I’ve been thinking a lot about the sign out at old Judge Overton’s place, talking about his wife being a well-known herbalist. In her day, that had to have a magical component. Just did.
I was telling the Butcher and his friend about all the couples I saw at Traveller’s Rest looking to get married there and I was like “They downplay that it used to be called ‘Golgotha’ I guess because no one wants to think they’re getting married on a mound of old skulls.”
So, the Butcher is relaying this to his friend who is not amused.
Because he got married out at Traveller’s Rest and didn’t know.
Well, says I, at least if weird shit starts happening in your house, you can just skip the “Why is it happening?” part, because it’s because you got married on a desecrated Indian burial ground.
He didn’t seem comforted.
He was busy yelling at a black cat under my rose bush. I, myself, would not miss breakfast to yell at a neighbor, but I guess that is what separates those of us who got breakfast from those of us who did not.