The Cracker Barrel Switch

08 October 2026

2025

R. Linda:

I came home yesterday and was asked by both me Mam and wife, if I could take a picture of each of them to work and have the print department make a photo of them in old Victorian dress. 

"And, this be why?" I asked, suspicious they were up to no good.

"Well, sonny boy, we decided to have an old-fashioned photo made, frame it and stick it on the wall at the Cracked Barrel," Mam said.

"Cracker Barrel, you mean," Tonya interjected.

"Yeah, dat place."

I sat there in wonder at both of them. What possesses them to do what they do sometimes baffles the bloody hell out of me. I'd expect this from Weasil, not me own.

"May I ask why?" I really wanted to know.

"Well…we go dare fer loonch when I haf me eye appointment."

Silence.

"AND?" I prompted.

"And, the portraits on the wall are of ugly faded people. We thought we'd pretty one booth up." Tonya said like that explained it all. Then, to explain further, "We seem to get the same booth every time we go, and well, the Grimes brothers don't help our appetites."

"The Grimes brothers?"

"We don't know them, Gabe. The photo says that at the bottom, and the year 1860, so…" and her voice drifted off like that should be explanation enough.

"Let me get this straight: You two think that by hanging your likeness on the wall you will "pretty" the place up and no one will notice? AND," I held up me hand to keep them from talking at me, "what happens to the Grimes brothers? Do you remove them and bring them home? Or, do you covertly hang them under the table? Just WHAT?"

"Ooh, I dint tink of dat," Mam said, looking befuddled at Tonya.

"Me either. I do think Gabe is on to something; we could bring an extra hook and hang them on the wall under the table." And she started laughing, and so did Mam.

I was horrified.

"Okay, okay, okay! You are japing, of course. Ha-ha, very funny, ladies."

"No joke, Gabe," Tonya said, suddenly all serious. 

"Ye haf not seen da Grimes brothers," Mam said, just as serious, and she made a face like, scary stuff those Grimes bros.

There was silence all around. I was deep in thought, the other two looking at me expectantly, sure I was on board.

"I dunno." I sounded out the 'dunno' for emphasis. 

The exclamations of disbelief were just a little too overplayed.

"Coom on, Gabriel. I will make ya yer fav Irish stew, I will."

"Mam, a bribe, really?" 

"I'll make you those brownies you like." The wife chimed in.

Oh, this has the makings of a wonderful bit of mischief! The kind I want no part in. Because I knew my getting a photograph made was just the tip of the iceberg. They'd find a way to pull me in. I just knew it! Neither of them was pulling a prank; that was the beauty of it, so no harm, no foul. In their minds, they were simply improving the décor of a restaurant that has offended their delicate sensibilities! 

As for me, it is obvious I be the only one who sees anything remotely wrong with replacing two perfectly innocent dead men's portraits with those of me Mam and wife. 

After much badgering and many food promises, I reluctantly and I mean reluctantly agreed to have portraits made, thinking that once they see themselves as Victorian ladies, they'll have their laugh and forget the whole thing. 

I won't bore you with what they wanted to be dressed in. I am clueless about what a cameo brooch is, or shiny taffeta fabric with that "old look." All to make sure Victorian dignity shone through. 

"Make sure the pictures are yellowed and aged, Gabe," Tonya said. 

"Ooh, and put 1860 on the bottom." Mam chimed in. 

Yeah, I'd do both and more; I'd label it the Grimes Sisters. And I did. When they saw the portraits, they were thrilled. The print department did a fine job. It took a moment for one of them to notice the label. 

"Ooh, wot be dis? Grimes Sisters?" Mam looked at me, her eyes slits like when she gets angry.

However, Tonya's laughter stopped that. They both thought it funny. Well, ok then. 

"Me work be done," I announced, starting to walk off.

But Mam caught me by the arm and turned me around. 

"Get yer coat, we be goin' ta da Cracked Barrel." 

"Oh, no, I'm not." 

"Oh, yes, you are." Tonya chimed in. 

