Halloween Houses Of 2026

 

An Attempt To Write A Wagon Train Romance Adventure Dealio

 

   As he had done most every morning for the past 3 months James woke a little before the men on watch fired their guns to signal the start of another day. The morning twilight became dawn and the low sun began to light up the sky. The group he and Polly were with now numbered 143 souls, far fewer than the more than 1,000 people they had set out with.

   After the larger group had crossed the Big Blue River near the Alcove Spring camp they had split up nearly evenly in order to ease the stress of keeping order over the large group of Elephant Hunters (as they jokingly referred to themselves). Though the two smaller groups stayed within a few miles of each other for safety's sake.

   The route through the Federal Territory after they had crossed the Missouri River had been rugged and demanded a level of persistence and determination that James was surprised he was capable of. He was equally surprised and impressed by the resolute endurance his young wife Polly possessed, and her unwavering calm in the face of adversity. While he walked over to their team of 6 stout oxen and the two horses with buckets of fresh water he repeated the same prayer of gratitude that he had recited to himself every morning for the past 92 days.

   "Thank you Lord, for another day of life and the blessings therin."

   The makeshift corral was abuzz with activity as other members of the caravan feed and watered their livestock and made small talk amongst each other. James approached his brother Alfred and they greeted each other with the same half smile and nod they had silently agreed was all that was necessary in the morning. When they had harnessed their respective teams to the wagons, then they would talk about the days itinerary and whether or not they would be volunteering to serve as foragers or hunters that afternoon.

   As the sun climbed over the eastern horizon James could see the smoke from the morning campfires of the three other smaller emigrant companies that had further reduced the size of the trains the Wagon Master had to personally oversee. Now that the company was halfway to their destination and the fear of Indian raids had subsided, the going, while still rough, had gotten easier.

   Earlier in the week a Scout had returned after four days of assessing the trail ahead and told of meeting up with a group at a large rock near an encampment along the North Platte where a ferry service was available.

   Today was the day the group expected to traverse the 15 miles the Scout had estimated they needed to travel to reach the large rock. There would be several other caravans that had made camp in the area, and it would no doubt be a boisterous evening as there would be welcome reunions with fellows that they had split from since the crossing of the Big Blue River had been made.  

   In about an hour the Wagon Master would signal the bugler to blow his horn. The men leading the teams of oxen would start walking while gently tugging on the reigns and the large beasts would begin stirring up clouds of dust as the wagons they were yoked to began to move forward. After three months the logistics of getting everyone underway was a well-rehearsed and smooth exercise. 

   James looked over his right shoulder and up towards Polly, his wife of not yet four months. She had answered the advert he had placed in the Evansville Daily Journal seeking a wife who desired to migrate to the western territories and two weeks after she had replied they had married. It was an indelicate, risky, and possibly dangerous decision for them both, but it was also something they both wanted, almost desperately so.

   Polly looked at her husband and smiled broadly. Her eyes meet his and she thought once again about how surreal if not absurd the past four months had been. She also thought about how exciting and happy they had been despite the hardships of life on the trail. It was an an adventure the likes of which she never imagined would befall her, and the fact she had been fortunate enough to meet such a sound and able-bodied man to share the adventure with made it all the more exhilarating.

   Her future, their future, held more promise than she had ever hoped for, and with every mile further west they traveled her conviction she had made the right decision strengthened.   

     

Discover Yourself Without Hurting Yourself (Or Anyone Else)

He didn't much care for the opinions of strangers these days

Which was a far cry from the days of his youth

When he was consumed with a need to be accepted

When he was convinced his self-worth was dependent on others perceptions

Of what he could or couldn't do

Of what he knew or didn't know

Periodically he would encounter someone, usually a young kid

A teenager wound tight, emotionally turbulent, deeply anxious

Against everything but hoping to find something

Against the wall and insistently trying to tear it down

Because it was all so frustrating

Because it was all so existential

He had to fight to keep himself quiet on those occassions

Keep his thoughts to himself

The kid didn't need to hear yet another adult tell him

The future was bright and there was no reason to panic

That the world was extraordinary

That the best was just beginning

Everybody deserves the chance to discover all that by themselves

Deciduous Trees Droppin' Leaves Like They're Hot

Here we are more than a month into Fall and the trees have finally begun to start losing their leaves. Some people like to hop in a car and drive for hours into the mountains southwest of Denver to peep at miles and miles of Aspens, Cottonwoods, Oaks, Maples and other deciduous shrubs as their leaves change from various shades of green to an amazing rainbow of shades of red, orange and yellow. 

