On mistletoe.

I sure do love Thanksgiving! I love the food, the family, the ushering in of the holiday season! For the past two decades or so worth of Thanksgivings, we have driven down to visit my beloved Aunt who lives in the DC Metro area in Virginia. One of my favorite things about this trek down I-95 is spotting mistletoe in the trees that line the highway.  

In addition to the mistletoe, and depending on the weather trends, the drive can be colorful, or it can be grey and bare, but it’s always delightful. I love to see the most tenacious of trees clinging on to the last of their colored vestments. I also enjoy the more seasonable or dry years, which yields boughs that brim full with copious, bold foliage! This year, mere skeleton of trees graced the landscape, but I actually don’t mind those Novembers when the leaves have all but given up. I find the trees’ inner frameworks - their bare, reaching bones - as beautiful and intriguing as those trees adorned in their finest fall finery.

Plus, when all the leaves have fallen, it’s easier to spot mistletoe!

It was my mother who only recently pointed out that the large, leafy spheres up in the highest boughs of the denuded trees were mistletoe. Prior, I was either unobservant of the masses and/or just assumed they were nests of some sort.

Since I’ve discovered it, mistletoe has held quite the charm over me. I’ve even delved into exhaustive mistletoe research over this new obsession. For instance, did you know that mistletoe is a parasite and eventually kills its host tree (although it takes a rather long time!)? Also, some research claims that back in the day, it was unsociable to kiss in public unless under mistletoe, which explains mistletoe’s popularity in the past! And did you know that the traditional way to harvest mistletoe and loose the orbs from their perches is to shoot it down from the tree with a shotgun? People still do that to this day! I, of course, immediately put “Shoot down a gob of mistletoe with a shotgun” on my ‘”Bucket List.” Nothing says winter kisses and budding romance like a shotgun, ya know?

However, even with all my research and new-found knowledge, my experience with live mistletoe is, tragically, very limited. The only real mistletoe I have ever been intimate with is the fake ball of it that my mother would hang from the 70’s amber lamp in the front hallway every year for Christmas. This obviously fake adornment was so lush and green, and brimming with berries that I always thought it was ivy. But as I got older, and relative’s gross and intrusive kissing comments started, I learned of the history and custom of mistletoe.

With my recent increased infatuation of the stuff, I decided to get my own ball of mistletoe to hang in my home, even though I do not have a 70s-style amber lamp from which to hang it.  I even planned to one-up my mother’s old, now raggedy, and obviously fake ball of plastic foliage; I was going to get real mistletoe, because that’s how my 18^th century household rolls.

Acquiring real mistletoe, I soon discovered however, is a near impossible task. Apparently there are mistletoe farms which produce the stuff for retail outlets- the biggest and most prolific being in Texas – but they rarely offer real mistletoe in its ball form. I’m not sure why – it’s too large? Too ugly? Too difficult to harvest? Too rare?

Fine, I’ll get a spring instead, I thought. One small sprig of real mistletoe still beats a manufactured plastic ball. But, no! Sprigs are hard to find too! And if one is able to find a spring, one may discover that real mistletoe is ugly! It’s not a lush green at all – it’s a gross, dried-out sage green and the leaves are tiny and non-descript. When one can actually find a fresh sprig, one will discover they are usually sold in a festive red box with a clear cellophane window. This window serves to disappointingly reveal a sickly, dried, smashed looking piece of sad foliage, all brittle and ugly. Who wants something so sickly and decidedly not festive adorning their home? No wonder mistletoe is falling out of favor.

So, my dreams of finding real mistletoe evaporated, and instead I bought the most symmetrical, luscious, festive ball of fake mistletoe with a foam core to ever exist! Now if I could only find an amber lamp.

