Welcome to
Writes, Bites,and Frights!
| This Issue Brings Some Undeniably, Almost Spitefully Delightful |
Parmesan Party Mix
7 cups Crispix
2 cups cheese flavored snack crackers
1 cup pretzel sticks
3 Tablespoons olive oil
1 teaspoon Italian seasoning
1/4 teaspoon fennel seed, crushed
1/8 teaspoon hot pepper sauce
1/2 cup grated Parmesan or Romano
cheese
*****************************
In a 2 gallon reasealable plastic bag,
combine the cereal, crackers, and
pretzels.
In a small bowl, combine the oil, Italian
seasoning, fennel seed and hot pepper
sauce.
Pour over cereal mixture; seal bag and
toss to coat. Add Parmesan cheese;
seal bag and toss to coat.
Store in an airtight container.
Makes 8 cups (8 servings)
7 cups Crispix
2 cups cheese flavored snack crackers
1 cup pretzel sticks
3 Tablespoons olive oil
1 teaspoon Italian seasoning
1/4 teaspoon fennel seed, crushed
1/8 teaspoon hot pepper sauce
1/2 cup grated Parmesan or Romano
cheese
*****************************
In a 2 gallon reasealable plastic bag,
combine the cereal, crackers, and
pretzels.
In a small bowl, combine the oil, Italian
seasoning, fennel seed and hot pepper
sauce.
Pour over cereal mixture; seal bag and
toss to coat. Add Parmesan cheese;
seal bag and toss to coat.
Store in an airtight container.
Makes 8 cups (8 servings)
| B I T E S |
The Raven
by Edgar Allan Poe
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,Over
many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore--While I nodded,
nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,As of some one gently
rapping, rapping at my chamber door."'Tis some visiter," I muttered,
"tapping at my chamber door-- Only this and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,And each separate
dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.Eagerly I wished the
morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrowFrom my books surcease of
sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore--For the rare and radiant maiden
whom the angels name Lenore-- Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtainThrilled
me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;So that now, to still
the beating of my heart, I stood repeating"'Tis some visiter entreating
entrance at my chamber door--Some late visiter entreating entrance at my
chamber door; This it is and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,"Sir," said I, "or
Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;But the fact is I was napping, and
so gently you came rapping,And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at
my chamber door,That I scarce was sure I heard you"--here I opened wide
the door-- Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,
fearing,Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream
before;But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,And
the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"This I
whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"--
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my sour within me burning,Soon again
I heard a tapping something louder than before."Surely," said I, "surely
that is something at my window lattice;Let me see, then, what thereat is
and this mystery explore--Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery
explore;-- 'Tis the wind and nothing more.
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,In there
stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.Not the least obeisance
made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he,But, with mien of lord or lady,
perched above my chamber door--Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above
my chamber door-- Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then the ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,By the grave and
stern decorum of the countenance it wore,"Though thy crest be shorn and
shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,Ghastly grim and ancient Raven
wandering from the Nightly shore--Tell me what thy lordly name is on the
Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,Though
its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore;For we cannot help agreeing
that no living human beingEver yet was blessed with seeing bird above his
chamber door--Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber
door, With such name as "Nevermore."
But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke onlyThat one
word, as if its soul in that one word he did outpourNothing farther then
he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered--Till I scarcely more than
muttered: "Other friends have flown before--On the morrow he will leave
me, as my Hopes have flown before." Then the bird said
"Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,"Doubtless," said I,
"what it utters is its only stock and store,Caught from some unhappy
master whom unmerciful DisasterFollowed fast and followed faster till his
songs one burden bore--Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy
burden bore Of 'Never--nevermore.'"
But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,Straight I
wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;Then, upon
the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linkingFancy unto fancy, thinking
what this ominous bird of yore--What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt,
and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressingTo the fowl
whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;This and more I sat
divining, with my head at ease recliningOn the cushion's velvet lining that
the lamp-light gloated o'er,But whose velvet violet lining with the
lamp-light gloating o'er She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen
censerSwung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted
floor."Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath
sent theeRespite--respite and nepenthe from thy memories of
Lenore!Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!--Whether
Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,Desolate, yet all
undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--On this home by Horror
haunted--tell me truly, I implore--Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell
me--tell me, I implore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!By that
Heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--Tell this soul
with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,It shall clasp a sainted
maiden whom the angels name Lenore--Clasp a rare and radiant maiden
whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the Raven,
"Nevermore."