The whole ride over to the Cracker Barrel was nothing but a jumble of cajoling, distancing, more cajoling, more distancing, until I couldn't hear meself think. I pulled in, we got out, they had the portraits in one of those huge canvas bags women carry, and we went in. 

"I can't believe we are doing this," I muttered over and over. 

We get the "usual" table, and I'm sweating bullets while Mam and Tonya dig out the portraits. I look at the wall, and there are the two ugliest men I've ever seen. I stare at them, me mouth gaping open like a marionette. 

"Whoa!" I said under me breath.

"I tole ya." Mam said, nodding at me. 

The portraits sat in the ladies' laps because the waitress came over. She took our orders and walked away. I was pleasantly surprised; we were either early or late enough that the crowds had thinned out, and there were like three other people in the restaurant. 

Mam took the Grimes brothers' portraits down in a flash. I'd never seen her move so fast in me life. 

"Hold dese, Gabriel," she said to a horrified me. 

"Uh, no," I said, but she shoved them on me lap anyway. I nearly choked on me biscuits!

Quickly, Tonya hung one portrait, then looked around and hung the other.

"Okay, we can leave now," I said, trying to get up, but remembering I had the Grimes brothers on me lap. 

Mam took out a tape measure.

"Mam! You brought a bloody tape measure to a restaurant?"

"Shh, Gabe! People will look."

She actually was measuring to see if the new portraits were crooked! 

"What are you doing?" I whispered.

Just then, the waitress brought our order. We all acted like nothing was going on. Thankfully, she was too busy to catch Mam with the tape measure. But she noticed Mam looked disturbed (and I use that word loosely).

"Ma'am, is everything all right?"

"Grand, darlin'. Joosta wee tooch of indigestion. I be fine, I be."

When the woman left, Tonya asked me to slide the Grimes brothers under the table so she could put the portraits in the canvas bag. Turned out only one fit. It was an oval frame, not square like the replacements. It stuck out of the bag. I could have said a lot about not planning capers better, but I refrained.

"Stuff the other one under your shirt, Gabe, and I'll just stick my sweater over the top of the one in my bag."

"Hold on," I whispered intensely to the two of them, "you take these out of the restaurant you will be stealing."

"Nah, we replaced them," Mam said, waving her hand Vanna White-style at her and Tonya's portraits on the wall.

"We are not taking them out of here!" I was adamant.

"Then what do you suggest we do?" Tonya asked point blank.

"I dunno. Hang 'em someplace in here." I looked around and saw an alcove with pictures and a few spaces where the Grimes brothers' portraits might fit. I told them, and they looked. Yes, it could be done. 

"How are ya gonna hang 'em? You don't haf any screws." Mam said to me.

"ME?" I shouted, then lowered me voice, "Me hang them? I don't think so." I said, totally put out that they'd enlist me to do the deed.

"Was your idea." Tonya, unhelpful as ever, pointed out.

The meal? I don't remember it. I just remember me stomach churning, me nerves on edge, and squirming a lot. 

While I sat there shaking me head by meself, Mam and Tonya had gone off to the ladies' room to plot, I suppose, more portraits they wanted to replace; a gent came over and asked if he could sit down. I was taken aback; I had no clue who he was. I said yes on reflex.

"I was sitting behind you, and I heard every word." He said softly.

"Oh no." I hoped against all hope he wasn't the portrait police, or worse, the manager.

"And I agree with the ladies: those brothers are the ugliest men I've ever seen, and how anyone can eat a meal with those two hanging on the wall…" he looked at the new portraits. "Isn't that your mother, and I assume your wife?" 

"Aye. Unfortunately, both of them."

"Big improvement. Listen, you take one Grimes brother, and I'll take the other, and we can stand them on that shelf in the alcove. No need to worry about hanging them. This way, they can be rehung someplace else, and these two lovely ladies (he gestured to Mam and Tonya's portraits) can grace this booth." He smiled.

I looked around; an old couple sat at a table way off at the front. No one else was left but us and this guy who was going to help commit the rest of the crime. I thought, okay then, let's do this. And we did. We both got up; no wait staff around, the old couple silently eating and staring at their food, as I handed him the portrait I had and grabbed the other out of Tonya's canvas bag. Then, strolling to the back of the room as if we always did, we each put a portrait on a shelf, looked around again, still no one to see us, and went back.