So, that was my experiences with trying to acquire some mistletoe of my very own. But what about those balls that festoon our pilgrimage down to VA? Well, over the past few years we noticed a dearth of large ugly orbs up in the towering, skeletal trees along our route. As the passenger on these voyages to the countryside, I’m usually on Mistletoe lookout and shout at every gob I see. In the past, even Michael would cry out “Mistletoe!” as he was driving because they were so prolific and noticeable that the driver could spot them - which may or may not have been a rather dangerous game to play.

However, these last few years, my time spent Mistletoe hunting as a captive passenger didn’t pass the time well. Each year, I’d spot fewer and fewer gobs. There was actually no mistletoe to be found this year, although I was consistently tricked by the large squirrel nests nestled in the crooks of trees. Or sometimes even bird nests of unusual size. I’d cry out “Mistletoe!”, but upon closer inspection and noting that the orb was nestled in the crook of a branch and not on the outward tips where mistletoe grows, I would correct myself with a disappointing “Squirrel Nest.”

I have suspected that over the years mistletoe has been in decline, but this year I was able conclude that, yes, mistletoe is disappearing from the outstretched branches of our oak, birch and maple trees. Maybe it’s because of the super cold winters we have been experiencing? But I must know: where did all the mistletoe go?

I did some internet research, but there was a surprisingly anemic outcry of people noticing the same tragedy. Why aren’t people noticing? Why aren’t they upset? Maybe it’s because Mistletoe is a parasite and kills people’s trees? Or, because we can socially perform PDAs without the guise of mistletoe? Maybe the tradition and demand is dying because people’s mothers don’t hang fake balls of it from garish 70’s amber lights in the hallway anymore?

Upon even further research, I was able to find two measly articles that shed a small bit of light on this phenomenon, but neither offered either proof that there is a decline or a scientific explanation for a decline: Where Has all the Mistletoe Gone? and Mistletoe Gets the Kiss Off? Oddly enough, neither article specifically addresses Virginia’s dearth; one talks about a decline in Texas, and the other a decline in New York. The one article blames a drought in Texas, where the biggest mistletoe farm is, for the lack of the real stuff in today’s florist and gift shops. But no mention of Virginia’s mistletoe.

So, what about Virginia’s plight? After even more research, I did find a blog post regarding the decline of desert mistletoe that may help solve the mystery. (Apparently this verdant parasite grows in the hot dry climates of the Sonoran or Mojave deserts as well.) In this post was buried the following nugget of info:

“When cold weather conditions damage the year’s crop of mistletoe berries, [Desert Mistletoe] populations have been observed to go through precipitous declines.”

Ah-ha! As I suspected, it could be the severe near record-breaking cold that the northeast corridor experienced these past two winters! Apparently mistletoe spreads when birds eat its berries and disperse them elsewhere. I’m not sure if unseasonable cold kills existing mistletoe or not, but if the berries are unable to survive, and the birds can’t disperse them, there is no proliferations, which could eventually result in a decline.

So, although I am sad that our pilgrimage to Virginia is no longer garnished with mistletoe, I am glad the mistletoe mystery is solved.

Moon musings

The moon made me late today. I forgive her, though, because she’s one of those charming, alluring creatures you simply can’t stay mad at.

In an effort to counter my stressful “just-squeaking-in-on-time” tendencies every morning, I got out of the house two minutes earlier than usual today! But as my feet hit the pavement after descending and cautiously navigating the front steps in the pre-dawn darkness, my eyes drifted toward the east, as they habitually do. I stopped mid-step as a gasp escaped me. There drifted my little Luna, putting on quite the show.

The crescent waning moon hung mid-way in the early morning sky - a sky that had just lightened to a steel gray in the east. Cornflower blue chased at its heels, while the rest of the heavens remained a murky, swampy black. But, in that patch of gray blue, and juxtaposed by the surrounding black, the resplendent moon hung like a jewel on a diadem. And kissing that moon, on its right cheek, was the most beautiful, brilliant point of light. The morning star – a planet to be sure – rose just high enough to create a near-perfect convergence.

