#wilder kentucky

[duranduratulsa]

Spooktober Haunted Places: Bob Mackey's in Wilder Kentucky #hauntedplaces #bobmackeys #wilderkentucky #kentucky #spooktober #halloween #october

[gammija]

i keep constructing elaborate political speeches in my mind. as if somehow if i could just talk to pvv-voters compellingly enough, explain to all of em why this is moronic on every level, they'd all suddenly find out that they're actually leftists at heart who just heard a few facts wrong

[alteredstatesstuff]

old Kentucky cabin

[geeknik]

31 Days of Halloween: Day 20, The Haunting Harmonies of Bobby Mackey’s Music World in Wilder, KY

On Day 20 of our sinister sojourn, we traverse the haunting halls of Bobby Mackey’s Music World in Wilder, KY. This ominous nightclub, with its dark history stretching back to the 19th century, harbors chilling tales that vibrate to the rhythm of ghostly tunes. As we delve into its eerie past, we’ll uncover how each chord strummed within its walls resonates with the whispers of bygone souls.

Historical Background

Bobby Mackey’s Music World, dubbed as “the most haunted nightclub in America,” has a macabre past that predates its musical era. Initially, the site housed a slaughterhouse in the early 19th century, whose remnants faded with the construction of a roadhouse. Over time, the establishment morphed identities, adopting various names like The Brisbane, until country singer Bobby Mackey took ownership in 1978. However, the dark aura from its sinister past refused to fade. Before its musical reinvention, the mob claimed ownership of the club during the 1940s and 50s, adding a touch of nefarious dealings to its already dark history.

Haunting Tales

The ghostly lore surrounding Bobby Mackey’s Music World is as diverse as its historical metamorphosis. The ghastly tale of Pearl Bryan, a young woman who met a horrifying end in 1896, casts a long, eerie shadow over the nightclub. Her headless body was discovered near the establishment, with the perpetrators of the gruesome crime alleged to be Satan worshippers. This sinister event left an indelible mark on the club’s spectral ambiance, with many attributing the malevolent activities within its halls to this dark chapter of its history.

Exploring Bobby Mackey’s Music World

For those seeking to dance with the phantoms of the past, Bobby Mackey’s Music World offers a hauntingly unique experience. Paranormal enthusiasts can embark on a ghostly expedition with a private, five-hour investigation for a fee. Partnered with Gatekeeper Paranormal, the tour grants the brave an opportunity to explore the nightclub’s eerie corners following a brief induction. Amidst the ghostly echoes and chilling tales, the nightclub continues to serenade the living and the dead with its country tunes, making each visit a chilling blend of music and mystery.

Conclusion

As we conclude Day 20 of our spectral journey, Bobby Mackey’s Music World stands as a chilling testimony to the everlasting dance between the living and the supernatural. Its haunted halls beckon the brave to delve into its sinister past, to sway to the rhythm of its ghostly tunes, and to unmask the eerie tales that lurk behind every chord. Venture into its haunted domain, tune into its ghostly harmonies, and perhaps, dance with the phantoms that refuse to leave the dance floor.

[whiskyconsidered]

Wilderness Trail Wheated Single Barrel Bourbon

The Basics: Do I recommend it?: Yes, very highly! Availability: Fairly wide? A little hard to say. ABV: 50% Presentation: Unchillfiltered and natural color General information: Mashbill 64% corn, 24% wheat, 12% malted barley Bottling type: Proprietary Character: Sweet, soft, fruity and herbal. Score: 94/100 The details: Wilderness Trail was founded in 2013 in the town of Danville by…

[asaliveasviruses]

I've seen more nature in the past hour than usual. Immediately upon arriving home I saw a blue tailed lizard on my porch, I tried to get a picture, but it ran behind the mop bucket first. I did get a picture of the Tipula maxima on my bedroom wall, however, I don't know where it is now, though. And then there was a clover mite crawling on my phone. If you see a Tipula maxima or clover mite you're supposed to kill it, but I didn't. Who am I to decide what gets to live and die? Does it being an insect or arachnid make it better? I don't think so.

[headspace-hotel]

The day before yesterday I got to try a ripe pawpaw for the first time.

