dialogue for every character. I've read every interview and every behind-the-scenes book there is (the flying witch who scrawls SURRENDER DOROTHY is actually a tiny wooden silhouette, glued to the end of a pen, and then handheld in a glass pan of soapy water, and photographed from below, as the holder wrote out those infamous words).

I've read every one of the original books (there are 14 by L. Frank Baum, 26 additional by other authors, and hundreds of twists on the Oz idea). Once I almost got my hands on a first edition complete set, but had trouble scraping up the $100 (I was a broke college student at the time.) Now that set is worth thousands.

As that same college student I was a card-carrying member of the International Wizard of Oz club and spent more than a few hours writing letters (yes,letters) arguing Oz political philosophy (and yes, there is a political philosophy behind Oz - mostly socialist).

I remember the day I reached into my post office box and pulled out an hand-written letter from Margaret Hamilton, along with an autographed 8x10 of the Wicked Witch. Still have it.

And there was also the legendary 1972 theater release of the film, and the marathon 24 hour showing at my favorite Baton Rouge movie palace....the Wizard of Oz runs 103 minutes....this means with a short intermission between each showing, an addict can easily watch 12 complete showings, or 36 on a long three day weekend. Especially with a blanket, a couple pillows and huge bags of popcorn brought from home.

Outside of this odd obsession of mine, I can easily trace the influences on my life directly to Dorothy's feet....

How to get through life? Follow the yellow brick road...

Just like other little girls, I had a short-lived dream of becoming a ballerina. Not so I could dance onstage, but so I could go to Oz and join the Lullabye League....

When I was very young, I was convinced my hometown of New Orleans was the Emerald City.

Probably because I mixed this scene up with Mardi Gras and the Krewe of Rex - it does resemble a parade float...

About the same time I was taking riding lessons. I drove the teacher crazy asking her if I could ride the horse of a different color. For some reason, she kept giving me the brown one.

Should I admit how many hours I spent clicking my heels together and muttering under my breath? I know for a fact this didn't work only because my parents were good Southern Baptists and refused to buy their 9 year old daughter red sequined shoes. Otherwise, I know it would have worked.

Even later in college, Dorothy led me down more than a few paths with mystical leanings.Complete with snow.

When I graduated and received my degree, I remembered the scarecrow and his Doctorate of Thinkology. About that same time, I had occasion to remember the Tin Woodman and his heart that could not be broken. I was never that lucky.

Oz never deserted me, even as a parent. What mom hasn't uttered that immortal line: DO NOT MAKE ME COME IN THERE AND BRING THE FLYING MONKEYS!

Of course the movie had to conform with the 1939 Hayes Motion Picture Code. And that code demanded that the Oz fantasy be re-written so that children would clearly understand it was only a dream.

But see, I read the original books. And it never was a dream.

Just pure undiluted magic.

Day 259/365 Less Than Spectacular Housekeeping

2010-11-24T18:24:00.001-08:00

This is our house.

Okay not really. It's the Weasley's house. (If you need to ask who the Weasley's are, turn to another page while we talk amongst ourselves).

The Burrow is famous for its topsy-turvy, homey, cluttered look.

Our real house is very, very much like the Weasley's, minus the magic. And the magical housekeeping. But we have just as much clutter. Actually, here's a secret clue: I sell on ebay (and Amazon). All of you out there who sell on ebay immediately grasp this situation.

Not only do we have an old house, with tiny rooms designed for women in hoopskirts, but I also fit inventory for a business into my home. I am also a booklover. This is an exasperating combination. Particularily for the long-suffering husband.

There is no -I repeat- *no* way to know what you will run across in our home.

The literal Lamp of Knowledge...

Stuffed bookshelves with a framed charcoal of "Unfinished Gothic Arches"...

Unsorted boxes from this weekends booksale....

My book gnome....

My office isn't any better. Just momentarily better organized....with books from floor to ceiling (these are my personal collection)

So are these....

And these....

These too...

And this corner up by the ceiling (this is the paranormal and serial killer corner. It's okay, it was my college major).

At any rate, as it has been pointed out to me rather frequently lately, things could probably be tidier. And less cluttered.

In all fairness, I'd like to point out there aren't many livingrooms where you can find the Lady of Shalotte, an 1880 edition of The Christmas Carol, a stuffed black raven a la Edgar Allan Poe,the Lamp of Knowledge, and a original watercolor of the Black Mountain of Scotland.

All sitting next to Lurch's Walking Hand from the Munsters.

And that's just the stuff we're keeping.

Day 258/365 1 out of every 50

2010-11-21T19:38:00.000-08:00

Watching all the fracas about airport security has reminded me of some random statistics I heard a couple years ago:

1 out of every 50 people is a sociopath.

1 out of every 100 people is a psychopath.

I'd like to add that your average Boeing 757 holds 201 passengers. And a Boeing 777 holds 440, while the 737 holds anywhere from 126-149.

So let's figure that your random Thanksgiving flight on Wednesday will be 1) crammed full; and, if you are on a 757, home to 2 psychopaths and 4 sociopaths.

Worst case scenerio, flying home on a 777 will net you 4 psychopaths and 8 sociopaths (maybe 9).

Really no way to body scan for Hannibal Lector, is there?

Of course, there's always the possibility that some sociopaths will be psychopaths, sortof a two-for-one deal....

Just thought I'd throw that holiday cheer out there.

Have a great Thanksgiving!

Day 257/365 We Decide to Literally Welcome in the Dark Ages

2010-11-06T19:40:00.000-07:00

This may not look like a time portal.

But it is.

As long as my fellow Virginians (and fellow Americans) decided to take a hysterical step into the past with this last week s election, I decided to dive headfirst there myself, back to my natural spot in time, medieval Europe, home of turkey drumsticks, lusty wenches and incredibly handsome long-haired men in kilts and tights.

Ya'll have your version of progress and I have mine.

Our normal time portal, the Minnesota Renaissance Festival actually celebrated its 40th anniversary this past summer. We missed it, being stuck on the East Coast for the time being.

Therefore, welcome to the Carolina Renaissance Festival, part of the RoyalFaires renaissance circuit. Just north of Charlotte North Carolina, it's smaller than our beloved Minnesota faire, coming at just about 22 acres. Nevertheless, it's loaded with jousting, swords, juggling, fairies, wizards, and the occasional knight.

The buildings are permanent, and somewhat realistic in a medieval fantasy sort of way.

There are hundreds of costumed employees, and even more visitors that come in character. I'm not sure "in character" is the appropriate term -maybe more "in imagination". This is the one place where adults can dress up and turn themselves into what they really want to be. Today we went plainclothes, but at our home fair, we had occasion to go in costume, and it really adds to the experience.

Look closely at that elegant young lady wrapped up in the blanket.

Our favorite fairy, with the iridescent wings....

The perfect place to put a dragon on your wrist...

The giant rocking horse, all human powered.

Lots of places to shop, mostly from the artists themselves offering one-of-a-kind items.

Not to be missed: the mushroomhead man. Don't ask.

Pirate's Revenge offers a little somethin somethin for everyone...

If your family is minus that knight's pedigree, you can pick one up here.

Main Street, just past the dungeon.

Dreamweavers and Kaleidoscopes .... two words made for each other.

I have fond memories of being able to wear things like this...

What would the Dark Ages be without a mime?

