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tinyshe · 5 years ago

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Garden Report 19.09.29

Autumn is full steam ahead and can’t wait to leave! The weather is definitely November: heavy rains, winds that can’t wait to claw the leaves from the trees, new grasses sprouting, the geese lifting and flying at night to race ahead of the icy dew. It is fast and furious and a wee bit confusing to the senses when one wants to march to the beat of the calendar and not jig to Mother Nature’s tempo -- if you can’t dance, get off the floor! My little feathered executioner of Summer sits on the fence teasing and cajoling in his song ‘he-he-he, summer’s done, its all done...’

With that in mind, I am dumping projects left and right. Potting up strawberries in black plastic pots where they will ride out the winter along the south side (no time for cute towers!). Getting the apples off the trees and into lugs even if the Mehu Liisa is MIA. Worse case scenario is that I will spend late nights making apple sauce. Looking at the haws and wondering if it is worth the effort to pick or to leave for all the hungry little feather-heads. The Jerusalem artichokes that survived my mad machete are blooming. Not seeing a bee nor bumble in sight -- the air is too chilled for them to be moving much. The pears are just picturesque and lovely. I need to pick them instead of cooing at them from a distance. The starts I put in seem to doing well unless you happen to be a lettuce, where there you be, lacy leaves of something or other, after earwigs have ravished your body. Sad sight as tattered, torn and forlorn as it gets. I still need a couple of welded stock fence panels of the no climb variety. I decided I am not a trusting soul as my neighbors are outright connivers and I am done with their shenanigans -- strong fences make good neighbors. The kiwis are going to be small nut size this year; I may just limb it up and call it done for this season -- they aren’t going to get any bigger and who wants a bristly nut size fruit to eat? Not I said everyone!

Still can’t get the door hung! The door we are using doesn’t have a frame so it requires ripping timbers, making a threshold but at least I have bucket fulls of brass door nobs from an art project! No shortage there! I bet I even have the keys. Finding a bolt latch won’t be hard either.

I have silver rust on several plants. I am not surprised as this will probably be just first call. Whack it off, trundle it into a carpenter’s bag and sit in the rubbish bin. Hope that will be the last of it unless it has spread into other neighbor’s yards (or originated there) , then we will just be passing it back and forth like the dreaded lurgy >:) .

Got a call from The Donald who is very unhappy with his current employment situation. Feel bad for the bugger -- no one needs that kind of shites raining down daily but he has his chin up and doing the best he can while trying to juggle his finances to get out from under the man and back into school full time. I want to jiggle the bank account to see if I can’t get some funds for him to come help me -- I can definitely use the help but I don’t know if my funds will allow. He said he would come do it just to lend a hand but I know the situation at both ends. As much as I appreciate the offer, he needs a paying gig. We need to get burrowed into the supply realm of the carriage house so we can frame up, new roof, new floor, hearth back in, backer board tiled, stove placed and pipe fixed. There will be odd jobs plenty but I also have to pay off my medical bills in a reasonable time or they start clucking at me. Life! It always wants to get in the way at times!

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loretranscripts · 5 years ago

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Lore Episode 22: Over the Top (Transcript) - 30th November 2015

tw: assault, assault of women, potential sexual assault 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!

The streets of London were a place of fear in 1790. There had been dozens of attacks, all reported by women. A man, it seems, had been stepping out of the shadows or from around corners and pricking them with a pin. Sometimes he was covert about it: there are reports that he fitted a bouquet of flowers with a sharp object, and would ask women if they’d like to smell them – and who could resist? Others say he attached small blades to his knees and then used them to stab women in the backs of the legs, and as the story spread, so too did the panic. They called him “The London Monster”, and within weeks the entire city was on alert. In the autumn of 1803, the people of London were obsessed with a new story - it seemed that a ghost had been seen in the Hammersmith area of the city. There were whispers that he was the victim of a suicide, doomed to haunt our world forever, and many people claimed to have seen him. After months of hysteria and rumour, a police officer actually witnessed the ghost while on patrol. Francis Smith pulled his gun, called for the fiend to stop, and then fired upon it. The shot was true, and the ghost fell limp to the ground. It fell because it was, after all, just a man. Thomas Millwood had been a plasterer by trade, and because of this, he wore all white clothing. Officer Smith was tried for murder and found guilty. Few things can unite a city like fear – hysteria spreads in much the same way that the plague moved across Europe in the 17th century, but that’s not the unusual part. What’s truly odd is the depths to which people will go to believe these fears, how easily they fall in with the public outcry, and believe whatever it is they’re told. For as horrible as the “London Monster” and the Hammersmith ghost stories sound, a new fear swept the city decades later. This fear permeated so deep and spread so fast that it left a mark still visible today, because fear, even when it’s built on lies, can spread like fire. But sometimes, on rare occasions, there’s a very good reason to be afraid. I’m Aaron Mahnke, and this is Lore.

