Chapter Thirteen, Part Two: In which I find solace at Walden Pond post election and delight in the best ever apple cider and egg nog

Hello everyone,
I am back to talk of happy things. :)

Actually, just to get it out of the way . . . We've all spent a month reeling from the elections. I am massively disappointed, upset, frightened, and determined. My classes that week spent much of our time processing what had happened and how that affected our lives, our families' lives, others' lives, what we could do and what we should do. HDS has been designated a sanctuary due to a statement by the faculty and a petition led by the students. We will see in the future what this will mean for us, the students, the campus, etc. Anyway, this is not the platform on which I want to address the election, except to say that I am so grateful for the chance to vote this election as well as the elation I felt when I had. I will never cease to be grateful that I can vote. I may feel unheard, inaccurately represented, frustrated by systems and inefficient traditions, corruption, biased presentations of information, and a million other things, but I can vote. And in honor of Thanksgiving, I would like to recognize how very grateful I am for that right.

Anyway, as I've alluded to, election week was a very hard one. When life is too much, I have a few things that never fail to make me feel that if not all is right with the world, that at least things can be right within me. The first is listening to music that reminds me of my family. This includes Frank Sinatra, a few 1940's Christmas CD compilations (the Crooner's for sure, oh and Judy Garland), jazz, a lot of scores and classical pieces, and others like Simon and Garfunkel and the Beatles. The second is sitting down to play the piano. I don't often get the chance to do so anymore, and many of my happiest, most cathartic moments as a child to young adult was sitting at the piano and playing for hours as family life swirled around me. The third is retreating to nature. Being in nature holds a power, a tranquility, and an aliveness that always stuns me and rejuvenates me. So the weekend of election week, Spencer and I along with our friends, Zoe and Alex, headed up to Lexington and Concord to go out to a nearby piece of nature. As you can see, I've already posted a few picture of Wilson Farm so let me tell you all about it.

First we went to Wilson Farm in Lexington. It was incredible. The extent of what they produced and the mini grocery store that they had produced entirely from their farm. I'm serious: it was a full-blown grocery store with absolutely incredible apple cider, the best egg nog I've ever ever tasted, and apple cider doughnuts. They grew lots of plants, had livestock in the back that we could visit, a bakery, a Christmas section, everything. I will definitely be going back. It is one of my most favorite places I've been to since moving to greater Boston. It is just so quintessentially New England.

After our magical stop at Wilson Farm, we drove the short distance to Concord to visit the domain of Henry David Thoreau, and the pond in which Amy March (Little Women) almost drowned in when she fell through the ice while ice skating with her other sisters. Walden Pond. And let me tell you, It was stunning, absolutely breathtaking. It wasn't even the height of the autumn colors anymore, and it was still gorgeous.

We started by checking out Thoreau's cabin. The cabin we saw was a replica of Thoreau's home for the few years he was at Walden Pond. But Thoreau was obviously proud of it because he wrote extensive notes about the dimensions of the cabin and wood pile, as well as the placement of all of his furniture and the stove, etc. I mean the guy built it himself, so I suppose that explains his detailed enthusiasm. And yes, there was a statue of Thoreau. And yes, Spencer and I, as we always do, walked in his footsteps for a moment by emulating his deeply ponderous pose.

After seeing Henry David Thoreau's cabin, Zoe, Alex, Spencer, and I proceeded to trek the short walk down to Walden Pond. As I mentioned before, the leaves were no longer at the height of their color before the turn to earthy brown and brasses and golds and fall from their branches. But even so, it was perfect.

We walked along the shoreline, looking at leaves, talking, circumnavigating a bird that was stubbornly standing/sleeping on a rock and would not move. For real though, the bird was there for over a half hour with a few people stopping to look every so often. That bird displayed some serious fortitude and calm. There were people swimming (like triathlon training swimming) in the pond. (Yes, this is allowed, even invited.) And families were out enjoying the last few breaths of autumn before the weather turned and the leaves descended. There was a light breeze which would sweep the leaves from their grasps on the bark and would send them swirling into whirls of rustling, swooshing leaves until they would gently float down, almost like snow, settling on the water, the sand, and our hair. The fallen leaves would occasionally catch a breeze and dance across the sand, flying just over the surface, seeming to lilt to and fro. I really can't describe how lovely and peaceful it was.

