#historic Mitchell House

[mariasmemo]

While Some Things Change . . .

Some things remain the same.  Vestal Street looks different from when Maria Mitchell was a child here at 1 Vestal Street.  I am happy to say, her home has not really changed either inside or out. Some aspects of the rest of the street have not changed either, particularly down here on the lower end where the MMA is located.  Here I am talking about the built environment.  She would recognize houses, recognize changes that were made before she left island in 1861, and even changes made as she returned from time to time over the next decades. 

One thing that does not change at all is the sound the rain makes on the roof of the Mitchell House.  Still fully exposed to the elements as no trees hang over the House – and never did – the rain continues to make its drumming noise – the same as Maria, her siblings, and her parents heard – particularly when they were in the attic or the garret.  It’s a pleasing noise – though I’m not a fan when it’s a torrential downpour!  Though we have much more frequently with climate change than they obviously did in the Mitchells day.

I noticed this sound again the other day when it began to pour a fast burst of rain for a short period of time.  Vestal Street became not just wet but steamy in the summer humidity, bubbles popped up in the puddles of the asphalt that was just laid in the spring (another change from the dirt of Maria’s day and until 1948 or so!).  And the smell of summer rain as it mixed with leaves and grass and just was its own rain smell.  I made myself sit in the attic stairs for a moment just to listen and breath.  And I reminded myself, this is what Maria heard when she was in the attic at 1 Vestal Street.

JNLF

Photograph by Henry Michaelis

[thecrackshipdiaries]

Caitlin Stasey and Ewan Mitchell

[sophiemariepl]

Can we talk about the fact that Aemond’s characterization (his costume, posture etc.) in the Storm’s End scene makes him look almost like a goddamn N@zi? (Or is it just me?)

[jazzstandardspoll]

Descriptions & Propaganda

St. James' Infirmary

Traditional

Notable versions: Louis Armstrong (x), Cab Calloway (x), Artie Shaw (x)

Propaganda:

i love how this song starts as a lament and then switches on a dime to such a cool, proud, almost bragging defiance of death. and of course that trumpet!! that trombone!!

imo this song exemplifies the rich tapestry of popular music and the links between the jazz standards, the blues, and the english, irish, and appalachian folk traditions. people sort of fight over whether this song is influenced by the unfortunate rake/rakes progress/young trooper cut down in his prime/etc., (musicologist a. l. lloyd’s theory) or not- there’s a whole book about it, “i went down to the st. james infirmary” by robert harwood.

but none of that really matters. if you love the blues and you love folk music this song is like a familiar hug, full of the themes and motifs you recognize but maybe can’t quite pin down. the mysterious origins are part of the fun. extra propaganda: if you know/love/have ever listened to “blind willie mctell” by bob dylan, this song is the father.

i like the way this one sounds but i also think it's historically/anthropologically pretty cool... it's part of the lineage of "the unfortunate rake" which also spawned popular folk songs like "streets of laredo" and possibly "house of the rising sun" (debated among experts but possible), but this one unlike those others was taken up by jazz artists starting in the 1920s and eventually came to be regarded as a jazz standard. fascinating stuff!

Stardust

Composed by Hoagy Carmichael, with lyrics by Mitchell Parish

Notable versions: Hoagy Carmichael (x), Nat King Cole (x), Samara Joy (x)

Propaganda: For a long time, this was arguably THEE jazz standard. To quote writer Will Friedwald: “By the mid-1950s…’Star Dust’ had already been around for twenty five years and was long established as the most popular of popular songs…[and] had also become archetypal Tin Pan Alley: its dreamy, somewhat meandering melody had inspired hundreds of other tunes, its metaphor lyric had launched God knows how many other reveries of love and loss.” Stardust isn’t just a song, it’s an institution, the forgotten bedrock of popular music before rock’n’roll. It’s been endlessly covered by both jazz bands and singers since 1927, but one of the most famous versions is by country singer Willie Nelson. I love that version, and the one by Samara Joy is transcendental. But to me, the absolute definitive version is by Nat King Cole, no questions asked. It perfectly captures the yearning for a lost love, while looking up at a sky full of stars.

[ohforficsakelibrary]

You Brought Me Poison Flowers

Chapter 1: Larkspur - The larkspur keeps away ghosts.

series masterlist / masterlist

Summary: Joel and Ellie settle into life in Jackson, one more easily than the other, until Joel is reminded of what normal feels like. The kind of normal that he perhaps never had. A series of one-shot glimpses into a relationship (no true plot here, people.) Soft!Joel. Two touch-starved babes. Slow-ish burn.

Chapter subtitles taken from Cunningham’s Encyclopedia of Magical Herbs by Scott Cunningham. Although herbal preparations are consistent with historic uses, nothing herein is to be construed as medical advice.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Herbalist!OFC (age-appropriate age gap)

Word Count: 3.1K

Rating: Eventually explicit 18+ / Minors DNI. tw blood.

A/N: At a Fourth of July celebration in Jackson, Joel starts to feel a little more human again.

It had been three months since they returned to Jackson.

Since they were given a home. A community. Three squares a day and as much whiskey as Joel wanted. 

Which, admittedly, is more than he should have.

And, how had Maria put it—integrating—into the community, well. 

Not quite yet.

Sure, he had been given a position out on patrols. Something he was good at. A way he could earn his keep. And working alongside Tommy again felt more comfortable than he anticipated. 

Familiar, even.

Ellie, on the other hand, had been eager to integrate into the group of other kids her age. She hadn’t much wanted to fall back into the rhythm of school and Joel hadn’t pushed. But she made quick work of finding her niche on her own, helping out at shops in town, tending the animals in the early hours, working the farm and pestering Mitchell with her questions in the heat of the afternoon sun. 

Eventually she graduated to farmhand. Integration achieved.

Tommy and Maria had convinced him to leave the cabin for tonight’s Fourth of July festivities. Independence Day.

Irony doesn’t step lightly among the adult members of the town.

Those who remembered The Before and the abject failure that led to The After.

The scent of freshly grilled meat wafts through the street and a band had set up on the steps of the old bank. Mess Hall tables had been dragged out into the street and kids raced between them, their laughter ringing clear in harmony with the music.

Nights were still cold, he’d yet to learn they nearly always were in Jackson, and Joel kept his arms crossed to keep the chill at bay.

It kept everyone else at bay too.

“You know if you got out there and danced, you wouldn’t feel so cold.” Tommy grinned as he fell back into his seat.