At me table he shook me hand and said, "Your ladies did a service whether they know it or not. Mission accomplished." Before I could ask his name, he threw a cash tip on his table and strolled out. 

Relieved, I sat down and let out a breath. The waitress came then to give me the bill. She started clearing the table and then stopped. She looked puzzled, and I was holding me breath again. Oh no, I thought; she sees the switch. 

Just then the two culprits returned to the table and sat down. The waitress had cleared what she could, but she lingered a minute looking at the portraits, then at Tonya and Mam.

Oh boy, the jig is up. She knows, I thought.

"Hum." She said, then looking at Tonya, "YOU both look a lot like the women in the portraits. You know I don't remember either of those." She bent a little closer to read the 1860 Grimes Sisters label. "I could have sworn it was Grimes brothers, not sisters." 

"Why, yes, darlin'. Dat's me great-great-gran and auntie from 1860. We try to sit here just to pay our respects to our dearly departed ancestors, don't we?" 

We nodded and mumbled, "We sure did," "Indeed we do," etc.

"My, how much you both look like them." The waitress said.

"Good genes, darlin'. Very good genes." 

It was then I realised we'd never eat there again. 

Once we were outside and safely in the car, they asked me where the Grimes brothers were. I wouldn't tell them. 

Gabe

Copyright © 2026. All rights reserved  

The Frost Of Ballycree Beg - Or In Other Words, CHALLENGE MET!

06 October 2026

2024

R. Linda:

OK. This story be for me two fellow Irishmen who challenged me AGAIN. This time, I'm writing a story with a little romance. 

I listened to me Mam's storytelling last night, got the story below from her, and embellished it with a bit of romance. This is a PG blog, LOL, most of the time, so nothing heavy. BUT this proves if I wanted to, I could write a silly romance novel. And to the two Irishmen, now that I have written this, you owe me. The challenge was that if I couldn't write a romance, I'd have to buy a donkey. BUT since that's not the case, THEY have to buy donkeys, one for each of them. 

The October wind did not blow through the valley of Ballycree Beg; it bit. It carried the sharp, clean scent of the Atlantic and the heavy, damp smell of rotting ferns from the hillsides. By mid-month, a strange, mouldy frost had coated the grass in a brittle, sickly white. And that was when the trouble began.

Grainne (Grawn-yah) Buckley pulled her heavy wool shawl tight against her chin as she walked the narrow track near the parish crossroads. She was heading back from the creamery when a sudden, heavy silence made her stop.

Just past the low stone wall, in the ditch running alongside Murphy’s pasture, lay three young bullocks. They were stiff as wood, their legs thrust awkwardly into the air. Grainne gasped and climbed over the stones. No sign of a struggle, no blood, and no footprints of wild animals. The beasts looked as though life had simply been sucked out of them in the dead of night.

"God preserve us," a harsh voice muttered from behind her.

Grainne jumped, spinning around to find Tomás Murphy, Conall Murphy's hot-headed younger son, standing on the lane. He stared at the dead cattle, his face pale and hollowed by a fear he wouldn't name out loud.

"That’s nine of them this week," Tomás whispered, crossing himself. "It’s a blight, Grainne. It follows the frost. Or rather, it follows her.”

He looked toward the northern ridge. High up on the rocky slope, half-hidden by a cluster of gnarled, leafless ash trees, sat Siobhán’s lone stone cottage. A thin ribbon of blue turf-smoke rose from its chimney, bending sharply in the gale.

"Don't be talking foolishness, Tomás," Grainne said, her voice trembling despite her best efforts. "Siobhán has been healing the people of this valley since before we were born.”

"Aye, when it suits her," Tomás snarled, his eyes darkening. "But the land is turning sour, and she’s the only one who doesn't attend Sunday Mass. The men are gathering at the crossroads tonight. We can't just watch the herds rot. If she won't lift the curse, we'll make her.”

He turned and strode angrily down the lane toward the village, leaving Grainne alone in the biting wind.

Grainne felt a cold spike of dread in her chest. She knew logic wouldn't save the old woman once the village was driven mad by fright. She needed to get up the ridge to warn her. But as she stepped back onto the lane to hurry away, her boot hit something hard buried in the frozen mud near the perimeter of the shared livestock water spring.

She knelt down, brushing aside a layer of dead leaves.

Half-concealed in the earth was an empty, amber glass bottle. It wasn't a local medicine vial, nor was it a jar Siobhán would ever use. It bore a clean, chemist's label from a London company. Grainne lifted it to her nose. A sharp, acrid smell clung to the glass—entirely masking the scent of the October earth.

Worse, just a few feet from the bottle, a distinct, heavy bootprint pressed deep into the soft, muddy edge of the livestock spring. It wasn't the cheap, split-leather work boot worn by the local farmers. It was the print of a tall, expensive riding boot with a fine, horseshoe-shaped heel plate.

The kind worn only by the English land agent, Mr Corcoran. In the back of her mind, Grainne remembered walking behind Corcoran and noticing the boot-print pattern as he walked. 

Grainne’s breath hitched. She shoved the amber chemical bottle deep into her cloak's heavy pocket. The village was looking for a witch, but the real monster carried a walking cane and bought up their ruined farms for pennies.

Two days before the cattle died, the rain had turned the valley roads into a soup of tarry mud. Grainne slipped into the forge as the evening light died, the collar of her wet cloak tucked high against her chin.

The heat hit her first—a thick, roaring wall of warmth from the hearth, smelling beautifully of coal smoke and hot iron. Tomás' older brother Liam was alone at the anvil, his shirtsleeves rolled past his elbows, the heavy muscles of his forearms glinting with sweat in the amber glow of the fire.

He looked up at the sound of the door, and his face instantly brightened into a wide, easy grin.

"God bless you, Grainne," Liam said, setting his hammer down with a heavy clink. "Come on in out of that miserable weather before you catch your death. You look absolutely perished."

"I am, entirely," Grainne said, stepping closer to the hearth and extending her frozen hands toward the flames. "I’m just coming from Siobhán’s. She sent me down with a jar of clover honey for your father’s chest. He’s got a terrible cough, she says."

Liam’s smile softened, though a shadow of worry crossed his eyes. He took a clean linen cloth and wiped his soot-stained hands before stepping closer. 

"Aye, he has. Fair play to her for thinking of him. But me father won't touch it, Grainne. He’s in a terrible way. He’s listening to me brother Tomás and the men at the creamery. They’re saying the sickness in the grass is Siobhán's doing."

"It’s not, Liam," Grainne said softly, looking up into his dark eyes. "You know she hasn't a bad bone in her body."

"I know that, a stór," Liam said, his voice dropping to a gentle rumble. He stepped into her space, his broad frame completely shielding her from the drafty door. He reached out, his large, rough hands gently covering her cold fingers. They were warm—unbelievably warm compared to the October chill outside. "And I tell them so until I’m blue in the face. But the men are driven mad with the fright of losing the stock. Corcoran is hovering around the farm like a hooded crow, offering a pittance for the land."

Grainne looked down at their joined hands. Liam’s fingers were calloused and black with soot, but his touch was incredibly gentle. A quiet, sudden heat flared in her chest, entirely separate from the forge fire.

"Do you believe them, Liam?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper against the coals' crackle. "Do you think I'm foolish for defending her?"

Liam squeezed her hands, his grip firm and reassuring. He tilted his head until she had to look back up at him.

"I think you're the bravest girl in this whole parish, Grainne Buckley," he said, his eyes intensely earnest in the firelight. "You’ve a good heart, and you stand up for what's right when the rest of them are acting like right eejits. I’d trust you over the lot of them any day of the week. Don't you ever doubt that."

The intensity of his gaze made Grainne’s breath hitch. For a long moment, the howling October wind outside vanished. Only the heat of the forge and the undeniable weight of the unspoken feelings that had been growing between them all autumn remained.

"Thank you, Liam," she murmured, her face flushing warm.