If this wasn’t stunning enough, this beautiful formation was outlined by a halo of glowing white. The wispiest of fog or cloud veiled the moon and its star companion and reflected back the spherical moon’s light in a perfect glowing circle. It was as if a spotlight shone on the moon and her paramour; I fancied the heavens wearing a supernatural, celestial lunar medallion.

I stood, dumbfounded, taking in this pre-dawn show for a good while, offsetting those two minutes I had earned in rushing my morning routine by skipping eyebrow pencil and concealer.

A thick layer of ice on my car and getting stuck behind a slow-moving trash truck ensured that I, indeed, clocked in late today.  

That time I glued myself to the toilet seat.

I glued myself to the toilet seat this morning.

I’ve heard the stories of frat-boy pranks involving SuperGlue and toilet seats, but never imagined I could accomplish such a feat on my own and in a purely accidental manner.

The story begins with these damned medical devices I have attached to my body. I’m diabetic and wear two separate small devices on my skin that pretend they’re pancreases. These contraptions attach to me much like a miniature IV would. Each one has a small sticky patch, from which protrudes a teeny, tiny needle that is inserted under my skin. One of them goes on my stomach, and hot damn is it unnerving having to shove what feels like searing hot metal into my stomach fat weekly. Damn thing’s like a prison shiv.  

Anyway, these two devices tenaciously cling on to me day-in and day-out. I do have to replace the devices weekly, a production which I dread. Sometimes, however, the sticky patch gives up before its time. These damn things start to lose their will and roll up like linoleum on a humid day. I hate it when they start sagging and hanging off me like some sort of deranged Christmas ornament.

And so, while getting dressed this morning I noticed that my stomach device had given up and was hanging halfway off. Dammmmmmmmit! I knew she wasn’t going to last the day and of course I’d have to take the time to replace her this morning when I was already late.

You see, I’m not a morning person. I always coast into my time-clocked workplace 30 seconds before the deadline. I don’t have time to screw around in the mornings; my routine is planned and executed down to the second. And this morning I was already late. I was sleepy. It was friggen 5:30 a.m. and my brain was still tucked warm in bed. And I was in no mood to prison shiv myself. 

I conceded, though, that this sad stomach-fat clinger needed attention ASAP. Huffing in annoyance, I reached into the bathroom medicine cabinet and grabbed the small, amber vial of medical adhesive called Mastisol. What is Mastisol? Think “KrazyGlue” that happens to be perfectly and medically acceptable to apply to one’s skin if one wishes to semi-permanently cement a small object onto oneself.

I kept one eye on the clock and one eye on my stomach fat as I frantically got to work and twisted off the Mastisol’s black cap. I placed the phial on the bathroom counter as I lifted up my shirt, grabbed for a Q-tip, and dipped it into the foul-smelling orangey liquid. I jabbed the Q-tip into my stomach – a rushed version of the gentle “dabbing” motion recommended by the Mastisol company – and forcefully smashed the limp, hanging device back firmly onto my stomach. With a choice epithet uttered to induce speed and efficacy, I waited the three required seconds and then confirmed that the device was now firmly back in place. “I just might make it on time after all!” I thought. Victorious, I madly reached for the bottle sitting on the counter so I could replace the cap.

And then it happened.

In my haste I knocked over the entire open vial of Mastisol. Two years’ worth of viscous, clinging, sticky super-adhesive spilled out, over the counter, down the side of the cabinet, and splashed onto the thankfully closed toilet lid. It continued to drizzle down the side of the toilet and onto my magazine rack on the floor below, defiling the cover of my newest Martha Stewart Living.

Fuuuuuuuuudge! You have got to be kidding me! I surveyed the mess with disbelief and rage. I checked the clock – I was now a full minute late, but conceded that I had to clean the mess up now or else the bathroom would be permanently schellacked in this stuff.

In a flash, I unrolled a huge wad of toilet paper and began to dab at the puddles.

