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This is the legend of the Witch's Grave.
Out in an unincorporated area in northern Chilton County called the 'Fire Lanes,' there's a small family cemetery, the Campbell Family Cemetery, that's locally infamous. This legend has been shared with me by several locals in the area, all of whom assure me it is absolute fact.
It's been 25 years since the last time I visited the site. Back then it was a test of courage among teens: "Are you too scared to go up to the Witch's Grave?" The area's been logged out and it doesn't seem quite as haunting as it did then, but if you know the story, if you understand even a little bit of what happened, the tragic tale of the people buried here, then you'll still feel the weight of the place as you walk up the rise and see the peak of that first tombstone ahead of you.
The roads are all different now, so I had to stop and ask directions from several locals. Three times I stopped when I was within a couple of miles of the cemetery, asking for directions to the 'old Campbell Cemetery,' and each time, the locals would point the way, and then ask me if I knew the story of Easter Campbell, the witch. I'd nod, but they'd still give me some little bit of the story, shaking their heads at the horror of it all.
Before you get to the legend of the Witch's Grave, though, there is some hard evidence of oddness that you see in the tombstones themselves. As you approach the site, up a slow incline, you'll first notice the father's tombstone, rising dull gray from the top of the rise. As it comes into view, you'll begin to see the smaller tombstones that surround it. The effect of the appearance as you walk up the path is nothing less than chilling.
The curiosities–some of them tragic–of this small family plot are numerous:
So, they are all Campbells, but all of their own families aren't buried with them. The circumstances are unknown, but the situation appears tragic. Why was Easter's husband not buried here? Neither J.B.'s wife, mother of all these poor short-lived children? Was Easter the mother of them all? And why did they all have to die so soon? It is true that mortality rates were high in those days, but these numbers of deaths make it seem as though something awful transpired here. I have it on good authority from a local octogenarian (among many others) that Easter Campbell was the cause of much of the strife the people of this area endured during these troubled years.
The legend is that Easter Campbell was a witch, and that to kill her the people who lived here carved a representation of her heart on a tree, then took a ten penny nail and drove it into the heart, hitting it only once per day, and that on the day the nail was driven all the way home, Easter died. (Using witchcraft to kill a witch, some would say…)
And what had Easter done that was so terrible? Some say that when the man she loved died (possibly the younger J.B. Campbell) she went mad with grief and discovered some arcane method for reanimating a corpse. She did so, and gave the body to the ghost of her dead lover, but when his body continued to decompose after reanimation Easter realized that this was a ritual she would have to repeat indefinitely in order to keep him "alive." So she terrorized the people of this small community, stealing babies away in the night so she could kill them and then reanimate their bodies with her dead lover's soul.
The symbol atop Easter's marker is supposed to be a device for keeping the dead from rising. This is no fairy tale meant to keep children in their beds at night; no Jason or Blair Witch Project, this is a true-to-life horror story, and the proof is right here for anyone to see. Will you risk a visit to the Witch's Grave?
The children's markers read: Orval Lee Campbell Born Dec. 7, 1904, Died July 30 1905
Virtte Hairison Born April 25, 1908, Died Aug 10 1909
James Robbert Campbell Born Nov. 13, 1910, Died Mar. 23, 1911
(illegible) Campbell Born Nov. 13, 1910, Died Apr. 2, 1911
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“Sin Eater” has never been a legitimate occupation, but it has existed for hundreds of years. Even today it exists, but it is very rare.
A Sin Eater, historically a local beggar, would most commonly be invited to the home of a recently deceased person and be given bread and ale over the corpse of the departed. As they consumed the food and drink, they symbolically absorbed the sins of the departed. They were then sometimes pelted with food as they fled the home, but more often were allowed to leave amicably.
Sin Eating was practiced mostly in England and Scotland, but has existed in one form or another throughout the entire world.
In Meso-America, Tlazolteotl, the Aztec goddess of earth, motherhood and fertility, would allow a dying person to confess his or her sins and the goddess would then cleanse the person’s soul by “eating its filth[1].”
To be a Sin Eater today, the best way is to simply advertise in the newspaper your services. I advise you wear a trenchcoat, because depending on the beliefs of the family they may pelt you with food when you depart. Fortunately, in today’s economic climate, it is possible to actually charge for your services. Accept only coins, however, and only coins made of precious metals. You can charge whatever you like, but I recommend you only charge an amount that will cover your expenses plus a few dollars more. Rarely more than twenty or thirty dollars.