On a cool September night in 1837, Polly Adams was on her way home from the Green Man, a public house in the Black Heath area of London. She was with friends, and they talked and laughed as they walked towards Tudor’s Hill. Nearly home, the group was startled when a figure seemed to jump out of the darkness of an alley. Before anyone could react, the figure grabbed at Polly. According to her later deposition with the police, the stranger was clad in a black cloak, but his eyes seemed to burn with light. Oddly, she remembered that the man smelled of sulphur and then added, as if it were a normal thing to notice about a midnight attacker, that he also happened to spit blue fire from his mouth. Rather than help, Polly’s three travel companions ran quickly away into the night, afraid for their lives, and rightly so. The attacker ripped through Polly’s blouse with hands that seemed more like claws than anything else, but after tearing at the flesh of her stomach, the figure stopped. Pushing her to the ground, it turned around and bounded away into the night. One month after Polly Adams walked home from the Green Man, Mary Stevens was making her way back to work after a short visit with her parents in nearby Battersea. Mary worked as a servant in a home on Lavender Hill, just south of the Thames, and decided to cut through Clapham Common. Maybe not the smartest decision, no matter what century you live in. Yet Mary did just that, and set off on a quick walk through the dark trees and bushes towards her place of employment. Near the edge of the park, a figure jumped out of the shadows. The man grabbed her and pushed her to the ground, where he began to kiss her. Mary struggled, but the man’s grip was beyond tight. According to Mary, the stranger then ripped at her clothing with clawed hands that felt as cold and clammy as those of a corpse. Afraid for her life, she screamed, forcing the attacker to release her and flee the scene. The screams brought several nearby residents to her aid and a search was organised to locate the stranger, but no trace of him could be found. The following evening, in the very same neighbourhood where Mary Stephens lived, another dark figure was spotted. This time, rather than an assault, a mysterious person stepped out into the path of an oncoming carriage. The coachman, surprised by the appearance of the dark figure, lost control of the carriage before crashing it into a building. The coachman was severely injured, and the mysterious man cried out with a ringing, high-pitched laugh that chilled witnesses to the core. Then, as if his work were done, the man jumped over a nearby wall and escaped. The wall, mind you, was over 9ft tall.

Three months later, the Lord Mayor of London, a man named Sir John Cowan, spoke up at a public session at the Mansion House about a complaint he had received in the form of a letter. This letter was anonymous, but the writer claimed to be a resident of Peckham, close to Battersea and the 1837 attacks. The letter described how the attacks had all been a prank put on by an unnamed aristocrat as part of a dare. Researchers have speculated for over a century as to who the nobleman might have been, but no theories have ever panned out. Later, in January of 1838, the mayor showed off a pile of letters he had received from people in and around London, all claiming to have witnessed or been the victim of similar attacks to what Polly Adams and Mary Stevens had suffered. Though the claims can’t be proven, some letters reported that some people actually died of fright, while others were permanently traumatised by their encounters with this mysterious figure, and many of the reports contain eerily similar pieces of information. The stranger was said to be able to leap over very tall fences and walls, he was always described as having red eyes and clawed hands, and he always got away. Like a fever, the hysteria spread throughout London and the surrounding countryside. It didn’t matter that the mayor was sceptical of the whole thing; people everywhere seemed to be catching glimpses of dark shapes leaping tall buildings and terrorising their neighbours and servants. Like any movement or public experience, the people of London went looking for a name. What would they call the creature, human or not, who was at the centre of all these stories? And by late winter of 1938, they had found it, a name that would forever become part of Victorian folklore. They called him Spring-heeled Jack.