Yes, yes, I know, you’re probably shouting “No! No, don’t do it!”, but I already told you my brain was still asleep in bed. It was too late. I did do it and the inevitable happened. The bargain-brand toilet paper sopped up about approximately three percent of the liquid and then did what bargain-brand TP does: it disintegrated into a chunky, syrupy, gluey clusterfudge.

I looked down to see my hands entirely covered in gobs of sticky disintegrated toilet paper and glue. I tried to pick off the larger gobs, but only proceeded to nearly glue my hands together.

Sweet beezus! I ripped my hands apart as my eyes frantically flew to the clock. I was now two minutes late, so I made the executive decision to abandon the mess and pick off the toilet paper once I got to work. I’d just get on with my day and face the mess when I returned home from work, hopefully not fired due to the fact that I arrived late and covered in toilet paper. I did, however, run the risk of having our bathroom permanently adorned with hardened chunks of toilet paper. Ah well.

All I had to do now was my required last-minute going-to-the-bathroom, and I’d be out the door! I went to unfasten my trousers, realizing too late that I had now glued my hands to the waistband of my pants. Apparently the longer this stuff is exposed to air, the quicker reacting it becomes. I pried my hands off my pants, discovering what it might feel like to rip off 3,000 Band-Aids at once.   

Sighing at the gobs of toilet paper I had just transferred to my pants, I sat down.

Again, I must reiterate, I was essentially sleep walking. I wasn’t thinking, and I didn't look down at the seat, and yes, I had just glued myself to the toilet seat. It seems that cagey Mastisol had slithered its way across the closed toilet lid, down the crack between the seat and the lid, and had spread onto a large portion of the seat. The very seat I was now sitting on.

I froze, panicked. I could feel my skin fusing to the seat, tighter and tighter with each passing second. I tried to tentatively stand up in an effort to counter the fusion, but it was already too late, I was stuck. Stuck to my own toilet seat in the darkness of an October morning.

Sweet Louise almighty, how was I going to get out of this one? I considered spending the whole day on the John; might be better than showing up to work late with a mangled ass that was missing a choice chunk. I considered waiting until my husband came home to discover me, numb-legged and grim-faced, just like Danny Glover in Lethal Weapon 2. Mike would save the day, just like Mel Gibson, and pry me off! This thought made me chuckle; and so, I sat glued onto my toilet seat at 5:33 in the morning for a while, laughing like an imbecile.

Ah, forget it, I finally conceded. I’m not going to let a little thing like my ass epidermis stop me. So, in a Herculean effort of both physical and psychological will, I heaved myself upward in one giant leap. A ripping sound cut through the morning air, rivaled only by my piercing howl of pain.

Blood was shed, a layer or two of skin was left behind on the seat, but, my dear reader, my ass tasted sweet freedom!!!!

Contracts

Wait!? Ripping up a contract does NOT nullify an agreement?

Firstly, I’d like to chastise countless movies for giving me the wrong impression. Secondly, I might be in deep, deep shit. 

In which our teacher dresses like a clown...and loses her shit.

Devil’s night! Mischief night! The excitement is palpable and I’m coming out of my skin!

Photo from my beloved bottle of Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab's Devil's Night.

                                                      

I have one last day of work here at school before Halloween, my most favorite day of the year! Added to this ado is the fact that teachers and students alike are parading around in costumes! While I was walking through the courtyard on my way to lunch, relishing the chill October air, my strange heart swelled to see the least lame of the student body and faculty donning witches’ hats and vampiric capes. It was all so magical!

I was lost in the excitement of it all when I caught a little something nagging at my brain: Costumes!? Teachers!? R’uh R’oh!

Yes, with such excitement and well-mannered frivolity* comes a grave, grave potential for disaster. Let me start by saying that teachers in costumes are normally the best! It’s so jarring, yet delightful to see your duteous pedagogue set so firmly outside his or her normal role and setting. However, teachers in costumes could also go very, very wrong. Back in the seventh grade, I suffered through a costumed teacher experience so ignominious, so abhorrent, that my blood runs cold to this day expecting its return.  

