All Hallowed Anec-pics

As a celebration of the season –

enjoy the following digitally enhanced photos of our farm and those who “haunt” it, as well as the 38 stanza poem which captions the anecdotes and tales from the valley…



As All Hallow’s Even approaches

The stories ’round Blue Bell’s base

Are told & retold countless times –

New Denmark’s spooks we face

Here in the leafless, misty vale

And on Blue Belldon Farm at large

It’s lately been fog and twilight’s twigs

All haunted souls in charge!


When a window in our house

Becomes a gothic silhouette

We look for other ghostly signs

Wait! There’s an evil boy’s face there, yet!


We think it looks like Richard

When just a young lad, LONG ago!

Was he possessed? Does he tap on glass?

And what is the meaning of the crow?

house a bbfarm.jpg

When twilight hunkers in

And catches splashes of yellow and blue

The witches flying ‘long Rte. 3-80

Stop by to mix their brew…PA250223.JPG

Julie witch.jpg

And when we go to Sunday church

(Ours is on the right)

We explore behind, the graveyard there

With distant hills in sight

church, goth.jpg   cem.jpg


But, beside the many Danish names

Stands out an English one-

The famous Lucy Whitehead.

Like a witch, for all she’d done.


For more upon her story,

See my writing back in March

About this mid-wife of the vale

And Lucy’s Gulch of pine and larch.

Her tale is rather haunting

Rather sad in such a way

Because she had to share her life

In a manner frowned upon today!


When first she started out to help

She perhaps looked a bit like me

But she grew old and grey and ‘witchified’…

As she worked her magic and mid-wifery!


Another sad and haunted soul

Doth haunt this valley’s mists

Her name is Greta Jensen

Of the Danish-settler’s lists

So pretty once was Greta

That the lumberjacks did swarm

To take her to the dances

And to admire her lovely form!

julie, old-fashioned lady.jpg

But Greta drowned in Lake Edward

One cold October night

And she now returns in ghostly form

To give us all a fright!


Speaking of frights, what else is there

That Rich and Jewels have seen?

Well, there’s a poltergeist out in the barn

Who’s nasty in the extreme…

He looks a lot like Richard, too!

As if he’d put on a cloak with dagger

But when he takes a swing at you,

You’d better backwards stagger!



Whether we look east to rising sun,               (above)

Or west to violent sunset                     (below)


The colours and swirls make us marvel,

‘Til the bats’ flights make us fret!


Besides bats, there are spiders,

Which hang just outside my panes

And my friend Anne shall keep away

Until I’ve rid them from our lanes…



But I love the nature of their webs

And the flies they swallow down

Perhaps a few less insects

In Blue Belldon’s house to crown?


While many ghosts appear as us,

Joy’s likeness to a crone

Who comes from Macbeth’s Scotland,

Like a moorland witch, alone,

Instead of in a threesome

Like those whose cauldron boiled

For the Aberdeenshire crofts

Is where her ancestors have toiled.

halloween crofts of savoch.jpg


And across the valley, as seen above

There’s often tramps and crones

Who are followed by familiars

Who expect to munch your bones.



The dog is black as all the night

Like Baskerville’s Hounds of old

He’s huge and always growling

To approach, you’d be quite bold!


A spell was put upon him, though

By the cat whose limpid eyes

Can well deceive the cunning

When the test-tubes mix their dyes!


And, what frightening sight did Richard see

When chemicals passed o’er him?

Was there a ghost, or something worse?

The lighting was so dim…



A spate of highwaywomen

Who robbed the travellers in the gulch

Have been apprehended on their rides

And the sheriff turned them into mulch

And then forced Julie to clean and polish

All the tack and livery

And indeed the boots of riders

Who passed by in revelry.


There was a reason why he did this-

She was, he said, at fault, you see

For offering up the homestead

With her wealth of hospitality.

For when old ghosts and witches

Cross the paths of thieves and ghouls

The souls of the dead come forth in full

And those who welcome them are FOOLS!


When lights emerge from valley mists

These aren’t fairies to open hearts to;

They are brutal monsters, like Shelley’s freak,

No matter how much they look like you!



And when the cozy fireside’s warmth

Doth call you to its side

Don’t trust that poisons aren’t brewing there

Best leave the punch untried!


For even the good-natured scarecrow

That may wink at you from our door

Can take on evil concepts

When the herbal brews do pour…



And when organic artists

Who’ve come to Julie’s door in past

Can make their spooky offerings

In the crow’s tree come to last…

Natural and Upcycling artists shown above: dead sunflowers and crows by Crows Nest Primitives, dream-catcher and feathers by Metis Caravan, framed crow etching by L’immaginaria, quilt by MiniMade, Misbehavin’ Raven pillow by Julie’s own Rustic Revivals, and photograph taken and enhanced by Yvonne Parsons.

Then we know it’s time for innocence

To stand protected in the gloom

Of Blue Bell’s darkening shadow

As October draws to doom.


book, memoirs joke.jpg

Julie may keep on writing

Her tales of olden memories

Of souls that lost the struggle

And of crows hidden in the trees…

But we all know the photos

Only speak of half the tale;

That the words that may be written

Next to the TRUTH, may often pale…


For the hauntings will continue

In the valley of the Danes

Where Blue Bell first was settled

With cries of horror and blood stains!



   (Not really, children – I made it all up.   It’s a lovely tranquil valley. Richard and his chainsaw are the only things to be concerned about… to watch him on his famous invisible one, which is much safer, see: