Herbal Wise: The Benefits of Celery

Back in the far away (and very hazy) day I used to dance ballet. Those days were over fast when I realized two things: those (comparatively) huge boobs were not going to work and and my right knee was trouble from the get go. Hey, it was fun while it lasted.

To the point, though, I still have problems with my knee. It pops and pains and I wear a soft brace made from bamboo charcoal fiber most days just to keep the darn thing in line. Recently though, due more to the fact that I often research possible helpful solutions for my daughter's Juvenile Idiopathic (they used to call it "Rheumatoid") Arthritis than any interest in my own uncooperative joint, I have found a surprisingly simple solution. Celery.

It turns out that celery seed has been of long standing assistance to those with joint pain. According to Andrew Chevallier in The Visual Reference Guide to Herbal Remedies, celery is a "... good detoxification remedy, celery stem, leaf and seed stimulate the kidneys to clear waste... especially helping to cleanse salts that accumulate in joints, causing stiffness and inflammation."

Celery seed in particular is of great assistance in this process, and can be found at health food stores and herbalists in capsule form. Both my daughter and I take one capsule daily to the benefit of our sore joints. I won't say that it has completely alleviated our symptoms like some miracle but celery seed has certainly helped.

An added bonus here is that celery seed, and more specifically the juice of the celery stem, can help in detoxifying and moving unwanted fluids along. If you are prone to swollen ankles after a long day at your desk, a nice infusion of celery juice in an evening green tea will help move those fluids along and make you less gargantuan in the lower extremities after a long day.

But Pauline, you say; this is HQ. We're not here to have our piggies de-bloatified by some silly celery tea. What will celery do for us magickly gosh darn it?

Hold your horses, as they used to say. I've got that for you too.

Use celery in your cooking not only to help your dreaming hint at the future but to bring peace and harmony to your home and your family.

Most often, celery - particularly in the form of seed - is used to encourage psychism. Crush and bruise a few celery seeds, then wrap them in a muslin bag or a coffee filter and brew them into a tea with very hot water to help you along in your card, crystal ball, pendulum or other readings. The celery tea is said to open the third eye to visions of the future and what might be the best path for anyone you are reading for - including yourself.

You can make a mojo bag for psychic vision by placing equal parts anise, calendula, poppy flower and celery seed into a muslin or yellow flannel bag with intention. Place the mojo in your pillow case and sleep on it nightly to encourage your psychic ability. Carry it - if you dare - into haunted places to see the ghosties and ghoulies that walk the night. The mojo is best held in your left - receptive - hand for this purpose but beware: this practice can encourage an attraction making an unwelcome entity glom on to you and follow you home. Not a very pleasant experience and one that can only be avoided by proper and careful warding beforehand.

In the end, celery is both a practical and spiritual plant that can help in myriad different ways and on various levels. Use it wisely, and the benefits will be manifest happily. Bonne chance ~

Header: Found on Tumblr; isn't the internet amazing?

Jeudi: Curios

Amber, as Scott Cunningham notes in his Encyclopedia of Crystal, Gem & Metal Magic, is quite possibly the oldest form of adornment in the world. The solidified sap of now extinct coniferous trees, amber ranges in color from a deep reddish-orange to sunny yellow. And, of course, there are sometimes little bugs and leaves permanently captured in the stones.

Amber has a myriad of magickal uses and is certainly the jewel of choice for Wiccans and particularly High Priests and Priestesses. Considered a source of energy, amber is believed to represent the so called fifth element or Akasha that binds the four visible elements - fire, air, earth and water - together. Thus wearing of amber, usually in silver settings, is thought to increase the power of the worker and the efficacy of his or her spellcraft.

Viking children were often given simple amber necklaces to protect their health. This habit is still common today in colder areas of the world where amber is most plentiful. In Siberia, Canada and here in Alaska, natives wear amber and ivory together to bring prosperity and turn away the evil eye.

Wearing amber has for centuries been thought to improve the wearer's looks. Cunningham notes the irony of this: during the Renaissance, women wore amber in order to gain weight while in our times it is worn to assist in healthy weight loss. The efficacy of both these approaches may be a little spurious, but I have found that wearing amber regularly does lift one's mood which in turn makes one more attractive.

If you feel you are under psychic attack, or perhaps just having a run of "bad luck," add a few amber beads to a warm bath, settle in and soak. Then wear or carry the beads with you until your next bath. Taking loose amber or wearing a piece of amber jewelry to a job or other interview will also increase you confidence and by turns your chances of landing that job.

A bit of powdered amber added to any incense is said to increase the intended purpose of same. In Ancient Sumer, Babylon and Phoenicia, amber dust was burned during labor to ensure a safe birthing for both mother and child.

When buying amber, be sure to do your research. Items labeled amber are sometimes nothing more than glass or resin. Know your dealer and choose wisely. Amber is not cheap by any means so you will want to purchase the best quality you can afford. I have found that the right piece of amber will often find you rather than you finding it. You may receive it as a gift, stumble upon it at a flea market or run across an ad in the paper or online. For instance, I found the amber ring I now wear regularly at a local art store that was reducing their inventory. I knew the store owner well and therefore had no concerns about quality. The real kicker was when the ring fit - which I did not at all expect given my unfortunate "man hands," to use a "Seinfeld" reference. Reduced price, trusted source and it slipped on perfectly; ring me up, if you'll pardon the pun. Bonne chance ~

Header: Amber pendants via Wikipedia

Mercredi: The Art of Beauty

A lovely lady from a different era with obvious style that is all her own. I'm drawn to her name... and her face. She looks remarkably like my grandmother...