Depending upon your beliefs, you may not want to actually spend the money you earn, however. Some say that if you accept money for your services, then the money acts as a shield for you, and it takes the sin instead of you. If you spend it, however, the sin will fall back in your lap. As I said, it depends on your beliefs.
Sin Eating is obviously not a way to get rich, and it is not an occupation that will even earn you a living. What it will do, even if you don’t believe in it, is provide a grieving family a sensation of relief. This, if nothing else, makes it a worthwhile endeavor.
I will neither confirm nor deny that I am a modern-day sin eater. It’s well-established that I can perform weddings, however, so….
[1] Encyclopedia Mythica: “Tlazolteotla”, by Micha F. Lindemans
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One day very soon this field will supply my family with wholesome, healthy food. This is my local CSA (Community Supported Agriculture). Beginning this May all my produce will come from an entirely local, completely organic producer. No pesticides, no wax on the fruit, no chemicals…he doesn't even use hybrid seeds! Find a CSA in your own area at localharvest.org, or check for updates on reevolver.com.
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I've never seen a white coydog before. The gentleman's name is Don Beane. Don named his coydog, who "just came up out of the woods one day," "Buckshot." I came into contact with him searching the area for the CSA (Community Supported Agriculture) I'm going to be purchasing all my vegetables from in a few weeks. (More on that to come later, or check the blog at reevolver.com for consistent updates).
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Recently I watched the closing ceremony of the Vancouver Winter Olympics, and I watched it for what it was, a celebration of a culture. I wondered as I watched what a bushman might think of the spectacle. He might think it grand and godlike, but would he see the value in it? Certainly, if he views it as a form of art, perhaps he would, likely being an artist himself in some ways. But for him art is a pastime, not a vocation. For humans still surviving in the bush, survival is their vocation, and those of us who spend our lives working for money, whether in one industry or another, so that we can purchase convenience, might be viewed as somewhat amazing creatures, but simple. Simple because of our reliance on the machine to do our work for us. The machine of society, the product of convenience.
The bushman has survived since the dawn of time hunting and gathering. And if and when the machine ever suffers another collapse, it will be the bushman’s knowledge that we would need to survive. Astronomy would become an art again. We would be focused less on going to the Moon than we would be on growing winter lettuce and kale. We would want to know how to pull every nutrient we could out of the soil and out of the animals we kill, we would make foot bone soup and slurp it down with relish, savoring the marrow.
I really need a matcha whisk…
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My own take on the classic Italian dish: basil and pine nut, with mushrooms and peas.
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Winter Long Removed
Wolves grow a new coat and gather into their packs, approaching winter with an almost-jubilant expectation. They get tired of living off of mice and voles. They want to kick up some snow… they look forward to the running of the caribou. But chipmunks are gatherers. They spend warm-weather months hoarding food and, when the cold finally comes, they hunker down amidst their wealth and sleep.
People are like that too. We make sure we’ve got firewood and food and then we hunker down for the long, dark, cold wait. Our stocks dwindle. The days grow longer and shadows grow shorter and we find ourselves curled up beneath blankets at dusk, hoping to hurry the calendar along. When we sense we’ve made the turn, when we know we’re past the winter solstice, we begin grasping for the vernal equinox with an eagerness that rivals a wolf’s desire for winter. And when spring finally rolls back ’round we get busy tilling and planting, getting fresh greenstuff back into our diets as quickly as we can.
I am long-removed from those harried times of humanity. And yet, as the vernal approaches, I find the same eager electricity sizzling in my fingertips. It’s an urgency of spirit that’s ingrained in our species, it’s coded in our DNA. In the spring I will build a chicken coop and till the soil and dig water lines and run electrical circuits to a shed that’s only ever been dark. In reality, modern conveniences have done away with those needs. But I’m still left with the inclination.
I know now that I can have bananas year-round because they truck them up from somewhere tropical and damn the effect on the environment. If I’m willing to do without taste, I can have tomatoes, too, any time I want them. I just have to plunk over the change. I don’t even know what winter vegetables are any more. I understand that there was a time when it was essential that I know, as a human, what would grow and at what time of year to grow it in. The modern age has made convenience so necessary, however, that we’re losing touch with those things that we once relied upon for survival. What do we do if those conveniences go away? Is that even possible?
This year I’m amending my approach to spring only slightly: in addition to enjoying the season I’m also going to consider the coming autumn. I will no longer take the passage of winter lightly. I’m going to meet the beast head on, with supplies to survive regardless of whether I need them or not. Because someday I might.
Photograph by [re]evolver staff photographer Hampton Taylor.
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