Or dragon fountains....

Feathers For Pleasure...

That's a lot of pleasure....

There was even a real fairy, sketching and signing fantasy artwork.

And the belly dancers! I love belly dancers. They remind me of human snakes. In colorful skirts. With bells on.

And we drove three hours, only to find my favorite vendor with her custommade soaps and herbal blends, and then discover she lives the next county over from us back at home.

She also took pity on her customers and loaned them her magical handwarmer (it was almost as cold as the Ice Age today).

Lotions, teas, herb blends, soap.....gave me all sorts of ideas.

The traditional renaissance roasted turkey drumstick, followed with hot cider, and hot cinnamon almonds.

Catch a look at this guy...not your traditional Scotsman...

He was with his wife, obviously visitors themselves from yet another time.

Celtic Green Man was everywhere, including my daughters shirt.

This particular wiccan shop gives you an idea of the detail inside the buildings -the cathedral ceiling resembles an old 17th century ship's interior. An Ye Harm None, Do What Ye Will ...seen on a plaque here....

Four hours later, and with a considerably lighter purse, we resigned ourselves to returning to the 21st century.

Once we find the car.

Day 256/365 Walkin' That Thin Line Between Love and Hate

2010-11-04T14:10:00.000-07:00

Anyone who reads this blog regularly knows I'm a hybrid Southerner, raised first in the deep South in New Orleans, and then up north in Colorado, Iowa and Minnesota. My parents are both Appalachian Southerners, and my ancestors have been Virginians since the early 1700's, Scots immigrants before that, with strains of Irish and Cherokee mixed in there.

I love the South.

I hate the South.

Seriously, I go back and forth almost daily, sometimes hourly.

Some of my earliest memories are populated by mountain Southerners who are the kindest most welcoming people I've ever met - people that stop to help you fix your broken down car, then take you home and feed you, then drive you to wherever you need to be.

My other earliest memories are full of those same people, who for some reason felt the need to attack, spit on and intimidate people with a different skin color.

My most beloved cousin was a beer-drinking, truck-driving redneck good ol boy. From day one, he appointed himself my big brother, placing himself between me and anyone or anything that would ever harm his little peace-loving hippie cousin.

At the same time, with other people,he could be incredibly cruel and violent. Stereotypical redneck to the core, with absolutely no fondness for outsiders or Yankees.

The women in our family are the very epitome of steel magnolias, long before it appeared in movies. Southern women can be generous and kind, graceful and soft-spoken, classy and well-mannered.

They can also be ruthless when it comes to protecting anyone they love, and they do not tolerate stupidity. Nor are they shy about expressing their opinions, no matter how backward they may be perceived. They possess an unbending strength and preserverance in the face of seemingly insurmountable difficulties.

I have seen strangers trying to have a conversation with mountain southerners, absolutely unable to get much more than a short nod of acknowledgement, or a blank stare that gives away nothing to the outsider.

Hours later, around a family dinner table, those same blank faces are full of love and laughter, completely laid open to anyone in the room.

For every racist, there is a long-haired lover of the Allman Brothers. For every Confederate flag-lover, there is a reader of William Faulkner. For every Tea Partier, there is a former Freedom Rider. And for every puritanically rigid fundamentalist, there is someone who loves smokey jazz clubs and beignets in New Orleans.

There have always been two faces to the South, one of that Southern-hospitality-ya'll-come-warm-sunshiny face.

And the other -bred out of wartime defeat and Reconstruction- that reflects a darker defensive attitude of not-quite-good-enough, not-quite-smart-enough, not-quite-a-part-of-America-proper.

I guess the latter attitude is the reason the South continues to vote for and elect political cnadidates that use them, and then discard them. Candidates that mouth all the platitudes about "the little people" and then show up with the bulldozers to remove the mountaintops and pollute the mountain streams. Candidates that kiss babies and pretend they love NASCAR, and then cut school funding to educate those southern children. Candidates that show up to every small town 4th of July celebration to eat BBQ, and then disappear into the hallowed halls of Congress till the next campaign.

I can't understand why these incredibly smart mountain people keep voting for these political shysters.

You're all my family - all the good and bad, I'll accept it all.

What I can't understand is why you hate yourselves so much and sell yourselves so short.

Day 255/365 Burying Myself in Jazz

2010-11-03T07:37:00.000-07:00

Because it may keep me sane for the next two years.

Join me, while America wanders through super gridlock and we all hitch a ride in the handbasket to the new corporate America.

Petite Fleur (LITTLE FLOWER)
(Music by Sidney Bechet, 1952 / Words by Fernand Bonifay & Mario Bua, 1959) (Music by Sidney Bechet, 1952 / by Fernand Bonifay Words & Mario Bua, 1959)

J'ai caché
Mieux que partout ailleurs
Au grand jardin de mon coeur
Une petite fleur
Cette fleur
Plus jolie qu'un bouquet
Elle garde en secret
Tous mes rêves d'enfant
L'amour de mes parents
Et tous ces clairs matins
Fait d'heureux souvenirs lointains

Quand la vie
Par moments me trahi
Tu restes mon bonheur
Petite fleur

Sur mes vingt ans
Je m'arrête un moment
Pour respirer
Le parfum que j'ai tant aimé
Dans mon coeur In my heart
Tu fleuriras toujours
Au grand jardin d'amour
Petite fleur
Quand la vie
Par moments me trahi
Tu restes mon bonheur
Petite fleur

Sur mes vingt ans
Je m'arrête un moment
Pour respirer
Le parfum que j'ai tant aimé

Dans mon coeur
Tu fleuriras toujours
Au grand jardin d'amour
Petite fleur

Day 254 and a Half/365 So Much For Samhain...

2010-10-31T20:03:00.001-07:00

This is Halloween, this is Halloween...

Our house is decorated in early ghostie. Bobble heads in my office...

The sign up over my office (husband has been warned not to change any letters...)

Our resident mummy looking nervous about all the books...

The walking hand on the fireplace mantle...

Bathroom sconces and skulls (everyone has these right? No?)

Nice little homey sayings on the wall...

Dramatic shower walls and jet black shower curtain...

Bathroom attendant...

and vampire bats in the closet.

And that's year 'round before we start decorating for Halloween.

This morning the husband and daughter were up early putting together the tents for this evening's Halloween display. We fill our front yard every year with something guaranteed to frighten even the adults, and most definitely the teenagers. Barring non-cooperative weather, we draw anywhere from 150 -250 trick or treaters. Cars line the street, church buses dump their kids off, and sometimes too-scared kids wait on the sidewalk while their parents walk through our yard. A couple years ago we had a cop directing traffic when our artifical fog got too thick and rolled down the street.

Every year is a little different and little bigger. Our firm rule has always been "up and down in one day", partly because of time constraints and party because we don't want to leave our spooky collection out in the front yard overnight.

This year daughter designed a wooden set that would bridge a gap and double our space. So she and her dad built it this morning, while I unpacked the various props and put batteries in where they were needed.

Unpacking Halloween is better than Christmas. It's like seeing old friends again.

Some just throw up their hands and give me a quick bite.

I'm thinking of making this my new FB profile pic...

We have a weakness for skeletons and skull lanterns that glow.

Family portrait.

Together forever.

One of my favorites - always happy to get out of the box.

Nothing like a box o' bones...

And the matching jewelry.

