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Ghosts of The Past



I’m not sure why I am musing on this, this morning. Every now and again, in the quiet before everybody else is up and about: these stray thoughts hit. I haven’t written about Pluto this year, much: but, Pluto has been retrograde since April 22 and it will station direct on September 30. This stray thought is an entirely appropriate thing: Pluto happens to be in my natal 12th house. (From a transit perspective- yeah, Pluto’s kinda busy for me right now, too.)

A little about Pluto, first-

During these retrograde cycles- and it doesn’t matter which one you’re looking at, usually: the planetary energy- whatever this planet represents, gets a bit wonky. Usually. You’ll find that the mishaps and whathave you, tend to involve ass-backwards expressions of what those planets stand for, essentially. For example, this is why during Mercury retrograde- communication and tech goes to shit. Mercury’s the planet of communication, basically. Pluto doesn’t work like that. 

When Pluto “goes retrograde”, its energy just gets much stronger. In a nutshell, Pluto is about transformation. Pluto rules Scorpio and is all about that which lurks “beneath the surface”, the subconscious, and has two sides: on the one, there is a deeply negative and destructive: the desire for power, for control. On the other, as I said, transformation, rebirth.

Get your pomegranates ready-

Pluto in mythology is the Roman god of the underworld. If you were Greek, you’d know him as Hades, though the two have some differences. Most people know the name Hades, though. It’s sometimes used in a way that is synonymous with Hell- though it really isn’t. If you are all that curious, I think this will help, at least, maybe better understand my perspective. Sort of. In any case, you can read all about the Eleusinian Mysteries on project Gutenberg here.  

As to the subtitle, it is sadly, not yet pomegranate season. Pom Wonderful’s a poor substitute for a nicely ripened pomegranate, trust me. 

Also, for those of us with Pluto in the 12th- which is…the house of hidden things, there’s topside and underside and top side’s kinda confusing to begin with. Underside, no matter how surreal, heartbreaking, weird as shit, whatever- simply makes more sense as a general rule. I got another friend who’s a 12th houser- she does medium work and you’ll never see theatrics in her work. Because for her, this shit is quite ordinary.  Look at her face when she’s reading the news, on the other hand…okay, you don’t wanna do that with us both in the same room: the baffled ranting might deafen you.

Okay, so that was …a longer introduction to this than I meant to throw out there. Anywaaaaay.

Oddness as a regular thing-

I am not sure I will ever understand what happened when I was a kid. I can tell the story a million times over but if you ask me- hallucination, fever dreams, whatever: I couldn’t tell you. I only know the meningitis nearly got me, but it didn’t. What I saw during that and what it left me with…I can’t really explain that either.

It left me with quite a lot of things that mostly involve not understanding much of shit about the way people behave. That, well, that can probably be attributed to brain damage. (Couple years later, I’d get hit by a truck and damage my left parietal lobe. My brainpan’s been through a lot.) In those cases, I never saw any white light. I didn’t years later when I overdosed. Whatever the hell it is I see when I take a dip: it’s not easy to describe. It’s surreal and dark and there are overwhelming smells. That’s the memory of it that sticks out most for me, the smell. (And I do smell it from time to time, to this day in certain very specific situations.)

In addition to pouring over any and all religious or spiritual materials I could get my hands on- I have also read more scientific papers than I care to admit about brain damage, mental illness and otherwise.

Ask me about what I think and this is the only solid answer I’ve got:

idk GIF-downsized_large (2)

And in respect to those particular things, it has always felt just a bit gross to me running around bragging or otherwise. The hell am I gonna say?

What is to say? How in the hell can I even profess to be some sort of expert on something nobody knows shit about?

On Ancestors

One of the things I was left with is the most random thing- I can’t do it on demand, I don’t know how in the hell it works or why: but I dream about people’s dead relatives and loved ones sometimes.

