#our old house in colorado took months to sell

[pinkautist]

i've been extremely busy lately. we've been getting the house ready to put on the market, and it needs to be photo-ready by tonight so that the realtors can take photos of them to upload when the house goes up. so, lots of things are going into boxes and we're cleaning up after everything is packed and put away into closets. our game systems have gone into boxes, as well as my drawing tablet, so idk if i'll be able to play persona 3 reload when i get it and i certainly won't be doing any digital art (especially with how exhausted i've been).

my dad has been coming by to help us with getting everything done, which has allowed me to discover that i'm no longer angry with him and honestly just don't really care for him anymore. i've finally moved on.

[keltonwrites]

I bought a house in the middle of nowhere

“Yeah, I loved it, but she’d never move there.” It was something akin to that, at least. He didn’t mean any mischief, no deceit or planning. It was an honest take on what, at the time, was true. I saw the road into town on Google Maps, noted that it was closed during the winter, acknowledged the reality that a person can own a snowmobile, and I said, “we are not moving there.” But, all good truths are just dares in the making.

And here I am, living in the “there” I said I would not. Two years ago, I left my job at Headspace for a life reset. It was pre-pandemic, and Ben and I were planning a big road trip. Our perfect paradise in Topanga, CA, had crystallized itself as many people’s perfect paradise, and those “many people” all had more money than us. Our options to buy a home were nil, and home-buying was essentially all we wanted. Ben’s a builder and I’m a world builder, and we wanted somewhere to invest that didn’t belong to someone else. We packed the car with the tent and the bikes and the dog and all the things that come with tents and bikes and dogs, and off we went on our own Tour de l’Ouest, looking for a place to call home. We knew what we wanted, knew our odds of finding it, and hit the road anyway. Here was the dream list — concocted by two pie-in-the-sky dummies who married each other:

Not rainy or consistently windy

Notable access to the arts

Remote and challenging to get to/close neighbors

Wild West influenced architecture

Progressive community

Exceptional trail access out the front door

High-speed internet

In our budget

And my personal favorite: had to “feel right” Good luck to us with a list like that, but thus began our hunt. We camped in the snow, tried every dirty chai in the Rockies, and explored every town we could. Whatever a good time it was, it felt useless. Every town Ben was OK with, I hated. Every town I was OK with, Ben despised. And the few places we both loved required money we just didn’t have. We came home with our sails down, limping into the harbor of our rental. But as is the way with romantics, our dreams began to slowly eclipse our reality. Books fell victim to Zillow and Trulia. TV was replaced by the MLS. All writing time was dedicated to Realtor.com. Hours were spent pouring over maps, county records, and updating spreadsheets that tracked price per square foot compared to beds and baths. Over time, all that internetting led to one singular town of 180 people at 10,000 feet in the San Juan Mountains of Colorado with a road that said “Closed Winters” on Google Maps. Look, I don’t know what happened. Ben found this town on a map, I said don’t be ridiculous, and after a year or so of him telling people I'd never move here, here I am, being ridiculous. Was it reverse psychology? Maybe. Was it the charming “town plan” that mandated all houses be rustic cabins and forbade AirBnB? Could be. Was it the fact that when I looked at Strava’s Heatmap, it showed what seemed like thousands of miles of trails just out the front door? I mean, yes. All these things played a part, but all I know for certain is that one day I woke up and said, “we’re going to move there.” Ben doubted this conviction (and the realities behind it) thus cementing it into place in my head. In a town of 180 people there’s only ~60 houses, which means maybe 2 or 3 get listed per year — but my spreadsheet had the proof: we hadn’t missed our chance yet in this tiny town. The data showed a strong likelihood there would be at least two houses listed within the calendar year. This, however, was also our last chance. The spreadsheet also showed that if we didn’t find a house this year, we wouldn’t be able to afford one the next. We called a realtor, made our case, and harangued her until she believed us that we were truly the kind of yahoos who would move to an avalanche field and stay there. And then it happened. A pocket listing. It was a darling home built in 1890. It had the beds, the baths, and the views. We were the first and only to know. We put in an offer, they agreed, and we would come to see the house in a few weeks. But in those few weeks, the circumstances changed. The sellers lost their own sweet deal, and they couldn’t sell yet. Their agent promised we had right of first refusal, it was only a matter of time. Ben lamented, I preached patience, and we went to see the house that was no longer for sale anyway.

It was a quiet winter morning in Covid when we drove across the packed snow to meet our realtor outside the house. The sun was out and the 13 degrees Fahrenheit felt warm. I unzipped my jacket, mask on my face. I took long videos and talked about where I would set up my office and where we’d put the bikes. As we closed up and I settled into a future where this house would eventually be mine, our realtor told us there were comps in the area — other residents quietly interested in potentially closing out. Would we like to see them? Sure, let’s.

One home came with an incredible commercial kitchen. The whole house was a whopping 3500 sq ft if my memory serves me correct, which falls under the category of “houses too big to find your cat in."

Another home had an open-air-to-the-kitchen bathroom.

The third was dark and overpriced with cracked windows and open beer cans scattered about.

And then, plans changed.  “Hey guys, there’s actually one more house we can see.” The last house we saw was a log cabin, nestled in the hillside by itself, with massive A-frame windows looking out onto the peaks beyond. Inside was a labyrinth of a life lived long and large. The cabin was built and loved by a man we’ll call Jack. Jack was 82, and as we walked toward the front door on that sunny winter morning, he exited with two beers in his pockets, headed to the mountain to ski. Jack was an attorney — in his life he’d been both criminal and defender — and from the stories, somewhat interchangeably. There were artifacts from running in the same scenes as Hunter S. Thompson and Willie Nelson; there were stuffed birds, bad books, sheet-covered couches, smoked spliffs, and piles and piles of mouse shit. Every inch of the house was lived in, and not just by people. You think millennials like plants? No. This man likes plants. The biggest monstera deliciosa I’ve ever seen, spanning some 10 feet wide and 15 feet tall. Draping cactuses, spider plants, massive aloes, and an ambitious hoya carnosa clawing its way to the top of the massive fireplace. But there were problems. I’m trying to be diplomatic saying the house was lived in. The wood by the door handles was dyed black from years of hand grease rubbing against it. The carpet in the upstairs was soiled almost everywhere with bat scat. Newspaper was stuffed between the massive logs to keep the wind out. There was cardboard taped over almost every window, blankets nailed over the others. Half the doors wouldn’t open. It was unnerving to touch the crusted light switches. It was early enough in the season of Covid-fear that touching anything felt like gambling. On our way back to our rental in the bigger neighboring town, we shared our awe and our no-ways, lamenting how long we’d have to wait for the little 1890s fixer upper. That night, I sent the video I took of the cabin to my parents. “Can you believe this?” I asked. And do you know what my dad said? “Great log construction.” After that, the cabin was all we could talk about. “Could you believe those plants?” “Did you see how big those logs were?” “I just googled Jack, look at this.” “Do you know what the insulating factor of logs is?” “How much did he say he was asking?” It came down to the plants. Amidst all the chaos in that house, the tender care of those decades-old plants sung the clearest. This wasn’t just a place Jack lived in, it was a place that wanted to be lived in. We made an offer the next day.

Jack had six months to clear out his 30 odd years of collecting, and the town had six months to speculate about the worrisome Californians moving to their high-altitude, high-risk town. The town itself is an old mining town. It rests in a high valley, surrounded by peaks over 13,000ft, and is over six hours from the nearest major airport. Five people died around this town in avalanches this past year. The dirt road into town is littered with avalanche fields, warning visitors to not stop when driving in. The other way out is a pass road, only drivable in the warm months, but you could skin out if it was dire. Most August days, the high is in the mid-60s. The valley is blanketed in wildflowers, and the aspens littering the mountainsides suggest a promising fall display. The town had a heyday, a low day, and now it’s a community of preppers, adventurers, appreciators, and “get all these idiots away from me”ers. We don’t know these people yet, but the ones we’ve met have the same like to live hard attitude we do. Heli-ski guides, ex-CIA agents, woodworkers, bakers, teachers, just a general can-do group of people. The kind of people that see a California license plate and peer with skepticism between the thin gap over their sunglasses and under their caps.

You might say I’m romanticizing the place, but the residents are worse. Like all good old-timers, they’re full of threats: “wait’ll you see the snow drifts,” “let’s see how you do outrunning an avalanche,” “good luck with the winds,” “the last Californians didn’t last a year.” God, what does that remind me of?

“Yeah, I loved it, but she’d never move there.”

With every taunt, my teeth ground more enamel, fingers rolling into a clench. And maybe Jack recognized this intensity, because on the day of closing, he hosted a gathering for us in the town's open space. He had us introduce ourselves to the skeptical locals, and I made my case in court, eyes narrowed and lips curled. “I’m the daughter of a smokejumper and wildlife biologist. I grew up watching the wind and the door. I’ve lived in big cities, small boats, and more than one cabin. I always take the stairs, I never use air-conditioning, and I’m a very good shot.” I’m just a girl, standing in front of a town, asking them to give her a fucking chance. Jack stepped forward to speak. “You know, I had my doubts about a couple Californians coming to look at my house. But these people? These are the nicest people you’re ever gonna meet.” And then I helped Jack set up his cot so he could spend his last night under the stars in the town that kept him young. Cooper ran circles with the other dogs. People brought homemade cocktails and bowls of dip and we felt welcomed. Even the mayor, a fellow writer, came and she struck up a conversation. “I hear you’ve got a little bit of a following on social media!” She teased. “I guess, nothing wild.” “Well I just wanted to let you know if you ever geotag this town, I’ll drag you out of it.” She grinned. This was a special place. And every visitor who couldn’t handle the realities of being here threatened the very wellbeing of the people who lived here. This town survives on a delicate balance. They source their own water, manage their own roads, and fervently protect the land and the people around them. Their stories about racing avalanches, snowmobiling in the dark of night to the doctor’s house, hunkering down in each other’s homes as the storms pass — these stories were bylaws. You can join when you’ve proven you’re ready to join. By their own projection, they are hardy and steadfast people, and when they see a Californian, they see something fleeting. Many years ago, I worked in the British Virgin Islands. The people born and raised there were called Belongers. At the customs office, the placards above the lines literally read, “If you belong, stand here” and “If you do not belong, stand here.” Whether or not we belong isn't up to the town council, and it's not up to these residents. It's up to years spent drifting my old Mustang in the snow on the way to school, up to Ben's months and months spent in the backcountry, up to my years of reading fire reports and assisting with evacuations, up to Ben's ability to read the landscape and the weather, up to my doggedness, his diligence, and our pathological love to do difficult things well. It’s up to us, to these old logs, and to this valley. Doesn't mean we'll belong, but it does mean we'll try. And for the record, the road is open in the winter. But do these sound like the kind of people who’d tell Google that? Next week, a tour of the house that we get to call ours — stuffed with newspaper, run by plants, and filled with mice. P.S. Here's where we get our mail.

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[xennariel]

What I've been dealing with since 2018:

My dad and verbally abusive mother moved back in with my husband and me.

My best friend passed away from an accidental overdose/complications with new medication. She was 28.

My beloved dog that my best friend found and told me to come look at was diagnosed with lymphoma a week after my best friend's funeral.

We spent our savings fighting my dog's lymphoma for a year before it finally took him in May of 2019, almost exactly one year after my best friend died.

My depression was at an all time high through all of this along with my anxiety and stress. I was having panic attacks and breakdowns pretty much at least once a week. I was put on new medication to try to help.

I got two puppies two months after my dog died and I was the only one raising them for the first eight months because everyone else worked and was not home, which was fine, but exhausting.

At 11 months old one of my new pups was diagnosed with EPI, a condition where his pancreas cannot produce digestive enzymes so we have to add enzymes to all his meals.

At a year and a half the other pup was diagnosed with mast cell cancer and we spent that December in Colorado getting him radiation treatment and then spent another 6 months getting him chemotherapy.

Thousands of dollars later and he's in remission, but two months after successfully going into remission he had his first seizure. He was diagnosed with idiopathic epilepsy.

After 15 seizures over the course of 7 months he's finally on medication that is working, but the medication has caused him to have pancreatitis three times in five months.

During my boy's cancer treatments, I started my own small business making candles. It's become a passion and I do enjoy it, I also enjoy going to craft events and markets as a vendor. Candle making is a lot of work though, very costly and very time consuming, so it's pretty much all I do anymore aside from taking care of my dogs, cooking, taking care of the house, and sleeping.

However, a new pop up vendor group I'm a part of is starting to get on my nerves. After all I've been through, I now have to deal with passive aggressive jerks whenever I try to post negative comments about events and how to improve that. The owner of this group has literally said recently "no negative comments, only positivity" and it's like...

You need negativity in order to become better. Without acknowledging the negative in something, there is no way to grow and learn.

Anyway, I'm very tired and frustrated and I just want to relax and enjoy making candles and selling them at craft shows and I'm too emotionally drained to deal with this kind of bullshit anymore.

[tuellertrails]

Why the PCT?

When I was 18, my coworker and I traded books for fun. I don’t even remember what book I gave her, but she gave me a copy of Wild by Cheryl Strayed, about a woman who hiked the Pacific Crest Trail in the 90′s. I loved the book because not only was it about this great adventure of the solitary trek that she took, but it was also a story of healing, a search for meaning and the strength to move forward after losing someone that she loved.

The author lost her mom to cancer when she was 18 or 19 years old, and it came on very suddenly. Within a month of being diagnosed, her mom had died, and the suddenness of the event really wrecked her and her siblings and step father. For years afterwards, she struggled with a drug and a sex addiction, got married and divorced, and just felt lost (The quoted sections ahead are all shared from her book).

“I was a terrible believer in things, but I was also a terrible nonbeliever in things. I was as searching as I was skeptical. I didn't know where to put my faith, or if there was such a place, or even what the word faith meant, in all of it's complexity. Everything seemed to be possibly potent and possibly fake.” 

