zilphia's Blog

This morning I heard the old song 'you don't  have to live like a refugee' by Tom Petty.

That song always makes me think of a winter night in Denver about 1978.

I had been married to my husband Shane for 6 years and we had a daughter that was 3 years old.  Shane was 27 and I was about 25.

People always said Shane looked like Mick Jagger..and he  had the most amazing red brown curls.  He was cocaine skinny and looked like a faun, a magick boy. I on the other hand was short and a little pudgy, from left over baby weight on tummy.  I was very into kinder and kitchen, and Shane got some kind of male menopause thing going on.

He stared managing a record store, and all the little girls  hung out with him.  He got a little girlfriend and he didn't want me anymore.

I moved our and shared a house with a girl that I had known for quite some time, but was not very close to.  There was one other roommate, and she was nice, but kind of spacey, ad we were pleasant to each other but not friends.  After a couple of months the girl I knew moved out and things the other girl and I had a couple of arguments.  This girl was dating and soon to be engaged to a man I had been friends with since I was 17.  One night he was at the apartment when my roommate got mad at me.  She was yelling and screaming because she couldn't find some shoes and I didn't take them either, but she was throwing a fit anyway.  Her boyfriend came up to me and said "you are my sister, and I am neutral in this.'  And he gave me a little kiss, on the cheek.

Oh God.  That girl came down like a banshee.  Why'd you have to kiss her?  Why did you  have to kiss her?  The end result was that I left that apartment that night in a blizzard, it was me, my friend Kathy-Oh and Myke carrying my daughter wrapped up in a blanket thru the snow.  We were laughing hysterically and singing Refugee.  When ever I hear that song, it transports me back to that cold night, walking to Kathy-ohs apartment, with good friends on a freezing cold but magick night. 

Now Mykes been dead a year, and Kathy-Oh had a fight with my ex and I haven't heard from  her since.  I miss my friends and I miss my youth, but by God we had some times, and all these times are keyed to songs and when I hear these songs I remember.

Got up an hour before it was light, and noodled around with the computer.  I surfed and ended up looking at portraits of the six wives of Henry the VIII  Anne Boleyn is a favorite. By the time it was light, the dogs were going nuts and driving me nuts, so off to the marsh, the old dairy at the end of t he continental united states, that is, to run the dogs.

Came home and got ready to go to Gay Pride. The Unitarian Universalist Church that I attend had a booth, and I had volunteered to bake butterfly-shaped sugar cookies for the event--the butterfly was this years logo for gay pride.   Took cookies down, and hung out for a bit decorating cookies with the folks who were minding the tent.  Took a stroll round the square, looking at all the costumes, ETC.  I think the most interesting was the gay women.  They are fairly invisible in this town--no bars, etc.  But here they were in force, everyone from tough little cookies, to big old earth mothers and diesel dykes.I smiled at one and all and everyone there was happy.

Came home, and made some soup for the shelter this afternoon, which I will be serving tomorrow.  Then my volunteer activities are over for the  month.

Made Pizza tonight.  Sooo Sleepy now.

This is kind of a two part ghost story.

First a little about the Island.  This is a National Park or a State Park.  It is located about 45 minutes off St. Marys Georgia, very near the border of Florida.  A ferry takes you to the island.  There are no vehicles on the island except those of the Park Service or the scant number of residents.  The Island is Pristine and so very primeval and gorgeous.  It was once the property of the Carnegie family and the burned out shell of their fabulous mansion that served as the family's summer house  is still there on the terraced lawn.  The widow of the man who owned the island back at the turn of last century lived the rest of her life there year round.  She is the one that we  have to thank for the privilege of visiting there, for she is the one who made sure her children couldn't sell the island off...they had houses to live in, but those  houses could not be sold.  When she knew she was going to die, she had her stable of Arabian Horses released and now there are beautiful little horses all over the island.  Fierce little stallions fighting and  little herds galloping over the short turf. 

Before the Carnegie's had the island it changed hand several times, but before that it belonged to the Native Americans.  The Ranger told us that it was a Healing Island-- a kind of Indian Club Med, where important people came to be healed.

Here is the first story of the two experiences with ghosts that I have had out there.

