My Mother's Things...

When my mother left this mortal coil a few years ago, as many children do, my brother and I set about sorting through her belongings. I have heard stories from people I have known over the years about avarice filled pitched battles, declared over the estate of a passed loved one. This was far from the case with us. With my brother and I. It was all very mellow and agreeable.

I had never been faced with anything like that before. Dividing elements of a parent’s estate. Amid the grief and confusion swirling inside my head, I had to lay claim to things I had either never seen or hadn’t seen in many years. For as many things as I didn’t recognize, there was an equal amount of items I did know. Things I had seen before. Some of which held old memories for me. Not expansive memories. Flashes. Nuggets. Even slivers of memory.

After the sorting process, amid the articles I was taking home were two pieces of art. My mother the artist had acquired a number of art pieces over the years, many from artists she was either acquainted with or knew as friends. Many of the art pieces were in absentia. I figured that they may have become sad casualties of past moves, or she may have given some away. She and I were estranged for many years, so I haven’t a clue. At any rate, I was glad to see two objects that I remembered vividly. The two art pieces are displayed in my livingroom here on the marsh. Before I get to the two items, and their corresponding memories, I need to mention the source of their introduction.

As a Georgia native, I grew up in Atlanta. It was the mid-1970’s, and my mother got a job working at a gallery. Located in an area known as Buckhead, The Signature Shop was the brainchild of shop owner Blanche Reeves. For many, many years, the shop had/has been nationally known for quality handmade art. The gallery is still there in the same location, even though Blanche is no longer with us. I remember her as being nice, but also tough in a no nonsense way. It was a nice shop. I enjoyed looking at the art, and it was there in many different mediums. Blanche gave a number of artists their start at The Signature Shop. ‘Visibility’ that is. Although my mother would meet and strike up friendships with a number of talented artists while working there, my focus is on the two that created the pieces I have.

( A rather fuzzy photo of Glen and Susan Lapekas at the Inman Park Art Festival, c. 1975...or so...my mother had written the festival name and the year (followed by a question mark) on the back of the picture.)

Glen Lapekas was a young and talented potter in his mid-20’s. I remember visiting Glen and his wife, Susan, at their home with my mother. This is where my memory flashes a bit. I can remember him showing us his kiln, and his pottery room. My mother had one or two other pots he had made, but the one I have (the only one remaining) is the one I always liked. A glazed taxi cab.

My other memories of him surround a show poster. I think it was for his first big professional show. It had a nice layout, that would take on an eerie vibe. My mother got a phone call. Glen Lapekas had been killed in a late night auto accident. He was only 26. On the show poster, there were four photos of a chair. In three Glen was seated in different positions. In the fourth, the chair was empty. I can remember thinking that the poster was a portent. A horrible predictor. Twas truly sad. Such a nice and talented guy. He had so much more to create.

(Ed Moulthrop with some of his creations) 

The second of the pieces is a wooden bowl. Known as the “father of modern woodturning”, Ed Moulthrop was instrumental in changing woodturning from being viewed as a craft to being viewed as an art form. A noted architect, he taught himself the art of woodturning. He created a special lathe and longer tools to accommodate the larger scale pieces he produced. He had a preference for diseased wood, or wood with fungal infestation. Wood others would have passed by. Ed liked the color range he got. He developed a treatment for giving his bowls a high gloss sheen that also strengthened them. Ed Moulthrop bowls are in many private collections. I read where Bill Clinton gave one to Nelson Mandela. They are included in many museum permanent collections, from MOMA to the Smithsonian.

Ed Moulthrop was an extremely nice chap. Another artist my mother befriended while working at The Signature Shop. She had really wanted one of his bowls, but they were very pricey even back then. My Moulthrop memory is from an invite from Ed. He invited my mother, brother, and myself to his home to meet his family and see his shop. I remember it being very rustic with wood beams and such. I also remember that there was a steep hill/grade in front of the house where a ski slope had been constructed. It was covered in wood shavings instead of snow. If memory serves, we stayed the night. One thing I clearly remember was having a really bad head cold. Couldn’t breathe through my nose at all. It was that Moulthrop family visit where I was first introduced to nasal spray. It felt more like battery acid, but it did clear my sinuses. (lol…interesting the things one remembers)

(My Moulthrop Bowl: two side shots, the one on the right featuring the crack Ed filled;
the center photo shows Ed's stamp, and his name and the wood type etched into the bottom.)

Back to the bowl…Ed had a bowl made out of cherry wood that had cracked, but that he had repaired. It is the bowl I now have. My brother and I remember him gifting it to my mother. It’s a lovely bowl. The crack can clearly be seen, but it doesn’t detract from its beauty. Lately, I have wondered about its value. I did some looking locally for an appraiser, but had no luck. I don’t think it can be considered an antique as it isn’t at least 100 years old (I think that’s the requirement). A fine art appraiser is probably what I need. Maybe someone at SCAD (Savannah College of Art & Design) might be able to do it, I don’t know. It’s not that I’m looking to sell it. Just curious. Maybe it being a personal gift from Ed would be a plus to its value? Yes, it is cracked, but maybe the fact that Ed cracked it and repaired it himself would add something? Who knows. I have seen similar Moulthrop bowls online that have sold for several thousand dollars, but those are not flawed. Oh well…as I said, I’m not looking to sell, just curious as to its appraisal value.

(Me, c. 1977)

Wondering about the value of this Ed Moulthrop bowl has started snippets of memory to return. Some say that every event in our lives is stored within our subconscious in the form of memories. It's just a matter of tapping into those old memories and pulling them forward. Call them whatever you want...trigger objects...the Lapekas taxi, and the Moultrop bowl keep small bits of stored data from my past popping to the surface of my conscious mind. Remembrances not necessarily directly related to the objects, but associated with the time frame in which they entered the scope of my life. Memories both bitter and sweet. 

I have a few other items of my mother's from the long past that are tucked away in boxes. I think I'll bring a few of those out. Maybe they have things to remind me of, as well...

Picture...Spark...Memory...

(Jean Cocteau, c. 1939)

As we wend our way through life, we experience events in a myriad of ways. Some have a bigger impact than others, but each experience gets tucked away into our grey cells in the form of memories. Countless memories, many of which we never recall. But some of them we do. A person, word, phrase, place, situation…all have the ability to resurrect memories. The mysterious aspect of a memory resurrection device is the memory that is pulled from the dark recesses of the mind. There are the ones that are completely relatable to the trigger device (ex: a Disneyland commercial reminding you of a childhood trip you took there with your family). Then there are ones that aren’t as easy to relate to the mental film they pull from your past. The subject of this post is one of the less obvious recollections.

The trigger device for the sake of this post is the photo at the top of the post. A photo of Jean Cocteau, taken in 1939. (Frenchman Cocteau, was a multifaceted creative person…poet, artist, playwright, filmmaker…I’m sure I left a couple of talents out, but you get the gist. On a side note: he was the creative mind behind the 1946 film masterpiece, “Beauty & the Beast”…I wrote a post about the film on this blog that can be found in the ‘Movies’ section under “Labels”...if you’re interested.) The fact that the picture is of Cocteau has nothing to do with the main focus of this memory. The photograph could be of Moe Howard, or Thor. Personal identity doesn’t matter in this case. It is the structure of the photo. The placement of Cocteau’s head and the wooden hand beside it.