Someone else was supposed to come in at the center, but I was in the mood to be alone, so I fucked off into the woods at the earliest available opportunity, looking to collect more hickory nuts.

I hiked about two miles down the trail, seeking to find a little-used path as far from the center as I could reasonably make it. I was five or ten minutes down a fork in the path heading down a valley when I unexpectedly smelled something familiar: the scent of ripe pawpaws. I only knew that scent from having come upon a rotten one several days back on the trail.

I had seen pawpaw trees on the way up, but I looked around and saw nothing. I indulged a beast-like impulse: I sniffed. I turned until I was facing the direction of the scent and moved towards it. And I saw, about 50 feet away down the hillside below...a pawpaw grove

Some interesting facts about pawpaws:

The pawpaw is the largest fruit native to North America, known for its "tropical" flavor. Despite being reputed to be delicious, it is not found in grocery stores due to the fruits being far too delicate to ship without spoiling. A few people farm them, but otherwise the only way to get one is to come upon one growing wild, which is rare, because the opossums love them.

Pawpaw trees are hard to grow and take 10-15 years to produce fruit, but you can see wild ones in mature and well managed woods of Kentucky. They are small, barely trees, only about 15-20 feet tall, with trunks only a bit bigger around than a circle you can make with your index finger and thumb. They almost always grow in clonal colonies, groups of many trees that are all clones of each other due to being propagated from the roots of existing trees. They are also strictly understory trees, growing in the shade of much larger trees.

Now, an interesting fact about Eastern Kentucky: At the fringe of Appalachia, and even into parts of the Outer Bluegrass, the terrain frequently turns into very steep rolling hills.

It's hard to notice if you are in more cultivated areas that have been leveled out more, but in wilder parts you can seldom just casually walk in a straight line through the woods. Unless you are following the contour of the hills, you are either sliding and gripping saplings to slow your descent or you are climbing on all fours.

Such was the hill below me, descending at roughly a fifty-degree angle into the pawpaw grove.

I was going to get me some fucking pawpaws.

I climb down the hill by a combination of scooting, sliding, and scrabbling. After a few minutes of struggle I am standing in the pawpaw grove, alone, scanning the branches with my eyes.

The ground is littered everywhere with pawpaws, some very rotten. I see only two or three fruits remaining in the trees, and I walk around giving each tree a good shake, thinking to myself about how this is certainly an experience shared by millions of years' worth of primate ancestors before me.

After nearly ten minutes of (literally) fruitless tree-shaking, I start to eye the fallen pawpaws on the ground around me.

Some of them are perfectly fine-looking. The skin hasn't even been broken into. I pick one up.

It is very soft, but not squishy like something rotten. It is about as long as my index finger (my hands are small) and oblong. Its smooth skin is pale green and spotted with brown like a very ripe banana. I tear the skin back and give the creamy orange insides a test lick.

Friends.

It was transcendent.

Imagine the most perfect ripe mango, but with a flavor that is more banana-like, mellow and creamy and mild instead of tangy. The texture is perfectly smooth and soft unlike any other fruit. You can lick it and it will just melt in your mouth.

I am autistic and a very picky eater due to the difficult textures of many foods, and this fruit has the perfect texture. Mangos are already one of my favorite foods and this is somehow even better. I remember, deliriously, that farmers are seeking to improve pawpaws for possible commercial production, and it seems like the height of foolishness there in the pawpaw grove. There is no possible way wild pawpaws could be improved. All of creation is tainted by the Fall of Man, except for fucking pawpaws, because they are beyond the earthly tier of fruits.

I lick it like a dog going crazy on a Kong full of peanut butter until it falls apart in my hands and start scanning the ground for another.

They are all perfectly ripe and mostly untouched by bugs or creatures. I start just squishing them in my hands and licking the creamy insides. I am just planting my face in these fruits like some kind of animal. My face and hands are covered in pawpaw squish.

I go through like ten of them before returning to my senses. I've been thoughtlessly wiping my hands on my pants, and they are now more soiled than the clothes of the messiest toddler. I feel primal and connected to my ancestors. I have truly earned my Primate Card.

My mom said in the car that I smelled very strongly of something (pawpaws) so it's safe to say that literally every person I passed on the way back down the trail got a good whiff too, and likely connected it to the Pawpaw Squish that was basically all over me.

