THE REST OF THE STORY: Terri

Tobias and I built our first shedrow together nearly twenty years ago. That little barn was basically many nails held together by a few boards. Us being merely beautiful and not rich, we dumpster dove and glommed from our friends until we had enough to put a roof over our magnificent mares. We've put in a lot of trail miles between us since then. In the ensuing years, my life-style - my horse life - has evolved and changed and grown and changed again. I mentioned earlier that to cut costs we are re-building a free shed. A few things that you should all know: Firstly - never ever spend two or three grand on one of these portable buildings. They are held together by staples mostly, and come apart very easily. Especially when your spouse says, "hold this and don't move" and then you become distracted. Next, as you dismantle what is left, mark every piece that you take off in some sort of order. That way when you begin to put it back together you can have wonderfully intense discussions about which is your right and which is your left and is THIS number six piece or is this number nine? And finally, remember that with any good project you will always have pieces left over. Tra.

I don't know about ya'll but I get a huge amount of satisfaction out of reusing, remaking and repairing. Especially since we bought foreclosure acreage. We are saving for a new roof so with other needs to make the farm usable we are becoming extremely thrifty. I just unpacked the last of my barn items that were stored in my horse trailer - I'm ready to ride! But didn't have any good place to store stuff so I found a free portable building on Craig's list. When we got there to pick it up, we found it was in worse shape than advertised so instead of loading the whole thing on the trailer, we had to take it apart, bring it home and put it back together like a big puzzle - with new wood in some places. We worked all day yesterday and this morning Big went down to start the rafters. Now, early morning life on my farm is a bit more casual than is probably proper. When I wake I generally pull on whatever is convenient and then wander out in the dark with my coffee to get the girls fed. This morning, it happened to be fluorescent red flannel pants with huge snowflakes. And my lime green Happy Trails tee-shirt. Big was out getting ready to put up the rafters so I wandered down there with my cuppa to oversee the job and he asked me to "hold this". So tee-shirt stretched tight and free as the breeze, flannels drooping too, with arms overhead, I support a rafter while he goes to find the measuring tape. Hello, Mr.Telephone Man.

Starke Ghosts~

I never knew how much I enjoyed acting! In 2007, I wanted to earn money for my favorite horse rescue group and I came up with the idea of a ghost walk in my little town of Starke, Florida. I wanted the stories to be factual and so all my research came from the local paper. This was the last story on the hour walk: The State Prison is home to wrongdoers, murders, and. ghosts. It's no wonder "Raiford" is rumored to be haunted by the men who lingered there. It has all the ingredients to hold a person's tormented soul: misery, confinement and fear. It is even rumored by the Native Americans to be an energy portal where evil spirits are allowed to come through. This may explain some of the events that have been witnessed by prison staff and inmates alike. There are reports of ghostly figures, screams, banging metal doors, putrid smells and sobbing. Death is no stranger to "Raiford". The first reported ones were during the early construction when the prison was known as the state work-farm. There were fatal confrontations between fellow prisoners, guard beatings, and failed escapes. For many, Raiford was the last stop before entering Hell. Old Sparky has its share of ghosts, having claimed many newsworthy names including John Spenkelink and Ted Bundy.Theodore Robert "Ted" Bundy was one of the most notorious murderers in U.S. history. A serial killer, rapist, and necrophiliac, Bundy murdered scores of young women across the United States between 1974 and 1978. His total number of victims remains unknown to this day, and there is some speculation that he first began to murder in 1961 at age 15. Bundy eventually confessed to over 30 murders and is considered by some to be the archetypal serial killer, with the term "serial killer" having been coined to describe his crimes. A few years ago a retiring guard told a story to a Tampa Newspaper reporter that was strange and spooky. He said that shortly after Ted Bundy was put to death via Old Sparky that guards including himself would go into the room where the electric chair was located and there would be Ted setting in the chair. He would not be strapped in or anything~ he would just be sitting there smiling at who ever came in the room like he knew a secret. When you would approach the chair or speak he would simply vanish. At one point the former guard said it got so bad that you could not get a guard to go into the room. Others began to report that they would see Ted near his former cell where he spent the last hours of his life. He told several guards, " Well I beat all of you didn't I !" . The Warden went guard to guard and told them that any guard who reported what was going on at the prison would be fired. Several didn't have to be warned! They quit after seeing Ted a time or two. And the former guard said Bundy was not the only ghost haunting the prison. Over the years several stories of other ghosts had slipped out. He said another ghost seen by everyone at the prison was that of Charlie Grifford who was 72 when executed in the Electric Chair in February of 1989. Charlie plays the Harmonica and on many occasions in the middle of the night guards have hunted for the source of harmonica music. Of course no culprit was to be found. John Spenkelink, another well-known inmate who was executed in 1979, on several occasions told anyone that would listen that Charlie Grifford's ghost spent time in his cell, telling him that he, Charlie Grifford was innocent and that he was going to haunt the prison until his name was cleared. Prison officials said Spenkelink was trying to escape execution by playing "crazy". And of course Charlie Grifford has never come forward with any information. It only stands to reason that if you were innocent and executed by the State of Florida you might want to hang around and try to get even. Psychics visiting the prison have reported cold spots, harsh and sudden emotional outbursts, apparitions claiming abuse, vibrations and a myriad of other ghostly traces. In fact, there are few spots in the prison where you can see or feel other worldly energies including the hospital, the Warden's office, Cell Blocks, and the therapy and utility rooms.

