Ghostly Visions!

  Yep, it is getting on to that time!  Halloween is just around the corner and along with that comes the thoughts of eerie things.  To some folks, living on a bayou is eerie enough simply because of the local denizens that reside here.  Just the mere mention of gators or cottonmouth moccasins is enough to scare some people but, if you throw in a conversation about things screaming in the night or howling from the depths of bayou where it meets the creek, you can give many visitors a good case of the bejeebies.  (I guess I am showing my age here as "spell-check" is yelling "You cannot use that!  It is not a word!"  Umm...I am old.  I use old words.)  Anyway, the mention of anything supernatural brings out the idea that the place is haunted and...well...I am a good part of that. I am good with the analogy as it is all in fun and those who think otherwise need to lighten up a bit.

  The other morning, I peered out the screen door as Bat, the cat, wanted out.  Ahh, there was to be a lovely sunrise and I should traipse myself to the pier was all that could run through the brain...so I did.  The darkness settled around me as the sun had barely reddened the sky behind the pines on the other side of the Bayou.  Carefully choosing my way as to not step on one of those aforementioned snakes, Bat and I headed our separate ways.  He headed north while I headed south.  Soon, I was to the plank that spans the short gap to the pier planking.  This is there for high tide but makes a handy "bridge" over what could be a perfect spot for a cottonmouth to linger unseen.  Stepping lightly on the planking, I eased my way to the end of the pier.  A sole white shape could be partially seen through the darkness.  If I had been one of those scary type folks, this may have made me stop in my tracks.  (To be honest most of those folks would not have been traipsing out in the pitch black to start with but, hey!...this is me.)  The "pier ghost" stood dead still.  It did not make a move even though I edged closer.  "Well, now!  How are you my friend?" I murmured.  I received no answer.  I eased closer yet.  

  By the time I got to the end of the pier, the sky was a glorious array of reds and oranges.  My "ghost" had been starting to become drenched in the same colors but decided now was time to make its great escape.  Off to the back of the Bayou it flew on whispering wings but not without a double squawk!  Goodbye, Ghost!  

  To me, it is funny how the gorgeousness of an egret is offset by such an atrocious call.  The bird in itself is absolutely beautiful.  Its white plumes seem out of place amid the mud that is so commonplace around bayous, its graceful, elegant stance appears to be far too fragile to battle the life it lives here but it is that squawk that is most incongruous with the elegance that the bird portrays.  It just does not fit....in all fairness, though, it does fit quite well with a ghostly bayou critter!

In the Marsh or in the Swamp...Just not in the Graveyard!

  If you ever listen to the "old-timers" down here...ok, so that includes me...but if you ever listen to the tales that are told while sitting at dusk on some porch, you are bound to hear a few epic stories about rabbits. Tales of exploits long ago "when I was a youngster" abound and grow with each telling.  Some are pure fiction while others, at some point, may have had a shred of truth.  Back in the day (the usual method of starting one of these wild stories), I used to hunt rabbits with my brother.  (Yep, I am an old-timer telling this fib....err...story)   It was not against the law, so many years ago, to hunt rabbits at night with a spotlight.  We had two old carbide lights left from Grandpa's coal-mining days that put out just about enough light to see your hand in front of your face but those lights sure would make a rabbit's eye glow.  Brother and I would usually head down the old south field and wind up near a small graveyard. This graveyard had no concrete or marble headstones only large seashells marked the graves.  It seemed that both marsh rabbits and swamp rabbits loved that graveyard.  Since Brother was the elder, he always toted the old single-shot rifle and while I toted the rabbits.  It was my job to crawl under the brambles to retrieve the rabbit once he shot it.  The logic behind that was that I was smaller and, well, he had the gun and could not crawl.  The system worked well for two youngsters not yet reaching their teen years.  Pop would give us three bullets and we had better bring back three rabbits.

Pretty little Marsh Rabbit near the pier.

  One particularly dark night (moonless nights were the best for hunting), the light picked up the telltale red eye of a rabbit.  Brother raised the gun and shot.  The rabbit keeled over without a kick. I looked at Brother and got the motion to climb through the small wire fence and through the overgrown graveyard to where the rabbit had fallen.  When I reached out for the critter, it jumped up and glared at me.  Those red eyes were still glowing in the beam of the old carbide light and made the rabbit look almost evil.  Ummmm!  Gulp!  "He is not dead!" I called to Brother.  "Sit still.  Don't move an inch." was the answer I got before POW!  A shot rang out just inches from my head.  The rabbit fell over again.  "WHAT ARE YOU THINKING!"  I yelled almost falling on top of the rabbit! It is a good thing that I trusted Brother!  Reaching out for the rabbit, I was met with those red, glowing eyes once again.  "HE AIN'T DEAD!!!"  POW!  Another shot rang out before I could even finish the sentence.  Now that I was shaking from head to toe, not only from rifle shots whizzing just inches from my skull, but from a non-dying rabbit, I was thinking that it was best for me to hightail it back to the old farmhouse.

  Ok, surely that rabbit had met its demise.  That was three shots that made contact with the rabbit's head. Here I am in the middle of the night, in a graveyard with an un-dead critter.  I could smell the rabbit's blood.  I could see it oozing from the wounds. I was close enough to see three distinct wounds yet that critter jumped up to glare at me once again. That was the last bullet.  There were no more and this critter looked like he was about to eat me for supper.  "UMMM....DO SOMETHING! NOW!!"  Just then, I felt a hand on my shoulder.  I almost freaked out because I could still see Brother's carbide light flickering on the outside of the graveyard fence.  Just as I looked up, a club came crashing down....on the rabbit.  Pop had heard our three shots and came to investigate.  He stooped to pick up the rabbit in one hand and a shaking daughter in the other.  "Best be getting home." he said.  "You don't look so good."

