The Blog

Abuse, Alcoholism, Faith, Healing, Homesteading

The Right Tools

Lisa Burbank

Yesterday saw me being warmed the first time by the wood for the woodstove. For those of you unfamiliar with the old saying, when you heat your home with wood, that wood warms you twice. Once during the splitting and stacking, the second in the woodstove or hearth. Albeit, this is wood for next year’s heat but I worked up a sweat nonetheless. Primarily because these logs are too thick for the splitter and need to be cut down into more manageable pieces; the little hand saw I have is too small for the job. But I am stubborn woman. I was determined to get some wood cut. So I sawed away and, while the back and wrists screamed abuse at me, I also managed to create at least a small pile of wood that’s just the right size for the stove. When I look at that pile, I wonder how much more effective I would have been with the right tools, how much more progress I would have made.

Living with alcoholism–someone else’s, not my own–is much the same. I was a child growing up with a stepfather who drank heavily and remember my mother cajoling and threatening him to stop drinking. You’d think I had learned a valuable lesson watching all of this but, years later, I found myself in a relationship with an alcoholic and guess what? I cajoled and threatened him repeatedly to stop drinking. I even stayed in the relationship longer than necessary out of that sheer stubbornness–even when the relationship turned abusive. No, he never beat me; he threatened to. But it was enough…along with the verbal and mental abuse that leaves more permanent and painful scars than any physical abuse ever could. I used the wrong tools. And, though there were periods of sobriety and a glimpse at the beautiful person lost in this dis-ease, how much more effective would that campaign have been had I used the proper tools?

Proper tools? “Tools” such as faith; such as “Letting Go And Letting God”; such as detaching with love; such as minding my own business and taking care of myself, despite his drunken escapades. In short, working my Al-Anon program. Instead, every time he opened a can of beer or a bottle of something stronger, I waited and watched, making myself scarce until he nodded off from the effects. Then I did the chores I needed to finish before bed–a bedtime that came much too late for such an early rising time. Doing them while he was awake and alert might’ve incurred some harsh criticism from him; how I did my work was never good enough. And I was liable to take exception and give in to the jabs, to take hold of the bait for another argument. As I went through these nightly routines, I did so on tiptoes, afraid to awaken him. The same result would have happened; we would end up fighting. Sometimes I even went so far as to open a few cans while he slept and poured them down the drain. Did I really think that would stop him if he believed he’d drank 10 cans instead of 6 or 8? Did he really care about the number of cans or the amount of whiskey still left in the bottle? Was he fooled by my pitiful manipulations? Not in the least. He knew exactly how many beers/how much whiskey he’d consumed before he nodded off. We fought anyway. I tried to control him as he often controlled me. I tried to change him, to force my hand. The right “tool” would’ve been to change myself. I eventually did. The relationship ended. And he’s still drinking heavily, night after night.

I’ve learned some valuable lessons about having the right “tools”. While my cajoles and threats might have resulted in a few, brief periods of sobriety in this alcoholic–much like my stubborn insistence to cut wood with a saw too small for the size of the wood, resulted in a small pile of heat source–they did not effect the change that would’ve meant “success” for me. Instead, the alcoholic drank more and the fighting grew worse. This dis-ease is too great for mere stubbornness and manipulation to conquer, just like those enormous trunks of wood are too great to split and stack with a mere hand saw and an aging back. But, unlike the former situation, I can purchase a bigger saw, a better tool–the right tool–and get exactly the result I crave…and my back will thank me for it. Had I used the right tools with the alcoholic, and given the situation to the God of my consciousness, who knows what miracles might have taken place?

May God bless you & keep you!

Animals, Ghosts, Gratitude, Hauntings, Supernatural

Haunted Scavenger Hunt

Lisa Burbank

There was an afternoon, shortly after Dan & I purchased this property, that Dan came home from work, having just cashed his paycheck, and placed $300.00 in an empty sugar bowl that was on the kitchen table. This was mortgage money and he did not want to carry it on him while he ran some errands. So he put it in the sugar bowl, placing the lid over the bowl, for safe keeping until he returned.

A short while later, Dan returned from his errands. He had one more. That was to make a deposit of the cash he’d placed in the sugar bowl. He walked in the house, walked over to the kitchen table and lifted the lid on the sugar bowl. It was empty! What the –?

Of course, anyone’s reaction would initially be panic. The table sat in front of a large picture window. Did someone see him “hiding” the money through that window? His first reaction was that we’d been robbed…even though the doors were locked and none of the windows showed signs of having been jimmied open. Eh, we’re not living in Mayberry anymore; crooks are getting craftier by the minute. But before Dan could call the police to report it, Woody, our gray tabby, came running around the corner with a $20 bill in his mouth. Phew! Relax. Breathe. The cats were simply into mischief…

…and somehow managed to take the lid off of a sugar bowl, remove fifteen $20 dollar bills, and place the lid back on the sugar bowl as snugly as Dan had initially left it? Somehow, Dan just couldn’t wrap his mind around this one but there wasn’t any other answer. Thus, began his scavenger hunt for the other fourteen $20 bills.