"Don't mention it," he whispered, a small, tender smile returning to his lips. He reluctantly let go of her hands, though his eyes didn't leave hers. "But promise me you'll be careful walking the ridge path after dark. If anything ever happened to you... well, I’d never forgive meself. So I wouldn't."

The sound of the mob came before the light—the low, rumbling murmur of angry men, punctuated by the heavy thud of marching boots on the frozen earth. Then, the orange glow of pine torches began to bleed over the crest of the hill, casting long, monstrous shadows through the gnarled ash trees.

Inside the dark cottage, Grainne’s hands shook as she secured the heavy iron bar across the timber door. "They're here," she whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs.

"Let them knock, a stór," Siobhán said calmly, standing by the hearth. "Sure, a wooden door never stopped a fool."

Suddenly, a sharp, rhythmic rap echoed against the back windowpane. Grainne gasped and spun around, her hand flying to the heavy iron fire poker.

"Grainne! Open up, for the love of God," a breathless voice called out from the dark.

Relief flooded Grainne’s chest. She unlatched the heavy door, and Liam Murphy hurried into the cottage, bringing a rush of cold October air. His eyes usually held a quick, easy humour—but tonight, they were wide with fierce protectiveness.

He immediately stepped close to Grainne, his large hands catching her elbows to steady her. "I slipped away from the crossroads when I saw which way the wind was blowing," Liam panted, his gaze intensely locked on hers. "Tomás has them completely whipped into a frenzy, Grainne. They're out of their minds with the fright. Corcoran is right out front leading them, whispering poison in their ears. I won't let them lay a finger on you. Not a hope."

The solid warmth of Liam's presence grounded Grainne's spiralling panic. She reached up, her hand resting briefly over his. "We don't need to fight them, Liam. Not with fists. We have the proof.”

A heavy boot slammed against the front door, rattling the iron hinges.

"Siobhán of the Ridge!" Corcoran’s voice boomed from the darkness outside, rich with artificial authority. "Open the door! The parish demands justice for the blight you’ve brought upon our land!”

Siobhán didn't flinch. She looked at Grainne and Liam and nodded slowly. "Open it, children. Let the winter in. We may as well see what these boyos think they're doing.”

Liam took his place firmly at Grainne’s side, his arm brushing hers, offering a silent wall of support as he threw back the heavy iron bar. The door swung open to reveal the shouting mob, their faces twisted by torchlight. Corcoran stood at the front, flanked by an angry Tomás.

"Step aside, Liam!" Tomás yelled, brandishing a heavy wooden club. "The old woman is a witch! She’s after poisoning our father’s own stock!”

"She didn't touch the cattle, Tomás, and well, you know it," Grainne’s voice rang out, clear and steady, cutting through the wind. She stepped forward onto the stone threshold. Liam moved with her, his shoulder anchored against hers. "But the poisoner is standing among you. Don't be making a holy show of yourselves for a liar.”

The crowd murmured, shifting uncomfortably. Corcoran let out a cold, mocking laugh. "A desperate lie from a witch’s apprentice. Push past them, men!”

"Is this yours, Mr Corcoran, or did it drop from the sky?" Grainne held aloft the amber chemical bottle, the torchlight catching the chemist's label. "I found it at the shared livestock spring. It carries the mark of a London chemical merchant. And the mud around the spring bears the print of a gentleman’s riding boot with a horseshoe-shaped heel plate. I know that heel, Mr Corcoran. I've seen its print before, and I've heard it clicking across the boards."

Every head in the crowd turned downward. Corcoran instinctively tried to shift his feet into the shadows, but Liam stepped forward and thrust a torch down toward the land agent's pristine, expensive leather boots, still caked in the dark, distinctive livestock spring mud.

"Father almost sold you the land that's been in our family for generations this very afternoon, out of sheer desperation," Liam growled, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low rumble. "You fouled our waters to starve us out, and you used our fears to hide your dirty work. Have you no shame at all?”

Realisation washed over the farmers like ice water. Tomás looked from the bottle to Corcoran’s boots, his face flushing with sudden, volatile rage. "You absolute scoundrel," Tomás snarled, turning his club toward the agent. "You had us acting like eejits while you robbed us blind!”