Which is cool and all, but to me a waste of time and fuel, because here in Lakewood where I reside there are several parks within walking distance of my house that have hundreds if not thousands of those very same trees doing the exact same turning color dance.

Over the last couple of days I've spent a few hours walking along both the Clear Creek and Bear Creek trails, and enjoyed every minute of it. As you might have assumed, I took a few pictures of the beautiful views along the trail, too.

The Bench At The Crest Of The Hill

 He walked the 1,428 steps from the trailhead to the crest of the hill 

                         Slowly, casually

There was no rush, and even if there was 

          He didn't believe he could bear to rush

The bench, which was in reality a flat boulder with a rectangular shape

                   Wasn't going anywhere 

The crest of the hill allowed one a spectacular view of the area

       For miles in all directions

In the morning one could sit and watch the sunrise in the east

                        And in the evenings watch the sunset to the west

The flat boulder was large enough for four people 

             To sit together comfortably

Though he had never sat there with anyone other than her

                  When they would sit and talk for hours

She had considered the bench their 

                                 Ringside seat to the world

And a place of sanctuary, of retreat 

                        Where they could hide together in plain sight

At least once a week, usually late Wednesdays, after noon

             When it was rare for anyone else to be there

They walked the 1,428 steps together

                     Sometimes enjoying the tranquility of silence

Sometimes chattering like jays

                   Always reveling in one another's company

Now, as he approached the boulder alone

                                   He looked off into the distance

Through misty eyes he searched out familiar landmarks

              Johnson's creek flowing south the Solomon range to the east

The Dominion school grounds north and the Fuller bridge west

                        Unconsciously he ran his hands through his hair

As he recalled the times they tried to find their home

          Realizing that the house he was searching for  

Was no longer their home

                                Only his

                       

                            

Falling Down The Infinitely Deep Rabbit Hole Of Human Behavioral Studies

For some people successful people are a source of envy

For others, successful people are a source of inspiration

Why is it that?

What are the factors that determine whether one becomes envious or inspired?

Why does one person witness someone doing something at a high level and become so annoyed by it that all they can do in response is belittle and begrudge the high level performer? 

Why does one person witness someone doing something at a high level and find it motivating to the point that it drives them to emulate the high level performer's success?

The motivating factors for people to do anything, whether it be altruistic or egoistic, have been explored, researched, studied - however you want to define the efforts made to figure 'em out - for millennia.

Learned academics from Aristotle to Kant to Mill to Maslow to McClelland have espoused upon virtue and vice, self-interest and impulse, power dynamics, resentment, self-esteem and self-actualisation, intrinsic and extrinsic motivations, situational and institutional forces...ad nauseum.

But none of that is what I'm curious about here.

I'm curious about the "why" two individuals will witness the high level success of a third person and have decidedly different reactions to it. 

One will have a positive and the other a negative.

Biologically, human beings are 99.9% identical. Does that 0.1% difference factor into the "why"?

23 years ago, when the human genome project was completed, geneticist came to the conclusion that the collective human population was basically comprised of identical twins.

Living as we do in the postgenomic era one would think it might have behoved an academic researcher or two to research the "why".

The mechanics of brain function at the cellular level - electrochemical signals sent and received between cells, the synapses between neurons, etc., seems to be well understood (according to what I've read on the 'net, and we all know the 'net is 100% trustworthy), so is it safe to assume that the actions and reactions of individuals can now be dissected and studied and then directed?

For the greater good, that is. 

The Zajonc - Ledoux theory proposes that many emotional reactions can occur before any cognitive assessment of the stimuli can be made - in other words, I feel therefore I am. 

But that doesn't explain the "why" of whether the reaction is positive for one and negative for another.

It's been written (and argued over) that an individual's perception of an event can be affected by levels of emotional sensitivity, whether they are introverts or extroverts, their diet, their core values (moral compass?), and even their sleep patterns, which then creates an individual negative or positive impression of what they experience.

Is that it? Is that the "why?" Is that what really makes one person hear a particular song and become inflamed with the idea of becoming a musician and another person hears the same song and switches the station or just turns the radio off?

That can't be it. There has to be something else at play.

I gotta get back to work.

You Can Change Most Anything About Your House...But You Can't Change Your Neighbors

Salad Bar

The Fantastic Tractor Collection Of Russ Englebrecht, Part 2

   The other day I posted pics and a little information about a truly amazing collection of vintage and modern tractors that one man, Russ Englebrecht, has accumulated over the past fifty years.