Regrets: None

[bones-clouds]

books i read in 2024:

"this wretched valley"

jenny kiefer

rating: ⭐️⭐️⭐️

genre: horror, survival, mystery, paranormal

synopsis:

Four ambitious climbers hike into the Kentucky wilderness. Seven months later, three mangled bodies are discovered. Were their deaths simple accidents or the result of something more sinister?

This nail-biting, bone-chilling survival horror novel is inspired by the infamous Dyatlov Pass incident, and is perfect for fans of Alma Katsu and Showtime's Yellowjackets.

Seven months later, three bodies are discovered in the trees just off the highway. All are in various states of decay: one body a stark, white skeleton; the second emptied of its organs; and the third a mutilated corpse with the tongue, eyes, ears, and fingers removed.

But Dylan is still missing. Followers of her Instagram account report seeing disturbing livestreams, and some even claim to have caught glimpses of her vanishing into the thick woods, but no trace of her—dead or alive—has been discovered.

Were the climbers murdered? Did they succumb to cannibalism? Or are their impossible bodies the work of an even more sinister force? Is Dylan still alive, and does she hold the answers?

This page-turning debut will have you racing towards the inevitable conclusion.

[bigfootbeat]

Early Non-Native Accounts of Bigfoot in North America

There are many accounts of Native American encounters with Bigfoot recorded in history. However, European settlers and their descendants also had Bigfoot experiences. Here are some that occurred before the Bigfoot craze in the 1950s popularized the idea.

A white woman named Rachel Plummer, who was taken captive by a Comanche raiding band in Texas in the year 1836, is credited with making one of the earliest and most prominent references to Bigfoot by a non-Native American. After the Comanche set Plummer free in 1838, she wrote and published a narrative detailing her traumatic experience as a captive. She went into enormous detail about the creatures that lived in the prairies, in addition to providing specifics about their everyday lives and the roles that men, women, and children had in their lives. Among these animals were wolf packs, bears, elk, and even what her captors referred to as "man-tigers."

According to what she reported, "The Indians claim that they have discovered several of them in the mountains." They say, "They describe them as having the characteristics and proportions of a man." People report that they walk upright and stand between eight and nine feet tall. It was not until nearly a century later that five gold prospectors in Oregon documented the existence of a beast that was very similar to the one described. The men, venturing into the wilderness in 1924, claimed that an "ape man" had accosted one of their party members, Fred Beck, earlier that day, and had shot the creature, inflicting injuries as he fled. Later that night, a larger group of these animals battered the prospectors' hut with rocks and boulders. The men were certain that they were exacting their vengeance for the previous shooting that had taken place. The animals attempted to smash down the door of the cabin, but fortunately, the guys were able to delay their progress.

As soon as the sun began to rise, the apemen fled, and the five terrified prospectors made their way to the closest settlement. It was believed to such an extent that the United States Forest Service initiated an investigation and dispatched two rangers back into the forest with Beck to see if they could find any evidence of the beasts or even the beasts themselves. Despite the lack of evidence, the story quickly spread throughout the Western region, leading to the continued use of Ape Canyon as the name of the alleged attack site. Buffalo Bill and Daniel Boone, two of the most famous frontier folk heroes in the United States, have legends about Bigfoot in their backs. The Pawnee Indians of the Plains presented Buffalo Bill with a gigantic thigh bone as a gift, as described in his book, The Life of Honorable William F. Cody. Buffalo Bill also mentions this experience. According to their assertions, the bone belonged to "a race of man... whose size was approximately three times that of an ordinary man."

Daniel Boone's account went one step further when he told a story about how he shot and killed a "hairy giant" that was ten feet tall in Kentucky. He referred to the beast as a "Yahoo," which is a reference to the brutes that resembled humans that appeared in Jonathan Swift's classic novel Gulliver's Travels. As a result of the 1950s discovery of footprints in Bluff Creek, California, the search for Bigfoot experienced a surge in popularity. These tracks were believed to be the creature's. In the hopes of discovering some evidence that Bigfoot does in fact exist, a large number of people, including cryptozoologists, scientists, adventurers, and other Bigfoot fans, traveled to various regions in the state of Washington and Northern California. Despite the lack of conclusive evidence, people maintained their belief in the existence of a hominid that had been absent from human history for a significant period.