Seeing that image took me to a weekend. A weekend at my Dad’s house many moons ago. The latter half of the 1970's. The players in this remembered tale are me, my brother, and my step-sister. The parental units (Dad and step-mom) weren’t home, so it was the three kids fending for themselves at the two-story house on Mount Vernon Highway. The scene begins with step-sister, Debbie (she prefers to go by Debra now, but for the sake of this retelling she will be referred to as ‘Debbie’). Debbie is chatting away on the kitchen phone. Since the cord of said phone will reach across the downstairs hall into the dining room, she has seated herself on the bottom area of the staircase leading to the second floor. Right foot pressed up against the banister, her back is against the wall.

(Me & Mike)

Cut to the upstairs, where a bored brother and a bored sister are…bored. (Another note for the sake of this post: Mike and Debbie are both four years older than me…I think I was around twelve years old at the time, so they would both be around 16. I shuffled through my meager catalog of old photos of family members, and was only able to come up with photos of my brother and me. The school photos I selected for this post are in the neighborhood of the correct ages we were at the time of this event. The one of me is included due to it being one of my better school pictures…the others should have been burned years ago…yes, they are that ‘good’. The one I picked of my brother is probably a couple of years younger, but it reflects the mischievous nature he possessed in those days.) Mike and I are upstairs in his room, unable to think of something to do to pass the time. Then a proverbial light bulb goes on over Mike’s head. I can say with all honesty that I have no recollection of how he managed to come up with this “scathingly brilliant” idea (a “Trouble with Angels”, reference).

Before I get to the actual mischievous act, I will first try to accurately paint a picture of the stage: The staircase leading to the second story was positioned against a side wall of the dining room, and had a banister up to ceiling level that faced out on the dining room. The upstairs hallway ran parallel to the staircase, with a banister overlooking the staircase and the dining room beyond. Mike and Debbie’s bedrooms were on the second floor, one on either end of the hallway. Their bathroom was positioned in the middle of the hall, in the wall opposite the hall’s banister that looked down on the stairs.

As I stated before, Debbie was casually seated on the bottom few stairs, her right foot pressed against a banister post, and her back against the wall. Basically, if Mike and I looked over the banister, we could look straight down on Debbie and the top of her head. Upstairs, Mike and I are bored, and out of nowhere Mike has a brilliant idea. An idea that involves a latex surgical glove, a length of fishing line, and a few other small aesthetic elements. A prank. Yes, the initial idea of the prank was his, but I will admit that I probably did add my two cents. As I don’t remember any specifics about my creative involvement, I will assume it was the use of aesthetic elements.

The key to the successful execution of our prank was for Debbie to remain on the phone throughout the preparation phase of things. Since she was prone to long gossip fueled conversations with her friends, we were able to tell that she was going to be glued to the phone for a good while. Perfect. We had every confidence that we could see Mike’s mischievous idea become a reality.

(An example of water filled surgical gloves.)

Luckily, we had everything we needed in Mike’s room, so there was no danger of Debbie figuring out that we were up to something by one of us having to use the stairs. Our mother worked in the lab at Grady Hospital (in Atlanta, Georgia), and she had brought home some surgical gloves from work (to explain the presence of the gloves in Mike’s room). The first step was to “fill out” the glove so it resembled a hand more. For it to be useable in the way we wanted to use it, Mike quietly entered the bathroom and filled it with water, tying the open end closed. Perfect. The water gave it enough firmness and weight to do what we wanted, and also have the appearance of being on someone’s hand. Mike had a large puzzle ring (a silver ring that could come apart and then be reassembled…like a puzzle), so we put that on the glove's ring finger. To add a little more aesthetic character, we fashioned a fake shirt cuff and put one of Mike’s cuff links in it. The final stage was to tie a length of fishing line to the knot on the wrist end of the glove. The result was better than we had initially hoped for. After lifting the hand up on the line to test the integrity of the line knot, we prepared ourselves for our big reveal.

(Puzzle ring...haven't seen one of
these in years.)

Just as we knew she would, Debbie was still in the same spot engaged in her dramatically intense chat with her friend on the phone. Stifling the laughter that was fighting to come out, Mike and I crept quietly out of his room until we were standing right above Debbie’s head. Slowly, Mike dangled the glove on its line and began to slowly feed it over the banister towards unsuspecting Debbie. The water filled glove had a very ghostly quality, and I can remember thinking how creepy it looked as it seemed to float down at her.

When the fingertips of the phantom glove were just to the top of Debbie’s head, Mike paused to wait for the right moment. Then slowly he fed the glove past Debbie’s left ear, and…tapped her on the shoulder.

Her head snapped around to the pale white of the glove. Needless to say, she jumped. Screamed. The phone handset flew out of her hand. She was really terrified. Then she heard the raucous laughter of my brother and I, and her fear turned to anger. I don’t remember what the aftermath was like, but I’m guessing that my brother and I holed up in his room for a bit to let things blow over. 

For the most part, that prank is a vivid memory. I expect that I’ll remember other things, as usually happens. One memory, sparks another, which sparks another, and so on, and so forth. I do remember that Mike and I did prank our unsuspecting step-sister other times. Of course it was always in good fun. From our perspective anyway. Though I don’t think Debbie appreciated it much. She has always had a great sense of humor, so I would like to think that she would eventually see the humorous side to what we did. As she had been an only child before Mike and I became her ‘step-siblings’, Debbie hadn’t had the conditioning that Mike and I had. Not to say that our youths had been all that typical, but we grew up having a brother/sister. We were more accustomed to getting on each other’s nerves.

Hopefully, we didn’t annoy Debbie too much…   

The Day I Hugged Ares...

(Ares, Ludovisi)

It has been awhile since I have shared a personal story. As with some of the other things I have shared thus far, I saw a photo while looking up something else that put me in mind of this:

My father, Jerry Patrick Brown, is a writer with a number of television credits. He has also held the titles Story Editor, Creative Consultant, Producer, and Co-Executive Producer. Earlier in his writing career, his credits include episodes for “Hotel”, “Hillstreet Blues”, even “Poltergiest: The Legacy”. It was during the latter half of the 1980’s (around the time of the ’88 Writer’s Strike, which really did a number on the entertainment business at that time), through to the late 1990’s that he held staff positions for “Tour of Duty”, “Silk Stockings”, “Shannon’s Deal”, and the show that is the main focus of this post, “Hercules: The Legendary Journeys”.

As a bit of a Science Fiction and Fantasy geek, I was thrilled when he got the gig with “Hercules”. I had been a fan before he started working there, and having that connection to the show was great. I got a couple of nifty items from him that were exclusively given to staff and crew…a Hercules beer mug, and a really cool “Hercules” New Zealand production crew sweat shirt that I wear each winter (it’s real soft and toasty). On one occasion, around the time of Thanksgiving in America, he (as a producer) had to fly to the set in New Zealand to deal with some issues. No idea what they were, I just remembered being extremely jealous. Not only was he going to be in New Zealand (a country I have always wanted to visit), he was going to be hanging out on the “Hercules” set with actors from the show.