Header: Pauline in the Yellow Dress by Herbert J. Gunn c 1944 via Mid-Century

Lundi: Recipes

Over Yuletide I had the great good fortune to receive a time machine in book form. The door stop of a book, entitled The White House Cookbook, was originally published in 1887. The authors, Hugo Ziemann and Mrs. F. L. Gillette, both cooked at the White House and the book is full to bursting with curious recipes written in old-timey paragraph form with rarely a measure in sight.

One thing that did catch my eye right away was the recipes - there are twelve of them - for catsup (or ketchup if you're my husband.) Catsup was and is a curiously American condiment that was originally made by ladies at home. It was a wonderful way to store and use tomatoes but the cookbook includes recipes for such curious variations as oyster and gooseberry. One wonders how those might turn out. I'll focus, though, on the traditional recipe for tomato catsup which, in all fairness, may be a timely thing to have handy given that Super Bowl is coming up this Sunday. Here is Mrs. Gillette's homey recipe:

Put into two quarts of tomato pulp (or two cans of canned tomatoes) one onion, cut fine, two tablespoonfuls of salt and tree tablespoonfuls of brown sugar. Boil until quite thick; then take from the fire and strain it through a sieve, working it until it is all through but the seeds. Put it back on the stove, and add tow tablespoonfuls of mustard, one of allspice, one of black pepper and one of cinnamon, one teaspoonful of ground cloves, half a teaspoonful of cayenne pepper, one grated nutmeg, one pint of good vinegar; boil it until it will just run from the mouth of a bottle. It should be watched, stirred often, that it does not burn. If sealed tight while hot, in large-mouthed bottles, it will keep good for years.

Now doesn't that sound delicious? It would certainly be more flavorful than the stuff one gets in squeeze bottles at the modern market. But it is a deal of work and surely not a task for a hot day. Since it is 0 degrees on my front porch, perhaps I should foray into catsup making this afternoon.

More from The White House Cookbook another time. Until then, you can find it online here.

Header: Family dining room at the White House c 1900 via The White House Museum website

Mercredi: The Art of Beauty

Today, a picture far more powerful than any written word. "A Sea Coast Promenade Fashion" from about 1812. Probably a British fashion print. Oh to be by the sea in that lovely ensemble. Thanks to A Harlot's Progress for the original posting.

Mardi: Herbal-Wise

We're having a troublesome day here at chez Pauline. It is time to say good-bye to our very old and very sick Saint Bernard, Thor. The wait for the vet appointment at 11:30 Alaska time is like slow torture. How fortunate we are, though, to be able to stop the animal's pain and see an old friend off to a better place.

My thoughts turn to something that will help bring peace and piece of mind to me and my family as we say adieu to one of our own. I'm wishing I had a few bachelor buttons, those pretty blue blooms also known as corn flowers, to help me do the trick.

In Wicca, corn flowers are used to draw and/or prognosticate about love. Women should wear them on the lapel as a corsage to attract affection. Scott Cunningham advises that men should carry a flower in their pocket. The freshness or wilting of the flower at the end of the day is said to predict future success - or lack thereof - in love.

In hoodoo, the flowers are steeped in water along with other blue or bluish-purple blooms like periwinkle and forget-me-not. Rosemary, which is very affective at improving one's mood, is often added as well. The water is strained and used to sprinkle in the corners of the home to bring peace to those who live there, people and animals alike. You can add some of the water to your floor wash to achieve the same end.

Dried corn flowers are also sprinkled into the corners of a room where a fight has occurred. This is said to restore harmony to the environment as well as relax the tensions of those who are at odds.

As an aside, the forget-me-not, which happens to be Alaska's state flower, is said to bring peace and prosperity to a home when grown in the kitchen. I have a big yellow pot with a thriving forget-me-not in our kitchen. With luck, it will help us through this difficult process. Bonne chance ~

Header: Letters by Annie Stegg via American Gallery

Mardi: Yet More Meta...

And so I was, for the first time in my life, officially diagnosed with influenza yesterday. I'm on medication now but still feverish and a little loopy. Putting up a real post would be hard to do - and hard for you all to read. I hope to be up and running again later this week. My apologies for the necessary if unexpected break.

Header: The Inexperienced Babysitter by an unknown French artist c 1860s via Old Paint

Mardi: Happy New Year!

HQ wishes you and yours a happy, healthy 2013 with plenty of excuses to party and magick all around.

Header: Dancers at the Bon Temps Carnival Ball in New Orleans c 1953 via A Harlot's Progress

Vendredi: Chthonian Histories

After a bit of thought, I've decided to continue the Friday harbingers of death theme right through to the New Year. Winter, after all, tended to be a time when our ancestors in northern climes would dwell on the passing of life. No wonder, either; when it is dark and cold and there is very little to do outside the home (in agrarian societies at least) one's thoughts naturally turn inward. And sometimes those thoughts included mortality.