The main player in this seventh-grade living nightmare was my math teacher, Mrs. Stoddart. Ole Stoddart was a tiny old math teacher, but she surely packed an acerbic punch. Mrs. Stoddart was the type of teacher you simply didn’t mess with, despite her little old lady stature. She could silence a classroom with a mere look – a piercing gaze magnified by thick, outdated glasses and severe, angry eyebrows.

Mrs. Stoddart ruled over her 8^th grade pre-algebra class with an iron, yet arthritic, fist. She governed from atop the towering stool that eternally stood next to her beloved overhead projector on its raised cart.

I can’t remember Mrs. Stoddart not sitting on that stool, effecting the fancy that the overhead projector had grown out the side of her torso. But this anomaly pales in comparison to my most remarkable memory of Mrs.  Stoddart - the most vivid memory of my entire middle school experience, which has been inexorably burned into my consciousness.

It happened on Halloween.

The day dawned with Excitement! Thrill! Costumes! Nowadays, my district bans masks, weapons, and anything remotely creative, scary, tactless, thought provoking, or that may have shared a room with a peanut in its entire existence.* But back in the good ole 90s, such overcautious safeguards were not yet imagined. And so, my middle-school hallway boasted a real knife-wielding Michael Meyers, a Grim Reaper with a scythe that glinted with edge, and countless extremely vulgar President Bush masks.

As I maneuvered from English class to Math class, my 13-year-old self rejoiced in all of the creativity and celebration cramming the hallways. As I walked into Mrs. Stoddart’s room, I wasn’t particularly thinking about her, or math, or whether she might be wearing a costume. I walked in, lost in the delight of the day, and skidded to a stop when I saw a clown crouched on that infernal stool alongside the overhead projector.  

For a reason that mystifies me to this day, Mrs. Stoddart had chosen to dress as a repulsive clown for her middle-school math class in celebration of Halloween. And I don't do so well with clowns.

Ole’ Stoddart hadn’t opted for some half-assed wig and cheap, foam red nose either. No, no - Mrs. Stoddart had procured full-on Barnum-and-Bailey quality clown regalia here: a thick, hefty frizzy rainbowed wig; an indecent plastic, devil-red nose; and offensively large shoes, the color of mustard. Garish discolored pom-poms stood in a column down her torso atop the blue, white and yellow striped jumpsuit that clothed her body. My brain won't even let me recall the details of that ruffled collar, which rivaled that of 17th century royalty.

And the makeup. A full face of impenetrable greasepaint. White cream as thick as the cholesterol in my arteries clouded any semblance of Mrs. Stoddart I could detect. Her mouth was outlined, in an exaggerated and twisted manner, in the forgery of a smile, blood red filling the interior. And her eyebrows! She actually thought it necessary to exaggerate her already severe eyebrows further with pitch-black grease pencil formed into hulking pointed tee-pee shapes.

It was terrifying, and became more so when a smile emerged from under the mask of makeup. Mrs. Stoddart didn’t smile. This was surely evil incarnate.

To this day, I still don’t know if her intent was to delight or terrify us; I chose to be terrified. Being a good student, however, I just smiled, mumbled “Happy Halloween” and shakily scurried to my seat, skirting the circumference I thought her arms could reach lest she decide to reach out, grab me, and drag me back to the putrid Pagliacci-filled pit from whence she must have emerged.

I soon discovered that being taught algebra by a clown is very unnerving. 

Understandably, we reacted badly to the whole scenario. Instead of using the period for muted Halloween festivities as most teachers did that day, Mrs. Stoddart actually chose to teach algebra like it wasn’t even a holiday. Like she wasn’t even dressed like a clown. Everything was weird and off-kilter. And thus, the class became uncharacteristically ill-behaved. Our uncomfortable chattering and horseplay was like the rising tide. Mrs. Stoddart’s constant yelling* at us to “pipe down” failed. While her admonitions temporarily stalled the flow, our rebellious, uncomfortable reaction eventually became unstoppable, what with it being the only way we had to fight back this living horror.