Tiny skull fences, stacks of skulls, and that's a skull candleabra off to the right. Nothing weird about us.

This is part of the completed set built this morning. Right after this we hung black sheet panels to enclose the tents. Normally after this we'd start bringing down the full-size coffin, the animated skeletons, witch, mummy and the various electric props, then finally do costumes and remember to bring out the candy.

*But* today, the wind came up - as in, right after the sheets were hung. So between the tents and the sheets, it was like watching a beautiful,black-sailed ship rise up off the ground. Not good. Gusty wind is not good when you have a tent (soon to be a tent in the dark) full of expensive animated props and electrical cords.

So it all came down. No Halloween this year. And after taking an hour or so to tear it down, the wind decided to die down. By that time it was too late to start all over.

And yes, we had trick or treaters knocking on the door, wondering where we were.

Next year is another Halloween.

Day 254/365 Samhain Rising

2010-10-31T08:31:00.000-07:00

The game is afoot...

More to follow, after the ghoulies are gone, and closer to the thinning of the veils...

Day 253/365 I Think It's a Ghost, Scooby...

2010-10-29T17:49:00.000-07:00

Did I grow up believing in ghosts? Is the Pope Catholic?

Give me a haunted graveyard, haunted house, haunted stretch of road, haunted car....even a haunted junk yard like Puckett's shown up above.....I'm happy.

It's not a belief I take lightly, nor does it come to me secondhand. I've lived in several haunted houses, done my share of amateur ghost hunting, heard my name called by invisible things in empty rooms, and felt the brush of fingers on my arm when no one was there. My great grandmother is a ghost, for crying out loud.

I've also read various theories on ghosts covering every possible angle of "what if", including the everyday explanation of a spirit-who-cannot-pass-over-for-whatever-reason, the haunting-as-revenge approach, the life-force-energy-left-behind-because-of-a-traumatic-death, the ghosts-are-demonic idea, and more recently a geologic explanation for supernatural sightings.

Supposedly many hauntings are located over areas with basalt or magnetite, either above or below ground. A quick search turns up Edinburgh Castle -one of the most haunted places on earth -sitting -sure enough -on a giant bed of basalt. Tower of London, chock full of ghosts and walking appartitions, again, sitting on and full of stones of basalt. Even the Stanley Hotel in Colorado sits atop a huge bed of magnetite. The existence of magnetite plays havoc with EVP recording devices, but aside from that there is the idea that these sort of rocks fall along fault lines, and fault lines generally have a higher electro-magnetic field (which might account for that feeling that one's hair is standing on end, or someone is watching).

And then there is a pesky experiment by a university in Canada that involved participants and electromagnetic fields. They found that the higher the EMF level, the more participants report seeing shadow people or ghosts with several even hearing voices. The immediate conclusion is that EMF's cause hallucinations.

Of course, there's another way to look at that. Is it possible that a high EMF level simply allows people to see what is actually there?

I mean, there is that whole other theory that what we call ghosts are simply a glimpse of a parallel layer of reality, where people are going about their business in the next dimension, completely unaware we are viewing them.

And people have differing EMF levels in their brain, depending on exposure, which could account for some being more "sensitive" to hauntings,etc. than others.

One of these days, science will explain ghosts down to the nth degree, putting all the theories to rest.

I'm dreading that day. Somethings are simply better unexplained.

Day 252/365 Let Sleeping Mummies Lie

2010-10-28T18:01:00.000-07:00

When I was little, I was allowed to do my homework while watching a late afternoon TV show called Count Macabre. Count Macabre was a grown man who dressed up like Dracula,talked to a skull named Eric and introduced a different horror movie each afternoon. It wasn't enough that I had Appalachian relatives that told ghost stories and then we moved to Louisiana with its implied presence of voodoo and loup garou. Nope, my folks topped all that off by allowing me to be scared witless every afternoon while doing 3rd grade math.

I LOVED IT. (and yes I had an autographed picture....).

However, the Count led me directly to the creature that would inhabit my nightmares for years. Literally years. Frankenstein didn't bother me, I thought the Wolf Man was cute, the various giant creatures that threatened Tokyo and New York were conquered by science, and Dracula was....mmmm....interesting (the vampire thing still holds my interest).

But there was one other monster that I couldn't handle.

Right outside my bedroom window there stood a tree. That tree had long branches. The kind that scrap at your window if there's even a light breeze. Or if some wandering animal climbs up the tree at night. Or if the mummy tries to get in your window. Yep. The Mummy.

Thanks to the Count and Boris Karloff, the 1932 version of The Mummy terrified my 8 year old self with his never-relenting slow shuffle, the disintegrating bandages, the fixed stare, and worst of all - the extended arm. It was the stuff of nightmares.

At first the dreams were "I opened the tomb and now I'm cursed and here he comes." Then they shortened down to "run fast, here he comes." And rather quickly they compacted into dreaming that I was sleeping, and a huge bandaged hand was reaching for me.

Had that one for years and spent many nights lying awake, listening for the Mummy coming in the window, almost able to smell the dry Eqyptian mummy dust.

Loved every minute of it.

At least once I was fully awake and realized I wasn't Princess Anck-es-en-Amon being pursued by her lost lover Im-ho-tep (which makes sense on account of *I* wasn't the one who opened the tomb, now was I?)

Day 251/365 Full Moon

2010-10-23T15:54:00.000-07:00

2000 B.C. .....The Epic of Gilgamesh is written down, including the first literary references to werewolves

500 B.C........ The Scythian people recorded as believing the Neuri people to be werewolves

400 B.C....... Damarchus, an Arcadian werewolf is said to have won a boxing medal at Olympics

55 A.D......... Petronius composes Satyricon, the first full fledged werewolf story

170.............. Pausanias visits Arcadia and hears of Lykaian werewolf rites

1020 ...........First use of the word "werewulf" recorded in English

1101 ...........Death of Prince Vseslav of Polock, alleged Ukrainian werewolf

1182 ..........Giraldus claims to have discovered Irish werewolf couple.

1521 ..........Werewolves of Piligny burnt

1541 ..........Paduan werewolf dies after having arms and legs cut off

1555 .........Olaus Magnus records strange behavior of Baltic werewolves

1589 .........Peter Stubb executed as werewolf at Cologne

1598 ........."Werewolf of Chalons" executed in Paris; Gandillon family burnt as werewolves

1603 .........Jean Grenier tried as a werewolf; sentenced to life imprisonment

1610 ..........Two women condemned as werewolves in Liege

1692 .........The Livonian werewolf Theiss interrogated

1824 .........Antoine Leger tried for werewolf crimes;sentenced to lunatic asylum

1880 .........Folklorist collects werewolf tales in Picardy

1913 ..........The Werewolf (film) uses a real wolf in transformation scene

1914 ..........Sigmund Freud publishes his "Wolf Man" paper.

1935 .........Werewolf of London (film)

1940..........Pat Shirley, Kent,England, reported that her grandmother saw a huge werewolf with red hair while walking in the woods.

1941 .........Wolf Man (film) starring Lon Chaney Jr.

1967..........In Oban,Scotland, a driver on the roadway spotted a wolf-man traveling along the road in the other direction.

1972..........In Defiance, Ohio the Ohio Crescent-News reported that police were on the lookout for a "wolf man" who had attacked three people near the railroad tracks. Two railroad brakemen also reported seeing the creature lurking along the train tracks several times.