“I don’t fuckin’ dance.”

“You used to.”

“Used to do a lot.” Joel shoots his whiskey and his eyes snap back to the crowd.

The habit of constantly searching for Ellie hadn’t abated. She’s dancing with a woman he’s seen around who runs a store in town.

No threat detected.

The song ends and Ellie returns to the table, grabbing a handful of tortilla chips before adjusting the flower crown on her head. A few of the school teachers had taken the kids out into a nearby meadow this afternoon and taught them how to weave delicate stems. Ellie’s was a blood red shock of paintbrush plant, nearly glowing against her brown hair.

She’s off again just as quickly as she sat down.

Joel’s stare follows her out into the crowd and he notices most of the kids have one along with a handful of adults. Some teachers, some guards. That lady Ellie had been dancing with though was neither.

Speak of the devil.

“Alright, Maria,” she breezes in, haloed in a wreath of purple larkspur and grabbing for a chip, “let’s get you out there.”

“Lennie!” Maria rises with a smile, “Let me introduce you, this is Joel,” Maria casts over her shoulder as she hands the baby off to Tommy. “We finally got him out of the house.”

“It took the promise of whiskey to do it,” Tommy quips, adjusting his daughter into a more comfortable position against his chest. 

“Joel is Tommy’s brother,” Maria continued, “and…”

“Ellie’s dad,” Joel finishes as he stands. Lennie brushes salt off on her overalls and holds out her hand with a grin. Joel takes it, surprised to find a firm grip. 

“Nice to meet you, Joel. Ellie’s real sharp. Helps me out with little things at the store sometimes.” 

“Thanks.”

He doesn’t realize he takes the compliment with a scowl on his face.

She nods at the younger man, hands on her hips, “how’s that gin treatin’ you Tommy?”

“It’s a great blend, Len. I still owe you a bottle of mine, I’ll bring it by this week.”

“No rush, I’m happy you’re enjoying.”

“You guys coming or what?” Ellie yells and Lennie presses her lips together and raises her eyebrows.

“I’m being summoned. Joel, nice to finally meet you.”

“Likewise.”

It takes Joel two and a half songs of silence and a fresh pour of whiskey before he finally opens his mouth again.

“What kind of shop does she have?” 

“Who? Len?” Tommy looks over at him.

Joel grunts something that could mean anything.

“Oh she’s got herbs, teas, soaps, lotions, that kind of stuff.”

“Plant shit.”

“Yeah, but not like…”

“A hippie.”

“Nah not like a hippie, man, she knows her stuff. She’s also responsible for that,” Tommy nods at his glass. Joel directs his scowl towards the glass before appropriating it for a sip. It’s gin, unmistakably, and far more complex than whatever homemade corn swill he’s been throwing back. Tommy’s stock was low and the town default wasn’t exactly cutting it. 

Now he was almost considering switching to gin.

“It’s good, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright, don’t go showing too much enthusiasm.”

“Better’n your shit,” he adds. Just to rile Tommy up.

Joel cracks a hint of a smile before turning his gaze back to the crowd of people as the band starts up with Bob Marley.

He recognizes Lennie, but in this town it’s impossible not to see anyone around. He can’t say he’s ever paid her attention. He can’t say he really pays anyone attention beyond evaluating them for a threat. 

He should probably ease up on that. At least while he’s here.

He settles for uncrossing his arms, fingers drumming against his thigh in time with the music.

He spares a glance at Tommy, baby girl cradled to his chest, fingers gently tapping against her back on beat. His own heart starts to clench.

Fingernails dig into denim.

And Joel settles for clearing his throat and gazing back out into the crowd, eyes drawn to a flash of purple.

Ellie's dancing with another girl about her age and Lennie and Maria's hands are locked, each singing to each other. She's about Maria’s height, dark bronze skin and a head of black ringlets that reach the middle of her back. He can’t really pick up anything else at this distance.

She’s pretty though.

Got a pretty mouth.

He’s old, not blind.

"What's that song called? It's good." Ellie slips back into her chair as the band launches into a Rolling Stones cover.

"Never would have took you for a Bob Marley fan," Tommy smiles.

"'S called Is This Love."

"I like it. Words are good."

Curiosity quirks Joel's brow and he manages to hide a hint of a smirk behind a sip of whiskey.

_____

Out of sheer curiosity he stops into Lennie's shop the next day.

“WILEY’S” the sign out front proclaims in black painted letters. Large windows flank the door and the afternoon sun shines on thick bundles of foliage mounted on racks that span the length of them.

He steps inside and is immediately greeted by the scent of something unmistakably green.

A younger couple sits on a bench at a long dining table to the right, engrossed in conversation and laughing over mugs of tea.

They don’t look like much of a threat. 

They look. Happy.

Lennie stands behind a long wooden bar counter with three large jars spread across the top, chatting with a man he recognizes from the café. 

“Hey, Joel!” She calls. “Give me three and I’ll be right with you. Feel free to have a look around.”

He holds up a hand and tells her to take her time before stuffing his fingers in his pockets and taking a lap. There’s a floor-to-ceiling bookcase along the right wall behind the heavy oak table. The shelves nearest the windows are jammed tight with books, the ones towards the back adorned with heavy jars of some kind of liquid in shades of green, amber, rust, and earth. He comes to a smaller bookcase along the back wall and an array of smaller mismatched jars, their contents opaque. There’s a generous farmhouse sink installed in wooden countertop beneath a window flanked by more shelving on which mason jars and metal bowls sit drying. Shelves to the left of the sink house baskets of fresher plant material yet to be processed. A dormant wood stove sits tucked into the back corner.

As he starts to make his way back around to the bar he notes that the shelving along this wall is stocked floor to ceiling with dried herbs, many of which have smaller jars of liquid beside them in the same array of shades as whatever’s next to the books. 

And finally he makes his way back to the woman herself. Blue flannel and overall-clad, a too-worn canvas apron tied around her hips. Wild black hair is thrown up without care as to what’s falling out. 

“What can I help you with, Joel?” Full lips part in a warm smile.

“I uh,” and suddenly he realizes that he hadn’t actually given thought to what brought him here. “Actually," his voice drops an octave as if to hide his ask, "have you got any coffee?

“If I had coffee, my friend, I’d be the most popular girl in town.” She mirrors his tone. “But, if you don’t mind squinting and overlooking…nearly everything...I have a few options that might hold you over. You looking for a caffeine hit or just the taste?”

He thinks on it for a moment, never quite having had to parse the preference.

