Who put Bella in the Witch Elm?

Black magic was blamed in 1943 four teenagers found the skeleton remains of a woman within a tree. Fifty years the crime remains unsolved and the reasons behind it stir a dark and sinister reason within the locals' imagination.



It begins on a sunny April Sunday in 1943, when four teenage boys from nearby Stourbridge went birds'–nesting in Hagley Wood. Their quest took them to an old, hollow wych–hazel – also known as a wych–elm, on account of its size and age. For a minute or two they climbed and searched. Then one of them, Bob Farmer, gave a cry: from out of the tree, a white skull was grinning at him. "There was a small patch of rotting flesh on the forehead with lank hair attaching to it, and the two front teeth were crooked," he later stated.

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Unknown Father Unknown Soldier

June 18th, Friday. A day I always celebrate in a dismal sort of way. It falls five days before my birthday - it is the day my father died. This year, it also happened that the day before I finally met my sister, from his side, for the first time. We went to Rose Hills Cemetery and we tended our father's, grandfather's and grandmother's graves by cleaning them up and putting flowers. We sat there and talked, took photos and offered a libation of beer to them (well the bottle kept tipping over dad's grave so he got what was left). Because of this new found and incredibly powerful relationship I have found, I want to share the little of what I have. I gave my sister copies of the pictures I had of my father along with copies of his birth and death certificate.
I look forward to obtaining copies of the investigation that was done years after his death for both us. Copies of my grandfather's WWII military record.

This time of year I keep my ancestors, and my father particularly, close in my thoughts and heart. I don't carry any memories of him even though I carry pictures and I always wondered of his character. Of that which others say. I wonder what influence he had in me, indirectly. I wonder of the influence my ancestors have within my family, and what of it still lingers on in the blood, in the daily interactions with each other and what sort of luck or fortune has been passed through the lineage. The Norse called this Hamingja.

I've never been one to directly experience the dead. My mom is, however. Now it seems, she sees them on constant basis in her new home. She even saw my father on the day he died while she was overseas, in her house - and she knew. No, I have never felt my father, or my grandfathers, or great-great grandfather nearby even though I honor and think of them. Makes me feel lonely during these times.

On Wednesday - a day before I would meet my sister - I was walking home listening to my podcasts, when I came upon a section of this one episode. It's an an old episode of This American Life, to which I have filled my iPod with. It is moving, heartbreaking and in such a peculiar moment of my life that it hurt - What was the last thing he saw?



Unknown Solider

[...]
So give my eyes to the eye bank,
give my blood to the blood bank.
Make my hair into switches,
put my teeth into rattles,
sell my heart to the junkman.
Give my spleen to the mayor.
Hook my lungs to an engine.
Stretch my guts down the avenue.
Stick my head on a pike,
plug my spine to the third rail,
throw my liver and lights to the winner.
Grind my nails up with sage and camphor
and sell it under the counter.
Set my hands in the window as a reminder.
Take my name from me and make it a verb.
Think of me when you run out of money.
Remember me when you fall on the sidewalk.
Mention me when they ask you what happened.
I am everywhere under your feet.

-Luc Santé

Happy Father's day, Dad.

Skeleton Lake of Roopkund, India

"In 1942 a British forest guard in Roopkund, India made an alarming discovery. Some 5000 meters above sea level at the bottom of a small valley, was a lake absolutely full of skeletons. As the glacier melted in the summer it revealed ever more skeletal remains, both floating in the water and lying haphazardly around the edges. Something horrible had happened here.

The immediate assumption, it being war time, was that these were Japanese soldiers who had been sneaking through India and died of exposure, and the British government terrified of a Japanese land invasion sent a team of investigators. However upon examination the quickly realized these bones could not be Japanese soldiers, in fact they were much much older than that."

All the bodies had died in a similar way, from blows to the head. However, the short deep cracks in the skulls appeared to be the result not of weapons but of something rounded. The bodies also only had wounds on their heads, and shoulders as if the blows had all come from directly above...

Among Himalayan women there is an ancient and traditional folk song. The lyrics describe a goddess "so enraged at outsiders who defiled her mountain sanctuary that she rained death upon them by flinging hailstones “hard as iron.”

After much research and consideration the 2004 expedition came to the same conclusion. All 300 people died from a sudden and severe hailstorm. Trapped in the valley with nowhere to hide or seek shelter, the cricket ball sized hailstones "hard as iron” came by the thousands and killed the travelers in a sudden and bizarre death. The bodies would lay there for some 1200 years before the astonishing tale of what happened to them would be revealed to the world.
(link)

Cult of the Dead in Memorial Day

As memorial weekend rolled by, I wanted to find some way of honoring the veterans in a more traditional manner. To those few who know me, find out very quickly that I have an interest in war history, particular that of WWII. Most people seem perplexed at this, but the level of heroism in contrast with the amount of inhumanity is outstanding. The are also other wars - the Fall of Nineveh, the Thirty Years War, Civil War, WWI, Vietnam, the Punic Wars - that are just as compelling.

When he was small, when he would fall,
on sand or carpet he would lie
quite flat and still until he knew
what he would do: get up or cry

After the battle, flat and still
upon a hillside now he lies --
but there is nothing to decide
for can neither cry nor rise

Vladimir Nabokov
(1899-1977)
Now I am accustomed to lighting candles, offering fragrant incense and keeping mindful of the soldiers who have perished, whether they are Americans, Europeans or from late antiquity; whether Generals, foot soldiers, forgotten in the dirt or forever remembered by epic songs. The pouring of liquids, primarily alcohol, into the ground as a form of offering for the dead is nothing new to me. Growing up in Puerto Rico, I experienced this often at parties, and at a young aged I asked my mother what people were doing (as it happened every time someone opened a drink) and I was told it was for the dead. Where this tradition came from I am unsure, but it probably has something to do with the island's deep Catholic roots knotted by ones of Santeria.

From Burket (p. 194)

Thereafter the honouring of the deceased is incorporated into the general celebrations with which the city honours its dead every year: days of the dead, nekysia, or days of the forefathers, genesia. On such days the graves are adorned, offerings are made, special food is eaten, and it is said that the dead come up and go about in the city. The offerings for the dead are pourings, choai: barley broth, milk, honey, frequently wine, and especially oil, as well as the blood of sacrificed animals, there are simple libations of water, which is why there is talk of the bath of the dead.

The pouring of these libations is thought to go down through the soil and reach the dead, feeding them. I find that adding poetry, or songs to remember the fallen is important to keep alive their sacrifices - whether we agree with them or not politically. Essentially, it is just as important to keep in mind those that are still alive; I have family and friends in the service, and we must remember those who have survived. I am an avid admirer of the hardships and heroism found in WWII, as well as modern wars - my grandfather serving in the Army Air Corps during the Second World War.

"The cult of the dead remains the foundation and expression of family identity: the honour accorded to forebears is expected from descendants: from the remembrance of the dead grows the will to continue." (194)

Praise the fallen; remember them.