1975 .........Surawicz and Banta publish the first two modern cases of lycanthropy

1979 .........An American Werewolf in London (film) with first four-footed werewolf

There's a full moon every month.

And they've been around a very, very long time.

Day 251/365 Now You're Here, Now You're Not

2010-10-21T17:37:00.000-07:00

Ambrose Bierce was an American journalist and short-story, best known for his short story "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge" and his satirical dictionary The Devil's Dictionary.

In October 1913, Mr. Bierce departed Washington, D.C., for a tour of his old Civil War battlefields. By December he had traveled through Louisiana and Texas, and crossed into Mexico, which was in the throes of revolution. In Ciudad Juárez he joined Pancho Villa's army as an observer, actually participating in the battle of Tierra Blanca.

Mr. Bierce is known to have accompanied the army as far as the city of Chihuahua.

After a last letter to a close friend, sent from there December 26, 1913, he vanished without a trace.

Unexplained disappearances appear throughout history. Most, although often repeated, are eventually proven to be hoaxes.

But there are those few instances that have no explanation.

Consider the Mary Celeste, discovered sailing in December 1872 abandoned and unmanned in the mid-Atlantic. The crew were never seen or heard from again, and their fate remains unknown and unexplained.

Or the four B-47 Stratojets that left MacDill Air Force Base (near Tampa, Florida)on March 10, 1956, for a non-stop flight to an overseas air base, completing their first aerial refueling without incident. After descending through solid cloud to begin their second refueling,one aircraft (manned by Captain Robert H. Hodgin- 31, commander, Captain Gordon M. Insley-32, observer, and 2nd Lt. Ronald L. Kurtz 22, pilot) failed to make contact with the tanker. Neither the aircraft or wreckage from it were ever found.

And, finally, the odd disappearance of Frederick Valentich in 1978. While piloting a Cessna 182L aircraft to King Island, Australia, Valentich reported an unusual aircraft was following his, and his last words were "It is hovering and it's not an aircraft". No trace of Valentich or his aircraft was ever found.

Some theorize that unexplained disappearances might be the result of tears in the fabric of reality, with people or objects passing out of our world,and into another,simply falling into the fourth dimension.

Others propose that there are certain locations around the globe that are linked to magnetic vortexes,places where the boundaries between our dimension and the next is thin enough for people to pass through given the right conditions.

One wonders whether the 19th century crew of the Mary Celeste, the crewmen of the B-47 Stratojet, Frederick Valentich, and, of course, Ambrose Bierce, all ended up in the same "other" dimension.

Was it in the past? The future? Or side-by-side with our time? Are they are watching with their faces pushed up against a glass wall of time, as our world goes on without them?

Day 250/365 Vintage Halloween Costumes....

2010-10-20T18:56:00.000-07:00

Or....

Halloween costumes before walmart and Fright,inc.....

These are my great-aunts (way back long before they became my great-aunts, and definitely way before I was anything at all).

That's Onie on the left, and Lucy on the right. When Onie (it's short for Leona) gave me this picture, she wrote on the back that she was a pumpkin, and Lucy was a gentleman farmer, apparently a gay gentleman farmer, cause of the big bow in her hair.

Freddie Krueger wasn't even a distant dream at this time (probably around 1905 maybe?). The original Dracula novel was published, but Lon Chaney was still an extra. The Mummy had yet to frighten me to death, crawling out of the tomb with the help of tannis leaves, looking for Princess Akenaten.

Handmade costumes ruled the day, and the more creative the better. Paper mache masks were considered exotic. And mom sewed the costumes.

Sometimes, this approach went horribly wrong. Sometimes it was much weirder and much scarier than anything Hollywood can create today.....

See for yourself

Our ancestors were some strange people.

Pumpkins in pointed hats and gentleman farmers in hairbows almost look normal.

Day 249/365 Oak Island Mystery

2010-10-18T07:13:00.000-07:00

This pastoral little seaside setting is none other than the Money Pit on Oak Island, Nova Scotia, Canada. Misleading in its isolation and apparent state of disrepair, this is one of those all-consuming mysteries that hasn't been solved by modern treasure hunters.

Lots of details and twists and turns (and tunnels) in this story, but the basic facts are this:

1795 - Three young hunters catch sight of a ship's block and tackle hanging from a tree. Directly underneath is a large circular depression. Of course they begin to dig, having grown up with tales of pirates and treasure. Two feet down, they encounter a man-laid layer of flagstone. Ten feet down they run into a layer of oak logs, and another layer at 20 feet, and stil another at 30 feet.

Returning in 1803, they resume the dig, finding an oak layer every 10 feet, until they reach a depth of 90 feet. In addition, at 40 feet, an additional layer of charcoal is found, at 50 feet an additional layer of putty, and at 60 feet, an additional layer of coconut fiber.

At 90 feet, an inscribed stone is found:

Claimed translation: "forty feet below, two million pounds lie buried"

After the digging past the 90 foot oak layer, the ingenious design of the pit was revealed. A booby trap, if you will. As the shaft is dug out, deeper and deeper, side tunnels intersect. Side tunnels that are filled with water supplied by the sea surrounding around the island. Think of it this way:

Nobody's stealing this treasure. In fact, the search was abandoned for 45 years. Later various parties would try their hand, even drilling a parallel shaft to drain off the flood water. Didn't work. The relief shaft flooded too. But while it was being drilled, it encounted metal shards and wood that have been carbon dated to 300 years.

Over the years, various famous folks have shown up. Including Franklin Delano Roosevelt (above with the pipe) - like he needed to find treasure.

Various other attempts have included drilling for core samples. At 98 feet a layer of spruce was encountered,then a 4 inches of oak, then 22 inches of small bits of metal, another 8 inches of oak, 22 inches of metal, another 4 inches of oak, and another layer of spruce. Some speculate that this was the actual treasure and the drill went right through it (several small bits of gold link came up with this sample, but no one seems to know where they went).

At this point there have been numerous shafts drilled all over the island, each encountering buried man-laid layers of foreign materials: rock, gravel, fieldstone, oak, spruce, metal, etc. The beach has been discovered to be artificial, with two dams built at some point long ago, one with submerged logs engraved with Roman numerals and secured with wooden pins.

The most interesting discoveries came in 1976 when a 235 foot shaft was dug and cameras were lowered. Supposedly images came back of several chests, a severed human hand, tools, wooden shoring, and a human body. None of those claims have been independently confirmed, and the shaft collapsed, and was abandoned.

Visitors to the island have even produced photos with orbs, and when the photos are enlarged, the orbs appear to have a maze pattern in them. (For my non-ghost-hunting friends, orbs are spots of light, sometimes visible to the naked eye, but usually appearing in photos. Some opinions hold that orbs are light reflecting off dust, or light reflecting off bugs, or just light reflecting. Many are debunked. A select few aren't. Those are the ones of interest. But I've never heard of any orb having a maze pattern....)

So thanks to my BFF Cathy, I've found a new all-consuming mystery. Fortunately I don't have a million bucks to sink into this one like the others before me.

'Cause you know I would.

Day 248/365 Halloween For the Ancestors

2010-10-16T15:15:00.000-07:00

Having all this Scottish blood in me (and being a southern hybrid) means I am required by law to understand my ancestors.