   Today I follow up that post with pictures of Mr Engelbrecht's even more impressive collection of toy tractors...a collection that numbers into the hundreds if not thousands.

   Russ not only collects toy tractors, but he also rebuilds and restores them, much like he does with his collection of actual tractors.

Russ amidst his pride and joy

   His toy tractor collection is primarily focused on miniature reproductions of John Deere vehicles, but is definitely not limited to such. He has an incredible variety of toy farm machinery that covers nearly every inch of flat surface in his workshop.

   The man is much more than a simple collector, as he is an extremely talented craftsman as well, devoted passionately to the complete restoration of any and all toy farm equipment he can get his hands on.

   Methinks collector and craftsman are not sufficient terms to describe Mr Englebrecht, for he is so much more - he is a dedicated conservator, a resourceful engineer, a master mechanic, a highly skilled fabricator, and above all an ardent preservationist. 

   It has been my good fortune to have met and become acquainted with a very large number of fervent collectors of various items, from comic books to period antiques to automobiles, but what Russ has achieved is on a rare level, comparable to the work of Patrick Acton's matchstick sculptures in Gladbook, Iowa. 

   This visit to Strasburg was pretty magical for me, as there is nothing I find more inspiring than encountering people with a singular dedication to a craft or creative avocation. 

   If you ever find yourself in the area I highly recommend paying Russ a visit - he's a most gracious host and fairly easy to find - just look for the large field full of tractors.

 

The Fantastic Tractor Collection Of Russ Englebrecht, Part 1

   The radio was off as I didn't want to be distracted by anything as I ruminated over a fairly serious question I'd asked myself while I was driving through the small town of Strasburg, Colorado on a sunny Sunday afternoon.

   But distracted I became, as I caught sight of a large yard filled with tractors of various ages, sizes and intended uses, and of course that meant I had to stop for a closer look.

   It is no exaggeration when I state there were tractors everywhere, as they were indeed, everywhere. Most of the them appeared to be John Deere tractors built in the past 100 years or so, but there were a few other makes, and a few much newer (and still in use) makes and models.

   The tractors (and other farm machinery) were all parked in neat, orderly rows on a lot that measured 14 acres. I know the size of the lot because shortly after I started taking pictures of the tractors I met the man responsible for the collection, one Russ Englebrecht, life-long resident of Strasburg and avowed tractor enthusiast.

   The number and variety of tractors Russ had collected over the past 5 decades is quite impressive, as is the care he has taken of them. After he came over and introduced himself he told me the history of his collection, and then showed me to a couple of buildings that contained a few of the gems of the collection, and a number of tractors that he had fully restored.

   In the first building we toured Russ showed me a number of tractors that he had fully restored and has displayed at various local fairs and parades. Russ is one of those people that cannot sit still - but he's not the fidgety sort, he's the hyper-productive sort. The sort that does more before breakfast than most people do in a day.

   He travels all over the country looking for old tractors that he can save from the scrap heap and give new life to - the tractor featured on the left of the photo above was a rusted old hulk he rescued from a farm in San Diego.   

   You'll have to excuse the dust, but when you live in a dry and dusty area of Colorado, dust is a constant, even in non-drought years.

   The tractor in the picture above is over 100 years old and has been fully restored. It's the oldest fully functional tractor in the state.

   The pictures I've posted today are just the tip of Russ's tractor iceberg however. Tomorrow I'll post pics of a much, much larger collection of tractors that Russ has collected...and restored, and built.

   Much larger, but also much smaller.

Taking The Squirrel's Priorities Into Consideration

 

There is a squirrel in that tree that just won't stop 

scurrying through the branches and leaves

The squirrel's on a mission that much is clear

But what it's about isn't 

C'mon squirrel slow down a little bit

Life is grand and you're missing it

Oh, wait - maybe you're working at hiding

Your winter stash from potential thieves

And I'm the one who's being the half-wit 

The Disincarnation Of Katherine Scott, Chapter I

   She woke up to bright rays of sunshine filtering through the wooden slats of not-quite-closed shutters. It took her a minute but slowly she realised she did not have plantation shutters on the windows of her bedroom, and as she slowly looked around the large bedroom it hit her that she was not waking up in her own home. 

   Her thoughts jumped quickly from "Where am I" to "How did I get here" to "Who still decorates with twall?" 

   She sat up in the large bed - "This can't be a king-sized bed, I have a king-sized bed, and this is much larger than my bed" - and continued to take in her surroundings. There was what appeared to be a mid-'60s peach colored princess phone on the round, doily covered night table to her left. She reached over and picked up the receiver and lifted it to her ear. To her surprise, there was a dial tone. 