As Head Writer, my dad would get asked to appear on panels at some of the various “Hercules & Xena” convention weekends. I don’t think he ended up attending one. However, as the time of one convention was approaching, he asked me if I would be interested in going as he could get me VIP tickets. How quickly do you think I said, “YES!” He had the arrangements made for me to pick up a pair of tickets at the convention. Tickets that would get me into the Green Room where the talent and show staff would hang out. I immediately looked into who was scheduled to appear. One particular name was what I was looking for. Now for a little back-tracking before continuing…

Dad worked with some talented people during his time on “Hercules”. A couple were two young men whose names you might recognize:  Alex Kurtzman, and Roberto Orci. (They would go on to create TV shows like “Fringe”, and write movies like the Abrams directed “Star Trek” feature.) Don’t quote me, but I believe that their professional writing careers began at “Hercules”. If you have seen the show, you know there is no denying the ‘tongue-in-cheek’ flavor of many episodes. (That flavoring increased as the series went on.) Several of Alex and Robs episodes are among my favorites: “…and Fancy Free”; “Men In Pink”; “Porkulus”, to name a few. However, there is one episode that is my absolute favorite…you are about to see that it’s for extremely obvious reasons…

“Yes, Virginia, There Is A Hercules”, is a bit different than the other episodes up to that point. The basic story line is ‘Hercules’ (Kevin Sorbo) hasn’t shown up for filming, after a huge earthquake has hit Los Angeles. The staff then frantically search for him. The twist of this episode is that the characters are actual ‘Hercules’ staff members being portrayed by the actors from the series. (For example, Bruce Campbell who plays ‘Autolycus’ portrays show executive producer, Rob Tapert.)

(Kevin Smith as 'Ares')

Most people who are fans of a particular show have a stand-out as the actor they like most. That one person who holds a high percentage of the reasons why they keep going back for more. By far, my favorite actor on “Hercules: The Legendary Journeys”, was New Zealand native, Kevin Smith. As Ares, god of war, on both “Hercules” and “Xena”, Kevin was the epitome of tall (6’2 ½”), dark, and handsome. I think I speak for many other female fans of the show, as well, when I say that he was a major source of the show’s eye candy. He was also great as Ares. He had the calculated arrogance of the strong, manipulative deity down. Did I already mention that he was gorgeous? *grin*

(Kevin Smith as 'Jerry Patrick Brown')

When I heard about “Yes, Virginia…”, I was thrilled. Why? Because Kevin Smith was portraying my dad, Jerry Patrick Brown – Head Writer. The video below is of the first time we see Kevin as a very "exaggerated" version of my dad:

(To turn off the music, my page music player is at the bottom of the blog page. Just click the 'Pause' button.)

Born in Knoxville, TN, my dad is from the American south. As you can see from that video clip, Kurtzman and Orci wrote a pretty wacky version of him, pulling from his southern roots, and his time on “Tour of Duty”. After shooting had finished, Kevin was in Los Angeles for some reason or other, and he paid a visit to my dad’s office. His main question? Did he go too far? It seemed Kevin thought my dad might not be pleased with his drawly, tobacco chewing, gun toting, war fanatic of a portrayal. My dad has a massively great sense of humor, and he quickly eased Kevin’s mind by telling him how much he loved what Kevin did. Personally, when I finally got to view the episode, I thought he was brilliant.

(Robert Trebor as
'Salmoneus')

So, back to the day of the “Hercules” convention. I had asked my friend, Kathi, to go with me. The convention was either in Burbank, or Pasadena…can’t remember which (it WAS roughly 15 years ago). It was scheduled so “Hercules” day was Saturday, and “Xena” day was Sunday. As I mentioned earlier, I had done some investigating to see who exactly was going to make an appearance at the “Hercules” day. Now, I think it’s pretty obvious that the specific name I was looking for on the appearance list was, Kevin Smith. It was on there…but he was scheduled for the following “Xena” day…the one I wouldn’t be attending. Major bummer, but I was still excited about who else I might meet. I was going to be able to spend the whole convention day in the Green Room, if I wanted to. I would end up meeting executive producer, Rob Tapert, Alex Kurtzman and Rob Orci, and several other staff members whose names I don’t recall (sorry). The first of the actors to appear was Robert Trebor, who you may know as playing 'Salmoneus'. He was very nice, but he came on kind of strong. How do I articulate this…he was offering his autograph, as opposed to people asking him for it. It was a bit odd…almost like he was begging for notice. It wasn’t too terribly long before something I knew was going to happen, happened.  Kathi and I arrived in separate cars, which told me she was most likely going to leave early…and she did. I stayed, as I wanted to meet Hudson Lieck, who played the deliciously evil, ‘Callisto’. That meeting was a must as a friend of mine at my job was a watcher of the show, and he loved her. I knew he would flip out if I showed up with a signed picture for him. Hudson was very gracious, and quite chatty. Nice chick. She signed two pics, signing the one for my friend with, “Hugs & Hisses ~ Hudson Lieck”. (Philip loved it!)

(Hudson Lieck as 'Callisto)

I had finished my exchange with Hudson, and was pondering whether I should head home. I turned my head a little, and saw Karl Urban leaning against a cabinet chatting with a couple of people. At that time I think he had just started portraying 'Caesar' on “Xena”. Before that he had portrayed ‘Cupid’. I was thrilled to see him, and was trying to decide if I should go in search of a ‘Cupid’ head shot for him to sign. While my brain worked this over, it happened.  I looked towards the door of the Green Room, and there he was…Kevin Smith.

(Karl Urban as 'Cupid')

I was so jazzed…I didn’t know what to do at first.  He was talking to someone, and I was determined to talk to him before he had a chance to disappear. At that time, I was in a rough physical space. Having a heated battle with my Graves Thyroid…I was a bit pudgier than I would have liked. You know how you dream of meeting someone, and then when the chance arrives you start feeling your self-confidence needle you? I had one of those moments. But determination won out, and I slowly edged closer to where he was standing talking to...uhm, whoever he was talking to. I was hoping that by the time they finished, I would know what the hell to say.

I’m standing there waiting. Then I notice that I don’t hear them talking anymore. I look over to where Kevin is and he’s looking right at me with a friendly ‘can I help you’ look on his face. The time had arrived. It was my opportunity to talk to Kevin Smith. I was standing maybe six feet from him, looking up at that head of dark wavy hair, and that handsome face. It was time to say something.

“You played my dad on TV.” That’s the first thing I just said to Kevin Smith?  Really?! He looked a bit puzzled, and I didn’t blame him.  I quickly added, “My dad is Jerry Patrick Brown.” A huge smile hit his features, “Oooooohhhh! Yeah?” I proceeded to tell him how much I dug his hysterical play on my dad. He was genuinely pleased.  We proceeded to chat, him asking me what my dad really thought, and if he had truly been cool with it. Kevin was more pleased when I confirmed what my dad had told him. (After all, some people can mask feelings at times…I think hearing it from me helped allay any residual discomforts he might have had. He signed an 'Ares' photo for me, and another autograph seeker snapped this picture for me. (It took every ounce of courage I have to post that…it's great of him, but me…*shudder*.)

After some convention staff swept him away for one reason or another, I left the convention center feeling like I was floating a foot above the ground. I had feelings of happiness at having gotten to meet ‘Ares’ in the flesh, and at finding him to be one of the nicest people I have ever met.