Those would be ancient Celts. Pagans. The original tree-huggers. On October 31st one of their most important holidays arrives: Samhain (pronounced sow-wen, for the non-Celts among you).

Samhain marks the end of harvest season and the light - light being life itself. Afterwards, winter is upon us - the dark season, associated with hunger and death.

On October 31st, the thin veil between the worlds of the living and the dead is lifted, and the Lord of Death (Saman) calls together all of the souls of those who have died during the year and escorts them to the afterlife. In olden days, huge bonfires were lit on hilltops to light the way for the spirits to make their way.

All sorts of odd beliefs have traveled through the years from these ancient practitioners, some of which have been absorbed by newer religions.

The Welsh pagans believed if a person sneezed on Samhain,the soul left the body - a little death of sorts -this would be the origin of saying "god bless you", although I doubt the early pagans said god. More likely "gods".

Slice an apple horizontally and watch the seeds form a pentagram. Now regarded as a symbol for witchcraft, the pentagram in ancient times was a symbol for fertility, a promise of renewal for a pagan people going into the dark season. Bobbing for apples, either in a bucket of water, or catching the apple hanging on a string, has been a game for the young for thousands of years. The young man or woman who caught the first apple was assured of being married and prosperous before the next spring.

Samhain is the one mystical day of the year, when life and death, time itself, and even the past, present and future bend and shimmer.

Samhain is that one particular night when anything is possible.

Day 247/365 A Doll's House

2010-10-14T17:56:00.000-07:00

Some rich folks spend their time on yachts, or vacationing in Europe.

Some, like Frances Glessner Lee, build eighteen dollhouse dioramas of crime scenes. Frances had an all-consuming interest in crime. During the 1930's she created composite details of actual violent crimes and then recreated them in miniature, right down to tiny working locks and equally tiny bloodstains.

Eventually she founded the Harvard University Department of Legal Medicine in 1940 and donated what had become known as The Nutshell Studies of Unexplained Death, using them for crime scene investigation lectures. After the department closed in 1966, the dioramas ended up in the Maryland Medical Examiner's Office in Baltimore on permanent loan.

This crime scene dollhouse idea is unusual enough on its own.

But I'd like to add that for the last six years I've had a daughter fascinated with miniatures and forensic science, and we actually had this idea for a dollhouse early on in her studies.

Tiny little stabbings, tiny little hangings, tiny little guns, tiny little knives.

So either that makes Frances Glessner Lee a little more normal, or it makes us a little weirder.

Day 246/365 Uncharted Territory

2010-10-13T17:45:00.000-07:00

At our house there's no destination better than Scotland, and nothing more fascinating than ghosts, and therefore a Scottish ghost is perfection.

A Scottish piper ghost is just the icing on the cake.

Edinburgh Castle is built on an extinct volcano, and beneath it lie miles of tunnels and catacombs, some public, some private, some secret, some unmapped. It is said every corner of Edinburgh can be reached by these tunnels.

Two centuries ago a young piper was sent down into the tunnels, with the instruction to keep playing as he walked. The pipe music drifted back up the tunnels for a good long time, until it finally faded away. The young piper was never seen again.

But over the following two hundred years, he has been heard. And frequently. Both in the tunnels, and on the streets that cover them today.

Bagpipe music is eerie and haunting on its own, never mind ghostly piping.

Here, take a tour yourself. Welcome to the South Vaults, Edinburgh Castle catacombs, one of the most, if not *the* most haunted place on earth. Maybe leave some bread crumbs so you can find your way out.

Unless you have your own pipes.

Day 245/365 Disembodied Whispers

2010-10-12T17:06:00.000-07:00

Courtesy of National Archives

On May 27, 1827, Edgar A.Perry, age 22, enlisted in the United States Army as a private. Eventually Private Perry served two years and attained the rank of Sergeant Major for Artillery.

While stationed at Fort Monroe in Hampton Virginia, Sgt. Major Perry, miserable in the military, attempted to bring an early end to his military service by revealing his true name, Edgar Allan Poe.

Poe's pleas for dismissal were ignored for some time, but he was eventually discharged in 1829, just in time to attend the burial of his foster mother.

While waiting for his discharge, unhappy in his military obligation,Poe wrote his second volume of verse, Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane and Minor Poems, but it went largely ignored. The reviews ran from "incoherent" to "beautiful and enduring."

Whether the poems were "enduring" or not, apparently Poe himself is. Numerous visitors to Fort Monroe have seen his spirit writing at an enlisted man's desk.

Of course, Poe is also said to be walking the grounds of his own burial at Westminister Hall. Poe’s ghost has been seen both at his grave and in the haunted catacombs. There are cold spots, footsteps and disembodied whisperings - all worthy of The Tell-Tale Heart or The Raven.

Day 244/365 Midnight At the Crossroads

2010-10-11T17:52:00.000-07:00

Clarksdale, Mississippi, 1930.

Intersection of Hwy 49 and 61.

Midnight.

Legend has it that a young black bluesman showed up here and offered his soul to the Devil, in exchange for an extraordinary musical talent.

Six months or so earlier, he had disappeared from his home,publicly known to be utterly and dismally incompetent on the guitar...to the point that an audience would beg him to stop playing.

When he reappeared, somehow he literally could play *anything*. Without practice. In local juke joints he played current pop standards, not the blues he would later become famous for. He was known for playing until both booze and money flowed, then walking off the stage and out the door, disappearing into the night.

A closer look at the story reveals that Robert Johnson met another bluesman, Ike Zinnerman, and spend a great deal of time learning from him.

Of course, that closer look also reveals that the two practiced at night, in a graveyard.

One way or the other, something happened to Robert Johnson in 1930. Something that pushed him into history as possibly the greatest blues guitarist, and the father of modern-day rock and roll.

It wasn't the pop standards of 1930 that gave him those titles. His own dark compositions were the currency for that: Hellhound On My Trail, Me and the Devil Blues, Crossroad Blues...

"Early this morning,when you knocked upon my door
Early this morning,when you knocked upon my door
And I said, 'Hello, Satan, I believe it's time to go,'
You may bury my body down by the highway side
You may bury my body,down by the highway side
So my old evil spirit can catch a Greyhound bus and ride."

Day 243/365 Something Wicked This Way Comes

2010-10-08T08:22:00.000-07:00

Round about the cauldron go;
Round about the cauldron go;
In the poison'd entrails throw.
Toad, that under cold stone
Days and nights has thirty-one
Swelter'd venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i' the charmed pot.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.

Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg and owlet's wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,
Witches' mummy, maw and gulf
Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark,
Root of hemlock digg'd i' the dark,
Liver of blaspheming Jew,
Gall of goat, and slips of yew
Silver'd in the moon's eclipse,
Nose of Turk and Tartar's lips,
Finger of birth-strangled babe
Ditch-deliver'd by a drab,
Make the gruel thick and slab:
Add thereto a tiger's chaudron,
For the ingredients of our cauldron.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.