"Be that our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--"Get
thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!Leave no black
plume as a token of that lie thy soul has spoken!Leave my loneliness
unbroken!--quit the bust above my door!Take thy beak from out my heart,
and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the Raven,
"Nevermore."
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sittingOn the pallid
bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;And his eyes have all the
seeming of a demon's that is dreamingAnd the lamp-light o'er him
streaming throws his shadows on the floor;And my soul from out that
shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be
lifted--nevermore!
by Edgar Allan Poe
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,Over
many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore--While I nodded,
nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,As of some one gently
rapping, rapping at my chamber door."'Tis some visiter," I muttered,
"tapping at my chamber door-- Only this and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,And each separate
dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.Eagerly I wished the
morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrowFrom my books surcease of
sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore--For the rare and radiant maiden
whom the angels name Lenore-- Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtainThrilled
me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;So that now, to still
the beating of my heart, I stood repeating"'Tis some visiter entreating
entrance at my chamber door--Some late visiter entreating entrance at my
chamber door; This it is and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,"Sir," said I, "or
Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;But the fact is I was napping, and
so gently you came rapping,And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at
my chamber door,That I scarce was sure I heard you"--here I opened wide
the door-- Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,
fearing,Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream
before;But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,And
the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"This I
whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"--
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my sour within me burning,Soon again
I heard a tapping something louder than before."Surely," said I, "surely
that is something at my window lattice;Let me see, then, what thereat is
and this mystery explore--Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery
explore;-- 'Tis the wind and nothing more.
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,In there
stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.Not the least obeisance
made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he,But, with mien of lord or lady,
perched above my chamber door--Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above
my chamber door-- Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then the ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,By the grave and
stern decorum of the countenance it wore,"Though thy crest be shorn and
shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,Ghastly grim and ancient Raven
wandering from the Nightly shore--Tell me what thy lordly name is on the
Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,Though
its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore;For we cannot help agreeing
that no living human beingEver yet was blessed with seeing bird above his
chamber door--Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber
door, With such name as "Nevermore."
But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke onlyThat one
word, as if its soul in that one word he did outpourNothing farther then
he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered--Till I scarcely more than
muttered: "Other friends have flown before--On the morrow he will leave
me, as my Hopes have flown before." Then the bird said
"Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,"Doubtless," said I,
"what it utters is its only stock and store,Caught from some unhappy
master whom unmerciful DisasterFollowed fast and followed faster till his
songs one burden bore--Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy
burden bore Of 'Never--nevermore.'"
But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,Straight I
wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;Then, upon
the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linkingFancy unto fancy, thinking
what this ominous bird of yore--What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt,
and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressingTo the fowl
whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;This and more I sat
divining, with my head at ease recliningOn the cushion's velvet lining that
the lamp-light gloated o'er,But whose velvet violet lining with the
lamp-light gloating o'er She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen
censerSwung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted
floor."Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath
sent theeRespite--respite and nepenthe from thy memories of
Lenore!Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!--Whether
Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,Desolate, yet all
undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--On this home by Horror
haunted--tell me truly, I implore--Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell
me--tell me, I implore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!By that
Heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--Tell this soul
with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,It shall clasp a sainted
maiden whom the angels name Lenore--Clasp a rare and radiant maiden
whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the Raven,
"Nevermore."
"Be that our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--"Get
thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!Leave no black
plume as a token of that lie thy soul has spoken!Leave my loneliness
unbroken!--quit the bust above my door!Take thy beak from out my heart,
and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the Raven,
"Nevermore."