Randomly, she comes across a guidebook all about the PCT, and on a whim decides that she needs to do something different with her life. So she sells everything that she owns, goes to REI and buys a bunch of backpacking gear, and sets out to hike this trail with absolutely no backpacking experience. At the beginning her pack was so heavy that she called it “Monster” and could barely lift it. But she set out and hiked 1,100 miles in 94 days, reading, journaling and taking in this brutally hard experience. She conquered her fears and achieved this incredible thing that most people don’t even imagine doing. 

“Fear begets fear. Power begets power. I willed myself to beget power. And it wasn't long before I actually wasn't afraid.”

It was this incredible journey that she undertook that actually helped her move on with her life and deal with her Mom’s death, perhaps in a way that almost nothing else could have. I loved it. It’s an incredible story with so much beauty and wisdom, and it inspired me like nothing else ever has. After reading it, I knew that I wanted to have my own experience and hike the PCT for myself.

“I had diverged, digressed, wandered, and become wild. I didn't embrace the word as my new name because it defined negative aspects of my circumstances or life, but because even in my darkest days—those very days in which I was naming myself—I saw the power of the darkness. Saw that, in fact, I had strayed and that I was a stray and that from the wild places my straying had brought me, I knew things I couldn't have known before.”

I had briefly mentioned this “wild” ambition to Landon, but we didn’t start seriously talking about it until Spring of 2018 when I was finishing up nursing school. I told Landon that before we had kids, i wanted to hike the PCT. Always down for an adventure (especially of the outdoor variety) and being the supportive husband that he is, he enthusiastically replied “Ok, lets do it!”

So we sat down and started researching what it would take to turn this dream into a reality. We watched Youtube videos (we reccommend Darwin on The Trail and Homemade Wanderlust) and read blog posts of hikers who had hiked the trail. We looked up all of the different options for backpacking gear and decided which pieces we wanted for our own kits, and opened up a savings account to start socking away money for the excursion.

Our original plan was to hike in 2020, and though we had saved up enough money and had all of our gear, we ended up cancelling our thru hike that year due to the Covid-19 Pandemic. Things were very uncertain in April of 2020, and many of the small communities that are along the PCT came out with statements asking for hikers to please cancel their hikes to eliminate the spread of the virus, especially in those trail communities whose residents are primarily elderly and do not have access to much healthcare close by. Shortly after, the Pacfiic Crest Trail Association also came out with a statement parroting the same sentiments and asking hikers to respect the wishes of the trail communities and please cancel their hikes, which the majority of hikers did. Even though we were bummed, we felt like cancelling our thru hike was the right thing to do, and we were able to spend a lot of time doing self supported backpacking trips that summer and continue practicing on those trips and dialing in our gear choices.

Fortunately for us, we have one more window of opportunity to hike the PCT this year in 2021. Landon is in between his Bachelor’s and Master’s degree programs, and doesn’t have any obligations until Fall semester of this year, at which point we anticipate him having to leave the trail a little bit early to go to graduate school in Colorado, where I will join him shortly after completing the trail. I have been working as a travel nurse over the last year and completed my most recent assignment in March, which gave us about a month to travel home, see our friends and family, pack up for grad school, and prepare our resupply boxes for the trail this year. We are both very fortunate to have received both doses of the Pfizer vaccine and we are feeling much more optimistic about the safety of hiking the PCT this year, though we will still continue to wear masks in towns. As I write this, I’m sitting at the table in Landon’s Aunt and Uncle’s house in San Diego, where we’ve been resting for a week before we start our thru hike on Monday, April 19th (they’ve been kind enough to host us while Landon recovers from running 62 miles from his latest ultra marathon endeavor).

We are so happy to finally be taking this journey together and to be realizing a goal and a dream of mine for the past 10 years! It’s going to be an amazing adventure and we can’t wait to start. I’ll be posting here at least once a week writing about our experiences, and Landon might be convinced to write an occasional post here too. Feel free to comment below or ask us any questions at the bottom of this post! And thanks for reading and supporting us. Just 2,653 miles to go!

[the-groundhog-chronicle]

Flipped

About 14 months after we first ripped it apart, Gracie and I have finally wrapped up our laundry room remodel. We took a big bite out of the project last summer, racing to get as much done as possible before the twins’ anticipated arrival last fall. The room sat untouched for about six months after Max and Hazel showed up until this spring when we finally started up work again. For the most part it was so much fun tweaking literally every square inch of the room.

For starters, there were a few days of demolition to reset the room to a blank canvas. We exposed the old brick chimney, too. Not sure why people cover their brick.

If there’s one thing I know about old farmhouses, it’s that they’re never square, and they’re never level. Some have bats, too. After demo we had to level the floor AND the ceiling. The floor’s still not perfect, but it’s far, far better than it was.

You know that tin I salvaged last year? So I had 70 or 80 identical pieces of this one pattern that I thought would look pretty slick on the laundry room ceiling. A little blasting with a pressure washer and that sad beige paint gave way to reveal the original chrome look. So shiny. Hanging it was an absolute pain, though, but it felt good to make use of some salvage so soon. Hopefully within the next year or two I can use some of that wood flooring I pulled, too. And the fact that Dad worked right under these tiles for years is a super cool family history touch to add to our home.

So like I said, most of this remodel was fun. The issues we had with our new front door over the span of eight or nine months, however, were not. We’re talking problems with the three point locking system right out of the factory, identical problems with the replacement door they sent us, continued problems AFTER a representative from the lock company drove all the way to our house to fix the broken replacement- yadda, yadda, yadda. The icing on the cake came when we eventually decided to wave the white flag and get a different door with a different lock and we were told we’d have to pull out the entire door frame, sidelites and all to do it. I’ll put it this way- I was so frustrated that at one point I told Gracie that I wanted to sell the house and move away. Glad it didn’t come to that.

My wife wants shiplap and subway tile, my wife gets shiplap and subway tile.

I’d grabbed those lockers about six years back when we lived in Colorado. My neighbor had pulled them from the old Cortez middle school and wasn’t using them. She’d offered them to me for free but I gave her five bucks for them after she helped me carry them across the street. I didn’t know when, but I knew at the time that someday those lockers would be in our entryway. We moved them across the country and stuck them in our garage for our first few years back in Wisconsin. It was pretty exciting to clean them up and bring them inside after all this time.

Building that bench, those shelves and those countertops was so much fun, and there’s a fun family history touch here, too- the lumber all came from my grandparents’ farm in the middle of the state. Pretty awesome to put it to use and on display.

So. I’m two or three days removed from finishing the laundry room and I gotta say- I’m kind of restless. There’s currently a debate between Gracie and I. See, she wants me to wrap up some of the projects I’ve already started and I kind of want to ignore those and start a new one. So. We’ll see where we end up.

Until next time,

-Ian

[dansedan]

Uhhhhh I guess this is a chaaaaaapter?????? could even be called.... the first chapter. Chapter One, mayhaps. Under the cut

I.

Father Quiffrey was small, for a man his age, and in tandem with his pallor and trim, uniform way of dress, it gave him an appearance of being almost doll-like. While the generous freckling and pink sunburn of his face and hands should be identical to those of the men Fleetfoot had worked alongside on his father’s ranch, he was nonetheless for the first few moments in his presence genuinely convinced that he might be meeting royalty, rather than picking up a penniless clergyman hired out by his family. The older man seemed to have anticipated the staring, nodding with a tight-lipped smile as he stepped past him and further into the bay, rejecting his offer to help him carry the meager luggage. His gesture was conscious, put-together in an over-serious way that only added to his oddity- the whole way from the dock to their lodgings he could picture the windup key sprouting out of his slender back. He couldn’t have ever imagined father Quiffrey, but once they’d met, he couldn’t forget him for a second after, either.

They kept rooms together but seldom spoke the first few months- taking train after train to get from New England to Colorado. Quiffrey spent most of his time nose deep in a ratty copy of the holy bible- tired from the long trip there, very likely homesick and confused- which Fleetfoot would pity if it didn’t give him so many great opportunities to look at him. The reverend seemed to be constantly conscious, every action plotted out in small and subtle ways, like a sailor’s signals. They ranged from common to bizarre- his way of walking (straight, steady) was like a soldier’s, his laugh (dry and airy, restrained) reminiscent of debutantes, and especially his look of focus (an odd frown tossed past his thin glasses, under the brim of his stiff, flat hat with his chin tucked piously into the neck of his cassock) which seemed inherited from a much larger man, fat and gaudy in the way he had imagined British priests to be. With time, he could see even himself in some of his partner’s gesture, and he would wonder who, then, these other people were to him at some point in his life. He never seemed to wonder, then, why he was so insistent on this observation, just followed the instinct unquestioningly, to the point that with the passing of time it became so constant that Quiffrey started to catch onto him. The reaction was always the same- a dry laugh, that same terse nod, and some comment or another to diffuse the tension built up in their meeting gazes.

“You are quite… observant, Mister Stevenson.” Or

“ah, are my recitations bothering you?” or

“nasty bit of weather here…” or

“well, I suppose that’s it for the night.”

Soon, the first drowsy month of their journey came to an end along with the train-trail. All these new small interactions- not just the offhand comments every so often, but humming hymns in the early morning, returning his glance now more assuredly with his own greeting gaze- were starting to accumulate in his mind, flashing inexplicably before his eyes during their brief moments apart. By the time of their entry into Colorado, Quiffrey seemed to have finally recuperated fully, and he started tagging along for more of the busywork of buying and selling, keenly observing Fleetfoot’s menial exchanges with shopkeepers and townsfolk, chatting them up in his hush, clean voice to make up for the younger man’s brevity. This was particularly useful in the matter of getting a horse, as the only coper in the station-town was oddly closed-off and avoidant, refusing to sell to the pair until the reverend talked him down into trading a horse for a sermon. And so that same night, they bathed and dressed, and left the single white-dappled mare the old man had offered them to walk back to his ranch-house and sit at his dinner table, where Fleetfoot heard for the first time his partner’s language past the point of a sentence.

“And one of them, realizing he had been healed, returned, glorifying God in a loud voice; and he fell at the feet of Jesus and thanked him- Luke, chapter seventeen, verses fifteen and sixteen. To express, in word or deed, our thanks towards those through whom the lord hands us our blessings, is one of the crowning virtues of our lives as servants of the Lord. Wise men of antiquity have said of gratitude that it is not only the greatest virtue, but also the parent of all others. The fear of God, who grants us all we have, and the humility of knowing we are dependent not only on Him but in our fellow-men…” The old man of the house was nodding in contentment, clearly feeling the flattery to be to his measure. He didn’t notice- none of them had noticed. Noticed that throughout the entire speech, past those wire-rimmed glasses and over the edge of the leatherbound bible, Quiffrey had been staring at him. Clearwater gaze trained, soft and serious on his own dark brown eyes. Fleetfoot felt frozen in place, shivering with the light breeze, almost forgetting to listen as he lost himself in questions. Soon enough, the homily was over.

“the gift of life, the air we breathe, our family gathered ‘round a table and the earth we till for work. All these, and the more precise and pointed gifts that fall upon us through our daily lives.” At this he nodded, knowingly, still staring.  “To all this, show your gratitude, to people and to God. Amen.” Lightly closing the book, a sleepy chorus of replies, and they were out the door with a pat on the back each, the coper nodding solemnly as he sucked on his pipe. They stepped into the desert night in measured silence, side by side.

“So,” the reverend began. “How did you find it, Mister Stevenson?” tempered, honey-whisper voice cutting through the night and jolting him awake.

“Seemed well,” was all he could say. For all his usual curiosity, it was suddenly impossible to bring himself to look anywhere other than directly in front of him. The older man just hummed and nodded in response.

“I’m glad,” he said. “Not quite used to preaching in translations, so I’m… well, I’m glad.”

The short walk home seemed to stretch out for miles in the white-sand darkness, step by careful step. It was only at the door of their hotel he brought himself to finally stop and look at the older man- catching up to him- almost touching- from behind, a gruff whisper forced out with what felt like a herculean effort.

“Thank you, father.”

And suddenly he rushed away and climbed the stairs, shocked at why this simple action felt like it took such bravado, scared at what could come next. He kept the room dark and laid quickly down to bed.

Morning came with a new day and the smell of coffee, the reverend sitting at the table with his bible as usual, fiddling with the pages in the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. He was whistling a tune- an odd, airy melody- and only stopped to nod at him once he noticed Fleetfoot was finally awake, saying nothing of the previous night’s events. Well, of course he wouldn’t say anything about it, the whole thing had been perfectly ordinary.  Should have been ordinary, at least.

Father Quiffrey was small and dangerous- on a single horse, riding behind him with his breath hot on his nape, his new habit of memory conspiring to distract him with a few choice remembrances- brief glimpses of skin caught by coincidence, the occasional pleased, unfocused look that the reverend gave to the early sunlight, distorted by his mind into something that felt far more confusing. By nightfall when they stopped to camp he felt it almost unnecessary to build a fire, yet as they pulled away and stepped on solid ground again, he felt the absence of the other man’s warmth as akin to amputation, already grasping at unlikely excuses in his mind to get close again. In reality, though, they laid at a measured distance from each other, and listened to the sounds of pages being passed and the crackling fire as he fought against the fuzzy feeling at his nape.

It was confusing- this was supposed to be a solemn journey, his one brief opportunity to serve the church and redeem himself for his bastard birth, since his father had forbade him joining the local order, preferred him useful to absolved. He was to deliver the priest to Santa Clara, a piece of influence from his father’s motherland in the missions out west, see if it’d encourage small-town folk to turn to The Church. A man to serve the purpose of the icons, a face that would be, to them, more trustworthy than his own, than the ones of the Mexican priests who had been residing there for decades now, less foreign despite arriving from a greater distance. When he first saw Quiffrey he finally thought this hare-brained scheme might work, but now he could not be so certain, not when his observation seemed to stray from his control- to focus on the pink tongue flicking out the corner of the thin-lipped mouth and not the focused study even in this moment. What kind of icon could he be? - when scripture claimed that men were made in the image of god, and Fleetfoot felt sure that He had made Quiffrey in an angel’s mold.