And then...

I don’t remember exactly what the straw was that broke the camel’s back, but I do remember that Brian Mangus finally did something to elicit the full force of that ever-simmering teacher ire.

And, so, Mrs. Stoddart reamed us the hell out. Dressed like a clown.

She slammed her wet-erase marker down onto the projector’s glass surface, startling us out of our mesmerism. Then Mrs. Stoddart did the unthinkable. She detached from the overhead projector, climbed down off the stool that I was sure, until that moment, was fused to her ass, and walked over to more closely address the main offender.

I stifled a gasp at this surprising turn of events and watched as her giant yellow shoes impeded any sense of dignity she might have left. My compassion poured out to our poor, now mute class comedian. We all looked away, sympathetic, yet privately thanking the heavens it wasn’t us who found themselves now so very intimate with a clown.

Breathing a sigh of relief when her flow of vitriol ebbed, I thought the show was over and we could all get on with the rest of our lives. But, there was no stopping Mrs. Stoddart. She was on a roll. Ole' Stoddart toddled back to her overhead pulpit, clambered onto her throne, and revived her fervor to ensure we knew we were all to blame for this tantrum.

Her red nose bobbed as that enlarged, gruesomely painted pie-hole distinctly formed each word detailing how terrible we were behaving. How we were the worst class she ever taught. How we were bad at math! We sat silent, shell-shocked, mouths agape. Now that her fury wasn’t directed solely at Brian Mangus, now that the clown’s ire fanned out like confetti from a cannon to all of us, I felt shamed. I was mortified that I had helped to make this clown so angry. What kind of person makes a clown angry?   

The whole time as I listened to words like “failure,” “disappointment” and “recreants,” I wondered Why did this have to happen today? Mrs. Stoddart, while stern, never really blew up before. It would have been easier to swallow on any other day. But why today? Why such intensity? Why in that outfit?

She wasn’t even coming up for air when the bell rang. We dismissed ourselves, too wary to wait for a formal dismissal from this angry, accursed clown. I’ve never seen 30 teenagers move so quickly, faces ashes, mouths silent.

It was all so terrible. And so delightful. An angry clown yelling at you, in a profoundly sincere manner, is probably the worst indignity in life anyone could ever suffer.

That day really was the worst of my life. And although countless teachers have inspired me to get into the profession - including the non-clowned Mrs. Stoddart herself – I have surely developed a complex about being too festive in the “costume” department on Halloween at school. I live with the fear that history may repeat and I may find myself losing my shit and berating a class while dressed as Beetleguise, a sexy banana, or Madonna.

And there’s just no recovering from that; that’s just the type of shit that could give somebody a serious complex. 

Post Script (after the jump):

Costume-phobic

Costumes are the thing I love most about Halloween*. Inexplicably, most people have some sort of pathological hang-up about dressing in costumes on non-Halloween days of the year. 

I certainly don’t have any hang-ups about it, what with being a re-enactor, a frequenter of fairy conventions and renaissance fairs, and a generally eccentric dresser who prefers black and unnatural hair colors. Although usually self-conscious, I even sometimes get a kick out walking into the convenience store in full Revolutionary War soldier garb before or after an event and perusing the chips aisle and snagging a Diet Snapple. 

But man, other people. What is with them? What is with the neurosis and disdain for costumes? Take the rube I witnessed waddling through Halloween Adventure this year. Around her, the children's eyes were alight with possibilities! They skittered this way and that, delighted in the fact that, for one day of the year at least, they could be who they knew there were always meant to be: A ninja-witch. A vampiric Anne of Green Gables. An alien construction worker! 