Macbeth, written in approximately 1604 by William Shakespeare

Day 242/365 Dead Dictionary

2010-10-06T17:39:00.000-07:00

"What does it take to convince you that the dead do not always rest in peace?" *

Interesting definitions:

Astral Body: An exact, non-physical replica of the individual physical body which separates at death and occasionally before death. Sometimes seen as an apparition, phantasm, ghost or haunt (i.e. the famous Brown Lady in the above photo)

Clairaudience: Extrasensory data perceived as sound (i.e. those voices heard in the night breeze)

Clairsentience: Extrasensory data perceived as heightened feeling or awareness (i.e. that "feeling" that someone's there...or something)

Dualist Hypothesis: The view that the human mind is partially non-physical in nature, and could, therefore, theoretically, survive the physical dissolution of the body and brain at death (and, logically, communicate.)

Haunt: Paranormal phenomena connected with a certain location, especially a building. May include apparitions, poltergeist manifestations, cold spots, sounds of steps and voices, lights and sometimes fragrances (should cover most of my personal experiences).

Poltergeist: Literally "noisy spirit". Might include lifting, throwing and/or breaking objects, setting fires, and sometimes injuries to people. (Pretty much covers my aunt's experience).

Precognition: Prediction of random future events. Not to be confused with deja vu. (not really useful, but entertaining enough to blurt out "I knew that was going to happen" and have no one believe you.)

Second Sight: A term used in Celtic folklore. (Or by cryptic Scottish great-grandmothers, particularily one who continues to haunt her home, 45 years after her death).

Think of this as a guide to this month's postings.

*The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson

Day 241/365 Sixteen Coal Black Horses

2010-10-05T19:04:00.000-07:00

St. James Infirmary Blues

I went down to old Joe's bar room
On the corner by the square.
Well, the drinks were bein' served as usual,
And this motley crowd was there.

Well, on my left stood Joe McKinney
And his eyes were bloodshot red.
When he told me that sad story,
These were the words he said:

I went down to the St. James infirmary,
I saw my baby there,
She was stretched out on a long white table,
So cold, and fine, and fair.
Go ahead!

Let her go, let her go, God bless her,
Wherever she may be,
She can search this world over
Never find another man like me.

Yes, sixteen coal black horses
To pull that rubber tied hack.
Well, it's seventeen miles to the graveyard
But my baby's never comin' back.

Well, now you've heard my story,
Well, have another round of booze
And if anyone should ever, ever ask you
I've got the St. James infirmary blues!

St. James Infirmary Blues, so famous in New Orleans, is actually a direct descendant of an old English pub song "The Unfortunate Rake" that recounts the death of a young gentleman from morally questionable causes. The St. James Hospital was a London leprosy hospital, at least until King Henry VIII torn it down to build St. James Palace.

There are almost as many singers of St. James Infirmary as there are versions of the lyrics. But all the versions end with death, the inevitable trip to the graveyard, and those stately coal black horses.

Day 240/365 It's Close To Midnight....

2010-10-04T17:12:00.000-07:00

What is this current fascination with zombies? I love a good zombie as much as the next person, having grown up with tales of zombies rising out of the bayou, sponsored by the local voodun priest, but lately vampires are getting shoved aside for....zombies?

Oh please.

Vampires have style and grace with an attitude (albeit a bit on the cold side). Zombies have rotting flesh and fluttering disintegrating bandages, never mind they can't walk five feet without losing an appendage.

After spending years listing romance novels, I can spot a trend and currently paranormal romances are spiraling out of Hot Vampire-Lusty Werewolf-Land directly downward into Gender-Confused Rotting Zombie Country.

Even Jane Austen and Abraham Lincoln are flirting with zombies. Our local Halloween store has a Zombie Baby Playground, complete with bloody sharp-toothed toddlers. I'm a parent. This doesn't scare me. This is everyday life.

I've always thought of myself as a radical progressive, but this time I'm not getting it.

As always, thanks to the late great Michael Jackson for making zombies cool.

Day 239/365 Familiar

2010-10-03T12:45:00.001-07:00

Our rural conservative county residents seem to dislike black cats in particular, especially this time of year, and so, there's a high probability of finding black kittens or adult strays at the dumpsters.

That's okay.

I love black cats. My lineage of black cattage includes Lucifer, Merlin, Ozma, Luna, and Serious Black - all stunning with enormous gold or green eyes.

And October is definitely Black Cat Month. All of ours are kept indoors so that the mobs with pitchforks and torches don't find them (I am only halfway joking -last Halloween some enterprising teenagers thought it would be a treat to douse a black kitty in gasoline and set her on fire. Don't ask my opinion on an appropriate punishment would be. )

My Scottish great-grandmother believed finding a strange black cat on her porch was a harbringer of good fortune and prosperity. She ended up owning half the valley, so she may have been right.

Whenever the pups are outside, the black kitties come down and take their rightful places.

Sometimes on top of my printer....

Sometimes perched on my shipping table....

Sometimes hiding under my monitor, right over my keyboard...

Or draped all over the homeschool supplies.

The ancient Egyptians were right: they are after all gods, and they will never forget that.

Day 238/365 Haunting ... Old School

2010-10-02T16:05:00.000-07:00

I've mentioned how Mom and Dad took me to see To Kill A Mockingbird when I was eight. Growing up in Louisiana, it pretty much set the tone for what would become my radical liberal outlook on pretty much all social issues.

Growing up in Lousiana also came with a fascination of spirits and voodoo queens, ghosts and apparitions, and an affinity with things that go bump in the night.

So of course they let me see The Haunting. Created from the novel The Haunting of Hill House, by Shirley Jackson, it is still just as terrifying today as it was in 1963. And it's much more terrifying than the slash-and-gore horror movies of today.

Maybe it's the black-and-white film or the sounds. Or maybe it's the breathing doors and the sudden pounding footsteps in the hallways. For years afterwards, every nightmare I had featured horrible things behind doors that bulged, and doorknobs that slowly turned and clicked.

Or maybe the most horrifying realization was the implication that something was out there, making the choice whether or not to enter, toying with the characters (and the audience) just enough to take their breath away long after they leave the theatre.

I went through a long period of horror movies but I've never seen another one that scared me, and remained with me, as much as The Haunting. Maybe because there came a time when I discovered there really is something out there, and it's not at all dependent on my believing in it.

*This is an Italian trailer for the movie. Fortunately scary translates easily.

For more of The Haunting, try While Reading To The Dog

Day 237/365 October Rising

2010-10-01T07:41:00.000-07:00

**I always feel most at home in October and it's welcome-to-the-dark-side atmosphere, possibly due to my Appalachian roots and their love of hauntings and spirits, or maybe because that heritage was topped off with a childhood in New Orleans and it's voodoo soup of ghosts and loup garou.

One way or the other, I've always leaned into the dark side and felt perfectly at home there. I've found that pricking in my mind is not always my conscience, those night breezes are not always just the air moving, and, if you know what to look for, things are not always what they seem.

Let's make this particular thinning of the veils a month to remember, sprinkled with some previous-posted ghostly stories.

Welcome to my family.**

It occurs to me that this is my favorite month.....the end of summer, the beginning of fall, and the great leading-up to the dark holiday....Samhain, the night when the veil is thinnest between the worlds.......Halloween.

For being the daughter of a scientist, I have had more than my share of otherworldly experiences and spooky encounters. I'll recreate them as best I can, mostly to pass the stories on to my daughter, and hopefully entertain the rest of you.

