Category: Fredericksburg Texas

Day 319-The Adult Easter Egg Hunt

Our family has its own traditions, one such, is the annual Adult Easter Egg Hunt. My mother and aunt, decided many years ago that the kids weren’t the only ones that should have this fun. Therefore, they devised a hunt for the adults.

To participate, you have to be high school age or older. There is only one egg per person. Once you have found an egg, you may watch but you may not find, or direct others to hidden eggs. At the beginning a collection is taken from the players; pretty much whatever cash you have on hand. This is divided between the eggs starting with a large amount and the getting smaller in each egg. One egg is a Booby prize and could have anything that amuses the hiders in it. All the eggs are different colors and sizes. The two top prize winners each year have to hide the eggs the following year. This hunt takes place each year in an area between 3 old barns and a field behind them. There is a mass of old implements, old natural gas tanks, old tractors, old vehicles, hay, rocks, trees, and even a small well house in this area, so hiding places are aplenty.

Several years ago, there were about 11 adults hunting. Among these, were myself and my brother, Glenn, whose mission in life is to harass me, and pretty much always has been. That being said, you have the catalyst for this particular hunt. Unfortunately, and unbeknownst to the rest of us, at least at the beginning, he was the first person to find his egg. Remember the rules, well he doesn’t follow rules well.

As the rest of us diligently hunted for an egg, taking clues from the two hiders, Glenn went around moving the eggs that he found after finding his, and distracting the other hunters so that they wouldn’t realize what he was doing.

This created a situation where certain ones of us were hunting very hard in areas that should have eggs, but no longer did. Others were finding eggs in places that shouldn’t have them, had been previously checked, and now mysteriously did. Eventually, as the hunt went on, the hiders and other hunters became aware of what was going on, especially after they were practically directed to an egg.

My poor dad became collateral damage, as dad and I searched an area with no egg for quite a long time. Glenn allowed him to hunt along because he didn’t want to make me suspicious. Once I gave up and moved on to another site, Dad miraculously found an egg in a place we had both looked dozens of times. Of course we found out later that it was because Glenn was carrying it around in his pocket the whole time so I wouldn’t find it.

By this time everyone else had found an egg, and become aware of what Glenn was doing. I was the last one. For this reason they were all watching with bated breath, to see what he had planned for me and my egg. He kept me hunting for a while longer, and others even chimed in as to where there might still be an egg, even if they knew there was not one there. Then they even all collaborated to make me believe that they really didn’t know where the last one was hidden. This was easily believable since they had all been moved around so much, and the hiders only knew what Glenn told them.

Finally I was directed to a spot around the little well house. I had scoured this area earlier and knew at that time there was no egg. Glenn was all too interested in me finding this egg, so I knew something wasn’t right. Sure enough on top of the roof under some wood and trash was a small blue egg.

Now I am told that this egg originally held pennies as the booby prize, but by the time I found it, those had become part of another party’s egg. Mine held a small square piece of paper with a hand written note, which left no doubt as to whom was responsible. It was covered in my brother’s clever little wit, and read:……………………………..?

Well I know it had something to do with winning and/or being the Booby prize myself, but I no longer remember how he worded it. Regardless, he was extremely proud of himself, and I vowed revenge, which I am still waiting to collect. And so there you have it, the hunt goes on!

P.S. I am still waiting for my revenge. That being said, we actually haven’t had this hunt in a few years because due to weather, time, and other factors it just got missed. But my oldest daughter and I have had some new prize ideas. Most of the players are over 21 now, so we were thinking of mixing it up with travel liquor bottles in some of the eggs. Of course Glenn’s booby prize is still a work in progress……:)

Day 314-The Written Page

I live my life through ink and quill;
Each thing that happens a story still.
Sometimes events are very sad,
While others make me very mad.

Some have lessons in them to learn;
While others in my soul still burn.
Still others are very happy;
But sometimes words for them get sappy.

My life lies on the written page,
For others to read and gauge.
But for me it’s just how I deal;
And get past each notch in life’s spinning wheel.