Rounding a slight corner, we came to a small inlet. Spencer decided to skip some stones. (He really is very very good at skipping stones. I think at tops he got five or six skips from one stone, which in and of itself is a classic and tranquil image. Also, he's attractive with all his random talents.) Anyway, Spencer's stone-skipping, created a movement among us, and soon Alex, Zoe, and I had joined him is scouting out the best stones for skipping. Spencer was the best at it, with Alex following closely, and then me with varying success, and Zoe with varying success. Spencer and Alex instructed us as to techniques for holding the stone, flicking your wrist and holding your arm to get the right spin to make it glance off the water. It was serious business.


Walden Pond turned out to be exactly what I needed. Quality time with friends, quality time with nature, a small and lovely way to check a site I want to see while living here off of my list (although, I assure you, I'll be coming back), and a small way in which I was able to dislike Henry David Thoreau a little less. (Here's the deal: the guy makes a hole big deal about living in nature and then situates him on his friend's land, ridiculously close to town, and had his mother and sister come to do his laundry and such every week. Talk about "roughing it" in style. Needless to say, this has always colored my opinion of his work. Also, I don't particularly enjoy his writing style although he does have him moments.) Anyway, a new visitor center is also being constructed with really cool rustic, wood log structures. It's really cool but hard to describe.

We stopped in the gift shop and the guy tending the register there gave me a free postcard that showed all the types of leaves that grew and fell at Walden Pond. As an avid scrapbooker, I was very grateful. I, what, saved a whole 25 cents, but it was the gesture that moved me.

Another thing I found in the gift store was the postcard here which says one of my favorite quotes from Thoreau. This is what I mean when I say that "Walden" is dense but holds some real treasures. I mean, what a beautiful iteration of why human beings return to nature, as though it holds some great secret, again and again. "I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived." Nature really does hold some secret, and returning again and again demonstrates our faith that that something is there and that we can learn it given time, and that by learning it we will truly help us live better lives. After such a harrowing month, Harry Huff's death, drowning in homework resulting in a few emotional breakdowns, the election results, this is what I needed.

Saying goodbye to Walden Pond, Henry David Thoreau, and his little cabin, we headed back to Belmont and life away from the woods.

Once at home, Zoe, Alex, Spencer, and I got our the Apple Cider Doughnuts, Apple Cider, and Egg Nog we had bought at Wilson Farm. Wow! So delicious. Literally the best egg nog I've ever had. I often feel like egg nog gets stuck in my throat like a nasty film, but this egg nog had all the flavor and creaminess with a thinner smoother texture to it. Not runny and no less creamy, just . . . better. The apple cider was wonderful and potent. The apple cider doughnuts tasted perfectly of apple cider and dense cake doughnut (they were divine warm). Sorry my picture is distinctly without apple cider. . . . We drank it all. Also all the doughnuts were devoured. I had to halt all consumption to snap a photo of this solitary doughnut. I'll be going back come Christmas season for sure. The rest of November was much less idyllic than our short two-hour jaunt into a New-England farm and the beauty of Apple Cider and Egg Nog, and the tranquility of Walden Pond. But I'll tell you about it anyway because there are bright moments.

One of the most harrowing weeks of my first semester was in the middle of November. It included two or maybe three essays all due at the same time. One fell through sending that part of my grade from a 100 % to 90%. (Don't worry, it is a small percentage of my overall grade.) It was the first moment that I hadn't been able to turn everything in though. It was really disappointing. The disillusionment of being able to "do it all" in graduate school comes to every graduate student: usually sooner rather than later, but it comes. And this was my moment. I had to decided to take a hit to my grade because I simply didn't have time to read the pages required to write a 500-word response. I felt pathetic. But after hours and hours of trying to finish two other essays, I decided to sleep and eat instead.

I also prayed a lot. My Virginia Woolf essay of The Waves simply wasn't coming together with it then being the night before I had to read the essay out loud in class. I was distressed; I prayed a lot; Barely finished it; revised it before going to bed at 3 a.m., and woke the next morning with five hours of sleep and revised it again. It was 700 words over word count and I just didn't know what to do. So while at work, I emailed my professor (basically my favorite person/professor ever. I really do love her.) and told her of my misgiving, anxiety, and emotional and physical state. She emailed me back saying,

"Dear Natalie,
Thank you for your message and please have no worries. I am just grateful you have been able to prepare something during these difficult and emotionally chaotic days. We ill indeed love you, no matter how many words over the limit you are! I always appreciate your contribution to the class, and I am looking forward to this contribution as well.