“Taste, I guess.”

“Alright,” she wheels around to the dried material behind her and pulls a hefty jar off of a higher shelf. “Forgive me if this is too on the nose, but are you allergic to any mushrooms?”

“Only the kind you’re thinking of.” The distant relative of a smile tries to tug at the corner of his mouth.

“How about I make you a cup to try and then you tell me whether you want it or not.”

“Sounds good, yeah.”

She pulls a french press from underneath the bar and starts up a hot plate before moving easily across old wide planks that creak under her feet to fill the kettle at the sink.

There’s a massive leather-holstered hunting knife snapped into a belt loop on the back of her overalls.

Not a threat yet, though.

“Go ahead and take a seat,” she nods at a bar stool when she returns, scooping a few spoonfuls of what could be wood chips for all Joel knows into the french press. Only then does he realize he’s just been standing there, hands stuffed in his pockets. 

Looming. 

“This has to hang out for ten.” 

He’s noticed she does that. Throws numbers out there without units to keep them company.

“Thanks for the tea, Lennie!” The couple behind him at the table gets up to place their mugs in the sink and she throws them a wave and a big smile.

“Any time, good to see you Jamal. And Sheila, I just did up a batch of that face cream, let me know when you need a restock, yeah?”

“Will do, Lennie. I swear it takes 10 years off.”

“Happy to hear you like it, love. Y’all take care, alright?”

“Later, Len!” The man calls and suddenly it’s just the two of them. Joel runs his hands over the wooden bar top, noticing that at some point it must have been just that given the array of drink rings and cigarette burns marring its surface. 

She grabs two mismatched mugs and splits the pour between both. 

“You take it with…”

“Just black, thanks.”

“Alright then, cheers.” She passes one over to him and taps hers on the side. “Now remember…”

Joel brings it to his lips and downs a gulp before she finishes. 

“Fuck.”

“I warned you it’s not the same. But I haven’t…”

“No. No, I mean…” He takes another sip and holds it in his mouth before swallowing.

“It’s ok,” she laughs and leans down to rest her elbows on the bar with a grin.

“No, Lennie, it’s—good.” 

“Joel, I know you just met me, but I gotta tell you that you don’t actually have to lie to make me feel better, yeah?” She’s still smiling.

“No, I actually mean that.” 

She would have doubted him if this wasn’t the first time she’s actually seen him smile. With teeth, no less.

“This is just plants? And mushrooms?” The look in those big brown eyes is actually sincere.

“Well, coffee is a plant, so,” she straightens with a wink. “It’s chicory and dandelion mostly, with a few secrets thrown in.”.

Joel throws his head back and drains his cup.

I could fuckin kiss you right now.

He quickly casts his eyes up at her to make sure he hasn’t said it out loud.

Being out in the wilds for that long tends to degrade your filter.

“Let me get a bag.”

A bag?

“Haven’t got any bags, but I can give it to you by jar if that’ll do.”

“Yeah. Yeah that’ll do just fine.” 

“MISS LENNIE” erupts from the doorway and Joel is already clear out of his seat, reaching to his waistband for a gun he hasn’t brought.

Good thing, because this is a kid. 

Not an Ellie-kid. Just a kid-kid.

“Miss Lennie, it won’t stop.” 

The kid’s nose is gushing enough blood to stain his teeth. Can’t be more than seven? Eight?

She reaches behind her for a jar of golden liquid and under the bar for a two small scraps of cloth, one of which she rolls up.

“You get hit?” She grabs a metal straw and uses it to suction up some of the liquid to drench the rolled cloth.

“No, it just started and it won’t stop. Like last time.”

“Alright Benny, I got you.” Lennie swings around the corner of the bar and kneels down, gingerly wiping excess blood from his face before gently guiding Benny’s head backward.

“Might sting a little, but you’re brave, right?” She asks him as much with her eyes as her words.

“I’m brave, Miss Lennie.”

“Darn right you are. Alright, one, two…”

She slides the cloth into the offending nostril on “two” and Benny makes a noise like a startled dog.

“Alright, you’re ok,” she coos. “You ok?”

Benny finally opens his eyes and blinks hard a few times.

At least he isn’t screaming.

“You alright there Benny?” She repeats.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s not that bad.”

“Ok, good,” she chuckles. “Keep holding that there.” Lennie slips behind the bar again to grab a fresh mug and fills it a third of the way with still-warm water from the kettle. She adds a few drops of the same liquid and stirs before drawing some up in the straw and letting drips fall on the inside of her wrist.

“Alright, Bennie,” she kneels again, “can I get you to drink some of that there for me?”

Benny takes the mug and Joel notices the kid’s fingers and arms are streaked red where he had tried to rub the blood away.

“Alright, great job, Benny. Now come on, let’s get you washed up.”

Lennie gently guides him to the sink, hooking her toe under a short wooden step stool that’s slotted under there and yanking it out for Benny to stand on. She helps him to wash his hands and arms before she gingerly removes the rolled-up cloth and inspects his face. 

“You’re all good, Benny. Now go ahead and get your face washed up, I’ll grab you a towel.”

Joel watches as the boy scrubs his face with soap and takes the towel Lennie offers, rubbing gently, and returns to the front of the shop. There isn’t a drop of blood in sight. Benny reaches up on tip toes to hand the towel back to Lennie over the bar. 

“Thanks, Miss Lennie. I’ll bring you a rock tomorrow.”

“Sounds good, Benny. And hey, tell your momma to stop by when she has a chance, ok?”

“Ok, Miss Lennie!” He calls as he bounds out of the door.

A lot just happened, but the first thing out of Joel’s mouth is “a rock?”

“Yeah,” she smiles to herself. “Kids in this town don’t have to trade, but a lot of them still want to. To be like the grownups.” She takes a sip of her tea. “I always tell them to bring me something they find outside that feels special to them, but more importantly to tell me why they chose it.”

Joel smiles again. No teeth this time.

“Plus I like rocks. Pine cones too,” with a grin.

Teeth again now.

“What is that, what did you use?” he motions towards the jar. 

“Yarrow tincture. It’s astringent, but yarrow, she just understands blood. Too much blood? Yarrow. Not bleeding when you’re supposed to? Yarrow. She’s got other uses too, but that’s a big one around here.” Lennie returns the tincture jar to the shelf. “Alright, let’s get you that tea.”

She scoops the coffee mixture into a smaller mason jar, caps it and slides it over to him. Out of habit, Joel reaches into his back pocket before realizing. 

