Hounded!

First, my eldest daughter came through her surgery fine and the biopsy showed nothing untoward. She’ll be up and around in a few days.

Next, my friend Barbara White is up and around. After this third course of chemotherapy, she has bad days and worse, but Friday morning she felt well enough to drive to my house and treat me to breakfast at Dave’s Diner.

Over breakfast we talked about the 23^rd Psalm and dogs.

Barbara noted that the Psalm starts off with the Shepherd leading: “He leadeth me beside the still waters”. Here we see the Lord Jesus going in front of us.

But the Psalm ends with :”Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me”. To follow me means to come behind me.

In one sense the whole picture is that of the Lord compassing us about on all sides—but there’s something more here.

Barbara’s pastor recently showed a video of two sheepdogs herding a flock. The dogs ranged back and forth behind the sheep, barking now, laying low then, rushing in, backing off, nipping flanks—dogging the sheep toward the safety of the corral.

The sheep would not ever name a sheepdog, Goodness.

Sheep would not name one, Mercy.

Goodness and Mercy are the names the Shepherd gives to what follows us yapping and nipping at our heels.

Among the sheep, these harassing herders-of-sheep are more likely to be called by names like Trouble and Aggravation, or Problem and Pesteration, or Misery and Frustration—any name but Goodness and Mercy.

But the Lord surely sets them to harry us all the days of our life till we’re hounded safely Home.

Those are spiritual observations that Barbara made as we talked.

But I made a contribution to our conversation too:

Heard about the dyslexic agnostic who suffers from insomnia?

He stays awake all night wondering whether or not there really is a dog.

Barbara groaned.

I wonder if the pain of her cancer is coming back?

Incidentally, Barbara White’s Along The Way series of books can be found at www.bluefishbooks.info .

And, You-Tube has a great video of two Border Collies herding sheep to a shepherd at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8HwwdSKrqEk

Excused?

I am excused.

I have a note from my wife:

Ginny wrote this excuse note for me back in November of 1984. While she was writing excuse notes for one of the kids’ teachers about missing some school function, she gave me this one to cover any contingency I may face in life.

I treasure my excuse note. It’s comforting to have an excuse ready at hand to use when I need it. It’s been taped to a shelf in my office for years. When I need an excuse, I’m covered.

Yesterday I applied to be excused from jury duty; within minutes, the court excused me so I do not have to serve.

This has been a source of brain-eating anxiety for me since I first got the summons.

In Florida, a person 70 years old or older who wishes is automatically excused from jury duty unless they chose to serve.

At first I looked forward to serving. I have some minor sense of civic responsibility. I’ve voted in every election since I was 21 years old, the legal age back then. I served a stint as president of our neighborhood watch. I planted trees along a public right of way. I trained as part of a civilian emergency rescue team. And I was prepared to act as a juror.

I checked out my one suit, which I haven’t worn since Mark and Eve’s wedding 18 months ago. I’ve grown fatter since then so I bought several shirts large enough for me to button the collar so I can wear a tie. I polished my shoes. I gathered stuff to cut my hair…

Yes, I’ve cut my own hair for decades to avoid being touched by a barber. Due to some quirk in my make up, when touched, especially when I don’t expect it, my body shudders and stops breathing. I avoid being touched.

Even when I go to church I chose to sit beside a big stone pillar with Ginny on the outside so that no “friendly” person can garb at me. God save me from friendly churches! I think that going to church should be like going to a movie—you go in, see the show, and go home without speaking to others who happen to be in the audience.

I do understand that other Christians feel differently about church functions. Good for them. I’m just stating my own preference. I am that shy.

Incidentally I don’t go to movies or football games either because I choke up bad in groups of people.

And the closer the time came for me to report for jury duty, the more tense I became. The thought of being closed in a room elbow to elbow to elbow with other people overwhelmed me.

I thought I might overcome my idiosyncrasy enough to perform my civic duty. I steeled myself to do it. But the prospect overwhelmed me, so yesterday I applied to the court for the automatic senility option on the basis of my tottering old age and the court excused me.