Will-o-the-wisps, corpse candles and elf lights are not a phenomena, scientifically speaking, that occur only in the far north. It is there, though, that they seem to have been most often seen and discussed. The scientific explanation for hovering lights that float over the ground in particular areas is methane gas leaking up from under soggy, marshy or even corpse-strewn ground. In specific conditions, this gas will ignite creating glowing orbs of phosphorescent light.

Such explanations meant nothing to our ancestors. In fact, they're rather boring, comparatively.

In France, Germany, Scandinavian countries and the British Isles, these blue-green flickers were thought to be the spirits of the dead. What kind of dead - sad, lonely or vengeful - depended on where the lights were seen and what they did.

Corpse candles appeared most often in graveyards and were thought to be the spirits of the dead either warning the living of coming doom or simply retracing their final path: from their home to their grave. It was said that corpse candles were sometimes seen wandering the path to the graveyard from a house that had not lost a soul. This was a sign that there would soon be a death in that family.

In wilder areas, such as lonely bogs, Will-o-the-wisps were seen bobbing above the soggy ground. These sad, lost souls were said to try to bring themselves company by luring the wayward traveler into the muck. There he or she would be lost to drowning or exposure and the Will-o-the-wisp would not be alone anymore.

In other instances, the lights were lost children. Killed by a parent, stillborn or unbaptized, these little lights which were often said to be white rather than blue, also tried to draw the observer into a deadly situation. They preyed, it was whispered, only on adults and thereby exacted their revenge on the people who had condemned them to everlasting limbo.

In Celtic countries, the Jack-o-lantern was not included among these harbingers of death. Originally carved from turnips, pumpkins being a New World fruit, the effigies of Jack were said to recall a man who made a deal with the Devil and then tricked Old Scratch into letting him keep his soul. Denied both Heaven and Hell at his death, Jack was said to guard humans against his fate by scaring away the Devil's minions. In the New World, though, Jack has joined the army of Will-o-the-wisps looking to take human lives.

In the American south, we're told that wearing your clothes inside out or - more practically - carrying a new, steel-blade knife, will keep Jack from tricking you into following him into the bayou where you might be lost forever.

The Scottish and Irish did not imagine these spooky lights as only male. There they were sometimes known as Joan of the Wad or Kitty-o-wisp. Lost souls came from both genders, after all.

Some literary historians opine that Shakespeare's character Puck, the elfin narrator of his most psychedelic play A Midsummer Night's Dream, was the Bard's attempt at personifying the fabled elf light. They point to one of Puck's soliloquies which begins:

Now is the time of night,
That the graves all gape wide.
Every one lets forth his sprite,
In the church-way paths to glide. 

It seems a thin thread to cling to, at least to my mind, but it also seems hard to know what old Will was about with that play.

On a final, and completely unrelated note, my thanks go out to Undine of The World of Poe blog for her generous nomination of both Triple P and HQ for a Lovely Blog Award. More on that here but, most importantly, thank you dear Undine. You are far too kind.

Header: Danse Macabre from the church of La Ferte-Loupiere via Wikipedia Francais

Mercredi: The Art of Beauty

Not much time today but wanted to share the picture of the lovely woman above. This is Lottie Campbell and the picture was taken in Utah in the latter part of the 19th century. Lottie's story is a little ambiguous based on the information provided here. Judging from her dress, the year must be around 1890. However the website notes her first husband's parents married in 1888. I know it took a while for fashions to travel "out west" but it is hard to imagine that this very fashionable lady posed for her portrait wearing that gown after 1900.

All that said, isn't she lovely?

Header: Lottie Campbell, photograph date unknown, via A Harlot's Progress

Vendredi: Chthonian Histories

The idea of the return of the dead has always gripped the imagination of human beings. We're afraid of the dead and dead bodies, even in 1st world countries where death and dying are separated and sanitized. Movies about sparkly vampires aside, the popularity of shows like "The Walking Dead" prove that something in us, something primal and outside our technological cage, still understands that those things, those rotting reflections of our own mortality, could rise up and kill us all.

It seems that these kind of thoughts and the stories of ghosts and ghouls that they breed, are more prevalent - or at least more interesting - in the cold, dark climates of the far north. No one tells scary dead stories quite like the descendants of the Norsemen. Here are just two...

In Iceland, where the combination of Viking and Native cultures has spawned some of the scariest monsters imaginable, whispers still flow through communities of things known only as Sendings. These creatures, which are more puppets than self-propelled dead bodies, are made from the bones of the dead. They are put together piecemeal, like Frankenstein's monster, and then sent out to do the bidding of their master. More often than not, that bidding is to kill.

The most famous story of a malicious Sending revolves around a handsome widow who lived comfortably on the sheep ranch left to her by her late husband. Though courted quite seriously by several men in her village, the widow had no interest in remarrying. Time and again she tactfully, but firmly, said no. Then one day she said no to the wrong man.

The notorious wizard of the area set his cap for the widow and, receiving the same answer as every other suitor, he went home to brew up revenge.