Day 299-Who’s Gonna Shoot the Dog?-A Humorous Anecdote About Last Wishes

So there they were watching a scene right out of a “Far Side” cartoon. Six red neck men who had it all figured out. They had a huge bon fire built-in the field. They had an air tight metal box that should be able to withstand the heat and keep the ashes contained. They had the dog rounded up and surrounded between them. And they had six shot guns in hand.

What a sight they were, with old straw hats on their heads, well-worn blue jeans, and faded pearl snap shirts. Each one staring at a frightened dog that had no idea what he had done wrong. It was all ready according to their plan except for two details. The first of which was who was gonna shoot the dog? The second detail should have been the first, but none of them were aware of it.

You see, it all began with 98-year-old Granny, whom had passed away three days earlier, leaving a large adoring family of country hicks behind, and a few last requests.

The thing about large families is sometimes they get spread out, and those not closest to home (Granny’s home) might not hear all the news in people’s lives back home. The bigger things tend to find their way down the grapevine. Some smaller events just might not be important enough to anyone but those directly involved, and so once dealt with they are forgotten and not passed along to everyone.

There is good reason for this too. Most of us don’t rightly care to get a holler every time Aunt Margaret has to have her toe nail cut out, Uncle John gets a fishing hook stuck in his behind, cousin Mark falls in the creek trying to walk and look cool for pretty girls, sister Jean’s cat dies because she plops her 50X behind on it, or one of Granny’s dogs dies. Granted these things are tragedies to those immediately involved, but the rest of us just don’t want to know.

Most of us aspire to that cliché, “ignorance is bliss” in such situations. Well there were those among us on this particular day that would have appreciated if at least one of these gems had indeed been passed along.

So anyway, three days earlier after Granny’s passing, all manner of red neck, country bumpkin relatives from everywhere Hicksville, USA, had descended on the old home place where Granny had lived to come pay their respects. It is truly amazing what a family reunion a funeral gathering can be.

As everyone became re-acquainted with one another, many stories and such about Granny were passed along. In the process, the subject of Granny’s last requests became a hot topic of concern. You see, Granny had every last detail mapped out for after her life from not only who got what and who got not, but what was to be said, sung, done and who was to be buried with her at her funeral. The only detail missing or so they thought was who was to carry out that one final wish, since it had to be done by the next day, in order to be ready for the funeral.
Granny’s final wish was that the ashes of her dog be buried with her. This caused quite a stir among all the relatives gathered there visiting.

My parents and I were at the funeral home seeing to the funeral arrangements, so it became clear to the gathered throng that they would have to handle this last request on their own. In amongst this band of cowboy, red neck, hicks sat Fred, Granny’s dog, alive and well and enjoying much attention, oblivious at this point to the pity he was receiving.
The first order of business was to decide how they were going to accomplish this doggy cremation, and worst of all who was going to have to shoot the dog so that he could be cremated. So sad a task they had in hand because Fred was still a good dog with years left in him, but they had to honor Granny.

Since Granny had hand-picked her six pall bearers, it was decided that they would decide how this would be carried out. Once all was ready, they circled up and drew straws on who had to put poor Fred down. In case the first chosen couldn’t do it, they would all bare arms and be prepared so that surely one of them would be able to carry out Granny’s last wishes.

That brings us back to where we were with all preparations ready and six red necks with shot guns circled around poor Fred, as he stared back at them wide-eyed and sheepishly. The rest of the gathered family watched from the house. Children cried and adults shook their heads and waited.

It was into this scene that my parents and I, returned from making Granny’s funeral arrangements. We had seen the bon fire behind the house and the crew standing around outside, but it really hadn’t concerned us that much. After all, what better way to reminisce then around a good fire?

We entered the house to find everyone watching through the windows, not outside around the fire. We knew something was amiss. Therefore, we questioned what was going on. One tearful child answered, “We are waiting to see who’s gonna shoot the dog?”

“Shoot the dog! Why on earth do they wanna shoot poor Fred?!” asked Mom.

“Granny wants his ashes buried with her. They can’t very well cremate him if he’s still alive,” the same child answered.