     She pulled the receiver away from her ear and stared down at it. She looked about the room again, and for a brief moment thought she was having one of those odd half-asleep, half-awake dreams she remembered having in her teen years. She pinched herself. It hurt. She wasn't dreaming.

   The sound of muffled singing in the hall outside the room caught her attention. Instantly she pulled the large comforter tight up to her collar, unconsciously admiring the quality of the material. It was then she became aware that she was wearing a very fancy, extremely comfortable nightgown, and scenes of a 1930s movie featuring Jean Harlow flashed through her mind.       

   "This is bizarre," she thought as she clutched the heavy comforter. "Have I been drugged and kidnapped? Who would want to kidnap me? Did I go out last night and get roofied by some rich perverted bastard who took me home, raped me, and then dressed me up in an old-fashioned nightgown and then put me in this oversized bed? Where are the clothes I was wearing last night? Why can't I remember anything?'

   On that thought there came a sharp rapping on the bedroom door. The muffled singing voice became a soft but stern voice that clearly addressed her through the door as Emmeline and said that breakfast was ready and if she wanted her oeufs cocotte hot she had better get a move on. 

   The voice that had come from behind the door was that of an older female, and the language the voice spoke in was French. Now, she mulled, it is really getting weird, as not only could she not speak or understand French, she was most certainly not named Emmeline.

   Her name was Katherine Scott and she was an American woman who lived in Alliance, Ohio, in a small two-bedroom house on Waugh street that she had inherited from her grandparents. 

   Katherine got out of the the bed and started to touch everything in the room, at first gently as if she was in an expensive antiques store, but eventually with a bit of force, as if she was shopping at the Wal-Mart. Everything was solid, real. That only added to her confusion. She spied a cheval mirror across the room and briskly walked over to it.

  The mirror was large and allowed her to see herself head to foot. It was her, Katherine Scott, though she was wearing a decidedly glamorous light gold silk nightgown that probably cost an entire paycheck, and her hair looked a little longer than she remembered.

   It hit her then that she could remember. She could remember everything about herself and her life except for last night (had it been only one night?) and how she had got to where she was, wearing what she was wearing.

   Next to the cheval mirror sat an ornately carved chair in front of an equally ornately carved vanity. A dressing gown that matched the nightgown she was wearing was draped over the back of the chair and she put it on. Tying the sash around her waist she commented to herself that it was remarkable how well the dressing gown fit her, as if it was custom made. She slipped her feet into a pair of house shoes that also fit perfectly.

   Then she opened the bedroom door and walked out, somehow instinctively knowing the breakfast nook was located down the hall and through the family room, right next to the kitchen on the opposite side of the dining room. 

   Standing at a long counter that was decorated with what looked to be inlaid hand made decorative tiles was the woman Katherine assumed had been the one who had announced breakfast. She was fairly petite, probably 55ish, and was wearing a traditional maids uniform, much like the one Katherine had worn to a Halloween party some years ago.

  "Bonjour Mademoiselle," The woman in the maids costume said in the same soft but stern voice she had used to announce breakfast. "Souhaiteriez-vous du jus de pamplemousse ou du jus d'orange avec vos oeufs aujourd'hui? Ou bien je peux préparer du café frais, si vous preferez."

   Katherine stared at the woman intently for a few seconds, taking in the fact that she understood exactly what the woman had said and wondering when she had ever wanted grapefruit juice for breakfast.

   Then the room suddenly started to shake, or rather, shiver. At first slowly, but then extremely fast. Katherine suddenly felt as if she was watching the scene, not being part of it.

   Just as suddenly everything became perfectly still. Katherine was seated in one of the four hard oak captain's chairs that matched the small round oak table that she had inherited from her grandparents along with the house. She shook her head as if to silently disagree with someone. The toast popped up and she looked over at a small clock on the wall. She still had a half-hour before she had to leave for work.

   The house was as quiet as it always was, but there was a slight buzzing in Katherine's ear. She looked around the kitchen and felt an odd sensation of being unsettled and thought everything was non resolu - and then immediately thought to herself "How in the world would I know what the French word for unresolved would be?"

   She got up from the table to make her way to the toaster and immediately stopped in her tracks. Looking at her feet she momentarily swayed and said out loud, "Where did I get such a nice pair of slippers? Did I do some thrifting that I'm blanking on? How weird is that?!" 

   The cat, who had been enjoying his nap in the sunbeam that came in through the kitchen window, turned his head slightly towards her and yawned wide before going back to it's nap.