A sense of peace came over me. I felt I’d done the right thing.

Sometimes it’s good not to do a good thing.

I’m glad I was excused.

Funny thing excuses—every time we use one, we unconsciously admit God’s existence as the Giver of moral law. Every time we accuse someone else of something, we admit that same thing.

Listen to school kids in the lunch line:

“Miss Thompson, Miss Thompson, he broke in line”!

“No, I didn’t! I was here first”!

The accuser appeals to a moral law that it is not right to break in line; that people who break in line are law-breakers.

The accuser also appeals to moral law with his excuse—I was here first, so I do not wrong.

Our sense of right and wrong is engrained.

The nations of the world act just like school kids:

“You broke the treaty!”

“Did not. Our people occupied Gaza for generations. We were here first”.

We accuse and excuse because we know that somewhere God’s absolute moral law exists and that it matters whether or not His law is broken.

As saint Paul wrote to the Romans,

There is no respect of persons with God.

For as many as have sinned without law shall also perish without law: and as many as have sinned in the law shall be judged by the law;

For not the hearers of the law are just before God, but the doers of the law shall be justified.

For when the Gentiles, which have not the law, do by nature the things contained in the law, these, having not the law, are a law unto themselves: Which shew the work of the law written in their hearts, their conscience also bearing witness, and their thoughts the meanwhile accusing or else excusing one another.

Even before Paul talked about the meaning of accusing and excusing, he’d already concluded we are all without excuse before God:

For the invisible things of Him from the creation of the world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made, even His eternal power and Godhead; so that they are without excuse:

Because that, when they knew God, they glorified him not as God, neither were thankful; but became vain in their imaginations, and their foolish heart was darkened

No wonder we need Jesus, the only Savior!

So, it may be that the local court excused me

But there will come a day before a Judge when no excuse will hold water.

Not even my note from Ginny.

Killing Dogs

Last night when Ginny and I drove to the main library, we noticed a large police presence in the streets around City Hall, which is just across Hemming Park from the library.

Last night the Jacksonville City Council scheduled a vote about increasing property taxes. A large crowd of protestors, observers, and interested citizens surrounded City Hall spilling out into the street and into Hemming Park.

I immediately thought of killing all dogs.

I hope I’m misinformed or just plain wrong, but this is the way I see what’s going on:

Recently, to meet the current budget crisis, city government has juggled property assessments and added various “fees” which they say are not taxes but still cost most citizens more cash out of pocket. At the same time our state government decreased property taxes for some people saving the wealthiest among us and the real estate developers thousands of dollars yearly. Ginny and I benefited; we got a property tax bill for seven dollars ($7) less than last year.

These issues distress people as our city government threatens to curtail library hours, to close homeless shelters, to reduce fire fighting so your home will burn, to stop sending ambulances when you have a heart attack, to collect no more trash, to leave potholes unfilled, to close parks, to stop controlling mosquitoes—and to kill every dog in Jacksonville.

Yes. I exaggerate—a little.

But the dire predictions I hear from City Hall make the Prophet Jeremiah look like a standup comic.

I think I’m seeing a political process my friend newspaper columnist Poke McHenry, God rest his soul, once explained to me.

Poke said, when government wants to do something, say a councilman’s neighbor has a white poodle that digs in his yard, the council first proposes killing every dog in Jacksonville.

Dog lovers rise up in protest. Write letters to the editor. Print tee shirts. Paste bumper stickers on their cars.

What about seeing-eye dogs for the blind?

The council grants an exemption to seeing-eye dogs.

Then they exempt hounds used to search for missing children. And show dogs with pedigrees.

The dog lovers begin to calm down.

But still they hand out flyers and post SAVE OUR PETS notices on phone poles.

Hunting dogs gain an exemption. All black dogs gain exemption under affirmative action clauses in existing laws. Then brown and yellow dog owners demand equal status. Then white pit bulls are exempted; even though dog fights are supposedly banned.