“Oh my goodness!” Mom exclaimed as she looked around with a new appreciation for this very surreal scene. Then it hit her and she burst out laughing. She laughed so hard she couldn’t speak, and tears came to her eyes.

The crowd, turned to see what she could possibly find so funny about this obviously sad dilemma. Dad walked in as one of my cousins demanded to know what her hysterics were about.

“How can you possibly find the impending death of Fred so outrageously funny, have you no heart?”

“Death of Fred, the dog, why? He was fine when we left,” said Dad.

“Well they’re gonna shoot him, quick and humane like so as they can cremate him like Granny wanted. Just look outside. We were all watching to see who would have to do it,” said Uncle George.

“Oh no,” Dad said, running for the door, and throwing it open with a bang that startled the six-gun toting, doggy doomsday, do gooders of sorts.

Fred took this distraction and ran behind dad. “Its ok Fred, no one’s gonna shoot you today or any other day.”

“But what about Granny’s last request?” all six asked.

“Guess you boys hadn’t heard that Milo made that deal with Granny about three months ago,” Dad smiled.

“Milo, what do ya mean? Where is Milo?” they asked as Mom appeared in the door, having finally regained her composure, holding a small silver Erne inlaid with Milo’s picture, and engraved with his name, date of birth and death.

Fred reappeared, sitting himself in front of Dad now. I swear I saw him shrug in a sigh of relief, as he cocked his head to one side, staring at the harbingers of his past doom.
“I wish you guys could have seen yourselves standing in that circle, debating on who was gonna shoot the dog! My gosh, do you really think Granny would have made us bury a dog with her that was still alive?” Mom snickered and then burst into laughter again followed by many others.

Well since we had a bon fire to watch, we gathered around it to reminisce about Granny and the kids roasted marshmallows and weenies. Funeral or not, you can’t waste a good fire. Besides, that’s one camp fire story no one will ever forget.

As for Fred and Milo, well Fred died of natural causes at our house ten years later. He and Milo reside in a pet cemetery we started on the farm. You see, apparently the cemetery where Granny’s buried has an association and rules kind of like those neighborhood associations in them fancy sub divisions. Believe it or not, it has a no pets allowed in the occupants residences (graves) rule. Now don’t that beat all!

Day 224-Christmas Reflections

When I gaze upon the Christmas tree,
Oh what beauty I do see.
With bows of green and balls of gold,
What a wondrous tradition of old.

As a whole it’s magnificent,
An ever green that seems heaven-sent.
It shines with light from up above,
A bright reflection of our Savior’s love.

When most look they see only a tree,
Decorated for all to see.
But it is more than meets the eye,
A lasting tradition by and by.

The tree itself so evergreen,
A symbol of eternal life it means.
The lights that twinkle oh so bright,
A reflection of Christ, the world’s true light.

And what of the balls that glitter there,
They reflect the world around we share.
Look closely in them and you will see,
A revolving picture of you and me.

They continuously reflect what passes by
Hidden moments of the world they ply.
Most don’t look closely enough to see,
For each little happening flickers in these.

They capture the bad and the good,
In fleeting moments as only they could.
Look closely next time at these decorations
And watch their constant Christmas reflections.

See the joy in one child’s face,
While on another sadness takes its place.
See all the beauty and festiveness,
And then the rush and anxiousness.

Look close in that ball and watch the world
As each moment is unfurled.
What reflections are seen there;
Is Christmas being spread with care?
Are the reflections that you see,
Worthy of Christmas as they should be?
Are they reflecting Christ to the world,
In the pictures there as the glass balls twirl?

It’s up to each of us to do our part,
So that the Christmas reflections are from our heart.
Christmas reflections shown on a tree,
Should be filled with love and joy for the world to see.

Day 222-Christmas Magic

When I was very young, my parents celebrated Christmas with us, steeped in German traditions that brought life and magic to the holiday. They went over and above in order to make the magic of Christmas real.

In our home the big celebration was an open house at my mom’s on Christmas Eve. On the 24th the house came alive with family and friends. There were decorations, a huge tree, tons of food, drink sweets, music, gifts and fun.