One night in February of 2002, I was at my dad’s for dinner. He, my step-mom, and I were sitting around the table (I think it was ‘Local Pub’ time). The phone rang. It was someone my dad knew from “Hercules”. (I’m starting to well up a little…) I could tell when he walked back into the room that he had some news that he knew would sadden me. He knew what a fan I was of Kevin, and his work. That first call was about Kevin being severely injured and in a coma. My dad would get a second call that evening that said he had passed. I found it a little overwhelming. Kevin and I were by no means close friends, but we did have a connection of sorts. 

Kevin was in Beijing, China, where he had just finished working on the film, “Warriors of Virtue 2”. Apparently, after attending the wrap party, he was walking around the studio grounds waiting for his ride back to the hotel. He wandered onto a movie set, and decided to climb one of the prop towers. He slipped and fell several stories, sustaining a severe head injury. Kevin lapsed into a coma, and after 10 days on life support, he passed away. He was 38 years old. It’s all so incredibly sad in a number of ways. One was the fact that he was taken away from his wife and kids. Another was that it happened just before he was to act in “Tears of The Sun”, with Bruce Willis. It was supposed to be Kevin’s big Hollywood break.

Kevin Smith was a great talent, and an even greater person. Not just beautiful on the outside, but inside, too. I am so glad that I got to meet him, and tell him how much I enjoyed the work that he did. I’m sure that his talent would have taken him far. He is greatly missed.

Lightning In My Hand...

Also known as Midsummer and Litha, the Summer Solstice is less than two weeks away.  June 20th will mark the shortest and brightest night of the year. Many things signal the arrival of Summer.  Chiefly, the longer days, and accompanying warmth of the burning Sun.  When I was young, there were a number of things that I associated with the Summer months.  Having a three month break from the mental exercises of school was a big one, but it was the doorway to so much more.  Computers weren't a part of the average household then.  I used to spend a great deal of time outside.  Riding my bike; exploring forest trails; building tree forts with my friends.

My favorite time of the day was late afternoon, when the day was giving way to the evening.  The calm slowly dimming time of twilight, when the Sun disappears beyond the horizon.  The Moon would rise in it's place, and the sparkling pinpricks of the stars would pepper the blue black felt of the night sky.  It was as the Moon rose to start it's shift that one of my biggest memories of Summers in the South occurred.  Like a sprinkling of fairy light spinning in the air, the Lightning Bugs would come out to play.

I grew up calling them 'Lightning Bugs', but others may know them as 'Fireflies'.  They were so magical.  I have great memories of running barefoot across blankets of cool grass, reaching for the small slowly moving balls of light.  I would grab the air born insects easily, and place them in a clean pickle jar.  Air holes would always be punched in the lid, although I never kept them in the glass prison long.  Just for a little while, so I could study their brilliant glow. My mother told me that when she was young, she and her friends would catch them like I had.  When the bugs "tails" lit up again, they would pinch them off and make rings out of the lights.  That didn't appeal to me much.  I was more of a 'catch and release' Lightning Bug trapper.  I am sure that I may have caused the occasional bug casualty, but it was never intentional.

The west coast doesn't have Lightning Bugs.  I missed them while living out there.  Now that I have been living back in the South, I have kept my eyes peeled in the evenings hoping to catch a glimpse of the 'fairy lights'. Apparently, there are 56 different species of the bugs in Georgia alone, the most of any state in the US.  I have found a little evidence online of Lightning Bug sightings in the Savannah area, but of the few mentions, most said that they think the Firefly population has been killed off in the attempts of mosquito control. Mosquito's are definitely a problem here.  During the warmer times of the year, any time I visit marsh side for some photos, I get set upon by a cloud of the blood suckers.  Even the most potent of 'bug off' sprays hasn't kept them away.  I suppose if I have to choose mosquito control over the lives of the Lightning Bugs, I'll have to reluctantly choose the mosquito control.

I was being a bit nostalgic earlier today, thinking about my early summers here in Georgia.  That got me thinking about Lightning Bugs, which then got me to wondering.  Are Lightning Bugs and Fireflies the same thing?  The answer is "yes".  There are a number of species, over 150 in the US.  They go by a number of names.  As already mentioned, they are called Lightning Bugs, and Fireflies.  They also have the name Moon Bug (I like that one), and Golden Sparkler.  In Japanese, they are 'Hotaru'.  The French call them 'Luciole', and Jamaicans call them 'Blinkies'.

(This is the type I'm accustomed
to seeing)

'Fireflies' aren't actually flies, they are a type of Beetle.  The ones that take wing and fly are the males, and they outnumber the flightless females about 50 to 1.  An interesting thing about the various species is that they all have different 'flash patterns'. A kind of natural Morse code that allows the males and females of a species to find one another.  The males who are ready to mate fly around flashing their distinct signal, and the females acknowledge that they are ready to 'receive' by flashing back at them.

How are they able to light themselves up?  They produce a substance in their abdomen called Luciferin.  The bioluminescence is a reaction of its oxidation. First, the enzyme Luciferase acts as the trigger; second, Oxygen acts as fuel; third, a common compound found in both plant and animal cells, ATP (Adenosine Triphosphate) converts it to energy causing the mixture to light up. The light produced doesn't give off any heat.

(Firefly Larva)

These beautiful little night lights also have a "dark" side.  Of course, they wouldn't be any danger to me or any of the other people that enjoy catching them in their hand, but Lightning Bugs are carnivorous.  It isn't unheard of for a female bug to send a false signal out to an unsuspecting male of another species.  When a male falls for the charade and answers the call, the female attacks him making him her nights dinner. They also look on slugs and worms as a delicacy.  When a female lays her eggs, she places them on or under soil.  4 weeks later they hatch.  The larvae then look for food.  They are good at detecting the trails left by slugs, and sometimes crawl along the path until they find their prey.  A numbing fluid is injected to subdue their meal.  It's actually the larvae that are known as Glow Worms.  Interesting to know that the catchy old song by the great Johnny Mercer, "Glow Worm", is about a rather creepy creature.

Not to mention the Glow Worm doll that was popular years ago.  How many of the kids snuggling up to their cute little "Glo Worm" friend had any idea of what the real thing looks like?

("Glo Worm" doll,
c. 1986, HASBRO)

The season for Lightning Bugs in Georgia is July thru August.  The lifespan of the bugs is about 2 months, so in the grand scheme, their season is quite short.  Who knows?  When July arrives, maybe I'll make an evening pilgrimage inland from the coast, and away from mosquito land.  Maybe then I'll get to have a nostalgic 'fairy light' encounter.

Summer Nostalgia...

(Green Magnolia seed pods. They will soon be covered with bright red seeds as they start to dry. The squirrels and birds will eat very well. Just a picture I took today that doesn't really relate to this post in any way.)

This 4th of July was rather uneventful for me here on the marsh. We (my boyfriend and I) stayed in, which was more than fine with me. I took a moment to acknowledge the significance of this day...independence and the 'Declaration' thereof. It's one of the main holidays where Americans actually acknowledge the proper origins of the day. Several of the other holidays have been taken over by commercialism and organized religion when in fact the days in question grew out of paganism...but that's a whole other subject for another time.

I did venture out of doors, albeit briefly. I was in the mood to be a slug, and stayed in my "Jammie Pants" most of the day. My two short trips into the outside world (one on the screened in porch, and one out the front) brought the festive scents of charring meat barbecuing away as neighbors worked their magic over burning coals and redolent smoke. I felt a tad jealous as we still haven't gotten a grill. I love grilled meats. Barbecued pork chops especially.