“I looked up and there before me was a man dressed in linen, with a belt of fine gold from Uphaz around his waist. His body was like topaz, his face like lightning, his eyes like flaming torches, his arms and legs like the gleam of burnished bronze, and his voice like the sound of a multitude.”

He’d slept little and rose in the early morning, rode distracted by the desert breeze and warm return of the body behind him until they reached the next small town over and came into it, set to buy another horse and cast away these feelings from himself. A brief errand, and he came back to find Quiffrey once again preaching for the townsfolk, some small crowd of women, kids, a barkeep. He smiled, meekly, upon noticing the younger man, gestured to the plate of eggs and meat that lay untouched in front of him with a sheepish look before continuing his sermon. Fleetfoot sat down to eat and listen, watch him speak, seemingly unaware he was describing himself. These people had likely never seen topaz, and likely never would, but in their reaction to the reverend’s words, his figure and appearance, he could tell they were just as convinced. Another point for Quiffrey the Icon. He was charismatic in the way he seemed untouched by his surroundings, too innocent to care about the histories of his makeshift parish, or the West as a whole. Then again, he could tell at a glance that there were those with less than holy motives for sticking around- a point then, for Quiffrey the tempter, and company for his own concerns around it. He seemed to deal with them well- a couple pointed recommendations of Hail Mary and a tender smile ‘good-day’.

The scene repeated in the next town, and several after. And soon Fleetfoot was giving into his compulsion to attach himself to the reverend, standing at his back unquestioningly (as questions, and not apologies, were always the difficult part with religion), soaking up the warmth of him and fixing those overfamiliar strangers with a stare that seemed to punctuate the older man’s suggestions. Finally making good use of those small, haunting eyes, piped the voice of his father at the back of his mind, Although, deep down, he knew his father would be scandalized at the hypocrisy of his motive, this little voice, all the way down, knew the farce better than he did himself.

Another point for Quiffrey the tempter.

[xhudgenssistersconfessions]

My Zanessa ff

I tried my best to traslate it my Zanessa ff in a good english. Forgive me, I tried to do my best between having a life and a full time job. You can still find it on wattpad written in italian. Maybe I will publish it on english too if someone is interested. https://www.wattpad.com/user/FrancyF94

- Fran 

Chapter 1: I set out on a narrow way many years ago

  “I set out on a narrow way many years ago

Hoping I would find true love along the broken road

But I got lost a time or two

Wiped my brow and kept pushing through

I couldn't see how every sign pointed straight to you "

- “God Bless the Broken Road” Rascal Flatts         

  Arroyo Grande, California - September 2014

Zac Efron gave a sad look at his childhood home: it always seemed the same house that his father had built when he was just one year old. The grass in the driveway and back garden was yellow and dry from the drought that had hit the state of California during the summer, but the flowers in the flowerbeds her mother tended with great care were in bloom. The old car Mustang of his grandfather Harold was always parked in the driveway and the basketball hoop that his father had set up for him and Dylan when they were little was rusty, but always present . The light beige walls of the house had been repainted by Zac himself a few years earlier. It all looked the same, but now he couldn't stare at that house for more than ten seconds. 

Zac was sure that on entering the front door, past the entrance hall, he would find his old grand piano, his father's electronic engineering books stacked in neat rows in the large cedar bookcase , and the whole house wrapped in the scent of his mother's famous blueberry waffles. The he would go upstairs in his old room, and her mother would have lecture him because despite having reached the threshold of twenty-seven years old, Zac’s old room still remained inaccessible because of the piles of clothes strewn on the floor, along with scores music and torn sheets of some script.

The young man closed his eyes, like wanted to hold those memories and fossilize them in his mind, but then the voice of his younger brother Dylan brought him back to reality.

- I can't believe they want to sell the house-.

The 22-year-old made a disgusted face and takes a long sip of beer, wiping his lips with his hands.

-Why didn't you buy it? - he snorted , with an obvious note of reproach.

Zac rolled his eyes and ignored him: his brother's disappoint was not the last thing you had to occupy.

-Dyl, I've already explained why. There is no point in buying it. What was I supposed to do with it?-

-Leave it like this! Fuck, it's like we're selling our whole life! All of our memories are in here! - Dylan kicked a frustrated kick at the " Sold" sign that towered undisturbed on the lawn, and immediately regretted it, cursing at the pain that he had caused to himself.

-Dylan , I already have two houses. I don't need a third one-

-But it is our home!-

-I know it. Do you think I agree with this whole situation? -

-I believe that you are proving too accommodating. It’s so easy, this is not the time to behave like this! They look like two in their twenties! They have no right! They don't have the right to take and throw away a life together! - the boy's voice cracked. - They don't have the right - he muttered, kicking a pebble and hiding the face of his older brother.

Zac was sure Dylan was holding back from bursting into tears. What did he think he was doing? Their parents certainly didn't need to ask their permission to do certain things. And then he too was shuddering, but with confusion. He wanted answers. He hadn't felt so lost in years, or maybe it was only years that he pretended to be fine and that his life was going great. He was so accustomed to goodbyes and change identities and roles in his work, who really did not understand all the rage of his younger brother. But a small part of him hates Dylan. Even in that situation it was up to him to take care of Dylan. Zac have to play the part of the good big brother, tell Dylan that everything would be okay in the end.  Zac himself wasn't sure about it , but he knew he had to do it because he would never, ever abandon his family in a moment like that .

-Hey guys! We did not call you to chasing butterflies! - the voice of their father David called both brothers to work - I need a hand here ! - said the man dragging two old bikes along the driveway. Zac tried to make himself feel good. Those were their old bikes. What the hell was his dad doing? Did he want to throw them away? They were old, but certainly not scrap. Why did he have all this sudden urge to get rid of their old stuff?

- Come on, let's go. The sooner we finish packing everything, the sooner we can leave little brother- Zac held out a hand to him and Dylan helped him get up.

-I go inside to mom and you stay with dad , ok? -.

Dylan nodded and walked reluctantly into the garage while Zac entered in the house. Just a few weeks early the hall’s walls were full with family photos: little Zac and Dylan with their female cousins during their childhood, family holidays in Hawaii and Colorado, David’s photos of his work trips. Now it was all gone.

Zac saw his mother in the kitchen area. She was setting up pot and pans in some sad brown boxes.

-Hey mom, do you need a hand here? -

-Oh yes, thanks honey. You can start bringing these in the car. I don't think your father wants to keep them , they're just old dishes from grandma's good service. They'll have a better spot in my new house-.

Beside Starla were four full boxes with the word "Kitchen" on it. Zac took a breath while Dreamer, the old family dog, was bouncing around, sniffing Zac’s snew brand jeans.

-Hey dude- he scratched his head affectionately -you'll change house soon-.

For nearly ten years that old dog had lived in Arroyo Grande and now… and now he will live in Oregon. If Zac stopped to think about it it was absurd. Even more absurd was to think that even him would never set foot in that house again.

-I will cry every night without him- his mother finally turned to look at him. Starla, despite her sixty-five years, was still an extremely attractive woman : blonde, without even a white hair , with sweet features and two large hazel eyes. Zac, however, could not help but notice that his mother was extremely tense and had two deep dark circles that furrowed her eyes, as if she hadn't slept well for months.

-Mom I'd take it , you know. I already have Puppy and Simon gets along well with dogs, but Dad insisted so much on having him-.

-No honey, it’s okay. Your father wants to do his own thing this time too ... where’s your brother? -

Zac tried to ignore his mother's unhappy comment.

-Dylan is in the garage helping dad, he is a little lost, but he'll soon get over it-

Stare was silence for a moment, she was pale. Then she approached the eldest son and hugged him tightly.

-Thank you honey for coming today. And thanks for dragging Dylan here. I know he's angry , you probably are angry too-.

Probably he was angry. His mother was probably right. Probably Zac should have been angry too. But the reality was that he was not angry, he was in a blind confusion. How was it was even possible that his parents, after two children and thirty years of marriage, had decided to put an end to their marriage? How was it possible that two people who had been madly in love for years now decided to divorce? And without even some drama. Zac had noticed that something was wrong between his parents during the Easter holidays, the last April, but had not given too much attention on it. He was so busy with his new movie and then what couple didn't have some bumps on the road  after so many years together? Besides, he and his brother had  left home at a young age and her mother had recently lost his father. Perhaps Starla and David were just going through a transition phase. But when the two young Efron brothers showed up home for the Fourth of July holiday , their parents sat them down in the living room, announcing their impending divorce. “ We don't get along anymore” his father had sadly sentenced, visibly embarrassed when his parents, Hal and Dot, both in their eighties, had asked for an explanation cause they were worried. Zac hadn't believed a single word because everything his father had said to justify himself : it just didn't make sense in his head. It just didn't make sense. Because two adults with common sense as her parents had always been don't wake up one morning and decide that they don't love each other anymore, that they feel so indifferent towards each other that they ask for a divorce. They were not an inexperienced young couple with small children, they were two mature people with children already away from home. Starla and David should have enjoyed the serenity that reigned in the Efron house…. and instead they had come to hate each other .

- Mom, can I ask you something? – Zac said.

-Anything you want honey-Starla looked into his son’s eyes..

-Dad was cheating on you? -. he knew he was crossing a fine line between respect for his parents and irreverence, but he wanted honesty from both of his parents.

Starla started to hear those words coming from one of her children. He looked to Zac straight in the eyes.

-Zachary ...-

-I am serious mom. I know it's not a question ... it's not a simple question to answer-

-It is not a question a child should ask to his mother-

-Mom, please. You 've been talking to me about sex and love since I was ten and you and dad have been fucking open with me and Dylan. I just have to understand-

-Love changes Zac. It changes and in some cases it ends - .

The young man gave her a doubtful look: it couldn't be like that, it wasn't enough for him. Love ends for a reason.

- I don't think that's enough. Not after thirty years. Until last year everything was fine, you and dad loved each other. You and dad were fine-

- Your father and I had been in trouble for a long time. We had been in that way for a long time, but we gritted our teeth and always told ourselves that it was worth trying to fix things, but then we reached the breaking point-.

-How much time? -

- A long time - now Starla was slightly annoyed - please Zachary, these are ... these are decisions ... this decision that your father and I made was terribly difficult for both of us . But I want him to be happy and he wants the same thing for me. I know that and you and Dylan do not understand our choice, but I ask only to respect it-.

Zac took a step back. Perhaps he had exaggerated, perhaps he should have given her space.

.Ok- he replied, shrugging - I'm going to put these in your car and I'll be back-.

A moment later Starla found herself squeezed in the arms of her eldest son. Zac's arms encircled her from behind and the boy deposited a light kiss on her head. He had already got rid of the box.

-Sorry mom. Sorry- he whispered - I shouldn't have asked you those things-.

-It's okay- the woman turned to look him in the face and reassure him - I don't expect you and Dylan to approve this… this thing-.

The woman lightly touched the blue coin that peeled from her son's breast : it had been a year since Zac hadn't touched a drop of alcohol. He had done it for his health, but mostly for his family.

-Dad and I know that for you, the last year has been difficult , indeed the last few years  . But we are so proud of you honey-.

-Mom ... - the boy blushed. If there was one thing he hated it was receiving compliments when he knew he didn't deserve it. His mother was right, it was a difficult year for him.

- After all, you have been sober for more than a year, not that you were an alcoholic before ... -

-Mom, stop it-

-What's ?-

-Stop! I don't deserve it! -

-What? You started drinking too much, you noticed it in time and went through rehab. You're a good boy and you always take care of your brother. Zac, you deserve these compliments. You are my baby-

-I am not your baby anymore, for many years now- Zac kissed her on the cheek. He was incredibly grateful to her. He was incredibly grateful to both of his parents. -Dyl and I wanted to leave immediately, but I think that we’ll sleeping here and we'll have breakfast together-.

-Do you wanna sleep here? Zac the furniture in your room has already been taken away-

-We will use the sleeping bags in the garage - Zac looked around , full of affection for his childhood home – I wanna sleep here one last time. The kitchen stove still works - his eyes twinkled.

-I will make the waffles that you like so much- said Starla-but you have to share the news you’re your father-

-Mom! -

-Zachary ! -

-You guys have been married  for thirty years, and made eachother happy and now you can not share even a breakfast together? -

The woman bit her lower lip. She was thinking.

-If it's fine for your father , then it's ok- she finally said.

The young man hugged her again to thank her. He was sure she knew when that house meant to all of them and wanted to give her a fitting goodbye.

- Are you sure you didn't have anything else to do? You were supposed to go to Ashley's wedding this weekend-

-Ash will understand- zac said firmly - I'm going to tell dad and Dylan that we are stay here tonight-.

  Vanessa sighed into the darkness of the room and read over and over again the message that Ashley Tisdale, her best friend, had sent her.

“Nessa, I 'm sorry . Kiss Austin for me. Call me for anything. "

That was Ashley. Vanessa adored her: even days before from her marriage to Chris, her best friend had think to herself for a second.

The girl didn't type a return answer, it wouldn't make sense. It was already three in the morning and she would call Ashley tomorrow so she could talk to her calmly. Austin's soft snore indicated that he had finally fallen asleep. Vanessa touched her boyfriend's blond hair - he looked so peaceful while he was sleeping. Austin seemed to be able to finally rest only when he slept: his mother Lori's condition had worsened further and she had been rushed to hospital. When doctors had informed them that she probably would not past the night, Austin had ended in a selective mutism. He had watched her mother suffer through months of cancer and now he was not saying that all the treatments, the money spent and the hours spent at her side were useless? That all the prayers they had addressed to God had not been heard?

Vanessa was his rock. From the exact moment she arrived the diagnosis she had done the impossible to stay close to her fiance. It had calmed him, comforted him. And so she had done that evening too, cradling him in her arms to make him fall asleep.