I was there with my sister and my ex, not long after we moved to this area of the coast.  We were fortunate enough to have a campsite, something very hard to get. It was April 4th, my then husband's birthday.  Shane, my ex, never met a stranger  in his life and was soon buds with the Ranger Woman.  She told him that if he met her back at the Marsh at 5 o'clock she would take him to hunt fossilized shark's teeth with a group of boy scouts.  We were on our way, but my sister was getting a blister from her sandal and it was clear that we were impeding his progress and told him to go ahead.  We were mostly alone on the path, only occasionally  passing other hikers.  The path wound thru a forest of live oak, dripping with swaying Spanish moss, and palm trees and other kinds of trees too.  This forest had never been harvested, it was virgin, and the size of the oaks just astounding.  Go yourself and see! 

My sister is a quiet person, she lives in the mountains and spends a lot of time camping alone, with just a Bible and a shotgun.  My sister told me she was hearing voices in the woods around us.  "Oh," I said, 'It's the wind in the trees and the bamboo stems rubbing together, there is lots of ambient sound, easy to mistake for voices. ' But she insisted that she  heard people talking.  Well we kept up our journey although it was clear that we would not overtake Shane my ex.  It was about a mile and a half that we  had to travel and Carol kept on about hearing the voices. 

So we finally arrived at the ruins of the old house and the lawns still terraced with the fountain in the middle and the balustrade enclosing the lawn from the forest.  We crossed the lawn and made it back onto the forest trail, looking closely for any sign of Shane, The Ranger Woman and The Boy Scouts.  Then we  heard some loud excited voices...they sounded pleased or excited.  We thought of course we'd found the group.  But when we went a little further on, we found only Shane, and he looked very freaked out.  This is what he told us: He'd hadn't found the Scouts and he was on his way back from the Marsh, when he saw a tall thin man in a brown leather shirt and called to the man, but the man had vanished into thin air in front of his eyes.  Shane was a little scared, and the idea of disembodied excited voices was weird for all of us, but we went back and had a lovely time camping and swimming at the delectable beach, and that was the end of that story.

The second Story;

This happened just last mid-July.  My friend Stefan came down from up North, and he wanted to go to Cumberland.  His health is not good, he is Type 1 Diabetic and has severe asthma.  I told him it would be best if we did not go...the heat index was in the 100's, but go he would and nothing stopping him.  So off we went with a six  pack of soda in a little cooler and a pack of little Debbies which I insisted that we buy, thank god, because  turns out her forgot his needle for  his second insulin shot and had already trashed the first one.  It was as bad as I feared and we got out at the first ferry landing because he primarily wanted to see the ruins.  It would be about a 4 mile walk to the beach.  We took it very slow, because he had to rest so very often.  His blood sugar was dropping and the Debbies came in very handy.  I talked  him OUT of smoking a special Doobie that he was saving for the occasion, because I feared that if he smoked it he would need to be air lifted out. 
 

We were sitting on a picnic table beside the path that my sister and I had walked years before.  The path was almost as deserted, but it was about 2 o clock pm and hot as blazes.  I am pagan and I got up from my seat and stood under the big live oak and did what is called in my religion "Calling the Quarters."  This is a ceremony in which you face the four directions and call to the Elements that represent each of them.  Air to the East, Fire to the South Water to the West and Earth to the North.  I ask the spirits of each element a favor.  Of Air I asked that we have a cool breeze, and of Fire I ask if the Sun could please go behind a cloud for awhile, and of Water I asked refreshment (for we intended to swim) and of Earth I ask that we children of the Earth have protection.  I also invited any spirit that wanted to show itself to us, to feel free.  I forgot to say "any good spirit" which I really should have remembered.  Then I closed the Quarters, which is just thanking the Elements for their attendance and for any help they give. 