My trip out to the front was brought on by the cracking bangs of fireworks exploding nearby. By the sound, I could clearly tell that they were of the smaller 'neighbor purchased' variety. Firecrackers, roman candles, bottle rockets, and some smaller fireworks that would pop into brilliant flowers of sparks. I managed to catch the last few that were lit by neighbors in a building that backs up against the marsh. They set them off over on the marsh side. How pretty that must have been. Unfortunately, my camera and I missed the display. There were some air born explosions that didn't sound too far off, but as soon as I noticed them, their frequency began to taper off. I engaged in a quick debate with myself about whether or not to hop in the car to go in search of. The pops and bangs were having lengthier pockets of silence between them. It reminded me of a thunderstorm where the periods of silence between claps can tell you how near or far a storm is. This storm would have been moving away. Needless to say, I decided to pass on going on a fireworks hunt.

Since the passing of my mother last year and my reconnecting with my uncle (my mother's brother), and my aunt (my uncle's wife), I have been going through some old pictures that my mother had, as well as a bunch I have but haven't looked through in some time. The smells of cooking barbecue, the sound of exploding fireworks, and those pictures, made me think of my grandparents and the summers I spent at their house during my younger years.

(My brother, Mike, and me ~ I was 2 and he was 5)

My mother's parents, Doris and Harry, lived in a house high up on a bluff overlooking the Cumberland River in Nashville. They had a flagstone patio that had a beautiful view of the far bank. It was also a great vantage point for watching the various boats and barges go by, along with a big ferry boat that would pull up at the boat ramps on either bank. The railing that went around the edge of the patio was really on the edge. It was a rugged but sheer drop down to the water. If someone fell they might get caught on one of the many trees covering the bluffs face, but it was a long way down and I definitely didn't want to check to find out. I didn't like to spend much time right next to that railing.

The main memories the 4th put me in mind of were those summer days when my grandfather would barbecue. He would get out his trusty round grill and get the briquettes blazing. I can see him now with the t-shirt he was wearing wadded up and stuck in his back shorts pocket because of the heat (just like he did when he was mowing the yard), spraying any intense flame-ups with a squirt bottle of water. My grandmother would always make dishes from her usual list of picnic table fare: potato salad, three bean salad and/or barbecued baked beans, deviled eggs...it was all delicious. I make her potato salad recipe from time to time and it always reminds me of her. I remember many summers eating sweet and juicy slabs of watermelon, juice running down my chin as my brother and I would spit an occasional seed at one another. (kids...) Some of my earlier days would involve hours of my own brand of creative cookery making dirt pies at the top end of the yard with the toy dishes my grandmother had on hand. I had so much fun with that. I remember evenings spent sitting on the back porch talking, shooting at empty cans with the hand pump BB gun my grandfather had, or just listening to the haunting 'toot toooooooooot' of the train at Opryland down the river. If my brother and I were making a trip up from Atlanta with our mother, from time to time we would stop at one of the fireworks stores and get a few things to bring to the house with us. (Firework sales are legal in Tennessee.) I wasn't very fond of the loud stuff when I was little, but I would find no end to the fun of writing my name in the air with a sparkler, or watching long black and twisting shapes form from the small black 'snake' tabs.

I can remember sitting with Harry and Doris while they had 'Happy Hour' and I had a glass of Wink on the rocks, listening to them tell stories of days past. (If you aren't familiar with Wink, think a cross between Fresca and Ginger Ale...great stuff.) Even now I can envision that evening darkened porch, hear my grandmother laugh, and give my grandfather a playful chide of "Harry !" There was a lot of laughter in that house. There weren't a lot of kids in the neighborhood, but I didn't mind. It was a great place to spend time while growing up, as depicted in the photos above. That metal tub with Disney characters on it is very vivid in my memory. So are the memories of filling it with water to cool off.

It's interesting how sounds or scents can spark things we tucked away in our subconscious in the 'forgotten' file(s). There are so many things that get dredged up upon occasion that I am so thankful for. They are like finding an old item I forgot I had ever even owned, but now that I found it I won't ever misplace it again.

Down On The Farm...

Blogs are funny things. I mean that as funny/interesting, as opposed to funny/strange. Well, on second thought both apply. The more I share stories about myself (personal experiences and the like), the more I reveal to myself...the more I remember. I'm sure there are some rooms in my mind that were locked long ago and will remain so. Other rooms I've jimmied the locks on. Some I've blown open.

My latest onslaught of forgotten memories was spawned by one of my recent posts, "Night Moon...". I mentioned some 'celestially' based memories from my youth that took place in the late '60's to early '70's. The location was an old farm house in the Atlanta Area. Norcross, to be exact. As I wrote my blog entry, I felt transported as I often do when I write. Flashes of the interior of that house. The horses we had. Our dog named 'Dawg'. After I had posted the entry to my blog, my mind started working on about that house. I heard from someone that it had been declared a historical site and was still there. I was in my early 30's when I heard that, so that was...well, I'll avoid dating myself and just say that it was awhile back...

The door to that particular period of my life has always been slightly ajar...I have always had access to a few vague memories from that time. It has made me extremely curious about finding out what I can about the house. If it is still there, what sort of records could I find on it? I've been in 'Mission' mode. Couldn't remember the name of the road it was on. That seemed to be the most important information to have if you were looking for a house, and I didn't have it. I wasn't even 100% sure that it was in Norcross, but I was reasonably sure. That's where I started. I Googled images for "historical landmark farm house, Norcross, GA" and whatever else I could think of. There were a number of pictures popping up, but nothing even close to what I was looking for, and definitely not the house in question. Then I switched over to the World Wide Web. From there it didn't take very long.

Nesbit Ferry Farm in Norcross, Georgia. There it was on a web site for an architectural firm. They had handled a renovation for the current owners (I assume the owners from that time are still in residence). The site also said that there was a 10-page spread about the renovation in Southern Homes Magazine. That had me excited until a little net surfing told me that the magazine is now defunct. Actually, it changed hands and changed names, format, etc. I plan to contact the newer version of the magazine to see if they might have an archive of the old magazine, if the architectural firm doesn't get back to me. I sent them an e-mail asking for the month and year of the particular Southern Homes issue. Haven't heard back thus far.

This is a 'before' shot they had on the site, and this is pretty much how I remember it. Obviously taken in the winter. On the right hand side of the photo you can see the low wall that goes around the big stone patio. The huge trees within it's borders were usually full of leaves...I remember my dad raking up the leaves during the Fall, and my brother and I jumping in the piles scattering them again. I wish there was more detail in the picture, meaning that it included the big dirt drive out front. It was somewhat circular and there was a big tree in the middle of it. I used to love to create little cities made up mostly of dirt roads that I would drive little toy cars around in.

At the back corner (patio side) is a sun room that I spent a lot of time in. I can remember my brother and I dancing around like goofs listening to my parents Herb Alpert & The Tijuana Brass album. (If you're unfamiliar with the sound, think theme song of 'The Dating Game'). I called my brother as part of my research to pick his brain for whatever memories he had, and he remembered watching the moon landing on our b&w TV in that same sun room.