Breathe deeply—and don't worry, Stephanie"

I may have cried a little. After work I rushed to the library, printed off my paper, and read it in class. Everyone loved it. Stephanie Paulsell (just so you know her full name) gave me a warm and deeply kind smile, and I felt that everything was going to be alright. I can do graduate school. I can. I honestly believe that the Lord gave me my Virginia Woolf class. I have only had a handful of classes that had a similar level of comradery, genuine love and appreciation for everyone there, and affirming direction from a professor. Another such class was my Transatlantic Literature Women's Studies survey course at Brigham Young Univerity taught by Brandie Siegfried. I don't think I will forget either woman. They have shaped my life in unforgettable ways.

I also got to skype and call many lovely people. Spencer's parents one Sunday and my family the next. My friend Anne received a medical release from her mission, and we were able to skype. It was so good to talk again. I think we talked for three or four hours. It was just wonderful. We've been writing pretty consistently, so it felt like picking up where we left off. My college roommate Paige also skyped me. I was able to call my high school best friend, Sarah, which was long overdue. She's pregnant! (So is my sister McKenzie! All the babies.) Abby, my other college bestie calls me every other week, which provides me much-needed strength and emotional support. It always helps to know that loving relationships can continue to exist despite distance. And I get to hear frequently from my other lovely friends. So great!

Games at the Goodsells

Also, Thanksgiving! HDS held a Community Tea of Thanks. Community Tea is a weekly meal and social gathering that HDS provides for our little community in order to foster love, friendship, community, collegiality, and simply to make sure we're eating. Well the week of Thanksgiving they had a full Thanksgiving meal and invited us to bring others. So I brought Spencer with me, and we had a wonderful evening socializing with good friends and eating good food. Each tradition at HDS had a representative open the evening by giving a blessing of sorts (whatever was truest to their tradition), and I was asked to represent the LDS church. So I explained our emphasis on gratitude within our prayers and then offered a prayer of gratitude. It was nice. For Thanksgiving day, Spencer and I went to our fellow ward members and neighbors the Goodsells. The meal was wonderful, the company delightful, and the post-meal games fun. Unfortunately Spencer has contracted a cold and passed it on to me. But things continue to go well, and I really do have much to be grateful for. I continue to work towards a smooth and successful ending to my first semester at Harvard Divinity School. I got almost all of my Christmas shopping wrapped up and only have a few more presents to crochet. And now I can simply enjoy the Christmas season (and do homework of course). We're going to visit Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's home as a part of our holiday season, (he wrote my favorite carol, "I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day") and I am so excited.

Cheers to the season, my last week of classes, and seeing a light on the horizon.

Chapter Thirteen: In which I process grief and sing at the Old South Church in memory of Harry Huff

I've spent a few weeks processing my grief over Harry Huff's passing. I think I'm finally ready to talk about it all. Here's the story:

Halloween had just ended. November had begun. All Saints Day passed with little event, at least for me. The only oddity was that I had not received an email from Harry (Harry Huff is the music director at HDS. He leads the Noon Service Choir I'm a part of.) about the music we were to sing the next day at Noon service. It was odd because Harry always emails us telling us if we are to sing or not, and if we are to sing, what music we will be singing. I set the confusion aside; maybe we weren't singing or maybe something had simply come up.

The next day, All Souls Day, I decide to go to Noon Service a little later than usual, assuming that we weren't singing so there was no need to come early to rehearse. On my way up the stairs to the Andover Chapel, I ran into Sophia (my friend who crafts with me and also sings in the choir). I asked her, "Are we not singing today? I figured we weren't since Harry didn't email us, so I didn't go to rehearsal." Sophia, with a worried expression, stopped me and touched my arm and said, "Natalie, I just heard that Harry had a brain aneurysm last night." I looked at her expressionless. I seemed to have turned off for a moment, uncomprehending her words. "What . . . ?" Then, "Oh no . . . Does anyone know how is he doing or if he is going to be okay?" We continued to walk up the stairs and into the chapel where the other choir members who had assumed we were singing stood around the piano. A man with dark curly hair and very much not Harry was sitting on the piano bench. Sophia informed me as we walked that as far as she knew, Harry was in critical care.