She wasn't ready to lose Lori either: she had grown a bond with the woman during those three years she had spent with Austin, she wasn't ready to give up on her. Not when the rest of the world kept spinning, when the rest of the people continued to live as if nothing had happened. Vanessa had always believed that if she behaved well, if she proved to God that she was a good person , then nothing bad could ever happen to her in life. Or at least nothing catastrophic. Thinking back it was a purely childish thought, but until then no event had affected that worldview. Yet in the last year she had had to change her mind. She had discovered that perhaps God did not listen to the prayers of everybody , perhaps God did not exist at all or perhaps he was just an old sadist who played to move his pieces at will on a large chessboard. There was no other possible explanation. God had blessed her with talent, fame and a peaceful family life. Maybe he had given her too much. Sometimes the girl thought she was the cause of Austin's suffering. He was too perfect for her. The Butler family was perfect and now Lori was paying the price for all that God had given to Vanessa. If Austin had known what she really thought he probably would have thought that she was crazy, but there was nothing that Vanessa could do about it.

Promise me  that you'll take care of him.

Those were the last words Lori had said to her three days ago . She hadn't said them with the knowledge that they would be the last words she would ever say to her future daughter in law but they were. And now Vanessa feel that she is responsible for Austin's happiness. Lori had been her son's chosen one for years and now she was gone forever. It was up to Vanessa, therefore, to try to make her boyfriend's life as normal as possible.

The girl sighed heavily as she retraced the events of the previous days. It was all still confused. Lori's funeral had only taken place that same afternoon. The memory, however, was blurred in the girl's mind and seemed to belong to centuries ago. Lori had wanted to die in the hospital in Los Angeles, where she had spent the last few weeks of her life. The funeral ceremony therefore took place in Los Angeles, where the woman's body was cremated. If she closed her eyes, Vanessa could clearly see the broken face of Austin's father and sister, she could feel her boyfriend's tight grip during the eulogy. She hadn't cried at the funeral, she hadn't had the strength. She heard Austin move and mutter something in his sleep and so Vanessa’s gaze fall on the alarm clock: three in the morning. She might as well try to sleep for at least a couple of hours. In the morning, Austin's family would take Lori's ashes home to their family home in Anaheim . Austin needs her. He would need all the affection he could get. The girl switch off the cell, laid her head on the pillow and fell into a deep dreamless sleep.

[papermoonloveslucy]

LIZ SELLS DRESSES

October 16, 1948

“Liz Sells Dresses” is episode #13 of the radio series MY FAVORITE HUSBAND broadcast on October 16, 1948.

Synopsis ~ Liz accidentally returns a dress to a more expensive store than where she bought it, and makes money on the deal. She then decides to go into business buying dresses at one store and returning them at another.

Note: This episode was aired before the characters names were changed from Cugat to Cooper. It was also before Jell-O came aboard to sponsor the show and before the regular cast featured Bea Benadaret and Gale Gordon as the Atterburys.

“My Favorite Husband” was based on the novels Mr. and Mrs. Cugat, the Record of a Happy Marriage (1940) and Outside Eden (1945) by Isabel Scott Rorick, which had previously been adapted into the film Are Husbands Necessary? (1942). “My Favorite Husband” was first broadcast as a one-time special on July 5, 1948. Lucille Ball and Lee Bowman played the characters of Liz and George Cugat, and a positive response to this broadcast convinced CBS to launch “My Favorite Husband” as a series. Bowman was not available Richard Denning was cast as George. On January 7, 1949, confusion with bandleader Xavier Cugat prompted a name change to Cooper. On this same episode Jell-O became its sponsor. A total of 124 episodes of the program aired from July 23, 1948 through March 31, 1951. After about ten episodes had been written, writers Fox and Davenport departed and three new writers took over – Bob Carroll, Jr., Madelyn Pugh, and head writer/producer Jess Oppenheimer. In March 1949 Gale Gordon took over the existing role of George’s boss, Rudolph Atterbury, and Bea Benaderet was added as his wife, Iris. CBS brought “My Favorite Husband” to television in 1953, starring Joan Caulfield and Barry Nelson as Liz and George Cooper. The television version ran two-and-a-half seasons, from September 1953 through December 1955, running concurrently with “I Love Lucy.” It was produced live at CBS Television City for most of its run, until switching to film for a truncated third season filmed (ironically) at Desilu and recasting Liz Cooper with Vanessa Brown.

MAIN CAST

Lucille Ball (Liz Cugat) was born on August 6, 1911 in Jamestown, New York. She began her screen career in 1933 and was known in Hollywood as ‘Queen of the B’s’ due to her many appearances in ‘B’ movies. “My Favorite Husband” eventually led to the creation of “I Love Lucy,” a television situation comedy in which she co-starred with her real-life husband, Latin bandleader Desi Arnaz. The program was phenomenally successful, allowing the couple to purchase what was once RKO Studios, re-naming it Desilu. When the show ended in 1960 (in an hour-long format known as “The Lucy-Desi Comedy Hour”) so did Lucy and Desi’s marriage. In 1962, hoping to keep Desilu financially solvent, Lucy returned to the sitcom format with “The Lucy Show,” which lasted six seasons. She followed that with a similar sitcom “Here’s Lucy” co-starring with her real-life children, Lucie and Desi Jr., as well as Gale Gordon, who had joined the cast of “The Lucy Show” during season two. Before her death in 1989, Lucy made one more attempt at a sitcom with “Life With Lucy,” also with Gordon.

Richard Denning (George Cugat) was born Louis Albert Heindrich Denninger Jr., in Poughkeepsie, New York. When he was 18 months old, his family moved to Los Angeles. Plans called for him to take over his father’s garment manufacturing business, but he developed an interest in acting. Denning enlisted in the US Navy during World War II. He is best known for his  roles in various science fiction and horror films of the 1950s. Although he teamed with Lucille Ball on radio in “My Favorite Husband,” the two never acted together on screen. While “I Love Lucy” was on the air, he was seen on another CBS TV series, “Mr. & Mrs. North.” From 1968 to 1980 he played the Governor on “Hawaii 5-0″, his final role. He died in 1998 at age 84.

Ruth Perrott (Katie, the Maid / Sales Girl) was also later seen on “I Love Lucy.” She first played Mrs. Pomerantz, a member of the surprise investigating committee for the Society Matrons League in “Pioneer Women” (ILL S1;E25), as one of the member of the Wednesday Afternoon Fine Arts League in “Lucy and Ethel Buy the Same Dress” (ILL S3;E3), and also played a nurse when “Lucy Goes to the Hospital” (ILL S2;E16). She died in 1996 at the age of 96.

Bob LeMond (Announcer) also served as the announcer for the pilot episode of “I Love Lucy”. When the long-lost pilot was finally discovered in 1990, a few moments of the opening narration were damaged and lost, so LeMond – fifty years later – recreated the narration for the CBS special and subsequent DVD release.

GUEST CAST

John Hiestand (Cory Cartwright) served as the announcer for the radio show “Let George Do It” from 1946 to 1950. In 1955 he did an episode of “Our Miss Brooks” opposite Gale Gordon.

Hans Conried (Mr. Quigley, Returns Clerk at Gordons) first co-starred with Lucille Ball in The Big Street (1942). He then appeared on “I Love Lucy” as used furniture man Dan Jenkins in “Redecorating” (ILL S2;E8) and later that same season as Percy Livermore in “Lucy Hires an English Tutor” (ILL S2;E13) – both in 1952. The following year he began an association with Disney by voicing Captain Hook in Peter Pan. On “The Lucy Show” he played Professor Gitterman in “Lucy’s Barbershop Quartet” (TLS S1;E19) and in “Lucy Plays Cleopatra” (TLS S2;E1). He was probably best known as Uncle Tonoose on “Make Room for Daddy” starring Danny Thomas, which was filmed on the Desilu lot. He joined Thomas on a season 6 episode of “Here’s Lucy” in 1973. He died in 1982 at age 64.

Bea Benadaret (Store Clerk at Gordons / Little Old Lady) was considered the front-runner to be cast as Ethel Mertz but when “I Love Lucy” was ready to start production she was already playing a similar role on TV’s “The George Burns and Gracie Allen Show” so Vivian Vance was cast instead. On “I Love Lucy” she was cast as Lucy Ricarodo’s spinster neighbor, Miss Lewis, in “Lucy Plays Cupid” (ILL S1;E15) in early 1952. Later, she was a success in her own show, “Petticoat Junction” as Shady Rest Hotel proprietress Kate Bradley. She starred in the series until her death in 1968.

In 1949, Bea Benadaret will play the regular role of Iris Atterbury, Liz’s best friend. The voice she uses for the Little Old Lady shopper is the same one she uses as Miss Lewis on “I Love Lucy.” 

Frank Nelson (Floorwalker at Gordons) was born on May 6, 1911 (three months before Lucille Ball) in Colorado Springs, Colorado. He started working as a radio announcer at the age of 15. He later appeared on such popular radio shows as “The Great Gildersleeve,” “Burns and Allen,” and “Fibber McGee & Molly”.  Aside from Lucille Ball, Nelson is perhaps most associated with Jack Benny and was a fifteen-year regular on his radio and television programs. His trademark was playing clerks and other working stiffs, suddenly turning to Benny with a drawn out “Yeeeeeeeeees?” Nelson appeared in 11 episodes of “I Love Lucy”, including three as quiz master Freddy Fillmore, and two as Ralph Ramsey, plus appearance on “The Lucy-Desi Comedy Hour” - making him the only actor to play two different recurring roles on “I Love Lucy.” Nelson returned to the role of the frazzled Train Conductor for an episode of “The Lucy Show” in 1963. This marks his final appearance on a Lucille Ball sitcom. 

Sandra Gould (Store Clerk at Kramers / Shopper) is probably best remembered as the second actor to play Gladys Kravitz on “Bewitched” (1966-71). On “I Love Lucy,” she played Nancy Johnson in “Oil Wells” (ILL S3;E18) and makes a brief appearance as an alarmed strap-hanger in “Lucy and the Loving Cup” (ILL S6;E12). In 1962 she appeared in the fourth episode of “The Lucy Show” as a bank secretary. 

THE EPISODE

ANNOUNCER: “Let’s look in on the Cugats and see what they’re doing. The house looks normal for this time of the morning. The breakfast table is set. The morning paper is on the table. Katie is out in the kitchen and --- hey, wait a minute. There’s a sign pinned to the kitchen door. ‘Katie - Please don’t make any noise.’ There goes Liz Cugat tiptoeing into the kitchen.”

Liz chastises Katie for making noise, but Katie says it is just the bacon hissing in the skillet. Today is the day George looks at Liz’s checkbook.

KATIE: “It’s sort of like Blue Monday or Gloomy Sunday, isn’t it Mrs. Cugat.” LIZ: “Worse. If George wakes up it will be Sickening Saturday.”

Katie says her first husband Clarence wrote all the checks he wanted to and was never overdrawn - but he didn’t have an account at the bank.

KATIE: “Good old Clarence. I haven’t seen him in five years.” LIZ: “What’s he doing?” KATIE: “Ten years!” 

George wakes up and comes down for breakfast. Liz butters him up with sweet talk and a big kiss. 

LIZ: “How do I kiss, George?” GEORGE: “Like you are way overdrawn.”

Liz explains a discrepancy in her checkbook by saying that she doesn’t like nines, so she makes them tens. George tries to understand Liz’s logic when it comes to arithmetic but it is hopeless. 

George encounters an expense listed as “DICR” - Dress I Couldn’t Resist. Liz tells George she actually made money by not buying it at a more expensive store where it cost $20 more!  She spent her invisible savings on a hat!  Liz describes the dress:

LIZ: “It’s navy blue with white polka-dots. It’s got a little white collar and a sash at the back.”

Except for the sash, Liz might well be describing the iconic Elois Jenssen dress that would become identified with Lucy Ricardo on “I Love Lucy.” It became so recognizable, that when Lucy Carter had a garage sale in 1971, it was hanging among the treasures! 

Liz tries turning on the water works, but George insists she return the dress, and Liz reluctantly agrees to do so. 

At Gordons Department Store that afternoon, Liz encounters Cory Cartwright (John Heistand), her bachelor friend. The sales clerk (Bea Benadaret) tells Liz he’s been trying to make time with the store dummies!  

Liz goes to the Returns Department and is greeted by a depressed and sniveling Mr. Quigley, who promises money “cheerfully” returned. He asks why Liz is returning the dress, but none of her reasons justify a refund. She confesses that a bank vice president checked her accounts told her to return it. She says she tried to kiss him to persuade him, but to no avail. Mr. Quigley (not knowing that man is her favorite husband, George) promises to refund her money if she will give up her life of crime!  Liz goes along in order to get her refund and get out of there. 

LIZ: “I promise. After all, there’s no future in it. Pretty soon every bank in the country will have a Dick Tracy television burglar alarm!” 

“Dick Tracy” was a phenomenally successful comic strip, radio program, and film serial about the adventures of a square-jawed detective named Dick Tracy. It made its debut in 1931, created by Chester Gould, and lasted until 1977. In August 1948, the comic strip introduced the Teleguard, a portable, antenna-less television burglar alarm!  The word ‘television’ does not mean broadcast TV but video cameras, much like the modern CCTV (Closed Circuit Television) cameras now commonplace across the world, including in banks. Liz actually has predicted the future! 

Liz finally gets her refund and meets Cory for lunch.

CORY: “I’ve been in the lingerie department. I’ve seen every item in this store down to the foundation.” 

Counting her refund, Liz realizes that she has received $20 more than she’s paid. She suddenly realizes that she’s mistakenly returned the dress to Gordons when she actually bought it at Kramers!  After a moment of indecision on what to do, Liz decides to return to Kramers to buy more dresses!  

This is similar to the plot of “The Business Manager” (ILLS4;E1), in which Lucy Ricardo realizes that she can balance her books by buying and selling groceries on credit for the entire building. 

At Kramers, the Clerk (Sandra Gould) gets suspicious why she would buy two moer dresses of the same color and style. Liz facetiously says she’s one of the Andrews Sisters.

CLERK: “Which one are you? Patty, Maxine, or LaVerne?” LIZ: “Neither. I’m their brother Dana.” 