The mob’s anger pivoted instantly. Corcoran’s sophisticated facade completely shattered; his face went pale, and he backed away into the darkness as the furious crowd surged toward him, chasing him down the ridge path and away from Ballycree Beg for good.

As the shouts faded into the valley, a profound, peaceful silence settled over the mountain.

Siobhán stepped onto the threshold and looked out over the moonlit valley. "The frost is clearing," she murmured softly. "The land remembers who loves it, buíochas le Dia.”

Grainne let out a long, shuddering breath she felt she’d been holding all October. She looked up to find Liam watching her, his dark eyes filled with a quiet, profound admiration. He reached down, his rough, warm fingers gently sliding into hers, squeezing tightly.

"You were brilliant, Grainne," he whispered, stepping closer to shield her from the biting wind. "Fair play to you. I was worried sick, so I was.”

Grainne smiled, leaning into his side as the hearth embers glowed warm behind them. The village had looked for magic, but it was truth and the quiet strength of the person beside her that had saved them.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026. All rights reserved  

The Midnight Market

02 October 2026

2023

R. Linda:

Me Mam loves October. Me kiddos love Halloween. We look forward to the month. The excitement of costumes, who's being what, and, for me, the kitchen smells of pumpkin and apple pies, warm glasses of cider, cider doughnuts, and the first hearth fire of the season. We have apple picking all set up, and we are psyched.

But one of the wonderful things about October be Mam's stories. We Irish love to tell stories, as you can tell from me blog. But the stories aren't just something we look forward to; they're also about the bond she has with her grandkids. As you may know, it takes a lot for a teenager to sit still and a twenty-year-old to be interested in old tales; only the wee one (not so wee anymore) would be fascinated. Not so; she gathers us all at the fireplace. We sit with our warm pie and cider, and she tells tales the Irish have told for centuries, that keep our attention rapt and our imaginations soaring with magic and a lesson. 

Here is one of them:

October arrived not with a roar, but with the crisp scent of crushed apple leaves and woodsmoke. In the small village of Glenmorrow, the harvest was already heavy in the barns, but the real magic began when the sun went down.

Maeve pulled her wool cardigan tighter as she walked the perimeter of her pumpkin patch. The moon was a round golden sphere casting long, dancing shadows across the fields. Tomorrow, the village's autumn festival would begin. But tonight belonged to the older traditions.

A sudden, low hum vibrated through the crisp air.

Maeve turned toward the centre of the patch. There, nestled between two of her largest orange gourds, a narrow cobblestone path had appeared out of nowhere. It glowed with a faint, violet luminescence, winding into the misty woods where no path should be.

She smiled. The Midnight Market had opened, where an ancient yearly exchange between the ordinary agricultural world and the magical one came together.

Taking a deep breath, Maeve grabbed her wicker basket, filled with jarred blackberry preserves from the August harvest, and stepped onto the glowing stones.

As she walked into the treeline, the quiet woods transformed. Strings of floating paper lanterns—shaped like grinning jack-o'-lanterns and glowing autumn leaves—bobbed between the branches. The air filled with the rich, intoxicating scent of spiced cider, roasted chestnuts, and something older—like the pages of an ancient book.

Figures wrapped in cloaks of woven moss and star-patterned velvet moved between stalls made of living birch trees. At one stall, a vendor with eyes like polished obsidian was trading silver thimbles for bottles of bottled moonlight. At another, an old woman spun yarn out of literal fog, dyeing it the exact shade of a sunset.

Maeve approached her usual spot next to a cider brewer named Brian, whose beard seemed to spark with tiny, harmless embers.

"Late this season, Maeve," Brian mumbled, handing her a steaming wooden mug. "The harvest moon waits for no one."

"Had to make sure the crows didn't steal the autumn magic early," Maeve laughed, taking a sip. The cider tasted like liquid warmth, cinnamon, and a memory of a perfect childhood afternoon.

She set her blackberry preserves on the wooden counter. Within minutes, a traveller in a coat of iridescent crow feathers stepped up, offering three heavy, shimmering silver coins in exchange for two jars of 'summer preserved in glass'. 