One afternoon in autumn the widow was preparing dinner for her ranch hands. Stepping into the dark dampness of her cold room to retrieve some butter, she suddenly felt the hair on her arms stand straight up. The widow turned, and there on the fieldstone wall was a large, black shadow that looked eerily like a spider whose legs were made of human arms. In the very center of the shadowy abomination was a white spot. The thing hissed at the widow but, undaunted despite the racing of her heart, the good woman knew what to do. She pulled out the knife she kept in her apron pocket and stabbed the thing directly in the white spot at its core. The monster squealed out an ear-piercing scream and then scurried through the open door.

An hour later, when she had finally calmed her jangled nerves with a cup of mead, the widow rang the dinner bell and her hands hurried in to their meal. One of them stopped before sitting down at the long table and spoke directly to his employer: "Isn't this your knife, ma'am?" He pulled something from his pocket and it took a moment for the widow to realize what it was. There was her knife indeed, plunged deep into the arm bone of a human being.

These stories have a curious connection with the Scandinavian tales of the ghost in the ground. Unlike the Sending, these creatures are staked down in lonesome areas that people rarely pass. The long wooden poles that hold them to the ground are sometimes encountered by wayward travelers. Thinking the stick might help their walking or serve as a fishing pole, the unsuspecting man or woman will try to pull the pole from the ground. When they do, they invariably hear a quiet voice encouraging them in their chore, although no one is nearby. Listening to the voice is at the very least foolhardy; pulling the pole out of the ground releases the vengeful, hungry ghost, who will of course take the unsuspecting traveler as its first victim.

Such tales in turn bring to mind the mysteries of the so called Bog People. These highly preserved bodies from the far north of Europe almost always appear to have been ritually sacrificed and then dumped in peat bogs or marshes. Many, however, were not just allowed to sink. They were staked down with long poles. One has to imagine to keep them from coming back to prey on their executioners.

Header: Hel's Embrace by Sash-Kash via Deities and Demons

Mardi: Herbal-Wise

The bush known by that curiously magickal name - witch hazel - is quite literally a weed in some climates. During elementary school, when my family lived in the Seattle, Washington area, there was a stand of rambling witch hazel just beyond the fence at the back of the school. I wasn't the most popular kid and I would go and sit near the fence to read a book during recess, weather permitting. The pungent smell of witch hazel will always remind me of sunny spring or fall days when I was left blissfully alone by the less than civil members of my class.

Witch hazel, as is obvious from its name, was thought to be particularly popular with witches. The bush probably acquired its modern moniker in 15th or 16th century England where the branches were used for divining rods to find lost items and - of course - hidden treasure. There is mention of use of a witch hazel wand or broom staff by the notorious Old Demdike of Pendle Witch fame. Needless to say, witch hazel growing near one's home was a sure sign, at some points in history, that trouble was afoot in the household.

Conversely, or so it seems, sprigs of witch hazel were also used to protect against evil and - you guessed it - witches. Old wives would hang sprigs of the plant at windows and above doors to turn away malice. Pieces of the bark were also carried for the same purpose.

Scott Cunningham mentions witch hazel for the healing of a broken heart as well. He recommends carrying a bit of witch hazel to recover from the loss of love. He also notes that doing the same can curb lust.

Distilled witch hazel, easily obtained at most drug stores, remains a capable astringent and can help with a myriad of household health issues if used correctly. This post by Jillee over at One Good Thing gives an exhaustive rundown of the many wonderful things a simple, inexpensive bottle of witch hazel can do for you and yours. How can anyone argue with that?

Header: Harvest Moon by George F. Wetherbee via American Gallery

Mardi: Herbal-Wise

I am so glad that it is finally election day here in the U.S. that I can't express my joy. This has been a miserable, divisive, contentious year of campaigning all the way around. And I'm tired of it. Sick and bloody tired.

In case you're wondering, I am personally an Independent who advocates for fiscal responsibility (do my kid's kid's kids really need to be paying off a debt currently rivaled on the world stage only by that of Greece?) and social reform (why is it that same-sex couples can't have a legally recognized partnership like marriage?). I don't believe anyone will take my guns away from me or deny my daughters the right to a safe, legal abortion. Regardless of who is elected President. Yet I am called names by both sides - racist, hater, and oh yeah, I'm going to Hell - because I can think for myself and will not follow a major party like a blind goat on a lead.

To put it mildly, I am fed up with being anxious, angry, confused and, well, the list goes on and on.

So I'm changing up today's post and introducing all of the HQ readers to the special magick of something that is not exactly an herb: honey.

Honey is used for sweetening work in hoodoo. Through the doctrine of like-makes-like, it is believed that honey will calm the home, stop gossip, reconcile you with a lover, make a judge smile on you in a court case and so forth. Here is a powerful piece of root work utilizing honey and candle magick that you can use for all that and more.

Take a small jar that has a wide enough top to set a candle holder on. Write your name on a small piece of brown paper and put it at the bottom of the jar along with a strand or two of your hair (clippings from a razor will work if you're bald). Now, fill the jar with any type of honey you have on hand. Cap the jar tightly - you may be using it for a while and you don't want it to attract pests.