Up to this point, sightings of Spring-Heeled Jack had consisted of second-hand accounts and attacks on women with little power to demand attention, but in the winter of 1938 all of that changed. On the night of February 28th, Lucy and Margaret Scales set off from the home of their brother, who worked as a butcher on Narrow Street in the Limehouse district. History hasn’t remembered their destination; all we know is at around 8:30pm that night, the two young women walked off into the shadows, naively confident in their own safety. Minutes later their brother, the butcher, heard screams off in the distance, in the direction of a street known as Green Dragon Alley. When he realised that the voice was that of his sister, Margaret, he dashed off to find her. I like to imagine that he still had on his bloody apron and most likely picked up a meat cleaver on his way out, before making the run. When he found his sisters, Margaret was on her knees in the dark alley, Lucy’s body cradled in her arms. The young woman wasn’t dead, but she was unconscious, and Margaret was hysterical. As her brother helped the two women home, Margaret told him the story of what had happened. They had stepped into the alley, but a few paces in, a dark figure stepped out of the shadows and approached them quickly. Lucy had been standing in front of her sister, just a few paces separating the two women. Because of this, it was Lucy who took the full brunt of the assault. The figure, she said, was that of a man; Margaret described him as tall and very thin, dressed in the manner of a gentleman and wrapped up in a large, dark cloak. He held a lantern, known then as a bullseye, a small, round type carried by officers of the law, and maybe that’s why the women let him approach so carelessly. That’s when things took a turn for the worse. According to Margaret’s report, which she later filed with the police office in Lambeth, the cloaked man stepped close to Lucy and spat blue flames at her face. The flames, she claimed, erupted from the man’s mouth, and the sight of them blinded and shocked Lucy, who collapsed right there on the spot. Margaret worried that she was next, but she also had been concerned for her sister, Lucy, who now lay on the cobblestone, writhing in the throes of some kind of seizure. And then, as if his mission had been accomplished, the dark figure leapt over Margaret and onto the roof of a nearby house before vanishing into London’s darkness.

Sometime during the same week, the shadowy figure of Spring-Heeled Jack made another appearance. Jane Alsop was reading a book, around 9pm. She lived in one of the nicer neighbourhoods in the east end of London along with her father and two sisters, and on the night in question, she was closest to the front door, which is probably why she was the one who heard the shouting. From across the small yard, a voice had cried out in the darkness. There was a gate there that allowed access to the property and served as a small measure of security, but the voice that had shouted belonged to someone professing to be a police officer. An officer, in fact, that claimed to have captured none other than Spring-Heeled Jack. The man had called out for a light and Jane, being a dutiful citizen, grabbed a lit candle and exited her home to deliver it to the officer. As she handed it to him, the man tossed off his cloak, exposing his true appearance by the light of the flickering flame. This was no police officer; what Jane saw took her breath away. The figure was clothed in what appeared to be a tight-fitting, one-piece suit of white fabric, along with a metal helmet. According to Jane, the man’s eyes glowed red and were set within a face more hideous and frightening than any she had seen before. And then, without warning, the figure spat blue flames from his mouth. This time though, Jack wasn’t content to stop there. With Jane partially blinded by the flash of bright flames, he reached out and grasped her with his arms. In the report that her family filed later that night, at the same Lambeth police office where Lucy Scales had told her story, Jane further described her assault. The man, if that’s what he really was, tore into her dress with fingers that felt to her like metal claws. He tore through her dress and then cut through to her skin, ripping deep, painful gashes in her abdomen. Jane screamed, perhaps from the pain, or maybe from her primal fear, and then she ran. Her front door was just meters away and open, and so she bolted quickly for that safe sliver of light in the shadow-covered façade of the house. She was mere steps away from the doorway, a heartbeat from safety, when Jack caught up. His clawed hands grabbed around her neck and shoulder. Sharp, metallic fingers tore at Jane’s young flesh. Patches of hair were pulled free from her scalp. Blood was everywhere. Her family had heard her screams, though, and just as her attacker was slashing at her face, her father reached toward her from within the house. Two arms, outstretched to touch one target; one to harm, one to save. Thankfully, it was Jane’s father who won. Grabbing her by the arm, he pulled hard and brought her back inside, slamming the door behind her.