By this time, the fear tactic, smoke screen has worked. The call to kill all dogs diverted people’s attention from what’s really happening. Pet owners feel relieved that city government is listening to them. Our system works. Now that emotions have been damped, folks go about their daily business feeling disaster has been averted.

And that damn lawn-digging white poodle gets the ax—and hardly anybody notices what’s happened.

Looking at the current tactics of our state and local government, I can’t help remembering what Poke said about killing dogs.

Poke said when a volatile emotional issue, no matter what it is, generates a lot of publicity, it’s wise to look around at what else may be going on.

I have no problem paying fair taxes—across the board taxes that apply to everyone without exception—but I think our city’s budget shortfall lies not in how taxes are raised but how they are spent.

Since the Civil War, Jacksonville has earned a reputation as being a sucker town. Carpetbaggers flocked here and took over after the war. That set the tone for Jacksonville’s pouring cash money into foolish projects.

We actually pay businesses to relocate here! That’s supposed to good for our economy. If Jacksonville is really such a good place for their business, why don’t those companies pay us an impact fee?.

We allow highrise offices buildings to sit on land taxed as greenbelt property for dairy cattle. Our city government paid cash money for vacant lots to be developed into the Shipyards condominiums. Money spent. Lots still vacant. No wrong doing found although $34 million is gone with nothing to show for it. And the city subsidizes the football team—for the prestige of having a team. And the city lost money for HarborMaster’s restaurant. And Jacksonville Landing.

And don’t forget, Off Shore Power Systems—a company dedicated to the bright idea of floating nuclear power plants in the ocean in spite of hurricanes—our city sank money into that project before it went belly up.

The city just installed mood lighting on streets around the Gator Bowl (except the carpetbaggers don’t call the stadium that any more). That’s a good use of tax money. It will light the way for football fans—if anybody bothers to buy a ticket to games blacked-out on tv because of lack of ticket sales. But, no fear; the city government also pays for stadium skyboxes for dignitaries.

Then here in Jacksonville, politically appointed city workers get paid thousands more than civil service employees doing the identical job.

Our mayor and others in government found money in our direly distressed city budget to travel to Paris earlier this year to an air show—a hot air show?.

Our city paid contractors to build a Northbank Riverwalk, rushing to complete it before Super Bowl only four years ago, and now that portions of the structure are collapsing into the river, the city pays anew. And the roof in the newly constructed Children’s Commission building leaks, as does the roof of the Willowbranch Library on which the city recently spent $3,000,000. But the original builders are not held accountable for their shoddy workmanship.

And then there’s the $64 million dollar courthouse being built while dozens of derelict downtown buildings sit empty within blocks of City Hall. These could be renovated so that every judge could have his own floor. So although core Jacksonville is a donut of empty buildings, a new courthouse just must be built.

It’s not tax money the city lacks but common sense.

Oh well, this is the way the world works.

I think that when Jesus told a minor government official, “My kingdom is not of this world”, the Lord saw the way things worked in government and was issuing a disclaimer.

So amid the protesters and politicians and smoke and mirrors and corruption and irresponsibility and pettiness and dullness of our government, it amazes me that the system works as well as it does.

I’m confident it will all work out.

Nothing for me to rant about.

Besides, my dog is black.

Sick Days

Ginny returned to work today after having been ill all weekend.

I’ve played nursemaid.

She came in from work last Thursday saying she felt “a little off”.

On Friday we went to her doctor for a scheduled routine appointment and he said she checked out fine. Her diabetes appears fully under control and all her blood chemistry is in an acceptable range.

But she woke Saturday night ghastly sick—to the extent that we considered going to the hospital emergency room. But, being of the old school of folks who don’t deal with physicians for anything short of a chainsaw accident, we put it off and she toughed it out.