Almost immediately a wind sprang up and a  huge Black Mourning Cloak butterfly floated directly in front of us on the path and led us for a very long way.  The sky clouded up and the Sun no longer beat down so fiercely.  We went quite aways following the butterfly, when we saw a figure very thin and very tall in a brown loose shirt or poncho and long brown pants with long black hair, pass before us about 10 feet away on the path.  The face was turned towards us, but it shone brightly, like a mirror.  The figure did not seem to come from one side of the path and proceed to the other, rather we only noticed it from the middle of the path to the side.  At first thought I thought it was a hiker and that were were nearer to the crossing of the paths than I had thought.  Then something just seemed wrong about what I saw and I asked Stefan, "Did you see that?"  "Thank God! You saw it too!" he said.  Well we reached the place where the figure had been, now without our butterfly guide, and we found that it really wasn't the crossroad at all.  A person would have had to come from the snarl of scrub at the side of the path and to enter it again at the other side.  We would have heard crackling and sticks breaking. Besides, what person would go off into that wilderness, infested with fire ants and rattlesnakes, and little ponds where gators sleep.  We looked about and saw no one. 

And saw no one for the rest of the day.  I only got to swim for about 5 minutes for by the time we got to t he beach there was a lighting storm, and we barely made it back to the ranger station and got undercover before the Element of Water undertook to refresh us in such a big way that people in boats were having to take shelter at the the ranger station too and little girls were crying to their daddies and it actually got chilly. 

But our ghosts sounds very like the one my ex said he saw.  I wonder if my sister would have heard voices if she had been with us that day.

The night-before-last I decided to drive to the beach, despite the fact that it was going to use up 2 gallons of gas.  I love the drive over the marsh, although I am sad that there is so little of it that is no longer fringed with house lights and street lights.  Once several years ago, I saw road ghosts on this road, and I still look, but am gratified to  have seen them once.  It is a dark and spooky highway.  It makes me think of Bruce Springsteen's lyric about 'The ghosts of the boys you sent away, they haunt this dusty beach road in the skeleton framed of Chevrolets'.  It is that kind of road.  The road ghosts are of a honeymoon couple that died in a wreck, lots of people  have seen them.  Anyway, I love to ride that highway, and I wish I could drive it stoned out of my mind, like I was a kid again, but maybe then I would be joining the honeymoon couple.   I love to listen to music while I am driving, and the other night, I was listening to that Nickleback CD that has all the spooky songs on it. 

At the beach, the wind was cool and warm at the same time, and blowing sweetly over my body as I walked.  Like any other old Granny Woman, I sought a swing and sat swinging, shoes on and no sand between my toes!  In the darkness some young people came by, and I sat unnoticed as they laughed and drew something in the sand--a large something that took a few minutes to complete.  When they had gone the wind and the sea made me feel young again and I took off my shoes and headed down to the water, and passing the drawing in the sand, saw that it was a Pentagram.  I am a Pagan, and because the kids were young and bubbly, felt that this  Pentagram had no bad vibes, only a doorway that would go when the tide came in.  I did not enter it, but felt that there was a doorway there.  I continued on to the water and then I think that a miracle happened...I could feel like a second person over me, the child that I had been, 3 years old in a pink and white gingham sunsuit about to step into the water, my knees bent, my arms back a little and giggling at the the feeling of the waves lapping my toes.  And, as myself I danced in the waves singing,  'I am Air, I am Fire, I am Earth, I am Water'  and I felt happy, for that brief evening, happy as a little child on the beach.

For some strange reason Callie, (the dog) has started to wake me earlier and earlier.  This past week it has been 5 and after, an today its a little after 4. 

I haven't felt the like of that cool breeze that is blowing in the garden in months.  It was really delicious.  I have a bad habit, kind of walking on the razors edge habit. Shall I tell you?     When I walk out to the garden to water and its before daylight I usually am naked as a jaybird.  I don't do this to titillate the old man across the alley, nor to scandalize the proper school teacher next door.  I am a dumpy old crone, without benefit of aerobics.  I think I am a nudist in the strict 1920s nudist colony sense of the word.  Or maybe I just like that quote from Hamlet too much--'ah, for quietus, with a bare bodkin!'  Whatever the reason, it is unlikely that anyone would ever see me...My garden is a garden gone wild.  Right now, because of all the rain, it has really gone wild, but it is planned that way.  By the end of the summer its usually totally out of control...