There was a step up from the sun room into the dining room. That's where my evil older brother had me convinced that the sardines on the antipasto trays my mother made would bite me. Forget the fact that they had no heads...(I know, I have no idea either.)

My parents room was on the ground floor, right across from the stairs up to the second floor where the kids rooms were. There was a curve to the left at the bottom of the stairs, and then it was a straight shot up. I can remember a few times I fell down those stairs. (I actually had a number of mishaps at that house). When you reached the top, my room was to the right and my brother's to the left. (In the picture above, my room is the window above the porch kind of behind the tree to the left, and my brother's is the more visible window.) Some definite memories I have from that house are how creeped out I would get at night in my bedroom. There were a number of times I would wake up in a cold sweat, completely disoriented, and feeling like I wasn't alone in my room. I don't want that to sound like I was utterly convinced that the house was haunted. Yes, I have had some hauntings in my past (which I've written about in this blog), but I don't think that was one. It was an old house full of pops and groans, and my older brother enjoyed freaking me out. We have just shy of four years between us, so I was the annoying little sister. No telling what some of the antics he pulled trying to terrorize me were, but I guess it was his job in a way. Throughout history, older siblings have pranked younger siblings. Moving right along...

(Me on my swing set.)

The barn is out of frame to the left of the house, as I remember. Don't know if it's still there or not. Behind the house is where the fenced in field was where we kept our two horses, Ginger and...I want to say 'Babe'. I mentioned earlier that I had some mishaps at that house. Two involved Ginger. One day I was sitting on a saddled Ginger while my mother led her around the back of the house along the flagstone walkway. Enter a snake. Snake spooks horse, horse rears up, little kid flips off back of horse and cracks head on flagstone. Can you say OUCH? (I'm sure there are a number of people who know me that are thinking, "So THAT'S what happened!") My other event happened with some small similarities. I was on the back of a saddled Ginger, one of the teenage boys that lived at the neighboring farm was over and leading Ginger under a tree. Little kid isn't paying attention, teenage boy doesn't alert her to low tree branches, little kid gets scraped off back of horse and lands on barbed wire fence. I got sliced up pretty badly under my arm. My mother tossed me into the car and whisked me off to the pediatrician's office (Dr. Johnson, I think his name was). Needless to say, I got a tetanus shot.

One thing my brother reminded me of was the nudist colony at the end of our street. It's a subdivision now (looked the house up on Google! Earth). Was kind of a running joke, as I remember. A nudist camp in the middle of some farms. Well, it was the time of Love-ins and Hippies. I'm going to use the nudists as a segue for one of my most vivid memories from that house. The movie shoot.

In those days my father produced commercials. He won some awards, too. (I was actually in a commercial for Sears' Winnie The Pooh Clothing. It was shot at the Atlanta Zoo, and I remember being horrified that I had to hold hands with a boy.) Anyway, I wasn't sure about any of the specifics on the film, but it was a B-Grade...no, that's to kind...it's an E-Grade biker film. I did some researching on that, too, and found the movie by using some of the actor's names. It's called "J.C.", came out in 1972, and is a biker version of the return of Christ. A part of me is rather curious to see it. To see the house, etc. I did find some clips posted on YouTube. It looks absolutely horrid, but apparently is known to be a decent biker film from that particular era that is "unintentionally hilarious". I think the person who reviewed it must have been smoking dope...

The biker gang that follows 'JC' around in the film were actual bikers and their old ladies. I was fascinated by the choppers, and the characters riding them. Hey, I was eight years old. They were "cool". There were a couple of 'names' in the film. Joanna Woodward, who you might know as Tatum O-Neil's mother; Burr Debenning, a character actor you would probably recognize if you saw him; and Slim Pickens, only he wasn't riding a bomb this time. No, he was just 'in' a bomb this time. (I slay me sometimes...) The whole thing was exciting for a kid like me. Being in a more rural area there weren't a lot of neighboring kids to play with. All that activity was great. I have rather vivid vision based memories of talking to Joanna while she was getting her face touched up. The "old ladies" were very nice to me, and a couple of the biker 'dudes' let me sit on their bikes. (I would later learn that's kind of an honor. For a biker to let you sit on his 'hog'. True, I was a kid, but I thought that was the coolest thing.) The best 'visual' memory was from one of the breaks. I was walking by the front porch where Slim was sitting, and he called me up to talk to him. He called me "little lady". Again, I don't remember the specifics of our conversation, but I do remember him being one of the nicest people. A southern good ol' boy, just like you see in the movies. For the time the cast and crew were there, I tried to get as close as I could to the action without being in the way. I didn't want to get sent to my room. Yes, the film looks truly horrible, but I plan to try and hunt down a copy.
Gradually the doors are opening and the memories are being released. I hope I'm able to track down some more on the house, preferably some photos of it's interior. I know seeing some pictures of the various rooms and the layout will help release some more of my mental archives. From my exchange with my brother, it appears that I remember more from there than he does. Some time has passed, so maybe he's remembered more. I'll have to ask him.
This 'learning about history' deal is interesting stuff...especially when it's your own...

Night Moon...

( A picture I took yesterday evening - Feb. 17th - as the time of the Leo Full Moon approached. It was so peaceful and beautiful. The moon was quite a bit larger in person. Wish I had been able to capture more of what I saw than what the photo captured. )

"Night, the beloved. Night, when words fade and things come alive. When the destructive analysis of day is done, and all that is truly important becomes whole and sound again. When man reassembles his fragmentary self and grows with the calm of a tree."

~ Antoine de Saint-Exupery

The moon has always fascinated me, as has the night. I've always loved that portion of each day that begins at dusk. It's so peaceful. So inspiring. I've done some of my best creative work after the sun has gone down. The night time harbors such wonderful energies.

Since moving to Savannah about 2 1/2 years ago, I've rediscovered the glorious moon. Well, let me restate that. I think it's safer to say that I've developed more of a deeper connection with it. Prior to moving back to Georgia, I lived in California for about 18 years. Most of that time was spent in the Los Angeles Area. It's a happening place that doesn't roll up it's sidewalks at night. The activity of the city is a constant. A constant for me was how much I missed seeing stars. How much I missed enjoying the moon hanging in that vast blue-black expanse known as the night sky. The culprit? Smog. The thickest blanket of airborne muck I have ever seen and experienced. Anywhere. I was living under it...'in' it. No telling how much of that poisonous crud I inhaled over those years. The apartment I rented was in a rather old building, and it didn't have central air. To make it through the scorching hot summers, it was a must to keep the windows open so what few breezes that happened by would blow through. What also passed through the apartment were the smog particulates. They coated everything. Dusting was practically a daily event. I'm so glad I don't have to clean any more blackened window sills.