The Andrews Sisters were a very successful trio of singing sisters during World War II with 19 gold records and sales of nearly 100 million copies. The sisters began performing in the early 1930s when the Depression wiped out their father’s business. In 1937, the sisters scored their first big hit with “Bei Mir Bist Du Schoen.” In addition to “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy,” their best-known songs included “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree” and “Rum and Coca Cola.” The trio officially broke up after the death of LaVerne in 1967, when a suitable replacement could not be found.  Patty Andrews guest starred on “Here’s Lucy” as herself in 1969. The plot had Lucy Carter and her daughter Kim (Lucie Arnaz) stepping in for the other two singers for a charity show.  During a poker game in “Be a Pal” (ILL S1;E2), Lucy calls her two queens ‘sisters.’  When Fred looks at his newly-dealt hand he quips “You can tell your two Andrews Sisters not to wait up for LaVerne.” 

Dana Andrews (1909-92) was not related to the Andrews Sisters, but was a successful actor. He had been in the Oscar-winning film The Best Years of Our Lives in 1946, and had three films released in 1948 alone. In 1961, Dana Andrews and Lucille Ball both presented awards on the “Bob Hope Sports Show.” 

George feels guilty about asking Liz to return the blue dress, so he has come to Gordons to re-buy it for her. Meanwhile, Liz tries to get a refund from Mr. Quigley for the two dresses she’s bought at Kramers. Mr. Quigley has a nervous breakdown. 

MR. QUIGLEY: “I should have never taken this job. I was so happy in ladies underwear!” 

The Clerk notices that they ordered and 35 of the blue polka dot dresses and now they have 36. The jig is up!  Mr. Quigley demands that Liz give him the money he refunded her and get out of the store. 

On her way out, Liz encounters a Little Old Lady Shopper (Bea Benadaret again) who has seen Liz carrying the blue polka dot dresses and wants to buy one from her. She needs it to go to a dance.  

OLD LADY: “We all went to Arthur Murray’s and learned the Lindy Crawl.” LIZ: “You mean the Lindy Hop.” OLD LADY: “Not the way I do it!”

Arthur Murray (1895-1991) was a ballroom dancer and businessman, whose name is most often associated with the chain of dance studios that bear his name. He was mentioned in Desi Arnaz’s song “Cuban Pete” and in “The Young Fans” (ILL S1;E20). One of the dances taught there was The Lindy Hop, a very popular during the swing era of the 1930s and ‘40s. Lindy was described as a jazz dance and is a member of the swing dance family. 

Liz sells the dress to the little old lady for $59, making a profit of $20!  She decides if she sold one, she can sell another, and develops a slick line of sales talk in order to sell the other dresses to customers in the store already!  

Liz’s methodology (and Lucille Ball’s voice) is the same is it will be when she tries to sell the extra meat she mistakenly ordered for “The Freezer” (ILL S1;E29) to shoppers in a local butcher shop.

LIZ: (to Customer) “Hey lady, step in a little closer. You’re blocking traffic.” SALES CLERK: “Hey! That’s my customer.”  LIZ (fast talking): “Get away kid, ya bother me. (To Customer) Honest Liz Cugat, the biggest used dress dealer in town. Gimme $39.50 and I’m losing money on the deal.  Come back tomorrow and I’ll give myself a hot foot and have a fire sale!” 

Liz is approached by the indignant Floor Walker (Frank Nelson) who believes her to be a sales girl poaching customers from her co-workers. He directs her to go sell something to a gentlemen who just happens to be her husband George. So she won’t be recognized, Liz grabs a black hat with a veil. 

LIZ (in a Brooklyn accent): “I’m in mourning. It was a catastrophe. To say nothing of it being a tragedy.”

The Floor Walker tells Liz to take the hat off and get back to work so Liz returns to her customer (George) wearing a lampshade on her head. Liz tries to sell George the same dress she tried to return. When George flatters the clerk's figure, Liz smacks him!  

Later, at home. George presents Liz with the blue polka dot dress. 

GEORGE (To Liz): “You should have seen the sales girl who waited on me!  She was a real creep!  Tomorrow I’ll buy you something to wear on your head to go with the dress.” LIZ: “A hat?” GEORGE: “No. A polka-dot lampshade. You’re a pretty rotten actress, Liz!”  LIZ (Brooklyn accent): “Well, how do you like that! He knew about it all the time!”  

In the usual bedtime coda, Liz is awake and trying to make up poems about the moon.

LIZ: “The moon is big, the moon is yellow...” GEORGE: “...and he lives alone, the lucky fellow.”

[Ed. Note: Had this episode taken place in 1949, “fellow” would certainly have been rhymed with “Jell-O” and yellow compared to Lemon Jell-O!]

LIZ: “The moon is bright, the moon is deep...” GEORGE: “Please shut up and go to sleep.”

The Cugats kiss. End of episode!

[zoom4ads]

Moving Your Goods Versus Selling and Buying

Moving your personal goods, much less your family, can be a daunting thought, but after a careful review of all your options, you will see that it needs not be a difficult ordeal, just one that requires thought and organization. Hopefully, this post will help you arrive at the thought process.

I have done a big move of personal goods only three times, and I was boxed in (no pun intended) by the same thought process each time. I have come to discover that there are many ways to consider the move to Costa Rica, and some may be much cheaper or at the very least less stressful and requiring less coordination.

The first thing I learned about moving goods to Costa Rica is to find your mover in Costa Rica and coordinate the move through him, as you want to be able to deal with someone local from this end, just in case there should be any questions or problems. How logically simple is that? But had I not been advised, I would have called a mover from Dallas, and I think it would have caused more logistical problems in the long run.

Here are some of the mistakes I made. We brought everything, and I do mean everything. We should have had multiple garage sales prior to the move because we downsized from a 3,000 sq. ft. house to a 2,300 sq. ft house, and we had acquired junk from the previous 20+ years. We knew we wanted to build and no longer wanted a dining room, as we discovered it was wasted space in our last home just to store a dining room set. But we certainly brought everything else. George Carlin has a gig on "stuff", and everyone should listen to that before coming to Costa Rica. It took a little over a year for us to actually move into our house, which meant that we paid, by the square meter, to store our goods, which is an expense we had not considered. Had I had the opportunity to do it again, I would have brought our bedroom set, living room furniture, dishes/silverware, and that's it! Yes, special art pieces and personal belongings, but about half what we brought. That would have cut our moving and storage tab in half.

You can buy American appliances here, and yes, at a higher expense, but still less than moving and storing yours from home. Personal goods are not taxed, but goods that are new are subject to taxation. Many times they are not taxed if you have one of each, but if you bring 10 new flat screen TVs, chances are you will be taxed a very large amount. If you want to have no questions about taxation, Barry will develop a flat-rate move that includes your taxation. You needn't worry about this, as his company will handle all the details and dealings with Customs and deliver your goods to his storage facility or your new house.

I would suggest you get a 3-ring binder and keep all the papers related to moving in this notebook. If you pack goods yourself, label the box with the contents of each box and keep a copy of that in your notebook. If you have professional packers, make sure you get a listing of each box's contents, and that the box is labeled with the contents that you have a copy of in your 3-ring binder. All the paperwork related to Customs should be kept here also.

The following are some tips on what you should do before and after you move to Costa Rica:

Two Months before Moving:

1. Gather your moving supplies (boxes, tape, rope, etc.). Begin packing.2. Make any necessary travel arrangements (airline, hotel, and rental car reservations).3. Call a moving company or make truck rental reservations to move your goods.4. Cover your real estate temporary & permanent needs.5. Keep your legal, medical, and insurance records in a safe and accessible place.6. Give your new address to all your mailers (family members, friends, banks, insurance companies, and other financial institutions, charge card and credit card companies, doctors, dentists, and other service providers, state and federal tax authorities, and other government agencies).7. Keep your moving receipts (many moving expenses are tax deductible).

Two Weeks before Moving:

1. Notify gas, electric, water, cable, local telephone, and trash removal services of your move, and sign up for their services at your new address.2. Notify long distance Phone Company of your move.3. Arrange help for your moving-day.4. Confirm your travel reservation.5. If needed, make arrangements to close or transfer your bank account.

Packing Tips:

1. Make sure you have the following supplies and accessories: boxes (all sizes), bubble wrap or other cushioning material, marking pens, tape measure, furniture pads or old blankets, packing tape and scissors, and money and credit cards.2. Label each box with the room in the new home to which it should be moved.3. Make an itemized list of what you're packing with a yard-sale price on each item, so you don't have to pay too many taxes when your household arrives at the Costa Rican customs. Personal household goods are exempt.4. Number the boxes, and keep a list of what is in each box.5. Mark any fragile item.6. Pack your personal items (clothes, toiletries, medicine, maps, food, and drinks) into a bag, and keep it in an easy-to-find place.7. Keep a medical kit accessible.

After Your Move:

1. Locate police, fire, and gas stations as well as hospitals near your home.2. Locate shopping areas in your new neighborhood.3. Find out which day the trash is collected and whether your new community has recycling programs.4. Seek out new service providers (banks, cleaners, doctors, dentists, and veterinarians).5. Provide your new doctor and dentist with your medical history. You may need to request your file from your previous doctor and/or dentist.6. Find out more information about schools, cable service, cultural events, community activities, and the availability of emergency calling services (such as 911) in your new neighborhood.7. Transfer your insurance policies to an agent in your new community. If necessary, make a detailed list of all your belongings, their value, and your coverage.

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[ninjamagines]

As of March 15th, we made the decision to close our business for a week, with the intention to continue monitoring the situation of the Corona Virus. We were the first and only massage business in Denver to do so. As of March 19th the state mandate made by order of the Colorado Department of Public Health announced that all massage studios in Denver are ordered to close until April 30. It is with a heavy heart we announce that we will remain closed during this time to do our part in limiting the spread of COVID-19 in our community. Our hope is that we will be able to return to regular business by the start of May.

This mandatory closure will make a huge impact on us as a small business. To be totally transparent with you, our business and employees are in need of your help. The government’s recommendation is for us to file for unemployment and the process is confusing and the system is crashing due to so many people applying. Because of this, we aren’t sure when relief is coming. This is why we have decided to accept donations during this time which can be made via PayPal. Any donations you are able to offer us goes directly to support the individuals and their families that is the heart of our small business. We will be taking the donations and equally disbursing them amongst the entire team.

Suggested Donation: If 100 of our customers are able to donate $200 we can equally distribute about $1,000 to each one of our team members. 

A 60 minute massage at POM is $100, so if you’d normally come in for a massage once a month, consider donating that money now so that we can give it to our employees while the wait for unemployment may take a month or longer. 

That being said, if you can only donate $10, we will gladly accept and cherish this gift. 

One of the bright lights in the darkness of this global crisis is the way in which the importance of community is being highlighted. For 11 years, we have offered our healing touch to thousands of you. And you have touched our hearts with your loyalty and support. We would not be here without you, and that remains true now.

The HERstory of POM: POM is independently owned by a woman named (Nicole)Elena Davis. She opened POM as a private practice in 2009 and it organically grew year by year into the multi therapist wellness center that it is today. There was never a business plan, every step that has been taken has been done from a very heart centered approach. Elena didn’t have another option as when she started POM she was 22 years old with absolutely no education in business. She dropped out of highschool at the age of 15 because of struggles with drug addiction and sites the healing arts as what saved her life at the age of 18 when she more or less happened upon Massage Therapy school by “chance”.

In it’s lifetime POM has moved 3 times, all on Old South Pearl Street, landing in its forever home in the Victorian house on the 1200 block in 2011. The story of how this happened has never been shared publicly. But in an effort to express just how much love and perseverance is behind this business we’re going to share this piece of HERstory with you. In 2010, Elena was physically assaulted by her then landlord in her 2nd location. This was the reason that she had to move locations after less than a year in that space. It was a very trying time in the business, maybe the most challenging time before the current one we are in now. But we believe everything happens for a reason and it is because of this that Elena was led to our dream home. When Elena was desperately looking for a new space this home sat vacant on the much less developed(at the time)end of South Pearl Street. It was vacant for over a year, and Elena avoided looking at it because every time she laid eyes upon it she could see how much work would need to go into it to make it presentable or even workable. Finally, having no other viable options, Elena took a tour of the home. As soon as she entered the doors she instantly saw the vision of what it could be, with a few coats of paint and her signature decorative style, this could be transformed into a healing sanctuary. This is how we came to find our forever home, which would come to be the “green and purple house with the white peace sign on it” that our community has come to know and love.

In the coming years, as Elena grew and evolved as a spiritual being, POM evolved along with it. She eventually retired from massaging herself so that she could focus more of her attention on becoming a good leader for the growing team. This involved some standard trainings and coaching, but it was more about the self healing work that it takes to lead from the heart, and make tough decisions with a level head. Elena eventually began to travel for yoga teacher trainings in India which led her to teaching retreats abroad. With the expansion of her own healing arts career, POM began offering more community centered healing workshops with different facilitators sharing breathwork, reiki, women’s circles, art therapy, sound healing, and so much more. For our 10th year anniversary Peace of Mind Massage was officially re-branded to Peace of Mind Sacred Wellness to encompass all that we offer: Massage Therapy, Workshops, Retreats, and a Conscious Boutique selling sustainable and local goods.

The HERstory of POM would not be complete without mentioning all the people over the years who have lent a “helping hand” in making it the highest rated massage business in Denver. Many of our Massage Therapists have gone on to start their own successful private practices, and we are proud of each and every one of them. We are so grateful to have been the home for so many talented healers over the 11 years. In addition to our Massage Team and workshop facilitators, the front desk and management team is what keeps things running smoothly, and without them POM would not survive and thrive the way it does. POM is not just a job for anyone that works there. It is home, family, and community.