For us, the kids, all the wonderment began on Christmas Eve morning, but for my dedicated parents, the work began late on the 23rd. You see, my parents sent us to bed around nine o’clock on the 23rd in a house with not one decoration or obvious sign of Christmas, no tree, nothing.

When we awoke on Christmas Eve morning, the excitement and magic of Christmas had arrived at our house while we had slept. We came down the stairs to air-filled with the wonderful aromas of food cooking for Christmas Eve dinner. The house was decorated, and in the living room, was a Christmas tree that stood from floor to ceiling tall and almost as big around. It was fully adorned with decorations. In those days, the decorations consisted of beautiful glass balls and birds, golden garland, silver tinsel, and old-fashioned bubble lights, along with hundreds of colored twinkle lights which were ringed in little plastic star bursts. It was gorgeous, like a Christmas card in our living room. And best of all there were gifts of all sizes under the tree.

We were allowed to peak at the tree, but then the doors were closed and we weren’t allowed in again until time for gifts and guests. When we were older, we could help set the dining room table which was next to the tree, but we were not allowed to snoop around the gifts. Of course we couldn’t help but try to see names on the gifts as we worked, in such a way as to not get caught snooping. That was a tedious endeavor, I assure you. As soon as our work was done the door was closed again, and we were back to waiting.

The best part of this whole thing was the knowledge that Santa Claus had done it all, the tree, the gifts, decorated the house. He and his elves had been here while we slept. I know what you are thinking, “But Santa doesn’t start delivering until Christmas Eve.”

Well that’s right, but Christmas Eve starts at midnight, and it takes him all day since there are so many children in the world. And since he knew we had our Christmas that day, my parents had a standing agreement that he would come by our house before daylight on Christmas Eve.

I think the must have given him fresh turkeys for his Christmas table from my dad’s turkey farm each year to seal the deal because they quite often, got him to do special favors like this.

I remember quite well one of those favors he did for them. I was very young, perhaps 5 or 6 that particular Christmas. The day had transpired as I described previously. The extended family was there. We had read the Christmas story from the Bible and opened all our gifts.

I had wanted a bicycle that year, but there wasn’t one under the tree. We had begun to entertain guests and eat food. General merriment was being made all through the house; there was laughing and stirring but thankfully no mouse.
About half way through the evening, the door bell rang, as it had been doing all evening to announce more guests. I was told to open the door and so I did.

Outside on the step, there stood a brand new, red bicycle with training wheels. No one was there with it. Everyone I knew was in the room behind me watching. I heard jingle bells in the distance, and I searched the sky but never saw him, only heard the sleigh bells. Santa had made a special delivery, and was quick to be on his way so that I never saw him. I was excited and disappointed all at once.
I’m still not sure how my parents and “Santa” pulled that one, off and to this day, those who know aren’t talking. I do know it was probably the most exciting and memorable Christmas ever. The magic couldn’t have been more real that year. It was wonderful and fun.

After my special delivery had been safely ushered through the house to the utility room, where it couldn’t break anything if it fell over, the party continued as before. I looked out the window and up at the sky often that evening, never quite sure how Santa could get away so fast, and secretly hoping to catch a glimpse of his sleigh somewhere in the sky. I never saw it, but then that’s what made it magic.

Day 220-Christmas Mountain Slide.

Just before Christmas, in 1986, my parents, sister and brother-in-law and myself, embarked on a trip to Ruidoso, New Mexico, to top the mountains of Ski Apache Resort. Little did we know that instead of sliding down the slopes, the more harrowing adventure would be sliding up and down the icy hillside roads to the resort.
On the first day, the drive was not bad because I rode with my parents, who are experienced snow drivers from all the years they went to Colorado, hunting. But even with experienced drivers, seeing the edges of the road so close to the side of our truck, as we slipped along on ice and snow-covered narrow roads made me want to cry. I knew dad knew what he was doing, but that did not make the 1000’s of feet down onto rocks, trees, and who knows what else look any more inviting. Oh, and of course, no guard rail. The opposite side was no better, there you slid into the hillside, large rocks, or into oncoming traffic. Yes oncoming traffic on a road that was so narrow you could barely go one direction and it was going two. The first day, we made it safely.