My Great Aunt Sadie had a long full life, and was very lackadaisical about things that other people might think unusual or strange. She died two years ago, living her entire life up in a deep hollow in the Appalachian Mountains, first in a series of old log cabins, heated by huge stone fireplaces, then marrying and moving into what was formerly a pig barn, a wood and tarpaper shack in the 1930s. During World War II, she and her husband managed to build a Sears Roebuck house, ordered from the mail-order catalogue and hauled up the mountain on sleds pulled by draft horses.

When she was a child in the log cabin, the only entertainment was visiting other family, for every occasion, as well as for no reason at all. It was nothing for children to walk all over the mountain by themselves (usually barefoot), with no one to be afraid of, and no particular danger.

During her fourth year, she went with her mother to sit at a wake for Old Man Wilburn, who had passed away. At that time the deceased's body was laid out on a "cooling board", usually in the front parlor of their home. All their kin came to pay respects, sit up through the night and share stories (and probably more than a few bottles of moonshine).

Late that night, Sadie decided to walk home alone, crossing down through the dark tree-filled hollow, then up again across the wide pasture, then pass the big rock that marked the path up to her family's cabin.

The moon was full, and the lady sitting on the rock was dressed in white, with her long brown hair twining down her arms. Sadie smiled at her grandmother, and then turned to go up the path, taking the hand of the man who stood next to her. The two of them walked up the dark path, listening to the trees rustling in the night breeze, until she climbed the steps up to her cabin door, home, safe and sound, alone again.

Lots of people saw Mollie Wynn sitting on that rock, usually on nights with a full moon, always in her white dress, always smiling. Mollie had passed away the previous year, but seemed reluctant to go on and leave her family.

And it never occurred to Sadie to be scared of the man who held her hand while she walked the mountain path - even though she had seen him laying on the cooling board just minutes before.

**Originally posted October, 2008.

Day 236/365 Fever

2010-09-26T07:45:00.000-07:00

So it's a cool rainy fall day here in Virginia, all grey and gloomy. Good day to have tons of books to list and work against a deadline.

And a perfect day for jazz, specifically Miss Peggy Lee.

I have vivid memories of watching my parents dance to this in our kitchen. Even though I was seduced by my four boys from Liverpool at age 8, jazz was always the background soundtrack for most of my life. Somehow I forgot that for the last 15 years or so.

The last few months I've been rediscovering why I loved jazz so much.

And Fever is just mindblowing.

"and what a lovely way to burn......"

****I have been taken to task by my less than impressed DD for not mentioning that *she* first found the Peggy Lee clip and mentioned it to me. Thereby reminding me of it. She found it first. So there.****

Day 235/365 Ultimate Bookshelf

2010-09-23T19:18:00.000-07:00

This is my new favorite library in Kansas City Missouri.

I'm wondering how they picked which books they would giant-size, especially since I can't argue with any of the selections: Invisible Man, Lord of the Rings, Charlotte's Web, A Tale of Two Cities, Romeo and Juliet and of course, my own personal favorite: To Kill a Mockingbird.

The bookshelf that runs the length of the parking garage has more eclectic titles: Catch-22, Silent Spring and O Pioneers.

I especially love the way every book looks like a leatherbound classic (that's one of my weaknesses - leather bound, gilt-edged books - the kind with marbled endpapers and ribbed spines.

I guess having a row of Kindle's just wouldn't be the same now, would it?

(Thanks to my BFF Cathy for the pics)

Day 234/365 Totally Effing Haunted

2010-09-21T11:11:00.000-07:00

In honor of my most-favorite-month-of-the-entire-year coming up next(ghost lover that I am) I'm recommending you run right over to The Bloggess and read Jenny's account of their visit to The Stanley Hotel.

Stephen King would be so jealous. And laughing. He'd be laughing too.

Probably more laughing than jealous.

Warning to some of my readers - there's bad language involved. A lot of it. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Warning to the rest of my readers- there's bad language involved. Probably not enough for you, but I do what I can.

Day 233/365 The Paws Before October

2010-09-18T13:11:00.000-07:00

So it's the last half of September, and I'm buried under work trying to accomplish a major relocation of my book stock done by the 30th. There's also the whole garden catastrophe that needs to be cleaned up. And the winterize-the-house-stuff.

This all pales in importance when Oscar announces he has issues. Seems he remembers the month of October is dedicated more-or-less to the black kitties in the household, being Samhain or Halloween.

He anticipates feeling neglected. Therefore, all other activity must come to a full stop in order to provide poor baby Oscar with some one-on-one attention.

It's a hard job, but someone has to do it. Amazon will have to wait.

Ever seen that T-shirt that says "Cats were gods in ancient Egypt. They have never forgotten this."

Oscar wrote that.

For the moment he is somewhat content, although realistically there will never be enough attention paid to the kitties of the household (see that little pink tongue tip?).

Meanwhile, the black cats are patiently lurking on the staircase, just waiting for Halloween.....their season is just about here.

Day 232/365 Nothing At Georgetown is worth $56,660 a year

2010-09-13T07:03:00.000-07:00

Sorry it just isn't.

Once again I am pondering the cost of higher education as I watch my daughter start year two at one of our local community colleges. Her associates of science degree can be complete in two years, but she will most likely stick around for a third year, simply to knock off even more basic classes at the lower community college price.

Then she is hoping to transfer to a more-or-less nearby four year school to get seriously into forensic science (read: bones and grisly topics). Even so, she will graduate with approximately $25-30,000 in debt.

This is ridiculous.

The cost of higher education in this country is shameful. There is no rationale for it, no justification.

There is no reason one year at Georgetown should cost near the equivalent of buying a house in many parts of our country.

I wonder if this includes textbooks? Textbooks alone qualify as scam number two. Never mind that many of the science and math books come with an access code to allow the studen to work online as well. For a book that cost $140, I expect not only the book, but the access code as well, *and* I want the author to come over to my house and explain the difficult parts, at my convenience.

Education loans are right in line behind underwater mortgages and medical bills in terms of destroying the financial base of this country. Thirty-somethings that should be raising families and buying homes and contributing to the economy are instead working minimum wage jobs and struggling to share rent with friends, just to pay their student loans off.

Something isn't right.

Even the Washington Post knows it. And they're in Georgetown's overpriced backyard.

Addendum: 15 Colleges That *ARE* worth the price, meaning they understand college is for education, not cushy jobs for profs, and least of all for football.

Day 231/365 Not What's Expected

2010-09-11T08:27:00.000-07:00

I know it's 9/11, and it's expected to do something that "remembers". I don't want to. It just draws it out and makes it worse. Fortunately, in the midst of a pile of "let's remember and make ourselves miserable again" headlines, one of my favorite blogs ran this.

I'm reposting it. Mostly because it made me laugh, and also because I have two of my own black kitties looking over my shoulder saying: DO IT, DO IT, DO IT!!!!

Thanks to Smart Bitches, Trashy Books for the much needed laugh.

Day 230/365 Shrink to the Stars

2010-09-08T08:10:00.000-07:00

Forty-four years ago today.....September 8, 1966....

"Space: the final frontier.

These are the voyages of the starship Enterprise.

Its five-year mission: to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilizations,

to boldly go where no man has gone before."

Turns out little girls wanted to go there too. Star Trek just added fuel to the fire started by the space program: I grew up wanting to be an astronaut. Or a drummer for the Beatles. But it was years before the boys allowed girls into the space treehouse, and Ringo never quit his day job.