Many of the details surrounding Spring-Heeled Jack, details that were so out-of-the-ordinary and unusual, seemed to be echoed in each new eye witness account: the red eyes, the white body suit, the sharp claws… But something set Jane Alsop’s story apart from all the others – she was well-off. Not part of the elite, but high enough up the social ladder that her story caught the attention of the local newspapers, as well as the police, and when the upper class feel threatened, they take action. When word spread that Jack was hunting women throughout London, the police began to arrest suspects, although none were ever brought to trial. Groups of vigilantes banded together and patrolled the street at night, both to assist the police in protecting the people of London, but also with the hope of capturing the mysterious attacker. Upon reading about the attacks that had begun to plague the good people of London, one 70-year-old retired military veteran actually dusted off his guns, pulled on his boots, and rode off in search of the monster responsible. Though he was never successful in capturing, or even setting eyes on, the mysterious Spring-Heeled Jack, the gesture did much to calm the nerves of the locals, and how could it not? He was, after all, the Duke of Wellington, the man who fought Napoleon and won. Needless to say, the stories began to spread. Several penny dreadfuls were written about the mysterious Jack, whose exploits were perfect for the cheap, serialised fiction that the genre was built around. In theatres around London, several plays appeared that featured the subject. Even the Punch and Judy puppet shows around London found a way to incorporate this shadowy public menace. In shows that once featured the devil, performers changed his name to Spring-Heeled Jack.

There were, of course, a handful of additional sightings over the years to come, but while some of them stayed in the south-western area of London and Surrey county beyond that, others popped up in more distant locations. One report in Northamptonshire described an encounter with a creature that was, and I quote, “the very image of the devil himself, with horns and eyes of flames”. In Devon, an investigation was mounted to find the man responsible for assaulting women in the area, and the suspect’s description had some similarities to Spring-Heeled Jack. Lincolnshire, on the eastern coast of England, was the location of another documented sighting in the 1870s. One witness described a caped figure who was seen leaping over cottages in a small village. When the locals grabbed their guns and tried to shoot the figure, they claimed they could hear their bullets strike him, but the only result was a metallic ringing sound. “Jack” got away. One of the last encounters of note occurred in Aldershot, on the very edge of Surrey county. It was geographically closer to London than most of the 1870s sightings, and some researchers believe that this proximity to the original reports lends this story more validity. On a night in August of 1877, Private John Reagan was standing guard in a small booth near a military munitions depot. While inside, he claimed to hear something metallic being scraped along the wood of the booth. He stepped outside, rifle in hand, and patrolled the area to find the source. When he was satisfied that nothing was there, he headed back to his station inside the booth, and that’s when something touched him. Looking up, he saw the figure of a tall man, wrapped in a cloak and wearing a metal helmet. Then, the figure leapt into the air and landed behind him. Reagan pointed his weapon at the figure and called out for a name, but he claims the visitor, whoever it was, simply laughed at him. The soldier fired to no effect, and the figure advanced. Then, without warning, blue flames erupted from his mouth. That’s when Reagan did what any good soldier would do under circumstances: he ran for his life. Spring-Heeled Jack never left the public mind, but as the legend slowly settled into popular culture, reports of actual appearances became less and less frequent. And then, just as Jack had seemed to cross the threshold into mythic territory, he did what every eye witness claimed he was so gifted at – he disappeared.

There’s a lesson deep inside the story of Spring-Heeled Jack. Like all the most powerful and devastating diseases of the last thousand years, ideas have a tendency to spread like fire. Today we use the term “viral”, and in many ways that’s close to the truth. Fear, panic and hysteria are all communicable diseases, and when a culture is infected, sometimes there’s no way to stop it. But unlike the plague or some new strain of bird flu, it stands to reason that we could, at the very least, calm our fears and put out the fires of hysteria. So why is it so hard to do so? Spring-Heeled Jack is just one of countless examples that have been repeated all around the world throughout history. You would think that we would have figured it out by now. Maybe we actually like mass hysteria - not the hysteria itself, mind you. What I mean is, what if there’s something about being part of a larger story that resonates with people? It binds us together, it unites us in a global conversation, it builds community. Big fears never really go away. Although Spring-Heeled Jack disappeared from the public eye in the last decade of the 19th century, some think he’s still around. In 1995, a school in a small, west Surrey village was closed by the town. Students and teachers wanted to mark the occasion, and so they put on a disco-themed celebration to say goodbye to each other and the school they loved. That night, as the party was winding down, a handful of students ran back into the school, screaming about something they had seen outside. When asked by the teachers about it, these students all told the same story. They had all left the party earlier and had been hanging out near the playground. While there, a shadowy figure had approached them in the darkness. As the shape moved closer, they saw more details. The man wore black boots and a dark, hooded cloak, but it’s what they saw beneath the cloak that frightened them the most: a one-piece suit of white cloth and glowing, red eyes.

[Closing statements]

#lore podcast #podcasts #aaron mahnke #spring-heeled jack #london #uk #dark history #transcripts #22

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