The first few that he found fit the story of the kitties being responsible. Two or three were wadded up and “rolled” under the couch, a chair, even the bed upstairs. However, the rest were inexplicable–unless you have a few restless ghosts roaming around the house. One $20 bill was peeking out from between the mattress and box spring, perhaps an ode to a common, antiquated practice of hiding your savings under your mattress. Another was peeking out of a dresser drawer. Still another peeked out between the cushions of the sofa. He found one in a jacket pocket–and, as these were crisp, new bills, we were both fairly confident that this wasn’t a forgotten bill from another time. The strangest one, and one that couldn’t be easily explained whether from kitty capers or otherwise, was found folded lengthwise over the rod in our bedroom closet, held in place by a couple of hangers.

Dan had just found the last one when I came home from work. Needless to say, he was quite flustered due to all of the strange places he found the money, places that no cat–even were any gifted with a pair of thumbs–could accomplish. Trying to wrap our minds around it, we considered the teenage boys we’d seen up on the hill the day the cats were found out-of-doors. But would teenage boys create a scavenger hunt? More than likely, if they were gifted enough to break and enter without detection in broad daylight, in the middle of a commercial district on a major interstate, they would likely have pocketed the $300.00. And what would be the point of the scavenger hunt? None would be able to watch and laugh at their joke…unless thieves and pickpockets from another era had played such a plank.

Whoever, whatever it was, I am simply grateful the money was found. But, as any “mother” will tell you, even her “fur” babies are a cut above the rest. Maybe Paz, Woody and Ariel played a practical joke after all.

May God bless you & keep you!

Animals, Healing, Herbs, Holistic Health, Homesteading, Nature

Wednesday’s Weed Walk with the Crazy Cat Lady

Lisa Burbank

That title should make it obvious what herb I’m going to write about today: Nepeta cataria, or more commonly known as, Catnip.

Catnip typically conjures up cartoon images of helpless felines languishing about in the sun, looking like someone on a healthy dose of Cannabis…and, in this household, with 10 felines, that image is pretty accurate. I keep a quart-size mason jar in my pantry full of dried catnip; the moment I unscrew the lid, every feline comes running. And the effects are almost instantaneous as even my geriatric felines start rolling around like young kittens, only to nod off into dreamland shortly thereafter. They also like to eat the dried leaves and, as it is very good for them, I allow them to take all they want.

Catnip is a mild sedative and is an excellent remedy for nervousness and hyperactivity in children (m. Tierra 114). It is also a carminative (relieves gas and bloating) and a diaphoretic (induces sweating), helping to ease fevers and colds. However, it is the analgesic properties to which I have lately been putting Catnip to use (M. Tierra 32). Catnip relieves pain. And, as the mammary tumor grows under my Ariel’s right front leg, keeping her comfortable is important. At her age (she’s 16), surgery is no longer an option and, to be honest, I am not overly-confident it is the best course of action anyway. It is highly-invasive and extremely painful for them; I’ve witnessed it time and again. Ditto for many allopathic pain-relievers that eventually shutdown the major organs. Fortunately, our vet’s sister is an herbalist and he approves many of the herbal alternatives, carries many of their tinctures in his clinic. She is under his care, just not under the knife. And the Catnip does appear to ease her pain and discomfort. What’s more, it is a lot easier getting her to drink an eyedropper-full of Catnip “tea” than some of the more orthodox remedies with their medicinal tastes.

For humans, Catnip tea is very good for easing headaches, toothaches, and the deep-down body aches and pains of fever and flu (Tierra 114). It also tastes good so give it a try. Your cats will love you.

May God bless you & keep you!

**These statements have not been evaluated by the Food and Drug Administration. This article has been presented for educational purposes only; it is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent disease.”

Works Cited

Tierra, Michael. The Way of Herbs. Pocket Books, New York: 1998

Animals, Ghosts, Gratitude, Hauntings, Supernatural

Haunted Kitties

Lisa Burbank

The first Christmas season here in Brooklyn, CT, I came home from shopping one afternoon to see a black-and-white tuxedo kitty running around the back of the house. My first thought was “That looks like Pazzy” but Paz, Woody, and Ariel, the three cats that shared our home back in 2001, were strictly indoor cats; I never let them outside so I simply assumed this was a stray that looked like Paz. I didn’t get that good of a look at him. So I went about my business of unloading the car and carrying my bags to the door. By the time I had opened it, the stray cat had completely slipped my mind except for a vague wish that he or she would not find Route 6 any time soon.

Setting down my bundles, I noticed that none of my kitties came to greet me at the door. That was very unusual because they always did. However, I still wasn’t making the connection between the Pazzy-lookalike and my own precious felines. I called a greeting. Still no response. That’s when it hit me. That “stray” didn’t look like Pazzy; it was Paz!