The privet hedge between my house and the teachers is above my head now and twined with honeysuckle and bleeding heart.  The herb garden I put in so carefully has been mauled by dogs, but there are still some herbs there..basil, Thai basil, lavender, garlic, and a lemon verbena shrub which has an out of this wold scent and will be 6 feet tall one day.  There is yellow  jasmine in the spring and roses and lantana and elephant ears which are so huge, I bet a leaf is 18 inches long and 9 inches wide.  Elephant Ears will respond to the heat from your hand...place your hand near as possible without touching above the plant and it will lean toward your hand, straining upwards.   Sunflowers will respond, too. 

There is a big succulent pot and other succulents all over.  There is a plant which looks like it is coverd in large boiled shrimp when in bloom.  It blooms most of the year.  There are huge banana trees, and flying saucer morning glories that look like blue-and-white tie dye.  There are moonflowers.  There are brick paths and bamboo and a peace sign mural on the side of the shed.  There is a blue arched gate and ivy is trained up it in the shape of an eye.  There is a forest of Camellias which will bloom at Christmas like a pink, white and red valentine.  There is a pond, with water iris and horsetail dock and water  hyacinth and spurge and 9 gold fish of a good size.   There are windchimes everywhere, in particular there is one white dead tree which is festooned with chimes and in a gale they shriek!

There is an altar, because I am pagan.  I am not in a coven, and I don't think I want to be...I like making up my own rules and hitching my wagon to my own star.  There is a perfect concrete circle under an oak tree that was already there when I moved in.  The altar is pink marble, and behind it is a plain huge gate that was made before the civil war.  (husband brought that home from a job, they replaced it)  There is a terracotta vase in the shape of a laughing lady's head which I use as my Goddess Figure.  There is a grey stone plaque Of Bacchus which I bought 2o something years ago in New Orleans which I use as my God Figure.  In between them is a small figure of Sheila Na Gig. who represents the Crone, and the gateway of life and death.  Summer is fun because I have lots of flowers to decorate the altar and festivals are pretty.  It is almost time for another one...on September 22nd it is Autumnal Equinox.  In the winter it is pretty because I have all those Camellias to decorate with.

A typical ritual goes like this.

I will have done some research and decided which God and Goddess names are appropriate, what things I want on the altar and what colors to use.  I will have strung up ivy and decorated with flowers and brought out things sacred to me that I have always used..a pottery chalice, glazed dark blue and winged which was made by a friends daughter back in 1983.  A little aquamarine colored cut glass cauldron given to me by a friend Toby back in the 1970s,  A wand that my friend Stefan made me, and which REAL witches have told me can't be used as a real wand.  

On Ostara, or Easter if you will, I dressed my alter with green and yellow candles, and a black rabbit, actually one half  of a candle mold which I painted black long ago.  The deities wear garlands made of flowers and herbs and leaves.  I like to make herb garlands for the Sheila Na Gig, because she likes them, I think. 

I do research and read spells on line, but I always write my own or arrange them my own way.

Ostara is the time when new life is forming...here was my spell.

Green Stick Bud, Green Bud Leaf

Green Leaf Bright Flower,

Bright Flower, Bring Fruit

Fruit grow ripe, Ripe Fruit Rot

Rot Feed Seed, Seed sprout Earth

Earth bring forth, green shoot reaching

green shoot green stick, Green stick bud

Green bud leaf.

Now to use this to 'raise a cone of power' means to chant it until you feel that the energy  has come to a peak.  You might just feel it, or something might happen..could just be the wind blows harder.  Last July a string of firecrackers was let off nearby, causing us to laugh and break our chant.

For Green Bud leaf I chose to do a clapping game, like we used to do as little girls.  Brian is a very good sport.

When we have done this we usually, ask the Lord and Lady's blessing and put little slips of paper with wishes written on them into the fire.

This is illuminating as any church service or mass I have ever attended.  And if the wishes are never granted in any over the top way, the prayers weren't answered either., so  its even. And its pretty too.  Brian has a big Celtic drum and drums away.  Tonight there will be a drum circle.

Well,  There I am in the moment, like a fly in amber.  Till  next time.

Today we are watching Tropical Storm Fay very carefully.  It is supposed to just miss Savannah.  This will still mean lots of rain and flooding, although we don't get alot of that, I worry because of the big old oak trees which break in the wind and the wet--the branches are as big as a tree in themselves.