Place the jar in a central area of your home where it is safe to burn candles on. I personally like either the fireplace mantel or somewhere in the kitchen for this one. Now, put a candle holder on top of the jar and choose a candle color that matches your need:

Blue: peace in the home (for this one, you may want to add a name paper/hair strand for each person living in your house - include pets if you like)
Yellow: stop malicious gossip or lies being told about you or a family member (here, you may wish to add name papers - at the very least and hair if possible - for the family member being victimized and the bully)
Pink: draw new love/friendship or to reconcile with a lover or friend (again, if you are looking to reconcile, add a name paper for the person you have been estranged from)
Red: encourage lust (do I even need to mention adding a name paper and strand of hair here?)
Purple: revive health (a name paper for the person you wish to heal - if it is not yourself - is a must)
Brown: for a favorable outcome in court (a name paper for the judge couldn't hurt...)
Green: to draw money and/or get approval for a loan (this one works wonders when trying to get a mortgage; try adding a "name" paper with your future home's address on it)

Dress your candle, as always, with olive oil and light it with intention. Keep your need or desire in the back of your mind while allowing the candle to burn down and out. Bury any remaining wax on your property or, in the case of court, health or money issues, carry it with you in a mojo or conjure bag to appointments, trials, etc.

You can increase the power of your name paper(s) by using ink the same color as your candle. Using other sticky, liquid sweeteners - such as cane syrup or molasses - will work just as well should you be unable to use honey. You can also reuse your honey for other influencing work if you don't mind fishing name papers and hair out of it when needed.

For particularly difficult issues - like clearing away all this negative political energy - burn new candles on three, six or even nine consecutive days. Watching the moon face can help you here, too. To carry something away, do this ritual during a waning or dark moon; to draw something to you, choose a waxing or full moon.

Stay calm and carry on and remember that sometimes accepting what we can't change while working graciously to change what we can is always a better solution than calling each other names. Bonne chance ~

Header: It's Up to You by Gil Elvgren via American Gallery

Dimanche: Swimming

This photo from Hoquiam, Washington, USA was taken in 1929. The lovely ladies pictured are wearing bathing attire made of spruce veneer in honor of Hoquiam's annual "Wood Week" and the four of them are noted as the "Spruce Girls". Hoquiam, where my mother was born just a year before this photo was snapped, was run by logging and shipping at the town's largest employer, the Gray's Harbor Mill and Shipyard where my grandfather worked. Well, worked the main one of his three jobs... The lady on the far right, though my Mom cannot remember her name, was evidently a close friend of my grandmother's. Curiously, I found this photo over at Black & WTF and, when I asked her about it, found that Mom also had a copy. Small world.

Samedi: Ghost Stories

Today's story comes, not from my family tradition, but from my husband's. My father-in-law grew up in the south-east of Pennsylvania where coal mining is a long-standing profession and a burden at the same time. The seams run deep in that most northerly portion of Appalachia, and even those - like my father-in-law - who never went down into the darkness, were touched by the gritty stories that came out of the collieries.

This tale tells of a young man named Daniel whose family had, since time-in-memorial, been coal miners. Dan had no desire to descend into the pits, but time and circumstance caught up with him. When things went bust in Hazelton after the coal miner's strike, Dan lost his job as a clerk at the company store. He and his young wife Mary had just bought a small cottage along the main road and Mary was expecting in the fall. The bosses brought in men they knew would side with them if trouble arose again and left the hard-scrabble job of mining to the upstart locals.

Dan had no choice. He gathered up his uncle's gear and followed his two brothers into the mine.

Dan's brothers, Lew and Jerry, were both older and Lew had made his way up to the more lucrative position of fire boss. They took their baby brother under their wing knowing that their long dead parents - God rest their souls - would haunt them if they didn't look after Danny. Lew made sure Dan worked at Jerry's elbow in the bottom pit where you had to stoop all day for the low ceiling and you stood in water up to your ankles.

The two were happy together though, telling jokes and reminiscing, and they always tried to stop for dinner just when Lew could join them. They'd pull the cold roast or chicken that their wives wrapped in waxed paper out of their dinner pails and chuckle together as they ate. One evening, after Dan had been in the mine for some weeks, Jerry ventured to ask a question.

"You ever heard of the death watch, Danny?"

Lew's expression changed. His dark brows met over his falcon nose. "Jerry..."

"He should hear about it. What if - "

"Jerry!" Lew's voice echoed down the seam.

"What's the death watch," Dan asked through a mouthful of baloney. "Some of you stand up for us all?"

"Nothing like that. It's a watch." Lew pulled his pocket watch out of his threadbare tweed coat. "Lost they say by an old timer."

"A-yeah," Jerry continued. "He got blown to bits in the closed seam when Dad and Uncle Hugh were here. They found every scrap of him, but not his watch. Now they say, men about to die here a ticking that doesn't match their own watch. Within twenty four hours..." Jerry made the sound of dynamite ripping the earth in two.

"Enough, Jerry." Lew could see the terror on his youngest brother's face. "Nerry ya mind, Danny," he took another bite of his apple. "Didn't I say I'd look after ya? Wouldn't Ma and Dad want it that way?"