So we sang. Dazed, I was surprised any of us got out a note.
The service was scheduled to be hosted by the denominational counselors this week, who adjusted their plans to center us around prayer for Harry. We began by being updated on Harry's condition, which included only minute details past what Sophia had already told me. Yes, he was in critical care. Yes, his pastoral leaders were by his side. Yes, his condition was extremely dire. No, we couldn't go visit him. No, his chances of survival were not good. Yes, we could pray.

Each counselor scheduled to speak gave remarks and thoughts to provide comfort, give solace, and send our love to Harry. Finally moving out of shock, I began to cry. Tears fell quietly down my cheeks. I hadn't planned on crying today; how could the world so suddenly change? Then it was the Baptist counselor's turn to speak. He began by saying that when faced with times like these, he turned to music, as Harry had taught him to, to soothe the ache that nothing else seemed to reach. Sitting down to the piano, he began playing a familiar tune. As his soulful voice began to ring out, I recognized the song: Simon and Garfunkel's Bridge Over Troubled Waters.

Within moments there wasn't a dry eye in the room. Tears quietly trickling turned to streams of grief and hiccups of disbelief. Sophia began sobbing next to me. How could I, so sorrow-stricken, provide anything to Sophia? So I put my hand on her leg. Not much. Perhaps a reflex: this is what you do in moments like these. Perhaps more than a reflex: a reminder that we weren't alone, that life, the dear and difficult embodiment, can provide affection and communion and not just pain.

When you're weary, feeling small,
When tears are in your eyes, I will dry them all.
I'm on your side, oh, when times get rough
And friends just can't be found
Like a bridge over troubled waters,
I will lay me down,
Like a bridge over troubled waters,
I will lay me down.

When you're down and out,
When you're on the street,
When evening falls so hard,
I will comfort you.
I'll take your part, oh, when darkness comes
And pain is all around,
Like a bridge over troubled waters,
I will lay me down,
Like a bridge over troubled waters,
I will lay me down. 

Sail on silver girl, sail on by.
Your time has come to shine,
All your dreams are on their way.
See how they shine. 
If you need a friend,
I'm sailing right behind
Like a bridge over troubled waters,
I will ease your mind, 
Like a bridge over troubled water,
I will ease your mind.

Tissues began being passed around, along with a paper copy of a hymn, My Life Flows On in Endless Song: one of Harry's favorite hymns. We sang for Harry. (The words of this rendition are not the same as the lyrics I have listed, which are the lyrics we sang for Harry.) 

My life flows on in endless song

Above earth's lamentation.

I hear the real though far-off hymn

That hails a new creation. 

Through all the tumult and the strife

I hear the music ringing.

It sounds an echo in my soul.

How can I keep from singing!

What though the tempest 'round me roars,

I know the truth, it liveth. 

What though the darkness 'round me close,

Songs in the night it giveth. 

No storm can shake my inmost calm

While to that rock I'm clinging. 

Since love prevails in heav'n and earth,

How can I keep from singing!

When tyrants tremble as they hear

The bells of freedom ringing,

When friends rejoice both far and near,

How can I keep from singing!

To prison cell and dungeon vile

Our thoughts to them are winging, 

When friends by shame are undefiled,

How can I keep from singing!

And then we prayed. "We know you are holding Harry, Lord. Please hold him tight."

That night, after I'd watched a Japanese film about grief and death for class (go figure, right?), I went home and told Spencer about Harry. Shocked and sad, he held me, stroking my hair till I sobbed everything I'd held in all day, saying, "We were just becoming friends . . . we were just becoming friends." Eventually, Spencer suggested Ibuprofen for my pressure headache. The whole body is affected by grief. Headaches, sore eyes, a stinging weight on your lungs and heart, mechanical movements of necessity, sensitive senses, the brain swimming through fog, everything itching to feel alive, to flee the closeness of death, to pull your loved one from its grasp but fingers not stretching far enough.

The next morning, I found out that Harry had passed away in the early hours of the morning. I quietly teared on the bus on the way to a campus where Harry wouldn't be anymore. I drank peach herbal tea and recalled the kindness that Harry had shown me; he'd made me feel at home at HDS by being excited to see me every week at Noon Service. He'd had enough faith in my ability to give me a solo in "Will I?" from Rent that we sang at a Noon Service, and he had laughed with delight when I did well. He had generously offered to give Spencer and I a private recital, history lesson, and demonstration of his E.M. Skinner organ, saying that he was simply delighted to do so and meet Spencer. He had riffed out all types of songs from soundtracks, scores, classical, jazz, and others. I can't really express my gratitude that I got to see him play his magnificent organ before he died.