The last time this happened, I had just started seeing Kurt. Actually, this was the first time that somebody actually noticed something happen before it happened. I mean, maybe others have had this happen, maybe they haven’t. Kurt’s a little weird, himself. We’d been dating a few weeks. And by dating, I mean, he’d come down, we would talk conspiracy, we would talk politics, we’d talk about all manner of things- coffee going, chainsmoking on my porch. He taught me to relax and be a bit lazier,  I taught him how to use AM radios for detecting certain bugging devices. You know, like you do.

I also taught him to forage for wild foods and how to skin rabbits. He also taught me how to utilize modern conveniences. You know…like, uh, a toaster. I was SO freaking pregnant here.


Long before the above photo was taken, however… I was in the kitchen, making my coffee that morning when I hear him holler Did you see that?! from the bedroom. There were of course, local stories about the woods I lived in- but, being as I was one of these stories, I never took much stock. He said that he had seen this bright, blue light just flash and vanish.

I had not seen it and I start babbling about a variety of different possible causes both mundane and in myth. Again, you know, like you do.

I started having dreams about a young man that night. I also didn’t know it- but, we’d conceived my youngest son that week. I won’t go into all the random details out of my dream journal but essentially I’d have these dreams about this young man and he’d either call me or he’d leave me notes. They were shopping lists. Milk, eggs, butter. Things like that. He’d sign his notes “Anton” and he was very affectionate, always. As it went on, he started showing up- actually showing up. He told me to “Find Peter.” but, I mean, I had a random shopping list to go on. Not much.

There is or was this restaurant and I am trying to remember the name- but I can’t. Tucked away along the winding roads outside of Vienna, it sits perched over the Gasconade river with a view from your table that will just take your breath away. We took my middle son there for his birthday dinner one time and I just fell in love. We’d gone there for dinner one day and we were just pulling out when suddenly I blurted, “Anton is your relative, isn’t he?” I hate doing this shit. I know how cold reading works and I always feel like I am cold reading whenever it happens, though I’m not. He said he didn’t know, and that’s where the awesome part of this story begins.

Finding Peter, Finding Anton- But Which Anton?

So, we start looking into it via Ancestry. We found Peter, first. Sort of. It wasn’t enough for the Anton in my dreams. Kurt’s grandfather, Walter, is the youngest son of Peter Kroeck:



Anton was his father, we thought. His father is also Anton, but as we researched further: Peter had a son named Anton, as well and that son had been committed to Farmington Hospital #4. He would, a few years later, contract tuberculosis there and die. 

We don’t yet know why he was committed, but we’re working on that. It’s a process and given he wasn’t committed by the state- which tends to be a thing they used to feel publishing in the paper was okay, means his family probably put him there.

Peter, however, was quite an interesting character. We trekked up to Hannibal and Palmyra to do some digging- we found the farm that Anton the Father had lived on, we found the locations where the family had then moved to. It would appear that Peter was ambitious and striving to make something of himself- he’d wind up in the paper more than once for his work with wagons. The family moved to St. Louis, and here’s where things start to get a bit odd. (We’ll save this for another time and parts of it aren’t things I’m really apt to write about anyway.)

We found a story about how Anton the Son’s sister had run away from home. We found multiple stories of babies dying- but, given the time frame that was not particularly odd. What we did not and could not find was the location of their graves. Finally, after digging and digging and digging, and digging some more- we found them:

Yes, I’m still alive,  though you’d never guess with the company I keep

The caretaker at St. Trinity Lutheran and I went walking around one foot literally in front of the other to map this out. Where Kurt is standing and in between those headstones lies this man, Carl Kroeck, his wife, Elfreda and their 14 year old son who had died by an accidental gunshot. Carl was one of Peter’s brothers.


All unmarked. That’s not that unusual.

Now, behind them, here’s the large family grave:

Yes, I’m still alive,  though you’d never guess with the company I keep

Between those two trees, where Kurt and Fish are standing lies:

Peter, his mother Elizabeth, 5 un-named babies including a pair of twins, Herman Kroeck who died of measles at age 2, and Anton, the son who’d died at Farmington.

We’re still working on more research aspects of this and also, getting those graves marked but I am still incredibly grateful to be a part of this for Kurt.





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