The post Peace of Mind for Peace of Mind; COVID-19 Closure and how you can help appeared first on Peace of Mind Sacred Wellness.

via Peace of Mind Sacred Wellness

[sarakuper]

Santa Marta & Tayrona National Park; the coast of Colombia

Stop #8, January 28-February 5

We arrived in Santa Marta on Tuesday night with little expectation of what Santa Marta had to offer. Blog’s I’ve read had mixed reviews about this city, as were the reviews I heard from friends and other travelers. Either way, we had such an exciting month that took lots of planning up until now, and now we have no plans other than where we are sleeping at night.

We stayed at La Guaca hostel and got a private room. The hostel is really nice and clean and overall just has good vibes! This place quickly became my favorite hostel.

Wednesday was our first full day, and after sleeping in and taking our time with breakfast we headed into town. It turned out to be a really wonderful day. We wandered the streets of Santa Marta, both the touristy and non touristy spots. We picked up fruit and water at the grocery store to help out some of the young Venezuelan refugees in the area. We stopped in a suuuuuuuper hippy dippy cafe that was so beautiful; an entire wall was covered in plants! And, I swear, I recall a waterfall.. and mist spraying from the ceiling. Its so hot here in Santa Marta, the mist was a pleasant surprise! We continued to walk around and then we explored the free gold museum which was actually quite lovely. It showcased the lost golf of the indigenous Taironas. Lastly, we walked along the bay before renting chairs on the beach for the last 2 hours of sunlight. We were continuously asked to buy things from several vendors, but I only said yes to a young pregnant woman selling massages. I’ve been wanting one anyway, and I totally have a soft spot for pregnant women!! She is from Cartagena originally and already has one child, but the competition is too high in Cartagena so they now live in Santa Marta. Once it was over I stripped down to my undies, not expecting to swim today, and went for a dip. Luckily for me I was wearing granny panties so this time my white behind wasn’t blaring at everyone.

About an hour later we starting chatting with the family that rented chairs next to us. They are Colombian, living in Medellin, and are on vacation. It was a husband and wife named Oscar and Elisabeth, and their 18 year old daughter Mariana. The family was immediately welcoming and were really impressed with our Spanish. We talked about our favorite foods in the country and when I mentioned the delicious coconut rice in the caribbean coast, Elisabeth immediately invited me to her house in Medellin to teach me how to cook it. Hers, she says, is way better than any restaurants. :) We ended up hitting it off with this family so well that we exchanged numbers and planned to go to another beach together, the next day.

The next day we met at a bus stop at 11:00am to get on the local bus to Tagana, the neighboring fishing village with their own beach. Once we arrived we chatted with the boat companies at the dock and arranged for a transfer to Playa Grande. The boat ride was about 5 minutes, and we appeared on a blue beach with many other locals and tourists. We spent the day reading, drinking, swimming, and snorkeling with Oscar’s basic snorkel gear. I was so surprised by how many fish there were right along this beach! It was a great day with our new friends, and it was especially enjoyable to experience Santa Marta like locals (from Colombia) instead of gringos :)

For the next day, January 31st, we decided to splurge on a tour to a beach in Tayrona National Park. The park will be closing for the month of February, so unfortunately we won’t have time to explore it. They close every year for one month for restoration, and also so that the indigenous people living there can have time off from the tourists to connect with their roots. Our hostel offers a day trip to one of their many famous beaches, and so thats what we did!

Our early morning transport to Tyrona came at 6am. I slept on most of the journey, but once we finally arrived to the coast we took a boat for about 5 minutes to Playa Crystal. There were more people than I thought there would be, but it was a stunning beach none the less. The water is crystal clear (hence the name), and there was fantastic snorkeling. Sean bought some basic snorkeling gear at the grocery store the night before so we didn’t have to continue paying for rentals. It was a smart move, because even if we don’t take them with us once we leave it still saved us money. We made some friends on this tour as well, a couple from Spain and another Colombian couple that live in England now. We shared the cost of beach chairs in the shade and enjoyed another beautiful day on the beach. This beach was definitely the most beautiful one we were able to visit.

The next day we did absolutely nothing! Well, we actually did a lot of important things, but from bed. We had been so sun kissed and tired from the snorkeling this last week we decided to take the day off! I worked on my Colorado license for teaching, booked our next flights, organized our next hostels, uploaded photos (and worked on my tumblr posts), etc. Sean completed both our applications for a visa extension which was more complicated than it probably should be! He also went food shopping for us, buying lots of guacamole ingredients which I planned to prepare for the Super Bowl. We also both did a ton of Duolingo; we’ve been super into it lately, as its the only Spanish class we have at the moment! It was actually a very productive day, and in the evening we took a taxi to meet our Colombian friends Elisabeth, Oscar, and Mariana, for beers and people watching on a busy strip of beach in Rodadero. We danced, ate, drank, chatted, and really just continued to enjoy each others company!

The next day, Super Bowl Sunday, we slept in, went out for lunch, and then headed back to La Bahia de Santa Marta, the bay of Santa Marta. We met our friends again, swam, played Uno (which they gave us as a gift), and headed back with plenty of time to shower and watch the super-bowl pregame. Did the Super Bowl half time show have a lot of Spanish!? We watched the same show, right!? I thought it was a great coincidence that Shakira was one of the performers, because she is from Colombia! And I also loved how JLo held the Puerto Rican flag during the show. YASSSS QUEEN! 

On Monday we finally made it to Sisiguaca, a tiny beach close to Playa Grande in Taganga that the receptionist at the hostel told us about. We took a boat from Taganga beach about 5 minutes to Sisguaca where we shared a small beach with maybe 15 others. We sat in the shade close to the water, relaxed, and snorkeled. At this point our Colombian friends had flown back to Medellin. They invited us to stay in their home whenever we get back to Medellin; we look forward to seeing them again! Anyway, back to Sisiguaca. I ordered my favorite dish, arroz de coco (coconut rice), with a side of patacones at the tiny restaurant along the shore. The snorkeling was fabulous, as was our quiet surroundings. After throwing the nerf football around as the sun began to set, we headed back to Taganga via boat and then bus to Santa Marta. 

As per usual, we stopped at the grocery store on the way home to pick up some ingredients for our go-to dinner at “home”... pasta! But by this point we’ve gotten into the habit of buying water and bananas for the Venezuelan refugees seeking help outside the grocery store. Its became part of our routine in Santa Marta. Bottles of water and bananas/some other food is the least we could do and cost very little. The women with their baby girls were always happy to see us, as was this one disabled man that Sean helped out, every time we visited the store.

Next stop is Minca where we plan to stay for 4 nights before coming back to Santa Marta for a flight.

Thanks for reading fam, love you all. <3

[aliofvalhalla]

As Long As We're Together (Epilogue)

Readers thoughts of the past are written in italics

For a year we travelled. Always on the road; occasionally stopping at roadside motels, settling for a few days or weeks in little family towns, sometimes just living out of the truck.

It didn't matter where we were, as long as we were together.

We'd seen hide nor hair of Wyatt or Jax or anyone affiliated with Deadlock. In fact, on one of our longer stays in a town, I'd heard a rumour that the gang had been arrested by Overwatch officials. We both kind of hoped it was true.

A few days after that, it was confirmed that Deadlock had finally been caught and all of their operations were cleaned out by Overwatch. We watched the news on the TV of a cool, red and white, retro diner and shared a thankful glance at each other over our milkshakes and fries.

We settled down in Colorado after that...close to where Jesse's favourite Aunt lived when he was a kid. We used the leftover profits from our Deadlock days to buy a humble farm and a couple of acres. Jesse and I started work on our own terms and began to sell our produce to the local markets.

He was able to buy that motorcycle he always wanted...some sort of vintage Harley-Davidson. We kept the truck through...good old Chevy the Chevrolet. She was a reminder of our leap of faith; our second chance...a symbol of freedom. We still took her out for rides into town or if we needed groceries, but my favourite times were when we took the motorcycle out at dusk. I'd cling tight to Jesse's waist as he drove us up to the little nearby mountain range. We'd walk to one of the highest ridges and sit together watching the stars.

After six months in our home, we got a dog. An Australian cattle dog puppy named Clint. He and Jesse became instant best friends; both as mischievous as the other.

Another year and the morning of New Year's Eve rolled around. Jesse said he had a surprise for me. He said I had to stay out of the currently vacant barn until later that night. He and Clint stayed in there all day. I complied to his rule and did some odd jobs around the house and the farm and then settled down to read the book I was mid-way through whilst I waited...only when I did, I noticed the makeshift beer mat bookmark was gone. I thought nothing of it and tried to remember where I was up to until Jesse came to get me.

It was 8:07pm, and it seemed Jesse had finally finished whatever he was up to in the barn as he came into the house and tried to sneak upstairs.

"Where are you going?" I'd asked amusedly without turning.

"I'll only be a minute, sweet pea. I'm gonna go change...you get ready for your surprise." Is what he'd said; a hint of mischief hidden behind his words.

Jesse had come back downstairs about 30 minutes later looking smarter than I'd ever seen him. His hair was brushed back into a little ponytail, his beard was trimmed. Granted, he was still wearing a plaid shirt and jeans, but he'd tucked the shirt in, presumably to look more presentable.

I'd walked over to him then and untucked it, "I prefer it this way."

He'd smirked and lead me outside. Standing outside of the barn I felt apprehensive, but safe and happy knowing that I was with the man I loved. Walking inside I had instantly recognised what he'd done. He had turned the inside of the barn into a replica of the place we first met...The High Tide. Looking around, I smiled at the details. He'd made a makeshift bar out of spare log wood, complete with bottles of aged whiskey, rose wine and beer. He'd brought the small, wooden picnic table from the garden inside to represent the bar tables, atop it sat my High Tide souvenir beer mat.

We spent the night together reminiscing about the first time we saw each other, the stuff we'd joke about at the bar, our favourite moments together...then, when the New Year rung in, he didn't kiss me, but instead dropped to his knees before me and presented a velvety, navy box.

I married him one year later, on New Year's Day. It was a quiet ceremony. Me, him and a few of our friends from the community. It was the happiest day of my life. The way he looked into my eyes when I reached his side at the altar, with his own warm, coffee ones melted the heart inside of me and I almost forgot how to breath.

It'll be our two year anniversary soon, but not before we celebrate Christmas! This time of year with Jesse and Clint is never anything less than perfect, but this year it's gonna be a little different.

This time it's me that has a surprise.

You snapped out of your wondering thoughts with a smile etched on your face and turned your attention back to wrapping the gift in front of you. You carefully folded the metallic red paper around the little, white  rectangular box and finished it off with a golden bow. You attached a tag with a picture of a puppy wearing a Santa hat to it and wrote Jesse's name on the back alongside three kisses.

You scratched Clint's ears as he nudged his head under your arms and nuzzled into your tummy. You gave him a little giggle. You realised you'd been smiling from ear to ear this whole time, so much so your cheeks were beginning to hurt. You didn't mind much, because you were overly excited to give Jesse this gift more than any other...for this gift was more than you could have ever hoped to give that captivatingly handsome boy when you laid eyes upon him at The High Tide.

Inside that little white box, amongst a bundle of yellow tissue paper, lay an odd-looking stick displaying two tiny pink lines.

[goingallthewayy]

To commemorate the new year, my dad told me the following things:

1. I need to get my shit together and find a “mate” and start making enough money to have babies because I’m approaching the age where babies born will have Down syndrome.

2. He really supported my last job but now I’m being lazy and counting on my grandparents to die so I can inherit money from them. I switched to a new (higher paying) job one month ago because I wasn’t earning enough money at the job he claims he supported. I love the fuck out of my grandparents and (perhaps optimistically) would like for them to live another 10 years at least. They have 6 kids and 11 grandkids and countless friends, foster kids, and others who are inheriting from them. I have a hard time believing my inheritance will be anything significant even if that was something I had hung my hat on.

3. Im a charity case because my sister gave me her old car (she had been trying to sell it for months and couldn’t and was panicking because she was moving to a different state and I had a friend who offered to drive the car down to me- the same friend is watching my sisters new puppy when her pet sitter flaked two days into our family vacation). Also because my grandpa co-signed for a loan I took out two years ago (paid off in 12 months). He also co-signed for their home loan when they were both dual-income adults and the home they were buying was 60k.

4. Im a “gym exile” and gave up the gym. (Insert long look at my waistline.)

—

My life feels like it’s falling apart. I moved to a new city and I’m not enjoying my new job. I miss my old job. I miss my old town. I miss my friends and coworkers in the country. I miss living in a house with a yard instead of a TINY apartment in the city.

My relationship is going the right direction- that is, towards a cliff. He’s moving back to Colorado. He’s also taking his dog, who I love with my whole heart and soul and will miss terribly. I’ll miss my boyfriend, too. I need space. I’m not interested in a relationship right now. But he’s so handy and we do stuff together and we have so much history together. He’s so good to me. He cooks, he walks the dogs, he rubs my back, he fixes things that are broken, he loves me even when I gain weight or look ugly, he is genuinely a phenomenal boyfriend. And I just can’t make myself love him. It’s awful.

I’m sad for my dog to go back to having just me- it’s a big thing for him to lose his other person and his dog companion. He just lost having a yard and daily off leash walks where he could run at large on any number of trails on BLM land five minutes from our house. Now he’s losing companionship as well. I’m a good dog mom and he loves me. But his quality of life has definitely changed and will change again when my boyfriend leaves.

Im trying to make the most of my move. I’m trying to stay positive on this family vacation. I’m trying to stay positive about making new friends and about my new job. Im trying to stay positive. So I swear my next post will be New Years resolutions and annual review. I just needed to write those words out of my system.

[microshiner]

Ska, craft spirits, and Colorado's real drinking town

The hangover bell rings loud and clear in my head as I lift a 70 pound guitar cabinet into the back of a white 2000 Ford Econoline XL. Rain falls lightly. I am running on only a few slovenly hours of sleep but despite the pounding head, my mood is jovial. My band mates and I recount the night before over and over. In the world of ska music, there are few bands more respected than Hepcat, and few bands more infamous than Mephiskapheles, and we just shared the stage with both in one night. It was also the kick off to the second leg of our spring and summer run- this morning we hit the road out of Denver and head for Durango, Colorado, where we’ll spend a week in the studio and follow it up with two shows in the area including a performance at the legendary Ska Brewing Company.