The next day the fun began. My parents stayed behind to tour, and let us drive their Chevy truck while they drove my sister’s station wagon around for the day. They should have designated a driver other than my brother-in-law, bless his soul; safe driving was not and still is not his strong suit.

To leave the cabins you had to follow a little road across a small bridge and then turn left on to the road towards town. You had no choice but to turn left because there was a snow-covered hillside preventing you from going any other way. Not so with our talented driver, we made an only slightly left skid directly into the snow-covered embankment. Luckily the only damage was to the snow, where we left a bumper shaped deep dent. Which incidentally my parents told us that they knew was from us as soon as they saw it. But thus started our trip up and then back down the mountain that day.

We invented a new word that day, it went something like, “Sloeeeaahck!” It was a terrified cross between “slow down”, and screams of eek and aahhh! I don’t think I have ever seen my life flash before my eyes so much in one day. It was kind of like having instant replay on a football game that you had watched several times before. I had actually forgotten about some of those events though, so at least I had my memory refreshed.

It seemed we were constantly sliding toward our doom, whether that was 1000’s of feet down to our deaths, crashing into the mountain or perhaps a tree or a rock. Quite often it seemed we were hanging just over that edge looking death in the eye as we stared down that ravine in terror just before our truck some how righted itself back onto the road. Of course then we were usually headed for the snow-covered just as unforgiving hillside. We seemed to be the metal ball in a pin ball game bouncing back and forth off whatever obstacle was there to change our course. Pin Ball is an old style arcade game for those of you too young to know.

We created our own road both up and down the mountain that day. It seemed traveling was either going to literally kill us or scare us to death in which the outcome would be the same; sudden death, just days before Christmas. Somehow, by the grace of God indeed, we are all still here today, survivors of this Christmas mountain slide.

PS. No the picture is not from New Mexico, but I didn’t have any available. As you might be able to tell that is Texas Hill Country snow, but to us it is even more treacherous! Haha! Merry Christmas!

Day 214-Christmas Season of Lights (Sestina)

I love to see Christmas decorations,
Because it makes the evenings so bright.
Cheerful, colorful, twinkling lights,
That tell a story of a wonderful season.
A story of a time each year
When mankind is filled with good cheer.

Holiday times and holiday cheer
Can be seen throughout the town, as decorations
Appear all over, at this time of year.
Lights on rooftops, gables and trees shine bright.
Signs are hung proclaiming the season.
Yards and houses glow with colored lights.

But Christmas is much more than decorations and lights.
There is a reason for this season of cheer.
Though many have tried to remove Him from His season.
They have taken away His nativity decorations.
They have taken down His star so bright.
They remove a little more of Him each year.

They want the holiday Christmas provides each year.
They even decorate and hang lights.
Santa stands in their yards next to a tree so bright.
They partake in the season with no reason for cheer.
They don’t understand it’s more than decorations.
They create their own season within His season.

There are some for whom there is not a season.
They do not like seeing Christmas cheer each year.
They would prefer there were no decorations.
They would keep the streets dark of lights.
They are bothered by offerings of good cheer.
For them the holiday is never bright.

But in spite of all this, Christmas is bright.
There is a reason still for this season.
For millions in this world there is great cheer.
And in their hearts they look for it each year.
They need the joy that comes with the lights,
And the Santas, stars, trees and nativity decorations.

So give cheer and make Christmas bright
With decorations and colors of the season.
Christ is here each year in the season of lights.

Here is wishing you all a very blessed and merry Christmas Season. God Bless.