Things aren’t like that anymore, and yet this feels so. Normal.

“I uh, haven’t brought anything to trade.”

She begins to brush it off, call it a thanks for stopping in.

“Is there anything you need?” He points up at the herb shelf. “Figure I probably come across some of this stuff out on patrol, happy to help save you the trip.”

“I could some more of that, actually,” she nods back in the direction of the jar she just returned.

“Yarrow?” He repeats. “What’s it look like?”

“It grows pretty plentiful outside of town. It’s maybe yay high” she gestures near her waist, “tiny white flowers borne in a cluster. The key to it though is these lacy little leaves that…”

She can see the exact moment he glazes over. 

“Gimme one,” and she disappears through a door at the back of the shop, returning with a fresh sprig of white blooms. “I keep a small garden of a few things it helps to have fresh, but not nearly at the volume I need for everyone. But that’s what you’re looking for.” Lennie hands it over. “These leaves here.” 

Joel rubs the soft feathery flush between his fingers.

“Achillea millefolium. Thousand leaves.” She says softly.

“What’s the first part?”

“Achillea. Legend has it that Achilles’ mother dipped him in a bath of yarrow to grant him immortality.”

“I thought that was the River Styx.”

“Yeah that’s what I heard too, but the guy who named that,” she nods at the flowers in his hand, “apparently didn’t.” 

He smiles, grabbing his precious jar of fake coffee. “Alright, Lennie. Thank you.” He extends a hand out of habit.

And most definitely not because her hands are soft.

“Thanks for stopping in, Joel. Don’t be a stranger,” she returns a firm shake.

And with that he’s gone.

next

Old chapters are hosted on the OFFS Library page. New chapters will be posted to Ohforficsake - follow me over there for future updates.

Shoot me a message @ohforficsake or comment under this post if you would like to be added to the taglist for updates! Thanks so much for reading.

[vintagegeekculture]

RIP John Jakes, Pulp and Fantasy Author

A man who’s career began in pulp scifi, then was one of the greatest group of fantasy fans turned authors, and who finally ended it as one of the most commercially successful “men’s adventure” paperback novels of the 1970s, John Jakes died at 90 last week. What a life! He started his career in scifi pulp of the 1950s, switching to sword and sorcery action in the 60s, and finally, ending the 70s as one of the top selling authors of the decade. In one guy’s life, you can see the ebb and flow of trends in men’s adventure fiction over the decades.

Let’s start the John Jakes story at the end, and then work our way back. Does this book series above look familiar to you at all? 

If you have grandparents and they live in America, I 100% guarantee the Kent Family Chronicles (also called the Bicentennial Series) are in your Mee Maw and Pep Pep’s house right now. You probably handled them while visiting their house and went through their bookshelves as a child, right next to their Reader’s Digest condensed books, Tai-Pan and Shogun by James Clavell, copies of the endless sequels to Lonesome Dove, and old TV Guides they still have for some reason next to the backgammon set. If your grandparents are no longer with us, you probably found this series when selling their possessions after death. That’s because these things sold in the millions, back when the surest way to make money in writing was to write melodramatic, intergenerational family sagas of grandiose sweep set around historical events. Weighty family sagas, ones critics call bloated and self important instead of “epic,” were a major part of 70s fiction as they were four quadrant hits: men liked them for war, action, and history (every guy at some point must choose between being a civil war guy, or World War II guy) and ladies loved them for their romance and melodramatic love triangles (after all, the Ur-example of this kind of book is Margaret Mitchell’s Gone With the Wind). This was the kind of thing turned into TV event miniseries, and ably lampooned in the hilarious “Spoils of Babylon” series with Kristen Wiig and Toby McGwire, which, decades after the fact, did to this genre what Airplane! did for the formerly prolific airport disaster movie: it torpedoed it forever by making it impossible to take seriously.

This genre eventually went away because men stopped being reliable book buyers and book readers in the 1990s (or at least, were no longer marketed to as an audience), Lonesome Dove’s insane popularity was the last gasp of this audience. I’ve said this before, but men and boys no longer reading is the single most under remarked on social problem we have. “YA books” now basically mean “Girl Books.” 

John Jakes did not suddenly come out of nowhere to write smash hit bestsellers set around a family during the American Revolution. He came from one of the weirdest places imaginable: a crony of L. Sprague de Camp and Lin Carter in fantasy and weird tales fanzines like Amra, he was one of the original “Gang of Eight,” people drawn from fantasy and horror fandom to become pro-writers now that fantasy fiction had a home at Ballantine Publishing, just before the rise of Lord of the Rings and the paperback pulp boom, which is an incredible case of being in the right place at the right time. There, John Jakes, a fanzine contributor and ERB fan, wrote “Brak the Barbarian,” which is amazing as L. Sprague de Camp and Ballantine hadn’t even reprinted the Conan stories yet and Conan was as well known as Jirel of Joiry or Jules de Grandin. Only superfans of pulp knew who that guy was at all, there was no audience for it. He wrote Brak the Barbarian as a superfan, and was lucky the paperback market found him. 

The tireless work John Jakes, Lin Carter, L. Sprague de Camp, and the Gang of Eight did in preserving fantasy novelists of the pulp age into the 50s-60s is one of the great historic feats of preservation and keeping fandom flames alive. It’s no exaggeration to say that you know who Conan the Barbarian and HP Lovecraft are right now because of them, fans who kept the flame alive tirelessly and thanklessly in the ultra-rational 50s that had no place for dark horrific fantasy. 

Like his friend in fantasy and pulp fandom, L. Sprague de Camp, John Jakes started as a scifi guy in the endless scifi pulp magazines of the 1950s. Unlike his friend de Camp or Hugh B. Cave, who were full of humor, characterization, and satire, Jakes was often pessimistic, dour, and downbeat, and he disliked to laugh.  

It’s shocking to lose someone with a connection to, in one lifetime, the first great group of fantasy fandom, 50s scifi pulp, and 70s men’s adventure. John Jakes’ life spanned all of them. 

[abliafina-18782]

Captain Mitchell

Pairing: Iceman X Maverick

Author's note: As a birthday present for my beloved @derpinathebrave I wrote about our favorite silly little pilots❣️And a big disclaimer:

I am by no means condoning or encouraging the actions of the US Military and Navy by referencing certain historical events in this fic, they are only there to keep this story within the canon timeline. If I get anything wrong in this fic, I apologize in advance!