There was one particular L.A. night that I was given a glimpse of the glowing celestial bodies up there. It was during the big quake of...1993, I think it was. It is known as the Northridge Quake. It happened in the early hours of the morning, and I was sleeping soundly. With a big jolt my bed began to hop and shake. Pictures slid down the bedroom walls, the sound of shattering glass tinkling below the rumble of the earth. A transformer atop a light pole by the street out front flashed and popped, causing a strobe effect in my room. Struggling to my feet, I headed to the small hallway at the center of the apartment that connected my bedroom, bathroom, and living room. Just as I reached the connective space, there was a big BOOM of a jolt and the intensity of things picked up. Stuff continued to crash in my apartment. I looked back and forth, all forms of light seemingly extinguished. The only hint of any light source however dull came from the sliding glass doors that lead out to my small balcony. Using my hands as 'feelers', I probed around in front of me as I made my way to the closed curtains. It wasn't the smartest thing to do as I was barefoot. I stepped on something cool and slick...leaves to one of the big houseplants. Then it stopped. The earth stopped moving. For the moment, anyway. The building continued to creak and pop a bit, and I could feel it softly swaying in the aftermath. The muffled sounds of voices floated through the open windows. My neighbors were out and about. As fast as I could I rummaged for one of the flashlights I kept handy (any resident of earthquake prone California would do well to have one or two in every room of their home). Flashlight in hand I made quick work of finding my glasses (I can't see a thing without them), threw on some jeans, and rushed out the front door. (note: All of this happened in a matter of...it had to be no more than five minutes. The bulk of that time being the duration of that initial quake.) At that moment, I was feeling that it would be safer outside than in. A number of my neighbors concurred, one being so freaked out by the scary incident to run outside in the buff. That was pretty funny. They were standing behind a bush, too scared to go back in to retrieve something to put on. One of the other neighbors gave them a blanket to wrap up in. As we collected by the front stairs of the building, there was an excitement about the whole thing. One observation was unanimous. It was pitch dark in L.A., and we were all chilly. A number of us headed back in to put on shoes and more cover from the cool night air.

Walking back into the living room with the beam from the flashlight was astonishing. The floor was covered with all kinds of 'rubble'. Most looked intact. The shelving unit had been filled with lots of books, so those weren't breakable. Some breakable items did fall, but miraculously nothing broke except for glass in picture frames. The only real messy-mess were the potted houseplants. I took great care to not tread on the spray of potting soil strewn across the carpet. The building shook slightly here and there. Was to be expected after a shaker like the one we had. Again, I was only inside for a few minutes time when I headed back outside. Just as I put my hand on the doorknob, my phone rang. It was my mother. She had just seen on the news that a big earthquake had rocked the Los Angeles area. "Yes, one did. I'm on my way outside." How big was it? Am I okay? Is there any damage? The room began to rattle again, the wall size shelving unit squeaking loudly with the motion. "I gotta go, mom." She started to chat. "Aftershock, mom. Gotta go." I dashed out the door and down the stairs.

Heading back to the area of congregation, I could make out most of the neighbors standing around in various stages of wakefulness. Flashlight beams danced around the group, the murmurs and laughs of conversation filtering over to me. I remember stopping by the wall that ran up the side of the building, and registering just how dark it was...L.A. was in blackout. Not something one sees every day. The distant thump of helicopters could be heard. I had no doubt that there would be plenty of those flying overhead, scoping out for wrong-doers. They were always doing that anyway (I lived in West Hollywood, and it always sounded like downtown Beirut with the constant nightly helicopters). Then I felt the need to stretch, and did so. It would be the first time I had looked up since coming outside. I was mesmerized. Stars. The thick, bright blanket of gorgeous stars. It was like seeing them for the first time. I can remember so vividly how beautiful they were to me in that moment. I couldn't remember seeing stars in that number or at that brightness since I had left Georgia years before. It's interesting how much a thick layer of smog and the bright burning lights of a vast city can mask the presence of something so impressive and huge as the night sky. I feel sorry for anyone that has grown up in a big city, and has never witnessed something as beautiful as a cloudless night sky. Like the night skies I see now. Like the night skies of my youth...

I grew up in Georgia. Savannah has marked my return to this southern state. Both of my parents spent their childhoods in Tennessee. My father was born and raised in Knoxville, Tennessee. My mother was born in Tucumcari, New Mexico, but she and my grandparents would spend the bulk of her growing up years in Nashville. While I was still quite young, one of the houses we lived in was a big two-story farm house with a barn. It was in an area called Norcross, and at that time it was pretty rural. I have been told that in recent years the area is now quite built up, but the house I once lived in is still there and has been made a historical landmark. Pretty cool. (Hmmm...Wonder if the Bachelor Buttons I used to pick along the wall by the dirt road are still there?) Some of my most vivid memories of life at that house have to do with the night time. Swinging on the swing set. Trying to get so high that I could reach out and touch the sky. Chasing lightning bugs. Lying in the cool summer grass, and trying to locate the Dippers. That sky was so wide. So magical. The symphony of crickets lulling me to a place of peacefulness. Of serenity. I quickly grew to love the sight of the earth around me illuminated with the beams of light radiating from the moon, that nightly reflector of the sun. The breezes, smells, sounds, and shadows of the night. A wonderfully mysterious and exhilarating world watched over by a moonlit sky. My parents divorced while we were living in that house. Later, my dad would own a farm in Duluth, Georgia. I would create some memories of the moon and the stars there, too. The night time of the summer. Lying in the grass in shorts and a t-shirt, feeling the green blades cool my skin against the heat. The star filled sky that hangs above the quiet solitude of a farm is more beautiful than I can ever properly articulate. No streetlights. No traffic. No strip malls. Just trees, land...life in one of it's purest forms.

I have had some flash back moments here on the island. Leisurely drives to explore and snap photos has become a favorite activity of mine. Most times I've ventured out solo during the day. One of my few night time exploratory drives was at Christmas this past year. Glenn and I went on a Christmas light hunt. It was a couple three weeks before Christmas, but I was pretty sure we would find some early lighting displays in some yards. Indeed we did. In regards to businesses, there aren't a lot of them in our neck of the woods. Most of the island is residential and a bit of it quite rustic. There is a main road that circumnavigates a good deal of the island, and that has become my basic route. That's where we headed. There aren't any streetlights out here. The bulk of the isle is extremely dark. When we were on the far side of the island looking for holiday lights I looked up. Stars. The blanket of stars from when I was young. It was still there. I may not have been in the same spot...the same location...but it was there. It was like running into an old friend that I hadn't seen in years.

I love going for walks, especially at night. Each month at the full moon is my favorite time to go out, but with the skies we get here in the deep south a fingernail moon is fine, too. During the time I lived in California, I always knew I would eventually move back to Georgia. I missed so much about it. The trees, the people. But looking up at that celestial sky is all I need to do to remind me I'm home.

"It seemed to be a necessary ritual that he should prepare himself for sleep by meditating under the solemnity of the night sky...a mysterious transaction between the infinity of the soul and the infinity of the universe."

~ Victor Hugo

(The full February Leo moon. I'm rather proud of this pic...)

Who's there?

I had already written an account of my second haunting experience (which in my personal time line was actually my first experience), and all of what I included did happen...I just don't care for the way I wrote it. I kept going back and editing...and re-editing...and re-editing...changing the phrasing, etc. I decided to start over with a posting I feel more happy with. Moving right along...

It was the mid-80's, and I had moved back to Atlanta after giving college a try. I was living with my mother and working for B. Dalton Bookseller. I got promoted to an assistant manager's position and transferred to the Toco Hills store where I met Sherry, the manager. We got along really well. We both had a love of Science Fiction & Fantasy...the store had a great SF&F section because of that fact. I had been working there for a little while, and during that time she got me involved with the SCA (the Society for Creative Anachronisms...we dressed in medieval garb and re-created the middle ages...that's the Reader's Digest description). Those were good days.