  When we got home, Pop showed us the three bullet holes in the rabbit but offered no explanation why the critter would not die.  The next day, Mom made a skimpy pot of rabbit stew to feed the family.  She always could make do by adding a few more potatoes, another handful of carrots and a couple of more onions.   As for Brother and me?  You can bet your life that we never went hunting in the graveyard again!  We made sure to steer clear of that place!

  To this day, I have no sound explanation as to the incident.  Brother was (and still is) a crack shot who could knock the center out of a quarter with that rifle but could not kill that rabbit. We caught enough ribbing from the old folks about our inept attempt at rabbit hunting.

A handsome Swamp Rabbit near the peach orchard.

  There was a fine rabbit back behind the peach orchard yesterday that made me think of the above tale.  That rabbit also got me thinking about Marsh Rabbits and Swamp Rabbits.  Back in the day, a lot of folks used to think that the Marsh Rabbits were special.  Tales used to tell of how they would outwit alligators and fox.  These rabbits would lead dogs on a wild chase through the marsh until the dogs were mired.  The rabbit would then swim to safety.

 Marsh Rabbits are smaller than Swamp Rabbits and always live near a body of water.  Their main escape is by swimming.  Swamp Rabbits can be found just about anywhere there is underbrush and a bit of water. They can be found in swamps and creek bottoms. They use their speed to escape predators.  The two are sometimes lumped together as one and the same but there are differences.  Besides being smaller in general, the Marsh Rabbit has smaller ears and swims much better.  I am glad we have both types bounding about the place.  I just really do not want any more un-dead rabbits here!

Tall Tales and Sawfish!

  Somehow I inherited several sawfish bills.  These are from the time before the fish became protected and killing the fish for its bill was the thing to do. Whoever enacted the law to protect these fine creatures was a pure genius! It is a shame to kill any animal needlessly. But I actually have two very large bills and two tiny ones.  None were actually caught by Pop but were given to him by one of his friends but, like I said, I am in ownership of them now.  I never thought much about the things since they were always around the house when I was a kid.  Mom never knew just what to do with them and since it was not stylish to display such items at the time. She would stick them in the corner somewhere.  Usually, they remained out of sight unless Pop decided to tell some tall tale to visitors.  

  There was one time that one of the bills was laid across an old trunk on the screened porch.  This trunk was positioned under some bedroom windows and, as kids, it was our habit to climb out the window instead of going all the way into the living room to get to the porch.  My poor sister had the misfortune to use the window when the bill was on the trunk.  She climbed out and put her knee down directly on top of one of the sharp "teeth" on the bill.  The thing became embedded in her knee and promptly broke off of the bill.  I can remember the agony she went through as Pop had to use a large needle to dig the thing out of her flesh.  My poor sister!!  To this day, she has a scar and a tall tale of how the sawfish got her!

  Once I became in possession of the bills, the tales did not stop.  I do believe that my favorite was spouted off the top of my head during a Christmas party we had at the Little Bayou House.  Some of Mark's teenage nephews were eyeing the bills that I had mounted on the wall.  "Hey, what are these?" they asked.  Well, never one to turn down a good opportunity, my mouth started spieling a tale of the sawfish bills. I wove a huge tale of how Pop took me out fishing when I was just a lass and I hooked the huge fish.  The tale told how it took me nigh on seven hours to reel him in but I was determined to do it myself.  By the time the story was in full swing, I knew I had them totally believing my every word.  It was then that I slipped in the final line that I had THEM "hook, line and sinker."  They never heard.  Those boys were so enthralled by my story that they never realized that I was joshing them.  Mark's Uncle Stanley was listening to the tale and when I spouted that part, he burst out laughing.  He knew I was pulling their legs and they were falling for my every word.  

  This just goes to show that not only did I inherit some very unusual items, I also inherited the ability to weave some mighty tall tales!  Thank you, Pop!  The storytelling ability is an amazing gift!  

Its there!

  Sometimes the most ordinary of things can strike a chord with me and a fantastical story starts to whirl around in my brain.  I wonder about this and think perhaps I should have been an author!  Or not.  Since it takes a goodly amount of skill to ever get anything published, I probably would have still been the "starving artist".  My writing skills had better be left to this feeble attempt and not to some worthy novel. Still, those things that create wondrous illusions in my head would make for fun tales.

  What with all the interest in zombies, creatures from beyond, aliens and such, I occasionally come across something on the Bayou that would fit right in with these stories!  On my walks, I see a lot of weird things.  Take, for instance, the strange "fingers" that I found trying to dig from beneath the soil.  It was just before dark when I spied the creepy hand digging its way from some grave long forgotten.  The fingers were of the most unusual color being red and obviously from something other than human since there were only three.  Try as it might this hand (and whatever was attached) never made it completely to the surface.  In reality, this "hand" was none other than a stinkhorn mushroom that had pushed its way up in the lawn.  There it was making the yard smell a lot like a rotting corpse!  Ugh!  My imagination went wild!

  Then back behind the peach orchard near the creek bed, I found some more aliens that had landed from worlds unknown.  These were exiting their pod-shaped ship when I found them.  Their long, slender forms were ghostly white and so unlike anything that I have ever seen before. I must have startled them which caused them to sit almost motionless as soon as my presence was recognized.  These aliens may have taken over our world had I not discovered their plot and put an end to it! Actually the alien ship was a magnolia pod and the recent rains had sprouted the seeds within it.  The long slender sprouts had not been able to fully form and were on the verge of decay.  The whole scene made for quite the ghostly tale!

  I guess things are all in how you see them or all in how your own brain works.  Mine sees things in a bizarre way.  Tales of mystery are always whirring away in the cogs of my mind!  Too bad about that skill thing needed to be an author!