[vintagecamping]

Some friends capture a moment on Green River Lake, before heading out for a week of backpacking through the wilderness.

Kentucky

1974

[soulsongplays]

Alright I'm currently brainrotting about a homebrew World of Darkness setting based on Project Zomboid that I'm calling "Kentucky by Night," which is basically just "What if the World of Darkness was in the middle of a really slow zombie apocalypse?" It originally started as an excuse to use the Project Zomboid Map Project for battlemaps because I didn't want to have to draw any more environments and I got carried away, here's a list of fun facts about the setting:

Most Werewolves believe that the Knox Infection (the zombie virus) is a product of the Wyrm's tampering, likely related to vampires, and as such they have acted as wilderness zombie hunters since the infection began.

Vampires initially assumed they were immune to the Knox Infection on account of also being undead, and while a zombie bite won't infect them, kindred who regularly feed on zombies, intentionally or not, will begin to rot and hunger, eventually losing themselves to The Beast.

The Technocracy created both the infection and the vaccine that grants immunity to it's airborne strain, but despite accidentally releasing the infection they insisted on holding back the vaccine because "the world wasn't quite ready for it"

Werewolves are immune to the Knox Infection, but still vulnerable to the Wyrm's spiritual corruption, meaning Zombie Werewolves are totally a thing

Vampiric plague-spreading cults began to form, insisting that zombies were like their brethren, and Vampires should aid them in infecting the world. These cults continue to exist to this day, considered an enemy of both the Anarchs and Camarilla. The Sabbat aren't too sure about them.

The Technocracy created a drug called "Zombrex" that is capable of delaying the effects of the Knox Infection, though no permanent cure has been found as the infection rapidly mutates. Zombrex is not available to the public, as they are not ready for it.

Werewolf magic users (I don't remember what they are called) are actually capable of curing the Infection via. cleansing the spiritual corruption caused by the disease, though they refuse to do this for non-werewolves.

The Technocracy is actually struggling to regain a foothold in the NUSA, the union of once-american governments formed since the collapse of the USA, as a result of a resurgence of magic during the Knox Event. it turns out people were a lot more willing to believe anything can happen mid-apocalypse, and cults across the NUSA are pushing back against Technocratic influence since the whole debacle with holding the vaccine they'd already had because 'the world wasn't ready for it.'

A Vampire Zombie can, eventually, recover from the Knox Infection- though there is only one case of a Kindred doing so, and it took nearly a decade of being staked and bathed in fresh blood as their body regenerated.

There are two tribes who willingly underwent the zombie transformation, becoming one of the first unique zombie types- the Zombie Werewolf. These Zombie Werewolves still retain some of their intelligence despite their undeath, and all of the strengths of a werewolf, making them one of the most dangerous things in existence.

One of the nations in the NUSA is actually run by mages, occupying a region that was once Utah a group of radical Mormon Mages spread some of the subtler secrets of magic to chosen followers, giving them a step up when compared to the other nations.

I am so excited to finish the worldbuilding and actually run a game in this setting, but I'm worried I won't be able to publicize anything because I have blatantly stolen a lot of stuff from various pieces of media. I might write something up anyway.

[calamity-calliope]

Thinking about Enoch and what will happen to him between the events of Sunless Seas and Sunless Skies, because my man is definitely not ending up in the High Wilderness, no sirree.

I have elected that the most likely thing to happen to him is that the British government ships him back to Kentucky. They don't care about travel costs, the man is a liability and he is bound to create issues.

Which raises questions about what happens when he returns to Kentucky. He's returning there a fundamentally changed man. His neighbors learn that this is not the same Enoch they knew. Maybe he's someone else entirely. This Enoch has sunlight in his eyes.

This Enoch sings hymns to himself while he works iron. The old Enoch was never a religious man, and these hymns of his aren't to the Good Lord in Heaven. This Enoch looks directly into the sun, as though trying to stare it down. This Enoch walks coatless out into the snow during the cold winters, always as warm returning as he was leaving.