And then there was the lady. The woman who, clearly, had no vitality left in her; her life essence depleted. This woman, lording over the group of tittering teenagers she was with, proclaimed loudly, in a voice sounding not unlike Droopy Dog, “Seems like a lot of work for one day.” Um, go back to perfecting that indent in your couch, lady. Let the creatives shine, will you? 

* I fib. I love everything about Halloween from the decorations, to the weather, to the candy, to the fact that it's the one day of the year on which you can roam your neighborhood at night and people think it's acceptable and that you're not strange or a creeper. 

Post Script:

I had another amusing encounter during this same trip to Halloween Adventure. I had snagged a half-priced foam wall hanging that looked like a stone cemetery-gate plaque from Dante's Inferno. A gargoyle extends its batwings, creating a gorgeous arch under which the words "Abandon all hope ye who enter here" are inscribed. 

The robotic cashier serving me was shaken out of his routine long enough to look at the item he was scanning and exclaim "Hey! This is pretty cool!" I have a habit of being too open with people, so I instinctively told him the plan I had formulated for it. "I plan to hang it over the bathroom door all year long." 

He looked at me blankly, reverted back to his robotic movements, and began to bag the item. About twenty seconds later, a smile exploded onto his face, he chuckled audibly, and said "Hey! That's funny!" 

A Love Letter to Rebel Hill

I live on Rebel Hill, which rises above Gulph Mills, Pennsylvania, a quiet village just off the Main Line. The hill is one of twin hills - foothills really, topping out at about 230 feet – with a deep cleft in between known as “The Gulph.” A determined creek took hundreds of thousands of years to cut that defile into the rock; a rebellious creek, indeed.

The place is bewitching – an air of history pervades the natural landscape, all nestled in the armpit of the intersection of three major area highways. Rebels of all sorts have been lured by its charms for centuries. In fact, during the American Revolution, most of the hill’s residents were patriots, or “rebels”, ready to cut ties with King George. Thus the colloquial moniker “Rebel Hill” eventually replaced “Mount Joy Manor” on the map and found its way onto real estate deeds.

The hill truly is unique. In the 18^th century, a single U-shaped dirt path climbed up three-quarters of one end, cut across the hill, and made its way down the other side. A few sequestered homes and farms stood proudly along this path. Since then, other roads have branched off this main path, carving up the original few large tracts of land and providing countless plots for additional endless ramshackle, ununiformed houses. The abodes cling to the hillside, multiplying in size with sprawling additions that were added willy-nilly and employ varied façade material including stucco, wood, vinyl siding or stone. These, indeed, are the houses of rebels. And ever since those 18^th century rebels first inhabited the hill, decidedly crusty, hard-working, not-so-affluent folk have continued to populate this hill with ensuing generations.

The complexion of the hill suddenly changed in the 1980’s, however, when inflated and vainglorious developer Ed Doran thought it a grand idea to turn Rebel Hill into a posh residential appendage to the Main Line. Prior to Doran’s machinations, the hill’s elevation seemed to segregate the rebel residents from the Main Line’s swank elite spread at its feet. Doran’s pet housing project eventually succeeded, after several false starts and developer changes, and created an elite upper echelon atop the hill and above the original road. The townhouse development resulted in the two distinctly different classes of people who presently reside on the hill: the A-holes who bought Doran’s half-million dollar, uniform, squished together townhomes, which offer only a 10x10 balcony of outdoor living space and are perched upon the hill’s previously natural summit like some damned,  pre-fabricated Mount Olympus; and those of us old, crusty, not-so-prosperous rebels with houses and spirits that have been clinging to this hillside on rambling plots filled with brambles and oak trees since the birth of our country.

In 2012, the bluff’s rebellious spirit lured Michael and I to become residents of the hill.  We bought a rebel’s house whose frame is an old log cabin. The county registrar misplaced the home’s deed prior to the last one I could track down dated 1865, so we don’t know how old the house really is. However, as a testament to its age, one can observe the huge, gnarled logs that were its original walls when taking a peek under the thick attic insulation. At some point after the cabin’s initial construction, an addition was built and stucco was applied to the logs, resulting in warped-looking exterior walls that make our humble abode look like the Crooked Old Man’s crooked old house.