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sittingOn the pallid
bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;And his eyes have all the
seeming of a demon's that is dreamingAnd the lamp-light o'er him
streaming throws his shadows on the floor;And my soul from out that
shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be
lifted--nevermore!
| Imaginings I lie upon the dormant ground Look up To watch a lonely falcon rise Upon a draft On silent outstretched wings Up to the moon It spirals round and round again And soon My harried consciousness grows wheels Conjuring up a chariot It tucks my racing heart inside Then borne up by the Darkness, (Now a fleet and winged steed) We all at once take flight Through swirling mists of night Where shadowed fields of heaven lie Then on o'er unknown hills Brushed silver by the moon Forgotten lands Where unused dreams lie strewn Above where any bird can fly Beyond where secrets never die Where dragons rage with fiery cry And fairies sing their lullabies Where words hold nothing to the wise And faith is yet the greatest prize Appearing real before my eyes So filled with life and love and fight Makes promises to never stop (Unless should I - from some imagined dread or fright- Pull back on shuddering reins With all my might) But~ Here so near Unto the stars Suffused within peculiar light My eyes grown wide With awe’s delight And naught but Possibilities in sight In liberation, Psyche’s voice Makes clear the way To make my choice And so give I free rein instead Let illusion have its head Letting go with childlike awe To slip the bonds of earthly law To fling my spirit through the air To feel the cosmos in my hair And make a vow above all things To celebrate imaginings Leann Marshall © 2008 |
Down through the ages Halloween has risen from a history steeped in
superstitions and legend; surviving, somehow morphing from "All Hallow's
Eve," a night where the spirits of the dead were believed to come alive,
into an evening when costumed Trick or Treaters petition for candy in the
streets and spooky events where--much to the delight of blindfolded, groping,
partygoing enthusiasts--a spaghetti-filled bowl and a small plate of peeled
grapes festively suggest the grisly innards of some poor unfortunate.
In darkened living rooms and cinemas still others, munching popcorn and
chewy rejects from little brother's plastic pumpkin, gather into tight little groups,
sitting rapt and awash in the flickering light and eerie music of movies meant
solely to conjure nightmares.
Why do we do this?
It has something to do with how we were made. It's about our innate curiosity,
our insatiable hunger for mystery, and our inexplicable attraction to the
unknown.
I have to admit that I have always loved Halloween. Some people grow up and
put aside childish things, and maybe that's the way it's supposed to be. Still,
there are childhood memories I hold dear to this day: the hand sewn monkey
costume my mother made for me, complete with enlarged buttonholes for my
ears to stick through, and a coiled, fabric covered wire tail. I wore it proudly in
the annual costumed October parade we school children held in the suburbs of
St. Louis in the fifties, everyone waving and smiling at us from their yards along
the way.
I still remember the clammy feel of the inside of my sweaty rubber monkey mask
against my face as my big sister Kathy and I made our way trick or treating
across the once familiar landscape of our neighborhood, for awhile grown alien
and magical by the flickering light of Jack O lanterns--the rattle of my
crayon-decorated paper bag as I carried it, the promise of unlimited tasty treats
within our grasp.
In the big picture, Halloween is foolishness and fantasy and maybe nothing
more. But I can't help believing that in some way it's important to hold the
essence of even those childish things forever within our hearts, to enrich us in
moments whenever life seems thin or shallow, to remind us that however
simply perceived, the fruits of our imagination remain a unique and Divine gift
for which I will always be thankful.
superstitions and legend; surviving, somehow morphing from "All Hallow's
Eve," a night where the spirits of the dead were believed to come alive,
into an evening when costumed Trick or Treaters petition for candy in the
streets and spooky events where--much to the delight of blindfolded, groping,
partygoing enthusiasts--a spaghetti-filled bowl and a small plate of peeled
grapes festively suggest the grisly innards of some poor unfortunate.
In darkened living rooms and cinemas still others, munching popcorn and
chewy rejects from little brother's plastic pumpkin, gather into tight little groups,
sitting rapt and awash in the flickering light and eerie music of movies meant
solely to conjure nightmares.
Why do we do this?
It has something to do with how we were made. It's about our innate curiosity,
our insatiable hunger for mystery, and our inexplicable attraction to the
unknown.
I have to admit that I have always loved Halloween. Some people grow up and
put aside childish things, and maybe that's the way it's supposed to be. Still,
there are childhood memories I hold dear to this day: the hand sewn monkey
costume my mother made for me, complete with enlarged buttonholes for my
ears to stick through, and a coiled, fabric covered wire tail. I wore it proudly in
the annual costumed October parade we school children held in the suburbs of
St. Louis in the fifties, everyone waving and smiling at us from their yards along
the way.