Word count: ~9,3k

Warnings: Minors DNI!! 18+, A lot of smut and a lot of angst.

Pete Mitchell was a man with simple needs. He didn’t need a fancy house or a fancy job, he didn’t need lots of money to be happy with his life. The only thing Pete wanted, the only thing he had ever wanted was to fly. Flying meant freedom to him, freedom to see the world. He became a pilot to fulfill his dreams of flying, or at least that’s what he said to those around him. Pete loved flying, but there was no denying that except a subconscious part of him also did it in hopes of clearing the Mitchell family name.

The sky was Pete’s second home and there weren't many places he'd rather be. Being the son of a supposed traitor didn’t exactly make him a favorite among his superiors and fellow pilots, but he let his skills speak for themselves. Pete’s skills led him to his second family, the Bradshaws. Nick ‘Goose’ Bradshaw had been the first to look past his name and actually got to know him.

Pete’s reckless persona had never been particularly popular. He had caused a lot of gray hairs for the Navy’s Admirals. All the huffing and puffing was worth it though as long as Pete got to stay in the air. He would do anything to continue flying for as long as he could. Leaving the teaching position at Top Gun after only two months to get back in the air. Going on every deployment and leading the missions no one wanted. The structure of the Navy was all he could ask for.

Wake up, eat breakfast, fly his designated hours, shower, rinse, and repeat. Pete hadn't expected much from his career beyond this, maybe a nice retirement when he felt ready to hand in his wings. Becoming a Captain, however, had not been among it.

After more than twenty years of service, Pete was due to receive his promotion from Commander to Captain. Serve long enough and you would likely reach the ranks of Lieutenant and the subsequent Lieutenant Commander, but the climb to Commander was not as certain. It was more or less expected to apply for the promotion when you were eligible, so of course Pete had done that despite not caring about his rank. Receiving the news of his promotion though had been the biggest surprise. Out of everyone they could’ve approved, they picked him?

Continue reading

[whenweallvote]

Today marks 40 years since the passing of Clarence Maurice Mitchell Jr., a lifelong champion of equality for Black Americans. 

Serving as the NAACP's chief lobbyist for almost 30 years, Mitchell played a key role in passing the historic civil rights legislation of the 1960s, including the Civil Rights Act of 1964, the Voting Rights Act of 1965, and the Fair Housing Act of 1968.

We honor and thank him today for dedicating his life to the fight for equal rights. 🙏🏿

[ausetkmt]

https://x.com/GRE8TBLACKSHARK/status/1701210980087136399?s=20

The Blue family, Sacramento

Les Robinson had to leave a family cookout to compose himself. A cousin told him to look up an ancestor on his phone — Daniel Blue. Robinson had never heard of him, but a search revealed the longtime pastor in the Sacramento area, who was integral to the region’s Black community. Robinson learned that his great-great-grandfather was brought to Sacramento in 1849 as an enslaved man from Kentucky by John Daugherty, the son of his enslaver.

Blue, 53 at the time, worked as a gold miner and discovered enough gold to buy his freedom and become an entrepreneur, opening a dry cleaners and starting a church in his home and later a stand-alone structure. That church — St. Andrews AME Church — was founded in 1850, and it remains the West Coast’s oldest continuous African Methodist Episcopal congregation. Blue also started a school for Black, Latino, Asian American and Native American children.

And he bought property. Lots of it — 60 acres, according to Robinson, including nine blocks in Sacramento, California’s capital, documents show.

On that property today, Robinson said, stands the California Railroad Museum, the Amtrak Station, Sacramento RailYard, the courthouse and the Sacramento County jail. 

“I’ve been told that it was taken because the railroad needed that land to complete the transcontinental connection,” Robinson said. “So he basically was booted out.”

And burned out, as intimidation by whites who did not welcome freed Blacks turned violent. Part of the school was burned down and rebuilt before eventually it closed years later. Blue’s house was burned in 1869. There was a failed attempt to burn down the church, too, Robinson said. 

Mitchell said the seizing of property — by citizens, law enforcement or the government — comes with an additional injustice beyond stunting generational wealth: It destroys culture and history.

“Whether you’re talking about Harlem or southwest Georgia, there’s often an erasure of important culture and history,” Mitchell said.

Much of what Robinson and others in his family have discovered is documented in newspaper articles and other periodicals, which makes it frustrating for Robinson that he cannot locate deeds or ownership documentation. They have not yet presented their findings to state or local officials yet, preferring to do more research and hear what the reparations task force has to say about seized land. But they are clear about what happened.

“It was obviously taken,” Robinson said. “He was a smart man. He wouldn’t give away 60-plus acres of land.” Robinson is working on a book about his ancestor that sums up what having the land returned to him and his family would mean. Yes, he wants the land for its financial value, but also for its sentimental value. Robinson, who founded a church in 1999, said the revelations about his ancestor resonate in a tangible way. Looking back and seeing what his ancestor accomplished, “I see parallels in our life — even not having ever known him,” he said. “When I found him, I met him — and we have the same spirit. I am doing what he would want me to do.”

The Burgess family, Coloma, California

It was “exhausting” for Jon Burgess when he learned that an ancestor had been the hangman in the 1800s in Coloma, a small community about 55 miles northeast of Sacramento, where his family lineage traces.

“That’s not something you want to see, and it floored me for two days,” Burgess said.

Using eminent domain, the city seized much of the 420 acres, Burgess said. Much of the land he wants to reclaim is Marshall Gold Discovery State Historic Park in Coloma. 

Burgess has testified before the California reparations task force, posted short videos on Instagram about his family findings to educate followers and connected with Gov. Gavin Newsom about the subject. “I’m just trying to get people to empathize with the fact that we had an inheritance that was supposed to remain in our family for years per those deeds. And yet it was stripped away,” he said.

Burgess possesses the deed to the land, documentation he believes that when it is properly reviewed will stand up in court, particularly because there is no record of his ancestor’s selling the land, he said.

“If we didn’t have the deed, it would just be another story,” said Burgess, a firefighter. “But we do. And the deeds can certainly tell a very different story.”

What’s next for reparations

The story for all these families is unfinished. They hope their gathered documentation will yield a result similar to that of Bruce’s Beach in Southern California, where Los Angeles County seized land in Manhattan Beach purchased in 1912 by a Black couple, Charles and Willa Bruce. White residents led a petition to have their resort for Black people condemned in 1927 and turned into a park. It was returned to the Bruce family last year. The family sold it back to the county for $20 million.