Besides, we were poor for so long that, although we now have hospitalization insurance, we still have the mindset of the poor who only have the traditional Get-Well-Or-Die insurance policy.

So, I fed her chicken soup and ginger ale all weekend and nursed her through her downtime by showing her movies on my computer screen. We watched back-to-back movies all weekend and Monday because she was too down to do much else. In fact she slept through many of the movies.

We went to the Hulu site at http://www.hulu.com/browse/alphabetical/feature_film where I played old Carry Grant movies from the 1940s for her amusement. And we watched a few Disney movies as whitenoise background. And, of course we could not resist some Elvira horror films. And we saw Bad Girls From Mars (my choice).

Last week Donald and Helen gave us some vcr tapes of long-past Superbowl games and we also slept through a number of those.

While Ginny napped, I did our grocery shopping and I worked correcting the proof pages of William Short’s 1854 Diary (It will be ready soon). Then I’d watch more movies with her when she woke up still too ill to even read..

All this lounging around and my fine cooking cured Ginny enough for her to sit up a while yesterday to supervise my activities. This led to some tensions.

For instance, she thought my cooking curried chicken was splurging, though it cost less than a meal at McDonalds. And when she asked me to water her plants and I started, she started a load of laundry which cut off my water supply.

Ever notice that men and women have different ways of washing clothes?

I mean you put the cloth in the machine, sprinkle it with soap, close the lid and push the button.

But Ginny magnifies this task into a project requiring 18 steps so complicated that they would daunt the astronaut pilot of the space shuttle!

Yes, she began feeling better and I began feeling grumpier.

I took her suggestions and comments as devastating criticisms of my care for her.

Getting along while living together has little or nothing to do with love. Living in peace has more to do with courtesy, and forbearance, and assuming the goodwill of your partner.

Although we are deeply in love, we do sometimes snap at eachother; this is just one small part of life together. It’s not wise to make more of it than there really is.

And just where was Jesus during all this?

Same place as always.

Yes, we feel blessed in times of great prosperity; and we feel comforted in times of great tragedy. But God is never more present with us than in the ordinary, mundane, boring days of common life. He is Lord of the Ordinary.

So, watching movies, cooking curry, washing clothes, snapping, making up, being together—in all this we live in the hollow of His hand. He is a daily God.

In Him we live and move and have our very being.

But, boy am I glad Ginny’s back to work today. I’ll hurry and do up the laundry and have it hanging in the closet before she gets back home—before she sees how I do it.

List Of 1901 Great Jacksonville Fire Dead

Yesterday a young woman e-mailed me requesting the names of the seven people who died in the 1901 Great Fire Of Jacksonville, Florida.

She said she can find no such list anywhere on the internet—I can fix that.

Last night Ginny and I drove downtown to the fire memorial at the foot of Market Street, the old ferry landing. We thought we’d once seen a plaque there listing the dead—but someone has removed it.

So we also checked the periodical room at the Main Library but my sight is now too poor to read microfilm anymore.

Of course, after all that running around, where should I find a list of 1901 Fire dead this morning, but on my own book shelves!

This list of those who died in the 1901 fire comes from Davis, T. Frederick. History Of Jacksonville Florida And Vicinity 1513 To 1924. © 1925; reprinted by San Marco Bookstore 1990. Page 226:

Henry D. Bounetheau
Mrs. Waddy Thompson
William Clark
Mrs. Solon Robinson
Mrs. Grace Bradley
March Haynes
and one unidentified person.

William Clark is the young man who died in the Market Street Horror while saving a number of other people; I wrote a little about him in my book Heroes All: A History Of Firefighting In Jacksonville.

But now there is a list of fire dead on the Internet.

After running around downtown chasing history, Ginny and I ate supper at the Jacksonville Landing. It being a Tuesday night, hardly anyone was there. We found a table outside on the balcony overlooking the river and enjoyed delicious Bourbon Chicken.

Not another person was up there.

