Cowboy Casanova

Fall is a great time to visit or just generally exist here in Arkansas. We’ve gotten over five inches of rain within the last two weeks and all that water has made for some brilliant color on the trees. It’s a lot different from last fall, when it was so dry that the leaves practically turned brown and burned off before all the oranges and reds and yellows could make their full-on appearance.

We also have pumpkins.

This revelation probably seems less than remarkable to you. Then again, it doesn’t really matter what you think, now does it? Not since this is my blog and I can talk about pumpkins anytime I want.

Sorry. Didn’t mean to get short with you there.

Point is, we have them here and I quite like them. My family doesn’t celebrate Halloween, but I still made my dad buy me one for ornamental front porch purposes. Albeit the darn thing ended up living in the house for about the first two weeks of its life before we ever worked up the heart to kick it outside.

(Guess that’s what happens when you name things.)

Jo lives on the porch now, and I’m aware that his existence is finite due to the laws of decomposition and such, but I don’t like to think about that. The whole experience is rather like falling for a heartbreaker even though you know that he’s a heartbreaker.

If, that is, you can make the leap from pumpkins to romantic metaphors in one sentence.

*Cue Carrie Underwood’s “Cowboy Casanova”.*

 

The haunted house industry.

I probably don’t have to tell you it’s Halloween. My family is a little odd in the way that we don’t celebrate it. We never have. No trick or treating or dressing up like a Disney princess. Ever. And I don’t feel like I missed out. In fact, when I was a little kid I thought that everyone else was weird and I was the normal one.

Cool thing is, our lack of respect for the holiday doesn’t stop us from expanding upon the annual opportunity to get a little scared. We detoured by a haunted house on our way home from the city tonight. They’re a pretty cheap thrill, but Dad and I have been finding one to stumble through every Halloween for three years running. It’s a real bonding experience when you think about it. Anytime someone in a clown mask pops out of nowhere wielding a chainsaw, trust me, we’ve never been closer.

I don’t know if everyone everywhere has the same amount of haunted houses as we do, but around here there’s one in every neighborhood. People practically make enough money off of them to retire twice. I don’t really know why, either. I guess it’s a good excuse to get off the farm. Sure, not all haunted houses are created equal, but if you’ve seen one you’ve pretty much seen them all. Same old drill every year. We get our tickets from some ghoul with a glowstick, then stand in line outside the abandoned school or warehouse until it’s our turn to go in.

It’s typically very dark and very cramped inside. The music or scream soundtrack is incredibly loud. All the classic scary things are in place, from cobwebs to the strobe-light tableau of the little old lady eating someone’s guts. There are a few “boo” moments, and I hang on to Dad’s coat. Nothing really scares me, however, until we get about halfway through the house and that guy in the jumpsuit (or Freddy mask, or zombie makeup) starts tagging along behind.

Friends, I cannot take it. I ball up on Dad’s head. It’s a tradition. This year was no different. That guy was coming at me and he meant business, even if he was dragging one leg. I nearly ate the sweater of the lady in front of us. And that’s the only part that ever bothers me.

So, we donated fourteen bucks to the small sector of rednecks getting rich off of haunted houses and drove home. The real thrill, however, was to come after we left so-called Scared City. Dad flipped into storytelling mode, and the yarn he spun was gruesome enough and true enough to keep me up till 2AM.

To be continued…

You had to be there.

My cousins are coming to visit from California. That means we’ll push our hats back and turn on our Arkansas. Maybe that’s not what they expect to see, but we know it’s what they want. The South is not a fish hook on the bill of every ball cap, but it might as well be. What we are– it isn’t a teachable art. You had to be there, and I’m talking from day one.

I hate to give you a post with no pictures, but I don’t have anything recent due to an ongoing lack of camera batteries. (I know– what good is it doing just laying around dead? Zip, zero, zilch, nadda. One more thing to dust.) I do, however, have some cool stuff in my archives from several months ago. It was daisy season, right around the first hay-cutting, and I’d taken the camera out to photograph some junk cars in my neighbors’ field before they had them all crushed and hauled away.

Observe…

Sunday Stills Challenge– Open Road

“Who doesn’t know what I’m talking about?

Who’s never left home, who’s never struck out?”

– Dixie Chicks

I thought I’d take you out of state for this challenge. On that note, welcome to Colorado! I know what you’re thinking– where the heck are the Rockies? Sorry, folks. A good majority of the state is wide open farm country. Sunflower fields, even! Totally romantic. Anyway, the last picture is from a town called Holyoke. I fell in love with it. Looks like it’s caught in a time warp, flashback to the Fifties.

Well, enjoy your trip!

Sunday Stills Challenge– Clouds

“She’s blowin’ kisses at all the fluffy clouds…”

Clouds! I am beyond excited about this challenge. You see, I’m one of those photographer who spends a better portion of her time with the viewfinder– and her head– in the clouds. I have a million and one pictures of the sky in my archives. Not even kidding. Nothing gets me reaching for my camera faster than a beautiful sky. It’s really grown into somewhat of an obsession. Now I get to air it! Oh happy day!

The shot above is one of my favorites, thanks to its eccentricity. I took it out the back glass of a moving vehicle! What you’re looking at is the Arkansas side of the Mississippi River Bridge, just as you’re coming into Memphis. Love it!

One more…