Day 212-Christmas Gifts-A Reflection on the True Gift of Christmas

10But the angel said to them, “Be not afraid; for I bring you good news of great joy which will come to all people; 11for to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. 12And this will be a sign for you: you will find a babe wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger.” 13And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of heavenly hosts praising God and saying, 14“Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among men with whom He is well pleased.”    Luke 2:10-14

Imagine the scene that day on the hills around Bethlehem as shepherds stood by as the skies filled with angels proclaiming the Savior’s birth, and praising the Lord. What fear, awe, wonder, joy, love, and eventual peace must have filled their souls as the words of the angel touched their ears and crept with slow realization into the hearts? The sheer wonder and beauty of the scene would have been enough to bring them to tears, and than this sight was coupled with the magnificent news of their Savior’s birth.

Next, imagine how they must have felt when they realized the honor they had been given by their Lord, when He chose them to be first to know.

We speak often of the gifts given to the Christ child by the three wisemen, but what of the gift bestowed on these lowly, poor shepherds, and then also on the wisemen. Upon them, was bestowed the gift of first knowledge of His birth.

The gift of a Savior had just been given to the world, and the Lord chose these lowly shepherds to give the gift of first knowledge of His birth. What an honor and privilege they were given, first knowledge, and then first to see the new baby. Wow!

The Lord also gave the gift of the star to the wisemen, so that they could be the next to see and know. Even though they came much later than the shepherds, they were no doubt any less important because the Lord literally lead them to His son.

First shepherds, then kings each in their own way given news of a Savior and bid to come and see. With these gifts came a responsibility though, because from there they were charged with going forth and proclaiming all that had happened. They were to go forth and tell the good news. Shepherds and kings alike were to take their gift of knowledge of the Christ child and share it with all around them; with the exception of Herod of course.

We are much like these lowly shepherds and stately kings. Some of us are poor, some of us are well off, or even rich, but we all have a common God-given gift. We too have the gift of the knowledge of a Savior born to us, died for our sins, and raised to new life for our redemption.

We also have the same responsibility to share our gift with everyone around us. Just like God chose the shepherds that very first Christmas to share the gift of a new Savior, we are called this Christmas and every day to share the old, old story, with all those who may or may not have heard of the Savior.

So as we share Christmas gifts this season, don’t forget to share the most important Christmas gift that the Lord gave to each of us, so that we too might give it to others. After all, with out the gift of Christ, there would be no Christmas. Therefore, go forth and give Christ as your most precious Christmas gift to people around you this year!

Day 176-Halloween-The Harpist’s Wife

Happy Halloween! Today I am sharing another one of my ghost stories with you. I wrote this one some years ago as well, but it is all my own.  It was inspired by years of playing in the local cemetery behind my grandmother’s house, with my cousins while I was growing up.  It was published about 3 years ago on  Yahoo Contributor when I was writing for them, before they closed down the site, so there is some chance you may have seen it before. If you have, enjoy it again, if you haven’t, than welcome to the world of:

The Harpist’s Wife

It was a cold, dark, rainy, windy, night with lightning flashing and thunder rumbling loudly, and yet we were still there. We were stupid, foolish teenagers. We knew we shouldn’t be there; it was crazy and dangerous. We knew the stories were true, but we just had to see for ourselves. The legend said that if anyone went out to the cemetery on a night like this, one of them would not return from the Harpist’s grave, yet we still went. We had to know for ourselves. Call it dumb, invincible; know it all teen age pride and morbid, curiosity. We were six, when we went there that night.
Legend was that if anyone ventured into the cemetery on a night just like this one, you would see the Harper, hear him play, and watch as once again, he murders his wife, who smashes his harp in a jealous rage. Because the harp truly was his first love, in his will he left his full estate to the harp’s protection. It was to be enshrined atop his grave, in the most shatter proof glass, held together with thick steel, plated with solid gold. Lights shone upon it from either side, that it might shine like a god of the music world, he perceived it to be. He wanted it there, where he was sure, even in death; he could reach up and play it. And many say he plays it often. Many have heard it, and tell stories of reliving the night he murdered his wife with one of its broken strings, severing her throat. But each time there have been new witnesses to this crime, there has also been a new victim. His wife still tries to escape him, but for this there must be a trade, a soul for a soul. She must possess a mortal in order to flee from him.
So there the six of us were, standing in the stormy, dark night with only the light from the harp and the lightning waiting like lambs to the slaughter at the foot of the Harpist’s grave.
The thing about legends is that sometimes there are parts of them that people know, but are too afraid to speak of, so they only tell what they think will scare others away.
At precisely, 2:13 a.m., the harp began to play, and the harpist appeared at its side, an ordinary looking man, slender with shoulder length dark hair. Soon his lovely wife appeared, a vision of beauty with long flowing red hair, which surprised us, because every recounting of this story described her different, but always beautiful. They both were dressed in the finery of the late 1800’s. We watched as they began to fight. The real harp never moved from its shrine, and its music continued to play, as a vision of it fell to the ground. The Harpist scrambled to protect it, as she chopped it with an ax. Several times he narrowly escaped harm himself, crying in anguish as his precious harp broke into pieces.
She stood back weary and exhausted, dropping the ax to the ground, smiling. The Harpist plucked a long thin, sharp string from among the wreckage, and rose to face her. His hands wound tightly around the ends of the string until they began to bleed. Her smile faded, and she began looking for a place to flee for safety, it was then, they became aware of us watching.
She ran toward us wildly begging for protection, for a place of refuge. We scattered in different directions trying to get out of their path. I ran, my heart pounding, I could hear her footfalls behind me and her voice beseeching me to save her. I screamed that I could not help her because she was already dead. I stumbled over a low headstone, and fell and she fell upon me, and then we were one.
I felt her fear and my own, as she urged me to run, but I had broken my ankle in the fall and could only hobble. I cried for help from the others, but they would not come near because they had seen us become one, and they were afraid, but watched from the shadows.
I stumbled away as quickly as I could, but the Harpist overtook me, and I felt the bite of the string around my neck, cutting into my flesh. I could neither scream nor fend him off, though I tried. He over powered me. I felt my blood flowing down my neck, and my life slipping away.
In my head I heard her voice, “Thank you for setting me free, I am so sorry it had to be you.” Then I felt her fade away, and my world went dark.
When I awoke, the Harpist was once more playing his harp as though nothing had happened. My friends and the traveler were crying and screaming as they ran from the cemetery, leaving me behind. I called to them to wait, but they didn’t seem to hear me. As I started to follow after them, my foot caught on something on the ground. It was then that I knew what she had meant. Below me lay the body that once was mine, on the ground.
As I looked up, the Harpist beckoned to me. “Come my dear wife; let the music of the harp bring you peace, at least for a while.” I tried to walk away, but I found I could not leave the cemetery.
This was the part of the legend, no one would pass along. This was why no one described her the same way twice. Because each time she succeeded in freeing herself, she passed on her legacy to the one who took her place. This I now know, because for now until the next legend seekers came to the cemetery, on a stormy night, I am the Harpist’s wife.

Day 175-Hook Arms’ House- a Pre-Halloween Treat

Well with Halloween being tomorrow, I thought I might share one of my ghost stories with you. I wrote this one some years ago, based on a story that was passed around by high school students when I was just a young child. A place on an old country road dubbed Hook Arms house due to these rumors actually existed, but has long since been torn down.

This story was published once on Yahoo Contributor when I was writing for them, before they closed down the site, so there is some chance you may have seen it before. If you are from my small town,  you have probably heard the original rumors before, but now here’s the whole story. Hope you enjoy a good spook story. Happy All Hallows Eve Eve. I will have another original ghost story for you for tomorrow.

 

Hook Arm’s House

In the 1970’s, a series of unfortunate events, hurled a small Hill Country, rural town, into a ghost story, never forgotten.

Because of the trouble that ensued at the time this story broke, I am not allowed to tell you exactly what road, what town, or even any real names that are in any way connected to this tale. It has taken more than 30 years, to restore the peace around this area, which can only be kept by keeping thrill seekers away. He is now, just a forgotten legend, and for everyone’s safety, that is best. But, I haven’t forgotten, thus, I share his tale.