The cases are not parallel to that of Bruce’s Beach, but it elicits hope for these descendants, especially as California considers reparations in such an aggressive manner.

Burgess’ case has been acknowledged by the California task force as similarly valid to that of Bruce’s Beach, and may be included in its final report and list of recommendations, which will be issued to the Legislature at the end of June.

“Land and property are things that my pioneer ancestors did not sell or take for granted, because they knew the value, coming from slave plantations’ making others wealthy for generations — all behind land,” Burgess said. “Generational wealth means my family and descendants would have the same if not more than the Bogle family, Veercamp family, Gallagher family, Del Monte family and a host of others who came here with nothing prior to 1870 and were left to prosper — but also allowed equal protection by the laws.”

[scavengedluxury]

I didn't know the Curzon was in danger. Beautiful post-war modernist cinema with many original William Mitchell features.

[mariasmemo]

Up Scuttle

Isn’t this a lovely image?  This was taken this summer by one of our artists in residence, Henry Michaelis.  On nice days, we leave the roof walk open, as the Mitchells would have done – though we do add a screen!  This allows the House to breath – hot air moves up through the House and exits the roofwalk hatch.  The flow of air through the house as it makes its way through the open front door, and up the stairs and hall can at times create a nice soft and gentle breeze cooling and drying out the House to some degree. 

Roofwalks were put on the tops of houses for fire prevention and to put out chimney fires.  The densely packed community of wooden houses all leaned in together made fire and its spread a big threat.  The Great Fire of 1846 was not the only large fire on Nantucket.  The term “widow’s walk” was not something that Maria Mitchell would have really known – at least earlier in life.  The widow’s walk term was likely coined during Nantucket’s change from a whaling to a tourist economy in the late nineteenth century.  It sounded far more romantic then saying it was a platform use for fire prevention.  If you know that wood was scarce and expensive on island and it all had to come from off-island, then you would realize a housewright and the home’s owner would not be putting a walk on the top of his house for his wife to pine away for him and his return from sea.  Wood was expensive – and she had a household and an island economy to run and grow.

JNLF

[arcielee]

Hello lovely person!

For the fanfic asks 3, 4, 6 and 15 if you please for Silver Coins and Peace Beneath the City. I love them 🥹

Hilde, my love 💜 You know how much I love writing Osferth.

3: What's your favorite line of narration?

Ewan Mitchell is so distinctly handsome and describing his features is one of my favorite things, to be honest. So for Silver Coins, it would be:

You thought him to be handsome in a way that was so uniquely his own. What made you agree to this had been when you first saw his eyes. They were a brilliant blue that held no judgment when you spoke to him earlier that night, how they shone with a kindness that you could not recall ever seeing in the gaze of a man before.

And then for Peace Beneath the City, he came back worn from follow Uhtred around on his adventures/shenanigans, so it was fun doing the changes comparison, you know?

There was maturity from the years that had passed. Baby monk, as you remembered Finan and Sithric crowed, was no longer suitable for the man who entered. You noticed that his face had leaned, his features had hardened but that his cerulean blue eyes still twinkled when he saw the men. He held himself with a severe pride, his shoulders broader, perhaps from the years of fighting, but he still moved with the same grace as he weaved through the crowd and came to seat himself.

4: What's your favorite line of dialogue?

For Silver Coins, this moment, easy:

And for Peace Beneath the City? There is so much, because he returns with this sense of confidence that I just loved writing. But probably:

This just had me...

6: What makes this fic special or different from all your other fics?

Like the rest of us, after House of the Dragon, I was desperate to see what else he had acted in. I watched World on Fire first and then The Last Kingdom.

I was devastated by the episode we won't talk about (or here is a gifset to retraumatize you by the talented @aegonx) and immediately was like, "I MUST RIGHT THIS WRONG VIA FANFIC." I started researching only to find out Bernard Cornwell did not kill Osferth + the historical Osferth actually had shit kind of work out in the end, which made my heart soar.

I just love writing about him, again and again, giving him the ending he deserved, and touching more on the depths of his character shown within The Saxon Stories.

15: What did you learn from writing this fic?

This is so silly, but I learned (after I posted Silver Coins, of course) that there were not so much "individual" plates, but one big one that you would often use to share a meal with someone.

When I came back for Peace Beneath the City, I researched about the 9th century and how a sense of democracy would work within villages, cities, etc. so I could imagine an idealistic way for Reader to break away from the patriarchy and have shit going well in her favor. That was nifty.

I keep saying this, but baby monk has such a soft spot in my heart and I truly love writing him. 💜 Thank you for these questions, you have made my day!

Ask game.

[kontextmaschine]

Like, I'll totally agree that California NIMBYs are ridiculous and have committed the state to a poorly chosen path, but I don't think you guys appreciate how very explicitly central "a civilization where everyone lives in a small-town environment with direct exposure to undeveloped nature" has been to the California Dream

Like before even the postwar Golden Age buildout under Gov. Brown the Elder that really instantiated this suburban paradise, the prewar boom of LA was very commonly framed – embraced by boosters to draw more residents – in terms of a job-rich city that uniquely didn't have "slum" housing.

(You don't even hear about "slum clearance" – the postwar practice of demolishing blocks at a time and giving the former residents intentions of something better that much anymore, but large areas of downtown-adjacent land in American cities was hyper-dense and low quality tenements or often formerly comfortable-class housing that had been subdivided all to hell)

California had an idiom for "life at high residential density" – the crowded, warrenlike Chinatowns of LA and especially SF since the Gold Rush, chaotically full of improvised enterprise, drug addiction, and murderous gang violence!

In the early 1980s, Long Beach – the industrialized working class shore to the south of LA, kind of its Queens, was like "ha-HA, we have filled this wonderful location at low bungalow density, time to upzone so as to keep this a functional area for working-class life!"

Of course the thing is the 1980s in Southern California went on to feature a massive illegal immigration wave (Cheech Marin's 1987 Born in East L.A. is called that because it's about an American-born bilingual Mexican Angelino experiencing this) which often landed in Long Beach AND the crack- and gang- heavy nadir of South LA-area Black communities.

Which is to say, in actual historical precedent that informs cultural sentiment, dense housing in California (let's talk *Oakland*) consistently means "the white average-Joe neighborhood becomes overrun with inscrutable, addiction-riven, gang-murderous Others"

And the whole environmental stuff – there's a clear line from John Muir and the Sierra Club through Paul Erlich and The Population Bomb to the Bay Area types who want to cap tech jobs or the people who worry about water (or road!) use coming from new development that the way to keep properly stewarding the land without exhausting finite resources was to limit population.