Alright.

Personally, I am excited for more than one reason. I went to school in Durango, but it’s been six years since I’ve lived there and from what I can tell, the drinking scene has only gotten better. A new craft distillery just opened up, and the number of breweries has jumped from 4 to 6 (All this in a town of 17,000. Fort Collins gets the glory, but at over 150,000 residents, are their 14 breweries and 3 distilleries that impressive? Which is the real drinking town?)

I contemplate this and other pressing issues to pass the time on a 7 hour haul over the Rocky Mountains. As we climb in elevation, my mood levels off. It always does when passing time in the van. Whether I am headed somewhere new or somewhere I’ve been many times, as long as it’s light outside touring has always had a bit of a weird vibe to me. The late nights, the shows, the people, the free drink tickets - that is what it’s all about and what makes it worth it. The rush of playing a good show is matched by no drug or other experience I’ve ever had. But during the day, driving through the middle of nowhere to the next town while getting further and further away from your personal life back home, the anxiety creeps in.

Maybe it’s because I’ve never been in a band at a level where touring was our income. I’ve always had to hurry back home after each run and get to work in order to keep the bills paid. Right now, it’s about 9:30 on Monday morning. Everyone I know (except the three guys sitting here with me) is at work, or walking the dog, or heading to the bank, something normal.

Don’t get me wrong, there is certainly a level of awesome to all this. I’m never going to be a ‘company man.’ I knew that by the time I hit high school. I take a lot of pride in what I do for a living and for a hobby. But the older I get, the harder I find it to relate the stories of the road and the stories of the pen and the stories of so many nights passed in rock clubs to people who are my age but haven’t had a night out in months. The word ‘baby’ means something entirely different to them.

As Vonnegut would say - So it goes. We pull into town just in time for happy hour but unfortunately the liquor store will have to suffice for tonight; we’ve got to get to the studio. Tomorrow I will have the opportunity to experience some of the actual culture of this town I’ve missed so much.

Tuesday morning I am walking down Main Avenue bright and early in a leisurely search for a cup of coffee and a paper. Part of me feels like a Texan, stopping to gaze into each store window as I pass by and then actually purchasing, after looking around to make sure no one I know is in sight then ducking quickly into the storefront, a “Durango” t-shirt. I’ll have to bury this down in my backpack so my bandmates never see it. I justify the window shopping and eventual purchase as a mere way to pass some time before my scheduled meeting with some real locals, the owners of Durango Craft Spirits, at 10 o’clock.

I walk into the tasting room to meet owners Michael and Amy McCardell. Immediately I can tell that the duo lives by their motto and are ‘Inspired by the true spirit of Durango’ - It is only 10 am but the room is full of bluegrass music and the McCardell’s beckoning call for a drink. Michael handles the distilling of what is currently their sole offering - Soiled Dove Vodka, made from a mash of 60% native grown, non-GMO white corn they get directly from the Ute Mountain Tribe of Ute in Towaoc, Colorado (just a little over an hour from Durango). His soft voice, with a bit of a country tinge, makes even a short sentence sound well-rehearsed and wise. Perfect for telling stories, and I’m guessing he has a lot of them.

Lucky for me, Michael is not at all shy about telling the story of Durango Craft Spirits, his pride and joy.

It is, I learn quickly, Durango’s first post-prohibition, grain-to-glass distillery. “We’ve got a couple friends over at Ska, Dave (Thibodeau) and Bill (Graham), that opened Peach Street Distillery, in Grand Junction) years ago and one day I met the old distiller and Bill brought in one of their first bottles of gin, along with a bottle of Bombay Sapphire,” Michael says. “It was just unbelievably so much better. That first opened my eyes to craft distilling.”

This was over ten years ago, and until that day Michael had no plans at all of going into the distilling business. “A couple years later, I’m hiking around a piece of property up north with the county assessor, and he said ‘I gotta tell you this story. There’s a buddy of mine who thought he found some ancient Anasazi ruins on his property and he wanted me to come check them out. They hiked up there on a cliff to an Anasazi looking wall and there was an old still sitting back there.’”

He decided to do some research and try to figure out what kind of distilling was done in the area. “I started reading a few books about distilling in the area, and there was quite a bit done,” Michael says. “Especially turn of the last century when the silver market took a crash. A lot of the miners took to cooking booze in the mines.”

With his interest piqued, Michael attended three distilling schools and landed himself an internship at Wood’s High Mountain Distillery in Salida, CO, with the intention of opening his own show in Durango once he learned about the operational side. Both Michael and Amy had spent years in the local hospitality industry managing hotels and a golf club.

As their current jobs came to end due to sell offs, the decision was made to go full-steam with the distillery concept. Step one, securing a location. Where They landed right on the corner of 11th and Main, in the heart of downtown, and opened in January of this year.

Their setup is pretty simple - tasting room in the front, still setup and work area in the back (visible to guests), and office off to the side. Nice and cozy. “We go grain to glass right in the building with all regional grains,” Michael says. “We’re real proud to mash, distill, and bottle right in house.” I had been sold on their concept already, but at this point I could not continue the interview without trying some of their product.

Amy, generally in charge of the tasting room and PR, hands me a pour from behind the bar. I stir, smell, and sip. Then I gasp.

I am not a vodka drinker. My taste for the stuff was ruined by too much Smirnoff as a teenager. But this morning I am happy to make an exception. This stuff is good. Smooth, one of those spirits that you know would be perfect in a cocktail but it almost seems like a sin to dilute it, like a fine scotch. Until you realize that a vodka of such high quality could finally allow you to drink those plastic-bottle vodka infused party concoctions you swore off in your mid-twenties because you can’t stand the headaches any more, minus the headache. “I use a pretty strange recipe for the vodka compared to other distilleries, and it gives it a pretty unique flavor.” That, I agree, is easy to notice.

“The product is tied to Durango’s history,” Michael informs me as empty my glass. “Soiled doves being a Victorian term for the prostitutes of the town. They operated into the 1960s in Durango and were fined heavily, with the fines helping to cover the cost of the schools, the police department, and the fire department.”

The McCardells pay homage to these lovely financiers on the back of their bottle. The cocktails served in the tasting room are also related to the town’s history, an effort that has most certainly allowed the curious tourist to feel more accomplished in his imbibing. The distillery looks to release an unaged whiskey this fall, with barreling scheduled to begin this month. The vodka is currently only sold within 150 miles of Durango. “We are being (probably) too cautious about our growth,” Michael says. They do, however, plan to expand further across Colorado. Not bad for a true mom-and-pop and operation.

I like to think that my band is a mom-and-pop operation. I guess it would be a quadruple-pop operation. Like Michael and Amy, we have grown our small company from nothing into nothing less than an amazing life experience, with no real guidance other learned experience. We have made plenty of mistakes over the last eight years but have slowly made progress come from each of them. We’ve dealt with marriages, jobs, mortgages, kids, operational disagreements, and an old van catching on fire on the road, and as life has happened, we have found a way to happen with it. Back in the early days, circa 2007-2010, I put all of my eggs in that basket. I was willing to work crappy kitchen jobs and live in dilapidated apartments so that I would in turn have the flexibility to leave town when I needed to and be able to keep my financial overhead at a bare minimum in order to play music multiple nights a week. I cared about nothing other than making the band succeed. I lost relationships and friends.

The other guys, at least the two I started the group with, did the same. And then, in the fall of 2010, we crashed and burned hard. So hard, in fact, that over the next two years we did next to nothing with the group. We had no money, our leases were up, and we had nowhere left to go. For a while, we went our separate ways. Our biggest lesson, and one of the most important things I have ever gotten out of life, is that you have to have options - you have to have more than one card to play. As we’ve grown up since then, we have found ways to have other priorities in life while still being able to come back and execute with the band when it’s time.

While the band was on ‘unofficial hiatus’, I filled the musical craving in another group, but I was also able to take the experiences I had with the band, mix them with my college degree, and create some kind of shit show career path based on music business and journalism. Five years later I feel I can see it blossoming. To me, the craft lifestyle embodies that same spirit - live life, take what you’ve got, mix in a heavy dose of passion, and throw it to wind. It takes awhile, but when it finally comes full circle, it tastes so damn good.

[sixpenceee]

The chicken that lived for 18 months without a head 

Via the BBC

Seventy years ago, a farmer beheaded a chicken in Colorado, and it refused to die. Mike, as the bird became known, survived for 18 months and became famous. But how did he live without a head for so long, asks Chris Stokel-Walker.

On 10 September 1945 Lloyd Olsen and his wife Clara were killing chickens, on their farm in Fruita, Colorado. Olsen would decapitate the birds, his wife would clean them up. But one of the 40 or 50 animals that went under Olsen's hatchet that day didn't behave like the rest.

"They got down to the end and had one who was still alive, up and walking around," says the couple's great-grandson, Troy Waters, himself a farmer in Fruita. The chicken kicked and ran, and didn't stop.

It was placed in an old apple box on the farm's screened porch for the night, and when Lloyd Olsen woke the following morning, he stepped outside to see what had happened. "The damn thing was still alive," says Waters.

"It's part of our weird family history," says Christa Waters, his wife.

Waters heard the story as a boy, when his bedridden great-grandfather came to live in his parents' house. The two had adjacent bedrooms, and the old man, often sleepless, would talk for hours.

"He took the chicken carcasses to town to sell them at the meat market," Waters says.

"He took this rooster with him - and back then he was still using the horse and wagon quite a bit. He threw it in the wagon, took the chicken in with him and started betting people beer or something that he had a live headless chicken."

Word spread around Fruita about the miraculous headless bird. The local paper dispatched a reporter to interview Olsen, and two weeks later a sideshow promoter called Hope Wade travelled nearly 300 miles from Salt Lake City, Utah. He had a simple proposition: take the chicken on to the sideshow circuit - they could make some money.

"Back then in the 1940s, they had a small farm and were struggling," Waters says. "Lloyd said, 'What the hell - we might as well.'"

First they visited Salt Lake City and the University of Utah, where the chicken was put through a battery of tests. Rumour has it that university scientists surgically removed the heads of many other chickens to see whether any would live.

It was here that Life Magazine came to marvel over the story of Miracle Mike the Headless Chicken - as he had by now been branded by Hope Wade. Then Lloyd, Clara and Mike set off on a tour of the US.

They went to California and Arizona, and Hope Wade took Mike on a tour of the south-eastern United States when the Olsens had to return to their farm to collect the harvest.

The bird's travels were carefully documented by Clara in a scrapbook that is preserved in the Waters's gun safe today.

People around the country wrote letters - 40 or 50 in all - and not all positive. One compared the Olsens to Nazis, another from Alaska asked them to swap Mike's drumstick in exchange for a wooden leg. Some were addressed only to "The owners of the headless chicken in Colorado", yet still found their way to the family farm.

After the initial tour, the Olsens took Mike the Headless Chicken to Phoenix, Arizona, where disaster struck in the spring of 1947.

"That's where it died - in Phoenix," Waters says.

Mike was fed with liquid food and water that the Olsens dropped directly into his oesophagus. Another vital bodily function they helped with was clearing mucus from his throat. They fed him with a dropper, and cleared his throat with a syringe.

The night Mike died, they were woken in their motel room by the sound of the bird choking. When they looked for the syringe they realised they had left it at the sideshow, and before they could find an alternative, Mike suffocated.

"For years he would claim he had sold [the chicken] to a guy in the sideshow circuit," Waters says, before pausing. "It wasn't until, well, a few years before he died that he finally admitted to me one night that it died on him. I think he didn't ever want to admit he screwed up and let the proverbial goose that lays golden eggs die on him."

Olsen would never tell what he did with the dead bird. "I'm willing to bet he got flipped out in the desert somewhere between here and Phoenix, on the side of the road, probably eaten by coyotes," Waters says.

But by any measure Mike, bred as a fryer chicken, had a good innings. How had he been able to survive for so long?

The thing that surprises Dr Tom Smulders, a chicken expert at the Centre for Behaviour and Evolution at Newcastle University, is that he did not bleed to death. The fact that he was able to continue functioning without a head he finds easier to explain.

For a human to lose his or her head would involve an almost total loss of the brain. For a chicken, it's rather different.

"You'd be amazed how little brain there is in the front of the head of a chicken," says Smulders.

It is mostly concentrated at the back of the skull, behind the eyes, he explains.

Reports indicate that Mike's beak, face, eyes and an ear were removed with the hatchet blow. But Smulders estimates that up to 80% of his brain by mass - and almost everything that controls the chicken's body, including heart rate, breathing, hunger and digestion - remained untouched.

It was suggested at the time that Mike survived the blow because part or all of the brain stem remained attached to his body. Since then science has evolved, and what was then called the brain stem has been found to be part of the brain proper.

"Most of the bird brain as we know it now would actually be considered the brain stem back then," Smulders says.

"The names that had been given to parts of the bird brain in the late 1800s were all indicating equivalences with the mammalian brain that were in fact wrong."

Why those who tried to create a Mike of their own did not succeed is hard to explain. It seems the cut, in Mike's case, came in just the right place, and a timely blood clot luckily prevented him bleeding to death.

Troy Waters suspects that his great-grandfather tried to replicate his success with the hatchet a few times.

Certainly, others did. A neighbour who lived up the road would buy up any chickens for sale at an auction in nearby Grand Junction, Colorado, and stop by the family farm with a six-pack of beer for Olsen, to persuade him to explain exactly how he did it.

"I remember [him] telling me, laughing, that he got free beer every other weekend because the neighbour was sure he got filthy rich off this chicken," Waters says.

"Filthy rich" was an opinion many held in Fruita of the Olsen family. But according to Waters, that was an exaggeration.

"He did make a little money off it," Waters says. He bought a hay baler and two tractors, replacing his horse and mule. And also - a  bit of a luxury - a 1946 Chevrolet pickup truck.

