Folklore of the Night

            Reuben and Oliver could hear the sound of everyone coming towards the house.  They had left the party early, having promised to build up the fire in the parlor stove so the rest could come to a relatively warm home.  The huge poplar trees had deposited copious amounts of leaves between the road and the house.  Even if someone had arrived without the excited chatter of the holiday, the crunching of dry leaves would be an excellent alarm system.  The sound was quickly replaced by the hollow sound of footsteps on the wooden porch.            Everything was perfect.  They had carefully adjusted the oil lamp to the precise level to keep hidden the pipe jetting from the wall, even when Grandma’s picture was extended out to full length.  Now all they had to do was let everyone warm up by the stove, and relax for a reasonable amount of time.           The morning before, Oliver and Reuben conducted their routine competition of throwing jackknives from increasing distances into the

  They spontaneously assembled on the distant side of the room eyed the picture in horror, where it gradually stopped.   For a moment, no one could break their fixed stare.   Ancel laughed nervously.   Eleanor slapped him across the head.           “It’s your fault,” she said in anger.   “You had to play your devilish game.   Now see what you’ve done.   You know how Grandma Inger felt about gambling!”           “Well,” exclaimed Oliver cheerfully, “Do you think we could get her to move the picture again?”           “Are you insane?” mouthed Eva in near silence.           “What?   Didn’t you think it was exciting?” he returned.”           She merely glared in response.           “I think we should get Ma,” said Eleanor.           “Why?   She’ll only get mad, and she’ll probably burn the cards,” moaned Ancel.           “That’s the first sensible thing I’ve heard,” exclaimed Eleanor.  She grabbed the deck of cards before Ancel could respond, marched across the room, and th

       The cold came earlier than usual that October, or at least that’s the way it felt.  The first snow, though short-lived, came on the sixth of the month, and it never warmed up afterwards nor dried out.  The results were that getting in the spud harvest was particularly miserable.  The one thing that lightened the misery of long days mucking in the fields was the extended stay of the many cousins from Utah who had come to help the Idaho cousins with the fall work.  It was a houseful.      After long days of following behind the digger, filling wire baskets with the potatoes, emptying them into gunny sacks, and loading them on the wagon, everyone looked forward to one of Ma’s magnificent harvest suppers.  Everyone’s spirits lifted as they walked back to the house.  The laughter began, and so did the teasing. The creek that separated the outhouse from the back porch of the house was lined with thick willows that nearly concealed the footbridge.  Before coming into the house, the g