"God rest their souls," Jerry and Dan said simultaneously. "Besides which," Dan added. "You're pulling my leg and no mistake. I never heard Dad speak of - "

Just then the whistle blew. "Dinner's done," Lew said, closing the lid on his pail. "Back to work you loafers."

And so the days turned into months and years. Dan came not to love his job but to tolerate it. Seeing Mary happy and his son David growing by the day made it worth the while. But stories started to pile up of men who had died, and then men Dan knew became part of those stories. Henry in the three seam was buried in a cave-in after telling his partner that he'd heard a weird ticking sound. Henry, it was revealed after his death, had never carried a watch. Then Henry's partner said he heard the ticking too and sure enough a day later an explosion took his life.

No one talked about it much, the death watch: how it had no set pattern, how it popped up all over a ten acre mine, how it didn't spare young or old, how death stalked them all. The men just went to the funerals and held their hats in their hands. But everyone kept their ears peaked for that dreaded sound: tick... tick... tick...

Dan continued a non-believer, though. The very idea of a death watch made him wonder if too much time in the mine made a man go daft.

Three weeks after Henry's partner's funeral Dan found himself on his own. Jerry was sick in bed with the influenza and Dan didn't mind pulling double work. The sickness was bad. Men died just as surely of flu as they did of cave-ins. "There's been no sign of that horrible sound though," Dan murmured to himself as he shuffled to his spot. "Jerry will be -"

"Dan!" The sound of his brother's voice almost made him drop his dinner pale. "Danny! You gotta go home."

"Lew, what the hell?"

"You gotta go home," Lew said through gasps for air. "You gotta go home."

"Is it Mary? David - "

"No," Lew shook his head. "Listen now. I heard the watch on my rounds this morning. Before dark, Dan. I heard it. The watch ticking right here."

"Lew, com'on now. I can't miss a day's wage on a -"

"I heard it!" Lew's voice echoed down the seam. "Go on now. You're sick, you hear? Fever. Tell Mary too."

Dan saw the sheer terror in his brother's onyx eyes. "OK," he nodded, picking up his pail. "OK." With that he left, straight up the lift and home.  He ran through the heavy, gray fog of a fall morning, wanting nothing more than to hug his wife and son and sit near the hearth in his cottage.

But when he got there he found the place empty. After looking around he saw a note. Mary's writing was lovely and small: "Gone to Jerry's. He's worse than ever. David is with my Ma. ~ M."

Dan panicked. His brother, his closest brother, was near death and here he was home from work over a stupid legend. He pulled on his coat and ran out of the cottage, straight down the main street toward the train tracks. His brother's house was just on the other side but...

The coming train had tripped the lever and the barriers were down. Dan hesitated. The fog was thick but he couldn't see the train's light. Surely he could make it. Why stand here and wait? He dipped under the barrier, stepped onto the ties and -

Witnesses would later say that they thought the 7:30 flyer seemed to come out of nowhere that morning, straight out of the fog and gone. It wasn't until a search party, looking for Dan after his brother died after noon, found his boot near the tracks that the truth was discovered. He'd been hit by the train, and all that remained was his left foot and ankle in his boot on one side of the tracks. And his silver watch on the other.

Header: Men Leaving a Colliery by Gerald Palmer c 1914 via Wikipedia

Samedi: Ghost Stories

Today's story comes to us from the Arkansas. Yes, I am duty bound by familial ties to speak of it the way my ancestors would have when their associate and then spy for Spain Jean Laffite went off into its wilds to map out the U.S. settlements there abouts circa 1816. My Aunt Bette used to only refer to the state above Louisiana as "the" Arkansas, and that with a disparaging tint to her voice. Sorry Razor Back fans; I can only say that it's in the blood.

In many rural areas along the Mississippi River, Arkansas for instance, the landscape is dotted with hunting shacks. These are used only during "the season", at least for the most part, and to a large degree they are not furnished with the finest amenities. They are "shacks" more than cabins or homes, meant to be used for a brief time and then closed up to the next round.

This is the case in my adoptive home as well. Here in Alaska, hunting shacks are not unusual out in what locals call "the bush." While they may be hundreds of miles from one another, they are not all that uncommon and, in some cases, are literally open to all who happen upon them. In these instances they are as spare as they probably sound, but they are better than sleeping out in the raw environment of hunting season which encompasses the short, cold months of September and October. It's not January, of course, but it can be pretty bleak.

All that said, this story translates beautifully to Alaska. What happens in the bush stays in the bush for the most part. And none of what happens in this story would make an "old timer" do much more than shake his or her head...

Around the night fire the talk turned to the cabin by the lake. It had been there for ages as far as anyone knew, its timbers gray and its moss-covered roof sagging. No sane hunter had the gumption to go inside, even though it was in sight of the fire. The stories of men driven mad by the screams and wails of long dead souls were too numerous to ignore. The ancient cabin was haunted; everyone said so. No one wanted to challenge the idea if they could possibly avoid it.

No one, that is, but the grizzled hunter known as Old Pete. Pete had come up from Montana ten years ago and had soon put his tracking talents to good use showing greenhorns the best place to find a slow bull moose. He had a good reputation as a guide but a bad reputation as a companion. Old Pete was obnoxious, and when talk around the fire turned to the shack he spoke up right away.