My first thought, because I assumed Woody and Ariel were still somewhere in the house, was that he’d slipped by Dan when Dan went out to visit his friend, Timmy, and play some cards. After all, the door had been locked tight. But where was Arial and Woody? I started searching the house. Nobody sleeping on the bed, the sofa, any of the chairs. I checked all the usual “haunts”; then even scoped out the closets and every other possible hiding place just to rule them all out. Finally, I had to concede that somehow they had all gotten out and there was no way that all three could have slipped by Dan together. I ran outside and around back where I’d last seen Paz.

Calling his name, I looked everywhere for all of them. Suddenly, Paz flew out from under the back deck, streaked by me and scurried under the shed. This wasn’t going to be easy and I needed help. I ran back inside and called Dan.

“By any chance did you let the cats outside?” I asked because I still couldn’t fathom how all of them had escaped at once.

“Of course not. Why?”

“They’re not in the house. I saw Paz running around the back of the house when I got home. And none of the other cats are in the house either. Paz just crawled under the shed. I can’t find Woody or Ariel anywhere.”

“I’ll be right home.”

Dan and I spent the better part of two hours trying to find them. After another careful sweep of the house, we ascertained that none of them was inside. We checked all of the doors. All of them were latched and locked tight; there was no way anyone could get in or any possibility the wind could’ve blown a door open to let them out. We headed back outside.

Flashlight in hand, Dan started shining it under the shed. Nothing.

“Are you sure this is where he went?”

“Yes. He was under the deck before that.”

A light bulb went off in both our heads. Maybe they were all under the deck. Outside was probably a scary place for three inexperienced kitties. But how were we going to get them back out? There was no access for humans under that deck unless we started taking it apart.

Suddenly, Dan grabbed the garden house and turned on the water. Walking backwards and forwards he started hosing down the back deck. Within seconds Paz came scurrying out. I managed to scoop him up and put him inside, rejoicing that I had one little bundle of joy safe at hand again. Dan kept the hose running, concentrating on the back corners now. Ariel excavated some of the dirt away from the bottom of the deck and seemed to grow out of the ground like a giant mole. I caught her up and took her inside, too. That left Woody. And, as he was the most skittish of the three, after another 20 minutes of hosing the deck, we were both forced to conclude that Woody had not joined his siblings under the deck. Where was he? Dan turned off the hose.

By now, I was in hysterics. Where was my Woody? Though I love all of my cats, Woody held a very special place in my heart. Though all three are/were extremely affectionate, Woody was the ultimate cuddle bug. Got lap? Have Woody. He just couldn’t be lost. I started praying, an endless litany of the same thing over and again. “Please don’t let him be lost for good, Lord!”; “Please help us find him.”; “Please don’t let him get out on Route 6 or let anything attack him.” Shuddering at the thought, I walked to the edge of the road and looked up and down it, breathing a sigh of relief that no little gray and black tiger-striped cat was “gracing” it. I started walking towards the woods. I would overturn every rock and branch in those woods if I thought it would help me to find him. I noticed some teenage boys sitting atop the hill and wondered, briefly, if they could have let them out as a prank but how did they get in to do so? Again, all three doors were locked, as were the windows. It was December, after all. More likely, they were drawn to my big mouth calling for my cats and were simply getting a show.

It was then that I heard Dan call out, “I’ve got him!” Woody had chosen to hide in the front bushes. Dan searched them on a hunch and Woody came right to him; he didn’t like his trip outside.

“Thank you, Lord!”

I never ran so fast in my life.

Later, after all three felines were safely inside again, Dan and I started wondering how they had gotten out in the first place. We checked the doors again. They were all closed tightly. All of the locks on the windows were set and there was no sign of any forced entry. Though I still don’t rule out a teenage prank entirely, it is only because I hate thinking that some “other” entity had a hand in their escape. Though I am by no means an expert on the supernatural, or ghosts, I’ve read, watched and studied enough documentation to know that pets are often innocent targets during a haunting. And would teenage boys hang around after the fact? It is more likely they would have lit out of there, not wanting to get caught as suspects in a breaking and entering.

Today, I’m just grateful we found them all. Paz and Ariel are still beloved blessings in my life; Woody was likewise until his passing in 2012. And his memory is something I will cherish until my own dying day. I am also grateful that “my” ghosts have not seen fit to let the cats out again…

Perhaps it was a teenage prank after all…

May God bless you and keep you!

28936_113750781995484_900142_n ariel

Faith, Gratitude, Healing

A Perfect Sharing

Lisa Burbank

Four good “witches” from the North traveled even farther North this weekend as Mom, two aunties and I made our annual trip to Salem, Massachusetts. Sadly, we were a much smaller group than last year’s convoy but I’m learning to accept that things are the way they are and, more importantly, I’m learning to follow Father Elson’s advice about the current family situation: Let those who don’t want to associate with you go their own way but don’t burn all the bridges; let them know the bridge is always there if they should ever decide to cross back over. You cannot force someone to cross it if they do not want to; that is their free will, but you can love them enough to keep in contact, whether a holiday card or whatever means, to let them know they still matter to you. And so, I take it to heart. Or at least try to…

However, despite all of this crazy drama, I am not lamenting this Saturday’s outing at all. We had a grand time, enjoying the sites, the beautiful weather, some good food and a lot of laughs.