Waters once asked Lloyd Olsen if he had fun. "He said, 'Oh yeah, I had a chance to travel around and see parts of the country I probably otherwise wouldn't have seen. I was able to modernise and have farm equipment.' But it was something he put in his past.

"He still farmed the rest of his life, scratched a living out of the dirt."

[loretranscripts]

Lore Episode 8: The Castle (Transcript) - 15th July 2015

tw: death, skeletons, graphic descriptions of violence, medical procedures, body horror, torture, abortion, execution, hanging - generally not for anyone squeamish

Disclaimer: This transcript is entirely non-profit and fan-made. All credit for this content goes to Aaron Mahnke, creator of Lore podcast. It is by a fan, for fans, and meant to make the content of the podcast more accessible to all. Also, there may be mistakes, despite rigorous re-reading on my part. Feel free to point them out, but please be nice!

On January 17th, 1894, a couple stood before a minister in the Vendome Hotel in Denver, Colorado. Henry Howard and Georgiana Yoke were about to be married. Standing near them was their witness, a woman named Minnie Williams. The bride had come from Indiana to escape a scandalous reputation and had found work in Chicago at a store owned by Henry. She was a tall, slender woman, about 25 years of age, with blue eyes and blonde hair, and she was madly in love with Henry. It sounds wonderful. It sounds perfect, actually, but there was trouble in paradise even before they met the minister there at the hotel. You see, Henry was already married. He was, in fact, married to two other women, and Minnie, the woman standing as witness, was actually Henry’s mistress of over a year. Even Henry’s name was fake – his real name had been abandoned long before, and it would be months before Georgiana would discover who he really was. Sometimes we think we know a person, only to discover that we were fooled. Community is built on trust, and that trust allows us to make connections, to let down our guard and to feel safe. When that trust is broken, though, our minds quickly shift to disappointment and stress and outright fear. Sure, it happens less often now in the age of Facebook and social media, but in the late 1800s very little stood in the way of a person falsifying their identity, and Henry Howard, or whoever he was prior to that moment in Denver, had turned that skill into an art. Few people knew this about Henry, though - in fact, few people could have imagined what deep, dark secrets boiled just beneath the surface of this smiling young groom. And when the world finally did find out, exactly ten months later, they could barely contain their horror. I’m Aaron Mahnke, and this is Lore.

Henry Howard was born in New Hampshire in 1861 as Herman Mudgett. His parents were wealthy, well-respected people in their community, and their son was born into that privilege. But from an early age, Henry was a problem child, constantly getting into trouble. According to Mudgett himself, as a child his classmates forced him to view and touch a human skeleton after learning that he was afraid of the town doctor. Their prank backfired, though, generating a deep fascination rather than frightening him off, and that obsession with death would only grow. Soon the boy was expressing interest in medicine. One report even claims that he would actually perform surgery on animals. Along with his excellent performance in school, he was able to pursue that interest and enter medical school, enrolling at the University of Michigan as H. H. Holmes in 1879. Far from home and with access to resources that he previously lacked, college allowed Holmes to get creative. He devised an easy way to make money, a drive that would fuel many of his future crimes. It involved stealing a cadaver from the medical lab. Holmes would disfigure the corpse, plant the body somewhere that gave it the appearance of being the victim of a tragic accident, and then a few days later he would approach the life insurance company with a policy for his “deceased relative” and collect the cash. His final insurance swindle in Michigan netted him $12,500, but he knew his welcome was wearing thin. After collecting the money, he vanished, abandoning school and his new wife and child, who he never saw again.

He moved around the country doing legitimate work, but also learning his way around the business world. He mastered the art of buying product on credit, avoiding the bills, selling the items and then vanishing with the profit. Armed with that skill, he soon settled in Englewood, just south of Chicago, and that’s where he met Doctor Elizabeth Holton. It was 1885 – Holmes was trying to avoid creditors from all around the country, but rather than vanish into obscurity, he chose to hide in plain sight. He married his second wife, polygamously of course, and took a job at a local drug store owned and run by Doctor Elizabeth Holton, who’s husband was dying of cancer. Holmes spent the next two years becoming more and more essential to Holton’s business, paying her for ownership of the business and building relationships with the customers. When Mr. Holton finally did pass away, the payments from Holmes stopped and Mrs. Holton became upset, threatening to end their business partnership, but nothing happened. Nothing happened, because Doctor Holton mysteriously vanished. When asked about her disappearance, Holmes told the authorities she’d moved to the west to live with her family – right after she had signed over the business to him, of course. And the police bought the lie. Holmes operated the drugstore as if nothing had happened, growing the business and continuing his chess game of evading creditors. But when the empty lot across the street became available, he couldn’t resist the temptation. Holmes, you see, had bigger plans.

The World’s Columbian Exhibition was scheduled to be hosted in Chicago in 1983, and he envisioned a hotel that could house the countless visitors who would travel to the area. His project was lovingly called “The Castle”, which wasn’t far from the truth – it was 50ft wide and over 160ft long, taking up half a city block. With three storeys and a basement, it would eventually have over 100 rooms within its walls, and Holmes (ever the micro-manager) took on the task of project architect, refusing to share the plans with anyone else. Workers on the building asked questions, naturally, but when they did, Holmes would replace them. Most of the men working on the project never lasted more than two weeks, and all told, over 500 carpenters and craftsmen worked on The Castle. True to form, Holmes managed to avoid paying most of them as well; he would accuse them of shoddy work and refuse their wages. Some sued him, but he managed to put those cases off long enough that they eventually gave up. And once completed, Holmes moved the drugstore into the building’s ground floor and rented out space to other shops. His personal offices were located on the top floor, and the remaining space was rented out as temporary living quarters, marketed as a boarding house for young, single women. The Castle was open for business. Unfortunately, not everyone who stayed there managed to survive the hospitality that Holmes offered them.

When Mrs. Pansy Lee arrived from New Orleans, she rented a room at The Castle. She was a widow and had travelled all over the United States, before arriving in Chicago to settle down. When Holmes learned that she kept $4000 in cash in the false bottom of her trunk, he kindly offered to keep it in his store vault for her. Mrs. Lee declined the offer and vanished a short time later. While some people came to The Castle for lodging, others were looking for work. One of the requirements that Holmes imposed was that all of his employees were to have life insurance policies for the sum of $5000. Holmes, remember, knew the life insurance business well. And when 17-year-old Jenny Thompson arrived from Illinois looking for work, Holmes saw an opportunity. She was young and pretty, the exact sort of blonde-haired, blue-eyed beauty that he preferred, and he quickly gave her a job. In casual conversation, Jenny let slip that her family didn’t actually know where she was. She had told them that she was travelling to New York, but the offer of a good job was enough to keep her right there in Chicago. She told Holmes that she couldn’t wait to tell her parents about her good fortune. Before she did, though, he escorted her up to her room, and she was never seen again.

In 1890, Ned Connor arrived at The Castle looking for work. He travelled with his wife, Julia, who was unusually tall for a woman at nearly 6ft, and their young daughter Pearl. Ned was a watchmaker and a jeweller, and Holmes hired him right away. But it was Ned’s wife who captured his attention the most. Holmes soon fired his bookkeeper and gave the job to Julia. Not long after, it began to be obvious that Holmes was more than a little friendly with Ned’s wife. Ned, for his part, turned a blind eye – it seems  he was simply glad to have a job with steady pay and a roof over his head. When Julia became pregnant, though, Ned finally took the hint. He packed up, filed for divorce, and left her and Pearl in the care of Holmes, who immediately took out life insurance policies for both of them. But Holmes had a new problem: Julia knew the business too well, and she presented a threat to his illicit activities. Holmes found a solution, though. He told Julia that he would marry her, but only if she would have an abortion. Julia resisted at first, but finally, on December 24th, 1891, she gave in. She asked Holmes to put Pearl to bed, and then he led her to the basement, where he had a makeshift operating room. Julia and Pearl were never seen again. That same winter, Holmes summoned a man named Charles Chappell to his office. Now, Chappell performed odd jobs around The Castle, but he had a particular skill that Holmes required: he was incredibly gifted in the craft of articulating skeletons. Chappell arrived, and Holmes led him to a second-floor room, where the body of a woman lay on a table. According to Chappell’s own testimony to the authorities, the body had been “skinned like a jackrabbit”. He assumed, since Holmes was a doctor, that he had simply been performing an autopsy on a patient and pushed his doubts to the back of his mind. Holmes paid Chappell $36 to strip the flesh off the body and prepare the bones for articulation. The finished skeleton was sold to a Doctor Pauling of the Hahnemann Medical College. Doctor Pauling would often look at the skeleton in his private office and marvel at how unusual it was to see a woman who was nearly 6ft tall.

Holmes eventually made a critical mistake. Ironically, it was his old love of insurance scams that caught up with him in the end. After killing his right-hand man, Benjamin Pitezel, and attempting to pass the death off as an accident to the insurance company, the authorities caught wind of the crime and tracked him down. He was finally arrested in Boston on November 17th, 1894, 10 months to the day from his wedding ceremony in the Denver hotel. Before his trial began, however, The Castle was mysteriously gutted by fire. Thankfully, the authorities had already been able to search the building, and after doing so, they had given it a new name: “The Murder House”. The authorities discovered that, like any boarding house at the time, The Castle had a reception room, a waiting room and many rooms for residents to live in. But the building had more inside its wall than was expected. There were secret chambers, trapdoors, peepholes and hidden laboratories. Aside from the 35 guest rooms, the second floor was a labyrinth of passages. Some doors opened on brick walls, some could only be opened from one side and others were hidden completely from sight. Trapdoors led to staircases that led to hidden chambers. There were even alarms in all of the rooms that would alert Holmes in his quarters if any prisoners tried to escape. Some of the rooms were windowless and could be sealed off and made airtight if necessary. Some were equipped with gas jets that were fed by pipes from the basement. Others were lined with asbestos and had visible scorch marks on the floor. Then there was “the vault”. It was a room that could fit a single person, and only then if they were standing. The walls inside the vault were lined with iron plate, broken only by a handful of gas fixtures and a trapdoor that led to a chute. On the inside of the door was a single footprint, the size of a woman’s boot. It was a homemade gas chamber that was designed to deliver corpses straight to the basement. And when the police descended to the lowest level of the building, they discovered that Holmes had expanded the basement beyond the foundation of the building and out beneath the sidewalk. He did this to make room for all of his equipment. Here they found the dissection table, still splattered with blood, jars of poison filled a shelf, and a large wooden box nearby contained multiple female skeletons. A crematorium was built into one wall, which still contained ash and bone fragment. A search also found valuables that belonged to some of his victims: a watch that belonged to Minnie Williams, scraps of fabric, tintype photographs, and a ball of women’s hair, carefully wrapped in cloth. The bones of a child were found buried in a pit, and the remnants of a bloody dress were recovered from a woodburning stove. When Ned Conner was asked to identify the fabric, he confirmed that it belonged to his wife, Julia. A rack designed to stretch bodies was also discovered. Beneath the dirt floor, they found a vat of corrosive acid and two quicklime pits, used for quickly dissolving the flesh off of corpses. There were human skulls, a shoulder blade, ribs, a hip socket and countless other human remains. Whatever the police had hoped to find that day, they were simply unprepared for the truth. In the end, they had discovered a medieval chattel [?] house, right beneath their feet.

It’s easy to feel safe in our own neighbourhood, walking past the closed doors and manicured lawns, but what goes on behind those walls is never something that we can be sure of. Each and every person we meet wears a mask, and we’re only allowed to peek behind it if they let us. Society is built on the idea that we can trust the people around us, that we can take our neighbours, our family, even our co-workers at face value, and enter into relationships with them. But with every relationship comes risk. We risk disappointment, we risk pain and betrayal. For some of us, we even risk our very safety. European mapmakers of the 15th century would sometimes mark unexplored areas of their maps with a warning: “here there be monsters”. There’s danger in the places we haven’t explored, and while this was true then of undiscovered continents, it has always been true of humanity. Beneath the surface, behind the mask, hides the monster. On May 7th, 1896, after a final meal of boiled eggs, dry toast and a cup of coffee, H. H. Holmes was led to the gallows at Moyamensing Prison. A black hood was placed over his head, and as the crowd outside the prison walls shouted their insults and jeers, he was positioned over the trapdoor. When it opened, Holmes dropped, and his head snapped to the side. But rather than killing him quickly, the rope had somehow broken his neck and left him alive. The crowd watched for over 15 minutes as Holmes hung from the noose, fingers and feet twitching and dancing, before his heart finally stopped beating. Holmes was buried in an unmarked grave in Holy Cross Cemetery, just south of Philadelphia. As per his request, there was no autopsy, and his body was buried in a coffin filled with cement. Holmes, you see, was afraid that someone would dig up his body and use his skeleton for science. He was probably right. We don’t know how many people he killed – Holmes confessed to a variety of numbers, even changing his story again on the hangman’s platform. Some experts who have studied the missing person’s reports of the World’s Columbian Exhibition have placed the possible death toll as high as 200. There’s so much we don’t know about Holmes, a man whose entire life seemed to be one elaborate lie built atop another, like some macabre house of cards. He will forever remain a mystery to us, a monster hidden behind a mask that was painted to look just like you or I. But one last insight into the man can be found in his written confession. “I was born with the devil in me”, he wrote, “I could not help the fact that I was a murderer, no more than the poet can help the inspiration to sing. I was born with the evil one standing as my sponsor beside the bed where I was ushered into the world, and he has been with me since.”

Lore is a biweekly podcast, and was produced by me, Aaron Mahnke. You can find out more about this episode, including the background music, at lorepodcast.com, and be sure to follow us on Twitter and Facebook, @lorepodcast. This episode of Lore was made possible by you, our amazing listeners. [Insert sponsor break]. And to find out how you can support Lore, visit lorepodcast.com/support. You’ll find links to help you leave a review on iTunes, support Lore on Patreon for some awesome rewards, and find the list of my supernatural thrillers, available in both paperback and eBook formats. I couldn’t do this show without you, and I’m thankful to each and every one of you. Thanks for listening.