"I'll stay up there all night," Pete said, standing up and planting his feet wide. "But I'll need money to do it."

How much money was settled on quickly - fifty dollars seemed reasonable - and the men laid out their cash. Pete also took a slab of good bacon and six cans of beer and, shouldering his pack, he hiked the short distance to the shack.

"Haunted," he mused, standing in front of the dark, low lump that would be his home for the night. "I'm more haunted than you are." And then he went in.

With his flashlight Pete could see that the place wasn't much. There were a couple of chairs and sleeping ledges built of pine. He smiled when he saw a stone hearth already laid with kindling and wood. Someone had been here and failed to light a fire; Pete wouldn't be so foolish.

When the fire was crackling, Pete unfurled his sleeping bag and put his little cast iron pot on the flames. "Time for bacon," he said and he threw the slab in the pot. Settling back in a chair, he cracked a can of beer and smiled. It was a quiet night, and not too cold. "Dinner and then to bed. Fifty dollars easy."

As Pete relaxed, he heard a shuffling sound along one wall. He didn't think too much of it; shrews and voles loved to hole up in places like this for the winter. Hell, he'd even run into a raven in a place like this once. He took a long swig of his beer, and turned the sweet smelling bacon with his fork.

The shuffling noise grew louder but Pete was comfortable. He opened another beer and thought how glad he was not to be a rodent. As he settled further back he heard something else; something like a voice...

"Smells good, Mister."

Pete sat up. "What?" He called out: "Is that you, Len?"

"Ain't Len," the voice whispered. Hissed, really. "Smells good, Mister."

The voice made Pete's skin crawl. It was like a snake or a roach, dry and sneaky. "This isn't funny," Pete called. "Len; this isn't - "

Pete saw a shadow, dark and small, move from a corner and jump - he swore later it jumped - right into his cast iron pot. The bacon let out a hiss and some steam and then he heard that voice again. But this time it came right out of the fire. "Thanks for dinner, Pete."

Old Pete looked carefully at his pot and he saw two eyes staring back at him over the rim. They were as red as the hot fire and as he looked, unable to move or blink, he heard that voice again: "My friends and I are grateful."

Suddenly a howling, squealing, groaning and screaming came right out of the wood that the shack was built from. It was as if a hurricane raged outside, but the night remained calm. Pete clapped his hands over his ears as the sound pummeled him like punches. He screamed right back, loud and long. All the same he couldn't hear himself. These noises would drive a sane man crazy.

Pete jumped up, grabbed his pack and, leaving his pot and sleeping bag behind, burst out of that old shack and ran toward his companions' fire.

When he reached them they stood up, shocked by Pete's sudden return and riveted by his appearance: from head to toe Pete was as pale as new fog - even his brown hair had turned white.

"Holy Hell, Pete;" Len asked. "What - "

"Here," Pete threw the money at his friends. "You keep it. I'm goin' home. Don't go in there. Don't none of you ever go in there!"

Old Pete left the hunt, called for the plane and paid the extra for the unexpected lift. He went to work on the North Slope and never went back to hunting ever again.

Header The Old Hunting Shack by Les Kouba via Alliance Art Publishing

Lundi: Recipes

Anyone who knows me knows that I am a member of the Who Dat Nation. I saw my first Saints game when I was five and, though I went through a weird Seahawks thing in my youth (my family lived in Seattle when the team first appeared) I got over it. I rejoiced when the Saints won the Super Bowl and I am as low as any football fan can be now.

Even my daughter is a Saints fan. She knows the players, wears her Pierre Thomas jersey on game days and cried, down right bawled, yesterday at the end of that sad, sad loss to the Packers.

Thanks to Roger Goodell, my child understands that there ain't never gonna be nothing fair. And she's not the only one. I wouldn't want your karma even with your salary, sir.

Tears aside, I'm old enough to seek solace in an adult beverage. So here's a recipe for a delicious Bloody Mary straight out of another institution that is being "phased out" due to greed and ignorance: The Times-Picayune. Make two pitchers and have some friends over. Misery loves company.

4 cups tomato juice
1 tsp salt
1 tsp black pepper
1/2 tsp celery salt
1 tbsp Worcestershire sauce
10 to 12 drops of Tabasco sauce (more or less to taste)
2 tsps fresh lime juice
7 ounces vodka of choice
Lime wedges and celery stalks for garnish

Combine all ingredients but garnish in a glass pitcher and chill for at least an hour. Stir before serving. Pour into four ice-filled glasses and garnish as noted.

You might also like to add prepared horseradish for an extra kick.

Not feeling up to making your own - and who can blame you given the circumstances? I recommend Tabasco's own brand of Bloody Mary mix. It's delicious and a great pick me up without the vodka, too. Bon appetite ~

Header: Family: Because no matter what the outcome, we always love them via New Orleans Ladder

Mercredi: The Art of Beauty

It's been a little while since I've offered a beautiful recipe rather than a study in beauty for these Wednesday posts. Too much fashion history research of late, I guess. But my current situation had me poking around for a rich and soothing moisturizer recently. Radiation may kill cancer cells and all, but it does nothing good for our bodies' largest organ.