He returned from the war, with a hook in the place of his left arm, and adopted the name, Hook Arm, whether he wanted it or not. He lived alone in a meager two room shack that stood 100 yards off the county road just outside of town at the end of a short country lane, lined with trees. A grove of trees stood behind the shack as well, and one large and very old tree stood just to the left of it, giving shade to the small abode.

Hook stayed mostly to himself, haunted by the memories of war, and the family he had lost. In the beginning he did nothing to warrant the fear people had for him and his hook, but then one summer, quite by mistake, that all changed.

A family with a little girl, about seven, moved into the cabin in the field, across the county road. Neighbors immediately warned the family to stay away from the man who lived in the nearby shack. They told terrifying stories of Hook Arm, though he had never harmed anyone.

The girl often rode her bike down the county road. She would waive to Hook Arm tending his garden, and he would wave back. One day, she fell from her bike, around the curve just out of sight of her house, but still close enough for Hook to see her from his garden. He went to her. Her legs were scraped, she was crying, and could not ride her bike like she was. He carried her back to her house, walking her bike alongside him. Her parents were afraid, and thanked him, but quickly sent him away, warning the girl to stay away from him.

In spite of her parents’ warnings, the little girl was not afraid, and would ride down to his house to visit him, bringing him biscuits and things she snuck from her mother’s table. They became fast friends. He would often tell her stories of the little girl that he had lost.

One day the little girl arrived at his house, with a basket of muffins, and found that he was not home. Wanting to leave the muffins anyway, she left her bike leaning against the big tree at the side of the shack, and tried to find a way in. She wandered around the back of the shack and fell into an old, shallow hand dug well, when she stepped through its rotten plywood cover. That evening a storm came and the well quickly filled with water.

It was after dark and raining when Hook Arm returned and he did not see her bike leaning against the tree.

The little girl’s parents became alarmed when she did not return home before dark. They enlisted the neighbors to search the road for her, but did not find her or her bike.

From his kitchen window, in a flash of lightning, Hook Arm saw the bike leaning on the tree. He went out into the storm with a flash light, looking for his little friend. In the back yard, he found a piece of her torn dress on the collapsed plywood well cover. Shining the light into the well, he could barely see her face beneath the water. He knew she was gone. He laid in the mud, and stretched out his arms, barely able to reach her and drag her to the surface.

When he laid her down, he saw that there was a large gash in her head, and her leg was broken. He knew then that she had been knocked unconscious and drowned. He picked her up and carried her all the way back to the road. He wailed so loudly that his anguished screams were heard by the search party out looking for the girl. When they saw Hook Arm carrying her, they attacked him, assuming the worst. He tried to explain that he had found her and was too late to save her, but their fear turned to instant blame, and the neighbors became an angry mob. They chased Hook Arm back to his house, where he tried to barricade himself in, but they broke in and beat him until he could no longer fight back. Then they hung him from the large tree in his yard, left him to die, and set fire to his shack.

The storm became tremendously vicious that evening. When morning broke, his body was gone from the tree, never to be found, though the noose still hangs there, and his house though scorched and blackened still stands.

According to legend, he bargained with the Devil, who set him free, and allowed him to seek revenge on mankind for hating him. Many mysterious deaths occurred, including one by one each of the neighbors who helped to hang him.

The story made headlines, causing countless groups of fun seekers to travel to Hook Arm’s House to see where this happened, as well as to see if they could glimpse him roaming the grounds. Often an old, soaking wet, disheveled man, with a hook arm, and a bent neck, twisted from hanging is seen walking the dirt road leading down to his shack.

Almost all who return tell stories of running for their lives from a wet, dirty man with a hook arm but even more have gone, and never returned.

Occasionally, the missing thrill seekers are found brutally beaten and hanging from the tree by the house, while others appear to be drowned in the old well. The trees on his land are scarred with slashes from his hook, left behind from when he exacted his revenge on his attackers. But for each new person he catches, a new slash appears on one of his trees, and to date, there are many.

Often Hook Arm is seen tending his garden next to be blackened house. It grows beautifully ever year. He waves at passers-by; be sure to wave back, but don’t ever stop!