I have a penchant for always being late. Amazingly, Mom and I were actually about 15 minutes’ early–even with stopping for gasoline and a cup of chai (moi)/coffee (Mom) along the way. And there was no convoy as 4 of us fit quite nicely together in one car. I have to remember next time to bring some tunes but that was the only hitch this time around and we made up for the lack of tunes by catching up with each other. No wrong exits, no ‘bad’ directions, fewer streets blocked off and we found the perfect place to park–at a special education school parking lot that was raising money for the school to benefit the kids that attended it. It was a win-win situation; we found a safe place to park for the day without worry of being towed or vandalized, and the school received a much-needed donation. They also opened the school up for travelers to use their restrooms and provided printed directions for an alternative route out of Salem–one that wouldn’t take you through the downtown area that became more congested as the day wore on. And, though we planned for any sort of weather and temps, it was a beautifully balmy day for sharing with loved ones; the jackets and gloves got plunked into the trunk of the car before we headed downtown.

The usual million dollar question got tossed about for awhile: what do you want to do/see first? We took a walk through the mall where countless vendors hawked their wares and I was strongly tempted to purchase a T-shirt that read: “Never mind the flying monkeys; beware what I might do with this broom”. But I restrained myself, preferring to keep the $15 in my pocket. Instead, I went for a $2 bumper sticker that reads: “I dream of a world where chickens can cross the road without having their motives questioned” That may well become the battle cry for my existence.

We found a lovely little pub down by the wharf for lunch. Initially, we were told it would be a 45 minute wait but, when so many people had left rather than waiting, we had a table for 4 within 10 minutes. Again, we enjoyed the conversation, the laughs and even made plans for the upcoming holidays. It was the perfect sharing: no gossip, no quarrels, no drama.

What made it even more perfect was that the sharing wasn’t just in the conversation. I drove. I didn’t mind; I’ve been to Salem enough times that everything starts to look familiar without directions–almost. But everyone chipped in for parking and gasoline; I didn’t ask, they simply did. One aunt paid for lunch. The other bought us coffee/tea and dessert later on. We gave to each other in an endless ebb and flow of sharing. By doing so, nobody felt left out or uncomfortable.

Now we’re planning for next year. Despite the mutual sharing, pricing was such that we declined a number of events. And some of the tours were rather lengthy so we’re hoping to plan out a few activities before we make this next road trip. The Psychic Faire, The Ghosts and Legends Trolley tour, The Smugglers’ Tour and the Mahi Mahi boat tour were all yearned for but either the timing was off and/or we hadn’t planned on the higher price tags. Also, the usual historic home tours do not happen during October due to the sheer volumes of visitors. Instead, though I assured everyone that Witch House was worth the admission, it proved false as we were left to look around on our own and simply read the lengthy static displays in each room; it’s much better off-season when an actual tour guide provides a good 30-45 minute commentary on the history of the house, and Judge Corwin, who was a prosecutor during the Salem Witch Trials of 1692.

Maybe next year we’ll make two trips–one for a more enjoyable history lesson and another for the special Halloween/Samhain events. Maybe next year we’ll also have a bigger convoy but, again, I won’t lament what is. Gratitude is the way to true happiness.

May God bless you & keep you!

Alcoholism, Ghosts, Hauntings

A Possible Haunting…

Lisa Burbank

I always chalked this one off to the now-ex-husband/husband at the time, who often would sleepwalk whenever he’d had too much to drink. It was not uncommon to awaken and find a half-cooked meal on the stove, a meal that he had gotten out of bed to cook and, thankfully, at least remembered to turn off the stove again before going back to bed without eating it.

There was one weekend morning when I awakened and then sat up abruptly, blinking in amazement. Starting at the top landing (staircase has two of them) was a line of pet carriers marching down the hall like some sort of play choo-choo train. Having always had numerous pets, and a carrier for each one, this “train” went quite a distance down that hallway, ending in a slight curve in the home office at the opposite end. It was a little unnerving as it seemed well-planned out. But, again, because Dan often would sleepwalk after an over-indulgence, and also do some odd things during his sleepwalking, I assumed that he had set the carriers up in such a way. Now, as I reflect over all of the odd, unexplainable events that have taken place here, I wonder if this was simply one that could, potentially, be explained to human activity and so I supplied that explanation. I mean, who wants to think that ghosts can move such items around in the middle of the night without anyone knowing or awakening from the potential noise that movement might make? As we were man and wife, being used to each other’s movements about the house at night (i.e. bathroom trips, husband’s sleepwalking, etc) was perfectly normal. However, I can’t help but wonder, because Dan typically slept on the couch downstairs where he invariably passed out after a number of beers, was he actually the creator of this “train”. He seldom, if ever, came upstairs but, most of the time, slept through the night on the couch.

