Tonight I am going to my grandparents house to trick-or-treat with my cousins. I am going to be a green witch and my mom is a black witch. A green witch, in case you didn’t know, is a woman who practices herbalism and sometimes midwifery. She is called a green witch because she practices harmless witch craft.
On November 7th there is a masquerade ball. I am going to wear my 1890’s style work dress, my antique mother of pearl belt buckle that I got in Greenfield Village, my pantaloons that my Grammy and I made and a cameo brooch that I’m going to barrow from her. I’m really excited.
Tomorrow is the one year anniversary of getting Molly. The third, is the one year anniversary of getting Meg.
It feels so much like November here.
This is one of our favorite poems:
My November Guest
My Sorrow, when she’s here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walked the sodden pasture lane.
Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She’s glad the birds are gone away,
She’s glad her simple worsted gray
Is silver now with clinging mist.
The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.
Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.
Here is installment two:
Later Eva cut the obituary out and took it to her room. She had decided not to read it at the table, so she had eaten quickly and hurried to her room. Now she sat down at her desk and smoothed the obituary out and just as she was beginning to read, her mother called to her and said “Eva! There is someone at the door. Your father is shaving and I am busy typing. Could you get it?”
Eva sighed, but got up and hurried to the door. When she opened it, she found a boy about her age with floppy bangs and a piece of paper in his hands. He said “um, er, would you care to, uh, sign this um…” Here he paused to scan his paper, then began again “petition? It’s to allow chickens to be kept by, um, rental people, on the, um, account that the rentals are, uh, careful?”
Eva suppressed her laughter and calmly said “do you have to be a certain age to sign it?”
The boy looked down at his paper again and said “uh, you have to be, er, twelve or older.”
“Alright hand it over.” And with that she signed it and shut the door as the boy stumbled away.