And the people swear up and down that his eyes were a gentle blue once upon a time. Now they are a fierce gold, a color many a prospector has wept over. Nobody asks him about them though. Nobody wants to know.

Especially not after hearing all the stories he's told, about a sun beneath the surface of the earth, a sun made out of steel and iron. A sun that lived. A sun that commanded a fleet of glittering ships and a host of sailors to go along with them. A sun, he says, called the Dawn Machine.

Things are almost the way they once were. The farmers tend to their crops, the carpenter works his timber, and the blacksmith forges. But the blacksmith sings. Almost the way he once was.

[marxism-transgenderism]

DAYBREAK, October 10, 1774. In dense forest, a column of 700 Shawnee and Mingo warriors uncoils into a ragged, mile-long line. Unlike years past, the warriors are not stalking game. Rather, they are preparing to strike 1,200 unsuspecting Virginia militiamen camped at Point Pleasant, a craggy triangle at the confluence of the Ohio and Great Kanawha rivers, approximately 150 miles southwest of modern Wheeling, West Virginia. A carpet of red and russet leaves deadens their footfalls. The warriors wear breechclouts, which are single pieces of cloth wrapped around the hips, buckskin leggings, and moccasins. A few also sport linen hunting shirts purchased from white traders. Most carry smoothbore muskets, tomahawks, scalping knives, and bow and arrows for use if their ammunition runs out. Silver rings dangle from their noses. Huge earrings hang on distended earlobes, framing faces painted in fierce patterns of red and black.

The leader of the war party, the Shawnee chief Cornstalk, would prefer to be elsewhere. Although the provocation had been immense, he had called for restraint. Virginians had flouted a royal proclamation prohibiting settlement on Indian land and instead spilled across the Kanawha River into the Kanawha Valley, part of the greater Kentucky country, all of which was prime Shawnee hunting ground. “I have with great trouble and pains prevailed on the foolish people amongst us to sit still and do no harm till we see whether it is the intention of the white people in general to fall on us,” Cornstalk had told a British official, “and shall continue so to do in the hopes that matters may be settled.” But the royal governor of Virginia, the Earl of Dunmore, who himself coveted Indian land for personal profit, had no expectation of a peaceful denouement. Frontier subjects, he wrote the Crown, despised treaties made with Indians, “whom they consider but little removed from the brute creation.” So too did the Virginia aristocracy. With the spring thaw in 1774, surveyors representing George Washington, Patrick Henry, and other Tidewater elites staked large claims along the Ohio River. Waving away the royal edict against land grabs as a “temporary expedient to quiet the minds of the Indians,” Washington told his personal surveyor not to worry.

With the surveyors came settlers willing to wager their scalps on a scrap of land. For a time, Cornstalk succeeded in controlling his young warriors. They turned back white intruders with stern warnings but seldom harmed them. Then in April 1774 a gang of frontier ruffians butchered a small party of inoffensive Mingo men and women who had crossed the Ohio River to buy rum at a neighborhood grog shop. Other Mingoes who attempted to investigate were shot from their canoes. The dead included the sister and younger brother of the Mingo chief “Captain John” Logan, a longtime friend of the whites who, averred a pioneer who knew Logan well, represented “the best specimen of humanity, either white or red,” that he had ever met.

The massacre shocked the colonies and the Crown. The young Virginia aristocrat Thomas Jefferson excoriated the supposed perpetrators. Hard words and hand-wringing, however, marked the extent of the white response. When the Crown’s colonial justice proved empty, Logan sought revenge in the Indian fashion; he slayed just enough frontiersmen to even the score, taking care to exculpate the Shawnees from his bloody work. To the charred door of a ravaged cabin, Logan posted a succinct confession. “You killed my kin . . . then I thought I must kill too. The Indians is not angry [sic] only me.” Backcountry settlers saw matters otherwise. Misconstruing Chief Cornstalk’s neutrality as hostile intent, Virginia militiamen destroyed a large Shawnee village in the Ohio country. They also laid waste to six Mingo towns.

