All Hallows Eve

Halloween night . . . a time when, the old stories say, the veil between this world and the next is thin . . . a time when spirits walk . . . when signs and portents abound . . .

Does this crow bring a message from that world? His eye has a meaningful gaze . . .

From all the coves and hollows, pale mists swirl and rise . . . spirits of the Cherokee . . . the Scot-Irish, the English, the Germans . . . all those who called these mountains home. . .

The mist clings; it whispers in your ears. . . twines in your hair . . . you breath it in and with it all the history of these haunted hills . . . you are part of us forever . . . the voices echo and recede . . .

It's a good night for drawing near the fire and telling ghost stories . . .

The Learning Curve

No beautiful sunrise awaited me and my new toy yesterday morning -- we were locked in rain.

For a little brightness, I turned to the flowers a friend brought on Saturday -- all of late summer in a Mason jar! (Note to self: GROW ZINNIAS next year!)

Not all my photos were sharp and clear. There is a learning curve. But I couldn't bring myself to delete this one -- it looks like an illustration for a ghost story, with energy swirling out of the quilt.

The up side to the rainy day (aside from the obvious benefit to the land) is that I'm spending some time with the instruction manual. Not too much -- I can only absorb tiny bits at a time. But, millimeter by millimeter, I'm creeping along that learning curve!

Pat in TN Was Wondering . . .

. . . what ever happened to my writing chair that I hauled off to be re-upholstered. Well, here it is, in its fresh new green cotton splendor.

I really should have taken a before picture -- under the home made blue and green slip cover (shown in the photo over in the sidebar, just above the Zombie Chicken Award) was a truly ghastly sight -- filthy, faded, fifty-year old pale blue brocade covered the chair -- mostly. Except where the stuffing was poking out. In spite of a pillow on the seat, it was becoming increasingly uncomfortable to sit in for any period of time.

The ottoman, another piece of furniture from my grandparents' house, was in fine shape -- its faded yellow brocade untorn. But I went on and had it recovered as well.

They look just grand -- and the dogs and cats agree, fighting to sleep in the chair when I'm out of it. So I've put the old slipcovers back on to protect them.

At least it's not clear plastic.

Pat's other question was about a comment from Willow a few days ago. "your sighting of the young girl with the hoe just gave me the shivers! What a perfect inspiration for a book character."

And that comment was in response to a comment I had left at Willow's blog on a recent post she did about a ghostly sighting.

Briefly (and there's not much to tell anyway), our house (built by my husband in 1975) sits in the middle of what was once a tobacco or a corn field. One night, in the early years of our occupancy, I was alone in the living room, drowsing on the sofa, and I saw a young woman in an ankle-length homespun skirt, standing there with a hoe in her hand.

That was it. She didn't move or speak or go Oooooh. And I've never seen her again. But she was in my mind when I wrote the Little Sylvie story -- twenty-five or so years later.

Any more questions? I know the answer to the Ultimate Question, the one about Life, the Universe, and Everything.

It's 42.