If it was a ghost, then this would be one of only two incidents where harm might have been met. Though the “train” was not in anyway blocking the staircase, if either of us had decided to walk down the hall, we would have tripped over it. What kind of warning might this have been, if any? And, I can’t help think that, no matter how used to his movements at night, such an operation might’ve caused enough noise to awaken me anyway; I can’t imagine that Dan would have been ultra-quiet about it during one of his sleepwalking acts…

May God bless you & keep you!

Healing, Herbs, Holistic Health, Organic

Wednesday’s Weed Walk: Do Re Mi…

Lisa Burbank

Singer’s Tea…no, that’s not actually a legitimate product, that I know of, but that’s what I call one of my favorite herbal tea blends.

I don’t sing professionally anymore. Or even semi-pro. While the vocal chords may get a bit of a workout on the weekends when I’m enclosed in my home office and working on the mural that is currently consuming me, rare do I get on a stage–or even in the choir loft at church–to sing. Some of it is time constraint. As a full-time (online) student, minister, herbalist, homesteader, writer, artist, holistic healthcare practitioner and part-time photographer/receptionist most evenings, I have a pretty full plate. But many years ago I fronted metal bands, both lead guitar and lead vocals. I didn’t know about this tea then; I learned about it years’ later. It might have helped in the metal years; however, no matter what genre you sing in–even if it’s only the shower–taking care of one’s vocal chords is important.

In 2007 I took Apollo Herbs’ “Herbal Apprentice” course with Michael Ford and Joanne Pacheco. It was during one of our weekend workshops that Mike mentioned this combination, primarily for sore throats, but he also mentioned that a student from one of his previous classes used this combination religiously. She was a singer, like me, and fronting a local band. I was singing regularly with the Folk Group at Our Lady of LaSalette Catholic Church in Brooklyn, CT at the time so I gave it a whirl.

The blend is equal parts of Echinacea purpurea (Echinacea, Purple Coneflower are common names) and Ulmus fulva, or Slippery Elm. “Equal parts” is just what it suggests. If you measure a teaspoon of Echinacea, you also measure 1 teaspoon of Slippery Elm; a tablespoon of Slippery Elm, a tablespoon of Echinacea, and so on. The combination has a pleasant flavor so it is also palatable rather than tasting “medicinal”. I typically use the dried herbs, purchased from a local and reliable herb shop (organic; responsibly harvested) but you may also use fresh herbs if you have them in your garden or from another reliable source (i.e. one without pesticides). As we are brewing roots and bark here, a standard infusion doesn’t quite cut it. You will need a decoction of the herbs. And how we do that is preferably through the use of a double boiler but a makeshift of setting a slightly smaller sauce pan inside a larger one that has at least an inch or so of water in it will do in a pinch. No non-stick pans for this. The coating may leach into your herbal tea; I don’t recommend non-stick pans for any purpose. Cast-iron will also leach into the herbs and affect the outcome. Stainless steel, or enamel, is preferable. Place the herbs in the smaller pan, cover them with water (about an inch higher than the herbs) and place a lid on the pan with the herbs in it. The idea is to simmer them, not boil them. And you will want to watch that the water is not evaporating too much as you don’t want the herbs to scorch. If you see the water level lowering too rapidly, you may add a little warm water and lower the heat a bit. This takes approximately 45 minutes on low heat. I always add honey to mine, which also acts as a mucilage to the throat but it is optional.

So how does it work?

Slippery Elm** (Ulmus fulva) is the inner bark of the slippery elm tree. This dried bark is rather stringy and may range from a light tan to a light beige in color. It has a sweet, spicy scent and it is a well-known demulcent. “Demulcent” means that it soothes and moistens, usually via mucilage. This particular demulcent is specific for sore throats, cough, bronchitis and for relieving the inflammation of the respiratory tract, including the mouth and throat (L. Tierra, 121). It is also good for soothing the intestinal tract, and relieving the pain and irritation from indigestion and colitis, but it is the respiratory tract that we are most concerned with here, for obvious reasons.

Echinacea** (Echinacea purpurea) is also good for relieving sore throats; all infections and inflammations, and swollen glands. A known sialagogue, it increases the flow of saliva in the mouth. It is also an immune enhancer, helping to prevent and cure colds and flus (Tierra 78-79),; for singers, it makes it a wonderful combination with Slippery Elm. Back in the metal years, it seemed I always came down with a cold and/or upper respiratory complaint whenever there was something important coming up in music. It is a singer’s nightmare. It could be because I tend to be a perfectionist and so pushed myself harder, practicing longer, and depriving myself of much-needed sleep in preparation for whatever I was doing but, regardless, whatever “bug” was lurking around always found its way to me. Again, I wish I’d had this tea in my arsenal then.