We dined and smoked and sipped tea and held hands talking about books as we watched the lingering sunset over the St. Johns. Yachts, motorboats, sailboats, and tugboats pushing barges moved sedately over the river while sea gulls drifted on updrafts by the Blue Bridge.

Occasionally, other couples strolled by downstairs around the Landing’s fountain and across the river we watched the waters dance in the mighty Friendship Fountain on the Southbank.

A peaceful, luxurious, calm, romantic evening.

We could get used to living like this—but, alas, one of the books Ginny checked out of the library is titled Retiring On a Budget.

Do old folks really have to eat cat food?

In The Pages Of My Bible

I wrote a note to myself so I wouldn’t forget—then I forgot where I put that note.

Not in my inbox. Not taped to the refrigerator. Not in my desk drawer.

I know. I must have stuck in my Bible. I do that. Stick bits of paper in the pages of my Bible because I don’t what else to do with them.

Hunting my lost note, I opened my Bible.

The first thing I found was an envelope of seeds from three years ago that I never got around to planting in our garden.

And I found the car rental papers from when Ginny and I went on vacation in 2003.

I found a batch of lesson notes from a class I taught, and some of those little paper things they give you when you go to somebody’s funeral that say the name and date of the deceased and you’d feel guilty to throw that sheet away because it would seem disrespectful, but you really have no reason to keep it.

And I found this brochure:

It’s dated 1965!

Can it possibly have been in the pages of my Bible since then? Yes, I’ve carried this Bible around for a long time. And yes, I have newer copies in a lot of different versions, but I’m comfortable with this one and I consider the tattered old thing, “My Bible”.

Digging deeper in the pages of my Bible, I found a hand-drawn map of how to get to somebody’s house—I have no idea of who these people were or why I’d need a map to their house….

And then I found this sad, sad thing, a crude, Xeroxed flyer once taped to a telephone post at the corner bus stop:

Back before we had a car, about seven years ago, Ginny rode the bus to work. Because we live in a rough neighborhood, each morning I’d walk her to the bus stop, and meet her bus and walk her home in the evenings.

One morning this crude flyer appeared on telephone posts up and down the street. I have blacked out Anita’s name and address.

As you can tell the writer of the flyer felt unhappy with Anita and wanted the world to know about it. Therefore, she typed this notice, Xeroxed dozens of copies, and posted it on telephone posts up and down the street.

Various people waiting for the bus took out pens or pencils and wrote their own comments on the flyers:

Commenter One said—“Let satan become your friend. He’ll show you the great life of evil”.

Commenter Two said—“Kill the fucking bitch”!

Commenter Three said—“Chop her up and eat her for breakfast”.

Commenter Four said—“ Your only solution is Jesus. He’ll be your very best friend. The Bible declares that Jesus said He’ll never leave your or forsake you. He loves you and He wants to be apart of your life—Sincerely, Concerned”.

Commenter Five said—“This is what He’ll do—J”

After a few days I removed this poster from the phone post and took it in to pass around an adult Bible class I was teaching; we talked about bitterness and forgiving and being forgiven.

I believe the Bible is the word of God. It may not tell me everything I’m curious about, but it tells me all I need to know about life and godliness. It does not answer all my questions about history, but what it does tell me is true. It does not tell me everything there is to know about God, but it tells me more than I want to know about John Cowart.

And one thing I find in the pages of my Bible is this statement: “Follow peace with all men, and holiness, without which no man shall see the Lord: Looking diligently lest any man fail of the grace of God; lest any root of bitterness springing up trouble you, and thereby many be defiled”.

Defiled by bitterness.

Bitterness besets me. When I feel a slight, real or imagined, I let resentment well up inside me. I dwell on that trespass to my dignity. It festers inside me.

I feel troubled as I chase the incident around and around in my mind. My complaints take over my mind. Prayer becomes bitching.

“ Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us … as we forgive…”.

What a kicker!

And Jesus elaborates saying, “When ye stand praying, forgive, if ye have ought against any: that your Father also which is in heaven may forgive you your trespasses. But if ye do not forgive, neither will your Father which is in heaven forgive your trespasses”.