Looking Upward

The walk with the horses was a bit challenging this morning. Not because of them. They were their normal, well-behaved selves. I was the nervous one. A stiff breeze was blowing and I kept scanning the skyline for thunder clouds. Every creaking oak had me checking limbs for breakage and possible widow makers. A few weeks ago, Big was clonked in the head by an oak limb and spent the night in Trauma ICU. He's recovered, thank God, but I do spend a lot of time looking upward now. And yesterday, a friend's three horses were killed by lightning. A bolt from the blue. Most people go through life without realizing it only takes one second to change your life completely. One decision, one blink, one peek over your shoulder. One tiny distraction- one breaking limb, one thing you didn't know. I do spend a lot of time looking upward now. And thanking Him for guiding me through those seconds that are fraught with dangerous circumstances - those that affect my health, my life, my heart and my soul. Looking upward eases my mind and gives me strength.

Taking a deep breath~

My generous neighbor has allowed use of her field for the horses while we work on our pastures and clear property. Not only has she given me grazing for the girls, she's given me the gift of time. Once the mares have breakfasted, they stand at the gate patiently waiting for their halters. Some mornings, I simply knot the rope around Rio's halter, climb aboard and pony Hobby down the road. Other mornings, we meander the half-mile or so to the gate. But every morning I take this quiet time to re-group. Today the gardenias along Hope's road are all in bloom. Summer is already heavy in the air and the Spanish Moss doesn't stir. Rain lilies are blooming and the Resurrection Fern is green and happy again. For these few moments, the to-do list is gone, the assorted worries of the day are postponed and I feel happiness bubbling up inside me. Rio and I have a comfortable chat about the big horsey fun she will have today. Some days she is my confidante and other days we discuss problems she might be having.Hobby just tags along, lost in her own thoughts and keeping an eye peeled for horse-eaters. I am on my own on the way return but not alone. This morning butterflies are everywhere. The blooming jessamine comes on a slight breeze and a squirrel chatters at me for disturbing him. The cows are already knee-deep in McCormic's pond and Sweet Muley from one field over is pacing me down the fence-line. My petronus - a red-shouldered hawk- wheels around overhead. God's in His heaven and all's right with the world.

Another year gone

Seems like I just fall further and further behind in my writing. I always have the best excuses! This time, we've moved further south - into a home and location that bring us both great happiness. It is good.

Truly Southern

Truly Southern

It’s not the things you see with your eyes. It’s not just the majestic oaks covered in swags of Spanish moss, or winding roads which ease up to graceful columned mansions. It’s more than funny accents and the twisted relationships you see in the movies; more than black oppression, more than cotton fields; more than back water towns filled with uneducated derelicts. It’s a cry in your mind which keeps you tied to the salt marshes, a burning eased by the feel of plough mud; an ache when you go away which might only be soothed by the smell of Jessamine. Its Sunday mornin’ in church followed by dinner at Mama’s; oyster roasts and pig-pickin’s; greens and Hoppin’ John. It’s saying, “yes ma’am” and “no, sir” and never arguing with someone whose opinion you don’t respect.

Truly southern is seeing your family name in a history book, on a street sign, or a monument or a town. It’s knowing that good manners, like good china, are to be taken out and used every day. Truly southern is walking from the porch into the sunlight and feeling the air bead up on your brow. It’s knowing that conversation with the mayor can be a blood-sport and your neighbor’s wife has a tongue sharp enough to trim the hedge. Truly Southern is feeling the scraw of the jay before you hear it. It’s having a memory that involves a hunting dog and knowing how to boil peanuts and cook grits.

Geographically speaking, truly southern might be Charleston or Savannah. Plainly speaking, it’s the upper right corner of your soul.