So instead I got a degree in psych. Shrink is kinda the same thing as an astronaut. And pretty much definitely sortof the same thing as a drummer. More or less. Right?

Day 229 and a half/365 New Orleans 1961

2010-09-02T19:42:00.000-07:00

January 1961, New Orleans - it's still illegal for black and white musicians to play together, much less for black musicians to play for white audiences. New Orleans jazz is available mostly in black neighborhoods and is definitely not part of the white tourist package.

Later that year, Allen and Sandra Jaffe move to New Orleans and rent out an old art gallery, strictly for the purpose of giving New Orleans jazz musicians exposure to audiences in the French Quarter. They hang an old instrument case over the door, add some wooden chairs for the musicians, and call it Preservation Hall.

"Preservation Hall" explained Louis Armstrong "now that's where you'll find all the greats."

The sweetheart of Preservation Hall is Sweet Emma Barrett on the piano - she is a local star in 1961, and spent the 1960s touring the world with her Preservation Hall Jazz (Alonzo Pavageau, Big Jim Robinson, Emmanuel Sayles, the Humphrey Brothers -Willie and Percy - and Cie Frazier), with Ernie Cagnolatti leaning in from time to time on trumpet.

Sweet Emma and Preservation Hall both became iconic figures in jazz.

Then, in 1967, Sweet Emma suffers a stroke that paralyzes her left hand. No matter. She plays on until her death in 1983, with the same unrelenting tight rhythm she was famous for.

But back in late 1961, to my six-year-old self, Miss Emma was the nice lady who played piano and always handed me a sucker right before we settled down on the floor to hear the band.

Day 229/365 No Votes For YOU!

2010-09-02T06:01:00.000-07:00

The right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any State on account of sex. Congress shall have power to enforce this article by appropriate legislation.

Passed June 4, 1919. Ratified August 18, 1920.

Read it and weep: The Nineteenth Amendment of the United States Constitution.

Posted only because I just read that Saudi Arabia is still frightened of women voting. No votes for any vagina over there. Wonder what those guys are scared of?

Day 228/365 When The Levee Breaks

2010-09-01T14:48:00.001-07:00

Sick of the Katrina anniversary yet?

Yeah me too.

Five years ago I watched the coverage late on Sunday night as the news stations chortled that New Orleans dodged the bullet again, and, knowing better (as did most NOLA folks), got up at 5 am Monday morning to watch the levees break - knowing my city would be underwater in hours.

I haven't watched any of the documentary films. They still make me sick.

Mostly I remember days of hearing this song run through my head.

If it keeps on raining levee's going to break
If it keeps on raining levee's going to break
When the levee breaks have no place to stay

And every year I am reminded of the hours and days I spent combing the various message boards trying to find word of friends who didn't pick up their cell phones.

Four of them never picked up and I'm pretty sick of remembering that too.

Day 227/365 Adding An Artist

2010-08-25T06:12:00.000-07:00

While wandering the net trying to cleanse my brain of the images left by the afore-mentioned author, I found Rob Gonsalves, the Canadian artist responsible for the above painting Medieval Moonlight.

Thanks to years spent at the Minnesota Renaissance Festival, I've developed a love for mystical, Escher-like artists, starting with Randall Spangler (Sanctuary of Knowledge, below....also known as my dream house)

We own several of his large paintings, way more than we have wall space for.

Now I'm hoping to add a Rob Gonsalves to the collection. Maybe this one (Towers of Knowledge -- I think it's a painting of my current livingroom, minus the sunrise):

Must be that time of year - my renaissance roots are showing...

Huzzah! (and I miss you Renfest, big time).

Day 226/365 Removing An Author

2010-08-23T06:07:00.000-07:00

Being a bookseller is pretty much a no-brainer as far as how I feel about censorship of any kind.

I don't like it. I don't support it. And whatever book some misguided moralist decides to ban from school shelves - that's the first book I buy my kid to read.

But being a bookseller also means I consciously choose what books to sell and stock. I haven't had a problem up till now - I even sell Mein Kampf, and file it under "those who don't know history are doomed to repeat it".

However,now I find myself having offered for sale books I didn't actually read (not much of a science fiction fan, except for the classics like Jules Verne, Ray Bradbury, Clifford Simak).

And since I didn't read them, I didn't pay much attention to their author. Enough of his books accumulated on the shelf, so I lotted them up on the shelf where they sat forever and finally sold last week.

I sincerely hope the buyer is a huge fan, and is already aware of the author's personal opinions and convictions, because I would hate to think that they had no idea of what they were getting, and by association thought I endorsed or agreed or even vaguely wanted to be in the same room with those opinions.

Anyone interested in the initial back story can read it here:

http://www.salon.com/books/feature/2000/02/03/card/index.html

I discovered the information here at Smart Bitches, Trashy Books (one of my favorite blogs). Initially its a query about a book search, but the comment discussion turns to the author, and leaps off into totally unexpected territory involving politics, religion, and equal rights.

School Library Journal makes it clear that their award to this author “is not for being an idiot in real life..." ( a quote that would probably apply to many award recipients).

All I can say is that one of the most perfect things about owning my own business is choosing what I want to stock. I don't endorse censorship but I also choose not to stock books by authors that make me want to shower after listening to their opinons. I don't tolerate those people in my home, and I don't want them on my bookshelves. If that's censorship, so be it. His books are widely available many other places online or in brick and mortar locations by those readers who agree with him. Just not at Chewybooks, because I have some subjects I don't debate, having already heard the opposing arguments and recognized them for the garbage they are.

I don't even want his name on my blog.

Day 226/365 The Moonshine Capitol Gets An Award

2010-08-16T18:06:00.000-07:00

And it's oddly appropriate, although not technically moonshine....

Big thank you to Once I Saw A Dragonfly, our favorite vintage clothing blog.

This sparkling award comes with two rules:

The first is a question: "What do you like the most about your own blog?"

Mostly I like the fact that my daughter can finally read all the family stories she's been asking me to write down, and then finding out that other people enjoy reading it too. From reading their comments, it appears it's not just my family that's crazy.

And the second rule involves sending out this award to 10 other blogs:

Life at the Blue Nymph

Old School

The Homesteading Apartment

The Little Vintage Company

the moon's favors

White Spray Paint

Welcome To My World

All Things Iris

Urban Garden Casual

makemoneywithyourbrain

Day 225/365 Morning Glory Genocide

2010-08-07T16:48:00.000-07:00

First we had the long hot summer. Then we had a series of torrential rainstorms (including the one last Thursday that dumped a tornado on us). The end result was an explosion of plant life (but not the stuff I actually planted-that stuff is deader than roadkill). Above is the path out to my garden. Probably infested with snakes and crickets.

And the side of the house, by the mail box.

And the side of the driveway. There's another foot of pavement hiding under there. If we only had one car, this would be charming. But we have three, two of which need to fit side-by-side, meaning the person parked next to the morning glory bank has to wonder if she's stepping on snakes (that person would be me).

Enter the $15 Halloween prop bought at a yard sale, and sharpened to a fine edge by my daughter. It's a vintage hand scythe, also known as a tobacco knife here in southern Virginia.

It's wicked when swung - cuts through everything, even the thick woody Virginia creeper hiding under the morning glory, and the wall of Paradise trees.

The resulting carnage.

If the rain keeps up, this will be completely covered again in another two weeks.