You can work racial or wevs angles too, a lot of the West Coast issues with natives and Chinese workers came from the way that the coast's founding culture really came from a "Free Soil" philosophy, common among smallholders and "mechanics" in the (then-"West"), one of the two strains that went into the Republican anti-slavery stance along Boston moralism (New York, as the major port city of an international economy powered by cotton, was fairly pro-Confederate), that this was supposed to be a country to enable white men's ability to establish self-sufficient petty dynasties of their own, and that indulging all this nonwhite work – creating a national economy oriented around slave-produced agricultural exports rather than white artisan industrial development, Pacific landowners recruiting natives or Chinese in a labor shortage rather than letting white wages rise so the workers could establish their pioneer fortunes – were, fundamentally, taking their jerbs.

And the pastoralism! This was the pleasant climate where the ranch house really blew up, integrating the outdoors and living area. Backyards – and home gardens – were key.

(In a LOT of ways Portland as I came to it at the dawn of the 2010s suddenly reminded me of things I had read about midcentury LA far closer than the one I saw in the 2000s)

Pete Seeger in 1963, "little boxes made of ticky tacky", Joni Mitchell in 1970, "paved paradise and put up a parking lot", these were laments for greenfield development coming before the activist-driven 1970s downzonings that saw that greenfield development was the ONLY way for California to add housing.

[freakingoutthesquares]

Pulp's Guide To Sheffield Words: Gina Morris, Photographer: Louise Rhodes Taken from the New Musical Express, 3 April 1993 Transcription: Acrylic Afternoons

Welcome to Sheffield, home of Sound City '93. Your guides through the historical sights, prime drinking places and doss-spots of steel city are local pop gurus Pulp.

Situated in the 'alternative' area of the city (Division Street), amid the second hand clothes shops and 'in' cafes, is Warp Records, the shop, the label, the empire. Warp is the most important British dance label outside London, responsible for club/chart hits like LFO's 'We Are Back', Tricky Disco's 'Tricky Disco' and Nightmares On Wax's 'Aftermath'. Started back in July '89 by Steve Beckett and Rob Mitchell, Warp has expanded to massive worldwide recognition. Recently they set up an offshoot indie label, Gift, and signed local god-like legends Pulp and hopefuls Newspeak and Various Vegetables.

"This is the safe area of town," says our guide and Pulp lead singer, Jarvis. "You get a lot of grief if you're alternative round certain parts of Sheffield. It's like Pac Man, you have to dodge your way through the centre of town to get to Division Street. Anyhow, this is the shop that started the record labels Warp and Gift, the Warp Empire began right here. Arrgh! There's a large display of our new single in the window."

Renowned in certain circles for their appalling dress sense, Pulp take us to the very heart of lurid-thread city. Freak Boutique, also on Division Street, is just one of a number of shops specialising in gruesome '70s wear.

Jarvis: "We shop here occasionally. The last thing I bought was a pink and purple patterned shirt. Sheffield's pretty good for second-hand clothes. The jumble sales are best because they're the purest form - you don't know what you'll get, the clothes haven't been sifted."

City Hall, aside from housing the council is also a famous heavy metal venue, boasting a sprung Saturday Night Fever-type floored ballroom.

"This is perhaps the only building that has decent architecture in the whole of Sheffield," observes drummer Nick. "The inside is marvellous. They have an indie disco in the ballroom every Saturday night,"

Jarvis: "Sheffield City Council used to be really radical. I remember when the buses were only 10p to go anywhere. That's why buses are mentioned quite a lot in our songs. Anyway, it all stopped in the mid-'80s. There are about six different bus companies now, like Eager Beaver, Yorkshire Terrier... it's, ridiculous - if the driver sees the stop they're supposed to be going to hasn't got any people at it, they change the number and go to one that has. People came from Japan to see our bus service - it was the envy of the Western World."

Jarvis: "Fargate is a pedestrianised area. This was the centre of Sheffield dole culture. In the summer, everyone would go dolestrolling. Sometimes it would take you a whole day to get from one end to the other because you got to know everyone. It was a nice little scene. Then they introduced YTS and it cut off the new generation. It just got older and sadder after that. It was also the place to come it you wanted to put a band together, you didn't bother putting ads in papers, you just walked up and down for 20 minutes."

At the very core of Sheffield's sports culture is the Crucible Theatre. Every year, top potters like Steve Davis and Jimmy White gather to compete for snooker's top prize.

Jarvis: "Yep, this is the famous Crucible Theatre, just off Fargate, snooker central. It used to be the favourite hangout for goths in Sheffield, when goth was the big thing. I'm not sure why, maybe it was because Ray Reardon looked a bit like Dracula."

Castle Square is a weird underground market, off Commercial Street, with an open air 'sun roof', known locally as the Hole In The Road. Once it was the meeting place for tramps and down-and-outs-but-on-the-way-ups. Now the authorities want to get rid of it.

Nick: "We've started the Hole In The Road campaign, the council want to fill it in with concrete, which will mean more people getting run over. We can't let them do it. It's all part of a conspiracy to dispense with the town centre altogether, and move everything out to Meadowhall (a huge shopping complex known locally as Meadow Hell)."

On the other side of the Market there's Ladies Bridge which runs over the River Don, the largest river in Sheffield. It's a beautiful part of the city despite being situated in the centre of the once prosperous, now derelict, steel industry warehouses.

Jarvis: "I went on a very good adventure down the River Don once. I had an inflatable boat and I went from here to Rotherham which is about eight miles away. It was like Apocalypse Now, there was all these factories pouring thick smoke across the water, we got attacked by gypsies and then there was a bloke stood on the river bank trying to shoot fish with an air rifle. It was probably the best thing I ever did. It's good to find an adventure in mundane surroundings. Sheffield is built on seven hills, just like Rome but I think that's where the similarities end."

Nick: "The Wicker is just a street, but it's a very special street. It's difficult to say why, but The Wicker arch was the gateway to all the old steel works. Sheffield's oldest brewery is just there, it always smells of hops round here."

Jarvis: "I used to live round here, in the same warehouse that FON Studios and our rehearsal rooms used to be... and the only porno cinema in Sheffield, Studio 567. I bet you didn't know Bob Marley spent a lot of time in Sheffield, did you? Well he didn't, but there's The Bob Marley Recording Studios anyway. I did once see Sly and Robbie on this road though, that was very bizarre."