Weeks passed. I seemed to pass through fog and despondancy till I at last emerged holding my sorrow, able to look at it at last.

~~~~~

A memorial service for Harry was held at Old South Church yesterday. After a few weeks of processing everything, I still don't know how to express how Harry could make such an impression upon my heart in such a short time or how to express my gratitude that he did. Yesterday, I went two hours early to sing in the pick-up choir for the service. We learned 10 songs. The service was honestly the most majestic and comforting service I've ever been to. The first 30 to 45 minutes were entirely dedicated to music. Outside, bagpipes were playing. The organist began by playing, "Psalm Prelude Set 1, No. 3 (Psalm 23, Verse 4)" by Herbert Howells. Then the choir sang "My Shepherd Will Supply My Need," the tune it was set to having been composed by Harry. After our singing quieted through the cathedral's Sanctuary, hand bells began to sound, barely perceptible at the first. Called The Old South Ringers, they played "Prayer for Humanity" by Linda Lamb. We (the choir) sang "Precious Lord, Take My Hand" by Thomas A. Dorsey. This is a stunning a capella number that I hope to sing again. George Sergeant, the organist, then played For deinem Thron tret' ich, BWV 668" by J.S. Bach. Once again, the Old South Ringers and a flute (played by Ainsley Land) sounded in a Celtic melody, "Celtic Farewell" by Linda Lamb. I didn't want to break the silence as the last note faded, standing and singing "O Lord, May the Words of My Mouth" by Bruce Saylor with the choir.

I had been holding it together quite well till Willido Sordillo began to play "Come Sunday" by Duke Ellington on his tender, soulful alto sax. Tim Harbold accompanying on the piano. Everyone felt it: Harry seemed so close, and it hurt to not hear him delight in the music although I knew he was. Tears began to stream, tissues being passed around among the choir members. (Here is Harry playing it himself.)

It turns out that Harry had been, on top of being a dedicated member and contributor to the Old South Church congregation, a loyal and full participant in the Society for Classical Reform Judaism. He had memorized and knew the Hebrew for Kaddish recitations. He even traveled to Jerusalm to be re-baptized in the Jordan River. He brought home a shofar from his trip, so it was quite right that the shofar be sounded before we continued on to the next hymn.

Following the shofar, we sang "When in Our Music God Is Glorified" by Sir Charles V. Stanfrd. At this point, Harry's reverends, past and present, his rabbi, and his friends spoke, comforted, expressed love and sorrow, and reminisced about Harry. Every so often, the procession of speakers would pause, and the choir would sing a hymn. "'Ihr habt nun Traurigkeit' from 'Win Deutsches Requirem by Johannes Brahms. We also sang an anthem composed in the memory of Harry Lyn Huff, specifically for this service, "Give All the Love," by Carson Colmen, the words by Ralph Waldo Emerson. 

After more beautiful words and remembrances and tears and laughter, we sang, "In the Sweet By and By" by Joseph P. Webster. This is one of Harry's favorite hymns, and he insisted it be sung at his funeral. So we did, for him. After reciting "The Lord's Prayer," the choir sang, "There's a Wilderness in God's Mercy." The final song was "A Repeating Alleluia" by Calvin Hampton. After singing it once through, the congregation joined their voices with ours, and we all sang and processed out of the Sanctuary. I could hardly sing for tears and gratitude.

I have never felt so hopeful while being allowed to also sorrow the loss of a friend, having come together to express gratitude for a happy, playful, loving, generous man, who had changed all of us for good. The stained glass windows with stories of Christ's life, suffering, and resurrection were shining, light streaming through. The space, music, words, and people were beautiful.

A lovely reception followed the service, giving Harry's friends time to meet, mingle, comfort, and reminisce over a light lunch.

Harry had two beloved cats:
Tigger and Kanga.

I apologize that this is so long. But one last thought. I wish I knew who said this, but this quote explains well how my grief has felt. "Grief, I've learned, is really just love. It's all the love you want to give but cannot. All of that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go." This is how it felt to lose Harry, to have him, in some ways, disappear, and to not get to say goodbye and thank you, not knowing that the last time I saw him would be the last. I cried out all the potential our friendship had suddenly been bereaved of. But, I would add a small but significant adaptation: "Grief is just love with no place to go for now." I fully intend to become better friends when I someday join him and the others I love on that distant shore. 

Although I've experienced a loss, I am so grateful for the time I was given. Yes, I miss Harry Huff. But I'm so glad I was able to know him: missing him is worth it.