The die was cast. Shawnee and Mingo war parties retaliated. Frontiersmen reciprocated. Havoc and horror rent the wilderness. As the frontier crumbled, Lord Dunmore mustered the militia to deal the Indians a two-pronged thrashing. No longer able to keep the peace, Chief Cornstalk assumed the mantle of supreme Shawnee war leader. He tried to forge a broad Indian alliance, but British threats and cajolery sidelined other tribes. And so in late September, Cornstalk sallied forth with his Shawnee and Mingo force to defend their lands. Calculating that his only chance lay in defeating Dunmore’s armies before they could unite, Cornstalk turned his attention first to the command of Gen. Andrew Lewis, who was then creeping across the wilds of western Virginia toward Point Pleasant. Although outnumbered, Cornstalk had able Shawnee lieutenants, among them the rising star Puckeshinwau, already honored as both a war and a civil leader, offices the Shawnees rarely combined.

The Indians hated the militiamen but respected their fighting prowess. They called the Virginians the “Long Knives” because of the butcher knives and short swords that they wielded with as much skill as the Indians did the tomahawk. Like Indian warriors, the Virginians were a colorful if undisciplined lot. A few of the officers wore regular uniforms, but most were clad in the same sort of hunting shirts, leather leggings, homemade breeches, broad-brimmed hats or animal-skin caps, and moccasins as their men. Each militiaman carried a flintlock long-rifle or English musket, a bullet pouch, and powder horn carved to individual taste. In addition to knives, many also tucked tomahawks into their belts. Well schooled in Indian warfare and raging with the Kentucky land-fever, the Virginians were impatient for the fray.

This morning, however, they slumbered soundly, unaware of the approaching warriors. The night before, the Indians had slipped across the Ohio River in crude rafts beneath a cobalt sky, debouching on the rocky, timber-strewn Virginia riverbank four miles north of the militia camp. Cornstalk and his lieutenants oversaw the carefully choreographed battle preparations. Their warriors slept a few hours, leaning against trees or propped against forked poles, weapons at the ready. Hunters killed twelve deer and ritually sliced the venison under the watchful eyes of medicine men (spiritual and natural healers), who examined the roasted strips for spiritual purity before handing each warrior one piece. After eating, the men buried their blankets and shirts beneath leaves. Deploying in units of twenty, they each crammed four balls into their muskets to inflict maximum punishment at short range. They would tomahawk any survivors. Cornstalk selected the best marksmen to descend to the riverbank to pick off any Virginians desperate enough to plunge into the broad Ohio after the Indians sprang their trap.

And then his plan unraveled. At dawn, October 10, 1774, two early-rising Virginians wandered into the forest to hunt deer. Instead they ran into the Indians. One militiaman crumpled, riddled with musket balls, but the other stumbled back into camp to sound the alarm. Instantly the drums beat to arms. The backwoodsmen rolled from their blankets, examined their flints and priming, and awaited orders.

Feigning composure, General Lewis lit his pipe. He blew a few puffs and then ordered two colonels to lead double columns of 150 men forward to discover the source of the commotion. Both officers fell in the first Indian volley. Concealed behind the trunks of maple and pine and in the tangled underbrush of the river bottom, the warriors dropped dozens of militiamen, screaming epithets at the “sons of bitches” and “white dogs” as they fired. Lewis pushed out reinforcements, and the combatants grappled at close quarters in the smoke-choked timber. “Hide where I would,” a Virginian recalled, “the muzzle of some rifle was gaping in my face and the wild, distorted countenance of a savage was rushing towards me with uplifted tomahawk. The contest resembled more a circus of gladiators than a battle.”

After six hours of close combat, the two sides backed apart and traded fire from behind trees and fallen timber. Puckeshinwau and his fellow war leaders moved along the Indian line, exhorting their warriors to “lie close,” “shoot well,” and “fight and be strong.” Near sunset, General Lewis occupied a high ridge that Cornstalk had neglected to secure. Stung by bullets from above their left flank and low on ammunition, the Indians melted back into the forest and recrossed the Ohio. The Virginians contented themselves with scalping fallen warriors and collecting souvenirs.

It had been a bloody twelve hours. The Indians killed seventy-five Virginians and wounded another 140. Perhaps forty warriors died. Hoping to disguise their losses, the Indians rolled several of their dead into the river. The Virginians nevertheless collected thirty-two scalps. These they affixed to a post at Point Pleasant.