I still remember the clammy feel of the inside of my sweaty rubber monkey mask
against my face as my big sister Kathy and I made our way trick or treating
across the once familiar landscape of our neighborhood, for awhile grown alien
and magical by the flickering light of Jack O lanterns--the rattle of my
crayon-decorated paper bag as I carried it, the promise of unlimited tasty treats
within our grasp.
In the big picture, Halloween is foolishness and fantasy and maybe nothing
more. But I can't help believing that in some way it's important to hold the
essence of even those childish things forever within our hearts, to enrich us in
moments whenever life seems thin or shallow, to remind us that however
simply perceived, the fruits of our imagination remain a unique and Divine gift
for which I will always be thankful.
| Leann's OCTOBER SKETCH NOTEs |
| The Thing About Halloween... |
October 2008
| A Cat’s Tale I hate it when it’s Halloween And witches have to fly They drag their kitty cats along Without good reason why Their vehicles are small, you see They ride upon a broom And if you should look closely there You’d see there isn’t room If kitty cats were meant to fly No doubt we would have wings My claws and tail and whiskers--all Were meant for other things There is no catnip on the moon No mice with which to play Yet every time it’s Halloween That broom whisks me away! |
Poem and Artwork by Leann
| From Taste of Home's "Halloween Food and Fun" |
Sketch Notes
Bowl of Bones
(Requires Overnight Marination)
These tender, saucy wings have a hint of sweet and
tangy lime flavor.
Your ghosts—er, guests—will devour them!
½ cup soy sauce
½ cup lime juice, divided
2 garlic cloves, minced
2 teaspoons minced fresh gingerroot, divided
2 pounds chicken wingettes and drumettes
½ cup apricot jam
½ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper
One eighth teaspoon garlic powder
Dash onion powder
***********************************************************
In a large resealable plastic bag, combine the soy
sauce, ¼ cup lime juice, garlic, and 1 teaspoon ginger;
add the chicken.
Seal bag and turn to coat.
Refigerate overnight, turning occasionally.
Drain and discard marinade.
Place chicken on a greased rack in a foil-lined 15-in. x
10-in. x 1-in. baking pan.
Bake at 375 degrees for 15 minutes.
Meanwhile, in a small saucepan, combine the jam, salt,
cayenne, garlic powder, onion powder, and remaining
lime juice and ginger.
Bring to a boil.
Reduce heat; simmer, uncovered, for 2 minutes.
Brush over wings.
Bake 40 minutes longer or until juices run clear,
basting and turning every 10 minutes.
(Requires Overnight Marination)
These tender, saucy wings have a hint of sweet and
tangy lime flavor.
Your ghosts—er, guests—will devour them!
½ cup soy sauce
½ cup lime juice, divided
2 garlic cloves, minced
2 teaspoons minced fresh gingerroot, divided
2 pounds chicken wingettes and drumettes
½ cup apricot jam
½ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper
One eighth teaspoon garlic powder
Dash onion powder
***********************************************************
In a large resealable plastic bag, combine the soy
sauce, ¼ cup lime juice, garlic, and 1 teaspoon ginger;
add the chicken.
Seal bag and turn to coat.
Refigerate overnight, turning occasionally.
Drain and discard marinade.
Place chicken on a greased rack in a foil-lined 15-in. x
10-in. x 1-in. baking pan.
Bake at 375 degrees for 15 minutes.
Meanwhile, in a small saucepan, combine the jam, salt,
cayenne, garlic powder, onion powder, and remaining
lime juice and ginger.
Bring to a boil.
Reduce heat; simmer, uncovered, for 2 minutes.
Brush over wings.
Bake 40 minutes longer or until juices run clear,
basting and turning every 10 minutes.
| From Taste of Home's "Halloween Food and Fun" |
Feed your crowd!