Without the help of the Holy Spirit we can’t forgive others.

To be honest with you, WITH the help of the Holy Spirit, I still find it hard to forgive someone who has crossed the line—that’s what trespassing is, to cross the line defining someone else’s property, to break through some proper boundary.

One thing that sometimes helps me is to recall times when I have crossed the line myself, when I have done the same sort of thing to someone else that I am so upset about someone now doing to me. And I don’t have to search my memory very hard before the Spirit reminds me of that time when I…

Well, you get the idea.

There has no temptation taken you but such as is common to man… They did it. And I did it too.

Now I have never posted a notice about my own resentment and grudges against someone on a telephone pole for all the world to see—that’s what blogs are for. But I have cherished slights inside my heart and go over them again and again as though they were My Precious.

Heck, I just observed my 70^th birthday and I can still remember the names of kids in elementary school who did me dirt!

No wonder I published my recent diaries under the title A Dirty Old Man Goes Bad., etc.

So, how can I get out of this morass?

When Jesus healed a man sick of palsy, He said, “That ye may know that the Son of man hath power on earth to forgive sins”.

Yes, forgiving is serious, costly business.

Jesus died because of our sin. He rose again because He is God, the source of life.

He does not excuse us. He forgives us. There’s a difference.

And the Bible tells us about such things.

It behooves us to know what’s in the pages of our Bibles.

Oh, by the way, I did find the note I’d started out searching for. I had tucked it in the pages of my Bible. Unfortunately it did not say what I thought it said.

Drats!

However I enjoyed browsing in the pages of my Bible and I was especially pleased to find that quote about how we pipe smokers are men of dignity, charm and refinement.

That quote must be true—I found it in the pages of my Bible.

The Ghost At # 33 and The Cowart Family Birthday Party

If you watch tv soap operas, then my entry today should not be too hard to follow even though it involves events about 300 years apart—a ghost in the year 1760, and our birthday party last night.

Follow closely now:

In 1756 in London, William Kent married a woman named Elizabeth Lynes. She died eleven moths later. Afterwards, William Kent took a fancy to her sister, Miss Fanny Lynes.

Since it was considered incest to marry your wife’s sister, William and Miss Fanny Lynes could not marry.

Instead they shacked up.

In January, 1760, the happy couple rented a house at # 33 Cock Lane from a man named William Parsons.

One William loaned the other William some money.

William did not pay it back.

Still with me?

One month later, on February 2, 1760, Fanny Lynes died of smallpox. She was buried in a vault in the church of St John’s Clerkenwell.

But within a year, people at # 33 Cock Lane began to see sights and hear sounds. Thumps against the walls, and a haunting rapping sound, and a scratching sound that seemed to be some kind of intelligent code.

James Franzen,, owner of a nearby pub, and William Parsons, landlord of # 33, set up system of yes/no questions to communicate with the unseen entity through these spooky, scratching sounds.

News of communicating with the dead spread throughout London. Crowds mobbed Cock Lane. Traffic could not get through the street. People wanted to hear the dead woman scratch out answers to their questions.

The ghost revealed that she was indeed Fanny Lynes and that she had not died of smallpox, but that William Kent had poisoned her with arsenic.

Newspapers went crazy reporting this news and giving the ghost a name which lives on in history…

But how do those events in the 1760s have anything to do with the Cowart Birthday last night?

Four people in our family—Ginny, Helen, Donald, and me—we all four have July birthdays. So family and friends gather for a community celebration and cookout on July 18 (which is not anybody’s birthday). We splash in the pool, gorge on good food, catch up on gossip—Helen’s Dad gave her and Donald a new car. Randy and Lisa brought Barbara White over for the party.

And we talked theology—mostly about Christians we admire and churches we don’t.

But, while some of us floated in the pool, one young lady received an urgent phone call from her mother, Mrs. V. A could-be–crisis was developing at her house.