The battle claimed just one prominent Indian, the Shawnee war leader Puckeshinwau. His thirteen-year-old son Cheeseekau, not yet a warrior, had accompanied him into action. After Puckeshinwau fell mortally wounded, Cheeseekau helped ease him back over the Ohio in a driftwood raft. Before dying, Puckeshinwau reputedly admonished his young son to preserve his family’s honor, never reconcile with the Long Knives, and “in the future lead forth to battle his younger brothers” against them. Cheeseekau swore to obey. Puckeshinwau’s warriors buried their chief deep in the forest.

Cheeseekau had accepted a heavy burden. He had three siblings, and his now-widowed mother was pregnant with triplets. Cheeseekau’s favorite sibling, upon whom he would lavish most of his attention and who would best fulfill his father’s last wish, was his six-year-old brother Tecumseh, the “Shooting Star.”

— Peter Cozzens, The Warrior and the Prophet: The Shawnee Brothers Who Defied a Nation

[jazzcathaven]

Wilderness Poems

1

The moon

over Kentucky

is blue

the morning smells

of lavender

and lilac

sunrise

late summer

bright orange

Mexican sunflowers

bloom

2

The cool air

is a waterfall

washing away

crippling years

3

In the woods

I embrace

the fullness

of my

flawedness

4

Once upon a time

I had a lick of sense

but it sure didn't take

me long to spend it

5

River's edge

thick fog

listen

listen

distant train

swooping crane

6

Nothing is lost

nothing is forgotten

7

On the front porch

of my old writing cottage

in the worn out

faded pale blue chair

as a gentle rain sings

the softest lullaby

on the turquoise tin roof

as red and orange leaves waltz

in twilight's swirling breeze

with half closed eyes

I dream of you

8

Whooping crane

American coot killdeer

Iceland gull mourning dove

great horned owl common snipe

whippoorwill crazy loon

9

Poems and songs

are

the language of

angels

10

Great blue heron

slowly rises

from Silver Creek

so close

I gently

touch her

11

Fifteen scurrying

baby quail

and one swooping

red-tailed hawk

12

When I was a boy

Daddy taught me

how to talk

with crows

13

A shower at 4:20am

of meteors

in the northeast

full moon

14

When I die

when I'm dead and gone

no tombstone for me

no grave do I want

my poems

your love

angel song

15

When my time comes to cross over

I pray the crossing be swift

I pray that it be

lightning

16

Wandering the weltering warbling

ragged unfettered wilderness

17

When loving others

sometimes necessary

to live alone

18

When the bottom of my water bucket breaks

Mother Earth will joyfully drink every last drop

and the moon's shadow will dance

with the nightingale's song

19

Mama taught me

how to give

without anticipation

of reciprocation

20

I learned to be stronger

than my weakest emotion

by letting go

letting go

21

Close your eyes

drift to sleep

your day is done

drift to sleep

your rest is won

sleep sleep

sleep

22

Dreams never die

they are passed on

and continue to grow

in and through new dreamers

23

We are newly formed

drops of rain

watering ancient grains of dust

where dwell seeds

waiting yearning

ready to be born

resurrection

Ron Whitehead, U.S. National Lifetime Beat Poet Laureate

Photo by Jinn Bug

[lboogie1906]

Color Sergeant Andrew Jackson Smith (September 3, 1843 - March 4, 1932) was the last African American Civil War soldier to receive a Medal of Honor. He was born enslaved to Susan, an enslaved African American woman, and her white owner, Elijah Smith, in Lyon County, Kentucky. When his father enlisted in the Confederate army, intending to bring him as a servant, he and another enslaved ran away. After walking 25 miles through the rain, they arrived at a Union Army encampment in Smithland, Kentucky. They were admitted to the camp, to remain under the military’s protection, and became a servant to Major John Warner of the 41st Illinois Volunteer Regiment.

He witnessed the battle of Shiloh and sustained a minor injury from a spent bullet. While on a furlough in Illinois, he learned of President Lincoln’s decision to allow African American men to fight for the Union after the Emancipation Proclamation. He left the relative safety of Illinois, a free state, and enlisted with the 55th Massachusetts Colored Volunteers who would soon be sent south.