While I have not had time to put this body butter, modified from an old Reader's Digest recipe, together yet I hope to in the near future. I'm relying a Costco size tub of Cetaphil moisturizing cream right now and it is definitely helping. So much so that I would recommend it to anyone. For healing though, there is a lot to be said for something made with both intention and your own two hands (or those of someone who loves you).

So, besides healing intent, here's what you'll need:

1/4 cup grated shea butter
1 tbsp grated beeswax
1/2 cup avocado oil
2 tbsps almond oil
3 tbsps vegetable glycerine
15 drops chamomile essential oil
15 drops sandalwood essential oil

Using a double boiler, combine the first four ingredients over simmering water until the first two ingredients are completely liquid. This can take a few minutes so be patient. Move the ingredients around frequently with a whisk or wooden spoon to speed up the process a little. Don't rush it, though; you'll want a nice, smooth consistency particularly for irritated skin.

Remove the mixture from the heat and let it cool for about three to five minutes. Do not let it harden again or you'll need to start over.

Using a whisk, stir in the glycerine. Then add the essential oils, about five to seven drops at a time whisking after each addition. Whisk thoroughly until all ingredients are combined. Pour into a glass jar with a mouth wide enough to allow you to dip two or three fingers in. Seal and store in a cool place away from light.

This moisturizer is perfect for wind or sun damaged skin. It is also great for mature skin or for when the dry dead of winter has you feeling more crusty than silky. Shea, avocado and almond all absorb quickly and both chamomile and sandalwood essential oils provide soothing rejuvenation. The sandalwood oil in particular is renowned for its aroma-therapeutic effects, imparting a sense of relaxation and well-being to the subconscious. I don't recommend this moisturizer for young children, however, as a reaction to the essential oils is occasionally possible.

Make it for yourself, make it as a gift, but make it with love and - for those few moments after a shower or bath at least - all will be right with the world. A votre sante ~

Header: Portrait of a Young Woman by Lloyd Branson via American Gallery

Lundi: Recipes

I'm feeling really good today, despite some family issues that have nothing to do with cancer, so I thought I would hunt around for a fabulous recipe to share. I found one, tucked in the back of one of my cookbooks, and then had the good luck to find an illustrated article about the recipe online at KCET.org. I think it's a sign. So here it is, a dessert right out of Golden Age Hollywood history: The Brown Derby's Grapefruit Cake. I know it sounds a little crazy but trust me it is a real treat!

For the cake:

1 1/2 cups cake flour
3/4 cups sugar
1 1/2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
1/4 cup water
1/4 cup vegetable oil
3 eggs, separated
3 tbsps grapefruit juice
1/2 tsp grated lemon zest
1/2 tsp cream of tartar

For the frosting:

2  6 ounce packages of cream cheese at room temperature
2 tsps lemon juice
1 tsp grated lemon zest
3/4 cup confectioner's sugar
1 1 lb can grapefruit sections or fresh grapefruit segments for garnish (optional)

To make the cake, preheat your oven to 350 degrees. Grease and flour either one tall cake pan (two to four inch sides) or two regular cake pans (one inch sides). I like to put a parchment paper round in the bottom of the pans to make removing the cake even easier.

Sift the first four ingredients together into a large bowl. Add water, oil, egg yolks only, grapefruit juice and lemon zest. Mix until smooth.

In a separate bowl, beat egg whites with cream of tartar until eggs form very soft peaks. Add the rest of the mixed ingredients gently to egg whites and fold - don't beat. Pour this mixture into you pan(s).

Bake for 25 to 30 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the middle comes out clean.

Turn pan(s) over on a rack to cool briefly, then gently remove cake, running a knife around the edge if necessary. Allow to cool thoroughly on rack.

To make the frosting, beat softened cream cheese in a medium bowl - by hand or with a mixer - until fluffy. Add lemon juice and lemon zest and combine. Stir in sugar in small batches until the mixture is smooth. Add grapefruit juice and stir to combine.

Cut a tall cake in half if necessary and spread frosting on one half. If you have grapefruit sections, place some in the frosting before topping it with the other half of the cake. Frost the entire cake completely and then artfully arrange the rest of the grapefruit wedges around the sides or in any way you please. Cut and enjoy!

This is a refreshing way to end any meal and it virtually melts in your mouth when eaten with a nice glass of sparkling wine (or two). Bon appetite ~

Header: High Society by H. Weston Taylor via American Gallery

Mardi: Herbal-Wise

As I mentioned over at Triple P, we are preparing for a "storm of the century" sort of scenario here in Anchorage. A hurricane has formed in the Bering Sea, and the weather prognosticators say we can expect winds up to 100 miles per hour in our area. Needless to say, that's a little scary.

So I went to the hoodoo cupboard to see if I could find a nice combination of herbs to create a "throw" to calm the storm - at least to some degree. Click here for a previous post on just this sort of situation.

I'm off to put together my sage and basil mixture, and hopeful encourage the worst of this thing to calm down before it hits us. Bonne chance to you all, and to us here in the Far North ~

Header: The Venerable Sergius of Radonehz by Mikhail Nesterov via Old Paint ~ the Venerable Sergius is sometimes invoked to protect gardens and homes from storms