One last thought, as both of these herbs are now on the endangered list, please use only the cultivated herbs from a reliable and responsibly-harvested source. For more information about sustainable harvesting, please visit http://www.unitedplantsavers.org.

May God bless you & keep you!

**These statements have not been evaluated by the Food and Drug Administration. This article has been presented for educational purposes only; it is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent disease.”

Works Cited

Tierra, Lesley. Healing with the Herbs of Life. Ten Speed Press, California: 2003.

Faith, Ghosts, Hauntings, Reading, Supernatural, Writing

Voices from Beyond

Lisa Burbank

In the immortal words of Ron Weasley in J. K. Rowling’s “Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets”: “Hearing voices no one else can hear isn’t a good sign, even in the wizarding world.” So, of course, I am mindful that this posting might just have a well-meaning friend sending the men in white coats to my door. But now that Mom admits to hearing them, too, I feel much better about it.

Yesterday’s blog opened up about the homestead’s history as the once familiar sight of the Windham County Hanging Tree. And, it would seem, that some of those who met their end here are still not quite ready to move beyond…

I am an avid bookworm. And, I confess, reading a good book, a good story, even takes precedence over writing. I write because I love to read. I write because other authors have created works that have influenced me, delighted me, provided solace and hope in troubled times, an escape, and so much more. I write because I want to create new stories for others to enjoy. But reading is what started the whole thing. A good book will keep me enthralled from cover to cover. A good book will have me up until 2 in the morning because I can’t put it down even to sleep. With a good book, you’ll be lucky to get me to come up for air until I’ve finished it.

It was during one of those reading marathons that I first noticed it. The clock was moving up on 2 a.m. and even Interstate 6 was quiet, save for the occasional 18-wheeler blowing through, and these were far and few between. The animals were all tucked in for the night. Mom wasn’t living with me then so there was no cable (i.e. no TV). No radio was on either. PC was in sleep mode upstairs. I sat at the kitchen table, blurry-eyed, but unwilling just yet to put down the book I was reading. Despite having my total absorption, my attention divided. What was that? Was the toilet still running from my last visit there? I drew a deep breath and listened more closely. Then I got up and went into the bathroom. Nope. Nothing running. No hiss from the commode, no faint trickle of water from a faucet not being shut off all the way. I went back to my book.

Yes, it is almost 2 a.m. but I want to get to the end of this chapter. There’s only, like, 100 pages left. It’s really getting good.

Okay. So it’s not so much a hissing noise drawing my attention away from the story again. It’s also not the refrigerator running. I got up again, walked into the living room, looking for felines. Nope. They must be all upstairs. I decide to check anyway. Yup. All 6 are asleep on my bed. It looks tempting but, with so many of them tucked in, I’d have a tough time crawling in with them. I go back to my book.

I am well into my book again when I get distracted once again. This time, I simply sit and listen. When I can finally zone in on what I’m hearing, I start to think maybe I should’ve put the book down an hour ago. I must be more tired than I thought. That can’t be someone whispering. Several someones, actually. I can almost make out separate words. Almost…

I decide to pack it in and squeeze in with all the cats. I’m out like a light. In the morning, I tell myself I must’ve really been tired and maybe I shouldn’t have pushed myself so hard with the book; I can finish it as soon as feeding time is over with. It is the weekend, after all. With the constant rush of traffic passing the house during the daylight hours, and even into early evening, the house is, well, not exactly quiet but the voices are silent. I forget about them until the next page-turner has me up until the wee hours of morning. Then it demands my attention again. This time, I know it’s neither a cat purring, a refrigerator or toilet running. I pause to listen. Yes, that is definitely someone talking, whispering. Again, I can almost make out distinct words. But not quite. This goes on even after a big rig downshifts through this brief residential strip. As I listen, it appears to grow louder. Maybe I should go back to visit Dr. Mueller. But I can definitely understand that expression of feeling one’s hair stand on end. This time, I’m not quite ready to pack it in. They did no harm to me before. I keep reading. The whispering grows louder, still. Then dies away. I get back into my story. It starts up again. I remember the hanging tree. What on earth could criminals from almost 200 years’ ago still have to say at this time of the day/night? Are they trying to communicate with me? Why? Yup. I’m losing it. But the voices don’t go away. In the stillness of any night, they begin to mutter.

“So why are you trying to find out the future by consulting witches and mediums? Don’t listen to their whisperings and mutterings. Can the living find out the future from the dead? Why not ask your God?” Isaiah 8:19.

However, I’m not trying to divine the future. I’ve got the past poking its nose into the present…and disturbing a good book, I might add.

“Dear Lord, if these are lost souls, please help them to see your light,” I pray. Then, “Look for the light. Whoever you are, look for the light.”