If you would like to get to know Harry Huff a little better, take a look at Old South Church's tribute to Harry Lyn Huff. You can also search Harry Huff on YouTube and listen to his wonderful music, such as "Will There Really Be a Morning" from his For Your Delight Album.
http://www.oldsouth.org/news/old-south-church-mourns-passing-minister-music-harry-lyn-huff

Chapter Twelve: In which Spencer and I do all the Halloween things

Hello everyone,
This is way overdue, and I'm sorry for that. I'm trying to come up to breathe between the readings and essays and work and such every so often, so blogging has been, unfortunately, put aside for a few weeks. Actually, case in point, I'm actually supposed to be working on an essay right now, but my brain is going to explode so I'm blogging.

Anyway, October was a fantastic month, and you've already heard about some of it (visiting the Back Bay, the beautiful autumn leaves, etc.), so I thought I would quickly tell you about how the rest of our Halloween season shook out. So our October/Halloween season really focused around three major events: Harry Huff's private Halloween organ recital, seeing NTLive's Frankenstein starring Benedict Cumberbatch and Jonny Lee Miller in theaters, and visiting Salem, Massachusetts. You've already heard about Harry and the E.M. Skinner organ, so I'll tell you about our other two Halloween-y adventures!

So National Theatre Live is an incredible source of quality theater. They film plays put on by National Theatre and then send them to theaters so that a wider audience can pay to see the performance that way. Frankenstein has now shown through an initial screening and a series of encores at least three times as opposed to the usual one showing. I first heard about the play screening three years ago, but I could not afford to go. :( So when I heard that it was being screened as a part of this encore series, I was thrilled! I'd been waiting years for this. It was also fitting that it was October/Halloween . . . excellent. So I bought our rather expensive tickets and figure out all the public transit and wait. The day arrives. I'm waiting at the station for Spencer to come into Cambridge from Belmont, and it is getting later and later. I'm starting to become more and more stressed. We'd planned in some buffer time and soon that time is gone. He still isn't there. Now we will certainly be late. He still isn't there. I walk from the connection to the next station hoping he'd be there and he isn't. I'm walking back to the connection when I hear Spencer's voice shout Natalie from a crowd. We'd barely missed each other since I wasn't at the connection and he'd gone looking for me. Spencer and I rapidly walked to the bus stop and waited. Spencer explained that there had been a massive accident that had stopped traffic so the buses couldn't get through. Hence why he was late. Even with such an excellent explanation, I couldn't be comforted. I'd waited for this for years; tickets had been pricey. This was our chance! And now I was going to miss a significant portion of the show. Well, we got to the theater 20 minutes into the play crawled into seats awkwardly and watched the rest of it. We basically missed the creation of the creature. No big deal, just the most iconic part ever! (Needless to say, I'm unforgivably bitter at the public transit even if it wasn't their fault.)

The upside of this story is that what we did see of the play was incredible. Both Jonny Lee Miller and Benedict Cumberbatch had mastered both the role of Dr. Frankenstein and the creature and would take turns playing each role. They did this because it was too physically taxing to play the creature repeatedly. Nuts! (You'll notice the picture with half their faces looking like the creature and half like Dr. Frankenstein. That's why.) The version that we saw had Benedict Cumberbatch as the creature and Jonny Lee Miller as Dr. Frankenstein. Cumberbatch was insane in the way he was constantly contorting his body and grunting and learning speech. Him discovering movement, snow, birds singing, language, love, hate, reading, loneliness, etc. was so so moving. My heart just hurt as the play unfolded, just as it has the few times I've read Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. This is an accurate and beautiful rendition of her work. Something I've always hoped to see. Anyway, if you all ever get the chance to attend an NTLive screening of pretty much any play, go! Oh, and don't be late.

On the 28th, Caleb drove down from Maine for our monthly outing. This month we were going to Salem. I have always loved Arthur Miller's The Crucible and felt that October was a good time to go see the place where it all happened. It turns out that Salem is also a National Park because of its maritime history, which we didn't know, so we'll have to go back eventually and learn about that aspect of the city. This trip, though, was dedicated to the Salem Witch Trials. We arrived in the afternoon and spent much of it wandering through the town. It was raining, which Caleb remarked meant our trip was now the quintessential New England experience. We visited Nathaniel Hawthorne's House of the Seven Gables, walked by the Harbor, and took some extra time at the oldest graveyard in Salem and the Salem Witch Trials Memorial, although we knew we'd stop by again on our tour that evening. We stopped in at a bunch of shops and all I can say is all the incense! I did get a nice necklace with a metal circle forming a tree and a beautiful white stone with green veins on its surface. It was a green tree agate stone, which is supposed to be an extremely stabilizing stone that helps provide a powerful connection with the energy of nature. I figured that was something I could use, besides the fact that it was lovely and I've always collected rocks, so I got it. Spencer and I had chosen as our main activity a Witch-trial-focused historical tour scheduled for that evening, so Caleb chose to have us go to the Witch Dungeon Museum.