On November 30, 1864, as part of the Savannah Campaign led by General William T. Sherman, the 55th and other Union regiments engaged Confederate forces at Honey Hill in South Carolina. When an exploding shell killed his unit’s color bearer, he picked up the battle flags and carried them for the rest of the battle. He exposed himself to enemy fire by carrying the flags. He was promoted to color sergeant.

He moved to Eddyville, Kentucky, where he purchased land. Dr. Burt G. Wilder, the 55th Massachusetts surgeon, undertook efforts in the following years to get Smith recognition for his bravery at Honey Hill. He was nominated for the Medal of Honor, but the nomination was denied due to a lack of official reports about his actions. Likely due to suffering an injury early in the battle, the regimental commander had not mentioned his heroism in the battle report. On March 4, 1932,

In 2001, President Bill Clinton presented a posthumous Congressional Medal of Honor to his descendants in an official ceremony at the White House. #africanhistory365 #africanexcellence

[aqua2fana]

Homestuck race/ethnicity nationality headcanons

Since the beta/alpha kids are like pure white in the comics my brain immediately envisioned them as white and unfortunately it’s still the first place my mind goes but I do like to think most of them aren’t totally white

The trolls are based mostly on canon references, vibes, their lands in sburb, and their dancestors

John and Jane: white | polish/dutch | american (washington)

They’re white and nerdy sorry

Rose and Roxy: white/middle eastern | french/egyptian | american (new york)

I’m all for french lalondes but I also remembered Roxy’s planet had pyramids and decided they were Egyptian too

Dave and Dirk: white/east asian | spanish/japanese | american (texas)

The striders live in Texas so they’re most likely Spanish descent but they also reference Japanese culture so often that I just had to include it

Jade and Jake: white/pacific islander | english/tongan | american (phoenix islands)

The Britishness is from Jake and the polynesian part is from jade, they’re tan af

Aradia: latina/east asian | mexican/japanese | japanese

I know that canonically she’s supposed to be Japanese so she is part japanese but the dark curly hair, desert climate, obsession with death (day of the dead) made me assume she was Latina the first time I read the comic 🤷‍♀️

Tavros: latino/southeast asian | mexican/filipino | mexican

Man’s obviously latino and I made him Filipino because the actor rufioh is based off is filipino

Sollux: white/east asian | french/korean | canadian (quebec)

French because I immediately decided he was Canadian so french is statistically likely but he also has some Asian vibes so I chose the one country that’s split in two, obviously

Karkat: white | romanian/jewish | american (maine)

Karkat is super pale in such a way that his eye bags are extremely noticeable. He’s Romanian as a reference to vlad the impaler and all the castle ruins in Romania which remind me of his land. He’s Jewish for vibe reasons. Maine for lobsters and and crabs 🦀

Nepeta: white | english/german | american (tennessee)

Because I picture her with blonde hair (like a lions mane). She lives near the Smokey mountains where there are a small population of mountain lions and she’s a crazy wilderness explorer. Think of how cute she’d be with a Tennessee accent

Kanaya: south asian/middle eastern | indian/iranian | american (pennsylvania)

Vibes, imagine her in a sari or any other traditional Indian clothes, she’d be stunning

Terezi: white | greek/irish | greek

The scales, democracy, hello? Also she’s absolutely a red head

Vriska: white | greek/turkish | cypriot

Vriska is definitely white and she’s a pirate so instead of Caribbean (which is mostly black) she’s Mediterranean.

Equius: black | sudanese | american (kentucky)

He’s definitely black and he has locs like you wouldn’t believe. Kentucky because of mammoth cave as a reference to his land and also because of the horse derby

Gamzee: black/white | beninese/portuguese | brazilian

Hes definitely black coded in some ways but the icp are white sooo he’s both. I made him Brazilian for carnival

Eridan: white | scottish/english | american (california)

It’s giving imperialism and Silicon Valley simultaneously

Feferi: white/black | italian/trinidadian | italian

The only reason she’s half white is because I picture her with this light red strawberry blonde hair and it’s also a reference to the Roman Empire. She’s Trinidadian because I headcanon meenah as having a voice like nicki minaj