The whispering falls away. Until next time…

When Mom arrived on my doorstep two years ago, I warned her about all the strange happenings here at #209. Her “thank you” was definitely sarcastic and followed by a little nervous chuckle. I conceded that her daughter might also be losing it a bit, but that every time the house was quiet, I could hear the whisperings. I also assured her that no one had ever hurt me here but it was unnerving just the same. (Admitting to one’s mother of these things doesn’t really count where the men in white coats are concerned…at least I hope not…)

Mom and I have been frequenting the new, second-hand bookstore in Danielson, Pourings & Passages. Lately, we’ve been stockpiling books for the long winter ahead. Mom’s almost as much of a bookworm as I am and she has been plowing through every Danielle Steel book she can find on Pourings & Passages’ shelves. She recently had her own late-night book-a-thon.

The next morning, when she came downstairs for coffee, she looked at me and said, “You were right about the voices. I heard them last night, just like you said. A little unnerving; I almost woke you up.”

All I could do was chuckle. I know exactly what she means.

Works Cited

Rowling, J. K. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. Scholastic, New York: 1999.

The Living Bible. Tyndale House Publishers, Illinois: 1971.

Alcoholism, Ghosts, Hauntings, Healing, History, Homesteading, Supernatural

The Hanging Tree

Lisa Burbank

As we coast into October and my favorite time of the year, it wouldn’t be complete without a few ghost stories here or there. After all, the funnest holiday of the year (in my not-so-humble opinion…) falls on the very last day of this month–Halloween, or Samhain.

What does this have to do with homesteading?

Everything…if your homestead sits where your community’s hanging tree used to be. This little almost-acre of land is where the Windham County Hanging Tree used to be, or so I’ve been told. And it makes sense.

hanging-tree

When Dan and I first purchased this property back in 2001, I started having reoccurring dreams of walking in the door from work and seeing a pair of blue-jean clad legs hanging from the upper banister. I didn’t have a clue where these dreams were coming from or why I was having them. Being a bit superstitious at times, I also worried that maybe this might be a bit of a premonition…and I hoped I was wrong. My ex-husband, Dan–husband at the time–was an alcoholic but he didn’t strike me as being depressed or, in any other way, being a likely candidate for suicide, as that was what I perceived this potential premonition to be warning. Nope. It just didn’t fit. Dan was tied too strongly into his faith, into family. He loved life too much and, even though he drank heavily, he was always a happy-go-lucky sort of drunk. He drank more as a social thing rather than a need to get wasted…even if a 30 Pack on the weekend was “normal” for him.

The mystery of these dreams wasn’t revealed until Dan and I filed for divorce in 2004. Initially, we had placed the house on the market but, at the time, Route 6 was in the middle of some major construction and we had a trench running the full length of the property between the road and our front yard. To get into the driveway, you had to drive over some steel “planks” the construction crew had placed over the gaping hole. Needless to say, we had little to no curb appeal. After several months, the real estate company was ready to reduce our price unless one of us would consider trying to get a pre-approval for the mortgage. Dan had some major gambling debts that prohibited him from refinancing and, as he was living with his older brother–and the two were proving incompatible for co-habitation–he looked at me. At first, I balked. I really didn’t want to stay. It was too expensive for a single person. It needed a lot of work that I didn’t know how to do and couldn’t afford to have done. I saw the financial struggles I would have–all of which have proven prophetic–as well as the restrictions that living in a rapidly becoming commercial zone might bring. I wanted acreage. But, as another week went by without any interest at all, I decided to try. I had a good paying job, though I hated it, and it would mean I could stay somewhat settled. So I applied. And I won. But there was a stipulation. I would have to paint the house before the mortgage company would give me the loan. (Yes, that raised a few eyebrows here, too, but, in light of the fixer-upper state, I guess it made some sense.)

I tend to be a bit of a spiteful person. I am one of those people that if you tell me I have to do something, I automatically dig my heels in. However, digging my heels in would’ve been counterproductive to what I was trying to accomplish so, instead, I decided to get funky with it. No “normal” color palette like white or yellow, or even touching up the blue that already graced the clapboards. Instead, I got it into my head to go with black. I didn’t jump on impulse. I actually took a trip to Home Depot and, in their paint department, they had a computer that was set up so you could get an idea what your house would look like with a particular paint scheme. So I typed in the style of house and then started “painting” it. I loved it! But it was still an overly-bold color scheme. Would the town balk at it with me being on the main road? I gave them a call the next day but there were no prohibitions in their charter. So I walked across the street to the hardware store, wanting to give the business to someone local rather than a big box store. I was also hoping they could give me an idea how many gallons I might need as I this was a DIY project–with the help of some friends, of course–and I confess to being a little out of my element.

The conversation with Bob went something like this:

“What color are you going with?”

“Black.”

“No, I mean for the house itself, not the trim.”

“I know. I’m painting it black.”

“What color do you want the trim?”

“Also black.”

“Black on black?”

“Except the front door. I want to paint that orange.”

There was a moment’s pause. Then Bob shook his head and said, “Let’s hope you don’t stir anything up over there.”