For crying out loud...
| The poet John Greenleaf Whittier, who was born in 1807, wrote in "The Pumpkin" (1850): “ Oh!—fruit loved of boyhood!—the old days recalling, When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling! When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin, Glaring out through the dark with a candle within!" |
Edgar Allan Poe (January 19, 1809 – October 7, 1849) was an American poet, short-story writer, editor
and literary critic, and is considered part of the American Romantic Movement. Best known for his tales
of mystery and the macabre, Poe was one of the earliest American practitioners of the short story and
is considered the inventor of the detective-fiction genre. He is further credited with contributing to the
emerging genre of science fiction. He was the first well-known American writer to try to earn a living
through writing alone, resulting in a financially difficult life and career.
Born as Edgar Poe in Boston, Massachusetts, Poe's parents died when he was young. Poe was taken
in by John and Frances Allan, of Richmond, Virginia, but they never formally adopted him. After
spending a short period at the University of Virginia and briefly attempting a military career, Poe and
the Allans parted ways. Poe's publishing career began humbly, with an anonymous collection of
poems, Tamerlane and Other Poems (1827), credited only to "a Bostonian".
Poe switched his focus to prose and spent the next several years working for literary journals and
periodicals, becoming known for his own style of literary criticism. His work forced him to move
between several cities, including Baltimore, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania and New York City. In
Baltimore in 1835, he married Virginia Clemm, his 13-year-old cousin. In January 1845, Poe published
his poem "The Raven" to instant success. His wife died of tuberculosis two years later. He began
planning to produce his own journal, The Penn (later renamed The Stylus), though he died before it
could be produced. On October 7, 1849, at age 40, Poe died in Baltimore; the cause of his death is
unknown and has been attributed to alcohol, brain congestion, cholera, drugs, heart disease, rabies,
suicide, tuberculosis, and other agents.
Poe and his works influenced literature in the United States and around the world, as well as in
specialized fields, such as cosmology and cryptography. Poe and his work appear throughout popular
culture in literature, music, films, and television. A number of his homes are dedicated museums today.
--From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
and literary critic, and is considered part of the American Romantic Movement. Best known for his tales
of mystery and the macabre, Poe was one of the earliest American practitioners of the short story and
is considered the inventor of the detective-fiction genre. He is further credited with contributing to the
emerging genre of science fiction. He was the first well-known American writer to try to earn a living
through writing alone, resulting in a financially difficult life and career.
Born as Edgar Poe in Boston, Massachusetts, Poe's parents died when he was young. Poe was taken
in by John and Frances Allan, of Richmond, Virginia, but they never formally adopted him. After
spending a short period at the University of Virginia and briefly attempting a military career, Poe and
the Allans parted ways. Poe's publishing career began humbly, with an anonymous collection of
poems, Tamerlane and Other Poems (1827), credited only to "a Bostonian".
Poe switched his focus to prose and spent the next several years working for literary journals and
periodicals, becoming known for his own style of literary criticism. His work forced him to move
between several cities, including Baltimore, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania and New York City. In
Baltimore in 1835, he married Virginia Clemm, his 13-year-old cousin. In January 1845, Poe published
his poem "The Raven" to instant success. His wife died of tuberculosis two years later. He began
planning to produce his own journal, The Penn (later renamed The Stylus), though he died before it
could be produced. On October 7, 1849, at age 40, Poe died in Baltimore; the cause of his death is
unknown and has been attributed to alcohol, brain congestion, cholera, drugs, heart disease, rabies,
suicide, tuberculosis, and other agents.
Poe and his works influenced literature in the United States and around the world, as well as in
specialized fields, such as cosmology and cryptography. Poe and his work appear throughout popular
culture in literature, music, films, and television. A number of his homes are dedicated museums today.
--From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Poe married
his 13-year
old cousin,
Virginia
Clemm. Her
early death
may have
inspired some
of his writing.
his 13-year
old cousin,
Virginia
Clemm. Her
early death
may have
inspired some
of his writing.
Know Your Poe.
Articles: "The Thing About Halloween" by Leann; "Know Your Poe" from Wikipedia
"The History of Halloween"
Poetry: "Imaginings" by Leann; "The Pumpkin" (an excerpt) by John Greenleaf Whittier;
"A Cat' Tale" by Leann; "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe
Recipes: Parmesan Party Mix; Bowl of Bones
Game: Hangman (a link to a simple and fun game!)