Our house has but four rooms - the only four rooms we would ever use in a home even three time its size: living room, kitchen, bedroom, office/guestroom. Visitors and friends may scoff at our lack of dining room, but the dozens of partygoers who frequent our home during our annual Christmas party never seem to complain as they pile into the oversized kitchen, which could accommodate up to 30. Instead of a fancy-schmancy formal dining room or “media room”, these four room are complemented by the history, stories and neighborhood legends that envelop our home. For example, an older neighbor once told us that during her childhood, the neighborhood children considered our home “the haunted one.” After all, it stands by itself on one side of the road and is perched higher than all the rest of the homes on the other side of street, which adds to its singular appearance. Another neighbor told us the house boasted a huge walk-in hearth and dirt floor prior to its 2008 renovation. We’ve heard tell of a loyalist hanging that took place at the bottom of the hill, as well of a quelling of a mutiny in which 22-year-old then-general Aaron Burr chopped off a mutineer’s hand with one determined swoop of his sabre. Another neighbor claimed that Aaron Burr lodged in our home when the Continental Army encamped upon on the hill in December 1777. I can believe in hangings and hauntings and hearths, but this last one was hard to swallow; I doubted a general would submit to lodging in a log cabin when there was a more formal homestead, the Rees home, on the hill.

Forget Aaron Burr and his posh lodgings, however, - our home is built into the very hill itself, not unlike a hobbit house! A door in the upstairs bedroom actually leads out to the backyard on level ground – a situation that confuses many guests when on the grand tour. I’ve heard “Escher” or “witchcraft” muttered more than once after opening the door and ushering guests out into the backyard after just having them climb the interior steps of the house.

Aside from all of these charms of the house and the neighborhood, however, my favorite facet about the whole enchanting situation might just be the nearby graveyard – the huge Calvary graveyard nestled in the bosom of our hill and the hill across the way.

This graveyard is so giant it’s a regional landmark.

“Where do you live?” good intentioned busy-bodies ask.

“Gulph Mills.” 

The usual response is something to the effect of “I don’t understand the words that are coming out your mouth.”

My comeback is nearly automatic at this point: “Do you know the giant graveyard on the hill with …”

“With the giant illuminated cross?” they exclaim excitedly. “I know exactly where Gulph Mills is.”

The graveyard is also very helpful when guiding fast-food delivery drivers to our home.

“Turn right at the giant graveyard? Your Crab Rangoon will be there in 20 minutes.”

Many visitors think it morbid or dreary that a sprawling graveyard is the crowning jewel of the beautiful landscape we revel in from our porch and through our bedroom windows. I, however, love it. The view of the sloping adjacent hill just past the neighbor’s massive apple tree, and the graveyard creeping up that slope is comforting. I get to witness an entire legion of folk at eternal rest amid rolling hills and stately pines. I tell myself that if they’re not the sedate type to enjoy a peaceful eternal life, well then they always have the chance to stir up a little ruckus come Halloween. Seems like a pleasant life –afterlife, really - to me. Perhaps if I eventually become a resident of that yard, I too can spend my afterlife looking back at the lovely log cottage perched midway up Rebel Hill and remember that it once  brimmed full with celebrations, friends, family, cats and a life contentedly lived.

Yes, Michael and I certainly are lucky to have found this haven. In fact, when considering whether to buy the house back in 2012, most friends and family advised us that “This house is weird. It only has four rooms. Your view is a graveyard! Why is that cross so illuminated? Your backyard is a hill!” But my dad summed Michael and I up best when he said “I wouldn’t buy it for myself, but I know it would be perfect for your two.”

He’s right, you know. This is the perfect house, and the perfect neighborhood, for these two rebels.