Being an upstanding, hands-on Christian gentleman, I offered to go with the daughter to Mrs. V’s house—and I tried to convince Donald and Randy (short for Ransom) to go with me.

Seeing their reluctance, I assured them that, “There is nothing to feel guilty about if you do not help me. No need to feel guilty at all. I mean just because I’m going over there with only a few girls to help me, there’s no cause for you to feel guilty. You go ahead home. I’ll be alright”.

Knowing that I’m an honest man, the rascals took me at my word and left for home.

Anyhow, Ginny and I followed the daughter across town through dark streets overhung with beards of Spanish moss to her mother’s house.

Here’s the problem:

A sound.

A mysterious scratching, thumping sound.

It was coming from inside a huge cast-iron Franklin Stove—a massive wood-burning, free-standing fireplace with three huge, heavy locked iron doors, two in the middle, one at the end.

Some unknown something was inside her Franklin stove.

Scratching.

Well, the mother and daughter and Ginny supervised as I crept up on the iron monster. I speculated that it was only a trapped squirrel that found its way down the chimney.

But what if it’s a rat?

I’m deathly afraid of rats. Could it be a rat in there?

By the way, Donald and Randy, no need at all to feel guilty about letting me do this by myself, Just wanted to be sure you know that.

What if this is a raccoon? They bite. They carry rabies.

But what if its only a baby bird lost and alone scratching the iron walls?

Hell, it could be a buffalo in there for all I know!

The daughter got a flashlight, a small sledge hammer, and a pillowcase for me. I extended my arm deep into the pillowcase so I could grab the animal then fold the pillowcase back over my hand trapping the creature—the way you’d put a snake in a bag..

The three ladies backed up.

Then I eased the iron door open a just a tiny crack and shown the light inside… couldn’t see a thing. I closed that door and cracked open one on the other side… I could hear some creature moving in there, but I couldn’t see it.

I snaked my arm in through the cracked door feeling around for some furry unseen something.

Ain’t it great to be a hand’s-on Christian?

Couldn’t feel a thing in there.

I hammered on the sides of the stove thinking I’d drive the unknown creature up the flu. I could still hear scratching.

I suspect the unseen scratcher had climbed up out of reach onto the smoke shelf at the back of the stove.

Time to open door three—nothing but soot and ashes from last winter’s last fire.

That gave me an idea.

I closed and locked all the doors, I shredded newspaper and stuffed them through the crack in the double doors. The daughter opened the damper. I struck a match.

“Nothing to it,” I told the women, “The smoke will drive the creature back up the chimney. It will go out the same way it got in”.

Unless its fur catches fire and it jumps out the door on top me and runs flaming through the house like one of Samson’s foxes…. Er, do you have home owners insurance?

That didn’t happen.

The flames died down.

Guess what we heard from inside the iron fireplace?

Silence.

At First.

Then more scratching.

Scratching, Scratching. Scratching.

I’d done all I knew to do. I gave up. I sealed up the doors and propped the sledge hammer and some fire logs against the door. I suggested that Mrs. V. go spend the night with her daughter then call animal control in the morning.

As Ginny and I drove home through the dark night, I could not get that scratching noise out of my mind. Where have I heard about that sort of thing before? Then I remembered the tale of the Ghost of # 33 Cock Lane.

I’d run across it years ago while researching a book I never got around to writing.

I remembered that the incident was proved a hoax—one William seeking revenge against the other William over that borrowed money. William Parsons was sentenced to stand pilloried with his neck in stocks at the foot of Cock Lane. He went stark raving insane.

But some people still believed in the ghost at # 33. A huge controversy arose between those saying it was all a hoax and those believing the scratching was caused by a real ghost .

The press of the day gave her a name.

She became a tourist attraction.

And, oh yes, the name those newspapers of yesteryear called the phenomena, that name stuck.

It was ever afterwards called—The Ghost Of Scratching Fanny!