I latched onto that one immediately. Not only had I had reoccurring dreams, Dan and I had also experienced some unexplainable occurrences over the years; I had never thought to ask the neighbors about the house. And nothing was revealed when we closed on it in 2001 so I just chalked everything off to some over-active imaginations. Dan and I were both writers and artists after all. And we watched “Haunted History” on The History Channel and another show on The Travel Channel that featured haunted tourist traps religiously.

However, Bob nixed that explanation.

Every criminal that passed through Windham County met their end on this property until hanging was finally outlawed as a means for punishment. The actual tree, he assured me, has long since been cut down. No, that great big grandmother in the front yard that I’ve christened “Helen” was not the actual hanging tree. However, there is a large crevice in back where even the roots were dug out. The previous owners had planted a Rose of Sharon bush in that crevice. Perhaps as a way to heal its sordid past. Over the years, I’ve envisioned this place as a thriving herb farm; a holistic retreat center; a wildlife refuge for local and native plants and animals as a means to further heal this stain on the land.

Why should it matter so much? They were criminals after all. Except one of the stories Bob told me continues to haunt me: the last person hung here was a poor African American man who got caught stealing a cow because he was hungry and had nothing to eat. Was this his first offense? Or one of many? Had he turned to crime as a sort of profession? Or had an empty belly made him desperate? Did he have children who were also hungry? And, as this was 1905-ish, had the color of his skin played a hand in the lack of mercy that took his life for his desperation? There is no way of knowing but it seems a horrible way to lose one’s life. A murderer? Rapist? Yeah, maybe I’d feel differently. Despite being a minister, I’m not opposed to the death penalty for such, especially knowing that such crimes would likely be repeated if these individuals were released into society again. But it seems a little extreme for theft. No, I would be all over anyone who stole one of my chickens or goats–even for hunger–but I wouldn’t be wanting to string them up.

Amazingly, after having this conversation with Bob, the reoccurring dreams stopped.

May God bless you & keep you!

Herbs, Homesteading, Organic

Wednesday’s Weed Walks and Meanderings

Lisa Burbank

Though it has been Friday’s Flora and Fauna, I am thinking that “Wednesday’s Weed Walks” might be a better title because Wednesday might be a better day to schedule blog posts about various herbs and wild edibles. I seem to either be missing them–like yesterday–or else, they feel rushed to me. Fridays are my only days off of work. I figured that might be a good day to do the research so that I could provide a good posting about whatever herb or edible I was writing about. But Friday is also my day for all the “busy” work that takes over all of our lives. Yesterday was no exception.

Of course, yesterday a.m., after tending to all the myriad creatures that share this homestead with me, I grabbed breakfast, a cup of tea and a good book. I am an eternal bookworm. It was raining outside, windy and raw. The perfect weather for such a thing. But there was also a list of places I needed to go, things I needed to do. Mom and I shared a second cup of tea together then headed out.

We haven’t been grocery shopping in months. Little side trips to “pick up a few things” but nothing major. I also needed some herbs and we both wanted to pick up some books. In Danielson, which is the next town over from us, there is a second-hand bookstore that is just awesome. I know I’ve blogged about “Pourings and Passages” before; it has become a favorite. Granted, one must accept and make do with whatever has been donated to the store as it deals with second-hands, not current publications. Still, we find some great books. And, while they are second-hand, they are not that second-hand…i.e. so old as to be obsolete. And you can’t beat the prices. I came home with 5 “new” books for under $9. Mom did likewise. And, of course, we’ll share them with each other so we both have more than we bargained for.

Next stop was Homestead Herbs in Sterling. Bob runs a modest-looking store. In fact, it is so far off the beaten path that word-of-mouth is pretty much the only way one is likely to find it. But it is neat and clean, the herbs are organically-grown, the prices are better than reasonable, and best of all, the resident feline, Patches, is openly loving and affectionate. I restocked on a lot of culinary herbs–including some vanilla beans to make homemade vanilla extract; our bottle has gotten quite low as Mom and I both love to bake–as well as some green tea to better maintain my asthma, and both Echinacea and Slippery Elm to brew my singers’ tea. (That may be Wednesday’s Weed Walk…) After making our purchases, we chatted with Bob, paid more homage to Patches–as was her due–and did likewise to Goldie’s grave. Goldie is the former resident feline. She lived to be 22 years old so Bob must be doing something right. And, like Patches, she was openly loving and affectionate; must be a prerequisite at Homestead Herbs. We left the herb store and decided we were hungry so we stopped at Jade Garden for some Chinese cuisine. While there, I chatted with friend, Jasmine, one of the proprietors, and then we hit the road again to Aldi’s, Big Y and, lastly, Walmart’s.

It was pouring out when we finally made it home. Numerous trips to and fro, bringing in our purchases, had us both a little wet but, all in all, it was a productive day. Albeit, also an exhausting one, as well as an enjoyable one spent with Mom. I could’ve slept a little longer this morning but that may be the rain that’s still falling.

May God bless you & keep you!