In the rain, I can't run t he dogs and they become pests.  In the rain, I have to dry off muddy dogs every time they come back in from taking a leak.  Thus I am a bit moody...try me by Friday, when the storm really hits, and I will be really grumpy!

For some reason my husband is sitting on the couch and not going to work.  I haven't yet ask what's up.  He works about every hour that God sends, so I know that he is doing what is right and this isn't something I have to nag about.

My husband's name is Brian.   He is my second husband and I am alternately very fond of him, and very irritated by him.  I married him about 3 years ago on Valentine's Day.  It may have been 4.  I am sooo vague about time. He is very paternal, but is actually 5 years my junior.  He doesn't look it though.  Life has not been kind to Brian.  He once had botched back surgery and was told he would never walk again, when he was 21.  It didn't stop him.  He lost his 13 year old son, to a drunk driver, and his high school sweetheart wife soon afterward.  He almost died from not ever eating and overwork.  When he got out of the hospital he came here to Savannah, a place he had only ever been once in his life before.  The psychiatrist told him to follow his bliss, and he came and got involved in construction, doing renovation on old houses, because woodwork is his passion.  

So he's a grey headed bearded ol' fart. And I am an old fart now, and I love it that someone takes care of me.  That was not always the case, believe me.  I wish Brian was even more normal than is he.  He doesn't listen to some very important things which may land him in jail one day--don't DWI--wear your seatbelt--(hell, I really hate the seatbelt, but would hate the raise in insurance even more.) Lock up your tools!  But no one is perfect.  Brian has a great big heart, and even tho he is a great big boy, he gets hurt easily and I try to shield him if I can.  That's what I consider my job with him.  'I can't make it things possible, but I can make them holy', as the old song said.

I don't work now, although I doubt that will be the case forever, with this economy.  I don't like the enviroment of people and work.  I am a hard and loyal worker and it never seems to get me anywhere much, and eventually I get disillusioned and I move along. 

Today, I am going to ride my bike to the Natural Food store, and buy some culinary type herbs. I am also going to keep a promise I made a few weeks ago and get involved with the Food Bank, by volunteering there.

And now for the first page of my catch up blog.

                                       Roots

Before I talk about me, I would like to introduce some of my ancestors.

There was a woman named Priscilla Gibbs, up in Robstown NC, back before the war of 1812.  She married a man named Ward, and had two sons.  When Ward died, she married an Englishman named Christopher Hargrave and had two sons. 

Hargrave was kind of stranded over in America, because the seas were so dangerous to cross during a war.  When the war was over, Hargrave wanted to return home to England with his wife and their two sons.  He wanted her to leave the sons she had with her first husband in America.  The oldest was 16.  I would assume that they were old enough to be apprenticed, and that he didn't just intend to abandon them.  The plan didn't sit well with his wife, Priscilla.

She got her self a covered wagon and joined a landrush from New England to South Georgia, took the name of Mother Jones,  and took all four sons with her, and never looked back. 

When the sons were old men, after the Civil War had come and gone, a Pinkerton detective showed up who had been  hunting for the Hargrave sons all those years.  The Hargraves inherited alot of money from an Uncle, and they were now rich, in the poverty stricken, reconstruction era south.  The Wards were not.

And this matters, why?  You see, Priscilla was my families fore mother.  My father's people were descended from the Hargraves, and my mother's people from the Wards.  To make things worse, the inter-marrying continued...my father and mother for instance are second cousins, and my grandmother and my grandfather on my mama's side were first cousins, and their parents were double twins that married double twins.

Down thru the centuries the two factions in my family tree have been at odds with one another, because of the feud that started with the English Gold. 

The inbreeding didn't do us much good either.

My sister and I joined the ranks and the beat goes on.  Tune in later for the points of interest of childhood.

Howdy! That's what we all used to say back in the day, when we were the coolest kids alive, in the heart of the hippiedom in Denver Colorado.  That was a long time ago, but sometimes it feels more real than today. 