The coins didn't buy bread in Glenmorrow, but Maeve knew their worth. After the first hard frost, she would bury them at the corners of the pumpkin field and leave them there through winter. By spring the silver would be gone, spent into the earth, and the soil beneath the melting frost would wake dark, loose and hungry for seed.

For the crow-capped creature, Maeve's jars held berries from an actual August afternoon.

For hours, Maeve traded, laughed, and drank in the enchanting atmosphere. She exchanged stories with travellers from realms fuelled entirely by autumn winds, and watched children—some with small, velvet fox ears—chase falling leaves that turned into golden moths when caught.

"Ah, the October rule: Nothing is harvested without something being planted, and nothing magical is received without something of yourself being given in return." She said, turning to Brian. "Your bees are still humming unusually late, I hear," she said.

"Aye, so they be. And me brother Liam's wheat grew particularly well. We all made a good bargain last year here; the orchard survived a killing frost." He raised his cup of cider in toast.

But as the first pale blue lines of dawn began to bleed into the eastern sky, the lanterns started to flicker out. The vendors began packing their ethereal wares into trunks woven from roots.

"Until next year, Maeve," Brian said, tipping his hat as his stall slowly dissolved into a thick, morning mist.

Maeve blinked, and suddenly she was standing at the edge of her own pumpkin patch. The cobblestone path was gone. Morning frost was just beginning to lace the grass, and the sun was waking the valley. Her wicker basket was empty of jam, but heavy with silver coins and a small glass vial of starlight a passing weaver had given her.

"One coin for the soil, one for the seed, and one for the season."

She walked back to her farmhouse, woodsmoke still clinging to her hair. The harvest was safe, the magic was awake, and October had officially begun.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026. All rights reserved  

October In The Wilds

01 October 2026

2022

R. Linda:

October in New Hampshire doesn't nudge you gently; it hits you over the head with a blazing branch of orange-and-red maple and demands that you buy a flannel shirt.

The kiddos had pulled out photos of Halloweens at our old house when they were quite young, and suddenly we were back there.

As an Irishman who traded the rainy streets of Newry for a news desk in Boston—and eventually, a drafty 1790s farmhouse in the Merrimack Valley—I thought I understood autumn. Back home, Halloween was Samhain, a night of turnips, barmbrack, and telling kiddos the Puca would carry them off if they ate late-crop blackberries.

But New Hampshire? New Hampshire treats October like a competitive sport. It bursts with colour all round, and the wind — oh, the wind! Fierce and perfect for hanging homemade ghosties out to blow ominously. And the smell of cider doughnuts wafting through the crisp air? Just marvellous!

I remember when we lived in that antique cape some 10 years ago, by October 1st, me little house looked less like a home and more like a staging ground for a pagan harvest festival. This is entirely the fault of me housemates: me beautiful wife, our three kiddos (operating as a small, destructive nomadic tribe), and me own Mam and Da (visiting from the old sod for the month).

Mam in particular, possessing a terrifying amount of energy for a woman in her late sixties.

"Gabriel!" me Mam shouted from the back porch, her Irish accent cutting clean through the crisp morning air. "Get out 'ere an' help yer son. He's found a pumpkin the size of a small hatchback, an' he's trying to roll it inta the kitchen?"

I stepped outside, coffee mug in hand, inhaling the glorious scent of woodsmoke and damp pine needles. The yard was a battlefield of autumn magic. Me eldest was attempting to stack hay bales into a fortress. Me middle kiddo, Guido, was aggressively glueing plastic spiders to the dog. And me youngest was, indeed, wedged behind a massive, ninety-pound gourd. His face was pure red with determination.

"Leave it there," I called out. "If that comes inside, your mother will make me sleep in it."

"It's for the perimeter, Da!" he yelled back. "To keep the ghosts out!"

"The only ghost you need to worry about is your grandmother if you track that mud onto her clean floor," I muttered, taking a sip of coffee. Yes, me Mam was a cleaning fanatic, which gave me wife a month off from any housework and even the cooking!