The dungeon was a recreation based on the recorded dimensions. At the peak of the trials the jail held 150 accused. Debtors prison was a horrid reality, and those who had made a plea, either guilty or not guilty, were under the law put into prison to await trial and then had their possessions and land liquidated to pay for their time in prison. Based on what a prisoner could afford they could pay to have a larger cell, have fewer people in the cell with them, to receive more food, to receive blankets, etc. In the recreation the cells are covered with bars, but in the original dungeon the cells were covered with door leaving the prisoners in absolute darkness. To the above right is a view into one of the smaller cells (the mannequin is there to demonstrate proportion). She couldn't have even laid down. So basically horrifying and inhumane. The youngest accused was a four-year-old girl who ended up going insane from her incarceration. :( By the end of these hellish nine months, five people had died from the conditions in the dungeon. But those who survived and were eventually released, emerged homeless, having had all their possession sold to pay for their time in the dungeon.

Later in the evening, we took the historical tour. Here are some of the interesting things we learned:

• The Salem Witch Trials occurred during a vulnerable time for the Puritan colonists because the Queen of England had decided that they didn't need a governor as much as Canada, so she moved his jurisdiction. This left Massachusetts without a central body of law.
• Girls were kept inside and ignored until the marrying age, which was quite young. And so it is believed that the girls were simply thrilled with any form of attention. Until it got out of hand, that is. After a small amount of acting out on the part of the girls, the adults of Salem realized that they could manipulate the girls, who by this point were too scared to say they had been pretending from the start (I mean people were dying), in order to get back at those against whom they'd held long-standing grudges. Being a Puritan, you know, you're supposed to be pure, so this was an ideal way for the adults to exact revenge, take out jealousies, and acquire the accused's land, etc. 
• You may be wondering how any of these silly testaments held up in a court of law. Well, at this time, specifically in Salem, spectral evidence was accepted as legitimate proof of condemnation. Those who had "signed the Devil's book" acquired a specter, their essence/soul/spirit that they could send out to terrorize others while their body remained sleeping in bed for example. So one simply had to testify that a person's specter had terrorized them, and the evidence was considered irrefutable. 
• Accused witches were sent to prison and stripped to find any moles, birthmarks, or other body marks as evidence of their specter. The Devil would leave a mark where the specter was tied to you though it could roam according to your will.
• Confessing you were a witch most often led to acquittal and "rehabilitation" and "reintroduction" to society, which is why so many people were being accused. If you confessed, you were expected to divulge the names you'd seen written in the Devil's book. This pattern was started by the slave Tituba, who was the first accused (bet you can't guess why >:( . . . ) and was of course frightened and simply did what was told to her: she confessed, expressed her deep contrition, and provided names when they were asked for.
• This pattern of finger pointing made it likely that a person would become guilty by association. But when Rebecca Nurse (an elderly and deeply revered woman in the community) was accused, 39 Salem residents put their lives on the line to sign a petition for her release and in defense of her character. This was a turning point in the trials because previous to Rebecca Nurse, the slave Tituba, and the poverty-stricken outcast Sarah Good were the type of people being accused. It's unfortunate, but few felt inclined to stand up for these people.

• Two men were eventually accused and killed for defending their wives and opposing the legitimacy of the court and trials themselves: John Proctor and Giles Corey. John Proctor was hanged and is the protagonist of The Crucible (No, he did not have an affair with Abigail. She was a young girl in reality and that was creative license by Arthur Miller.) Giles Corey was pressed to death. Unfortunately, his wife Martha ended up dying by hanging even so.

