It was a great time tonight, despite the unseasonably cold weather. (36F!) Every year we have hundreds of kids through our neighborhood. The number was down a bit this year but still more than expected. It’s truly a special thing we have here.

Happy Halloween!

Appropriately enough for the opening of Allhallowtide, the print shop finished the scan of an 1864 letter written by my great-great-great grandfather–Private David S. Morgan, G Company, 49th Infantry, Union Army. I’ll be framing a copy printed on cardstock and keeping the original in an archival quality folder.

I repeated a previous design this year. The star eye is a little lopsided so I’ve decided that’s him winking at you.

Planning to carve a pumpkin today, so I’ve been looking at some of the ones I’ve done over the years. I know there are nifty tools and patterns and such now, but I still love the traditional Jack-o-lantern carved with a kitchen knife.

I did some grave visitation today ahead of Allhallowtide. I’ll be busy on the actual days and I have some local graves to visit this weekend, so today seemed like a good day for the not-so-local graves. Today’s route:

What an absolutely beautiful day for a drive in the hills around Patoka Lake. The fall colors were delightful. A corner of Patoka Lake:

I mentioned recently that I’ve been thinking about my dad’s side of the family recently. I never knew them well, for reasons that are obvious from that post. Some bad stuff came through that family line and a lot of my recent spiritual practice has been working toward understanding and integrating that pain and hopefully transforming it.

It turns out that generations worth of my dad’s family are in two cemeteries: Crystal Community Cemetery and Bethany Union Chapel Cemetery. (The Find a Grave website has been invaluable, by the way.)

Four generations worth of my paternal grandfather’s side are in Crystal Community Cemetery, all the way back to my great-great-great grandfather (b. 1834) who was a private in the Union Army in the Civil War. I have a letter from him that has been passed down the generations. (It’s at the print shop being scanned right now but I’ll post a picture when I get it back.)

Three generations worth of my paternal grandmother’s side are in Bethany Union Chapel Cemetery. The oldest ancestor there was born in 1872 but there are others in nearby cemeteries which I did not have time to visit today. Another time, for sure.

When I got to Crystal Community Cemetery, I was tempted to stand in the middle of it and say, “okay, y’all, who started this shit?” But I didn’t. I did talk to them all, particularly my paternal grandfather who I know did some bad stuff. I was very honest with him about my anger about what he did to my father.

I was honest with my folks in both cemeteries, actually. But I also told them that I and my family are doing well, despite it all. Obviously I still have some things to work through (else why am I traveling miles to gripe at my dead grandpa) but, on the whole, the wounds are closing and I have decided to act in the role of healer, not victim.

U-pick, I pick, we all pick pumpkins. We’ve been doing this ever since Darcy was a baby. We’re not thinking about how much longer this tradition will continue now that Darcy is a senior…

Following on from the “husbands in cars” memory: Rachel made a good point that our services were very demanding. If the “unsaved” husband actually went inside the building he could very easily have been targeted by the preacher. Maybe even named and called out. (It happened many times.) Ours was also a very emotional religion: men of that generation were commonly uncomfortable with such outward emotion, even if they inwardly believed.

We had a point midway in the service (I don’t know how commonly this was done in other churches) where the pastor, or someone called up by the pastor, would open the floor for prayer requests. They could be spoken out by anyone in the congregation and then we would kneel (by which I mean knees on the floor, elbows on the pews—not any of those fancy kneelers the “formal” churches had) and pray for a few minutes. Many of those women would—every service, and for years on end—request prayer for their “lost husbands” or, even more commonly, “lost children.”

A phenomenon I associate with country churches in my childhood: an irreligious husband waiting in the car while the devout wife is in church—either because she didn’t drive (this was fairly common in rural areas) or because the husband didn’t want her driving in the dark. Anyone else remember this?

I saw that today’s photo challenge word was “cycle” just as I settled in here at Taste of Belgium in Cincinnati for a Kwaremont, a beer designed for pro cycling fans. Named after one of cycling’s most famous hills, it has the same ABV as the hill’s average gradient.