FON Studios is Sheffield's most prolific recording house. In 1985 it was the first local commercial 24-track studio and over the fast few years has attracted such luminaries like Ian McCulloch, David Bowie, Yazz, Erasure, James, Altern8 and, erm, Rolf Harris. FON is the centre of Sheffield's music culture.

Nick: "Did you know FON actually stands for F*** Off Nazis?"

Jarvis: 'We recorded the LP 'Separations' here, and 'Countdown', 'O.U.' and 'My Legendary Girlfriend'. They're very nice to us. I can't imagine people coming to Sheffield to record because of its exotic location but FON is the best. It's where all the big names come but it's more a studio for techno acts, you couldn't get a grand piano in here, sorry Elton."

The Leadmill has appeared in the Top Ten venues in the NME Readers Poll every year since it opened in 1980 - not bad for a place that used to flood every time you flushed. Now it has the best venue toilets in Britain (fact) and been described by the House of Commons as a prime example of good business practice. Bands that have graced its boards include New Order, Simply Red, The Pogues and EMF.

Jarvis: "The Leadmill's a pretty important venue, I used to come here a lot before I moved to London. The main bus garage is just opposite and, when it first opened, they had a policy of letting bus drivers in for free. So a friend of mine got hold of a bus driver's uniform and got let in for nothing. It was a good little scam but the trouble was, he'd walk in and all the other drivers would be at the end of the bar saying, 'What route does he do then?'"

Of all the pubs in Sheffield The Washington Public House, just down the road from the Grosvenor Hotel, stands out as a reminder of when public houses were quiet family affairs decorated with the landlady's china.

"This is the only pub left where you don't get grief for looking slightly outlandish," remarks guitarist/violinist Russell. "They don't allow riff raff in here. The bar people are very friendly. If you went into town, you'd notice all the pubs have loud jukeboxes, you can't hear yourself talk. This is a little oasis of sanity."

Jarvis: "It also has a large quantity of tea pots, one of the finest collections in the land. It's a theme but it's for real. It's a '4 real' pub."

[musingsofmonica]

September 2023 Diverse Reads

September 2023 Diverse Reads:

•”Coleman Hill” by Kim Coleman Foote, September 05, Sjp Lit, Literary/Historical/Saga/African American/Own Voice

•”Land of Milk and Honey” by C. Pam Zhang, September 26, Riverhead Books, Literary Dystopian/Asian American

•”The Museum of Failures” by Thrity Umrigar, September 26, Algonquin Books, Contemporary/Women/Family Life/Asian American/Cultural Heritage

•”This Is Salvaged: Stories” by Vauhini Vara, September 26, W. W. Norton & Company, Short Stories, Literary/Women/Family Life

•”Evil Eye” by Etaf Rum, September 05, Harper, Contemporary/Women/Family Life/Cultural Heritage

•The Fraud” by Zadie Smith, September 05, Penguin Press, Literary/Sagas/Historical/Biograpical/Britain/Janaica

•”Wild Girls: How the Outdoors Shaped the Women Who Challenged a Nation” by Tiya Miles, September 19, W. W. Norton & Company, History/Women's Studies/Human Geography/19th Century/20th Century

•”The Devil of the Provinces” by Juan Cárdenas, Davis (Translator), September 12, Coffee House Press, Literary/Noir/Crime/World Literature/Colombia

•”And Then She Fell” by Alicia Elliott, September 26, Dutton, Literary/Horror/Native American & Aboriginal

•”Wednesday's Child: Stories” by Yiyun Li, September 05, Farrar Straus and Giroux/ Literary/Short Stories/Asian American

•Three Holidays and a Wedding” by Uzma Jalaluddin & Marissa Stapley, September 26, G.P. Putnam's Sons, Romance

•”What Start Bad a Mornin'” by Carol Mitchell, September 19, Central Avenue Publishing, Contemporary/Immigration/Women/African American/ United States/Trinidad/Jamaica

•”The Book of (More) Delights: Essays” by Ross Gay, September 19, Algonquin Books, Personal Memoir in Essays/Cultural, Ethnic & Regional/African American & Black

•”What You Are Looking for Is in the Library” by Michiko Aoyama, translated by Alison Watts, September 05, Hanover Square Press. Literary/Coming of Age/Friendship/World Literature/Japan

•”Thank You for Sharing” by Rachel Runya Katz, September 12, St. Martin's Griffin/Romance/Jewish/POC/Multicultural 

•”The Name Drop” by Susan Lee, September 12, Inkyard Press, Romance/Family/Parents/Social Themes/Class Differences/Diversity & Multicultural

•”The Golden Gate” by Amy Chua, September 19, Minotaur Books, Historical/Thrillers/Suspense/Mystery/Detective

•”South” by Babak Lakghomi, September 12, Rare Machines, Political/Dystopian

•”The Death I Gave Him” by Em X. Liu, September 12, Solaris, Science Fiction/Crime/Mystery/Thrillers/Technological

“A lyrical, queer sci-fi retelling of Shakespeare's Hamlet as a locked-room thriller.”

•”Others Were Emeralds” by Lang Leav, September 05, Harper Perennial, Literary/Coming of Age/Family Life/Siblings/Friendship/Cultural Heritage/World Literature - Australia

Happy reading, Mo✌️

[popculturelib]

Haunted States of America: Alabama

Mobile Ghosts: Alabama's Haunted Port City (2001) by Elizabeth Parker

The past and present are never far apart in Mobile, especially where its ghostly residents are concerned. Do you believe? Fourteen true tales, including five locations open to the public, may convince you. Are you ready to meet Miss Daisy of Oakleigh? Who stomps around at the Phoenix Fire Museum? Will the Lady of the Bragg-Mitchell ever be reunited with her true love? Find out why the docents at the Richards-DAR House are convinced the Richards children still play there, and discover the strangest item archived by the city museum. The whisper of crinolines, flitting shadows, and eternal parties haunt the homes and offices of historic Mobile. Like Mrs. Quigley at Junior Miss Headquarters, some ghosts stay where they are happy. And some ghosts stay where they are sad.

The author is a native of Mobile, Alabama, and was president of the Mobile Area Ghost Club when this book was published.

The Browne Popular Culture Library (BPCL), founded in 1969, is the most comprehensive archive of its kind in the United States.  Our focus and mission is to acquire and preserve research materials on American Popular Culture (post 1876) for curricular and research use. Visit our website at https://www.bgsu.edu/library/pcl.html.