• Giles Corey was a wealthy man (his property covered all of Salem and a few of the surrounding cities) and had noticed that those with land were being accused and their land being seized and resold for profit. He knew that it was only a matter of time before he was accused. So he secretly signed over his land to two of his sons-in-law, the two that lived outside the jurisdiction of the Salem courts (by this time people outside of Salem but within the court's jurisdiction were also being accused and brought into the prison). When he was accused, he refused to give a plea, which meant he couldn't be tried. Remember that once a person offered a plea, regardless of what it was, their property was forfeit and seized by the law, and they remained in prison till their trial. So he refused to plea. In order to try to force him to plea (obviously so they could sell his land), the officials submitted him to torture by pressing. This is the only time this method of torture has ever been used in America's history. They laid him in a ditch and place a board on him. Every hour they would add a large boulder to the board on his body. Note that this was not intended to kill Giles Corey; they were trying to force him to plea. But Corey remained silent. The only time he spoke was to say the words, "More weight." I'll skip past some of the more grisly details (Wikipedia it if you want to know), but Giles Corey survived two days under this immense pain and died, pressed to death. Once Corey was dead, the officials went to collect his land only to find that he no longer owned it. The pressing was all for naught, the plea wouldn't have made a difference. Giles Corey had outsmarted the system, refusing to cooperate with corruption even so. 
• Elizabeth Proctor was accused, but her hanging was postponed because she was pregnant. She remained in jail while John was hanged. She was in jail for months and gave birth to her son, whom she named John, in prison. She was eventually released (because of the governor's return), but as a convicted person she was considered dead by the law, she no longer existed. It took seven years for her to gain back her legal rights and a small fraction of the wealth that she and John lost due to the trials. 
• The governor only came back to restore order once his wife was accused. He released 153 prisoners. 
• In November 2001, the Massachusetts legislature passed a bill exonerating by name the victims of the Salem Witch Trials, 300 years after their occurrence. 

A quote by Elie Wiesel, who dedicated the memorial. The words in the white bar at the bottom are the words of those accused and executed.

The Salem Witch Trial Memorial has 20 stones, one for each victim (19 being hanged and 1 pressed to death). Their names, means of death, and date of execution are carved onto their respective stone. Elie Wiesel dedicated the Memorial. Fourteen women and six men were killed. There is lots of cool symbolism in the memorial, I would suggest you check it out.

The Memorial is next to the oldest graveyard where Rebecca Nurse is buried among others. One of the judges is buried there (relative of Nathaniel Hawthorne's I believe), and one judge was buried secretly because the family was afraid that the members of the community would dig him up and tear him to pieces.

Interesting fact: Salem's economy is almost entirely based on tourism, so it wasn't doing too hot before the town realized its tourist potential and got on the historical site bandwagon. The revival of Salem's economy though was the TV show Bewitched, which renewed the general population's interest in witches and witchcraft. Hence the statue dedicated to her.

Spencer loves it when I take all the pictures of him and tell him to smile. This is a moment of rebellion. :) He is standing on an abstract map of Salem.

I already mentioned the maritime history of the town briefly. But Spencer has a good pirate voice, and if he had a beard he would have been Red Beard. He also didn't have an eyepatch, so he's improvising. :) 

Okay! End of picture reel. So that was Salem. It was very sobering but also a wonderful day with Spencer and Caleb. As Elie Wiesel said, "Only if we remember will we be worthy of redemption."

The rest of October included a ward Halloween party, which included Spencer and I throwing together very very rushed costumes. (Spencer was a lumberjack of sorts and I was a Hogwarts student.) We had a really quite Halloween. I did homework, and Spencer bought a bag of candy with Almond Joys in it because he loves me, and we ate that . . . for days. So. Much. Candy. I also watched "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown" online since after trick-or-treating every Halloween growing up, we'd come home and watch that film. Turns out that it is the 50th Anniversary of "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown"!

Read all about it here: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/chuck-mirarchi/its-the-50th-anniversary-of-the-great-pumpkin-charlie-brown_b_12456016.html


Anyway, it was very nostalgic and a perfect way to end the most Halloween-filled October I've ever experienced.