Cartoons: "trick or treaters", and a series (in its entirety) "Geez, Louise" by Leann
The carved pumpkin, lit by a candle inside, is one
of Halloween's most prominent symbols in
America, and is commonly called a jack-o'-lantern.
Originating in Europe, these lanterns were first
carved from a turnip or rutabaga. Believing that
the head was the most powerful part of the body
containing the spirit and the knowledge, the Celts
used the "head" of the vegetable to frighten off
any superstitions. The name jack-o'-lantern can
be traced back to the Irish legend of Stingy Jack,
a greedy, gambling, hard-drinking old farmer. He
tricked the devil into climbing a tree and trapped
him by carving a cross into the tree trunk. In
revenge, the devil placed a curse on Jack,
condemning him to forever wander the earth at
night with the only light he had: a candle inside of
a hollowed turnip.
of Halloween's most prominent symbols in
America, and is commonly called a jack-o'-lantern.
Originating in Europe, these lanterns were first
carved from a turnip or rutabaga. Believing that
the head was the most powerful part of the body
containing the spirit and the knowledge, the Celts
used the "head" of the vegetable to frighten off
any superstitions. The name jack-o'-lantern can
be traced back to the Irish legend of Stingy Jack,
a greedy, gambling, hard-drinking old farmer. He
tricked the devil into climbing a tree and trapped
him by carving a cross into the tree trunk. In
revenge, the devil placed a curse on Jack,
condemning him to forever wander the earth at
night with the only light he had: a candle inside of
a hollowed turnip.
Thank you Charles Schulz!
| What are fears but voices airy? Whispering harm where harm is not, And deluding the unwary Till the fatal bolt is shot! --Wordsworth |
| As the ancients wisely say, Have a care o' th' main chance, And look before you leap; For as you sow y'ere like to reap. --Butler |
| Fortune |
Did you enjoy this experimental issue of
Sketch Notes?
Got any Suggestions for future Sketch
Notes?
Have you got a poem, story, or article
you'd like to contribute to an upcoming
issue?
Want to talk about your arthritis?
Drop me a line by clicking on
"Herman" (Below)
Sketch Notes?
Got any Suggestions for future Sketch
Notes?
Have you got a poem, story, or article
you'd like to contribute to an upcoming
issue?
Want to talk about your arthritis?
Drop me a line by clicking on
"Herman" (Below)
| I'd like to thank The Caverns, also Mike's Gifs for some really awesome graphics. They made this page really jump out! (Applause) |
The History of Halloween
The modern holiday of Halloween has its origins in the ancient
Celtic festival known as Samhain; from the Old Irish samain). The
festival of Samhain is a celebration of the end of the harvest
season in Gaelic culture, and is sometimes regarded as the "Celtic
New Year".Traditionally, the festival was a time used by the
ancient pagans to take stock of supplies and slaughter livestock for
winter stores. The ancient Gaels believed that on October 31, now
known as Halloween, the boundary between the alive and the
deceased dissolved, and the dead become dangerous for the living
by causing problems such as sickness or damaged crops. The
festivals would frequently involve bonfires, where the bones of
slaughtered livestock were thrown. Costumes and masks were also
worn at the festivals in an attempt to mimic the evil spirits or
placate them.
The modern holiday of Halloween has its origins in the ancient
Celtic festival known as Samhain; from the Old Irish samain). The
festival of Samhain is a celebration of the end of the harvest
season in Gaelic culture, and is sometimes regarded as the "Celtic
New Year".Traditionally, the festival was a time used by the
ancient pagans to take stock of supplies and slaughter livestock for
winter stores. The ancient Gaels believed that on October 31, now
known as Halloween, the boundary between the alive and the
deceased dissolved, and the dead become dangerous for the living
by causing problems such as sickness or damaged crops. The
festivals would frequently involve bonfires, where the bones of
slaughtered livestock were thrown. Costumes and masks were also
worn at the festivals in an attempt to mimic the evil spirits or
placate them.
Herman's Waiting
For You...
For You...
| click here to see Louise and Clark cartoons |
Sketch Notes
is my Web site's
seasonal page
where I can just
get creative and
have fun.
(No rules.)
In This Issue-