Missive the Thirty-First


Becoming a Part
Of the Mystery.


DATELINE: Wednesday, November 1, 2000, at 0900 hours CDT.
Conway, Arkansas, USA


By D. Ebenezer Baldwin Bowles
CornDancer & Company

Spooky goings-on in the early evening of yesterday delayed my arrival at the page. I'm late, but goblins kept me occupied all too deep into the night.

How was your Halloween? To some of Cricket Song's readers, it's a foreign holiday. To a few it's a pagan festival best ignored, if not condemned for its heresy. Here at the hermitage, Halloween is an occasion to celebrate custom and tradition, to enjoy the adventuresome spirit of the local children who "trick or treat," and to anticipate the arrival of winter and the change it portends.

Some sharers at the luncheon yesterday were speculating that winter's icy face might not arrive at all this year. They worry about Mother Nature's exceeding warmth, the odd transformation of the climate. I suspect the winter will crash upon us, belated and sudden, with storm and freeze and staying power.

At sundown I arranged, quite haphazardly, twenty-two burning candles on the porch and walkway. Two of them, votives, glowed inside a mismatched pair of Jack-O-Lanterns scavenged from the luncheon tables. What a mysterious setting for the arrival of twilight!

They Twirled and Tumbled in the Gathering Night.

To the north of Cricket Song's welcoming way, the great magnolia rises heavenward. Its leaf-rich, untrimmed branches spread outward, then stoop to touch the earth. The broad, ovoid form of the magnolia obscures fully half of the stone-and-brick easterly face of the hacienda. A passerby might wonder about mysteries behind the leafy veil. To the south of the borderline stands a fine, middle-aged elm, with its gnarly bark and split trunk. Last evening the elm dropped a steady stream of leaves into the soft breeze. They twirled and tumbled, shadowy shapes falling gently to the ground.

The magnolia and elm create a natural frame for Cricket Song's front yard, which is adorned by a dozen mature and budding chrysanthemum bushes. The mums are scattered 'round a pair of raised flowerbeds with limestone borders, towering tubers, and lingering summer flowers -- violet petunias, crimson begonias, lavender viola, and yellow snapdragon, whose November blooms attest to the astonishing disposition of the autumnal climate.

Peering through this leafy maze last eve, one could see the many flickering candlelights and the glowing eyes of the carved pumpkins. It presented a mystical, vaguely eerie scene.

Up Walked a Small Alien and a Lean Witch.

I sat on the porch with one of my loyal dog friends, old Holly, and scribbled a few lines about myth and legend on the narrow pages of my notebook. I was deep into study of the werewolf legend, thinking at the time it would become the subject of this missive. Faint traces of red, the sailor's delight, faded from the late twilight of the eastern sky, which darkened to charcoal. The candlelight grew brighter. Up walked a small alien and a lean witch, seeking candy.

"Hello, Mr. Ebenezer," the witch sang. "This mask is hot," the alien complained.

More little goblins than ever before walked down the candle-lit candy lane to shout their trick or treats. Mrs. Sadie Liz arrived. She maneuvered between me 'n Holly and cradled the basket of Dum Dums, orange lollypops, and Spiderman Candy Sticks in her lap. We were glad to see her. She said the warm weather was inspiring the little ones and their parents to prowl the night in such unusually great numbers. We cozied up to one another and chatted -- about community and institutions, about churches and schools and the differing roles they play, about dissolution and continuity and the mysteries of the night.

Another alien, a tiny tiger, two little hippies, and a ghoul came and went. Batman and little red riding hood stopped by. We could hear the wolf men and wolf girls howling down the lane. I howled back. The twenty-two candles flickered and glowed.

The three of us, man and woman and dog, snuggled closer to one another. From the lane we appeared as silhouettes, creatures among a field of stars, ill-defined beings at the portal of a fortress. We stared ahead, our eyes fixed upon the now fully dark night. We were lost for a moment to one another, lost and hidden in our private universes. The mystery no longer mystified us. We were part of the mystery now, three small elements of the seasonal celebration and its ghoulish delights.




WATCH FOR MISSIVE THE THIRTY-SECOND
in your mailbox sometime 'round midnight
on Friday, November 3, 2000.
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please forward their name and email address to
ebenezer@corndancer.com

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| ©2000 by David Ebenezer Baldwin Bowles |
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