Anyway, things weren't that great with my living arrangements, so it was time to start looking for new digs. It just so happened that Sherry and her roommate (Michelle) had a small bedroom in the duplex they rented that was available. How convenient was that? The great part was that they were asking $80 a month for it. I would have been a maroon to not at least consider it. As I said, Sherry and I got along really well, and I was acquainted with Michelle through my SCA involvement. So I followed Sherry home after work to check things out.

The house was on 3rd Street in Mid-Town Atlanta. It was not far at all from where I had been living, as my mom rented a house in mid-town, too. Sherry had described her house as being rather old, and she hadn't been kidding. It was old, but really neat. Two-stories high, the two halves of the duplex set-up looked to be pretty equal in size. There was a long roofed porch that ran the width of the house. The front door to the unit I would be looking over had an ancient front door that had etched glass set into it. The inside of the place was really impressive. The stairs up to the second level were directly in front of the door when you walked in, and we entered into the living room which was huge with high ceilings, a big ornate fireplace, and a huge bay window. There was a dining room on the other side of the living room that had an entry way with columns to either side, and a smaller fireplace along it's back wall. The entrance to the kitchen was in a back corner of the dining room. It was really a beautiful place. The shame was that it obviously was housing a couple of uber-slobs. There was crap everywhere. Well not literally. (haha) That was something I hadn't known about Sherry. I just kind of looked past the mess to what lay beneath. There was something else. An energy to the place. Not negative or unwelcoming, but just kind of...off. Nothing I can properly articulate. Continuing the tour, Sherry led me upstairs to the bedroom I was there to scope out.

The stairs were rather creaky. The railing went up about ten steps, and ended into the wall. The remaining two-thirds or so of the steps had wall on both sides. Looking up to the top, I could see a door with a smoked glass window in it. That was the bathroom (which was really cool...it had a huge claw-foot tub in it that was awesome for taking relaxing baths...very roomy). There was a lighting fixture on the sloped ceiling over the stairs, but Sherry said that the bulb had been burned out for some time as it was a bitch to change. We got to the landing in front of the bathroom, and right next to that door was another door at kind of an angle. That was the door into the room for rent. Sherry had told me the bedroom was small, but once I saw it in person I seriously doubted that it was meant to be a bedroom. It looked more like a sewing room to me. It was about 10'x12' in diameter, and had two windows on the two outside walls. I could look down on the backyard of the house which was overgrown and green. The closet was tiny. After Sherry had told me about the room, I had already decided I would take it if it checked out okay. It had, so I wrote Sherry a check for the first month's rent. I would move in soon after that.

My brother helped me paint the room before I actually moved anything in. I did decorate with my usual amount of clutter, but the furniture was minimal enough to make it a very comfortable space. Sherry and Michelle's bedrooms were at the end of the hall that continued past my door and ran back towards the front of the house. The hallway dead-ended at Sherry's door, and Michelle's was on the left next door. Both of the girls kept their doors closed when they weren't in their rooms. Sherry had a cat that she kept cooped up in her bedroom 24/7. I felt bad for that cat. Sherry had not only turned out to be a messy slob, but a dirty one. By the time I was introduced to the feline it was kind of schizo. Sherry never cleaned the litter boxes she had in there, so the cat went anywhere and everywhere in her bedroom. In the earlier days of them co-habitating, Michelle would leave her door open. One day when they both were out, the cat got out of Sherry's bedroom and crapped in the middle of Michelle's bed. She kept her door shut after that.

A couple of days after I had moved in, I arrived home from work to find the house empty. I decided to take advantage of the absence of my roommates and take a long relaxing uninterrupted shower. I finished up, had turned the water off, and was drying off when I heard someone coming up the stairs. It appeared that one of the girls had come home. I heard them come up the stairs and turn to walk down the hall to their bedroom. I finished drying off, threw on my PJ's, and walked into my bedroom. Glancing down the hall, it was really dark. The shadows in that place were. They always seemed to be a bit darker than your usual shadows. I couldn't even see a sliver of light from under either of the closed doors. I called out their names and didn't get an answer. I felt pretty creeped out, and a chill ran through me. I know I had heard someone walk upstairs. No doubt in my mind. Walking into dark rooms in places I've lived has never been something I had ever been nervous about, but there was no way I was going to walk down that hall. Bottom line...I was freaked out. I went down to the living room, turned the TV on and the volume up, and stayed down there until someone came home. I remember not being able to look back at the stairs. It takes a lot to scare me, but I was absolutely on edge. A short time later, Michelle came home. That's when I found out that Sherry hadn't told me everything about the house.

Michelle was not surprised that I had an experience. If anything she was jealous because she had yet to have one. The news bulletin was that the house was haunted, and the 'ghost' would walk up and down the stairs. I hadn't ever witnessed anything that paranormal before, so it took me some getting used to. As I've mentioned in posts on here, I'm very open minded. Having said that, it threw me for a bit of a loop being front and center for an event like that without any prior warning or any prior experiences. Was it a deal breaker for me? Not at all. However, I really wish that Sherry had told me about it from the beginning. When Sherry got home I learned more. The manager of the downtown B. Dalton store (her name escapes me) had been the previous tenant, along with her husband and daughter. They were the ones that had turned Sherry onto the place when they were moving out after living there for quite a long time, and were very upfront with her about there being a ghost in the house. I had a number of questions about the ghost that my roomies couldn't answer, so I queried the previous tenants. They, too, were in the SCA, so I chatted them up at the next meeting...which was conveniently the next night. (The night of my "event", I slept with the lights on.)

Talking to the old tenants was a good move. Since they had lived there for a number of years, they had done their own investigating. The thought had crossed my mind about the neighbor just on the other side of the wall, and whether or not they had a staircase against that same wall. Maybe that was giving the illusion of a haunting? Nope. They had also asked the neighbors if they had experienced anything, but they had not. Looked like the haunting was specific to our digs. They got used to the presence. They said that it would go up and/or down the stairs at no specific time, but usually at night. They also felt that it would hang around sometimes at the top of the staircase outside of the bathroom because it would feel chilly right around there. The husband said that he had caught a glimpse of a shadow in that area a couple of times, as well. Having that discussion helped my mind set tremendously. I just wish I would have known about it prior to moving in so that I would have been prepared and not so freaked out witnessing things when I was home alone.

I lived there for about 8 months, and in that time I heard the footsteps pretty frequently. Michelle and I became good friends and on a couple of occasions when hanging out in my room she was finally able to witness our fourth roomie. I think it did excite her to think that she was living with a ghost. I remember one time when we were talking in my room, we heard the footsteps ascending the stairs. This was the only time I did this, but I was curious. I went out in front of the bathroom door and looked down the stairs. I could hear the creaking, but saw nothing. It was rather dark downstairs, so the stair well was really dark. Thankfully there wasn't any sort of contact made. I think if something had poked me or touched me in any way, I would've soiled myself. lol If Michelle hadn't been right there, I would never have gone out for a peek.

When I eventually moved out, it wasn't because of the haunting. True, I started closing my door when I went to bed, and there were a few times that the door was opened. There was no logical explanation for it either. The main reason for my moving out was drama. Three females living together can be a recipe for the dramatic, and I don't do drama very well.