Living out here in the granite wilds, you quickly realise that the veil between the real world and the magical world doesn't just thin in October—it completely tears open. An ancient, intoxicating energy lives in these woods. When the sun dips below the mountains, and the mist rolls off the stone walls, you can almost believe the old stories. You half expect to see a witch trading cider with a Bigfoot. 

Later that evening, once the chaos of dinner had settled and the kiddos were bribed into bed with promises of cider doughnuts, the house went quiet. I stepped out onto the porch with a glass of Jameson. The moon was a sharp silver hook.

Me Mam joined me, wrapping her wool shawl tight around her shoulders. We looked out at the dark silhouette of the woods, where the autumn wind was making the thinning branches dance. 

"'Tis a grand country, Gabriel," she said softly, watching the fog creep across the fields, swallowing the kiddos' half-built hay fortress.

"It be so," I agreed. "A bit mad. But grand."

"Do ye tink the Puca coomes out in New Hampshire?" she asked, a familiar, wicked glint in her eye.

I looked down at the massive pumpkin sitting on the edge of the field, glowing faintly in the moonlight. "If he does, Mam, he'll have to fight the kids for it."

Gabe

Copyright © 2026. All rights reserved  

All Talk And No Trousers

29 September 2026

2021

R. Linda:

Last night we were sitting around the kitchen table talking about ancestry. Tonya had come upon some piece of O'Sullivan history claiming we were originally farm folk. Well, that be true enough in me family. And the farming ended fairly recently—for good reason.

One of the first homes me parents lived in was a run-down farm in County Tyrone. They weren't there long because me father wasn't very good at it.

Farming, that is.

Here be the story me Mam told Tonya last night. I'm leaving some of her Irish in because I wouldn't dare rob you of the full experience.

"Me hoosband always had more pride than sense; he did. He wus all talk an' no trousers! In the autumn of '74, he set off fer da Pomeroy market in County Tyrone, determined ta restore the "noble O'Sullivan farming legacy" by buying a prize breeding sow. He came back wit a four-hundred-pound beastie named Dolores, and a plan to walk her three miles home on a flimsy piece o' twine to save a few pence. The man wus always tight as a ghost's scream.

Naturally, he made it as far as The Rusty Keg on Main Street before he claimed he was foundered and the thirst took him.

He tied Dolores to a bench outside an' popped in fer "just da one" pint of stout. Two hours later, Dolores got bored. She broke her rope, pushed through the pub's swingin' doors, an' caused absolute ruction. She bolted straight behind da counter, smashin' a dozen pints o' porter an' sending da bartender leaping into a whiskey barrel. 

Me Sully had to wrestle a muddy, screaming pig in a crowded taproom right in front o' the parish priest, who was tryin' to enjoy a quiet Sunday "medicinal" drink an' was thoroughly scunnered by the whole display. Dolores eventually wedged herself under the priest's table an' wouldn't budge until she was bribed with a bowl of tavern peanuts. Sully spent his entire livestock budget buyin' the pub a round to apologise, an' had to haul that smug pig home in the back of a neighbour's turf cart, looking completely foundered and black-affronted. 

When he finally rolled inta da yard, covered in mud, porter, an' absolute shame, I was waitin' on the porch wit me arms crossed, givin' him a doleful eye. He tried to look grand; he did, gesturin' to da cart and sayin', "Look 'ere, woman, I've brought home the future o' the O'Sullivan dynasty!"

I took one look at that pig, one look at his empty pockets, and locked da front door, I did. Sully spent the night sleepin' in da barn, learning da hard way that the pig had better manners, better leverage, and by da end of the evening, a much better spot inside the straw than he did.

Ta dis day, we don't speak o' the O'Sullivan grand farming legacy. We just say that in our family, the pigs have all the financial sense, and the men are just pure melted wellie, or to you, a total soft eejit, who be completely useless in a crisis."

And there you have it. The reason me family eventually left the farming legacy to the O'Leathlabhair family.

As Mam tells it, Dolores was the last successful farmer in the O'Sullivan line.

And she was a pig.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026. All rights reserved