Lots of water has passed under the bridge since then, and lots of blood, too.  I would say my most unfavorite thing about aging is that you follow stories all the way to their ending.  You never  have to wonder what  happened to the girl you used to know...you know she committed suicide.  On the other hand, some stories  have better turns, successes that you could not possibly imagine, from the opinions you formed long ago.  Both those scenarios are unusual though.  Most of us just lose the energy to function above the call of duty. 

I want to make a record of my past, but I want to remember things that are happening today too.  In the present, that is.  So, what I choose to do, is I will start with a daily journal, and  then I will entitle a second part of each entry with past history until I catch up.  I think I will call the Past entries  "Dead Roses"  and the present one "Green Leaves"

Here goes!

                             Green Leaves

Today, my name is Caroline.  I am either 53 or 54, I can't remember and cant be bothered to count up.  I am not old enough for rocking chair money, and I am not filing out any forms, so let's just go with the ballpark figure.

I am the mother of one daughter, Summer, who is 30 something.  We speak once or twice a year on the phone.  We don't really hate each other, we just don't connect.  She can be very rude and I just avoid her.  She is one tough cookie, and is raising 3 kids on her own.  They are like stair steps a 10 year old girl, a nine year old boy, and another girl who is 8 years old.  She seldom asks for help, but I do give it when asked, even if I can't afford it.  I am her mother and want good things for her.  If I had a wish, I would probably wish for closeness with her, but I am not sure any more if I would really wish that.

Well, Today, then.

I am a pretty useless person.  I have a short attention span and I piddle.  I am a shadow, a puff of breeze, a drop of rain on the ocean.  Except for grief over my daughter and my ex and annoyance with the foibles of my husband Brian, I am  pretty happy, most of the time.  I have issues though.

Many years ago, my daughter and husband, Shane, and any one that wanted to join in would drive down from Atlanta to the beach in Savannah.  I fell in love with the old town.  In 2001, I decided to sell  my house in Atlanta and move to Savannah. 

I live in a little concrete bunker which is ugly and shabby, but completely paid for.  The insides are in a state of partial renovation, and goddess knows if they ever will get finished.  Out back is a money sucking garden that takes an hour to water each morning.   It is tropical and partly wild.  There is not a spare inch that does not have a plant. There are:

Moon-flowers and Morning Glories planted together and swarming over a lattice and a bamboo gate, built from bamboo growing on a vacant lot down the alley. The morning glories are crimson Scarlett O'Hara and Flying Saucers which look like blue and white tie dye.  the Moon Flowers are giant white blossoms, saucer shaped which bloom at night.  Highly fragrant.

Four O'Clocks, purple white and peppermint, which open in afternoon which also perfume the  night.

Hibiscus as big as saucers, in red and white.

Althea bushes in purple.  

Zinnias in all the colors of the rainbows

Cosmos which seem to struggle in this heat.

Cleomes which are ditto with cosmos

asters and mum, which will bloom in the fall.

pineapples grown from the tops of fruit that I have eaten.

impateins & coleus, of course, and liriope, with a small forest of banana trees, one of them which actually has bananas.

In a stolen succulent pot, which has 28 pockets,

many, many varieties of succulents.  This was my big money this year.  Brian stole the pot from a house that has been vacant a long time.  I REALLY wanted it.

Roses and some shrub called a shrimp plant which has blossoms that look exactly like cocktail shrimp cooked in the shell, with all their legs still on.  They bloom all year round. 

There are camellias that bloom at Christmas and Valentines is all pink and red and white with them.  These are a legacy from Ms. Vivian Walker, who was the original owner of the place.  More on her later.

Finally there are herbs, basil, thai basil, thyme, sage. Fennel, and garlic rosemary and lavender.

And thru all this wanders green and purple sweet potato vine, which is naturalized. 

I will post some pictures!

So my life is narrow, but not without beauty and interest. 

There is a 'salt marsh at the end of the continental United States' where I run the dogs in the morning.  Since it has been so hot I have begun putting them out and letting them chase the four wheeler.  Usually,  I bike with them.  In the winter, there are woodstorks, and all kinds of beautiful birds to see. 

I love the town of Savannah, I love the Salt Marsh, I love the Rivers and the Beach.  The people kinda suck, but that's the nature of the beast, the species to which I belong.